Friday, December 24, 2010

Asphalt Desert: Beginning Stages

Asphalt Desert
By: Hunter M.

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The summer I visited my cousin in Fort Worth- Ulyss, Texas home of the Trinity Trojans, district champs five years in a row- I didn't expect to fall in love.

Okay, let's be honest, love isn't exactly in my vocabulary or in my reality. Love is something I read about in books and daydream about, only wishing one day I can experience it but never truly believing I will. Something after so many tries, thinking yes, this is love only to have my heart ripped along the stitching a month, two months later so it's frayed and raw once again. Back to where we started. I've come to believe you can only find that unrequited, undying love you've prayed for since you were yae tall and adorned with plastic bejeweled crowns, your mother's high heels, and a princess dressed puffed around your little legs like a cupcake deep in the eyeliner smeared pages of a leather bound novel.

My cousin's house is nestled in a throng of bushes, their branches pressed against the flaking blue panels as if giving the house an encouraging hug. In front of the house, a large bush the size of a jeep and two trees who's canopy has grown together to form a type of leafy arc masked the house from the street's prying eyes. Five cars are parked around the house though only three belong to the owners of the home. The truck and beat up Toyota in the front are parked catywompus; one of the Toyota's wheels pulled up over the curb and into the grass bedded with acorns, leaves, and pine needles while the truck's whole right side has made its way up into the yard, its two left wheels just partly touching the stove stop cement street and the right wheels parked with smug satisfaction on the cracked, chunky sidewalk about five feet in front of the jeep bush. 'Neighborly Love' is definitely a prime concept in this neighborhood as I've never her my aunt or uncle complain about the cars or whoever they belonged to.

The scalding sun warms mine and my cousin, Emily's, blushing shoulders. We're walking down her block in the middle of the street, kicking loose grovel to the curb and eventually a little game of soccer picks up when she comes across a deflated ball, bleached from being stranded in a prickle bush for who knows how long. Rippling oases of trickery floated just out of reaching distance down the black asphalt desert. Our bathing suits are hitched under our arms, a brand new paperback book in my right hand slowly growing moist and slippery the longer we walk. Emily carried a bundle of things in her Pink duffle bag: her ipod, laptop, two changes of clothes, back-up bathing suit, make up bag swelling at the seams with her countless foundations and eye shadows, a brush and a wide toothed comb, a dented can of hairspray, a book- as if she'd actually read the thing- and an assortment of different tampon brands.

The sun jeers at me from above like a upperclassmen as if it knows how much I loath it's scalding waves pulsing over this little suburb. Over me. I'm not paying attention, just scanning the windows of the houses that line the street. Sometimes, I'll see a curtain twitch or a blind snap back into its uniform parallel lines. I can't help but think that the people in the homes are laughing at us with slight pity inking its way into their chest.

The book slips from my hand and slaps to the ground. I bend over and pick it up, shaking the gravel that managed to lodge itself inbetween the pages. Went I look up, Emily's staring at me looking more like a model than her usual. Her boney hands set on her jutting hips, her Hollister tank top pulled to show just part of her midrift. "Come on, Ellie. We don't have all day."

I wanted to tell her, Actually, we do have all day. It's summer. But I restrained myself. Emily wasn't Mrs.Queen Bee and she did pretend to be that way, but our clashing lifestyles flare up vexation between the two of us. She preferred to live her life always on the move, never taking breaks, and having people around her twenty-four seven. I, on the other hand, and content to stay at home, tucked away in a book with my mind in some other world full of vampires or mutant kids or future apocalyptic worlds.

I'm on her grounds, though, and I am forced to hangout with her overly peppy, obnoxiously loud friends. "I'm coming." I tell her after the awkward stare-down ensued.

Author's Note: Obviously, this isn't done. I'm not entirely sure if I should scrap this or not. Your thoughts or comments on it will help to aid me along to finishing it, but right now the words just aren't coming.

Short Story: Milky Eyes [The Market]

Milky Eyes
By: Hunter M.

