Random Writings

Random Story #445221 Butter Yellow BlanketsIn stories the dramatic scenes are something stuttering and mind rending

…but if the story gets to close to your core you can close the book and stop for a moment, think for a moment… tear yourself away for a moment…

real life, there’s no second no chance to turn back rasping pages and reread, pick up clues, laugh at memroies that..for you..only just happened.

She’d had no idea what she was doing, packing up to leave again.

She was always leaving… never staying long enough for the dreams to be caught in webs of hide and feathers, never pausing long enough to take in the possiblities of a life lived ordinary. Because she knew that she would be the one to die ordinary, she knew that she would breathe in the fumes of someone elses perfect life and wither with envy on the inside.

So she packed.

Instead of leaving that room that smelled of febreeze and cold sunshine…even in the birth of summer… instead of walking the short ditance and breaking down whatever it was that kept her from exposing her thoughts…feelings…emotions… and laying them all out like gems or nightmares… she packed.

She shoved another load of folded laundry into a box and cursed under her breath.

In stories, she would have been beautiful with snapping eyes and a voice that dreamed angels. She would have been charismatic, she would have been anything other than what she denied her self to be. And he would have been able…But this is not a story, real life sends pitfalls, failings shortcomings and pride…yes life gave her pride with a vengance.

On the road home she looked out a rain washed window and sighed, tapping a blunted nail against the glass listening to windshield wipers and slow jamz on a radio gone fuzzy since they’d crossed state lines. She thought about him, about the miles coming to seprate them, about the people she’d never bring herself to see, she didn’t mourn leaving a city that she could have grown to love…understand…because she didn’t want to see streets, stores, anything that would remind her of him, she didn’t want to experiance anything that would bring her back to him. In stories, this would have been a tale of love gone awry, of twisted love triangles and betrayed confidences.

It would have had moments where the suspence was all but maddening, where there was nothing but a breath of air holding back life and love. It would have had the long curling feathers of angels falling, blood tipped, as hearts broke…and love died. But this is life, and no such things were written.

No angels died for something that never happened, no vows were spoken against cold lovers lips… just the leaving, and the half hearted goodbye whispered against shower cold hair.

She wondered, once she got home and everything was settled into place, if he would ever take a moment to look back and wonder if there were anysigns.

Not of her unhappines, not of her frittering madness steeping. But of moments when words wanted so badly to ripple off her tonge, when she tripped over words that should have been his, when she wanted so badly to break the heart of the one he’d bound himself to…so that she could have him, once and for all.

But, as she dusted off tiny items that one by one made a house a home, she knew…that even if she had the chance she’d destroy that too. It would have been a case of beauties beast, of learning and caring and love… it would have been a story of stolen moments and heated glass fogging blurring images of flushed skin, it would have been a story of whispered moments and smiles that mean a millon other things. But it was of life, and the case it made… too little time, too many tiny angers, simple things gon awry so frustrating as they bled into a million other little sicknesses until her whole focus became everything but him, but how she felt…

So she gave him the stories, a world within a world, of things she’d say if she wern’t herself, if she was charming and alluring, if she were beautiful and engaging.

She gave him tales of hidden secret moments, and laughter and of the things so beautiful and perfect and pure… things she no longer had to offer.

He was and would ever be, forever untouchable, forever on the edge of sight, like something eldricht and fey…seen only through the corners of the eyes, something you should never reach for…for on contact he would be gone.

All mist and vapor, soaking back into his own life. So she told him, through sidewinder tales and through the mouths of characters, that she loved him. She watched him with other eyes, touched his sunwarmed pliant skin with other fingers…and prayed that he would read the stories.

And understand that they reflected her life.

