She Writes

The short stories and random writings of a random person you don't know out on the internet.

[emily-charles]

WP: You're flipping through the morning paper and you see a large obituary, written for you...

Paper. Whether book or newspaper, she still loved the smell of it. Something carnal about it. She hadn't caught up with the times yet, and still preferred the texture over that of a e-reader or some other holo-screen. She expands her arms to read the paper, revelling in the slight ink staining her fingers, and leisurely strolled through the news, as one would take a slow walk through a garden. Best to keep up-to-date with the times, as things tended to change quickly these days. The world was much faster paced than it used to be.

It wasn't until page sixteen, that she caught a photo of herself, and saw the obituary. The years were all wrong, but that was to be expected. You didn't get to be four hundred and twelve, and expect them to get your age right. She sighs, and closes the crisp pages on her own face.

I suppose I have been here too long, she thought to herself, stretching out the morning fatigue. You had to keep moving or you'd make a spectacle of yourself. Too many people ask questions, too many scientists inhabited the place, and Dear Lord and Lady, the politicians would have an absolute fit, if they only knew. She knew her kind tended to steer clear of those places. Anything that put you in too direct a spotlight was asking for trouble.

She'd become nothing but a lab rat, and none of the Morphiani could afford that. The other Morphiani always chose the time for you, because death was like that. Unexpected, or abrupt. It just helped keep you moving, and not too involved. She'd undoubtedly receive a phone call, that would ring three times, and then disconnect, a small reminder that time was a-wasting, while she dilly-dallied.

It was time to go.   Shame, she'd really loved this little piece of Manhattan. But thankfully, she wouldn't have to go too far. She could probably even stay in New York. It was such a lovely place, and the populous was so large, she could lose herself quite easily. Her eyes flicker ever so gently from their aqua-blue to a deep chocolate brown, and her skin darkens deeply with them. Her long blonde hair pulled into itself, into tight, darkening curls of black, and as she stretched once more, she became quite a few inches shorter, her hands and feet, skull and face shrinking a bit to fit the body she now wore comfortably.

Imagining a simple white crop top, a pair of ratty converse, and a pair of overalls, she finished my tapping her lip ever so lightly to make them appear lightly glossed. Good enough. As she left her apartment and other belongings behind as she did, she wandered down the street, humming to herself.   Now, to think of a new name...

[emily-charles]

No Matter What It Looks Like

There's a significant swing in the world when you find what you're finally looking for. From her curved lips, to his furrowed brow, a moment wherein you lie amongst yourselves and see the stars. And only in the full dark, can you see the stars. And as her fingerprints trace words upon his skin, the whispered nothings lie in between the quiet moments. No one writes about these happy seconds, where there is no upheaval. As chaos is the essence of drama. Removing all the virulent and poisoned seeds of the apple, and to only taste the fruit. The sweet, tangible junctures of our lives, as we share our mutual bond, a psychic trespass, as we taste the salt of another's skin. Reading betwixt the lines, hearing the sigh as the world falls into a heartbeat. Like that of a utopia, none other known, and for a moment, we forget that we have any toxic turmoil or troubles. Only a single breath. A lungful of air at a time. And here the savage finds the calm, and the undercurrent only pulls us together and not apart. A single strand does not recognize that it is apart of the tapestry. No matter what it looks like alone, together, it is a complete and beautiful woven image of unity.

[emily-charles]

lime green

Green walls. The place had green walls. Not that dark kind of green, but a bright limey colour. It was almost neon. It was very distracting. He tries looking up. It’s everywhere. It’s really quite obnoxious.

“Are you listening to me?” A voice penetrates the green fog that had filled his mind. He struggles to focus.

“Yes, of course,” he murmurs over a sip of hot coffee. He disliked this restaurant. Their walls were horrid and the coffee was almost as bad. He makes a face of distaste. The woman sitting across from him flicks a packet of sugar. She is glaring at him disbelieving.

“Just sign the papers and we don’t ever have to see each other again,” she bends out of sight for a moment, reaching under the table. He lets his eyes return the abrasive lime green walls.

“Do you have a pen?” He asks. At the beginning things had been tough. Now he just didn’t care. These fucking walls… She sits upright, a manila envelope in her hand. She pushes it across the table toward him. She places a pen on top. He stares at the envelope for a long pause. She mistakes this for hesitation.

“Jon, just sign them. It’s over,” she presses.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says quickly. He reaches for the envelope and pen, making quick work of signing everywhere he needs to. She continues drinking her coffee, looking around as though she didn’t even notice these tacky walls. “Are we done here?”

“Yes. Thank you,” she says. He stands and she stands with him. She is in his way. He doesn’t move, but looks to her disinterestedly. She opens her mouth to say something, undoubtedly pivotal in her mind. Worse, it would be empty solace.

“Don’t,” he says suddenly. He didn’t want to hear it. “Are we done here?”

“Yes,” she says, stepping out of his way. He leaves that dreadful restaurant and that dreadful woman behind without a glance back.

[emily-charles]

He’s got his hands cupping her face tightly, and he’s talking, saying something but the blood is rushing so hard in her ears, she can’t hear anything for a moment. All she sees is his blue eyes. His face is smeared with blood although there’s no wound. His voice is fading in and out now, and she’s gathering bits and pieces of what he’s saying. She’s hyperventilating. She looks over to the dead body sprawled across this dirty old couch in the alley way and he pulls her face back to his.

“-it happened and there’s nothing we can do about it-“ he’s saying but then his voice fades out. The blood is all over him. The rushing won’t fade away. He grabs her by the shoulders and shakes her. “I’ll take care of the body, you-“ his lips are moving but she can’t hear him anymore. He shakes her again, and his voice tunes in again like a radio station coming in and out of focus: “-do you understand? You have to burn the evidence.”

She blinks and when she opens her eyes again, he and the body are gone. She doesn’t know how long she’s been standing there, but she suddenly kicks it into gear. She pulls out a tactical blade and hovers over the couch for a moment, before she starts ripping up all the upholstery. She would strip the couch and burn the fabric.

She didn’t want to burn it here, it would bring too much attention to the scene. The couch was already there to be thrown out, but were it not destroyed more so, someone may come along and pick it up for their home. The movements became calculated, but frenzied. She slashes the couch and pulls the fabric from its frame.

Ripping apart a garbage bag just enough to leave it still useful, she dumps out the garbage on the floor of the alleyway and with a somewhat panicked speed she begins to shove the couch’s blood covered fabric into the bag. The reek of garbage and the copper smell of blood is making her nauseated and she steps away; holding her stomach and taking deep breaths.

She’s in the passenger seat of the truck. She shakes her head and looks to him as they pull away from the alleyway. He had said something but she hadn’t heard him.

“What?” she says in a distracted voice.

