Sleeping Beauty Take Two

Sleeping Beauty Take 2

You would think that after all this work I would find it in myself to love her. But I just can’t.
 I slide my sword into its metal sheathe, it makes a sloshing noise as dragon blood oozes between the hilt and the blade. It is the color and consistency of green-apple jam, but it smells like sulphur. 

                “Well go on, give ’er a big one!”

                Ellie stands behind me, her plump body contained by the frame of the doorway, her wings shimmering as they flutter at her rear. She rubs her tiny, pearly hands together around a wooden baton, pointed downwards, and she gazes up at me with wide eyes, small pink lips tilted slightly upwards hospitably. She gives her chin a flick forward, urging me to proceed.

                My fiancé is curled up in fetal position on her long, rectangular bed. Apart from the bed, the room is empty. Her whole body, her comforters, the wood on her headrest, her foot-stand, the mattress—the floor, the windows, the walls—the lady’s face, for God’s sake—are swathed with a layer of dust high enough to reach the heel of my boot. Little beetles and tiny bed bugs crawl in and out of the holes and tunnels they’ve created for themselves in her mattress. A large black spider stands proudly in the middle of the huge web he’s built, starting at the tip of the headstand, and intertwining itself with the princess’s hair. Spider-webs, old and new, connect the corners of the room, hang from the ceiling, decorating the place like tattered white tinsel. After walking from the door to the bed, my chainmail has turned white, mummified by broken bits of spider-web.

                I can see traces of the beauty that had once captivated me; but she doesn’t look too pretty now. Her mouth hangs open, face tilted back, nostrils flaring and contracting as she inhales and exhales shallow breaths. Her hair, where it isn’t tangled with spider web, is snarled together into tight, brittle knots, the color and consistency of burned angel hair pasta. It has lost the smooth vivacity that once snapped in my face, stinging as it scratched along my forehead. I touch the hair gingerly, and disturb a couple of flies who have made the tangled tresses their nest. They buzz around the room, colliding against the once-red walls faded to a dank maroon; they land on my arms. I shake them off. 

Her eyes are closed in a way that allows me to see just a sliver of white hiding behind thick, dusty lashes. The whole ensemble reminds me of when I used to wake up to her face, hanging inches away from mine, her eyes rolled back into her head and her face pulled taught, mouth gaping—she did it all the time, just to hear me scream.

Her breath catches. For a moment, I can’t see the rise and fall of her chest. And then, her mouth closes, and I the bottom of her lip flutters and flaps as she lets out a noisy stream of air through the center of her mouth. I try to convince myself that she is endearing.

“Come on now, what are you even waiting for?!” Ellie calls out behind me. I glance backwards to see her diaphanous wings flicker impatiently. “Get on with it.”

                I blow at the girl’s face, gently at first, and then with all of my breath. Suddenly, I feel the inside of my nose igniting with a dry fire that smokes its way all the way into my lungs. I double over, coughing and wheezing. From now on, I’ll just use my fingers to wipe the dust away. It’s not enough to remove all of the debris that has caked into her face and sifted its way into the fine wrinkles on her forehead, hints of dimples in her cheeks, her chin, the corners of her mouth—but it’s enough to recognize the smooth straightness of her nose, the good-humored youth of her laughing lines. If I try, I can almost see the princess who is my fiancé.

                She stirs. Her feet pull the moth-eaten comforter off of her torso so that half of it falls onto the floor, upsetting a small cloud of dust that leaves my mouth dry. I imagine that it tastes like dry pond water, or frogs. I cover my nose and my mouth before I have to double over again.

                I hear Ellie’s little feet stomping at the doorway. “I’m waiting outside. Take your goddamn sweet time.” She patters away.  

                I cup her dirty face with my own dirty hands. I gaze into the slits of white formed by eyes almost closed, and then I decide that this might all run smoother if I keep my own eyes closed. Slowly, I stoop down, vertebrae by vertebrae, until I feel the pointy, encrusted skin of her nose bump against mine. Her face smells cloying and acerbic, like apple cider vinegar. I bring my nose down her face to locate her mouth, and I feel it moisten with her sticky saliva. A soft puhhhhh, a clammy spray, vibrations against my skin as she lets out a hearty snore. ­­­­­

                I purse my lips and lean in closer so that they glaze the skin of her cupid’s bow.