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The boy in the rusted wheelchair speaks another language. When I sit in front of his milky eyes and listen, his gibberish doesn’t stop flowing from his mouth. His words are beautiful, like a choreographed symphony melting from one song to the next with simple grace in a continuous cycle.

The boy with his smooth chocolate hair, white eyes hiding behind bunched eyebrows and seeing through everything as if he’s seeing directly into another time or world, his buttery teeth set in all the wrong places, and his frail legs twist awkwardly under him; I find him beautiful in some strange, perverse way.

He fascinates me. He repulses others. I've caught parts of his story floating around the chapped, cracked lips of the people from the Market. He is mentally challenged. He was blinded in The Fire. His parents didn’t want him anymore. I’ll never know the truth about him because I can never ask him where he came from; why he suddenly started sitting in the narrow alley behind Geestov’s. I think he finds comfort in the darkness that pulses in every crevice and nook here.

I know I do.  

Festolio mestoso reevla shiem lajas mola.” He says.

I’m picking at my nails, trying to unhinge some of the grime lodged under them. I sit so close to him, my knees almost touch the footsteps of the chair. I doubt he knows I’m here. I doubt he knows how much he draws me in with his eerie mystery.

Lajas mola.” He says again, louder.

I face tips up and his white, glazed eyes hold mind in their icy talons. “What?” I breath.

His eyes flick to the flimsy white cloud in the stagnant air in front of me then back to my eyes almost instantly. “Seally.” He purrs. I can barely make out his dilated pupils behind the gauzy film coating his eyes; they’re wide and black, only a thin ring of what I suppose used to be a turquoise blue lie underneath.

My dark brows shoot up, forming tiny soft mountains on my forehead. “You know my name?” I ask incredulously. He shakes his head slowly, robotically. “Then, wha-“

It’s so fast and unexpected, I have no time to react. His lanky arm whips toward me and his nails rake across my cheek, setting forth a steady flow of blood. I scrambled backwards, slipping on the iced cobble stones and scarlet polka dotted snow. “What the f---?” I scream at him.

His shoulders shake with sick laughter. “Seally.” He hisses between his thin lips before being taken over by more choking laughter.

I’m already running. My boots pound into the ground grasping desperately to the ice with not much luck. I slip twice before finally reaching my house. No, not house. A house requires running water, electricity, and at least more than one room. I live in a shack. The blue shutters probably once added to give the house character or charm are now faded and peeling, one dangling precariously by a lone nail. The door is slanted, the frame crooked beyond repair, and roof sagging but faithful.

I plow through the door and slam it closed. The wood floor is dusted with fluries from the recently started snow that managed to slip inside with me. I press my face against the door, straining to see out the makeshift peep hole. Nothing but grey rode, more deteriorating houses, and snow.

Of course, I knew he wouldn't follow me. He couldn't.


My heart gets another jump start and spin so my back is against the door. My hand lingers closely by the knob incase I need to make a quick escape. I let out a sigh of relief when I see it's just Adrian sitting innocently on the couch. "He saw me. He... I don't know.. he's not blind." I let out shaky breath. "He knows my name."

He set down his steamy cup of hot cocoa– in his favorite mug, I notice; the one with a cracked, faded picture of the Market's old mayor, Mayor Richard, and jagged teeth along half the rim from when I tried to throw away the damn ugly, pea green thing. If I wasn't freaking out and my face wasn't bleeding, I'd probably make some snotty remark about it, we'd both have a laugh, and life would go on. But the boy's words haunt me, replaying over in my head like a broken record. A death threat. It's a death threat. No, a curse. Yes, that's what it is. A curse. And I feel strange. Like the boy told me he had witnessed the The Fates cutting my thread."What?"

"He knows my name!" I shout.

