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

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

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

Jump
BY: Hunter M.

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

Poem: Impossible

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.