“What did you do to the couch?” he asks. He is cleaned up. He had been gone for a long time. His clothes were changed. He was driving too fast. She feels like the whole world is watching. She watches him, wide-eyed and in some form of shock.

“Drive slower. Enjoy the ride. Take your time and no one will notice you,” she says,  before she looks out the window. The lights go by in a blur. It seems unreal. “I took all the fabric off the couch so no one would pick it up. It’s beyond recognition. It’s in the bag,” she moves her hand and the plastic garbage bag rustles lightly. “I didn’t want to burn it there. I didn’t want to attract anymore attention than necessary.”

“Good,” he’s nodding to himself. “Good.”

He’d slowed down a bit and when they stopped at a red light, neither would look at the other. “What did you do to the body?”

“I took care of it,” he says, very plainly. She pauses, and asks again,

“What did you do with the body?”

“I took care of it,” he insists and she says nothing this time around. He turns to her and pulls her chin toward him so she was looking at him. “Are you okay?” She stares at him for a long moment. The light turns green. They stay that way for a long time, eyes locked.

“I’m fine,” she says in a low voice.

“Are you okay?” he cups his hand behind her head, searching her face.

“I’ll be fine. I love you,” she touches his face gently. He bows his head and rests his forehead against hers and exhales slowly.

“I love you, baby.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he kisses her and then sits back, “…yeah.” He pulls through the green light and they continue on through the city.

When they arrive home, she moves slowly, but decidedly over to the barrel at the edge of their porch and throws the torn garbage bag with the couch’s bloodied fabric in it. He comes up and stands there beside the barrel staring down and in-standing stock still. She grabs the barbecue lighter fluid and dumps in a generous amount. She strikes a match and flicks it into the barrel.

The flames soar high and fast. The glow from the barrel throws a warm orange glow across their faces and he comes to her. He stands behind her, arms around her, and they both stare into the fire for a long time.

It was strange how the next few days continued. They went by in a strange blur. He didn’t withdraw from her. Now they were closer than ever. But the days were numbered. They had found the body. She had seen it on the news. Someone had seen them. They were considered armed and dangerous. She knew he was distraught, but he just held her and smiled. He had just turned off the television and drawn her into his arms. She said nothing when she’d seen it.

They had remained silent. They had fallen asleep there on the couch in their living room. When she awoke the next morning it was to the familiar sounds of the kitchen and the smell of eggs and bacon. She turns her head and watches him as he moves around the kitchen in his jeans and nothing else.

She watches him and admires his beauty. He truly was a handsome thing. She never wanted to be apart from him. A small smile curves her lips and he looks to her then.

“Oh good morning, Mary Sunshine,” he says fondly. “I hope you’re hungry. I made you breakfast.” She sits up and rubs the sleep from her eyes.

“I’m starved,” she murmurs.

She moves over to the kitchen and he puts the plate down and embraces her. He kisses her and holds her tightly, inhaling deeply of her scent and just stays that way for a moment.

“Dream well?” he asks her. She presses her body against his, feeling the pull. She wanted to be closer.

“None at all,” she says, her voice husky.

“No dreams?” he says, the surprised tone sneaking into his voice.

“Nope! Not-a-one,” she kisses the corner of his mouth. He smiles and kisses her.

“I’m going out for a smoke, I’ll be right back,” he says. grabbing his pack off the kitchen counter. “Eat your breakfast.” She nods, and picks up a piece of bacon off the plate and takes a small bite before putting it down again. He steps outside onto the patio and closes the door behind himself. She watches him, chewing thoughtfully, as he moves out into the sunlight and stands in front of the bay window. She stares at his bare back and the world is quiet.

Then it happens. The back of his head explodes. Bits of brain matter and a thick spatter of blood hits the bay window and his body falls lifelessly to the patio deck. She screams and throws herself to the ground. She knew then that the cops had found them.

[emily-charles]

The days are ancient that I remember what you used to look like. You looked younger than you are now, I imagine. I want to say I remember you the way you do. Gallant and Beautiful. Some fucked up saviour on a white horse with a sweet kiss and a gentle hand. I want to say I remember just what was so consuming about your gaze. Maybe it was just the light. Wasn't it you, who gave me that look? That look like when the first time you saw me, you were stunned? Just for a moment-I felt the same way, too.        

[emily-charles]

Toothpaste

She spends a good chunk of her Sunday afternoon being lazy and avoiding the world, watching movies and debating on getting up to do some laundry. She lays wrapped in her blankets, hidden underneath in a soft duvet fort and stretching lazily right down to her toes. She wiggles each toe together, feeling the light resistance of her toe ring and smiling into her pillow. She feels a gentle weight on her shoulder above the blankets and she smiles. She pulls back the covers and peers over the blanket with smiling eyes. “Mmming,” she mumbles into the blanket. “Morning,” he says, resting his elbows on the back of the couch. He rests his chin on the tops of his folded hands. They stare at each other in smiling silence before he gets a confused look on his face. He stops smiling and begins to stare at her intently. He leans over and gently pulls back the covers and studies her face. Her heart skips a beat. “What?” she asks concerned. “Toothpaste?” he asks. “What?” she repeats, becoming more confused. “You have the word ‘toothpaste’ backwards on your face,” he says starting to smirk. “What…” She pauses and suddenly it becomes clear. “Oh God,” she mumbles and holds up her hand. The faded reminder of 'toothpaste’ is written on the palm of her hand. “I wrote it on my hand because we’re almost out of toothpaste. I must have fallen asleep on my hand." He chuckles low in his throat and leans over, kissing her gently on the forehead. "You’re a funny sort of a girl, you know that?” He asks her, caressing her ink smudged cheek with his thumb before wandering off to make them a late lunch.        

[emily-charles]

i have this dirty little secret, that no one knows. i have this lovely amount of pictures of you, forever in my mind, and i look at you in my head all the time. i close my eyes, and you're there, and i'm happy, and no one knows. just the you in my head. and the you in my head, and me - well we do naughty things when no one's looking.