She is sixteen years old, her gray eyes reflecting the orange candle-light of the glass chandeliers, like a ring of smoke around a fire. Her eggplant colored taffeta dress puffs elegantly off her shoulders, catches her waist in a way that transforms her torso into the shape of a shallow heart. Her hair is as shiny as French-roasted coffee, locks falling in S waves down to the middle of her back. In the ostentatious ballroom thick with the heat of two hundred debutantes swirling over the golden floor with satin dancing slippers, she places a dimpled hand on my arm, and shoots me a coy smile.

I close my mouth around her open lips.

The hand slides out of my grasp. Her eyes squint at the sides, she widens the right part of her smile, the space between her eyebrows becomes narrow and crinkly. Her cheekbones rise and small spheres of skin bulge underneath her eyes. She looks like a vixen.

“Play’s over for the night,” she whispers, “I’ll see you at the wedding.”

She leaves me with a pinch to the waist, and disappears within the cloud of sweat that hangs over the dancing debutantes at the center of the crystal ballroom.

I let her mouth go abruptly as soon as her sour, putrid saliva touches the tip of my tongue.

I raise my head.

She stirs. Her arms slide up her body, she extends them beyond her head and stretches her arms. Her mouth falls open and she sucks in a deep breath. And then, she tosses around, and the room is ignited with the snarl in her snore.

Untitled

Far beyond adamantine city walls, barricades of mundane grey constructed haphazardly by drunken serfs and veined with capricious rivulets and awkward slants of a primitive mortar, beyond the barking butcher and his boasts of freshly hacked venison, the pleasant odors of the bakery on the corner as the furnace billows forth an unceasing stream of ashen cloud from the open door and the aroma of crisp, freshly-baked bread wafted gently by the breeze out into the market square where an unshaven man is reprimanded by his busybody wife due to his negligence in remembering to purchase fresh livestock from a passing caravan of traders before it absconds to the next village on the arduous path westward through the English highlands while a boy dressed in rags and covered with a layer of mud from a hog’s wallow and surrounded by the foul stench of manure plays gleefully by the well, yes far beyond the unchanging city and its callous walls of grey and far beyond the shepherd as he leads his flock of snowy-woolen sheep and the farmer as he harvests leafy cabbages to be passed along to the baron that he serves in order to consolidate the cost of living on owned land, far, far beyond the mundane life of the lowly serfs and foul-smelling peasants there lies a verdant hollow.

                The glen is blanketed with lush grass, each blade adorned with drops of morning dew that shimmer in the golden light of a rising sun. Scattered about the periphery of the emerald vale are tall elm trees, their leaves dancing in the gentle caress of a morning breeze that carries the sweet cadence of a nearby stream as lucid water flows atop smooth pebbles.

Unproductive Drabbles

Before I hit control-v, I just want anyone who happens to read this to know that I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing with this as of right now and this is VERY first draft-ish and almost entirely for my own amusement, which should be somewhat evident....

