#linnekin

[fictionkinfessionsarchived]

one of my friends turned out to be Hyde and im so incredibly happy tbh? bless them i lov them. -Linne

[blueblazers-blog]

The Tornado

     “You know, I don’t really know you... We hang out every day, but I feel like neither of us actually know each other”      “Well... We’ve got a couple hours before rehearsal, right? Pull over the car; let’s get to know each other”   I don’t know if she remembers that night in my car. We cried a lot, so I think she might remember it. She told me a lot of things that night. I told her a lot too; and yet, like the majority of our time together, I can’t remember it. I have no memory of what was said or why things changed. All I remember is holding her.   I looked into her eyes and saw the black hole behind her brain. And it burned so brightly.

  She smoked cigarettes and drank rum. She stole socks and read beautiful books. We kept our lives foggy and our tongues sharp. I saw a vestigial trouble with an insatiable inner child that my heavy mind couldn’t have envied any more.    I’m not exactly sure what she saw.   She flipped the switch in my brain that I thought died when I stopped catching frogs by the creek and climbing the willow tree out back. Like a dream, I watched myself from a distance. I became spontaneous and fun; reckless and mean. We drove my convertible top-down on the highway in a severe snowstorm, speeding sixty over, standing on our seats and screaming:        “I never loved that whore! I never will more, except for a month back in ’84!”   One night, we listened as midnight struck and my mother’s dinner party downstairs cheered, sipping on champagne and talking about how this year, they were gonna start going to church and reading more often. This year.  We each chugged a beer and toasted to every person we could think of who hated us.   We woke up the next morning on my mattress, the floor a garden of glass and green, the night before was black as the hole behind her brain. We knew what happened, but she wouldn’t see why. She was bored, she was bored.         “She was bored.”

[blueblazers-blog]

The Tree

She always said the trees were dancers, she said they had stories to tell and secrets to share. And I always said, with a small smile and a hint of doubt: “if you say so.”   I knew I loved her long before we kissed. I knew I loved her when I heard her running down the hall, when she turned the corner and grabbed me by the shoulders, when she held me tightly and caught tears on her neck. I knew I loved her that day in silence on that bench when she rest her head on my shoulder, I remember the quiet things we said and the louder things we didn’t.   The first was a Sunday, it was an accident; we swear. The second was a Monday, it was no accident; we knew.   But she couldn’t find the words to give them, the eyes that poked and prod.  So we hid for months in the corners of cafés and the depths of pinewood forests, we held hands under tables and learned to kiss with just a glance, because we felt we owed an explanation more than anybody else,  that we were somehow wrong. We were young and we were scared, but I learned to let go, I learned to be vulnerable and I learned it was okay to be wrong. I learned to trust another human more than myself.   We left sheets crumpled around the edges and I held her in my arms. The snow outside fell in silence and she laughed at something stupid I said. Her laugh could get me high and I’d smile ear-to-ear.        We used to talk, as many do, about the trains and where they go. What we wished and what we’d do if we knew we’d be alone. Now I know about the trains and I know where they all go, but what I wish? That's lost on me.    And I don’t know what I would do if I was told I’d be alone.

[blueblazers-blog]

The Bulb

She wasn’t particularly pretty. I wasn’t particularly pretty.   We lived 1,280 miles apart, we had never met, we had no stakes and placed no bets. The game was over before it started, but we played anyways.   I think she knew the whole time; but I had another mind back home, the person on the field was a simply a growing shadow. She stood on the sidelines and watched the shadow sprint down-field, a stick clutched in hands.    We trained for hours in the sun and when the day was done and night had come, we settled side-by-side. Words turned to thoughts and thoughts to feelings and feelings to tears and tears to hands and hands to lips.    I would stumble and she would catch. I would pause and she would push.   She taught me to dance and fight and speak. There was a bed, a floor, a bench and a rooftop, and amongst all this was a seed to plant. She was proof of contentment, a carbon-dated copy of the pain and confusion I had seen for three years. Yet she was normal, adjusted, happy even.   The night became a screaming cliche, and in doing so, it made the role I play so mundane,  so “okay.” Like a scene from a movie that’s too real to be real and too dumb to be fake. This became expected, accepted; predictable and, therefore, common. And therefore, “right”.   We said goodbye without choking.  We hugged without squeezing.   I was a good deed with a name and a face, a door left open with no time and no place. She was a lie inside my brain to validate that misplaced shame.   And I finally  let that shadow go.

[blueblazers-blog]

The Mountain

The morning after, I walked from her door knowing it would never happen again. She wasn’t ready, or I was wrong, or maybe she had been mistaken; maybe we were never in the same cave to begin with. 

Maybe she just got lost.