[emily-charles]

Dearest Constant Reader,            Do you really want to read more of my quasi-messianic rants? Or my little short stories? Does anybody even read this shit? I am, in fact, Internet Jesus. Hurrah. Maybe things changed recently due to a sudden change in compassion; I mean I care but I really don’t give a fuck anymore. It doesn’t sell, you can’t make a living off of it. And you know why? Because almost all of the population? All it really wants is decent television, a bit of spare change for booze, and a blowjob every Saturday night.                      Pain lasts, kid. It’s how you know you’re alive. Sometimes I think this growing up thing is just pain management. Yours truly, Internet Jesus        

[emily-charles]

Zion

He had been alive for nine thousand and five days. He had spent these days in every way imaginable; most of it in discord. Today was just another void among a blur of back-to-back nights. He had kept the blinds drawn and the curtains shut tight over the boarded up windows as he had in all the days before that. The soft slivers of light offered a feeling of normalcy that he couldn’t afford. It was safe here. There was no real guarantee that staying indoors would add another day to his count but it was safer here than anywhere else. He had slept straight through the sunlit hours and felt himself tense as he woke up in darkness. He tightened his fingers around the grip of the revolver he kept under his pillow. He was never truly sleeping anymore. He was always half awake and tended to wake up abruptly when his exhausted mind lucidly realized he was sleeping. He strains his ears and listens. He hadn’t gone outside for weeks now. Something a man in his position had grown accustomed to. He only dared to venture out when rations ran low. He had no one to report to and wasn’t needed anywhere. He wasn’t needed by anyone. He had only himself now. He had grown used to his solitary lifestyle and revelled in it. It was a beneficial trait to have. He was on his own and in hiding as whatever was left of the population would be. If there was anyone left. He had originally been apart of a larger group in the months before. All they had ever talked about was how it was before the virus hit. Before people had started eating each other. How it had been the land of milk and honey and all that bullshit. He had no interest in the stories of their lives before. When it came down to it, it was natural selection. The bible had said something about how the meek would inherit the Earth. What a load of shit.

The infected didn’t go down. Stabbed, shot, lit on fire-nothing stopped them. You had to blow them up. There was no other way. Make the body incapable of coming after you, and that was it. News spread quickly. Talking about a hoax with the ‘stuff movies were made of’. A fucking hoax. It was the death of death. If it was any kind of terrorism, it would’ve been nuclear… Wouldn’t it? The peoples concerns weren’t about their movie-based fears. They were every day concerns. Paying the bills, buying groceries, deadlines, getting laid, getting stoned or drunk… Petty wants and thoughts. But it was everywhere. We had thought it was an international ‘World of the Wars’. Everyone was in on it, but us. An elaborate publicity stunt. But there was no shithead with a camera. This was no ‘Blair Witch’ remake. We were fucked and it took us too long to realize it to save ourselves. People had tried following what our popular culture had taught us, and nothing worked. A shot to the head of a family member or friend or stranger after the virus had affected them—it didn’t stop them. People doused the dead in gasoline and lit them on fire. All was left was walking skeletons. They were pacing our highways, like lost, hungry children. We had lived predictable lives. ‘God’ had changed the rules and we were left with no game plan. People were hung over freeway overpasses after they had been infected. They had driven past them, their cars hitting the feet of the hanging bodies. Looking back, the limbs flailed and ‘dead’ hands grabbed at empty air. He never knew how many people had died. The news kept going, but he had stopped watching. The death count was something he did not want to see. It had nothing to do with what the news could give him anymore. If censorship still existed, he didn’t want to watch the news lie. And if they’d stopped censoring it, he didn’t want to see the truth anymore. He’d seen it enough for himself. They had all watched horror movies. Seen every day news before it had hit. Their horrifying reports and the peoples posts on the world wide web. Videos of soldiers dying—their heads sawed off by terrorists, they had become desensitized. But a video, a news report—it’s nothing compared to a real life experience. The government tried to compensate for the sudden happenings. Putting up high roadblocks to keep out the dead. Closing the doors on those in Zionist living quarters, keeping those within the walls in a pretty cage of temporary luxury. Outside of those walls, people turned into thieves. They stole from those trying to survive. They stole from their friends and family and the mass commercial industries. All they wanted was life. To stay alive as long as possible. It was you against everyone. Suicides climbed higher than they’d ever been. People were blowing themselves away in what few public places were left; thinking it would separate themselves from their later reanimated bodies. Whether it was because they’d finally lost it and decided to go out with a bang instead of a whimper to defy T.S. Eliot or simply to leave behind the apocalypse that had come knocking at their doors. People weren’t coming back to life. They never actually died anymore. All that was left were the husks of once human people. He’d had family once. They were collateral. He had shut down, when he was able, almost a month later. And one day long ago, he’d even cried. In privacy. Just once. After that—he’d never shed another tear. But all this… It was so long ago. But even now, after that—all he knew was that they weren’t worth saving. No animals survived and the crops had all long died. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a bird. What was left of the human refugees were hidden away in compounds or roaming the streets in gangs—looking for food and ammunition—constantly on the move. Cannibalism had become a way of life, making those who had managed to survive all the more wary of their fellow man. The gangs would pick up those unaffected by the virus as they found them and keep them like cattle. Chained or bound, locked in cellars like caged livestock. Sawing off pieces of people to feed on when they grew hungry. The horror stories had spread quickly, like a cancer through the masses that had come to group together. It poisoned the minds and voices of those left behind. It gave reason to fear those who looked well-fed and wandered the streets in packs. The human race, the grandest legacy of Earth, had become nothing but a diminished semblance of foragers, thieves and survivalists. It was foolish to dream of luxuries, when there was so little left.

[emily-charles]

Alcoholism and PTSD

It looks like water but pours like oil. She tilts back her head and devours the burn. Her insomnolence has brought her  across these empty highway embankments and these moments of supposed clarity. She waits for the sun to rise before it feels safe to close her eyes again. They can't hide in the daylight.

[emily-charles]

show me yours

So in-love. No. In Love. Captials, and no hyphen. It .feels. better. I love his eyes. You have no idea how fathomless his eyes are. Surrounding me in love and warmth, happy crossed-eyed kisses, and moments where he wonders why you're still a mute. Dark. Light. His eyes are closed. sleep encrusted eyes, and a beautifully styled bed-head mohawk. He always has this little pout when he's sleeping. Moment of I suppose, male vulnerability...

I want to reach out and stroke his morning fuzz, but I don't want to ruin this moment by waking him. Albeit seeing him wake up and give me that, "Huh?" look. Pupils dilating to focus on this image in front of him, feeling safe, and willing to flop back out before realizing he didn't say "Hi".

Kisses me winded and goes back to sleep.

[emily-charles]

Sun Tzu’s Peanut Butter Defense

“Kitten,” he nudges her gently. She groans and scowls into her pillow. The sunlight is not her friend right now. “Peanut-butter,” he says. “What?” she mumbles, confused. “You have peanut-butter all over your pillow and your face,” he says and there's a low chuckle. She blinks open her eyes slowly, and sits up quickly. A spoon is in her hair, and peanut-butter is everywhere. “Oh fuck,” she sighs agitated. He starts to laugh and she glares at him. “Not funny,” she snaps. She sighs again defeatedly and lays back down. She's mushing more of the mess into her pillow and into her hair. “You fell asleep with a spoonful of peanut-butter in your mouth again, didn't you?” he asks and gives a short laugh. She makes a half-assed attempt to swipe at him, but comes no where near. “I must have gotten up in the middle of the night to get myself a spoonful while I was half-asleep again. I don't even remember getting up to get it,” she sulks into her pillow and sits up again, grimacing at the mess. “I guess it's laundry day. I'm going to take a shower first though. The tenants are going to think I'm insane wandering around with a spoon all tangled in my hair with God knows what all over me.” “I don't know,” he says raising a brow. “It quite becoming. I'm sure it'll be all the rage in Paris in no time.” “Yeah,” she agrees, leaning forward threatening. She's getting ready to pounce. “In fact, you'd look really good wearing the newest haute couture.” “Don't. You. Dare.” She notes the instantaneous tension in his body as he raises a hand defensively. She grins evilly and stands abruptly. He stands with her and backs up a step. His eyes still glimmering with laughter but holding up a finger disapprovingly.

