• 46. Writer's Choice
  Hundred Words

"Well, what do you want me to say?"
The argument always started the same way: He asked for a favor, she refused, and suddenly the world stopped turning. So she didn't feel like going down to the store, why couldn't he just do it? She was tired, as she well deserved to be. It isn't easy to watch a three year old bounce off the walls. Though probably no easier than working two full time jobs, she always seemed to rationalize too late.
"Go down tomorrow, before the car pool. God, stop yelling at me."
They didn't need milk, anyway.

• 47. Writer's Choice
  Poem

A desperate grasp at knowledge
Finger presses paper
Attempting to absorb
Slide up, thumb under
Despite every effort to save the moment
A casual flick
At a loss for words

• 48. Writer's Choice
  Poem

Forcing inspiration to come
Pushing past the barrier
Compulsion, potential
Building momentum
Building hope
Muscles strain with anticipation

Hurry, hurry
Arms shaking out in front of me
Tension, pressure, ache
Grabbing what shattered morsels I can
Beggars can't be choosers

Leaping over the gate
Hurtle, plunge
Feet strike gravel
Knees scatter gravel
The rush, the impudence
I need to write

Yearning, infatuation, frenzy
Pounding on the door
Nails scraping portal
Slivers fall to me feet
Rain, sleet, hail
Flakes fly in a tempest
Splinters, thorns
Bones meets wood in frustration
Hammering, thrashing
The knots only thicken with every strike

Gasping for breath
My grief, my longing
Begging my muse to waken
Her slumber has lasted much too long
I hear her stir, but no:
That siren, that puck
She dreams away upon her couch
Golden hair upon crimson pillow
Dozing, reposing
Happily ignorant of my plight
She denies me access yet again

I sit in frustration
Wounded, scarred
With my head in my hands
Fingers pulling strands of hair
Rocking, moaning
Oblivious to your world
Shouting with all my heart
Grieving, grieving
Pouring my soul into the earth
Tears cleansing thoughts
Salt marring words

How long until she wakens?

• 49. Writer's Choice
  Short Story / Dogma Fanfiction

It seemed odd, to be on a bus. After spending so many Saturday mornings at the airport, riding a bus just felt...abnormal. Loki fingered his revolver while glancing at the couple sitting in the seat in front of him. Damn adulterers. If only he knew for sure. But Bartleby was on his high horse again, and wouldn't even give him the slightest hint. What Loki wouldn't give to be the Angel of Death again, and just go around killing sinners without worrying about things like karma. Hanging around with mortals all day long made you have things like a conscience.

"Will you just relax?" Bartleby said, glancing over his magazine for barely a second before returning to an article on Martha Stewart. "We've got to keep a low profile, after all."

"If you tell, I swear I'll chill out." Loki responded, staring at the couple as they began to make out. It was truly sickening.

"Oh yeah, like that will make me give in. How many times do I have to tell you? Low Profile."

"Oh, damn you..." Loki muttered to himself, and went back to the couple.

Hmm...Wedding ring on the man's finger...can't see the girl's hand...don't even want to think about where it disappeared to...no married couple gets that excited in public...
Loki reached into his jacket pocket and was about to pull out his revolver when Bartleby stopped him.

"The guy just signed his divorce papers. As nauseating as it is, they're fine."

"Can't I get them on sex before marriage?"

"Sorry. Maybe next bus ride."

Loki sighed and let himself sink into the bus seat. They still had hours of travel ahead of them, and getting so disappointed so soon wasn't a good sign. A little sleep would probably help, though.

"Wake me up if anything interesting happens."

Bartleby nodded his consent and went back to his magazine. He continued reading for a time to keep himself occupied, but eventually motion sickness forced him to turn his gaze. He folded up the magazine and placed it in the netting on the seat-back in front of him, and began to stare out the window. Fields, complete with cows, rushed by. The scenery hadn't changed once since the bus had departed from the station. Maybe that was what made Wisconsin so terrible - repetition. Every cow looks the same as the one standing next to it. The same holds true for mortals.