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Random: Abalone 188493-ju89 (4/28/5)
Pax is unwanted by the neighboring islands. Seprated by blue waters and a million miles of prejudice. We are the hungry pirates, the flesh eating killers of dreams, we are the nightmare truths of a million Christian faiths.I am Abalone, so named because of the whiteness of my skin. The shimmer of my bleached hair, the colorless beauty of my light eyes ringed by striking gray lashes. My lips are full but only lightly rouged, palest pink, like bruised rose petals. By day I am blanched, dead seeming, the white cat.By night…I glimmer.I glow.I am an anomaly, the children of this sinners isle are all dark in some way. Either in coloring or in spirit… they are the darkness that comes when the sun is blotted from the brightest, most glorified day. Frightening and fearless. Deepest shadows even at the height of noon.But I am not like them.My darkness isn’t from a lust of evil deeds, my broken soul isn’t from joy of deviant thoughts.No.In a past life I was Sekhet. The sister of Bastet, the other side of her. She Who Is Powerful. I was destruction… I was the judgment of fiery god. No longer… no longer… no longer… Here I am, lost and wandering in the city, stridently calling for the past I was slain from, padding cobblestone streets…burning with memories, the lion headed woman enraged and roaring. Hungry and destructive, ceasless and undefeatable.But even gods die. Especially the ravenous ones.And so I did… and my name was pasted on… Sakhmet took my place and her fury was greater than even mine. How mankind wept! Lost to them was my cunning ways and my full mouthed roars… Sakhmet destroyed with impunity, razed with abandon, murdered with glee.But away from those times. Away from those… memories.In the now… Pax is so alienated… it seems that our sins have come home to roost. Pestilence and plauge, sinners debts …all of the failings of our economy, all of the dark stains on our once pristeen cobblestone streets… the dried blood of innocence.We slew our innocent ones and feasted upon thier screams.Have we learned our lessons? No.We no longer slay the daughters of Pax, we no longer breed for perfection, but not out of a wisdom torn from the jaws of a avaricious past, but because we couldn’t afford losing the extra labor in the fields, we couldn’t lose the extra hands at the helm… we needed the ships and the feral women who scouted the waves and stole with indemnity.There are tales… oh the tales of those women and the sins they create, but those tales are not for this moment, no.I stood and turned my back on the waves, turned my back on the indigo ocean and strode towards the beach house, a broken shanty on the sand. It leaned drunkenly towards the east, the shutters on the windows banged in the wind, like a heart beat… the wooden heart of the dying structure.Strands of my pale hair fluttered in front of my face, in the sunlight it looked like spiders silk, thin and fine and glossemer. Salt clung to my lips after I licked them, it made me think of the task at hand.Bitter. Sharp. I let myself into the shack after mounting the three leaning squat steps, for a moment I was day blind and left blinking things into focus.The dimmness parted and revealed a sparcely furnished temporary home; a chair, a bureau, a bed that hung on hemp ropes from the ceiling and a single table.But what it lost in furnishings it made up in baubles and bits, the tiny floatsum of everyday life. Here was a conch shell, worn smooth by earnest hardworking hands. Here was a net in repair hanging from a hook the dark cords were snarled and snapped, and here was a smooth stone cracked to reveal the shimmering interior.But it wasn’t the home I came to see.It was the man dying in the hanging bed, swaying gently in the breeze that snaked in behind me.His face was gray, the color of the newly dead. But the almost translucent eyelids rose to reveal a pair of stunningly emerald eyes. They were drowning with fever and what was left of his soul seemed to burn out at me from the bottoms of twin green lakes. I wondered what was at the core of him that burned so brightly, just by the color alone I knew he wasn’t native Paxian. Thier eyes were either deep, fearsome ebony or the tawny color of a mountain cat’s hide… or like mine.”Your eyes are like ice.” he whispered and his voice seemed to come from some far off painful place, dragging over sharp vowels and jutting consonants.”I have never seen ice.” I told him, approching the bed with long strides flexing my hands as if they were equipped with talons. As if I meant to shred him.”Cold, hard, colorless.” he closed his eyes with the last word and a shiver ran through him. His family had been cleared from the house when they were told I was here, when they were told that I would do my goddess given duty… I liked it best this way, no horror struck gasps or averted weeping eyes. No human’s with thier bright and shining lives to distract me.The horrific things that happen when I am distracted are not to be described.I paused by his bedside, and at that moment one of the nearer shutters slammed open flooding his face with wam buttery sunlight; his death was hiding in the shadows of his craggy face. Lurking in the dips and hollows of a life well lived.His life was a road map, a scale system… written in code all across his features.His death hurt him, I could taste his pain like aching candy on the back of my tongue. His pain tasted of lemons and copper.I swallowed over and over as if I could choke it down….not yet.”It sounds … amazing.” I told him and reached out to smooth my hands over his face and shoulders, trying to center myself within him. He made a sound low in his throat, agreeing.”Aye… it is. I want to go home,” again his voice changed on the last word, voice breaking and the yearning so audible it was like a flinty blade pressed against my lips.”And you will.” I told him.And so it began.I am a death eater. One of the very, very blessed few. For his pain I opened myself wide like a gaping maw ready to swallow him down whole.With my eyes closed I could see the patterns of his agony as they pulled away from him and swept towards me… into me… through me I heard my own voice, a cry like orgasm…A human life is enormous. Like the wings of some great mythical beast… it’s cavernous and yawning, so full of possiblities.Usually the life we live huddles is one meager corner of the life we are given. Leaving the possiblities… the chances… the hopes and the reasons to fly… leaving them to rot simply because we don’t understand that we have this… ability… to live.Truthfully live.Rarely do people fill up the spaces of thier life with experiances worth remembering… rarely.But this wasn’t what I was here for… no. I am not here to judge the quality of a life lived ordinary. Hell and perdition would do that for me.His memories flooded over me… and then the pain. It slammed into me like a wave almost pushing me away from the bed, but I just rocked back on my heels as the man in the hanging bed sighed and relaxed. The pain wracked me, drawing with it the ribbons of his affliction. Old age, hard liqour…and joy. He was … happy… to leave. Few know that elation is just suffering redefined.How much time passed? I have no idea. His body eased and his breathing hitched once before he passed away and the light of his life faded before breaking free, those shimmering ribbons… gone.I am a death eater, but this is just the roses of my ability. This is the beautiful thing. Easing the passage of another into the next stage. There is more.There’s the carrion of my talent… the things that I would be destroyed for… no one claims to know why I am called a death eater, they believe that I am who brings that final joy, they believe that I am the person who grants that final forgiveness that makes passing on so much easier.Sometimes lies are so much better than the reality, even when that reality comes out into the sunlight with seaspray dried in her hair, glowing from devouring the souls of your kin.Lies are better when you know… you know… that those eyes like ice are staring right into you, weighing… choosing… hungry. ‘We all die,’ lies tell themselve ’she just helps us along, she just guides us.’Lies avert thier faces and hurry past the truth of me into the leaning hovel, lies hope there’s someone to ease thier final passing. Lies just hope it is not me with my buring eyes and secret turn of lips, and my sated expression who guides them on.The lies they tell themselves… Death Eater, the glowing angel of death, foolishness…The truth? Death Eater… Totessen… means so very much more.
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