cheap notebooks and blank pages.

a thousand words a day.

[stitchedapart-blog]

miss blue.

Take it. Take center stage like you always do. Act as if you don't even notice that all eyes are on you. It's fine. I don't care. I've always been the one behind the scenes. Making sure everything goes as planned. Never heard, never mentioned. Never recognized. It's always been you who 'graces the stage.' Who receives the applause, the adoring fans, the raving reviews. Who is little miss blue? A shadow. Fallen behind the fair star of the show. But I don't care. Not really. Not at all. Mother always loved you best, you know. I know you know. I can see it in your eyes when her name is brought up. And you feel proud, don't you? Proud that you've done well. All for her, you always said. Is it, though?  Is it for her that you strut about for the eyes of others? For their approval? Is it for our mother that you ensure I remain anonymous? Mother loved you best. So I'm sure you know what she would have wanted. Twirl, spin, laugh madly as they cheer. Here is where I will remain. Alone. By myself. Down here. 

[stitchedapart-blog]

amber.

Breathing. In, out. Holy crap. In, out, in, out. Come on, keep breathing. We're running. Sprinting through fields of desecrated wheat toward Amber's favorite place. Was that what she had called it? Her favorite? Or was this just another one of her secrets? I met Amber five months ago. In that time, I had learned hardly a thing about the melancholy girl who wore sweaters and braids and who kept at least five journals in her rusty 60's buggy at all times. But despite my lack of insight into Amber's world, we were friends. Already close friends. She rarely spoke; just listened intently to everyone and everything around her. Like she was simply here to observe humankind day in and day out. Maybe she wrote what she discovered in those pristine notebooks of hers. My legs are burning, searing with aching pain. But I trail after Amber, not wanting to slow her down. She must be superhuman- her breathing is controlled and her eyes focused ahead, searching. "How much longer, girl?" I ask breathlessly, wincing at the pathetic whine in my tone. Anyone else would have told me to suck it up, or given me some harsh reprimand. But not Amber. She doesn't reply, only slows her gait to a jog. My lungs sing her praise. I duck my head and close my eyes, listening to the sound of her steps crunching the dead stocks of grain at an even pace. I'm tempted to just follow her blindly when I hear her pace slow. Looking up, I find myself standing behind Amber, who is frozen in place. Her warm eyes are wide, locked on something before her. I shift my gaze and squint, trying to see clearly with my wild heartbeat pulsing through my head. A fence. A burnt building. A cloudless sky. Thorny vines lace through the old fence, which is bent down a few feet down from where we stand. Patches of rust coat most of it. Amber reaches out and takes a few hesitant steps forward until her fingers graze a diamond of metal. I follow her intense gaze up to the building. It looks as if it was once an apartment complex. What a strange place to live, out here in the middle of farmland and so far from everyone else. It's obviously abandoned, the top two floors severely burnt and fragile. I'm surprised the hot wind hasn't demolished the place. I'm about to ask why we're here when Amber's grip tightens on the fence violently, her knuckles immediately turning white, then purple.  She doesn't speak. Of course she doesn't. It's Amber. I don't know, I just expected her to explain why we came all the way out here.  For a few minutes, we stand like this. Silent friendship. I'm trying to piece things together using what little I know of this girl and this new information when Amber releases her hands. When she turns, I see that she's been crying, so softly that I hadn't even noticed. She doesn't meet my gaze- just nods once as if to say, 'Good. Now that's done,' and begins her slow trudge back where we came. I don't follow this time. 

[cnvsblg]

[stitchedapart-blog]

iron grip.

Staring down at me, it's fluorescent glare boring into the top of my head. I refuse to look up. Refuse to flinch. What am I even doing back here? Why do I keep doing this to myself? Something about The Palms Hotel keeps me hostage-- makes me unable to break away. The first time I came here was when the wife had pitched a fit about me not getting the bonus at work. She never gave me the chance to tell her about the promotion I had received in it's place. She had just gone off, calling me every surly name in the book until I snapped. Grabbed my keys and left, slamming the door behind me. I drove here. Not straight here. It was only after a few hours of mindless cruising that I came upon the cheap motor hotel with it's flashy lights and dark parking lot. Some dank part of me had purred upon the sight, and I found myself pulling in and booking a room. There was nothing on the tv and the light in the bathroom was out, but something about the $139 room satisfied me. It was just so... not my wife. Everything about the place would have repelled her. And while I wasn't exactly swept away by the general hygiene and appearance of the place, it seemed to fill a deep need in me. Those first few hours in The Palms were bliss; with no reminders of the woman waiting up for me at home. I remember the knock that had sounded at the door late that night, and my first thought was that my wife had found me. I had been discovered. In my gut, I knew I wasn't ready to leave this place and face her. Begging and pleading with every higher good I could fathom, I trudged over to the door and pressed my face against the wood and peaked through the hole that showed who stood outside. A woman met my eyes-- but she was unfamiliar. The concave glass I looked through distorted her features, but I couldn't miss the uniform she wore. The maid. I was just about to send her away when I found myself reaching for the handle and smiling politely as I opened the door. A short, curvy woman stood a foot away, her dark eyes on mine for an instant, then glued to the floor. "Pardon," she managed to say through a thick Spanish accent, Ah, yes. That was why she was such a dark-featured beauty. Her thick black hair was pinned back sloppily, and went wonderfully with her caramel complexion. Just as she turned to leave, I laughed and said as casually as I could, "Hold on! I could definitely use a woman's touch in this mess I've made." I stepped back and gestured for her to enter, which she did very meekly, her head still down to avoid my gaze. 'How beautiful,' I thought then as I stared after her, taking in her voluptuous figure. Something in my abdomen twitched and I decided to look away. "Senior?" her voice called out mildly as she stopped pushing her supply trolley. "I will take one moment." Then she set about picking things up and restocking a few of the bathroom necessities, frowning at the busted light. She seemed to be done when she neared the bed. Though I hadn't been sleeping, the covers were undone and the pillows in a disarray. As I waited for her to make it back up, the woman rested her hands on the mounds of blankets and sighed. Without turning my way, she said quietly, "It would be a shame to make bed so early in night, yes?" A long, hot, stifling silence filled the room. I couldn't speak. But I did answer. That was the first time I cheated on my wife. Why am I back? How can I be back here at The Palms? What the hell kind of a husband--a man-- am I? The Palms keeps me prisoner.