Bartleby's eyes slid out of focus as he retreated farther inside himself. How could God love such creatures? Even at their best, it's insulting to compare them to the higher beings of heaven. Hell, it's insulting to compare them to the condemned archangels, banished to Wisconsin until the end of the world. They could be doing so much with their free-will, but instead they remain within the tiny boxes of their minds. The only time they venture outside the beaten path is to find a way around the law.

Is it better to be all-powerful under servitude, or have limited ability with free-will? Bartleby had asked himself this question many times over. Just once he would like to know an answer.

Something out the window caught his eye. It hadn't quite passed the bus yet, but he could see it coming up. Quickly, he nudged his sleeping companion and pointed out the window. As slow to react as Loki was, he opened his eyes just in time to see the sign move past their seat.

You Have Now Left Wisconsin

"We're out." Loki remarked, sitting up straighter and shaking off his drowsy feeling. A smile played on his face as he punched his associate in the arm. "About time too."
"That was...quite easy." Bartleby rubbed his arm where a bruise would soon form, then went to run his hand through his hair.
"...before now..."

"Repeat that?" Loki shrugged off his jacket and arranged it on the back of his seat for comfort's sake.

"I was just wondering why we waited until now to leave."

Loki shifted in his seat, trying to smooth out his jacket underneath him. "I'm not a Gregoriate. Either explain what the hell you're talking about, or let me sleep."

Bartleby gave half a sigh, and turned to face the window before he explained himself, speaking and enunciating as if a toddler were present. "We were condemned to Wisconsin until the end of the world. Yet all we just did was take a bus, and *poof* we're out. Why did it take us so long to figure out that it was so simple? Are we missing something? It's all too easy."

"You think too much," Was the only reply he could get out of his companion. "We're out, so we're out. Now we can concentrate on heaven."

"How can I concentrate on heaven if I don't understand Earth?" Bartleby muttered to himself.

"Hmm?"

"Shut up and go back to sleep."

"That's harsh, man." Loki responded. He probably would have gone back to sleep too, but one can only rest so much. After a time, it just turns into laziness. "Can I see your magazine?"

Bartleby leaned forward and took the pages from the seat back, but hesitated before handing them over. After a moment of silence, he brandished the rolled up magazine at Loki and just exploded, gibbering out all of his inner thoughts in one rushed breath.
"Just thing about it. Think for once. We get a newspaper clipping in the mail. We never get mail, never have. We don't know anyone who would send us mail, and even Publisher's Clearing House avoids us, probably because the Big Guy doesn't want us hitting it rich. Now, we're going to New Jersey. Why does this church have to be in New Jersey? It doesn't seem like an overly holy place, what with the mobsters and the drugs and the public schools. I don't care what the movie Garden State says, I don't like Jersey. If any church celebration would get us back into heaven, it wouldn't be there, or anywhere else in this country. It would be in Rome or Paris or someplace big and impressive and foreign. But at least this is sort of nearby, and we can get there with just a few train tickets and a cab or two. Maybe that's what we we're being tempted on: if we can resist something attainable. How do we know this isn't a hoax, a trap to get us to leave out assigned place? God might be there, right at the church as we walk in, and slap even bigger chains on us for leaving Dairy-Land. Or He might get us before then. He'll probably get us before then..."

Bartleby took a breath. Then another. Then he slumped back into his seat and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Whoa." Loki uttered, after absorbing all that he could. A moment passed. "Whoa. This was too easy."

"I want to go back. We didn't think this through before we got the bus tickets. I'm not ready." His eyes remained closed.

"The minor damage is already done." Loki pointed out. "It doesn't matter if we turn around now, or five minutes from Jersey. We left Wisconsin. The minor damage is already done."

"You've said that already."

"I did?"

"Just then."

"Oh."

Each sat in his seat, Bartleby with his eyes examining his eyelids, and Loki looking on the passing cows with waning interest. Minutes passed by, scarcely noted by either. Time piled up as each sat in his own world. Bartleby took a deep breath, and then another and another, until the silence flooding his ears melted away, revealing the murmur of conversation and blank noise on the bus. The vehicle continued on, unperturbed by the revelations of the two angels sitting in its seats. There was still time. There was always still time.

