#creative lit

[mama-mel]

In a Moment (Part 2)

I can hear my mother in the living room and walk out to find her on the phone. I try to distract myself by going through his paperwork once more. I see a list of all his passwords sitting out that I somehow overlooked. ‘Why would he leave these out?’ I ask myself. I hear footsteps come into the office.

“Someone from the Sheriff depart will be here in about 10 minutes.” The words come from mother with mixed emotions behind them, a combination of worry and releaf. I turn and we stare at each other, motionless just eyes locked reading each other's thoughts. My palms start to sweat, I begin to feel dizzy, I break the connection and walk over to a painting of sailboats.

I love this painting, not because it was a particularly well done one but because my father called upon my art expertise to help him find something for his house. We had gone to a few garage sales and after looking through all the dead animal and cowboy art we stumbled upon this piece. It was calm, with three sailboats sitting on the water. While looking at it you could imagine the boats gently rocking back and forwarth on the water, the smell of salt in the air, the mist from the ocean hitting your face while your hair danced in the wind, looking over the edgy of the deck and seeing the waves gracefully pat the side of the boat.

My moment of calme is interpreted by the doorbell as it plays a peaceful melody that was deceptively happy considering what was about to transpire.

My mother opens the door and we see a lengthy sheriff standing there. He comes in without a word just a nod of his hat as if he already knows what has happened. He sits at the kitchen table and I sit across from him. I make eye contact and get the feeling of groundedness while in the middle of all this chaos. He starts with needing confirmation.

“So you needed to file a missing persons report?” His deep voice sounds like comfort and safety. My mother jumps in to answer:

“Yes. The last anyone heard from him was Saturday, and then he missed work today and he would never do that.” We all nod in agreement.

“Okay I’ll need to ask a few questions and some may be a little bit sensitive.” He locked eyes with me while he finished his statement, “So some of you should probably wait in the other room.” I pause for a moment hoping maybe he’ll let me stay, but after a while his silence spoke for him and I went back into my safespace in the office.

Despite being in the other room I could hear him asking about what my dad may have been wearing when he left, what his missing truck looks like, he is also informed of the gun missing and a few other questions along these lines. Then he asks my mom:

“Do you know if your ex husband was sexually active?” I quickly cover my ears like I use to do when I was a child and they would fight. I feel so helpless and lost. A little while later the Sheriff finishes his questions and comes in to check on me.

“How are you doing?”

“I mean I’m worried and I’m just hoping he’s okay.” I say matter a factly.

“We’ll find him, I’m sure of it.” He once again nods his head and walks out the front door.

My mom comes in, “come on let’s get you home. There is nothing more we can do now but wait.” I can see the tiredness in her eyes, so I walk out the front door despite wanting to object.

We get in the car and start driving down the gravel road once again, this time to the sound of silence. And with that silence my brain begins to race. ‘Where the hell is he? Did he go for a hike? Is he stuck somewhere in a canon? Why did he buy that gun and why did he take it with him? Was he robbed, no wait his house was undisturbed. Would he really leave town with only those things? No I don’t think so. I just hope he’s okay and comes home soon.”

The headlights shine onto my apartment building and my mother starts to open her mouth to say something but then closes it once again.

“I love you” I say.

“I love you too sweetie.”

I walk up the cold concrete stairs and turn left. I face my brown door, unlock and open it. Dropping my backpack onto the unvacuumed floor I flop myself onto my half made bed. My heavy eyelids start to droop and soon I’m asleep.

A few hours later I wake to the noise of my phone vibrating on my nightstand, the screen reads mom. In a moment all the events from the night before flash through my mind and with that I sit straight up and answer.

“Mom?” The worry instantly back in my voice.

“They found his truck.”