[dropkickwritersblock]

Write a piece about an incident in childhood that shaped a character's life

[emily-charles]

"Bow your head, Lilith." The voice of her father was stern and forceful. She brings her eyes down to the ground and brings her chin closer to her chest. She struggles not to look up again. She had been looking at their new preacher, Pastor Roth, again, and for the past two weeks. Ever since he had come to their parish, she couldn't help herself. He was as beautiful as an angel. She couldn't resist looking at him as he was simply so beautiful.

She knew Lucifer was beautiful as well, and she knew that he was fallen. However, he was their Pastor, and looking that beautiful should be a sin. Many expressed that beauty was a curse that a handful of people suffered from. Alas, she was not one of them. She was repeatedly told she was ugly, and deformed, her red hair something they often worked to hide beneath her black bonnet. No one but her mother dared touch it though, brushing it, and saying it was a gift. Despite all those who called it a curse laid upon their family. She couldn't help but look at him with desire. She felt her stomach flutter every time he looked at her. She may only be fourteen, but she felt desire every time she looked at him. With his long blonde hair and blue eyes that were lighter than that of the palest blue ski, she found herself taking him in, and dreaming of him. She would stay as pious as was required of her if only he would take her as one of his wives. The things she imagined him doing to her, were anything but pious. He was thirty-six though, and although she would soon be guided to take a husband, she imagined him breaking her free of her piety. Call it teenage hormones, but dear Lord, they were running rampant, and she couldn't help thinking of the things he would do to her if only they left them alone together. She just wanted to kiss him all over. Her young brain couldn't fill in the blanks, but she felt like a sinful part of her body was hollow and though she knew little of these things, her body kept insisting that he fill that hollow. Yes, she was coveting the new priest in ways her own mind couldn't even fathom or understand. But, she couldn't help herself. She kept her eyes low on her light blue dress, the one that complimented her blue eyes. She prayed to God to give her strength, to stop her from this craving and coveting of the man at their pulpit. Her natural red hair already made her a target amongst her family, her father saying she had hair the color of sin. She was the only redhead in her family, and she found herself reprimanded more often than her brothers or sisters. All born blonde, and blue-eyed, and beautiful. She was the one 'marked by Satan' with her red hair. She often wished for blonde hair like those of her siblings. Her younger siblings rarely thought of her as any different from any other older child. Her elder siblings would often mock her, shun her, and leave her to her father's whippings should something come up that was blame-worthy. And even if she didn't do it, she would take the beating, knowing that it was just the Lord's way of trying to cleanse her. Her back was scarred from the beatings. The belt having left deep impressions on her back. Her father insisted it was the only way to cleanse her of her mortal sins. Her mother had only given him one child, and a child with red hair, nonetheless. It was a burden for her mother to carry. She often wondered what it would be like to leave the commune. To escape from the circle of trailers they had set up like gypsies in the deserts of Salt Lake City, Utah. She found herself lost between her piety and her need to protect her younger siblings and an undeniable desire to run free. Her grandmother, Lois, had come from the outside world, the one before the commune, as she hadn't wanted to leave her daughter in the hands of this man. A man who spoke of righteousness, and piousness, and abused her. Along with his other wives, and the children his many wives had bore him. She had traveled with them in hopes perhaps of one day, her daughter seeing the light would want to leave. However, her daughter had never left, and years later, shunned by the community and her daughter, she was forced to live on the furthest outskirts of their circle of trailers. She never attended services and was looked upon as a servant against the Lord. Most were told not to socialize with the 'old outsider hag' as her father put it, but Lilith would sneak over to see her grandmother in between her chores. Lilith reveled in those visits, having found old Harlequin romances, and books like George Orwell's 1984, and Fahrenheit 451. She even continued to learn how to read and write in cursive at her grandmother's behest, despite most of the girl's education stopping after grade school. Her grandmother had insisted that she continue her education and she believed her grandmother had wisdom to impart despite her father's demands of avoiding the woman. She had even brought with her music from the outside world on something with her called an iPod. It was unlike anything Lilith had ever seen or heard. Her grandmother often told her that she should run far, far away, as soon as she could. She wanted her to be free of this place, and these 'fraudulent holy people' as she'd put it. She'd shown her where she'd hidden a coffee-tin full of money and a small switchblade. She told her should anything happen to her, that she should take it and run. Whether it be by 'hitchhiking' as she called it, or by simply running, she should get away as fast and as soon as possible. She taught her how to hold her thumb out and insisted that it was the way she'd gotten around the country as a teenager herself. She had spoken and shown her photos of mini-dresses, bare legs, and arms. Women who wore make-up and cut their hair and dyed it in crazy colors in things called 'fashion magazines'. She had spoken of drinking tea and coffee, both of which she had offered sips to Lilith. She found that she loved them both. She even gave her a sip of hard alcohol, which was definitely against the rules, and she found it burned and coughed up a storm after the first sip. Shortly after she was joyous, and wanted to dance. Her grandmother had closed the blinds of her trailer and put on some music quietly to let her do just that. She felt a connection to the elderly woman named Lois who had always held her tightly in hugs. So very few others were willing to touch the redheaded child, and she found herself touch-starved and longing for contact. But her grandmother never hesitated. She always repeated over and over how stunning and beautiful she was. Saying that she, herself, used to be a redhead, albeit now, all the red was gone from her hair, and only white remained. Lilith had been caught there more than once and was made to kneel on raw rice for long hours, more times than she could ever remember. When her grandmother passed away, Lilith managed to sneak into the old woman's trailer and steal a handful of things. Everything else was quickly removed from the trailer and burned. She managed to steal the iPod, the charging cord, the coffee-tin of money, a handful of books, the small pocket knife, and a necklace. She hid them in places around her room, desperate to keep what little she could to remember her by. As the Pastor finishes his sermon, she comes back into reality instead of daydreaming and raises her eyes. He looks directly upon her, and her cheeks flush pink as she realizes she has his undivided attention. Her mouth dries and she can't even join in the closing prayer. She struggles with the words, but manages to hum along with the flock at the last memorized quote, "-make us into tools of your mercy, and let us joyfully go forth and practice our calling. Amen." She raises her head but keeps her eyes downcast. She can feel her father looking at her now, and she doesn't want to risk the belt for misbehaving. As they go to leave, they milled amongst the rest. The men shook hands with the Pastor upon leaving to do their chores. The women left to care for the children and prepare food. Pastor Roth, turns to her father and smiles widely. "Lilith is a very devoted young woman, may I speak with her privately?" He asks as he shakes her father's hand. Her father nods, as though grateful to be rid of her for a while. Content of anything to rid himself of that of which he was forced to call 'daughter'. "Our daughter is extremely devoted, and she knows how to behave. Please feel free to speak the word of the Lord with her. I feel that she could benefit from your teachings. Please, assist her and guide her to the Lord," her father says. For a moment she finds herself confused, as her father has told her that she is nothing but disobedient and destructive to their entire community. She stands beside Pastor Roth, her eyes on the floor, and solemn until the rest of the community passes him. Some shaking his hand and blessing him for his sermon. Others thanked him for his words and blessings upon the community. Some of the wives and younger women look at her with open distaste. As the crowd dissipates, she follows Pastor Roth to the pulpit. As others leave, he gestures for her to sit at the steps next to the pulpit. She does as guided, without question. The few steps lead up to a stage, and she finds herself sitting on the middle one. She keeps her eyes on the floor and says nothing. She continues to stay solemn and quiet as he sits next to her with his thigh nearly touching hers. She says nothing, keeping her eyes low, and waiting patiently. He takes his time, looking her over, as she remains still and quiet before he reaches out. She flinches but doesn't pull back, as he tucks a strand of hair back in her bonnet. Her breath catches for a moment, as she tries not to react or respond until asked or prompted to. "Hello Lilith," Pastor Roth finally speaks. She nods gently, and looks from her left knee to her right, and back again.   "Pastor Roth," she retorts in a voice just above a whisper. She clears her throat and stays as she is, still and subservient, eyes staying on her knees. He leans forward a little, in a more relaxed posture, resting his elbows on his knees. She struggles to look anywhere but at him directly even though he's leaned into her line of sight. She tries to be as calm as possible, despite her heart picking up like a jackhammer. Her hands are clasped tightly in her lap, but she doesn't fidget, she simply keeps her eyes away from his and down. When he comes into her eye line, she simply looks down at her hands instead. There is a pause as he reaches out, and touches her chin to lift her jaw. She keeps looking straight ahead, almost like she mustn't look at him. As if he were Lucifer himself, and his beauty couldn't be taken in with human eyes. "Why won't you look at me, Lilith?" He asks quietly, realizing her avoidance of his direct eye contact. It was so very different when they were far apart, and she could watch him as he spoke over the congregation, but to be alone with him, the intensity was breathtaking. Her face flushes pink, and she looks skyward before answering honestly. "Lucifer was beautiful like you. I oft feel you were sent here to tempt me, Pastor Roth. You are truly too beautiful for my eyes to rest upon without repercussions," she whispers, barely breathing the words. He chuckles, and his fingers trace a line across her jaw, and she feels her eyes close for a long moment, reveling in his touch. "I feel the same about you, Lilith," he says earnestly. "You must be sent by God to tempt me." Her eyes meet his for a moment in surprise, and her brow furrows. "I am not beautiful like you, Pastor Roth. I am ugly. My father and siblings tell me so. There is no way any person in their right mind would find me beautiful," she whispers back, her voice barely carrying in the chapel that the community has built for themselves. She realizes her flaw, as she had spoken that his mind was not right if he found her beautiful. With all the doors closed now, the silence in the small chapel is deafening. Pastor Roth smiles gently, resting his hand upon hers. "'Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.'" He quotes Proverbs 31:30 without hesitation. "Do you fear the Lord, Lilith?" She gives him jerky nods as her eyes stay connected to his. "Yes, of course, Pastor Roth. 'The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,'" she says, quoting Proverbs 9:10. She pauses as his hand tightens on hers for a moment, afraid she's stepped out of line. She drops her eyes to her lap, looking at his large hand over her small one while feeling confused and enthralled at the same time. He raises one hand and gently lifts her chin to his beautiful blue eyes. Her breath catches in her throat before her breathing picks up its pace. "Are you sent to tempt me?" She asks in the same whispered honest voice. Pastor Roth gives a low chuckle, and moves his hand from hers to her face, and leans forward ever so gently, and kisses her. She is so shocked, she doesn't move. Despite all the teenage hormones in the world, she knows what he is doing is against all the rules laid out in their commune. Despite her hormonal thoughts from before, she moves to pull away. Thinking of doing something was much different than acting on it. His hands reach out and tangle in her hair underneath her bonnet. He painfully pulls carefully placed bobby pins from their place. She acts impulsively, pushing against his chest with a panic. He continues forward pushing her back against the cheap dark blue pile carpet of the chapel and the last step. Her back arching over the last step, pushing her into him unintentionally. One hand is still tangled in her hair, as the other releases it; only to reach for the hem of her modest dress. She starts to fight against him, but he's much stronger and bigger than she is. As his hand travels up her thigh, and he pushes his tongue past the seam of her mouth. She finds herself choking on it. She beats her fists against his chest but she finds herself simply pushing herself up into him as she tries to climb up and away from him by pulling her body up the next step. It has simply opened her to him more and he has moved to loom over her. His hand reaches under her modest dress and rips her undergarments clear down one side exposing herself to him. When his hand reaches the apex of her thighs, her skirt is no longer covering her modestly. She fights to push his hand down and away. He backs away ever so briefly, and breathes huskily against her mouth, "I see the way you look at me, Lilith," he says in a deep rumbling voice. His hand is between her thighs and is pushing her legs apart. As he forces himself between her legs. His hips stop her from closing her legs tightly and she inhales to scream. He covers her mouth with his hand, but all that comes out is a muffled shriek. She knows now that their new Pastor is Lucifer incarnate. "A woman must submit to a man, Lilith," he says in a low growl as she continues to fight him. He releases her mouth, and grabs her tightly around the throat, cutting off her air in a brutal grip, as he fumbles with his pants. She struggles to get her wits about her knowing now that everything her grandmother had said was true. He's freed himself from his pants, and he shoves his pants down around his thighs. She feels his manhood press against her naked thigh. Black spots start to dance around the edges of her vision as she tries to look around desperately. Underneath the hollowed pulpit are the heavy candlesticks they use for some sermons or baptisms. He moves over her and she can feel him at the apex of her thighs pressing against it for entry. In a sheer panic, she reaches out with her fingertips and grasps her hand firmly around the candlestick. Just as he starts to thrust in, she brings the heavy candlestick across his temple in one wide swiping motion. He is thrown off her abruptly, and he lays on the cheap low-pile carpet, unmoving. Her chest heaving, sucking in air greedily, she sits up as quickly as she can. Shoving her dress down her thighs she stares at him with widened eyes. His eyes are closed and a small puddle of blood is already forming beneath his head. His pants are still down around his thighs and she avoids looking anywhere else. I've killed him. Oh Lord have mercy, she thinks to herself, tears spilling as she struggles to think clearly. They would know that it was her. She was left alone with him and no matter what she said, she would be punished dearly, and no one would believe her story. She stands abruptly, still dizzy, but she knows she has very little time. She quickly takes off her bonnet and readjusts the bobby pins as best she can, tucking her hair away and replacing her bonnet on her head. She runs down towards the exit and calms herself before she reaches the doors, as she swipes away any errant tears. She exits, closing the door behind her. She moves hastily directly across the dry desert land, and straight for the trailer that she shares with her mother. Minutes tick by as she passes others, keeping her eyes low, and trying not to look harried as she continues on her way. Her undergarments are rubbing uncomfortably as the torn fabric rubs against one naked thigh. As she approaches the trailer and reaches for the flimsy door handle, she hears her eldest brother Gabriel speak up from where he'd been standing not too far away. She hadn't even noticed him, as her eyes had been so focused on her feet eating up the ground below her.