• 50. Writer's Choice
  100 Words

I should be doing my dishes she thinks. Instead she is writing in an online community trying to fit her all her thoughts into one hundred words.
It will never happen she says as she shakes her head. Her mind is like the size of an ocean and is constantly running at full speed, much like her two year old nephew.
School starts soon for her. That always worries her. He worries her. She loves him, but hasn't admitted it to anyone really.
She wants eggs, but she knows it is too late.
Instead, she will go do her dishes.

• 51. Fireflies
  Short Story

"Catherine! Catherine!"

The voice faded and slightly echoed through the tress, disappearing in the brush behind her. A few more steps, and she'd be back in the meadow. Shadows crept along her feet as the sun went down, slicing through the branches arbitrarily. Leaves crackled underfoot. Heat rose up, only to be swept away by the breeze. Summer was coming to an end, only to reawaken next year.

Catherine quickened her pace, putting as much distance between herself and her house as possible. For, after all, what is a house? Four wooden walls, carpeted floor, kitch in every room. That is not a home. Home is where the heart rests and dreams. Catherine had yet to find hers.

The meadow opened out in front of her like a dream. The sun had already disappeared, but the last faint touches of twilight remained. She sat herself down in the unmown grass and hid her head between her knees. A deep breath in, a deep breath out. That's all it takes to steady the world sometimes. She could practically feel it turning underneath her, but realized that it was only her own body swaying side to side. No tears came, but it was not yet required. Peace of mind must first be gained. And quiet must appear before that.

A long train of thought ran through her head, over well worn tracks that soon threatened to break. Around and around it went until there was nothing more to think over, and finally the quiet descended. It was quite dark now, the perfect time of day for philosophy.

She stretched out her legs and leaned back, adjusting herself to rest her back against the smooth trunk of a beech tree. Her eyes first opened to explore the petals of a nearby Queen Ann's Lace, then the seedy tops of the grass, then the dangling crimson leaves of the forest, finally resting themselves upon the infinite sky. She counted start without realizing it. It was only when Orion blinked out of existence that she regained her composure.

Her eyes refocused and found themselves to be the audience of thousands of dancing lights. Blinking, sparkling, capering, they had taken over the field. One had even come to rest upon her knee. With a slow and steady movement, she as able to cup her hand and capture the sprite between her fingers, then lifting it up to her face to watch as it skuttled back and forth within the living prison. Her hands glowed red for a moment, then darkness settled in, then red once again. Pity slowly sank into her heart as she felt the tickle against her fingers, waiting all too long for the next light to appear between the cracks of her hands. With sudden decision, she threw open her arms and watched as one more light joined the thousands, melting aay seamlessly into the night.

If only her mother knew how to do the same.

• 52. Pills
  Short Story

The glass of water sat right beside her bed.

As always.

It was partially filled. The water rose nearly to the top, leaving an inch of space. Two droplets slowly glided along the side, making their way down towards the table. Someone was a bit messy when they filled it up.

As always.

The pill case sat beside the glass. Monday's compartment was already empty, as was Tuesday's and Wednesday's. Thursday was sitting open, the top popped so that every last pill inside was visible. They called out eagerly, brutally, selfishly, demanding her attention. Soon their voices became too loud to ignore.

As always.

Reaching for the glass took more effort than she could comfortably spare. Pouring the pills into her exposed hand nearly killed her. Opening her mouth was yet another terror, putting them inside was sheer pain, and swallowing it all down was more than any one person should ever have been asked to bear.

As always.

Her head hit the pillow. Her eyes shut tight. Her breath stilled inside of her, and dreams crept into her tightly sealed head. Hours passed by.

The glass of water sat right beside her bed.

As always.

• 53. Endless night
  Short Story

The best part of summer is being able to sneak out of the house, run past the houses and the roads and find a quiet field, lie on my back, and stare up at the sky.

