Knives had always fascinated her. Not in a violent way; she didn't want to use the knife on anything more gory than chicken or steak. But the feel of a really good quality knife in her hand, the shine of the metal, the balance, the tang running into the handle - all of these things gave her a curious satisfaction. She spent hours in Debenhams and House of Fraser testing various knife sets. Her favourite, yes she had a favourite knife, was a butcher's knife. The long, wide blade just screamed power and efficiency at her. A paring knife was...
Lost, without a hand to hold. That sounds about right. I never thought about it that way, though. To me it's more.. lost, without a sight to see? I don't usually think of people as guiding me. Especially in terms of being lost. Usually, it's my surroundings. This can be taken at face value - if I were lost somewhere in a city, I would be looking for landmarks to guide me. It has a double meaning though. If I feel lost, as in lost without a hand to hold, that means lost in life. To me. I suppose lost...
Sometimes I still feel like a kid - excited about silly things like jumping into puddles, watching how the water splashes out in every direction. It's nice to be the centre of something like that, something movable and real.
Especially now.
I'm so caught up in my own head. I'm worried about disappointing my parents, my professors, myself... it's hard to just live. It's hard to just follow my heart when I'm so concerned with what everyone else wants. The thing is, I don't even think anyone has such crazy expectations for me. My parents just want me to be...
He told me to sit here.
So I wait. Waiting for what? I don't know.
The suspense is killing me. Wait. No it's not. That Mountain Dew I drank is killing me...and all the other GMOs that I consume because my brain tells me I need them. That's not important right now...why am I rambling? I'm in the middle of nature, waiting for him. I should be calm and peaceful. Solitude does that to people. Most people. But not me. I can't sit still. And. Do. Nothing. Maybe that's why he told me to wait here?
He told me to...
We wrote a song for the silver trees. The streetlamps gathered underneath the bridge to hear us. Our band played. Others milled. The night was soft. The river was a metronome.
We wrote a song for the silver trees.
Sylvia wasn't sure she should have been there, never higher than 3rd chair in the symphony, but the viola was for her and her alone. I loved it when she tilted her neck just so. The chains glinting silver in the groaning of the streetlamps.
This was a song for her neck.
We wrote it in a hurry, gathering musicians out...
The audience stared open mouthed at me. The excitement of their shock rippled and fizzed through me as I beamed at them, arms spread wide.
I'd been acting in the same play for what felt like aeons and it had begun to wear on me. Each line felt like a chore and I had said so to a friend of mine over coffee.
"Do something new, then!" he'd said, "Do something exciting!"
I'd pondered this suggestion as I dragged myself into my costume. The most wondeful idea hit me and acted my part better than I ever had before, buzzing...
I saw it then, I see it now but somehow the access or more the feeling of ownership yes the feeling of ownership over the feeling has changed morphed become murky like I am seeing a man who was me thinking the thought but not remembering the thought myself
Orton stretched his arms and yawn smiled for a slight moment and then he pounced
Like the idea was implanted?
He stretched out this last word let it dangle in the dry air of the back office
Jim blinked, stared, coughed
Yes, yes just like just like that an implanted idea...
She was twelve years old and had blood red lipstick. Her face was flushed and her hair tangled. She knelt at the bottom of the door frame, holding her red gown to her shoulders so that it wouldn't slip off.
Her father would pick her up soon. Relish over the money he made today. Not ask her how her day was. Ignore her fidgeting and discomfort. As long as she kept her customers satisfied, her dad was satisfied. Or rather, his drinking addiction was satisfied.
She wrapped her arms tighter around her legs. Someday she would get out. Someday she...
The words hovered beneath my glowing finger, power incarnate. I lifted the text, spinning it lazily in the air, before hurling the curse at the image of my nemesis.
The photo I had ripped from the backcover of her book dissolved, dripping onto the table, her face hideously deformed, the black ink staining the tablecloth beneath.
"She thinks she can write horror," I said, the deathly silence of the basement swallowing my words. "She doesn't know what horror is." I smiled. "Yet."
I stand here alone on the grey, stone foundation of a tiny island. Save a few patches of dark green moss clinging to the rock face, I am the only living thing here.
The waves crash against the rocks, rocks that have withstood their attacks for thousands of years. And then there is me, struggling to keep my footing. As I am battered by wind and ocean spray, I slowly make my way towards the only landmark within sight. A light house. Not an old abandoned one, but a pristine strong one.
It's all there is. A small shelter from...