"Has father spoken to you yet, Lilith?" His words make her hesitate, and she finds herself stalling at the door before opening it. She shakes her head mutely. "You are to be married to Pastor Roth," he says with a sneer. "They've been discussing it and you're to be wed any time now. Prophet Talbot has even approved it. You, the one marked by sin, married to the Pastor. Perhaps he can finally cleanse you of your sins against God."

If only he knew the blood atonement that she would have to pay for the sin she'd just committed. She says nothing and enters the trailer, looking around quickly. Her mother was nowhere to be seen. She rushes to her room and she gathers all of her grandmother's things. Emptying the coffee tin, she flattens the bills and tucks them inside a book, and shoves the small switchblade in between her growing breasts. She shoves everything she has into a small bag that turns into a backpack with strings. It was a gift from her grandmother on her twelfth birthday. Her father didn't approve, but she knew that this was it. She pulls down her lower undergarments and frees herself from them.

She adjusts her bonnet again, as she'd lost some of her bobby pins, grabbing a handful from her small dresser and shoving them into her bag. She takes a few as her hair was starting to fall from beneath the bonnet. Tucking her hair up and away, she moves promptly toward the door. Taking a deep breath before she exits, ready to face the others who have surely found out by now what she'd done.

When she opens the door, the area is quiet aside from her younger siblings, drawing with sticks in the dirt. She hustles quickly past them, and heads through the compound of rotted or derelict trailers, ducking behind where she could stay as unseen as possible. She acts as though she is simply focused on her chores. Ignoring those she passes as they often ignore her. She makes her way across the compound and walks further and further until the compound is nothing but a speck in the distance.

She turns around looking back at it worriedly, but she knows the further she gets, the better she'll be. She knows and recognizes most of the trucks from the compound and knows that if she's caught this far from where she should be, she would be in serious trouble. She sees a large pick-up, newer and shinier than any of the trucks they had at the compound, and she puts her thumb up as her grandmother taught her. She doesn't know how long she'll have to do it, or how often she'll have to hide in the ditch to avoid the trucks that may belong to the compound.

However, this first truck slows to a stop, and she finds herself looking skyward thanking her grandmother. She opens the door and a woman in her thirties with big glasses looks at her in surprise. She pauses and hesitates, looking back toward the compound.

"Where ya going?" The woman asks.

"I don't know," she answers honestly, glancing back at the road and the compound. Worried that they may come across her trying to escape at any moment. Lilith speaks honestly, "Anywhere that is not here."

The woman seems to nod knowingly, and glances over her shoulder.

"Get in quickly now, love. Before they notice," the woman says. "My name is Hazel." At the woman's glance, she realizes that this woman knows she's running. She surges forward inside the truck like fire was licking at her heels.

"Lilith," she responds, sitting in the passenger seat. She rarely got to sit in the vehicles the compound had, and barely ever left the compound. This was a blank page and she was terrified. It must show on her face because Hazel starts driving immediately.

"You're safe with me, Lilith," Hazel says in a soothing voice. "How long were you out there trying to thumb a ride?" Hazel keeps glancing at her out of the corner of her eye and up in the rear-view mirror.

"You were the first vehicle to come upon me," Lilith confesses.

"You are a very lucky young lady, Lilith," Hazel returns. When she sees Lilith shivering, she reaches over to the multiple buttons in the middle, and heat suddenly spills forth from the vents in the vehicle. "You leaving permanently, or you going to go back?"

"I can't go back," Lilith says quietly putting her hands up to the vent nearest her and warming her hands. She looks around the cab of the truck, and takes it in, looking at all the little buttons and whatnot and at the time. It's only nine AM. Everything had happened so quickly.

"Okay, love," Hazel says, the form of endearment slipping from her lips so easily. She wants to cry and she feels tears threatening and as they fill her eyes, she struggles to blink them back. "It's okay, Lilith. I know you don't know me from Adam, but you're going to be okay, alright?"

Her kindness is so unusual for her, that the tears spill forth, and sobs rack her body for a moment. Hazel keeps driving, letting Lilith fall apart for a little bit, feeling that she must need to. She glances over and reaches across Lilith to pop the glove compartment open.

There amongst some other papers and a plastic container of baby wipes, is a stack of napkins in the glove box. "Why don’t you clean up a little. There are some baby wipes in there, too, somewhere." Lilith cleans herself as best she can, but she pauses.

"Where are you going?" Lilith asks hesitantly.

"Vegas. I got a new job there." She lifts her chin towards the back of her truck. Lilith looks behind her, noticing that the back is loaded with a suitcase and some other items like furniture. "You ever been to Vegas?"

"I've never been anywhere but the grounds of The People of Holy Faith," Lilith sniffles, still trying to fight her tears and her fears.

"Well, why don't you come with me? I was going to go alone, but I'd enjoy the company. Lots of sunshine, warmth, and some amazing sights to see." Hazel offers this quietly. Still keeping her eyes on the road, as Lilith closes the glove compartment with a quiet click.

She struggles internally for a moment, before looking at Hazel and taking her in. She wears big wide glasses, short dark hair in waves that only reach her chin. She is showing more skin than Lilith has ever seen a woman show before wearing shorts and a black ribbed tank top. She's wearing silver bangles on one wrist, and earrings in pierced ears, along with a silver necklace that has a pendant that looks like an 8.