I've never been an astronomer, but I can appreciate the sheer beauty of the stars. They just continue on. And on. You can close your eyes and try to imagine just how many are in the sky,but never in your life will you ever get close. It boggles me. It touches me. It makes me feel small and vulnerable and completely open to the world. But it's still a comfort.

Someone once told me that people are happiest when they know their place. He was an older man, referring to women in the kitchen, but I can't help but agree with him. I look out into the sky and I know my place. I know that I will never be anything as great as the things I see there. I will never be a star, sending my glow thousands of light years away, causing others to stop in their tracks and stare at my beauty. I will never be a constellation, performing feats of strength and courage on this earth, being honored by the gods through the gift of immortality. I will never be so large and so perfect that I will be studied by school children and scientists alike. They will never track my movements and base their lives upon predictions made on my behalf. I cannot help this.

So here I lay. On my back, in the grass, in the warm nights of July. Sometimes it rains, sometimes the wind blows cold, sometimes I'm caught before I've left the house. But here I continue to come all the same. It's the pull of the sky.

• 54. Crawl
  Short short poem

Hands and knees
Beneath the table clothe
Scrounging at the bottom
Hiding from the world

Torn up pants
Dragging feet
There's nothing quite so sad in this world
As begging

• 55. Invisible
  Reflection

Overused Poetic Cliches


I'm a frequent visitor of poetry forums around these Wide Webs, and in my time I've seen a number of things that annoy me to no end. One of them is overused poetic cliches.

We all know what this means - Heart break, love, depression, death. It's either subjected to the idea of "I'm so happy and in love that everything is perfect right now" or "I hate everything no one understands me the world is horrible." Although these basic themes are enough to make readers cringe, it's the "metaphors" and descriptions that really make me want to hurl.

One of these is invisibility. It's the idea that no one appreciates you, understands you, sees you, or reacts to you in any way. It's the idea that you stand in front of a crowd screaming, and no one turns. I see this much too often. It's mostly used by teenagers who don't appreciate the life they have been given, or who have suffered the first blow of their lives. I do believe that their emotion is sincere, but they are unable to express themselves without resorted to horrible typecasts. Rather than putting their feelings straight into their writing, they try too hard to create "real poetry" and thereby make it a cookie-cut version of everything else out there. The best (and worst) way to describe this is the "emo" trend. Not the true sense of emo, but rather the stereotypical one. Another bad cliche is that of mirrors. Breaking mirrors, having no reflection, or finally seeing your true self in one. It has become such a common symbol that all originality has been lost.

• 56. Wealth
  Poem

Golden rings
lazily sitting upon
the mahogany table
beside the King size bed
with satin sheets.
A marble staircase
descending to the grand ballroom
hosting teatime
and waltzes.

A sun-filled sky
blessing the veranda
with low humidity
and cold lemonade.
A game of croquet
entertaining the masses
until the fireworks display.

Showing the world
once and for all
that not all the rich
have problems.
Sometimes
they're
just
blessed.

• 57. Power
  Short Story

Looking back, there's only so much that I can be proud of. All the moments drift away like so many soap bubbles, only to burst when I reach out to them.

Soap bubbles. Ah, that jogs the memory.

She was always so sweet, if sweet is the right word. She was always so easy. She'd nod her head and get straight to work, not matter what you told her to do. Scrub the floor, clean the chimney, cook a banquet, sleep on the floor. Always, she'd give that nod of assent, then go off. I never once heard her complain. Never, never once. That was my own mistake.

Compare her to my girls - Constant whining, constant complaints. Nothing I gave them was ever good enough. I would have gowns and hairpieces made by the finest artisans in the land, and they would declare them unfit for whores. They would throw them out the window, or stomp them into the fire. I gave them beautiful rooms with mahogany beds and silk sheets. They'd tear it all apart with their hands, then scream about the damage of their skin. My girls were monsters. They still are. They never loved me. I was only the one who provided the things they loved, if ever I actually did something right.

But her. Her. She gave out her love on a whim. She'd look up at me and smile and be happy with her lot. I never understood why. Soon, it became a test of wills: I took more from her, gave more to them. She loved me still, they hated me worse. They seperated out to opposite ends of the spectrum. Soon, my girls may as well have been queens, while she looked like a dog who was left outside one too many nights. Horrible. And yet I never heard a complaint. Was I even listening?