He's staring at me then his eyes slide down to my gorged cheek. Understanding crosses his eyes almost instantly and then, something else. Annoyance? Anger? "You went to see the boy again. The one in the wheelchair." I ignore him, trying to round up a towel and coax some warm water from the sink. The faucet gurgled then spit up some rust tinged water before giving up the fight. The only water we'll get from the faucet for a few days. "What the hell's wrong with you, Seally? I told you not to go see him anymore!"

"When did you become my master?" I spit back harshly.

He huffs, and I here the couches spring squeak as he gets up. He runs his hands through is curls then knots his fingers in the hair at the base of his neck and stares down at my tiny form with a look of disapproval. "I told you, what, ten times that he was dangerous? Look what he did to you! He tried to rip your face off!"

"No shit." I mutter.

His hand reaches out and roughly grabs chin so my face will face him. "Seally." I turn away but he turns me back. "Seally." He says again, softer this time. I finally meet his sparrow eyes. "Just... just don't. Stop being stubborn for once." He growls.

"Don't worry about it. I'm not going to see him again." I shove his hand way. "And I'm pretty sure he has some strange creepy crush on me. The way he looked at me... it was... lustful." I tell him.

He grabs the towel from under the running water and starts dapping at the blood on my cheek lightly but I still wince. "Most people look at you like that, Seals. You're just to naïve to notice."


"Again with your stubbornness." He says moving down to work on the blood that slipped down my neck. "You wonder why I never take you to the Rigs. That's why."

"You said the Rigs were too dangerous."

"That too." He throws the soiled rag into the sink. "There. All cleaned up. The bleeding's already stopped which is good."

"This won't need stitches?"

"It might. We'll see how it does for a couple of days."

"The guys at the Rigs won't think I'm too pretty with scars down my face." I say sarcastically.

He lets out a half snort, half laugh. "You haven't seen their wives, apparently. They're not picky, that's for damn sure." Something resembling a grin pulls at my lips. He's staring at me with that faraway look that washes over his features every now and then. "You'll still be gorgeous. Even it scars." He says so quietly I barely catch the dense words. Any lapse of attention and they would have slipped through my slender, calloused fingers. They didn't, though, and they bathed over me sending cold prinks along my cheeks and neck. He turns and heads back to the couch without uttering another word.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Short Story: The Market

The Market
By: Hunter M.

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The snow drifts down quietly outside my opaque den window. Like the frozen, desolate world just past the fogged glass, my house is completely devoid of any sound what so ever. Occasionally I'll hear the soft clicking of nails against the hardwood floor when Leroy, my yellow lab, decides to get up from our blanket cocoon for a drink of water or to eat a few morsels.

But like myself, Leroy's body convulses with tremors and shivers. The unrelenting contracting of muscles in my back, chest, stomach, arms, legs, and the tightening of my jaw wears me down until readjusting myself on this tattered couch becomes almost impossible. And the thought of eating anything right now makes me nauseous. But Leroy is stronger than me. He always has been.

I'm not the only one sitting in a tiny ice box. All those that live in The Market suffer from my situation as well. They say I'm one of the lucky ones, though I'd beg to differ. I have wool coats to wrap around my slim, boney shoulders. I have thick cotton pants and jeans to protect my fragile legs from the biting cold. I have a thick-coated dog that would give its right hide leg to keep me safe and healthy. What they don't know is that all my material things have been either stolen or found.

But in many ways I'm impossibly alone. No family; no mother, father, brother, no sisters I can confide in. All are dead now. Not that I every truly knew them. Calley, the baker's decrepit great-grandmother, says I knew them well. That I was daddy's little girl, that my sister's both adored me, my mother treated me as if I were the precious, most finest jewel, and my twin brother grasped my hand everywhere we went; I was his protector. I want to believe her, but I can't. The way she speaks of these fairytales, voice quiet and raspy, weak; her body shivers uncontrollably even in the warmer months and she pauses every few seconds as if she has forgotten what she was talking about makes them seem fake, made up.

I was only one when the fire took them away from me. My mind can't pull any memories of them so, fifteen years later, I don't try anymore.