In a cave on a hill wholly covered in trees is where I am made to spend my nights, with jutting rocks that come down from the roof like teeth. I have a wide view of seemingly everything; all that I could wish to know about is within my sight if I sit in the mouth of my cave. There is the rabbit hole nestled in the bushes near a sunshine-colored house at the end of a stone-laid path. The path winds around hills and through tunnels, and at the other end of the path is a small village. Daily, from that village comes a little girl bearing a mysterious basket that wafts delicious smells over to me if the wind blows in the right direction. I know it’s the same girl each day because she always wears the same red cloak, which masks her face and flutters behind her as she walks. I once followed the girl to see what she carried in the basket, and when she reached the end of the path she skipped up to the sunshine-colored house, and barely had she arrived when the door opened a little old lady just a bit taller than the little girl welcomed her with a smile and a hug, as if she’d been waiting for her. She went inside before the basket was opened, and much though I strained myself to be able to look into the window, I was unable to see what perfection could lie inside.
Each day bears a different tantalizing odor to my cave. One made me think of a rabbit I once chased and when the silly rodent finally yielded to me and allowed me to rip into his organs, the flavor of his meat filled me with happiness. A different day’s treat reminded me of a dead deer I found near a highway. Her coat was a bronze at the top and faded down to a white at her belly, except, of course, for the wide gash in her side that was sticky with dried blood, and when I feasted upon her, I felt as though I wouldn’t need to eat for a week, though in reality I was hungry again the next day.
THEN A HUMMINGBIRD FLEW BY AND I STOPPED REMINISCING IN DELICIOUS SMELLS AND I SNAPPED BACK TO THE PRESENT! >XD
No srsly though, I stopped thinking about old memories and began focusing on the new. I’ve noticed a mysterious stranger walking by on numerous occasions, he follows her for a short distance and watches her walk away. I don’t like him, he smells of rotten fish and pig sty. Because of him, I’ve taken to following the little girl more often, making sure he doesn’t follow after that certain point. She was completely unaware of my protection, in fact I don’t think she even knew that it was necessary. The man followed her more and more closely with each passing day, and I followed her more instinctively. This man will know that this is my girl, I found her first. He confronted her once, and it was only for fear of knocking her over that I didn’t burst out of the woods and tear at his jugular. Instead I growled loudly at him, and she looked about for the source of the noise, and what was that bastard doing? He was filling her head with some kind of story that as a wolf I plan on eating her! My hatred for the man swelled, and he gave her a pat on the head and a smile, and she trotted along on her merry little way, and when she was gone I poked my head through the bushes and growled menacingly at him. He looked startled and backed away. When he left, I ran back to catch up with the girl. 

Strikes

        The ninth inning started ten minutes before ten o’clock and it was past the elderly umpire’s bedtime.  He stared at the spectators with his drooping eyes and his face was engraved by the language of time.  With his deep yet piercingly loud voice - due to his hard of hearing - he announced the status of the game: tied, bases loaded, two outs, no strikes, and three balls.

Strike one.  The coach shouted what seemed to be anything but encouraging from the dugout and as usual it was an incoherent jumble of words.  Even if the coach had regularly spoken with immaculate articulation, his players would still not know what he was saying because the crowd could not have been hushed, it was full of excitement.  A cloud of condensation from every utterance of the crowd appeared in front of the stands during the raw night.  Every bang, howl, and voice rumbled into one massive sound that seemed to unsettle just about every player on the field.  Their knees, where their tight grey pants bunched, shook as they froze in unseasonably cold weather and as they fell under the immense pressure.  The batter anxiously waited for the pitcher to choke and throw him a fast ball right in the center strike zone.  Then, with his biceps which he had incessantly worked out during the off season in order to “get big,” would swing the bat with enough momentum to rip that ball over the right field fence.

Strike two.  The pitcher stood on the mound.  The fans for his team chanted his name, “Come on, Anthony!  You got this!”  While the fans against his team shouted nasty comments that blurt out of frustrated parents mouths when they attend their children’s sporting events, “Kill it!  Kill that ball!  Show ‘em what your mama gave ya!”  In the middle of the frenzy, the obnoxious 50-50 ticket lady with the nasally voice squeezed through the crowd, deafening everyone around her - including the third baseman.  The announcer was explaining to the masses of people how vital the next pitch would be which made the left outfielder’s stomach squeamish.  And the relentless lights!  Those lights intensely beamed on the field.  The second baseman was looking up to the night sky to separate his thoughts from the game for a few seconds when he felt blinded by the lights and fainted - that was in the third inning.

Yet, the pitcher stood on the mound.  In the middle of all the madness, he heard nothing.  He saw nothing but the catcher’s mitt floating above home plate.  He felt nothing, but perhaps the “ice in his veins” that his dad claimed runs through his veins while he is pitching.  He did however, smell hot dogs being grilled, he could practically taste the meat sizzle in his mouth, but that only motivated him to end the game.  He was spared from the bitter tension that surrounded the mound.  All he knew was that he had a baseball in his hand and that he needed to trick the batter who was inevitably ready to hit that ball into tomorrow.

