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Weightthe bottle of 5 o'clock is heavy
though it's half gone
take a swig
remember that I hate alcohol.
half-crushed marlboro golds
found them in my sheets
I quit smoking a year ago
maybe I'll start again tonight
they're light as a feather
they smell stale
my father has rope in his room
he does a lot of outdoor work
thick, dirty weave
flecked with red pigment
heaved over my shoulder
heavier than I thought
the ball-peen hammer from the kitchen drawer
can easily wield it
can easily carry it
goes in my belt
the shovel in the trunk of my car
crusted with soil
hard, black, scraping my hands
as I load it in
consider smoking a cigarette
put the 5 o'clock away
out to the car
rope, hammer, and shovel
they weigh my car down
so heavily that I can
feel it sag
my tires don't want to turn
but I drive
to where he lives
my darling boyfriend
he doesn't know
but tonight I will tell him
it's time we start seeing other people.
I Think I Can SeeSometimes when I blink, I think I can see something. A figure. A man.
Sometimes, when I'm walking, I think I can see him around me. Under a tree. Ducking behind a building. Out of the corner of my eye, just out of my line of sight, behind me, walking next me, in front of me.
Sometimes, when my mind gets ahead of me, I think he's following me.
When I blink he's only there for a moment. A second. Barely a nanosecond, even. He's scarce, barely-there, hardly physical and yet very real to me.
He's a menacing presence. He watches me, this tall, black figure without a face, eyes, no distinguishing characteristics of any sort. He's blank, yet... every time I see him, he's furious.
He hates me... this man I think I can see.
I blink and he is there, blink twice and he is gone. That tall, forever silent figure. I hate him, this man I think I can see. I hate him and his featureless leer, his overshadowing presence, and his constant, unfailing ability to be where I am. All the time.
The Importance of DaresIt smells like the color orange. Warm, welcoming, with the spicy tang of spaghetti sauce and the yellow glow of mama's kitchen. That glow was a box of light against the otherwise gray and dark backyard, the only window into the world of color.
Sounds of rushing water from the creek that flows about 100 feet from the boundaries of the house's backyard, not quite on the property but not quite off. Three boys are standing in front of it: scraped knees, dirty pants, round faces flushed with the pinching cold of the early spring evening.
"Do it," one says, crouching on the muddy bank. "It's spring. It's okay."
The tallest one, Dallas, a brown-haired, blue-eyed boy, frowns down at him. It's his creek, his house, and his mama cooking spaghetti in the kitchen. He looks at the speaker and pouts his lips. "It's cold," He says, looking down at the water. Gray, cold.
"I dare you," the third boy says. "I dare you to do it." His name is Eddie. He's the youngest and the shortest.
Dallas doesn't want
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More