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Thursday, 19 November 2009

How To Fall In Love:

(Because that's why everyone reads the "Girls Are," "Guys Are," "Do This," "Avoid That" posts.)

1. Be a person.
2. If it works, it works.

Sunday, 08 November 2009

It's my birthday, suckers.

Yeah, I was going to write more to justify that title, but that's about all I really wanted to say.

Twenty-one!

Wednesday, 04 November 2009

Okay, Mori. My characters'll let loose now.

(Warning: Language)(Also, ridiculous)

Tonya lunged at Merril. She screeched, "I can't trust you," her voice cracking on the word "trust" and breaking "you" down into a wheeze. She tore the nail of her index finger with her teeth, first one half then the other, and jabbed the new sharp point into his inner ear. He convulsed, and stammered out "It was only a fucking stool," then ducked and rolled. "ANTIQUE BAMBOO!," she squealed, stomping and thrusting her arm in his direction. She caught the tip of his nose with her nail as he escaped and the stinging brought instant tears. Tonya spit on him and he wiped the phlegm from his brow with his collar. His soft brown hair was matted with fear-sweat. His eyes smoldered and he lunged back at her and sputter.

"You goddamn impressionable cunt. You. You gaudy motherfucker. That thing. Was a piece. Of shit!"

Merril rose to his full height, imposing over her hunched, trembling figure. She grabbed the chair from beside the fireplace and, climbing onto its back, launched from it onto his head. The chair, Merril, and Tonya all toppled down. She rose to her knees on his chest, her knee catching into the indent between his collarbones and an inch from his windpipe, and snatched a hillock of his hair. She pulled him up beside her and thrust his head into her stomach, pushed her skirt and her panties down with his nose, pushing it down past the folds and into dark wet hot territory.

"God, I can just smell the machismo. You pretentious ass. If you're so virile, give me a fucking kid."

Merril tensed, shifted his weight, and began singing with full force into her thighs: "Imagine me and you, and you and me..." She wriggled at the vibrations, but he continued: "No matter how they toss the dice, it has to be." He moved up into her stomach, singing into her navel, "The only one for ME is YOU, and YOU for ME." He leaped up, startling her, and screamed at the top of his lungs: So happy TOGETHER!"

She stood awkwardly, like a junior-high prankee with her checked panties and cotton skirt at her knees, and joined him:

"Iiii can't see me lovin' NOBODY but YOU!
For ALL OF MY LIFE!
When you're with me, baby the skies'll BE BLUE!
For all OF MY LIFE!"

They stared at each other, unsure of the rest of the words.

"I'm sorry," Merril said.
"I'm sorry," Tonya said. "It was for me."
"We'll go to an antiques mall," Merril said. "Get you something classy, 14th century Chinese vase?"
"Fuck you," said Tonya.

He pulled her sweet, dark head into his collarbone and whispered into her ginger-scented curls.

Tuesday, 03 November 2009

Part 2 — What We Talk About When We Talk About Children

Cut & Paste Exercise

“I haven’t given up on children,” Tonya said.

She was so sweet, even now with her delicate shoulders hunched into sharp arches and her forehead in commune with the table.

“We can go to the antiques mall this weekend. Buy something really nice, like you deserve. A 14th-century Chinese vase.“

The gaudiest house in the world would be worth living in if she were its main fixture. He reached a hand to knot one of Tonya’s dark curls around his index finger but thought better of it and retreated. He felt guilty. She let out a frustrated hiss and pushed her cheeks down, then back up, resting her cheekbones on her fingers, pushing them in under the hollows of her face.

He rushed around the table to the seat beside her, took her head to his collarbone, and breathed in the ginger scent of her hair. She nodded into his breast, curving her legs up into his lap like a child. She made a backwards sweep at the apartment with her left arm and placed her hand in a fist on her chin.

“My one item of value and you burn it.”

He did. He’d taken pleasure in burning the stool, had left it to smolder in the fireplace for hours as he perused the New York Times in its entirety in a proper chair beside it. But it was a stool, for Chrissakes, too short for any table in the house, rickety and permanently splotched with God knows what. It wasn’t even Chinese, or ornamental, which he could maybe live with even if it didn’t match a thing in the house. Goddamn Antiques Roadshow teaching wives to horde all the manner of shit.

“It was an antique, Merril,” said Tonya.
“Jesus, we’re speeding down the hill to our 40s and half our shit is still Ikea,” Tonya said.
“Well, I’ll remake it, and then when you give it to your nonexistent grandchildren, you can call it an antique again. They’ll not care about it just as much,” Merril said.
“You can’t just remake an antique, the entire point is that it’s lasted years. This was for me,” Tonya said.

No amount of age could give it value in his eyes. He looked at her face. She had such earnest eyebrows, thick and dark, but shapely, devastating. Hepburn brows. Something classy. Her eyes were glossy and her lashes were bunching from the wet.

“I’m sorry, Tonya,” he said.
Part 1 — What We Talk About When We Talk About Bamboo

Cut & Paste Exercise.

“It was just bamboo,” Merril said, “I could remake it.”

He reached a hand to knot one of Tonya’s dark curls around his index finger but thought better of it and retreated. She was so sweet, even now with her delicate shoulders hunched into sharp arches and her forehead in commune with the table.

“It was an antique, Merril,” said Tonya. “You can’t just remake an antique, the entire point is that it’s lasted years.”

She let out a frustrated hiss and pushed her cheeks down, then back up, resting her cheekbones on her fingers, pushing them in under the hollows of her face. He felt guilty. He did. But it was a stool, for Chrissakes, too short for any table in the house, rickety and permanently splotched with God knows what. No amount of age could give it value in his eyes. Goddamn Antiques Roadshow teaching wives to horde all the manner of shit. It wasn’t even Chinese, or ornamental, which he could maybe live with even if it didn’t match a thing in the house.

“Jesus, we’re speeding down the hill to our 40s and half our shit is still Ikea,” Tonya said. “My one item of value and you burn it.”

She made a backwards sweep at the apartment with her left arm and placed her hand in a fist on her chin. He’d taken pleasure in burning the stool, had left it to smolder in the fireplace for hours as he perused the New York Times in its entirety in a proper chair beside it.

“Well, I’ll remake it, and then when you give it to your nonexistent grandchildren, you can call it an antique again. They’ll not care about it just as much,” Merril said.
“This was for me,” Tonya said.
“I haven’t given up on children,” Tonya said.

He looked at her face. She had such earnest eyebrows, thick and dark, but shapely, devastating. Hepburn brows. Her eyes were glossy and her lashes were bunching from the wet. He rushed around the table to the seat beside her, took her head to his collarbone, and breathed in the ginger scent of her hair.

“I’m sorry, Tonya,” he said.

The gaudiest house in the world would be worth living in if she were its main fixture.

“We can go to the antiques mall this weekend. Buy something really nice, like you deserve. A 14th-century Chinese vase.”

Something classy. She nodded into his breast, curving her legs up into his lap like a child.