40

40. 40 minutes, hours, or days?  a number can stand for so many things. what's that one mean to you? to me it means a little bit of sobriety in a sense. given up something I never thought I'd go without for this long and I'm planning on continuing without it. Ever have a habit that you finally had the nerve to kick? Then again to each their own. "Different strokes for different folks" - Sly and the family stone. Well have you ever had dinner with a less than delightful person? how long would you stay? 40 minutes perhaps? What if it was a madman who wants to be you instead of date you? Interesting thought I once had so I wrote a little story about it. Here's a excerpt for you to taste. enjoy. kisses. m.



Beneath the calm lies the darkness.

(7-12-09)

Beneath the calm lies the darkness. I didn’t want him dead exactly, but a little damage wasn’t about to satisfy me either. Call it carnage or mayhem, but destruction was it, simply put. Tell me six hours ago, that I’d be gutting a man and my response would have been hysterical laughter in your face. And yet here I am sorting through the intestines and other such things that make up the guts of a human being. My hands stained crimson and, I’m not exactly sure what color goes with this. Actually let’s take it back a few hours…

It was a charming candlelight dinner for two. Such an unexpected surprise! Jewelry - a ring. “Darling! You shouldn’t have.” 

REALLY! Since that’s exactly where the charming scenario ends.

As if the smell of flesh wasn’t enough, I’m combing through the organs and fishing around for the smallest instance of metal and wondering if this mess will come out of my dress. Furthermore, “Whatever will become of these heels?”

Sometime after the second course he asks for my measurements. Coy and being silly as always I blush and mention that “you already know my size.” Again the issue is pressed with more diligence and the words are getting a little stressed. Puzzled, I reply curtly. In my attempt to avoid a fight I quickly change the subject to the news. His face freezes and eyes drift off. Silence.

Damn him for this! Swallowing the key. Slice, snip, tear. Surprisingly his flesh still moves easily as my tiny fingers manipulate the skin around the opening and find the way upward feeling for an opening to his esophagus. There’s just so much blood.

“I want to wear your face like a mask!” The words stumble out of his mouth upon his intoxicated breath across the table reaching toward me. “And I’m going to make clothing out of your flesh.” Assuming that he’s being funny, I stop eating and let out a brief giggle followed by a smile. He’s not smiling as he slides out of the chair and begins to walk towards me. When he reaches down for my hand, I hold his gaze. I see this darkness that hadn’t been there before. I flinch and pull my hand back. “Tsk-tsk my dear,” he steps back, “I’d hoped you wouldn’t struggle. I hadn’t planned on damaged goods.” He walks back to the far side of the table and pivots to face me. Grabbing his wine glass, he smiles, raising the other hand to reveal a key in his palm. With that gesture to me, he swallows the key. “Now we have plenty of time to take care of this problem.” Locked in with a maniac.

Flimsy and quite fragile are the inner workings of a human. I’ve been poking around in the insides of this overdone fiend for about two hours and having no luck in locating the key. Me, performing this backwards autopsy upon the dining room table dressed with what’s left of the best linens; My Marc Jacobs dress substituting for scrubs. Steak knife is my scalpel, dish towels for sponges, and bourbon to sterilize? Actually the bourbon is an attempt to chase away my squeamish nerves. Model turned mortician in a matter of hours.

Armed with my steak knife, I slide out of my chair and step away from the table. It’s a matter of time before he pounces and I need a plan… It hits me! I have the upper hand here. He doesn’t want my flesh marked or scarred. Somehow he needs to subdue me without bruising. I look around for the poison or other such means. Nothing. What was his agenda? 

We are slowly circling the dining room table. Chair by chair, moving in closer as I stare at him gripping my steak knife with every ounce of determined strength I have. I’m petite and no match for this 6 ft. maniac. I’ve come around to his original seat. Stopping and resting my hand on the table, I pause for a moment. Look him in the eye, and without further hesitations I take the steak knife and slice part of my face open. It’s not deep, but I’m right in my assumption and he overreacts. 

“NO!” He screeches, drops his arms and lunges across the table towards me, taking with him the entire dinner. China comes crashing down, spilling wine and food everywhere in this foolish move. He lands within my reach and grabs at my free hand. I pull to break free, but his grip becomes intense and suddenly he’s pulling ferociously. Not out of his maniacal urgency, out of sheer panic. He’s on fire! Somehow the candle ignited the wine when it spilled and he’s fireball of burning flesh before my eyes. Keeping a level head, I run for the extinguisher. He’s out, in more ways than one. I cut his throat out anyhow. Well there really was no sense in us both dying.

