“That can’t be true.”
“I swear it is. On my cat, on my sister. For fuck’s sake, I’ll swear it on my laptop, that’s how serious I am.”
“Are you okay?”
“It’s just… This is giving me a lot of feelings.”
“Three, right off the bat. One, I want to cry. Two, I want to punch something. Three, and most importantly, I want that something to be somebody’s face. As soon as I find out who that somebody is. Fuck.”
“’m sorry I couldn’t get that part.”
“Naw, man. Y’ did good. But I would very much like it if you weren’t here when I indulged in Feeling Number One.”
“I’ll hold you? Comfort you? … Make sexual advances?”
“Stop making me feel better, you fucker.”
“Aye aye, Cap’n.”
- Voiceover, Mary Margaret Mayhew Pt. 1
Been a while since I've been on hitRECord, so I figured I'd swing by Metaphorest's neck of the woods to get myself back in the actual swing of things. I've always enjoyed her work, and this was fun to record :)
Grass prickly soft underhead, under hair, cheek pushed in it while she watches his eyes blink open close.
"Good sky for falling," he says, rolls his head to watch her right back, eyes still blinking open close.
"Mmm," she murmurs, pushes cheek over grass, prickly buggy cool, 'til nose touches nose and she falls into darkly starlit pupils.
this shot is definitely one I remember taking, because I was lying on the ground with the lens fully extended, because the parents were all set up at the other end of the field. I got a few stares, but it was definitely worth it XP
it is the ache in my chest
tight and stretched and wanting to swell
held fast in a half-forgotten place.
it's full to the metaphorical brim but still
it is the space in my arms
tired and vacant and hungry for warmth
that knows it can be filled
but is stupid and stubborn
it is the voice in my head that says
it's time to move on.
it fights with the voice in my heart that clearly shouts
YOU'RE NOT READY
still ruined, ripped apart, and wrathful
it's my third week of school, and this was the result of my first assignment for Intro to Creative Writing :)
also, I'm not sure how to italicize things on this site (if I even can), so italicized words are between asterisks.
“Honey, I’m home!” he calls out.
It’s intended as a mockery, the well-to-do working everyman who comes home to an adoring little housewife, and I laugh quietly to myself. David strolls into the kitchen, working his tie out of its knot, and presses a kiss to my cheek. I might adore him, but I’m definitely not a “little housewife”; I push six feet in heels, the same height as my hubby-to-be.
“Did you just get in?” he asks, hugging me from behind. He smells a little… fruitier today, maybe like – roses?
I wrinkle my nose. “Hey, did you change your cologne? You kinda smell a little girly. I didn’t know the cologne industry was getting in touch with its feminine side.”
David chuckles, and scratches the side of his neck as if my sarcasm just bit him. “Oh, there was this flower delivery at work, and the guy didn’t have a pass so he asked me to deliver it,” he explains, and moves away to fill two glasses with water.
I push my bangs out of my eyes. They haven’t been the same since I had them cut. “Um, yeah, I got in about five minutes ago. Lucas’s three-thirty didn’t show up ‘til almost four, so we shut down around five forty-five.” I unpack a box of fried chicken and a small container of coleslaw into a stack on the counter, next to a neat stack of two plates, two forks, and two knives.
“Mmm, that smells good. I’m starved,” David proclaims theatrically, dropping down into a chair at the table. There’s a grease stain on the front of his shirt that I immediately assume is from his regular post-lunch snack, and an odd smudge of something light brown on his collar that I think might be chocolate. It’s always hard to tell with David, but he seems to favour chocolate with lunch a lot these days.
I take my time at the counter, selecting two pieces for the both of us (one drum stick and one thigh each), and grab two napkins from the take-out bag. I set the plates down, and settle into my own chair. I pick up my utensils and digs right in because, like David, I’m starved. Absolutely *ravenous*.
But, unlike David, I do have some manners. David doesn’t bother with his fork or knife, tedious as they are. He tears apart his chicken with his fingers, and eats with the enthusiasm and appetite of a pubescent boy. This means, of course, a second helping (and most likely a third).
“So, how was work today? Anybody interesting show up?” David asks, mouth half full of masticated chicken.
I swallow my own mouthful before answering. “Oh, god, yeah. You know that band you love? Broken Wanderings?” David’s mouth drops open before he frantically nods. “Yeah, the lead singer was in for some touch-up work ‘cause the guy who did the original work was horrible, and I mean, he must’ve been total shit because the line work was so shaky and the colouring was way off. Carol fixed it up really nicely, though.” I’m proud of my little shop and the fabulous stuff we send out into the world on walking, talking canvases. I take a sip of water. “What about you?”
David swallows loudly, and looks to ponder the question. “Nah, nothing much. Life of the generic office worker, eh?” He laughs a little to himself, small and humble, and I admire his outlook. I’d be bored to death at his job. David finishes picking clean the rest of the bones on his plate, and gets up to wash it and place it in the drying rack.
As he’s wiping his hands on the towel he says, “Well, I have to be off again.” There’s a fluttering in my stomach, and a thrill sparks in my veins. David says it with a certain reluctance, but there’s a ring to it that I’ve heard before. I hear it myself, sometimes, when I run off to a “shop emergency” or a “management meeting”.
I frown. “Why?”
“Oh, well, you remember Sarah, right? From the third floor? She needs help with the, uh, new program they installed yesterday. I’m lucky I got the hang of it right away, and I spent like, all day yesterday and today teaching it to people. I just didn’t get to Sarah in time.” David takes my dirty dish to the sink as well, repeating the process over again. I get up from my chair and stand at the bottom of the staircase as he readies to leave. Shoes, then jacket, and he almost walks out the door without his briefcase until I stop him. He brushes a kiss against my forehead.
“Thanks, hun.” And then he’s off to the car. I step back inside and shut the door, click of the lock sliding into place a little loud in the silent house. I grab the phone on the way into the living room, and watch David start the car from the big bay window. The phone is halfway to my ear when I catch a whiff of those same floral notes, and I think, well. That perfume smells kind of nice. I might have to try it some day. The dial tone is loud.
“Hey Lucas, it’s Kerri. Do you want to come over?” I smile, my heart locked between dropping into my stomach and soaring into my mouth. There’s a pause, and then a question. “Oh, David? No, he, uh, he won’t be in tonight. It’s just… you and me.” There’s a pause. “Great. I’ll see you then.”
Outside, David flashes a grin and a small wave. I wave back, and watch him speed away, a little faster than usual. As I turn to head upstairs to freshen up, I notice a flaw in the glass pane of the window. A closer inspection reveals a slight crack running across a small corner, and I have no idea how that could have happened. Maybe it happened when it was manufactured and we just didn’t notice it when we bought the house. I trace along it, and I can only feel the slightest hint of it under the pad of my fingertip.
“Damn,” I whisper to myself. “That’s so weird.” I continue upstairs with a crease between my brows.
The little crack sticks with me all the way up to the moment Lucas unlocks the door.
Nothing to do, decides little Dee Bloo, but learn some kung fu.
I wish I could make everyone's dreams come true,
thinks the fairy godmother, fraught with frustration and taut with vexation,
instead of a pretty little lass who thinks the sun shines out her well-pampered ass.
I just thought, if fairy godmothers grant people wishes, who grants theirs?