Disturbia

The rusty swing set creaked, the unoccupied wooden seats rotten and the ropes frayed. The sand blew in small clouds, billowing up from the hard packed earth, whispering past the buildings who were old and crumbling from neglect. A sign hung from the stained plaster wall, advertising an illegible brand name.
The town was still with the loudest silence he had ever heard. The very foundations smelled like alcohol and dried blood.
He stood tall and straight, his overly-large white shirt falling over his slim shoulders. His skin was calloused and scarred, caked with dirt. His hair, dark as pitch, was crested with filth. The boy was barely eight years old, and yet he stood there in the center of Disturbia with eyes as old as time. They shone like a faded painting of the sea.
The boy crumpled slowly, falling to his knees. He was a soul long forgotten, left behind, alone, completely alone, in a world where nobody understood.
In a world called Disturbia.

She Brings Life, and He Takes it Away.

It was raining again.
She stared down at her shoes, her reflection rippling in the puddles beneath her.
Her coat was drawn tightly around her, even though the air was thick with humidity. She felt dizzy, like she was swimming through the heavy atomosphere. She felt suffocated, disoriented, unnatatched, like a wall was being pushed down on her and smothering her lungs.
Bells tolled behind her, singing in a deep, lonely bass that vibrated through her, rumbling deep in her bones. She tried to walk faster, her stilletoes clicking frantically on the concrete. The hem of her black dress was damp, and the rain smoothed down her chocolate-colored tresses until they were sleek and straight. They obscured her face, her skin as pale as a porcelain doll, and she looked just as breakable.
She shied away from the tall skyscrapers, who's windows stared at her wordlessly, vacant and empty. The wide boulevard was silent, unpopulated by cars. The air smelled fresh, like wet pavement, and the rain beat gently on all surfaces like fingers drumming on a windowpane.

It was never a habit of hers to visit funerals, and she didn't know why she attended this one.

She came to a halt when the church bells stopped at twelve chimes.
She was standing in front of a bench flanked by two tall stone vases, shining black in the rain. The plants inside were withered, dead and brown, their leaves curled and wrinkled, like the way a man curls in times of tradgedy.
He was sitting in repose in the exact center of the bench, his arms slung lazily over the back of the seat. He was untouched by the rain. Though he looked to be as young as twenty years, his hair was snowy white. It was slightly shaggy and unruly, and it was completely dry. His skin was pale, glowing white in the gray gloom. His dark eyes laughed at her from beneath his bangs, and his marble lips twisted into a cheshire-cat smile.
"Funny seeing you here," he purred. She could imagine him with a tail like a cat, flicking the tip like a tiger about to strike its prey. His voice was silky smooth, rolling fluidly from his tongue. She hated herself for it, but she clung loyally to every honey-drizzled syllable he uttered.
Casually, he brushed some nonexistant dust from his pitch-black suit, straightening his tie. "I didn't know you liked funerals," He commented, flicking a tendril of hair from his eyes.
It was then that she noticed the cemetary behind him. The fence was made from cast iron, twisting like black vines, the points like teeth stained dark with the blood of the innocent. The field intself was devoid of life, dead leaves plastered to the grass. The gate yawned like welcoming jaws.
"I don't," she said, pulling herself away from the graveyard. He chuckled. The sound sent shivers of apprehension scurrying down her spine. He didn't notice her discomfort.
"You know," he drawled. "This isn't a good place for you." He gestured to the clearing behind him.
There was a stone angel perched on a pedestal in the middle of the cemetary, marking the grave of someone who was rich enough to afford such a grand headstone. The angel's face was upturned, wings fanned out behind it's robe-clad body. Moisture trailed down its worn cheeks like tears.
"I know." She said firmly. She kept her eyelashes feathered over her eyes, blocking out the drizzle. She couldn't keep the chill from creeping through her coat and into her veins.
His smile grew wider until it seemed to split his handsome face in half. His eyes shone with a sadism that she could never understand.
"Then why are you here?" the question seemed more like a mocking statement rather than an inquiry.
"That's none of your business." her voice cracked.
"Oh, I know," he said innocently. "I'm just curious."
The church bell tolled once. The avenue bore down on her, the windows of the apartment buildings glowering with eyes blank and blind. They seemed to accuse her, as if she had committed some ungodly sin.
She massaged her temples.
She turned her head to the sky, glazed over with gray. The rain kissed her cheeks. The drops melded together with the tears streaming down her face, disguising her despair.
He stood up, smoothing down his suit. He extended an arm, as if to touch her, but he hesitated, and drew it back. He stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and turned on his heel. With one last glance over his shoulder, one last smile, he walked away to leave her standing alone in the rain.
The church bells tolled.