    She was a tower of status and stories. She had done the type of things that make a person “interesting”, I had done the type of things that make an adolescent “troubled”.    We spoke at parties and nodded at each other in the hall. When she laughed, she became an irrelevant flutter in my stomach; forgotten almost immediately as she drifted back to my peripherals. I don’t think I was ever even a flutter in her stomach, honestly.   But one day, we met for lunch. We ate sandwiches and soup, we talked about this and that, him and her. Then she asked:    “Can I talk to you about something?”   She told me the things she’d heard (about me), the things she’d thought (about her), the things that kept her up at night and the things that she had to whisper.   I told her what it felt like to leave that cave. I told her first about the sky: how it can be black at times and blue at others and how sometimes it’s air flows like invisible rivers across your skin. I told her it was infinite and it was beautiful. Then, I told her about the fire. How it consumes and builds and takes and takes and takes. And I showed her my burns, the old and the new. 

  From there we talked, I’m not sure what about; but I think we got along. She made me smile, I made her laugh.  That night we had been drinking whiskey, we smoked cigarettes outside and talked. She kissed me on the cheek and I held her hand in mine. We slept on a futon with blankets.   And once again, I became a quick mistake. I am, by nature, the kind of mistake that’s easier to forget than fix.

[blueblazers-blog]

Conversations I've Never Had Pt.3

“Here. Have my seat.” “Really? But why?” “Because you are a lady and I am a gentleman and because I am in a good mood today.” He stands. She sits. “Why, thank you. Thank you so much, but you being a gentleman and myself being a lady doesn’t make you any more capable of standing than myself. And furthermore, there are several ladies standing, including ladies who were here before me and you didn’t give your seat up to them. Why me?” “Because you look small and frail. Because you remind me of a younger sister I once had.” “Once had? What happened?” “It’s not important.” “Oh, okay. Well, thank you again for your seat, and may I say, those buffalo wings smell particularly wonderful. I envy you.” “They are delicious.”

[blueblazers-blog]

Conversations I've Never Had Pt.2

“I don’t want to waste your time, you’re young and still have time for mistakes.” “What do you mean, time for mistakes? When is there ever time for mistakes?” “When you are young. I suppose there will always be time for mistakes, but some times more than other times allot us that extra time set aside specifically for mistakes.” “Well I’d rather make as few mistakes as possible, at any time.” Here there is a pause. “Was I a mistake? Were we a mistake?” “What?” “Did you love me?” “Yes, of course, you know that.” “I don’t know that I do anymore.” “I never doubted your love for me, never questioned if what we had was real. Just because it didn’t last doesn’t mean it wasn’t real. Every day, people die, their bodies get burned and lost, buried and forgotten, it doesn’t mean they weren’t real. (1) Don’t you know it was real? Must you ask? I never questioned you.” “I never forgot about you.” Here there is a pause for mean things that weren’t meant to be said; and for words that have yet to find their way.  “I will never forget about you.” Here, there is a pause to rid the lump from your throat, the blur from your eyes. “If you ever change your mind; will you call me?” “Change my mind about what?” “About whether or not your loved me. About whether or not I was a mistake.” “Why does it matter to you so much? Won’t that just hurt you more?” “It’s not about hurting more or less; I just want to hurt the right way.”

  --------------------------------------------------------------------- 1 On August 6, 1945, US President Harry S. Truman dropped the atomic bomb “Little Boy” on the city of Hiroshima, Japan.The bomb lasted 43 seconds and killed 80,000 people in it’s wave.  

[blueblazers-blog]

Conversations I've Never Had Pt. 1

“How do you do it?” “Do what?” “All of it.” “What do you mean?” “I mean the things you do that are incredible; the art, the words, the mind. How do you do these things with such grace? Such passion?” “The passion is a heavy head to hold, but I can’t say I’d put it down if I could. But grace? You flatter me, with immense passion comes clumsy feet. You know that.” Here is a pause to think and distance because now is not the time, not the place.(1) For now, we are an audience; someday, perhaps they both will do things that are incredible, but we must distance, because now is not the time, not the place. “I suppose I know it to some extent. I believe I know it to a great extent, but I can’t rid that little voice that assures me, ‘no, my dear, your feet are clumsy by genetics.’(2)” “Then all your missing is trust. You choose which voice to trust.” “I guess I don’t want to trust the wrong one.” “I don’t either.” “It’s scary.” “Terrifying.” Here there is a pause.

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1 Merriem-Webster has 45 definitions for the word distance. 1. (v) Distance- to place or keep at a distance. 2. (n) Distance- a : separation in time b : the degree or amount of separation between two points, lines, surfaces, or objects f (1) : length of a race or contest (2) : the full length (as of a prizefight or ball game) (3) : a long race. 5. (n) Distance: a : aesthetic distance b : capacity to observe dispassionately

2 In 2005, Oxford Journals released a study that said one-third of schizophrenic cases could be traced to the environmental factors of an urban environment. These risks were especially high for developing children and adolescents with overt psychotic disorders and pre-existing genetic risk. Studies are now being done to focus on the genetic risk and the “increased incidence” of schizophrenia in children raised in an urban environment.