I'm Anna, and, of course, I am new to the community (which I love the layout and idea) I have been dieing to be able to share my writing, many people have actually encouraged me to join a writing community, and i found this one. So, enough chat, and more story.
This peice I'm about to post (chapters one and two) is what I am currently writing, I'll post a few finished ones later, I am eager to get comments and reveiws on this particular peice...thanks!
This peice contains brief drug, alcohol and rape refrences. As well as crude language.
Title: You are my Skeleton
Rating: PG-13 for language, drug, alcohol and rape references
Dedicated To: ...
Summary: ...(i.e. to early to tell as of now)
[Author's Note: I did this peice in a male percpective for a couple reasons;
a) it would be a different writing experience for me
b) i wanted to be able to describe a female character in a certain way, and in my perspective, doing so would be best done by a mail character]
My breath is visible in the allergic air of winter. The heat is busted, but I cant remember, I cant feel anymore, Im numb. My vision is beginning to focus as I gaze out the big window, dust waltzing in the the pale twilight of this early december morning.
I along her spinal column, and I gracefully move my hand, callous with chasms, from the small of her back, warm from sleep, to her hip, like I'm tracing an invisible piece of art work along the curves of her body. I brush her soft, ash hair, so her neck can breathe, and I smell morning breath as it invades my nasal cavities, and she licks her teeth, they are wet with saliva, and just as her lips spring out of her mouth, pale rose, just the right moisture, I place a wet nibble on her porcine skin, stretched out over her bones.
Then a shriek is echoing threw-out my ears as I slit my eyes open to aimlessly daub for the "SNOOZE" button. I exhale a breathe that is stale and lifeless as I catch my l lonesome body in the florescent green light on that bland white wall.
The crumple of recycled newspaper makes my senses tingle, its like dreams crumbling. A headline tells someone's story, its worse than a picture, you have to bare that embarrassing holiday snapshot with everyone; your boss, your ex-girlfriend, the homeless man on the street corner, the hooker from the other night, you cant just hide it in a dust covered shoe box to the very right of your highest shelf, in your biggest closet, next to your bloodiest skeleton. And there my skeleton is, staring up at me from the obituaries on page 27A, no skin left, vacant eyes, a nose thats deteriorated from the years of cocaine and ass kissing. My father. If you can call him that, if you can call raping my mother in a drunken rage, while whiskey globs out of his skin, the story of the accident and its result. Me. But that feeling has become normal to me, just a thorn in my side I've decided is just as much apart of me as my sanity. I just look at the calligraphy smeared on page 27A, I just look at that skeleton, and ignore the feeling in my gut. You know? The one were you feel as though your organs are swelling from the tugging your doing, your wrists become raw, and your pigment slips down the drain along with your life. That feeling, that feeling thats been there ever since you can remember. But then someone comes along, they sucked it out, like a poisoned wound, and revive you, make you warm, make you happy, make you alive. But they're is gone, they never wanted you anyway, your just a fuck up.
The corner of my mouth feels hot and sticky, I feel limp, and the dull jab of $5 plastic nails from Walgreens stabbing me in the shoulder is annoyingly repetitive, a shouting murmur that sounds like a foreign language seems lifetimes away. I open my eyes, letting them as the slowly focus on a tall shilouette, a mold that smelled of emphysema, lung cancer, lymphoma, to go hand and hand with a peroxide poisoned tuff that smelled burnt. A stream of smoke flows out of her red lips, like a sea of smoke telling its life story.
"Are you reading that?," she agitates impatiently. "What the hell happened to you?," was the rhythm that flowed out of her plump lips painted in red, as her lit cigarette bobbed up and down. She ripped the newspaper from my face, which had been glued there by my spit, and sat down in the vacant chair across from me.
"Obituaries, great, already there," she says with a monotone coincidence, along with a puff of arsenic. I'm still waking up and can feel my face dripping off and creaming my coffee. I look at her with heavy eyes, well, I really look at her lips, red with life, they only thing living on her as a matter of fact. They'll rot off with her tits in 20 years anyway. She looks as though she just came from a funeral, or maybe she was off to one; she wore a black pencil halter dress, it reflected her smooth white skin, flawless, and tattooed with opaque veins. Her pale green eyes were thickened with dead black eyeliner, but were barely visable behind oval glasses, black of course. She scrimmaged threw the list and pointed with her crimson nail to a name.
Without hesitation, she opened her little black hand bag and yanked all of its innards out; Marlboros, lighter, 2 dollars fourteen cents, L.S.D tablet, and one golden band, that which seemed layered in fingerprints and warm from constant use. She scooped everything into her bag with one sweep of her arm, even my blueberry muffin, and hurriedly squeezed the band over her left ring finger. She glanced at me, then glanced back at the newspaper as she ripped out the middle of 27A. Without one more glance of her eyes, she stood up, put her cigarette out in my coffee, and as she walked off, she coughed "Sorry about your sperm donor," in a freakish rhythm with the sizzle of her dieing cancer stick.