The summons was a Godsend. To marry one of my girls off was my dearest wish. Send them far away from my eyes, give them a new master to hate. They'd forget about me in an instant. To me, that would be paradise. So I gave them everything they wanted: Ballgowns, chariots, horsemen, ribbons, flowers, gold, silver, jewels. If only they could catch the eye of the prince, they might leave all the sooner. I was willing to take every chance I could. But her I could not lose. Without my girls, she could finally live the life she was meant to. I wouldn't have to test her love any longer. It may just be the two of us, happily. But I should have known better than to think that.

I don't know how the rest happened. A blur, a mistake, perhaps I've blocked it from me memory. She snuck out, she fell in love, and now she's gone. And now I'm still here, with them.

Will God give me no rest?

• 58. Desolate
  Short Story

She never realized just how easy it was to get lost.

It was time to clear out the attic, she thought. Move some boxes, pack it all away, stack it neatly by the wall, make room for more. It should have taken her only an hour or two. It shouldn't have been this hard.

The first box brought about her childhood. Snapshots of days at the lake and picnics on the beach. She could see her mother smiling and her father bouncing a beaming baby on his knee. That must have been her. She found an old, worn out rattle. A matching bib sat next to it, and a torn up stuffed tiger. She had slept with that for years, she remembered. But then it's ear had torn off, and it needed to be put away. Little booties and mittens littled the bottom of the box, along with hand knitted caps and scarves. Everything was motheaten and torn. She placed the box in the "Throw Away" pile.

The second box held all of her old school yearbooks. Outdated photos graced the pages, along with scrawled messages of "see you next year!" and "never change!" She laughed at the thought. Photos of her promdate were torn apart through the pages, along with pressed roses and four-leaf clovers that long ago dried out. An old diary proclaimed her undying love for numerous boys, as well as an undying hate for her parents. Bland poetry described their divorce in detail. A couple of teeny tiny shirts even sat their, all folded up, thousands of sizes smaller than they ever should have been. She placed the box in the "Throw Away" pile.

The third box was nearly empty. It held a wedding gown. Nothing more, nothing less. No snapshots, no mementos, no nothing. She stared at it for only a second before placing the box in the "Throw Away" pile. And yet it was hours before the tears would stop.

• 59. Tissues
  Poem

Take one out
Throw it away
Take one out
Throw it away

The world wastes
its time
on waste
and greed.
We leave behind
a trail of hash
a trail of dreck
and need.

Take one out
Throw it away
Take one out
Throw it away

• 60. Varnish
  Poem

We were once painted gold
So long ago
I can barely remember
Such beauty does not last,
Fading our bright canvas
Suddenly to black.

I have tried for years
To bring back the shine
But black lies too thick
It sinks into the cracks
And lies there
in ignorance.

• 61. Careful
  100 words
  

I kept the secret because I imagined it would make me noble, like some hero in a movie. How cinematic, backlit by the sunset, well earned scars on a face that would betray my strengths and mysterious nature, if not my hidden details.

But, secrets are only noble on the big screen because someone else is watching, privy to the personal sacrifices and dramatic back-story.

Nobody is watching. My face is not made distinguished and handsome by my silence. Real secrets are lonely, heavy, and haunting. They beg to be let out and shared, as dangerous as that might be.

• 62. Dirty
  In Honor of "Talk Like a Pirate Day"

I`ve recently gotten into th' habit o' outlinin' stories or novels, but neresittin' down an' actually writin' them. `Tis easy fer me t' come up wi' a plot, but me execution be horrible. (I`ve been writin' a fantasy novel fer a voyage an' a half now an' only be havin' four chapters down on paper. Pitiful.)

Hence: Knerd`s Drabble page. Dedicated t' forcin' myself t' start writin'. Once I get in th' habit, 't be easier t' transfer me skills t' larger projects.