Leroy joins me back on the couch and he gently nudges his long snout under the many compiled blankets cascaded over my tiny body. He inches up slowly until his warm body is draped over my legs. The added warmth helps some but not enough. I slip my hand down into the comforters, searching for his head, and I tangle my hand in the thick tuff my slender fingers come into contact with.

And the silence makes an unwelcomed return. My chest lurches and burns under my prominent ribs and after the silence bears on, the pain becomes a dull ache that never truly vanishes. The silence only reminds me of the loneliness that monarchs my life.

I watch the wispy, white clouds in the stagnant chilled air in front of me, trying to forget. But I can never forget.

The door flies open and a wave of frozen air whips my long hair into my face and it stings. I frantically push away the dark brown veil with stiff, quivering hands. "Sorry, sorry. The wind's blowing like crazy out there," says Adrian, struggling to close the door that looks about ready the fly off its hinges. I sink back down in the couch; the wind stops blowing and the door clicks. "Calley gave us some soup she had made with the bread."

"She didn't have to do that." I murmur.

"I told her that but she didn't listen. You know how she is. Stubborn. Probably why God hasn't plucked that old hag off this Earth yet." I glance over to see him shake out the snow flurries that had collected in his blonde curly hair and giggle quietly, a rare thing. At the sound, Adrian's shining dark eyes immediately meet mine and a grin tugs at the corners of his lips.

I drop my gaze and burrow deeper into my blankets, praying he won't notice the scarlet inking across my cheek bones. "She's not a hag," I tell him quietly, "And I'll be sure to tell her thank you when I see her again." Calley; always looking out for me when more effort should be put into looking out for herself. My heart warms at the thought.

He pulls some bowls from the cupboard and brings them over to the couch where he extricates himself into my cocoon. The old, dented coffee table screeches against the floor as he pulls it, and the steaming bowl of soup, into reaching distance. "Oh, I told her about a thousand times how thankful we are." He ladles a few spoon fulls into each of our bowls and we eat away. The combination of Leroy, who's massive body is curled up on my lap completely, the blankets, Adrian's strong shoulder pressed against my tiny one, and the soup warms me enough that the hunger, once deadened by the cold, starts to revive.

We both help ourselves to seconds and after, we just sit there, letting our tummies debloat. "That was delicious," I whisper in awe, "The best thing I've eaten in a long time."

I catch Adrian's head slightly nod but he says nothing. The silence, like before, awakens my dull aching heart, but it's a different ache. My body twists to face him and Leroy grumbles groggily. He eventually jumps off the couch and pads over the the opposite side. "What?" I ask Adrian who's adjusting the blankets back over my shoulder.

"What what?" He says.

I stare at him wordlessly until he meets my gaze. "You know what. What's wrong?"

He's silent for a long time when he suddenly becomes fascinated with the quilt's stitching. "I'm sorry." He finally blurts out when I think he's not going to answer. "Okay? I'm sorry."

"Wha-? For what? Why?" I sputter.

He runs his big, capable hands through his hair but it falls back into its perfect curls each time. My fingers twitch, wanting to grab both if his hands and envelopment them in mine because I know how soft they are, and I know that my touch balms any of his frustrations or worries or fears or pains better than any medication or therapy. He lets out a frustrated growl and, at last, lets his sad eyes meet mine. "I'm sorry that that's the best thing you've eaten in a long time. I'm sorry that you sit here most of the day shivering. I'm sorry that you have to go a day without eating sometimes. I'm sorry that you cry before you fall asleep. I'm sorry for everything because you don't deserve any of it." Tears well up in my eyes and his glisten.

My hand reaches up to touch his impossibly smooth face. It amazes me every time how a boy who has worked since he could walk has hands and a face smoother than a child's; but the premature wrinkles and purple shadows under his eyes only reinforce reality. "It's okay." I say, to which he only shakes his head. A tear spills over and slips down his face. I kiss it away. "It's okay," I repeat softly.

He kisses my salty cheek. "You're too beautiful," he hums against my cheek in his most soothing voice; the voice he uses when he wakes me from nightmares, "for any of this. For this world."

