#picture block

[our-silent-muses]

He held her in his hands. She was lifeless, cold and her clothes had blood all over them.  In a single moment, he saw his life die. She was everything to him, now that she was dead. What did he have left?

Even in her death, everything about her was bright. Even in her death, She had more life than him. 

[writechoice24]

The air is crisp, clean, full of the tang of spring and the slow, moist smell of snow-melt. The blush-colored blooms sway in the easy wind, stirring the glassy water beneath. Warm breath rushes past coral lips. She imagines that her gusty exhale stirs the leaves before her, though she knows this is not the case. Wispy trails of mahogany blow across her vision, cutting dark swaths across the copse of trees.

She is free.

There are no headmasters telling her to tighten her stitches, no angry tavern-goers demanding that she fill their tankards, and most importantly, no young men with curly hair and wide-set eyes, who promise one thing but mean another. The thought of him nearly breaks her already tenuous peace. She inhales deeply, exhaling the feeling of his touch, teasing her. Tears prickle dangerously at the edge of her eyes. She does not let them fall.

This is her peace, her place of solitude. She will not let him ruin it.

[queerdirkroxy]

   It had been 21 weeks since it happened. She flexed her fingers, tired from writing out a long, hand-written letter. It was the last of them, though, so carefully she folded it in on itself, slipped it in an envelope, sealed it, and stamped it and pulled the shoebox from underneath her bed. She smiled softly, then, and while it wasn't really what you could call a happy smile, it was a smile. Amongst several scattered mementos (a bus ticket here, a movie ticket stub there, a few pieces of gaudy quarter machine jewelry) was a stack of 20 more sealed and stamped envelopes. She pulled them out, and rooted around the other bits and baubles in the box, producing a string of red ribbon. She made sure the letters were in order, and tied them neatly with the ribbon, placing them back in the box. 

   Slipping the lid back on the box, she tore a few small pieces of tape from a roll laying at her feet and sealed the box too, and on a scrap of paper she scrawled a quick note.

This was the only way I could think to say goodbye that would be good enough. I'm sorry it took so long. I was never the punctual one.

My heart belongs to you, still. I hope you have a good life. 

   Gingerly holding the box under her arm, she hopped in the car and drove, navigating carelessly and by memory. While it had been 21 long weeks since she had driven this way, she knew the directions as well as she knew her house in the dark. She parked in front of an inoffensive house in a culs de sac of equally inoffensive houses, and unbuckled her seat belt, taking a deep breath before stepping from the car. Her steps were deliberate as she walked up to the porch, set the box on the welcome mat,rung the doorbell and turned away, walking back to her car. 

   Before she could open her car door, she heard a creak behind her and looked back, like a tic that hadn't faded away yet. He blinked at her, looked down at the box, and bent over. She moved to turn away and leave, but he shook his head without looking up all the way as if to say 'Not yet, you're not going anywhere'. She sighed and leaned against the car, fidgeting with her naked fingers. 

   He sat down on the porch, languid and graceful, and peeled off the tape, careful not to rip it. Pulling the letters out, he set them aside and sifted through the debris of their past that sat in the box. His fingers lingered on a smilie face ring from the machine in the local 7-11, and a goldfish keychain from the county fair, half of a broken tea saucer from a day they'd spent in the city. Looking up at her finally, he shook his head, his expression set and angry. 

"Why are you giving all of this back?" 

She shrugged, and sighed again, fingers on ne hand pulling at her ring finger awkwardly. 

"If you really wanna know?" she called out, unmoving. "Just read them." she nodded to the letters and got in her car and drove away. 

   Puzzled, he pulled the neat bow from the letters and put it in the box, trying not to remember the summer dress that ribbon used to belong to. And he read. Hours he sat on the porch in the fading summer sunlight, barely aware of cars passing or cicadas and crickets performing an orchestra in the background. His hands shook, just slightly, as he read the final lines of the last letter, written in the late hours of the previous night and the very early hours of that morning. 

I am giving you back all of my happy memories of you, because they are not what I need to remember. I need to remember the bitter things, the things that hurt and stung, because otherwise I'll just miss you forever. You are bitter enough for the both of us, and I thought it might serve you well to remember that, once upon a time, you made somebody happy. You were somebody's world. I will not forget the happy things, because there are as much a part of me as my left hand, or my right ear. My hands feel naked without all those stupid cheesy rings. But they are still hands. I don't feel right without you, but I am still me, and I will continue to be me without you. You were happy once. I know. I saw it. Please be happy again someday. I can say goodbye to you forever after these 21 weeks of purgatory if I know you'll remember to be happy.