He was not anxious; pitching calmed his mind, it was his escape.  Nothing could phase him because his love for the game cancelled any feelings of tension.

Silence.  He knew what he had to do.  Under complete control, he wound up, stretched his aching arm, flicked his wrist, and released the baseball.  It headed straight for the center of the strike zone when at the last moment, just as the batter swung, the baseball dropped and fell into the dirt.

Strike three.

Funerals

Andrea Mover wassen a beloved daughter, charmed sister, gracious wife, doting mother; a real nice lady all around. ‘Cause she helped the less fortunate poor fokes and rich fokes and all fokes in between had come out by the droves to bid the sweet, upstanding lady her goodbyes. Next to the podium was a Holy Bible and a picture of the departed Andrea Mover. It was a nice picture of her smilin and the like, lookin for all the world as if she haven't a care. Roses and lilies were piled below the portrait. Their’n petals had wilted in the summer humidity. Mourners draped in black occupied the entire church's sanctuary. The pews were fuller ‘an a tick on a dog. The Preacher gave a speech. It was a long one, a eulogy of tears and heartache. Bobbi observed from the shadows cast by the church's arching doorway. He loved funerals. Warnt no event more satisfying than hearing the weeps of family and friends left behind.

Preacher Jim, a lean man with a narrow chin and a fragile structure, closed the speeches with a prayer. Bobbi had always liked Preacher Jim. He was a delicate-lookin guy, but he was a nice enough fellow who gave Bobbi work and didn't never mind when Bobbi arrived early. He let Bobbi sleep at the church some nights if’n a service was real early the next morning, in his office no less. Yessir, Preacher Jim was a good man, and Bobbi was happy he was leadin the service today. He gave Preacher Jim a little wave so he'd know he was here. Preacher Jim nodded his hello before consolin an old coot with some words from Scripture. Bobbi drank the old lady's sorrow in like a cool Co-Cola on a hot summer's day.

Everyone meandered outside. Bobbi followed the masses, though he was careful not to get too close. He didn't want nobody touchin him and sad people were sometimes clingy. He didn't hold it against them; he just didn't want nobody touchin him.

They stopped away from the hole with a hushed reverence. Bobbi rubbed his gritty hands and moved to the side. Most people never look to the side. They only look in front of 'em and never see what's comin on their’n lefts and rights. Bobbi had buried a lotta guys who died that way—only lookin ahead, never seein the truck of patch of ice on their’n sides. But people don't never look on their’n sides, so Bobbi went there and made sure not to move sos’n not to attract attention. The sun was hot and Bobbi was glad he was wearin only a thin T-shirt. The mourners glared at the sky, unhappy, but Bobbi thought that was rude. Warnt the sun's fault they was wearing so many layers. Bobbi never understood the reasonin behind wearing black at a funeral, but he supposed it must've been a real important rule. Bobbi liked to follow rules, so he wore a black T-shirt. But it was thin, not the heavy jackets and whatchacallits the lady folk were all wearin, so he wasn't awfully uncomfortable.

Eventually Preacher Jim came on out to the graveyard and everyone sat on down. Every seat filled up ‘cept one in the front of the row. Bobbi stayed on the side causin he didn't want nobody seein him in the forward, so he didn't move. Preacher Jim said a few more words about Andrea Mover. Bobbi thought he would have liked Andrea Mover. She sounded like a real swell lady. Nobody said nothin bad 'bout Andrea Mover, not one small thing. She was a good person who did good things and Bobbi was sorry he never met her. He thought he would have liked her.