I shiver, from anything but cold, when his lips move along my skin to the corner of my lips. He places a few chaste kisses there. I realize, not for the first time, that he is all I have besides Calley. Him, a hardworking 18 year-old, and me, a 16 year-old that doesn't know what to do with herself; it's the only thing either of us has. We curl up together on the pull out couch every night and snuggle so close to the other it's almost suffocating because neither of us can stand to be alone when the moon sets in the sky; that even though we have each other, we're both so lonely it hurts. Since we were just mere children, we depended on each other. From both being homeless, to him saving enough money when he turned fifteen to buy this one room home of ours. We helped the other to the best of our ability with our touches, the simple hand to the shoulder or rub of the back, to each other's hugs, then kisses.

And that's why I pull his lips down to crush mine– out of desperation. Not out of love because neither of us understands it. We only understand need and want. Calley tells me what Adrian and I have is love; that sometimes it may be lust, but it is also love. I tell her she's absurd each time but she rolls her eyes and says, "You're blind, darlin'. I've seen the way that boy looks at you." And I ask her, "How can he love someone who can't love." I've tested it out a couple times while at home alone. "Adrian, I love you", "I love you, Adrian", "I love you, Adrian". But it came out wrong and tasted strange each time like it didn't belong. That's when I concluded that love doesn't exist. Not in this world, at least.

Our kisses deepen, my fingers knot themselves in his hair and his hands find their way under my shirt so that they're pressed flat against the skin of my back. And I lose myself in him. My head rolls back and he kisses my exposed neck. He holds me tighter against him as he leans forward and pushes the coffee table out of the way. It wails loudly and the soup sloshes making tiny puddles here and there but neither of us care.

He lays me on the floor, the clothes are shed, and we cling to each other, nails biting into skin, because we're both trying to forget. Because we want to stop hurting. Because we both need each other.

Because we're all each other has.

Author's Note: If you're confused, The Market is basically the slums of the country they live in. This takes place in the very, very distant future after an apocoliptic event occurs, known to them as Zerstörer. Their country is the only country on Earth because everything else is under water.

I like to offer visual aids for my writing. The girl in the pictures is suppose to be the main character who's name is Seally. I've written other short stories with her that are based in The Market world. I do not own the pictures.

Also, if you want to share this on Facebook, Twitter, Etc. Please, please, please notify me first. And have some respect and don't copy or steal my work.

Prose: Talent

BY: Hunter M.

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I have stopped everything. I sit, head bowed watching my fingers lace and unlace and lace again with each other, on the floor. A dark wooden floor withered, dented, and scuffed with time. Dark holes found home in every other board, some too small to fit the most miniscule grain of sand, some big enough to act as an entrance to cockroaches or the occasional small mouse. I heard a quiet whistle, almost too quiet. If this little abandoned shack wasn't deep in the woods away from any and all sounds, I might have not heard it. The wind blew outside, sending the snow flurries into a complicated dance just outside the grime coated window. I didn't feel the cold, though, which came to a surprise as I was only wearing a lacy bra and my favorite black panties with an innocent pink bow on them.

I stopped singing. I stopped writing. I stopped life. I ran from my house, from the world's never diminishing problems, only to find myself stumbling through the woods in a haze. I wasn't controlling myself, it must be some greater force. I don't even recognize my voice when I whisper for the hungry, sporadic little mouse to shoo. I watch as it's frail body, ribs jutting from under it's sick, delicate fur, twitches away and disappears in one of the countless holes in the floor.

I wish I knew why my feet lead me here, but that, like my stranger's voice, is still a mystery to me. Maybe I was brought here as a reminder- a reminder of what could be but never will be. I could end up like the lonely, crazed hermit that died alone in this worn shack, talents wasting away. Paintings, masterpieces of sorts, hung on the dusty walls around me while most of the man's work is stacked in unkempt piles. A reminder that my talents could deteriorate in a shack much like this one. My sheets of unsung, unplayed music could collect dust in similar unkempt stacks like this man's. My dreams, no matter how far fetched, could be buried alive in the dust cloak like the hermit's.