My heart belongs to you, still. 

   He sat a few hours more than, into the twilight hours of the night and day, carefully refolding every letter and replacing it to it's proper envelope and retying them with the ribbon pulled from the lace-up back of a red summer dress. He stared into the box and remembered every moment, and remembered moments that never happened because he never gave them the chance to happen. And he stood,clutching the sealed again box like some sort of delicate animal, and he walked. 

   It had been years since he'd walked this way, once they'd gotten cars, they'd given up on walking anywhere, driving was faster and less tiring, but if you walk somewhere nearly every day for years as a child you never quite forget the way. He'd sat so long on the porch that by the time he walked the half an hour or so to her house it was nearly dawn. And he remembered that she'd always loved sunrises more than sunsets, because sunrises were beginnings and sunsets were endings. But endings are beginnings too, he thought quietly, because things have to end before other things start. 

   Considering the hour, he did not knock on the front door, instead opting to climb up the tree and perch on the spit of roof below her window, like he used to when they were kids and he would run to her house in the night when his parents fought. With some effort, as he was not as short and light of foot as he was in middle school, he lifted himself to her window sill and knocked, four small knocks followed by a pause and then four more small knocks. 

   She wasn't sleeping when she heard the knocks. And she knew he probably knew she'd be awake. There are some things you just don't forget. She pulled herself out of the nest of blankets she formed and pulled one of them around her like a cloak and walked to the window. She knocked back softly, for old times sake, before opening the window, looking sort of unsure but mostly sadly resigned.

"Hey." she said, her voice low and quiet. 

"Hi."

"What are you doing here?"

"Would you believe me if I said I wasn't sure?" she shook her head. "Okay, yeah I expected that much. If I promise to explain, can I come inside?" she nodded and stepped out of the way, pulling the blanket tighter around her. He nimbly stepped through the window and settled himself onto the chair in her corner. She retreated to her bed again, still too unsure of the situation to not put distance between them. Oh how the tables have turned, she thought bitterly. 

"Talk." she nodded at him again. 

"I read all your letters. And you're right. I want to tell you right off the back, everything you said in all of them is right. Except one thing. In the last one. Well, it was right when you wrote it. but I don't think it's right anymore. And I was thinking on the way over here, because it's almost sunrise and when we were kids and had sleepovers you would drag me out of bed at ungodly hours and make me sit on the roof with you and watch the sunrise. And you always said the sunrise was better because that's how things begin. But here's the thing, the sun can't rise if it doesn't set right? It has to get dark before it can get light again, it has to end before it begins."

"I'm... not sure what you're getting at."

"I don't need memories. I need to live. We may have been a sunset, ending in a spectacular explosion of colors and pent up feelings. But if we set, why can't we rise too? I know we can't just start up where we left off. I hurt you, I hurt myself, and everything was kind of a mess and I don't know how we went from what we were as kids to what we were when we were together. but we can sort of start over. Not completely, we've known each other too long for that. I don't need a bunch of happy memories of who I used to be and who you used to be when sitting right in front of us is a chance to be those people again."

"So after the disaster of the past year of our lives, together and apart. You're asking me to just... forget. And try again." she looked at him dumbfounded. He shook his head vehemently. 

"No no no not at all. I know you can't do that and to expect it of you would make me a terrible friend and person. All I'm saying is we can't be what we used to be. But we can't start over either. But if we take all the broken bits and sift out the stuff that's still okay, maybe we can build something on what we've already got that's better. I don't.. I don't wanna be my parents. I don't wanna to grow up old and bitter and perpetually frowning. And I know you don't wanna grow up to be like your mom, always looking over her shoulder to count all her regrets. If you can walk away from me now, satisfied that we've run our course, please, do. I want you to be happy, and if I know you're okay with this, I'll be okay in time. but if any part of you will regret not giving us another shot, I'm begging you to let us try again." 

   She stared at him, her thoughts reeling. He was right, of course. They may have ignored and avoided each other for months and the months before that were a slow crash and burn of hundreds of unresolved issues coming to a head, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know her better than anyone. She twisted her fingers around the place on her finger that was bare now but wasn't that morning. Could she walk away from her best friend right now, and just move on from years and years of shared history, abandon it just because things got kind of hard, and never regret or think maybe she did the wrong thing? No. She really, really couldn't. So she nodded, slowly, and stood up, blanket still pulled around her shoulders and shuffled over to him. Gently, she wedged herself between the arm of the chair and his side, and laughed slightly. 