I hereby swear t' complete 50 drabble projects. Poems, 100 word paragraphs, short stories, reflections, etc. Whaterestrikes me at th' moment. I be basin' me drabbles off a topic list from th' LiveJournal community 100_prompts. Once I work me way through the'r 50 list, we`ll be seein' if I be havin' enough strength port in me fer more.

Each drabble begin wi' what prompt 't falls under, as well as what style o' writin' I be usin' t' fulfill 't.

I be ou' o' habit, I know. Me writin' style be often very avast-an'-go, I know. I abuse commas without a second thought as t' the'r well-bein', I know. But none o' that be th' point o' this writin'. I be simply tryin' t' get th' juices flowin'. I be all fer constructive criticism, but me style be me own. So nyah.

• 63. Circus
  Poem

The thrill of the ride
is what makes it all
worthwhile.
I gasp as you turn.
I stare as you fly.
I hold my breath
as tightly as I can
when that trapeze swings
overhead
and you suddenly let go.

Thank God for
safety nets.

• 64. Engagement
  Poem

There isn't much in this world
that can hold my attention.
I breeze in and out
from here to there
and never truly settle down.
I've never felt the pull of love
nor understood it's chains.
Eros does not burden me
with his presence,
as I dutifully ignore his stare.
Yet here I continue to write
and dream
or perfection and desire
and a little girl's wishes.
How little she understood.
I'm not much different now.

A sappy love sonnet
isn't too far off
from a white wedding
inside a crowded church
scented by rose petals.
The bride is the same woman.
But at least on paper,
she's anonymous.

• 65. Junction
  Poem

Frost's road less traveled is supposedly the best.
To go your own way
Instead of following the crowd,
Is that happiness?
To stand by yourself
Without a soul to comfort you?
I can see the appeal.
To be unique,
To be special,
To be able to support yourself
Rather than depend on others.
To think your own thoughts.
To dream you own dreams.
To live above the control of others.

But I cannot do it.

I cannot stand aside while others
Trample along in pain.
I cannot ignore them,
Who cry out for help.
I refuse to separate myself from those
Who need me most.

What use is individuality
If I cannot live with myself?

• 66. Barren
  Short Story

She never understood why it wouldn't grow.

A garden is a pretty simple concept. You find the plot of land. You turn over the soil. You plant the seeds. You water the seeds. You watch the seeds grow. You pick and eat the bounty. Not rocket science, right?

Wrong.

Six years running, not a damn thing has grown up. She's tested the pH of the soil thousands of time, consulted hundreds of farming experts, talked with dear old Mrs Flynn down the street, but to no avail. She's tried wide varieties of fruits and vegetables, monitored the water flow, kept bunnies and deer of all kinds out of the yard, but it's as barren as the Sahara. What more can a woman do than fall down on her knees and pray to the Almighty Father to bless her zucchinni? Sadly, she's done that at least ten times as well.

This year, she just gave up. No point in working when the inevitable will just come anyway. She's got too many backproblems to kill herself over salad, anyway. She'll buy her lettuce from the grocery store just like every other suburban mother, and that wil be the end of it.

But oh - What she wouldn't give for some fresh squash!

• 67. Lipstick
  Short Story

It all begins with just a dab of color.

A touch of rouge along the cheekbones, some coverup on that pimple beneath your nose. You step back from the mirror and admire your handiwork. Perfect for a day around the house. You slick back your hair into a ponytail and pull on an old t-shirt. Your jeans are faded, but they're well loved. The rips show character after all.

But you can't find your shoes. Those dusty, dirty, comfy sneakers have lived beside you for years. They aren't sitting in the closet, nor under the bed, nor against the bedroom door. They aren't on the stairs, nor in the kitchen, nor sitting the garage. A girl can only go for so long in bare feet, so you rush upstairs to find another pair to get you through your day.

The only other ones you can find are new sandals, bought barely a month ago. You haven't worn them. They're just a tad bit fancy. Comfortable and well priced, but too slick and sleek for ripped up jeans. You pull off your pants and change into a pair of dark wash denim that fit your a bit better. More tightly around the hips. You love the way they make your butt look, and therefore spend the next ten minutes posing in front of your mirror, trying to bend around so that all your best features show at once.