[tethea]

you’ve taken the ice between your teeth felt it slide over your tongue slip down your throat it sits just past the part where your esophagus breaks it bobs up and down with the beat of your heart it freezes your breath in your chest and it wraps long barbed fingers around the people you have tied your heart to love freezes too coldcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldcold i still love you coldcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldcold touch me, feel the ice of me coldcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldcold thaw me coldcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldcold

A.O.A.M. || February 

[tethea]

The sun is wrapping its arms around my shoulders I can feel it squeezing it is burrowing its light into my pores filling my bones with it the light heaping into them like sugar does in a spoon on a tongue down a throat this poem has turned into me swallowing a star taking it for my own slipping its glow behind my own teeth with purpose a conquering maybe if I eat enough it will start to seep out my irises reaching like hands grasping at other people their eyes their bones their light I sure do like the way it tastes

A.O.A.M. || Light

[tethea]

I am making all sorts of mistakes for example packing flesh like clay onto the skeletons of dreams the fuller and more beautiful they are the more painful it is to remember that they are sculptures just the same and that they will remain so whether I carve prints into their fingers or if I pop eyes into their heads or tongues behind their lips and that if they start to speak I am talking to myself will someone please come teach me how to build my desires into living functional bodies so I can avoid growing any more attached to all these fantasies turned mannequins

A.O.A.M. || Mannequins 

[pyhim]

I think you always wondered why it was that anyone tried in the first place. I think that you ran through life never really understanding that love was actually enough, mocking us for our full hearts and our tears that fell fat for you every time you decided to leave us behind. I understand your addiction to pain, after all. We share the same ugly desire to devour what we think is ours to feast, destroying the hearts of those foolish enough to try to bring joy in to our pitiful lives.

Hannah Arrajj, Conversations With Nobody

[pyhim]

My life is full of contradictions and my body is the one who suffers. Who will be left to take care of it when I am gone? What songs can be sung over a corpse who longed for this state of decay? I want only for my body to blossom into flowers.

Hannah Arrajj

[rawringsun]

Couch Story #3

I came home late and notice a snoring bear on my sofa. Its loud and tired snore so I check if its really a bear. Then I saw this guy, holding his phone; like his waiting for a call. I checked his screen and its our conversation box idly waiting for my response. I cant text him back because my battery is dead. How serene he could be when he is sleeping. I decided to cover him with his favourite blanket and I lay beside him even with such space. We are so close and comfy. He hug me like he didn't wait for so long. Like its okay now as long as Im here beside him. We lay and snuggle as the night falls to morning sunrise.

[silk-shirts-blog]

// Oculus Sinister By Jj Kakish //

He flicked the bottom of his cigarette packette, forcing a white stick that smelt like raisins to reveal itself atop the crushproof box. He raised the sturdy, white cigarette to his mouth, quickly chasing after it with a worn, silver Zippo lighter that he had stolen from a thrift shop on his way into the city. He lit it and watched as the slender smoke danced promiscuously in front of his face, using the tip of his cigarette as a stage and stripper pole. He took this opportunity to take a drag and inhale deeply. As he exhaled, he squinted up at the neon-gold sign glowing amidst a backdrop of midnight sky. "Aladin Htel". The 'D' and the 'O' were burnt out. So were the lights on the fifth floor. All of them.

It was early November and this Fall had been a mild one. It was relatively humid for that time of year, although the wind that accompanied it blew ice, dragging with it an orchestra of grit and dead leaves from the damp sidewalk. Despite the wind, people - mainly prostitutes and late-night lovers - were outside, roaming the streets. The downed trees and powerlines resulting from Halloween's thunderstorm had been cleaned up. New York City was recovering quite nicely.

Robert finished his cowboy killer quickly, seemingly inhaling no fresh air, only tar and toxins. Belmont Milds, he thought to himself. He studied the blood red bricks and black trimming of the 5-floor building. It reminded him of something that the devil may be residing in. He flicked his cigarette toward an obnoxiously large group of people blocking the sidewalk, violating the air with half of his cold index finger as he walked inside to check in.

As he made his way into the lobby, he was met by warm air being pushed from the surrounding heating system and sharp glares from sharks clad in monacles and long-tail tuxedos toting slick, side-parted hair and and hypnotizing black dress shoes that looked like mirrors. Robert was clad in battered, white, low-top converse sneakers and a knee-length green parka - another item stolen from yet another hapless second-hand store.

