NaNoWriMo Teaser

No one ever can fully explain the consequences of the tick-ticking of the pocket watch tucked into the breast pocket of Father Time’s tweed overcoat. There was no sense of urgency in the last cheek I brushed, or the last time I smoothed the small fine hairs of my bangs away from my forehead, or even the last time I peeled the Sunkist price sticker off the skin of an orange, leaving the citrus smell lingering under my fingernails until I smoked my last cigarette and the filter tasted like Christmas.

         No one warned me, and even worse than that, nothing seemed off. There was no sinking in my stomach as I punched at the letters on my phone or scribbled down the number for Chinese carryout on the heart shaped pad of paper that was stuck to my refrigerator. In the days to come I would close my eyes and try to ignore the pulse running through my veins, and fantasize about those last moments before I closed my eyes and my fingertips disappeared.

         What textures are so absent from my life? The ones that I never appreciated before, that I can’t call to mind by a simple command. The cool groove of the tiling in my kitchen sink, the wood grain of my bedside table or the static electricity of the air before a thunderstorm… They all blend together as I fell into the cool sheets of my bed that scratched beneath my fingertips that last evening. In one day I became a burn victim with my individuality seared from the tips of my extremities, all my silent communication with the world immediately brought to a halt.

         This is what someone should have told me. Should have forced me to see, begged me to appreciate. I am not entitled to touch and feel the world around me, and these things I have taken utterly for granted. As one who has gone blind will remember their last moments of vision with utter clarity I will remember you as the last surface I touched. The lower back I dug my nails into, the last eyelashes I brushed with my index finger while reaching for the sweating glass of water that slicked my fingers and made them too cold to place on the ridges of your ribs.

         If I had slipped into sleep a little slower, forbade the dreams from rushing into my subconscious like a stampede of horses… Would they still be here? If I had contemplated the missing texture of your body before it was gone, would I have never disappeared at all?

         These are the questions I am left to ponder.

         This is the life I am left to live.

         I woke suddenly, gasping for a fresh breath of air in the cool morning of February when Frost scraped the windowpanes with her long plastic fingernails. 

Even Though

I have seen my reflection
in the tarnished spoon that feeds the hungry universe
slowly so its never satisfied.

I know you better now
and even though I need you
need the way your spirit caresses mine
like two cats curled around each others skeletons
need you because you've stolen something that does not regenerate
like the clipped end of a chameleons tail
even though I need your breath mingling with mine in this cool autumn air that
feels like brushing fingertips with a phantom...
I don't like you at all.

Pictureless in Progress

(The Shutter Muse has been making excuses for not sharing her poetry... Crumpling them up and tossing them in the bin. In an effort to break this bad habit, some posts will be without pictures in an effort to get the creativity flowing. :])

So I'll try
to sift through the sordid details
like sand and gravel from the driveway of
my childhood apartment
stuck in my skinned knees.
and I'll try not to cut myself
on the glass shards from broken bottles
and neglected costume jewelry that collects on city streets.
And if I do get to the bottom
without bloody palms or pricked fingertips
will the loose ends become untangled?
Will they tie plainly into a bow
for you to pin in my tangled hair
to forget about
until you need reminding?

The Shutter Muse Apologizes

I ran into a brick wall of sorts in my life, and after hitting my face and knocking myself out for a bit... I am pacing back and forth along it, ready to scale it in a feline fashion.
Unfortunately all of my writing has been out of sorts and unfit (in my humble opinion) for the eyes of the web. I return to offer up some of my photos in the meantime. Addie and the rest of my characters are elusive but I think I can see some new inspiration peeking around the corner.

Exhaustion Is

Exhaustion creeps into your peripherals like shadows on the dunes. Suddenly you're looking at the world through warped glass, seeing through a shield of steam. Your body isn't performing when you pull the strings- a disobedient soldier, the rogue puppet. The vibrations of your fingerprints on one another is now too small, too subtle for your body to believe- your independence is now too weak for your mind to register. You harden like frozen wax: jawline set in your mold, smiles slower, laughs taste metallic on the base of your tongue like a music box grinding its gears. Music becomes noise, food becomes fuel, art becomes a distraction. The worst part is that you will begin to forget.