[stitchedapart-blog]

to the bone.

I'm blinded by the falling snow surrounding me, smothering me from all different directions. The wind kicks up and whips my hair back, stinging my eyes and lashing my frozen face. No matter how many layers of fabric I have wound about my person, the winter air seeps through, unyielding.  Another round from the torrent lifts my cap high into the atmosphere for a moment. I watch with almost childish interest as it dives back down and sweeps into the crevice of an alleyway across the street.  My eyes scan the road and I curse the snow for deterring my line of sight. As far as I can see, there are no soldiers patrolling, no vans plowing down the road. My heartbeat thuds in the hollow of my ears as I take a breath, blood throbbing in my veins, and snap my eyes shut. I dash across to the alley in an instant, holding my breath for every second of the sprint. Then I'm alone-- the howl of the wind that is so constantly harassing my ears is held at bay by the statues of buildings around me. A few scant snowflakes have made their way into the slit, but flutter down softly, no longer suspended by the tornado of winter. My eyes cannot leave the sky. I have forgotten what it looks like. I have become so used to bending my head down against the weather, and squinting ahead of me everywhere I go. I never stop to look around these days; just trying to get from one place to the next without being seen, or heard. It's so marvelous. Though clouds swirl menacingly above me, visible through the crack between the skyscrapers, it's beautiful. Cold. Forgotten. Frightening. I never realized how constant these clouds are- how unforgiving. Someone coughs. Clears their throat. Tearing my eyes away from the terrible view above, I narrow my sight further down the alley, where the lampposts' light is too weak to touch. But I see no one.  Click. Click. Click. Footsteps approaching slowly, leisurely. Who has the time to stroll down a dark alleyway these days? Still glaring in the peruser's direction, I try to muster up the courage to say something. To show that I'm not afraid; that I'm strong. My mouth opens to speak, then snaps shut as a hand holding my hat folds into the dim light, almost like it appeared out of thin air. I couldn't tell you why the sight surprised me. I had heard the person coming. But the stranger moved so strangely. Like the spineless slither of a perilous snake-- beautiful but deadly. "This yours?" the person asks. For a split second, I'm not sure if they are a man or a woman, for though the tone was deep, it was sad and soft. Like a final note falling at the end of a symphony. I gulp, wishing I was somewhat eloquent and could return the inquiry with something witty and charming. But I just nod sharply and blink too many times. Brilliant teeth shine in the shadows. "Here you are, then," he offers, gently shaking the cap in his grip, a chuckle on his tongue. My mind tells my hand to move, to unhinge from its folded embrace, but I remain frozen. Click. Another step forward. I glance down at his polished shoes and wonder where on earth he got them. His hand moves back with the hat into the blackness before walking out into the light. And that is when I see his face and nearly scream. The only thing that stops me is the bewildering captivation his mask holds. Only, it is no mask. I wish I could say it is paint. His smooth skin is rounded and boney flesh. Closed mouth shows a delicate set of lines across his lips. Not teeth, but what?  Upon seeing my distracted features, the young man grins, and that is when a shriek of terror escapes past my trembling lips. Then his warm hand is on my mouth, and those dark eyes peer out past the black skin around them. I'm shocked to see my hat planted atop his head. Looks better on him, for it is a man's cap. My father's. "Don't," he whispers as he snags the cap off of his head and places it onto mine in one fluid motion. "Don't scream. It's not your time, yet."  As his fingers peel back from my face, I squeak, "My time?" With a flourish, he turns on his heel and begins to creep back into the shadows. Click. Click. Click. Click. "No, wait!" I call out, my voice echoing loudly after him. I take a step toward the darkness in which he dwells. "STOP!" the man bellows, and though I know he is far, his voice seems to sound straight into my ear. "Stop," he repeats in a hushed whisper, his tone so full of sorrow and... regret? Was that his sweet breath brushing across my face? "Please, stop. It's not your time, yet, love." Is his hand holding mine? I look down. No, there's nothing there. But I can feel him. I'm alone again, and I begin to wonder if I had really seen anyone at all.

[stitchedapart-blog]

Dry hands.

Stretch my hands, skin taut. Cracks webbed throughout in a sickly pattern. Unhealthy. I keep telling myself to buy lotion and stash it in my car, but it never happens. Cringe at the feeling of parchment pigments gliding over the steering wheel in an attempt to just get a grip.  Maybe if my hands were lovely and skeletal. If they were more bone than flesh. I'd live with dry hands. Can I complain, though? This curse brought on my a frozen night. Just driving in this darkness with acid wind destroying my skin sends adrenaline spiking through my veins. What if I just got lost. What if I drove until I ran out of gas, then wandered still? Lay down in the autumn fields and let myself dissolve into the clouds I cannot see. Things are happening. People are laughing too loud. Holding each other close. Throwing themselves over bridges. My hands are dry.