They would immediately call Hazel a sinner. A slut. A whore. A shameful person. However, Lilith had learned and looked through old magazines her grandmother had brought, and she feels some spark of recognition of herself in Hazel.

Lilith had heard of Vegas before. It was called 'The City of Sin'. How suitable for her predicament. She nods almost imperceptibly. She takes a moment to respond, before speaking very quietly,

"That sounds very fitting."

[emily-charles]

[WP] "Due to unpaid rent, your water, electricity, and oxygen will be shut off at midnight."

Felix looks to the speaker embedded in the side of the wall. The continuous television streaming from the screen in the wall, constantly running commercials, and the Colony's updates. It could never be turned off, only turned down to a lower volume. The doors of his sparsely decorated living quarters had been locked two weeks ago. He had been waiting for this.

This was what he had wanted, no?

To pass quietly into the night, asphyxiating and dying in the dark. Over the past few weeks, he had given up, feeling nothing but despondency. He had used up all his social credits doing nothing and wandering around the thirty-by-thirty foot space. He looks around the white room, everything so glaringly white. A white treadmill for exercising, which they were expected to do thirty minutes every day. It would give him time on his rent clock if he did it. The white drawers that housed his white clothing, and the hamper which removed them. The white sheets and comforter of his bed, that could entirely be pulled into the wall to give the illusion of space. While within the wall, it would be changed by unseen hands, or perhaps only mechanical ones now. He rarely paid any attention to what had become his prison. The small white kitchenette which took his dirty dishes and dispensed new food. If he ate, he was given social credits. A white scale, and a white toilet, all of which calculated his weight and did an analysis of his excrement and urine to give him the appropriate food to keep him healthy and fit. A small shower partially encased in frosted glass. Nothing but the illusion of privacy. After he had entered his room, the loud beep signaled he had arrived as the door opened; the lights and the television had come on.

And then, he had made his choice.

When the doors had locked with a note of finality two weeks ago, he had known he was making a choice he could not return from. He was no longer allowed to leave unless he did his expected actions. Eat. Exercise. Even doing that would hold over his planned execution by upping his social credits, but the lethargy of no longer giving a fuck had settled in. As many before him had done, they simply let themselves 'time out' as it was called. He hadn't always felt this way. He had been talking most days with Simone-Nine-Two and had found himself wanting to get closer. But they weren't permitted to even touch. The Guardians wouldn't allow it. Only sanctioned breeding was permitted, and any physical contact of any kind was forbidden. No hand-holding. Much less press their foreheads together and whisper conspiratorially as they often expressed quietly that they had wanted to. She had always been a light in his quiet days of drone work. Until one day, she had disappeared. Others said she had willfully 'timed out'. Felix had simply nodded, and carried on with his day. Showing emotion was frowned upon, and they often hid their smiles or any show of sadness under strict masks of nonchalance. But the eyes, they could say so much without the rest of the face. And he had seen her eyes getting sadder. The last day he had seen her, they had been bright with intensity, a sort of madness, and now he knew why. He had counted down the days in his head. Wondering if like himself, her social credits only left her with three weeks. And on the twenty-first day, he had excused himself from his drone work, saying he felt unwell. He was excused, and that was the last day he had left his apartment. After a week, the doors had locked, and he had remained. Pacing his cage, and refusing to do anything to keep himself alive. As the minutes tick down, he stares at the white walls and smiles. First, the lights dim in a warning. Half an hour left. He still had time to go to his treadmill. To eat something. To weigh himself. To change his soiled clothes. To shower. All would give him social credits. At least long enough for him to live until morning when could do it all over again and start to regain their trust. Their trust. The Colony's trust. That he was a good worker bee and would behave. Show them this was all a misunderstanding. A mere moment of hesitancy, and simply a brief period of malaise. But he refuses. Simply laying back on his bed, ready for his demise and looking forward to it. A soft beeping begins when there are only five minutes left, and a clock with frighteningly red numbers appears on the television screen. It was the only time in his entire life he had seen the commercials and updates interrupted. It was the last warning of those who were desperate enough to step back from the edge of timing out. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply. Simply enjoying his last minutes of oxygen and life. He hoped it wouldn't be too painful, but he was too far deep to try and stop it now anyway. Two minutes. He thinks of Simone-Nine-Two, and those mischievous eyes. He thinks of how he was escaping the tyranny in the only way he knew how. He thinks of how he is escaping. How people would whisper that he timed out before he became forgotten amongst the other names of those who timed out. One minute. He takes another deep breath, fear tingling up the back of his scalp as he faces the unknown of death. He expects darkness. Brief torture, and then… Release. He would be free of this place. Thirty seconds. He takes another deep breath and feels a lone tear track down the side of his face. Staring at the ceiling, he prepares himself mentally. And then, a loud beep signals someone opening the door. Sitting up, he looks at the open doorway in shock. Standing in the doorway is Simone-Nine-Two. The timer is still counting down, and the lights flicker but return to their glaring brightness. He blinks against the sudden harsh whiteness, and in confusion. She holds out her hand, offering it to him, "Get up. We have to go. Now." EDIT: If there are spacing and font issues , I'm sorry, transferring from Word really does a number on these posts. My apologies in advance!P.S. Inspiration was gathered from "The Island" and "Running Man".

[emily-charles]

[WP] 3 Knucklehead idiot friends randomly decide to rob a rural gas station in the middle of the night, The Cashier shot one of them so one of the other guys had to shoot him. Now their friend and the clerk are dead, and they have to somehow handle the situation.

It was supposed to be easy. Get in, get the cash, get out. It was late at night, but Chuck said the owner or his son usually worked the night shift. That meant they had access to the code to the safe. It was supposed to be easy. Mason's gun wasn't even real, for fuck's sake. It was just supposed to be a scare the guy, make some quick cash, and run off into the night with their score to get some ice and no one got hurt.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" Mason mutters at Chuck breathlessly. The eerie sound of an endless rotation of oldies music continues to play. Neither of them moves. Whether both are in shock, or just digesting what has just happened, the quiet song fills the small convenience store.

"All our times have come, Here but now they're gone. Seasons don't fear the reaper, Nor do the wind, the sun, or the rain… Come on, baby, don't fear the reaper…"

Finally, Chuck speaks up in a low, cracked voice,"He shot Reggie, man. I had to." There's a long pause, and Mason finds himself stepping back from the slowly spreading pool of blood from his friend's head. The soft squelching sound as the blood and brain matter of the clerk drip down from the covered cigarette racks behind the counter. "He would've shot us."

This seems to break Chuck out of his trance finally, and careful not to step on Reggie or in any of the rapidly congealing blood, he hops the counter. Mason looks at him perplexed.

"What are you doing?" His arms hang limply by his side.