"What are you laughing at?" he asked, bewildered both by her sudden move and the laughter. 

"Do you remember when we were little, and the reason I got this chair when I redid my room was because it was big enough for both of us to sleep in? And we didn't really stop sleeping in it, even when we got too big, until our parents decided we were too old to have sleep overs with the opposite sex." she leaned her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, listening to the careful beating of his heart. It sounded the same as it always had, from when they were too little to care about cooties, to when they laid on the hood of her car to watch the sunrise the last night of summer before senior year started. He still looked perplexed. 

"Is you coming over here and acting normal again a yes? I'm really confused." 

"Of course it's a yes. You really think I could ever give up on you?" he chuckled and shook his head slowly. 

"No, I guess not." he leaned down and pulled up the box, lifting the tape and digging around till he found the plastic ring with the chipped yellow happy face ring. He grinned, crooked and tired, and handed it to her. She tilted her head at him. "You've been pulling your fingers all day." he shrugged. She laughed and took it from him, sliding it back on her finger and leaning her head into his chest. 

"There." she said softly, the length of the day finally creeping into her voice. "Back where it belongs." he nodded, his eyelids heavy. 

"Yup. Just like me."

[writechoice24]

At first glance, it's hard to distinguish the small shack from the rest of the surrounding junk. Its sheet metal roof blends in with the despair around it. Its cardboard façade is so worn that it appears to be part of the wall. The early light paints diamonds of yellow on its beaten surface. The illumination sneaks into the dwelling's many cracks and rips, slanting directly into its only occupant's eyes.

Moaning at his loss of sleep, the gangly child hefts himself to his feet. He scrubs his eyes with a skinny forearm, he drags his fingers across the crumpled and soiled picture of his parents with affection, and he grabs his moth-eaten hat. One of his tanned, dirty fingers slides through a hole in the fabric and he scowls. Soon, his father's hat will be unable to hold the meager amount of change that he collects. With a shake of his head, he dispels the memories of the foster homes, the accident, and his eventual running away. He places the hat atop his head and scurries out of his humble home.

His first stop is always the corner closest to his shack, the one with the toy store and the café. Sometimes, the waiters will purposefully leave plates of food in the alleyway for him. Every day, without fail, he takes a little time to stare longingly into the toy store, eyeing the bright, candy-colored plastic within. He deludes himself into thinking that, one day, he'll have enough money to march in and buy whatever he wants. Something small, he's decided, not too flashy. However, this dream always comes to an end when the shopkeeper, empathy swimming in his eyes, shoos him away.

After this corner, he heads to the nearest soup kitchen. They never question him, as he always pretends to be with another group of people. He hides his true situation away. In his heart, he knows that no other family will every be able to take the place of his own, and that's what keeps him alone. Of course the foster families where nice, they always took good care of him, but they would never be enough. They knew it too, he could always see it in their eyes.

Belly full from the soup kitchen, he returns to his small home. He takes the hat from his head and places it on the ground.

"You're going places," his dad had always said, rumpling his hair with one long hand.

I'm sorry, he whispers to his father's memory, I'm failing you.

The shadows of the tall buildings lengthen in the dying sunlight. His hat contains a few measly dollars, which he stows away in the mattress he salvaged from the dump. The mattress's dirty surface is stained with tears.

He is scrounging for food behind a McDonald's when the man approaches him. He is tall, well-dressed, and appears to be genuinely concerned. He crouches beside the boy, who regards him cautiously. It is this type, the ones clad in business suits and ties and toting briefcases, that hurry past him without a single glance.

"Hey, are you alright?" He asks gently.

"M'fine," he responds, large brown eyes riveted to the ground.

"Would you like for me to buy you some food? Anything you want." He offers. He can see the hunger in every painful line of the small boy's body. He pauses in his rummaging, considering. Finally, he gives a small nod. Two cheeseburgers later, they have exchanged names and stories. The man watches as the child, Todd, ravenously attacks his fries and sucks greedily at his straw.

"Thank you," he mumbles, getting out of his seat to leave.

"Woah, woah! There's no rush! Please, sit down. I want to help you."

"Nobody can help me," he murmurs, looking down at the tiles beneath his feet. He feels bad for soiling the red plastic bench with his filth.

"Yes, they can. Todd, I'm not going to try and replace your parents, I know that's impossible. Just let me give you a place to stay, food to eat." He pleaded. The boy seemed immovable.