But a pair of pants like this demand a nicer top. The t-shirt only covers up your hips, your best ass-et. You pull it off, messing your hair slightly in the process, and find a more suitable top. You've never felt comfortable with how low cut it is, but all your friends rave about how good it looks. Besides, the fabric is as soft as a dream. As long as you keep it straight along your shoulders, and don't bend over in front of company, it's fine.

You go back to the mirror to fix your hair, and realize how much better it looks down. The curls cover that bit of cleavage, making it less noticeable. Instead of reaching back for the scrunchie, you grab your comb and make yourself presentable. A few strokes and a spritz or two of gel tame your locks. Now you can do a hair flip, which again occupies another ten minutes of your mirror time. Getting a bit vain, aren't we? Never mind - that's every girl's right.

You turn away to leave your room just as you catch one last glance at the mirror. Is that rouge really enough? You haven't put on mascara in age. A dark eye would look lovely when paired with this top. Besides, you should probably use up the bottle before it dries and gets all goopy. So you pull it out and dab on a few strokes. Carefully and lightly at first, but going full out once you realize how much you like it. But mascara without eyeshadow is just bland. Digging through that ill-used make up kit of your's, you find an old golden/bronze color that seems to fit your mood. A touch on the inside of your eye, some smudging near the brow, and the slightest hint of glitter leaves you dazzling. A bit of eye liner isn't out of place, either. You create a smoky eye. Or at least you attempt one, to the best of your ability. Now your looks could kill.

It's fun to go all out, isn't it? But now your face is unbalanced - The eyes are full of life, but everything else falls flat. What about your lips? You search through the kit for gloss, but find only that strawberry junk that makes you sick. (Why is everything always made from that one scent?) Lip liner always made you feel like Pamela Anderson, but for once you wish that you kept a color or two in stock. At least you could use it for fun, or as a joke.

Lipstick? But you never wear lipstick. It always makes you feel clownish, or a tad bit like a drag queen. ...But it's better than nothing. If only you could find some. You always used to have a tube. It was that hot fire engine red color, that all those girls in the commercial would wear. It was pouty and wet and had crystals in the mix. You were saving it for a special occasion. But where?

The bathroom! You hurry downstairs, knowing that it's sitting in the medicine cabinet. Your sandals click against the tiles as you open it up and find the tube leaning against a bottle of Advil. You apply it right then and there, carefully outlining every bump and curve along your mouth. You rub your lips together, give them a smack, and even do the tissue paper test. Happily, you now feel complete. You turn to head back of stairs, carefully holding the tube in order to put it into your make-up kit, as you exit the door and promptly trip.

Over your sneakers.

The lipstick story is amazing! I enjoyed reading it.

Thanks! I always liked fun little stories like that - They're easy to write, and fun to see everyone's reactions. I'll probably end up edited this one later on and fixing up some of the parts to make it more engaging.

Sorry I didn't reply right away, it's been a jungle in here.

I'm not sure if I'll be able to update my drabbles anytime soon. These will have to be pushed aside until I've got a bit more time. For now, all of my writing energy will be centered around NaNoWriMo, which I need a month's worth of planning for.

68. Shirt
Short Story



Why was everything getting so much tighter?

Now matter how she pulled on it, no matter how she turned, there was still that bare inch of skin between the bottom of her shirt and the waist of her pants. She spun around so that she could see her back in the mirror, and there is was. That little pale stretch just wouldn't go away.

With a sigh, she tugged at it one last time before giving up and just pulling it off. Yet as she brought the material over her head, she found that her arms became stuck to her sides and her jaw wouldn't fit through the neck hole. Her body became trapped in the little billow of clothe around her head. As if she needed this - She cursed and wiggled around and cursed some more, stubbing her toe at the end of her bed every time she moved. (There's going to be a bruise there by tomorrow.) I didn't exactly help that her elbows wouldn't straighten, or bend any farther, or do anything at all, really. It wasn't until the shirt's side seam gave a little *rip* that she managed to fling it off of her head and throw it down upon her dresser top. "God," she thought, "you'd have to be a contortionist to fit into that thing."