Eureka! I’ve found it. In the upper regions of his digestive tract. Small, metallic, sharp. Bloody fantastic treasure. Eyes open. DAMN! He’s not dead. It’s time to go now. I’ve taken his voice instead of his life. Goodnight my love. He knows what I’ve done. Carved a cavernous hole into his torso. Took a piece of his neck. He’s powerless. I smile, raise a glass of wine and a lit candle in one hand and wave the key in front of him with the other. There’s panic in his eyes and darkness in mine. I spill the wine and drop the candle. Grab my Stoll. Lock the door behind me as I leave. 

Burn baby burn!

Roadrunner Roadrunner

Are you a liar? Do you lie to others? How about to yourself? What kind of lies do you tell? White lies? Or ones that need to be reinforced? Once again the question of the day is "The lie or the truth?" while the song for today comes from MIA. Do you listen to MIA? ANYWAY... Would you prefer that someone lied to you? Or would you prefer the truth? I always thought it was the truth. Unless something has changed? That would be a shame. I've heard that in the end its the truth that sets you free. enjoy. kisses. m.


Lies.
(7-10-09)

Lies. 

The ones we tell ourselves to keep going. Little white ones. Deep dark malevolent ones. Those things we can’t bear to be true. So often we lie just to cope. Defense mechanism.

I did not kill him.

Just another fabrication to get through the night. These ominous moments filled with a determined silence; and distant din of the city coming to life. Dawn will be here soon.

He’ll start breathing again.

I stole $5 from the piggy bank when I was a kid. My mom caught me trying to hide the broken pieces of the shattered pig under the front porch. I lied and told her I dropped the bank accidentally. Through my crocodile tears I sobbed how I was afraid she’d be mad, so I was going to use the money to replace it. A WHOPPER! But she bought it. So begin my life of deceit.

I did not hit him with the car and back over the body five times.

Small truths we keep to ourselves. The real honest things are what we're most scared to share. It’s the little pieces of genuine humanity that make us most vulnerable we don’t share. But the lies roll off the tongue; spill out the mouth like sweet gems of music being released for the first time.

I did not shoot him with a rifle.

Unprovoked deceit. Cold manipulative and calculated deception. “I was married once”, it’s what I tell them, the men. It’s my line you could say. They all eat it up. I explain that he beat me, raped me, etc. Sympathy for the liar. Smile a little. Put on a fake. Show them your false innocence. Devil in a blue dress. But it gets them each and every time… HOOK, LINE, SINKER.

I did not drive his unconscious body to the middle of nowhere in the dark hours of the morning.

You could say it was a bit like fishing. THE BAIT: Makeup, Tight Dress, Cleavage, Stilettos. And that was just for kicks. The first time it happened I wasn’t even trying… You see, I was lonely that night and being in, was far too unbearable. So I went out for a drink. Came up with a good story, and the rest was something I wasn’t prepared for.

I did not ask him to leave with me.

No one ever tells you that lying can lead to good things do they? See the first time it happened, was a bit of luck for me. A man offered to buy my drink. I was bored, lonely and didn’t see any harm in company so I accepted. We traded our fake stories. He hid his wedding band. Lovely line on his left hand was the give away. See most men don’t realize just how big an imprint that band leaves around your finger. Yes, I could see the line where his ring rested. And of course he was married. That was his lie.

I did not slip drugs into his drink.

Liars are we all. Everyone is a liar. Big ones, little ones. Mom’s to children, bosses to employees, government to the population for control. That’s all it is. Control. Like trained animals that jump through hoops for a false prize promised to them. For us, there is no promised land. Even lying to ourselves in the end. Heaven and Hell.

I did not offer to buy his drink.

He was married, I knew it. I went along for the ride anyhow. After two drinks we stop. He says “let’s get outta here”. I agree. Before he makes it to the car he falls down. Drunk. Lucky me. I ask him what he’s driving and attempt to help him up. He is spinning and incoherent. I take his keys and try to find it using the alarm. It’s a ‘68 Chevy P.U. Cherry red. Nothing more than that I could tell you about it. Not a gear head, but I do appreciate a pretty picture. I managed to drag this idiot over to it. As I’m shoving this drunk into the cab out of his pocket drops a bottle of pills. Date Rape BS. I get upset. He’s passed out. That was supposed to be me. So I shove his body over, fire up the truck and peel out.

I did not smile and sit down next to him at the bar.

Lying to myself always was the easy part of life. It was harder to swallow someone else’s story. That bastard tried to drug me. Idiot! Wasn’t he in for a treat? I drove out to some unmarked dirt road. Threw him out and was about to leave him when… the gears slipped! And just like that, the truck backed over him. THUMP! THUMP! “Oh God”! I instantly throw it in gear and go forward with out thinking. THUMP! THUMP! “Shit”! I get out and assess the damage.

