Emily Kinney's Blog, page 9
April 21, 2013
It Then Led Her Elsewhere
“Some things were meant to be in sets,” Kirsta had explained to her. “Like drums, or flatware.”
So, discomfort wasn’t to blame. Later, when she had the time to look back and wonder, Kirsta could not actually recall the reason why she woke up, unprompted. But she did.
Her eyelids slid back uncerimoniously, revealing enormous, dialated pupils surrounded by clover green rings. A mishapen lump sat directly in her line of vision, and when she slammed her lathargic arm down on it, it proved to be a pillow. Not one of the throws, but a respectable pillow just the same. Groaning and rubbing her porclin forehead, Kirsta rolled onto her back, annoyed at being awake. Reaching out blindly, her hand found her tiny, cheapest-they-had alarm clock and brought it to her face. 12:07.
“Ullllgg!” she grumbled, flinging it back with revolt. Twelve oh seven at night was a time for insombiacs and those saucy individuals who liked late shows. Not for her. Not when ther was school and baton and her complection to think about.
Unable to determine what had roused her, Kirsta, in turn, rolled her eyes and then her body, snuggling back down into the luscious blue and green sheets. But, before she could shut her eyes once more, a flicker alerted them to the far wall of her room. There, floating as inconspicuously as a fly in someone’s lemonade, was an oval-ish sort of light.
Kirsta blinked. It was still there. She squinted. It didn’t disappear.
“What the . . . ?” she whispered, slowly propping herself up on one elbow. Chestnut hair, straight and silky with tending, fell like drapery over her shoulders and down her back. One of her favorite assets, her collar bones, stuck out as she hunched closer to the edge of the bed, her brows wrinkling in confusion.
The light remained where it was. It did not waver. However, it did seem to glow.
How long she stared at it, reassuring herself that she was really awake and that it was really there, Kirsta did not know. Not too long, though, because her arm started to ache from holding her up.
Shoving aside the blanket, Kirsta lowered her bare, bird-boned feet to the floor, her gaze never leaving the light. Standing up slowly, as if she were afraid she’d spook it, she tentatively walked towards it. It didn’t move. Stretching an arm, she brushed the spot with her fingers, but felt only wall. Sheetrock and interior paint. The glowing oval did light up her hand, though, making the typically pale skin a warm yellow, almost honey like.
Still frowning, only now with curiosity, Kirsta looked behind her to see where the light might be coming from, and saw her window. Her window overlooked the edge of a woods. She used to play there when she was younger, and full of free-spirited emotions and musings, but those were days long passed. It had been quite some time since it had even touched her thoughts.
Quickly, yet being careful not to make any noise and alert her fellow house-dwellers, Kirsta glided to the window, her eyes darting back and forth between it and the light on her wall. Looking past the glass and into the inkiness of the night, Kirsta’s breath froze in her throat. There, in the midst of the bark and tree trunks, was another light. Well, probably the same one, only travelling through the foliage, it’s source somewhere amid the trees.
Kirsta stared, mesmerized. What was it? Not a flashlight. It would have jiggled or something by now. Not a camp fire. Not a lanturn. Surely, there wasn’t anything that could make it shine so far and strong, especially with so many obstacles in the way. What on Earth was it?
Curiosity and a long-burried sense of adventure now overrode Kirsta’s reasoning. She could have gone back to bed, yes, but the light still would have been there on her wall, teasing her, haunting her. She couldn’t stare at a mystery all night. She’d go crazy.
Thoughts of tomorrow and what the consequences might be for sneaking out evaporated from her mind, a rush of adrenaline washing away her weariness. Tiptoeing to her beauru, she pulled out some socks and a bra, since wandering through the woods at night just screamed bra to her. After all, she really wasn’t a kid anymore. Slipping on a pair of sneakers and a zip up hoodie, she crept to the door, double checking that the glowing, golden light was still hovering there. It was.
Getting out of the house proved to be easier than she had anticipated. Being so far on the outskirts of town did occationally have it’s advantages. Such as, her father hadn’t invested in the pricey, automated alarm system that all the other fathers had. A deadbolt was good enough for him, particularly since he was a man who considered the best kind of security to be an oak baseball bat. This almost crossed Kirsta’s mind as she slid back the deadbolt, but only almost. Thankfully, everyone was sound asleep. Once on the outside, the night air surprisingly warm and inviting, Kirsta eased the front door shut again and took off around the house.