But the weird part is that it used to fit. It used to fit quite well. She used to wear that shirt at least once a week, proudly displaying the 'Weezer' graphic across the front. It wasn't until the past few months that the material began to shrink and shrink until it wrapped around her body like a second skin. She hated it.

It was times like this that she wished she could just peel off her skin. Unbutton the front and pull it off like a jacket, hanging the excess on a little holder in her closet. Then her shirts would fit.

On cold nights, she could grab that extra layer and pull it back on, savoring the warmth and comfort. When feeling blue, she could sink into it while covering herself with sweatpants and that hand crocheted blanket her grandmother made. But shedding it all would be the true joy. She would just slip out of it, leaving it in a pile of her floor, to be cleared away when it came time to do laundry.

But that's only fantasy. For now, she'll have to be content with that baggy t-shirt that she stole from her brother.

69. Shortbread
Short Story


"I used to be a Girl Scout."

I turned to the cashier standing next to me as we both waited for the last few straggling customers to make up their minds and finally buy something. The shop was supposed to be closed 15 minutes ago.

"Really, I never would have pictures you in a uniform. I bet you were cute."
"Not so much. Those vests don't flatter anyone."
"Come on, stop being so damn modest. You probably ran around cleaning up litter by the side of the road and helping little old ladies cross the street and riding horses and making lanyards, and I bet you wore your hair in pigtails the entire time. That's cute."

He looked over at me, scratching the five o'clock shadow that had grown around his chin. I hate guys like him - Call a girl cute, and they expect you to melt.

"We didn't really do that kind of stuff."
"What did you do?"
"Sold cookies, mostly."

And it's true, that's what troop really bothered to get involved in. Every year they'd hand out those little sheets with the grid on one side for everyone to write their orders and all the types of cookies on the other side. There'd be at least one new kind every year. Something "Low fat" or "Sugar free" for everyone who wanted to buy cookies without feeling guilty when they looked at the scale. The only problem is that they tasted like cardboard, so none of the customers would be stupid enough to buy the same type two years in a row. They'd always switch them up, then advertise the new ones like crazy. And everyone would buy them. And then they'd probably just toss them into the garbage.

Our troop would always raise a lot of money with the sales. Every year, the troop leader would stand up and say how proud she was, that we made more than ever before, and that we'd be saving the cash for a big trip at the end of the year. But I really don't remember that trip ever coming. The money would just sit there, until the next year when new money would come in.

"Did you go door-to-door selling them, or sit your butts in the mall and wait for everyone to come to you?"
"Both."

It would always be freezing that time of year. I'd get sent around the neighborhood all on my own, with instructions to never step into anyone's house or give out my last name. I never listened anyway. It was too cold to stand on the stoop outside when the nice old ladies would invite me in for cocoa.

"I'd kill for a cookie right now. You still sell em'?"
I looked at him with eyes that could have burned through his soul, of only I knew how to harness the power. "Do you see me prancing around with boxes of Thin Mints?"
"Geez, just a question."

I wouldn't sell them anymore even if I could. It would be too much like going back in time.

"I liked those coconut ones," he continued after a split second of silence. "I think they had caramel and junk on them too. What were they called?"
"Caramel deLites? I think they're called Samoas now."

My mom only used to let me eat Shortbreads. She said that all the others weren't healthy for growing girls. In my mind, that was just complete BS. Why would you send little girls out to sell a product that they themselves couldn't have?

But a year or two ago, it hit me - No one can say no to a little kid, all on her own, standing outside on a cold and windy day. selling cookies. She's the ultimate used car salesman. She makes you an offer, and you'll buy it no matter what the price. Just put on that sad face and the customer goes weak in the knees.

That's why I'm not a Girl Scout anymore. That's why I really don't care about the cookies.

But sadly, that's probably also why I'm the best cashier in this dump, I think to myself, as the customers finally stop wandering around the store and walk up to my register with their purchases.

Wow your writing is really great! O__O (Sorry for posting if I'm not supposed to, I just had fun reading them all~)