You will forget that there is no joy like fingertips tracing a smile, no happiness like after crying when its all too much and nothing wrong with being human. Before you know- you'll forget how to dream and there's nothing emptier, nothing more vacant and skeletal than stagnancy- acceptance of your exhaustion- a life devoid of forward motion and the ability to say nothing at all.

The Emotional Architect Pt. II

My breath caught in my throat like the bone of a fish- pointy, small and threatening to draw embarrassing prickling tears into the edges of my vision. I knew it wasn’t Mayforr’s bark that had done it—it was the coppery taste of failure that filled my mouth and rung in my ears like a clock striking midnight. Mayforr could sense my shame I’m sure—even without the powers that are my gift.

When I was young I asked Melanie why all the other Guards had abilities and Mayforr, who was in charge of them all even when I was that young, didn’t have anything at all. Melanie had smiled, I’m sure it was a question that she got from the flesh blood frequently. All of the people in my tier called Melanie: The Mom. We all shared her and she was the kindest, always understanding and tender—possibly attributed to the fact that she was a Nurse rather than a Guard. After Melanie had gone back to braiding my hair I had been certain that Mayforr had something that was powerful yet concealed like the legendary rock smashers that could use and summon the earth at their will or the lightning lords who could control the weather. These powers were deadly but necessary, especially in times such as these. Melanie though had forgotten that I was not one to drop a subject.

“Well then? What is it? Earth mover? It is isn’t it!” I had nearly begun my gloating at having guessed right when Melanie raised her eyebrows at me.

“No, sweet Clover, his gift is that of compassion.” She then refused to explain and we sat in silence until my unruly red hair was braided to my waist.

Now, however, I still don’t understand Mayforr’s abilities and I’m not sure that we’re meant to. The younger guards never understand the abilities of their elders, our abilities take time to grow and prosper and therefore we only see the finished ability. I do suspect that Melanie lied to me in part though, I’ve never heard of a gift like compassion.

Outside the main area the wall is cool against my bare shoulders, centering me as I close my eyes and begin to sort my own emotions. Disappointment to the back, along with resent and anger, then the satisfaction of the day’s work being complete clean and green in the foreground. I hear footsteps and look up, expecting to see Mayforr or Melanie to have followed me out but start at seeing Antoine.

“Clove, you did some impressive work today getting Katya here without your abilities to help you.” He said.

“Yes… Well I did score higher than you on all of our final ability tests anyways so I’m guessing they’re just trying to test me a little bit further.” My smile was false though and my breath was shaky. I hadn’t seen him since he was sent out a few weeks back to patrol the boarder- a duty all of the Guards must complete at least 6 times.

“Well I suppose they are. Aren’t you curious what I’m doing back?” He said, raising his eyebrow and leaning against the wall with me, causing my face to lift to accommodate his height.

Antoine is an outsider. He is one that they found that was gifted but untrained. It is the reason for his caramel skin and his dark eyes, no one from the Inside has black eyes like that anymore. The natives are mostly blue and green eyed and the darker the eyes get, the more people suspect you are not where you belong. My eyes are odd too, which was the reason that we became friends. While his are black, mine are a light shade of violet, a trademark of emotional abilities. We were constantly separated by eye color as youth and when Antoine arrived to training in our second year, I finally had someone to stand next to when the teacher announced for the blues and greens to separate.

We were always on separate teams but one day had brought us together, the day we were finally partnered together, the day we found Jaeda.

Human Landscapes

I want to make a home in the curve between your shoulder blades.
The dip, the hollow, the tangible nothingness
where you would have worn your wings.
But I suppose I might settle for the arch of your foot
then my spine could support it like the sky below a rainbow
and just think of how long you could walk with me beneath your sole.
And if all else failed I'd make do with
the velveteen cove behind your earlobes.
Surely I could survive seven seasons with nothing but a
wayward curl cocooned around my extremities.

Alas, I have to admit that the landscapes of our bodies

are far more mysterious than ocean floors or hearts

of volcanoes, and are therefore

not fit for human inhabitants.