So I stand up, my knees creaking from the lapsed stillness, and pull on my sweater and jacket, my jeans then finally, my boots. I push open the crooked front door despite its protests and march out, ready to face whatever the world throws at me and knowing, no matter what, that I'm going to marvel in my talent, embrace it. And I'm prepared to always keep a duster in my back pocket as a reminder to never let my talent sit neglected, untapped, and collecting dust.

Poem: Eyebrows

By:Hunter M.

I position the tweezers,
an imperfection in between.
A stray hair
throwing off the balance.

I squeeze and pull
and then it's gone.
So, I step back and look
at my work of art.

Dark eyebrows
without a hair out of place.
Oops, I stand corrected.
I see a strangler.

And as I go for it,
a thought hits me.
Why do we have eyebrows?
What is their purpose?

Lone strips of hair
upon a bare skinned face.
Just above the eyes
they find their place.

They're random,
yet such a hassle
because when these things aren't perfect
either are you.

Do they collect falling dust
from bothering your eyes?
Do they soak up sweat
as it slips down your face?

Do they cast a unnoticeable shadow
to keep your eyes safe?
Or do they keep the balance
of the heat in your face?

Did God say to himself,
"Let's add a little hair
right there,"
just as a joke?

Did He do it to keep us questioning
if one is willing to question?

Such an insignificant matter
could inspire me to write.

Poem: Jump

BY: Hunter M.

Grab my hand.
Promise to never let go.
On the edge, we stand
and... Jump.

Poem: Impossible

By: Hunter M.

His face. So unworldly.
So, so perfect.
No pun intended;
The face of God's finest angel.

High cheek bones,
squared jaw.
The world's best model
would be inevitably jealous.

I see him everywhere.
When I drive,
at school,
at home.

Sometimes, I just stare
at his face and body-
At the thing that reminds me
we can never truly be together.

His wings that fold up in his back.
Their feathers whiter than fresh snow
that shimmer in the golden light
that is ever in his presence.

He knows I see him,
but he never comes to me.
I've reached out before,
and where my fingers would touch his skin- nothing.

He doesn't talk;
just watches me.
And one day, when I said hello,
he waved his hand and smiled.

That's when I knew
that I was utterly in love
with him,
with my guardian angel.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

Poem: A Girl

A Girl
By: Hunter M.

There is a girl with mysterious dark eyes
There's a girl who's chocolate orbs never seem to retire
There's a girl with dark curtains around her perfect face
There's a girl with a face as flawless as a sculpted diamond
There's a girl who's face shines brighter than the sun
There's a boy who says he loves her
There's a boy who knows her body better than herself
There's a boy she think she loves
There's the boy who's always been the friend
There's the boy who's never had a chance
There's the boy with wide set eyes, a skinny nose
There's the boy who's always been a little bit smaller than everyone else
There's the heart break
There's a boy she thought she loved walking away
There's the tears
And there's the boy who always holds the bucket
There's the boy who always catches the tears
There's the girl who's shed more tears than a girl should
There's the girl who never learns
There's the boy that stays by her side
There's the boy that loves her
There's the coughs
There's the aches
There's the piercing pain
And there's the sterile hospital room
There's the news
There's loss of hope
There's the boy that wears the bandana
There's the boy that doesn't want her to know
There's the girl who knows
There's the girl who cries
There's the girl who is torn apart again
There's the death bed
There's more tears
There's last goodbyes
There's one last thing to say
There's no more time
There's the boy that died
And there's the girl that loved him.

Disclaimer: Please Read

I do not own ANY of the pictures I use on my blog (except for the ones of me or unless I specify that I have, indeed, drawn them). I have just started to get sources, so the next pictures (excluding gifs) will have a source or credit. I give all credit to the wonderful artists out there who have created the images I use.