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charles bukowski.

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drabble: a messiah complex. [Tue 9 Mar @ 7:36pm]

title: a messiah complex.

He pressed his hands harder together, liquid dripping down his wrists, tinging his sleeves wet, tickling his forearm. The raw pink that he opened to see, the remnant of clear melting in his grasp.

"Not even a fraction of the pain that he went through. A fraction...a fraction..."

He squeezed his palms, a strong equilibrium grinding its way into dissolution. The burning was unbearable, searing flashes scalding his fingers as they faded to numb. And there it was, the raw pink still batting its pitiful eyes back at him, taunting him, taunting, "I will never be blue."

Blue. The step closer to personifying him, as long as he could feel the torture. Then he could claim to taste the ideal that he was. The self-discipline. The reverence. Everything he was. He could be. The prominence, the importance, a right to be self-assured, a right he didn't have. The entitlement to turn his back and feel no remorse. The power wielded from those very blue hands...

The raw, raw pink kept staring as he reached for another cube.

I've decided to start tagging my shit as drabble. Apparently I'm incapable of more than a paragraph.
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color-based : a wash of mint green [Thu 7 Jan @ 2:27am]

mint green color swatch

title: a wash of mint green.

she was born chasing after mints.

candy was a fleeting satisfaction. it seemed like the world when she was three, begging her mother "please, just one peppermint, just one!" and finally her mother would relent and reach into that pillowy black bag of hers and hand her a green and white swirly peppermint, all neatly wrapped in that cellophane. her tongue would curl, moving it about until it perfectly was enveloped in that tiny resting spot, where she could let it sleep until it melted into bliss.

but candy only lasted so long.

age seven, she'd discover the power of gum, the five calorie wonder coming in all shapes and sizes and packs lined neatly at the cash register lines, eyes sharp and poignant beckoning her to chew chew chew. and so she made wrigley spearmint her habit, with its pretty green and white packaging just like those mint candies of yesteryear. then she'd unwrap, nice and slow, pocket the foil in her jeans, and fold her gum in third by third until it was all nicely settled and-

the first bite was always the best, spearmint swarming her tongue and overtaking the bland.

but candy was candy, gum was gum, and by the time she was fifteen having three altoid tins and five packs of orbit a day weren't enough. the boys would laugh when she dropped her bag, gum wrappers and metal tins clanging, calling out "kelly, i'm chewing some stride, wanna make out?" or slow-motion popping out their gum chiclets knowing she'd be lustlustlust.

she hated the boys.

so much that she never noticed the packs of big red on his desk. she never heard the sound of hot tamales roaming around in their cardboard box. she never listened to the deep breaths he'd heave reacting to the spice hitting his tongue.

she never knew that their cinnamon mint kiss would be electrifying.

lovelyable finally got me to write. here is a little something for the time being.
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meme: day 2; eulogy: the autumn massacre. [Wed 21 Oct @ 12:13pm]

simonegiacco @ flickr

title: eulogy: the autumn massacre.
soundtrack: "against the grain" : city & colour

"I never wanted to leave."

The clouds have settled in, a distant fog shrouding the setting sun. Turbulence in our regrets still ticking, emerging, unending.

It wasn't unexpected. A countdown, of sorts, if you could be so heartless. The wrinkles more conspicuous each passing hour, the shoulders drooping with lost purpose. Closed eyes that begged and begged never to open again.

We didn't listen.

The plains abandoned for the urban grime, the patchwork quilt for sterile white sheets. The comforting teapot whistle for thunderous coughs. Wooden porch stairs for blue plastic seats in narrow white hallways. Warm grits for stale bread and sour fruit. The inevitable for the promise of "just a little longer."

We should have listened.

Pale skin even more sickly. Brittle bones even more fragile. And the eyes that once held a spark, now weary of being confined to a hard mattress and a flimsy curtain. Loving hands that once patted our heads found cold and still at his sides.

And still we didn't listen.

Streaks of sunlight traded for warm filtered skies. A smattering of brown and yellow, just the way he admired. Piles and piles of red-orange leaves flourishing under the branches, winds blustering them into the skyline.

Eventually the last leaf flutters away, one that no one can chase.
Eventually the last breath gasps, one that no IV drip can save.

To our squalid huts we'll recede. From our squalid huts we won't leave.

When the wind does blow against the grain, you must follow your heart.

Fourteen days Flickrfic challenge
: Go to flickr.com and click on "explore last 7 days" link on the bottom of the page. Reload it fourteen times, and each time, the fifth photo in the line-up is your prompt for the day's fic. Fourteen days, fourteen pictures.
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