A/N: not done. gotta go. done for the anthology at camp.
You guys aren't supposed to understand this, because I don't really tell you who they are. There are some subtle hints. Think of the dead flowers. and the Funeral. But I don't expect you to get it, and that's fine, as long as you like it. Kudos if anyone can guess who these two are.

Child of Warring Parents

She leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest. She sighed, drawing a long, chocolatey, feathered tress behind her left ear as she watched her son pick his way silently and delicatly through the meadow like a fawn, a splotch of white in the sweetpeas and wildflowers. At his feet the tender grasses faded and died, and when his foot left the spot, they stiffened back to life. Birds and butterflies flew in lazy halos over his snowy hair, falling in a choppy style over his topaz eyes. He payed no attention to them, his face still chubby with apple fat set into a serious mask. His brow was furrowed into a pout.
His eyes didn't fit his face. They were older than his body, glowing dully with an intelligence beyong his years.

A/N: I'll be getting to this later. got other things to type up. this goes with a mini series of posts.

Symphony of Seasons

What is beauty, really? Is it what we covet, the admiration of certain of features and qualities? Could it be as simple as the flap of a butterfly's wings, the bat of eyelashes, the color of music, sound and light? What if there was a world out there where ugliness was the norm, and beauty was the deviation from that norm? What if what we think is beautiful now is repulsive in some other society?
What if it was winter forever, and the beauty that was considered then would only contain the bleached landscape, the bleak, pale light of the small sun? What if winter was our minuet, a final song, a grand finale of a symphony of seasons? An orchestral bow, like the last hurrah of autumn as it holds its head high and proud for the hanging. The music is loud and strong but grows weaker, in like a lion and out like a lamb, carrying notes of pretended nonchalance and undertones of sadness, along with the faint promise of rebirth, of reincarnation, of spring.

A/N: It doesn't make much sense. Sorry. It's got a lot of bhuddist symbolism.

Where I Come From

I come from a rusted swingsets, metal fences, sprinklers and slip'n'slides.
I come from moving trucks, from broken furniture, from coke cans and plastic cups.
I remember road trips and train tracks and new names and faces.
I come from one sibling, wrestles and fights and screams of' 'let go, its mine'.
I come from suburbs and parched lawns and nosy neighbors, from home-made marble cakes and ice cream.
I come from sardonic comments and cynical quips and laughter about T shirt ideas and stupid little doodles.
I come from grandma's cancer, from survival and bravery and chemotherapy.
I come from bottles of happiness that sit across the room, but I won't get up to take it.
I come from rice porridge and miso soup, from inarizushi made from callaused and wrinkled hands.
I come from three clocks ticking over and over until I can't really hear them. I come from tablet pens and digital painting and microsoft word and keyboards that hammer away the words.
I come from bottle rockets, from illegal Ohio fireworks that shoot off as we eat chips and exchange cell phone numbers.
I come from a brother growing up too fast for me, from the anxiety of getting left behind.
I come from a small family that loves and laughs with me, and who help me cry.
I come from concrete steps.

Webs of Lies

During the turmoil, he sits patiently in the corner, tapered fingers steepling to frame a smile that curled his marble lips like a contented cat. His snowy white hair falls in thin tendrils over his eyes, black as pitch, that shone with a twisted sadism beyond human comprehension. His skin glowed white as the cherry blossoms that glowed in the moonlight, falling gently through the open window. His small, lithe frame is draped in an Armani suit, the cloth as dark as the laughs in his eyes. He watches his victims fall around him, their bodies sugared with the feathery petals that floated in with the draft. His revenge is cold and he has come to use it, for the boy who nobody notices is Death, smiling his Cheshire-cat smiles as he spins his web of lies, for the only pain caused by the dead is to those who have lost them.