Scurrying up to the woods, she eagerly looked around for the light, and saw it. Gaze locked on it, Kirsta took slow, measured steps towards the treeline, suddenly well aware of what she was doing, and perhaps maybe she should try for a little caution. Not that anything too unsavory lived in this wood, the worst just an occational groundhog. But, still.
It almost felt like the woods swallowed her when she entered, but after a quick look over her shoulder at her house, sitting there in the dark, familiar, welcoming, always going to be there if she wanted to go back, Kirsta shook off the feeling and began walking.
She followed the light through brush and dips in the ground and all kinds of trees. Birches and maples and pines, all looming way up over her head, and yet not intimidating at all. Kirsta didn’t feel scared. The trees seemed friendly, almost as if they were happy to see her. It was so warm out, the air alive with the sound of crickets and peepers, that Kirsta couldn’t help but feel perfectly safe. And besides, the light kept her company.
For a while she journeyed, huffing just a little as she trundled through undergrowth and gradually becoming aware that she, Kirsta Sevaan, was roving through a forest in the middle of the night, instead of being tucked in bed, resting up for the next day. Further more, she was chasing after a light that probably was just some nut trying to contact the aliens. What exactly was she thinking?
However, before her common sense could return and force her to go back the way she had come, something else caught her eye. Up ahead, the trees came to an abrupt halt, because there was a clearing. The light was also getting brighter. Larger.
Her mental chalkboard wiped once more, Kirsta headed for the clearing, green eyes wide. As she emerged from the cover of the treetops, her mouth bobbed in awe. There, in the middle of the carpet of soft, long grass, was a tent.
Of course, ‘tent’ might be too commonplace a word for it. ‘Tent’ is typically used to describe the canvas-walled lean-to things people camp in, or the huge, hold-a-city striped forts erected at the circus. Kirsta didn’t know who had put this one up, but they were certainly not camping or from the circus. It was small and circular, its plush sides purple, orange, and blue swirls, as was its pointed roof. Gold, tasselly trimming hung all around where the walls and roof met, with various object dangling from thin chains every yard or so. And then, crowning it like the star on a Christmas tree, was the source of Kirsta’s excursion: A vibrant, dewy, raindrop-shaped lanturn that sat atop the point on a rod. As she approached, Kirsta could make out ornate designs adorning the lanturn, which might have been the size of a street light.
Of all the explanations Kirsta had conjured in her head, this didn’t even come close. As stunned as she was, somehow she managed to keep walking, though her footsteps were much smaller now. She circled around the mysterious, incredibly out-0f-place tent, giving it wide berth. The oxygen around her was quiet now; all the insect life and swifty sounds made by the breezes through the leaves had died away.
The intricate lanturn up above illuminated the tent enough for Kirsta to make out and appreciate the details in its fabric, as well as its ornaments. Baffled, not just at its majestic appearence, but at the fact it was standing there at all, Kirsta paused just to gape at it. Who had put it there? And why there, of all places? In the center of a nondescript forest that was only still around because developers hadn’t taken notice of it yet. Just what was so important about here? And of course, the final, most crucial question: What was inside?
Both causion and curiosity burning within her intensely, Kirsta continued surveying the tent at a distance, until she finally arrived at the opening; the mouth, as it’s been called by some. It’s door was nothing more than a flap of the luxurious fabric, and it been drawn back and tied with a coil of satin. Though the unguarded entrance radiated – nay, insisted welcome, the inside of the tent was pitch black, and Kirsta couldn’t see anything. It might not have been her brains that were getting her places in life, but she still knew better than to go barging into a strange, unlit confined space.
Disappointment dousing the wonder and mystique, Kirsta prepared to turn away. She had followed the light and found its source, precisely what she had set out to do. Now what else was there? She couldn’t go in; so, there was no going on, only going back. And she would have gone back, too. . . .
But just as she began to avert her gaze, a soung broke the pocket of stillness surrounding the tent.
“Ki – irst – ahh.”
It was a voice.
“Kir – irst- ahhhhhh.”
It was coming from in the tent.
Kirsta froze, all of her, except for her heart, which beat with an intense iciness. She knew she hadn’t imagined it, the same way you know you didn’t imagine five icecubes falling into your glass instead of three.
“Kirsta. Come in, dear. Don’t linger on the doorstep, where the wind blows fiercest.”