I did not go to the bar last night.

He’s not breathing and his head resembles a smashed cabbage. Brains are falling out. I would panic, but everyone in that bar is a liar and not one of those people could honestly say they really knew who he was. No one would notice or bother to say a thing when the authorities came looking. No one would talk… unless these other cheaters wanted to admit these infidelities to their spouses waiting patiently by the phone at home.

I did not kill anyone.

Simple truths we continue to share with ourselves. The lies – complicated deception – we save for the eager audience that awaits us out in the world.

I am not a liar.

--

songs.

Songs are meant to be sung and listened to. Not locked away without a soul to hear. If you had a song to sing wouldn't you want the world to hear it? No matter the risk. Anyway... A little story to go with an older story... enjoy. kisses. m.


There was a girl who liked to sing. Somewhere along the way she stopped singing and started doing so many other things. Things that were of no consequence. So many unconscionable things that required little vision and stole her heart; leaving her empty inside and hindered from what she ultimately could be. Until one day. One day it came when it was least expected. A strange and familiar feeling crept back into her. A new heart grew where nothing had been for so long. And a resolve slowly filled her mind and the only thing left was to let go of that which did not matter. The inconsequential things of a world that would remain static and fixed. A world unlike her. A world unable to move ahead. The girl could and would move forward and away. With a new heart filled with hope she would find her way without performing those things of little consequence.

Song bird
(6-26-09)

"A prayer for the wild at heart, kept in cages." Tennessee Williams.

In my gilded cage I sit perched upon my swing. The morning sun illuminates my golden hair and warms my cool skin. The day is quite breath taking and I’ve been so inspired with its beauty that it deserves a lovely song. Without hesitation I’m serenading the flowers and birds with my melody. It isn’t long before I forget my place and fall into a trance with this song. The bars of my prison seem to vanish and I can only imagine that I’m free to walk in the grass and feel the day without my shackles. A loud noise resonates from the other room and I’m clearly reminded of my place. Master is up and moving about the house. He approves of my song this morning otherwise my cage would be covered again. I can only hear him hard at work in the far end of the house.

The sunlight dances through the trees, twinkling as it tumbles down the window sill into my cage. The bars are a beautiful golden honey color, as are the chains that bind me here. In my prison, this oversized bird cage, where I spend my days singing at my master’s beck and call, brushing my long hair and dreaming of my escape. The cage door has no key, lock welded shut. No escape? I wasn’t always a prisoner. Someone loved me once, and called me daughter. It isn’t always clear how I ended up here. But I remember another life before this, how freedom felt as a small child dancing in the sunlight and swinging with the wind in my hair. Its days like this when I’m perched on my swing watching the world pass me by, seeing the life outside the open window that I long for more. I secretly envy the outside and hate myself for desiring my independence. "You can be happy here," My master tells me. "My sweet song bird, you can be happy here. Sing for me." And he has always been so generous to me, as I could not ask for more. But I desire more. Outside. A life out of the cage. "SING to me," he yells from an unknown corner I can not see. Perhaps I’ve been quiet too long. Deep within my thoughts I’ve been plotting my escape.

Night creeps in like a rolling cloud of smoke. Silly master, he drank too much again and is sound asleep next to the cage. He absent mindedly left my cage uncovered. I climb down from my perch and nestle into the velvety pillows and blankets of my bed. Quietly I observe his movements as he sleeps. I can see a tool in his pocket, just within my grasp. I maneuver about the cage and climb up closer towards his chair. My hands find their way through the bars and take the tool. The cage - I’ve strategized many times how I’d escaped if presented with an opportunity. The gold bars surrounding the door are quite breath-taking in the light of dusk. Small fingers find the screws surrounding the hinges of the door and began to turn. Each night for what seems like an eternity I’ve spent at work removing these screws. The screws are very small and it’s unforgiving work for fingers. Master can not see that I’m injured, so very slowly and secretly I’ve removed them one by one. Tonight is the last night only a couple left and I’m working recklessly. Loud. My only fear is that he will catch me and punish me mercilessly. This cage is the only home I can truly remember clearly. He’s been so kind, aside from my freedom, that I’m ungrateful. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m imagining that other place; the one in my dreams, those vivid images that I can almost touch and breathe. The screws are out. He’s awake. I’m down. On goes the cover.