"At least let me drive you to where you stay. Think about it, please?"

Two months later, a boy walks into a toy store. His hair is trimmed and clean. His face is bright and healthy. After perusing the store's contents, he settles on a small, plain windup car. The shopkeeper thinks that he looks vaguely familiar. Maybe, just maybe, covered in dirt, he might be the same child.  

"Is that all you want, Todd?" The man behind him asks. The child nods, beaming.

Together, they walk out of the store and head home.

[writechoice24]

The gravel was sharp beneath her feet, prickling, poking. The moonlight grazed her alabaster skin, lending her the appearance of fine ivory. Silver and liquid, its illumination stained the folds of her clothes, hid in the inky depths of her skirts. Through it's power her hair was turned to strands of starlight, her lashes to stardust. The air was chilled, frigid with the kiss of winter. It stung her bare skin and quickened her breath. She inhaled, teeth rattling in her mouth, and thought that she'd never felt more alive. The cold air stuck in her lungs, thrilling her. Her breath clouded before her, creating a misty haze. She felt untethered. Untied. Free. The confrontation still buzzed in her limbs, resonating in her bones and shaking out through her fingertips. "I canNOT do this!" She had screamed, defying him for the first time, "I will not do this again! No more! We're through!" She reveled in the memory of his shocked face, a face that had entrapped her for far too long. Finally, oh finally, she was able to live her own life. The shackles of his control had been forcefully torn from her wrists, ankles, heart. Heady with the rush of independence, she did what she did best. Her feet seemed to float above the ground, effortlessly segueing into the next series of twists and turns. "You're a terrible dancer," his voice, as harsh as the gravel beneath her, growled in her mind. "You were always afraid that it would catch someone's eye, take me away from you. You can't hold me back any longer," she responded calmly, mentally, throwing the words at his memory. He was probably halfway across the state by now, crying in that old beat-up car. She was too good for him. Like liquid metal, she flowed over the empty lot. The moon was her audience, the night was her stage. A smile graced her face, the first one in eons, and she laughed into the crisp air. Warmth surged into her limbs, reinvigorating her movements. Graceful and fluid, she flew over the ground, surging into move after move. Swirling, swinging, leaping, she danced well into the night. The edge of the obsidian sky was reduced to dark blue. Slowly, its rich color began to seep away, replaced by watery hues of purple, red, and orange. The dawn crept into her cheeks, warming them after her night of freedom. Her face was flushed. Her feet stung. Euphoria filled her veins.

[writechoice24]

It would be so verdant and green, you might assume that it was grass. You would place a confident foot over the surface, plunging down without a second thought. Shock would drain the color from your face, replaced in an instant by the rosy ears and ruddy cheeks that came with embarrassment. A sopping wet shoe would be heaved out of the sludge, covered by the same layer of algae that had deceived you. Socks would be made heavy with the moisture of the stagnant pond.

The bugs, dancing, buzzing on the air would appear to be mocking you. They would balance with their thin, long legs on the water, crystalline wings spread wide.

One foot wet, one foot dry, you would swipe the condensation from your eyes, push back the wet, tangled shock of your hair, plastered to your forehead. Taking care, you would adjust the straps of your backpack. Squelching with every step, you would skirt the deceptive body of water and ascend the ancient steps. Spiderwebbing cracks in the stone would catch your eye, causing you to pause and marvel at the age of it all. Leering and wide, faces would peer at you from the crumbling walls, watching your advance with incredulity. Very few have walked these steps, breathed this air. You are aware of this and it makes you feel proud. An unnamable feeling would rise in your chest, fill your throat and escape from your eyes.

The massive ruins would meet your eyes in their stunning wholeness, and you would identify that feeling as awe, pure and unadultered. Stepping where others had stepped, long ago, you would feel the history of the place. It would be one of the most amazing experiences of your lifetime.

If you went, that is.

[writechoice24]

The Winter Wood

Snow crumbled beneath the cautious steps, crunching and compressing. The soles of the leather boots were imprinted upon the virgin precipitation, a series of indentions leading to the cloaked figure standing in the middle of the wood. Icy light filtered through the mist and clouds, lending the forest an eerie glow. Towering oaks loomed out of the fog, like long-forgotten soldiers begging for recognition. The underbrush crackled, her eyes snapped to the side.

Belly brushing the snow, a fox slunk along the ground. Its yellow gaze bored into her soul, questioning her presence in its forest, analyzing her odd scent. Deciding that it wasn’t of great import, the lithe creature slid away in pursuit of a meal.