The hotel was surprisingly aristocratic and upscale indoors despite it's unwelcoming cosmetic shell. The floor was the color of school desks and flimsy, crystal chandeliers calmly hung from the ceiling like witches on trial. He admired them amidst a backdrop of oxblood red as he approached the front desk in an effort to check in, once again, to his desired room. A room located on a floor that even the maintenance staff wouldn't dare flirt with unless grouped together in numbers soaring far higher than the spectrum of single digits.

"Meestah Pahkeh," the concierge said. "I'm afred your rum is unevelable for check-een. No guest ah permeeted to spend the night anywheah on that floow". He was dark, most likely from Kenya or one of it's surrounding countries, and spoke with a thick accent that he seemingly attempted to smother in attempts to speak in a manner that would be deemed "comfortable for listening" by American ears.

Robert Parker scanned the concierge's uniform for any imperfections that he could use as an argument against him. He gazed at his name badge.

"Aasim," Robert started. "May I speak to the manager?". "I am dah managah," said Aasim, "you'we nat staying on daht floow." Robert stabbed him with sharp eyes. They were both a wash in a sea of irritation. Aasim lowered his head and gripped the top of his glowing head, pushing back only soft scalp. He raised his head and gazed at Robert, squinting and gnawing on his bottom lip in deep thought. The aristocrats had made their way into their rooms, and the lobby was vacant with the exception of the two barterers.

The two locked eyes, entering into what seemed like a staring contest. They immersed themselves into a silence that seemed to build like the shrieks and out-of-tune voices of annoying siblings on hungover mornings. Aasim placed the keys to room 526 into the eager palms of Robert Parker and broke the silence. "Nobody heyah is going to bring you to youwa roum. You may take thee elevatah". He walked away from the front desk, tapping his legs with his long, pencil-like fingers, leaving Robert to gather his things and move into his new chamber. He brought his things into the elevator and searched for a number 5 that he could set aglow. 1. 2. 3. 4. 6. He chose 4, evidently pursuing the notion that he could simply take the stairs from floor 4 to 5. He was right.

As he pushed open the door leading from the stairwell and onto the fifth floor, he noticed that something was odd. The air smelt odd and incredibly offputting, somewhat like electricity and sweat and seemed to blow through his hair like the warm air just before a thunderstorm. He caressed the lock with his key and was granted access into the hotel's private diary. He noticed the glow from a street lamp at the end of the room sneaking it's way into what seemed like a bedroom. He made his way toward it, already forgetting that the floor carried with it a haunting secret unknown to other frequenters of the hotel. He looked around. It was a bedroom. He smoked another cigarette as he gazed down at the hookers on the corner recruiting lonely passerby into an army of fornication. He contemplated winding down from his long day with some television and another cigarette. He studied them as their pimps looked on in anticipation from a dark corner across the street, making sure that their merchandise was not to be fucked with, hoping to make an extra hundred dollars from a lonely, unfaithful man on his way home to his wife and kids after working a late shift. Tired, hungry and horny. These people were the fuck-ups, the bad seeds, the gamblers. They were the sleezy, quick talkers. The hustlers. The kids that your parents warned you about. These men and women were the evening's children. The street light went out, leaving the businessmen and women in darkness. Robert took that as a sign that the television should be sacrificed for sleep. Robert heard a noise next door. Staring through his neighbours' keyhole, he investigated the sounds. He laid eyes on a lone woman with white hair, crying in the corner of the room. She was facing the wall. Confused and afraid, Robert headed back to his room, eventually falling asleep.

The next morning, Robert was awoken by the same noise, only louder and mixed with the sounds of faint growling. He investigated once again, this time only seeing oxblood red in place of the woman. He thought that maybe the woman had put a thick cloth in front of the keyhole, defending her privacy from nosy neighbours.

Concerned, Robert ventured down into the hotel's lobby, hoping to find an answer to what was happening in his newfound neighbours room. Robert found another concierge working at the front desk and told her what was happening on his floor. He asked for Aasim. He was informed that nobody by the name Aasim had worked there, and that nobody had checked onto that floor in fifteen years, including him. It's last inhabitants struck the hotel staff as odd. They did not look human. They were incredibly pale, sporting white hair and red eyes.