"What does it look like? I'm getting the money from the cash register and some smokes at least. No getting into the safe now thanks to that fucking clerk's itchy trigger finger. Should've known that bastard would've been packing. Go hit the liquor aisle. Big bottles. We gotta move, fucker," Chuck says, suddenly all business. Mason is staring down at Reggie's lifeless body and jumps when Chuck yells something at him. He looks up to him, everything seeming slow as a shiver takes over his body.

Is this what shock feels like? It's gotta be shock.

He'd never seen so much blood before. The wound in the back of Reggie's dismantled head diffused toward the edges and looked like one of those exploded cigars in old cartoons. Like a large, angry, blood-filled eye. When Chuck yells again, Mason finally breaks his eyes away and looks at Chuck confused. "Don't get fucking soft on me now, Mase, we've gotta get outta here. Liquor aisle, now, fucker!"

Mason jolts out of his stupor and moves quickly, heading to the aisle. He opens the backpack, and adjusting his gloves and his ski mask, he stares at the assortment of liquor. He shoves his fake gun in the pocket of his jacket,feeling the jingle of the car keys there. He starts grabbing all the large bottles that the backpack will carry as Chuck is stuffing the money from the register into a plastic bag from behind the counter.

What the fuck am I doing? What the fucking fuck am I doing? It becomes such a mantra that he suddenly realizes he can hear himself muttering under his breath. He zips the backpack up and knows that it'll all fade once that first inhale of gak hits his lungs and brain. But Reggie wouldn't be there. Reggie was the one who made lewd jokes and kept the peace between everyone when they were tweaking.

Something inside him snaps.

Without thinking he drops the backpack and runs. Jumping clear across Reggie, and out the door to Chuck's disgruntled hollering. He prays to a God he doesn't believe in that Chuck won't have time to process what's going on and shoot him in the back. He moves faster than he ever has in his life, making it to the car and jumping in, and slamming the keys home into the ignition. He peals out of the parking lot, and the old tires squeal in protest.

Go, go, go, Mason is chanting in his head again, breathing hard. There is a sound like a gunshot, and he ducks his head. He takes off down the dark road and keeps looking in the rearview mirror even miles later. As though Chuck would appear in the backseat, pissed and pressing the muzzle of the gun against the back of his head.

Where the fuck would he go? You didn't cross someone like Chuck and get away with it. He was willing to step over his dead friend's body to get his next hit of meth. Mason had no doubt Chuck wouldn't even pause before shooting him for leaving him jacked up at a fucking crime scene.

Where would he go? Mason looks down at the three-quarter tank of gas and nods to himself. Anywhere. Anywhere that wasn't here. Right now was a new moment. No more crystal. No more gak. No more nothing. Maybe life would give him another chance. He doubted he could outrun his demons, but he was willing to try. He reaches over and turns on the radio to drown out his thoughts.

"…They looked backward and said goodbye, She had become like they are, She had taken his hand, She had become like they are, Come on, baby, don't fear the reaper…"

[emily-charles]

Nightmare - June 10, 2021

Research vessel. Large. Teams pitted against one another. One woman and I from different teams go to the bathroom. We are wearing prison uniforms. All one colour. Marks left behind by the woman's nails were the same as colour as the shades she chosen. She goes in but we both notice it. It gives us both pause and for a moment we look at one another. For some reason I -know- that she chose the same stall to go to the bathroom in each time. And each time, I went with her. I must have chosen the same stall every time. Only this time we notice her nails had left marks. Had she been doing it on purpose? Were we repeating the fights over and over? Was the outcome different each time? How long has they been studying us? Long enough that her past her had started scratching messages to herself on the glass from her nail polish... The staff were coming. We quickly close the doors and the locks clicked into place and the doors turn opaque. I know this is only the illusion of privacy. Frosted glass when it locks. I remember that. And on my door, I had scratched, 'stay tgthr fite the reserch tex. Tk ovr the boat'. I must have not had enough time to write it out. I quickly re-scratch the message again and unlock the door and the opaque disappears. We step out at the same time, and a tech appears. The toilets auto-flush nothing and I realize we've both just re-scratched our messages to ourselves again. We look hard at one another. Was her message the same? What did it say? We can't talk with the tech present. The battle is going to begin soon. Have they been testing us? How many 'us' has there been? What did her message say? The tech orders us to follow them. How many times have we done this? What did her message say? Was it the same as mine? Or was it entirely different? A low bellowing air horn sounds deep within the bowels of the ship, signalling the battle drawing near. I try to meet the other woman's eyes again but her eyes are straight ahead. I suddenly doubt her message is the same as mine. I wake up. I hate my nightmares.

[emily-charles]

Fibromyalgia is a B*tch

Hello my fellow Fibro Warriors! I just wanted to share this stupid, but wonderful victory with you. For the past two weeks, I've been putting off washing my hair. Just putting it off, and putting it off, and putting it off. And it was because my scalp just hurt so much. Not my back like usual, not my hips or my legs like usual, not my hands like usual, or my joints in general. This past week has been my calves and my scalp. And I just kept putting it off. I would shower, but I wouldn't wash my hair. And I, my loves, am a gal with a LOT of hair. It's nearly three feet long, and thick as all git out. But for two whole weeks, I kept putting it off. I was dandruff city. I was oily like smoked salmon. I was, in short, gross. And I was breaking out along the sides of my face, because the sebum from my hair, was just SO much. As some of you know, or may have experienced, or are experiencing RIGHT NOW, I typically gotta break my shower routine up. Gotta use those spoons wisely, right? Like one time, I'll wash my body with soap, and that's it for that shower. Or I'll shave, and soap it up, and that's it for THAT shower. When it comes to my hair, I have a routine. I typically wash it once a week, and that's all it needs. It's healthy, long, and strong. It's the one thing I truly love about myself. I have no other vanities, just my hair. And I take good care of it. But the past two weeks -- it's been a minefield. I've had to be gentle as H-E-double-hockey-sticks with my danged scalp and hair. But today -- despite it being a flare up day (gosh I need a good hard nap RIGHT NOW), I got in the shower to wash my hair. And it hurt. Boy, did it ever. Massaging shampoo into my hair, onto my scalp, I swear I could feel the tug and pull of each individual strand of hair and it hurt. But I kept going. I bemoaned to the empty bathroom, "Ow, ow, ow," but I did it. I washed behind my ears, and scrubbed along the sides of my face, and I didn't just shampoo my hair, but I flipped it over, and I put conditioner in. I combed through it with my silicone brush, and I did my danged routine. Like a warrior. And to my fellow fibro sufferers, to anyone having a flare up day, who still gets out of bed and faces the day with grim determination, you are WARRIORS. I am now out of the shower, and sitting here in my towel, with my hair gently wrapped in another; while I type this out. And I am BEAT. I am worn thin. I am exhausted. But, I. Freaking. Did it.