Another set of footfalls joined her own, followed by cursing and the unmistakable cacophony of blundering.

“Yikes!”

Snow clouded his dark brown hair, sticking in quickly-melting clumps to the bark-colored strands. His cheeks were flushed, his ears were red, and his nose ran. The formerly pristine and unbroken plain of snow was now marked with the furrows of his feet. She could see where his head had entered the blanket of white.

“Are you alright?” She inquired, covering a smile with slender fingers.

“Fit as a fiddle. My foot caught a hidden root, that’s all.”

“Glad to know that you’re not suffering any further brain damage.”

“Thank-Oh, haha, you’re hilarious,” he replied, brushing snow from his shoulder with an irritated look, “are we far enough in, now?”

Her mood turned from jovial to nervous, “I-I think so, yes.”

“So I finally get to see this so-called secret of yours?”

She nodded, eyes glued to snow beneath her feet.

“You know, this’ll be a lot of trouble for one little wart or something. I still don’t understand why you had to take me so far out.”

Shivering from anxiety rather than the cold, she let the cloak drop from her shoulders. She was seldom seen without it; he couldn’t remember ever seeing her garbed in something different. The girl beneath the heavy bolt of fabric was an enigma. Eyes wide with wonder, he beheld why she was always hidden. He first noticed that her shoulders were very thin, quite the opposite of the hunchbacked youth she appeared to be. People whispered behind tankards of ale and drying clothes that she suffered from a terrible birth defect, one that deformed her spine. This, he was sure, was certainly not the case. The figure before him was impeccably formed, straight back and all. He had only ever seen her face and hands, and he now saw that those familiar digits were at the end of willowy arms. She was taller, thinner than he usually saw her.

Shadows stretched out far on both her sides, coalescing beneath the massive wings attached to her shoulders. Glossy and gray, they steamed in the chilly air. They flexed and spread, displaying their graceful power.

“Well,” he said, “those certainly aren’t warts.”

Her cheeks turned red, from the chill and the relief.

[writechoice24]

Piercing, keening, wailing, the cry shattered the moon itself, leaving shards of light to seep down into the thick forest. The viscous illumination oozed down through the leaves, dripping like milk until it found the sorrowful eyes of the mourning creature. Moonbeams continued to seep about it, coloring the coarse hairs sprouting from its pores a brilliant white. The great orb of its eye, lifted skyward, was swimming with tears. They streamed from its black-lidded eyes like quicksilver, splashing onto the loamy earth below. Huge and luminescent, they focused on the bone white figure before them. As thick and dark as a calligraphy brush heavy with ink, her hair swirled about a porcelain face, unbound by the powers of this world. The silk robe she wore billowed around her slim figure, whipping in a wind the creature could neither see nor feel. "What have you done?!" It tried to bellow, peeling back thick, chalky lips and revealing square teeth. The scared roar that met its ears sent shock reeling deep into its heart. The woman looked sad, disappointed. "You have brought this upon yourself," she replied. Grassy strands of hair obstructed the thing's, once a man's, vision. "What did I do to deserve this?" It rumbled, large feet making circular wounds in the earth. "You did not assist the villagers that came to you for help. Though you had enough to help them, you sent them away." "I- my hands were tied, there was nothing that I could do." "Well," she cast a glance to the large, round feet, "that will no longer be a trouble for you." The beast snorted. "I'm sorry," it growled, white, grass-ridden head hung low with shame. The woman offered it a melancholy smile. "I am glad to know that, but it does not change what you've done." "Is there anything that I can do?" Her face looked pensive, "There is but one way to reverse the effects of your actions." "Tell me! Please, I'll do anything!" "The villagers' daughter remains in the town. She stays with her aunt and uncle. If she falls in love with you, in this form, the curse will be broken." Smooth and pale, her fingers formed a perfect cup. Softly at first, a white light grew in the nest of her palms, quickly becoming too bright to look at. The beast swung its massive head away, black eyelids shut tight. When it reopened its eyes, the woman held before her a perfect white lotus flower. Each petal was perfect, as if sculpted. "You have until each petal falls to make this come to pass. Otherwise, you will be like this, forever." It lifted its head and roared, screaming its sadness, frustration, regret, to the night sky. "I wish you the best of luck," she whispered, tucking the waxy bloom behind one great, wrinkly ear. Within moments, she was gone. Its cries continued into the night, swallowed up by the onyx blanket of stars.