Darkness. Drunk and sleepy. He’s gone off to retire for the night leaving the windows and doors open. The breeze gently blows at the cover. My work is still quite unfinished. The door will not budge without force. I will need something to pry it open. My swing. I climb up and go to work removing more tiny metal brackets. My fingers, red and sore from this tedious work are more and more numb. The swing proves to be an excellent lever. I’m edging the door open bit by bit, pulling and pushing as quietly as I can. One last push will be enough, loud I fear, but enough. And it is. I’m free. But not alone. Someone is on the other side breathing. My master? I can not see. I pause and listen. It’s small. Not human. I climb out and pull at the cover until I find myself face to face with a tiny deer. A doe. It’s unusually docile and unalarmed by my movements. How did she get indoors? My feet reach the end of the line as the slack in my chains quickly tightens. This noise stirs the doe, but not enough to run. She chooses her steps and backs away from me and the cage. I bend down and began to work at removing my shackles.

The night is cool and despite the gentle breeze, unusually still. The doe watches me from across the room. I’ve removed the chains from my feet. I’m terrified and shaking. There is no reason to hesitate. Not anymore. Yet I can only think of this place. My cage, my home and my heart holds a small sadness desiring another song. I mustn’t. I do. The small quiet melody edges out of my throat into the still night. This final goodbye fills the melancholy in my heart. The doe spooks and disappears back into the darkness of the night. The noise echoes in the hall. He rouses. The house lights up and the sound of movement descends from the hall. I have to leave. Out the window I go, creeping into the darkness and the unknown that now decides my fate.

Heart beating, pulse racing, I head into the brush of the woods and discover he’s not far behind. I can hear the roar of his yell and fury in his heart as I run. My head feels like it will explode at any moment, my bare feet endure the harshness of the forest floor as my hands claw over branches grasping towards freedom. I see a small opening in the darkness and climb in. I can only hear my heart and shallow breaths. I no longer hear any movement. Only the stillness of the night – the trees. It seems like an eternity here in my nest, my small quiet hole in the darkness surrounded by the comforting night. Breathe. Freedom. Breathe. Darkness. Breathe. Freedom.... I'm free.

killing changes you.

killing changes you... that it most definitely does. there is no denying what a little bit of CHANGE can do for someone's life. ever take a chance and destroy what kills you? essentially kick the bad habit? enjoy if you've never read this one. Kisses. m.

Killing Changes You.

(4-1-09)

“I could get used to this!” was what I thought as I slit his throat with my sharp knife.

The precise blade slid ever so delicately through and through his skin without the slightest bit of hesitation. Blood spilled down his chest blanketing the white button-down shirt in a dark crimson red. I was feeling very much like Hannibal Lecter when I licked the blade clean of his blood. Slowly, as I continue to clean my blade, I watch his body melt into the pool of red liquid on the wooden floor before me. You know what they say, the first time is all it takes to become addicted.

Killing changes you. Once you’ve committed the unspeakable act there’s no turning back. Funny thing was, I knew from that moment on, I was hooked. Who would be my next victim? See after all, this wasn’t planned. It was an opportunity. I seized it! The thrill of taking a life had always been on the top of my “DO NOT SHARE” list. You know that list of dark sadistic things that you just don’t share. Everyone has one, but you don’t speak of it.

I had to wait, like a predator stalking my prey. Watching… waiting... wanting… until just the right… moment. Perhaps this is how Jack the Ripper felt as he chose his victims? And who would catch me? I would be leaving the country in a matter of days. No one would be shocked if I never returned. No one could blame me for walking away from my dead end job, my artistic failure. Again, they might miss him? Doubtful, I surprised him. He wasn’t scheduled to return from his trip for a few more days. You know the type, workaholic, and no next of kin. Only leaves the house for the office and returns back promptly each day. The cleaning lady was the only person who would find the body, and she wouldn’t be returning until Monday. But again, my darkness consumes me and the wheels start to spin.

How many ways can you dispose of a body? Too many! Too FUN! Just as I’m dreaming up new, sick and twisted ways to make a body disappear… BAM! “I guess he wasn’t dead after all,” are my thoughts as I’m falling quick, looking up at this bastard holding his throat with one hand and a large blunt object in the other. I’m Out.

I often wondered what it would be like to be tortured. Today I find out. I’m bound (hands & feet) and gagged. He’s sewn up his neck wound and licking the knife – there’s blood – while I have to watch. “See, I guess two can play this game,” he says. It’s my blood… apparently he’s cut me, ten places I can visibly see in my arms and legs. But from what I can feel there are several more than that.

“You should have made sure I was dead!” With a sick sadistic smile he edges closer to me. “Cause you’ll never leave here now.” He grabs my neck, kneels down and slides the blade down my left cheek. I can feel the blood spill out, downward, as it mixes with my tears. “I haven’t had this much fun in a long time,” he whispers in my ear.

Again no one would blame me if I never came back.