Bobbi loved funerals. He had since he was seven years old. His Pa had his funeral that year and Bobbi had loved how nice everyone had been. They'd shaken his hands and called him "little man" and said theys was sorry 'bout his Pa and his Pa was a good man who did good things. His Pa's drinkin buddy had cried and told Bobbi that his Pa had never meant no harm and that he was a good man deep in ‘is heart. His Pa's old boss who had fired him cause he missed work so much had ruffled Bobbi's hair and told him his Pa had been troubled but was really a good man who did good things and weren't no fault of Bobbi's that his Pa was a troubled man. Nobody had said not one mean thing 'bout his Pa. Nothin 'bout his drinkin or bein a dead beat or causin a rucus late at night. No sirree they was as nice as nice could be. Peoples is always nice at funerals.

The sun was higher when the lean Preacher Jim finished his group prayer. More people cried an’ the old coot in the first row kept shakin her head and sayin what a nice lady Andrea Mover was and how she didn't deserve this, no, not one bit. A burly guy with lotsa muscles and another guy with lotsa fat lowered the nice polished coffin in the ground. People began takin they leaves and Bobbi stayed on the side cause nobody ever looks to their’n rights and lefts and he didn't want no sad person tryna hug him, no sir. The old coot was yammerin to Preacher Jim 'bout forgivin sins. Bobbi stayed on the side and watched the people leave. They kept a sighin and a shakin and a cryin and they all looked mighty put-out. Andrea Mover was a good person and did good things and didn't deserve this not one bit.

Slowly everyone left. Bobbi was disappointed to see them go. Everyone said what a nice person Andrea Mover was. He thought he woulda liked Andrea Mover and was sad he'd never met her.

Lean Preacher Jim gestured to the grave and told him he had some work back at the chapel and that Bobbi could sleep in his office tonight on the account of the funeral early tomorrow mornin. Bobbi nodded and got to work. The rough wood of his shovel abraded Bobbi's calloused hands but he didn't pay it no mind. No sir, he shoveled the dirt on top of Andrea Mover's coffin with care and thought 'bout what he heard. He thought he woulda liked Andrea Mover and was sad he'd never met her.

Marching Season

        It’s so cold. I thought sitting in the stands watching the game was cold. Under several layers of clothes and a warm blanket. I’ll never take that for granted again. When you’re out on the field in nothing but a marching uniform, holding a metal instrument with bare fingers, the world is an icicle.                  Just keep playing, I’m thinking. Don’t look at the world around you. Move in formation to where you need to be. Spot to spot to spot. Foot after foot after foot. Remember the marching. Your music is right in front of you. It’s okay. Just keep playing.                  There is still frozen snow in some parts of the field, and the winds are crisp from Wednesday’s snowstorm. Ignore it, march around it, not through it. Don’t let your feet freeze. Keep going.         The air is brittle on my cheeks. I can just see them, bright pink, and my nose a brilliant red. I can just see my mother’s reaction if she were here. “My goodness! We need to get you home and changed into warm clothes, right now, and then you’re going to lay on the heating pad! Are they letting you freeze out there?!”         Maybe they are letting us freeze, but there’s something we all know that she doesn’t; It’s worth it.         My fingers are getting more stiff now. They’re almost refusing to move because of the cold, but I send a harsh message from my brain telling them they have to keep going. They continue on, pressing a key here, making a trill there. My lips are nearly numb, but they stay in the proper place around my mouthpiece.         Don’t think about how much longer you have. It’ll be alright. Keep playing, just keep playing. If you can endure this, you can endure anything. Keep moving, marching, playing. Don’t stop.         We’re on the third song now. There are only four songs in the show this year. I’m forever grateful for less time in this terrible cold. We have almost an hour of a heated bus ride home after the game, but that seems so far away. I’ve just got to remember how warm it will be. Warmth is what I’m working for. Keep going if you want to be warm again.         Only one more song. You can do it. This is almost nothing. Don’t think, just play, move, keep going. Halfway through the song, now stay in your spot for the finish. Play your lungs out, girl! Come on, you can do it!          The crowd is cheering and going wild as we leave the field.

Reiterating the Obvious

You fourteen are the cherubim and seraphim of the writing camp. What a fortunate thing for me. I loved our day, despite feeling now as if I've been on a long train ride! Well, it was a journey with many beautiful views and a good restaurant car. Congratulations on your accomplishments. I look forward to meeting with you tomorrow and Friday.