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Passions in Prose
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Jaime
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Posts 250


0 posted 2003-03-21 10:21 PM


This is actually something that I wrote a while ago and dug up. I don't think that I like this very much, but I'm not sure if it's just me being the typical "I hate everything I make" Jaime. So let me know what you think...

The lights were all off except one lamp in the living room, which I left on because my cat was basking in its warmth. I stopped to pet her and admire her beauty and character. Her tiny paws stretching and curling as she purred while I pet her silky coat.

I turn from her and walk into my bedroom, which is dimly lit by a lamp next to my bed, and sink into it (gratefully). I sit for a moment looking around through the darkness, at my door, and beyond that. Silently I wait. Something has to come. Something will come. But nothing comes. Nothing stirs. Nothing sounds. Nothing. The room seems to grip me from behind, grabbing my shoulders with clamping hands and shoving me down. I look behind me to see if anything is there, but of course, nothing is there. The small yellow flowers printed on my blanket just stare back at me in a mocking sort of way. Almost as if they’re saying, “Why can’t you just be yellow like us?”

I suddenly hear a cracking, sickly sound pierce the silence. A tiny voice emerging..

“Nikki….”

I realized that it was mine and the sound of my own loneliness was enough to start the tears. I felt my face bunch together in that ugly, prunish way as my face grew hot and pulsing. I knew that I was red and my eyes became so clear, like they always do, almost like stained glass. It seemed to me that whenever I cried the brown dripped down into the black wells and all that’s left is this translucent honey stain. I called again.

“Nikki… Nikki…”

I heard nothing. I saw nothing.

I pull back the blankets and lay down in my bed slowly, as if she might change her mind. As if anyone would come and save me from this silence. Maybe he or she would place a little box before my feet (that somehow always reminded me of tree roots) and inside I’d find my voice wrapped in pretty red tissue paper. I was desperately waiting for the moment when I’d come to some grand conclusion that would lead to my salvation.  

But nothing came.

I lean over and turn off the lamp beside my bed. I think that the best thing for me right now is to just get some sleep, but the time ticks by and the turning, tapping, ticking, and turning becomes more frequent. I just lie awake and dream of sleep. Of perhaps disappearing altogether, as if such a thing were possible. I suppose it’s a good thing that it’s not, otherwise I wouldn’t be here, writing this prose at 1:45 in the morning.

2.6.03

the faeries creep into my hair at night leaving it in terrible knots

© Copyright 2003 Jaime - All Rights Reserved
littlewing
Member Rara Avis
since 2003-03-02
Posts 9655
New York
1 posted 2003-03-21 10:30 PM


Jaime - this is - I know this so well - I know this so well that it hurt to read it - peace to you - is amazing . . . xxoo

[This message has been edited by littlewing (03-21-2003 10:31 PM).]

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navwin » Main Forums » Passions in Prose » 1:45 am

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