death

That day seems like such a long time ago now. In reality, it’s only been about five months. It was a Sunday. January 24th, 2010 and I was studying for my first tests in both of my classes the next day. Memorizing hundreds of index cards while my two year old was clinging to me, screaming, very sick and in pain. He was burning up with fever and his nose and face were raw from constant mucous drainage. It was a hard night but with the help of my friends, we managed to make it through the massive pile that I had hand written.

0 false 18 pt

A twisted hand that sleeps,
silently upon dead leaves,
a mouthful of copper flavour,
or life slipping away?

Confused about me?
A mean feat indeed.
I oft would confuse,
myself in awkward dreams.

Take me to the Hospital!
Don't drag me to the altar,
of sacrificial impurity,
Rare is faith among the sinless.

I can't see the tired eyes,
 among sallow and thin coatings,
hooked to machines,
removed from the santuary.

What are you?

 In the backseat of a Jeep, at night.  Road lines 

tick, blur past the window.  I’m still--

your words glue me into immobility.  

I'd been at a rave once, not because I wanted to, but because my target lurked at that particular one. It was one of those weekly—sometimes nightly—things, funded by young, spoiled socialites with money to waste. I hated it, the flashing lights, the various bodies pressing into mine. I still remember what one of them, my target, had whispered to me. He'd been a serial killer that murdered nearly seventy men and women, and raped seven men.

**As I have stated before, this story is not quite on par with some of the other things I have written in the past.
But I can deny the fact that I am proud of myself for being able to write anything.
Tell me what you think will help with this peice, as it is a little-I dont know, I think there might be something missing-**

This will be a book comtaining unrelated short stories.  Just generally stuff I write when I have some time to kill, nothing that could be considered too in depth.  They will be about things that I think about when I have nothing else to do.  It will slowly fill out over the next few weeks, months, possibly years.  So if you have ten minutes to spare, some time to kill, you might like to have a little browse through.

I hold a woman in my arms. She was a friend once. A close friend even, at the time, it was ten years ago. Her hair, once shiny chestnut-luxury is now matted unwashed grey and dirt brown. The smell of her is toxic. She has not bathed this year. Maybe not this last ten years. She shakes like the quivering of a rabbit, soft light, and insistent.