The voice, unlike other disembodied voices Kirsta had experience with, such as in horror films or ghosts on a haunt, didn’t sound eerie or threatening. It was clear and solid, without a hint of malice. In fact, it almost sounded pleasant. However, something about it was off. Almost as if the person speaking were . . . very weak.
Facing a paramount moment of indesicion for the second time that night, Kirsta, against the advice of speaker, did take the liberty of lingering before the door, frightened and unsure. The bizarre quality of this excursion was increasing dramatically, and she didn’t know how much more she could take. Whatever was inside that tent, whoever it was that wished her to enter, she didn’t know if she could handle finding out the what and who. But . . . could she possibly walk away now? When the tent knew her name?
She didn’t. Again, she fought her flight mode and stepped forward.
Walking into the tent felt akin to walking through foamed milk. Kirsta had taken a large step, because she couldn’t see where she was going and wanted to first feel around for anything that might trip her. Instead, she passed over the threshold in one fell swoop, the blackness of the door way feeling like the above mentioned foam milk, and suddenly found herself in a tiny, brightly illuminated room.
However, she had no time to marvel at how this difference was accomplished, or at the various mysterious looking objects that littered the area, matching the mysterious-ness of the exterior. As soon as her eyes readjusted to the light, they fell upon the middle of the tarp floor, and the man laying there. He almost gave her a heartattack, which, based on his appearance, was a possibility he had just recently suffered as well.
Outfitted in an overly big, flowy navy robe, the man was extremly skinny, knobbly, and wrinkled. Every inch of his coffee brown skin sagged with age, great black pools beneath his eyes, and a scraggly white beard hugged his chin. He was bald, though a floppy, elaborate beret lay about a foot away, too far for him to reach. Truthfully, he looked as though someone had pushed him over onto his back and he hadn’t the strength to get back up, so he simply had been lying there, for a while it seemed like.
If Kirsta’s reaction to this stranger’s existence was total shock, his was the polar opposite. When his sunken, blood-shot eyes alighted on her, standing in pajamas and sneakers, considerably paler than usual, a delighted smile split his face.
“Ah,” he gasped, stretching a claw-like hand in her direction. “You made it. I am ever so grateful. There’s not much time left.”
Kirsta, wrapped up as she was in the world of high school batonning and the mall, had never seen a dying man before. Yet, there could be no mistake. Right away, she knew this man, whoever he was, was not long for this planet.
“Please,” he wheezed, gesturing for her to draw near. “Please.”
It might have been pity, it might have been fascination, or it might have been out of obligation, but for some reason Kirsta found herself edging closer. And closer. She knealt beside him, suddenly a thousand questions popping into her brain, washing away her astonishment.
“Who are you?” she inquired, a tremble in her voice. “How do you know who I am? Why are you here? Did you want me to come here? Did – ?”
He raised his aged palm for patience, a cough guttering deep in his throat.
“Peace,” he whispered. “I know you must be confused. And for that I am sorry. I am sorry about so many, many things, and that you will stay confused for some time joins them. For there is no time for a proper explanation. How I wish there were, but there isn’t.”
Pausing, he hacked miserably and then took her hand. “Kirsta,” he moaned. “I don’t believe that fate is an unavoidable thing. I believe that it tries to chase you down and bang you over the head, but if you are clever enough you can, in fact, evade it.”
Briefly, is watery blue eyes met hers and he smiled sadly. “Ah, but, my dear, you never were very clever, were you?”
With a hand that shook visciously, he reached into the right pocket of his robe and pulled something out. Turning over her hand, so that her palm faced up, he lifed his other hand, quavering, and placed an object in hers, curling her fingers around it. Drawing back with an exhausted gasp, he lay back down on the ground, his face drained of all color. Weakly, he regarded her with tranquil eyes and a slight, final shake of his head.
“Such cruelty to be thrust into a position of ignorance,” he whispered. “May it not last long. I leave you all that you see, though what will help you most is what you now hold. Humorous, isn’t it, that the purpose and the plan be one and the same?”
”What?” Kirsta managed to choke out, her heart hammering. “I – I don’t under- understand . . .”
But already the man was staring beyond her, his chest falling still and the windows to his sould glazing over dully. The man, whoever he had been, whyever he had stopped, was gone now.
Stunned, Kirsta could feel her own breath hitching, her own eyes smarting for the loss of a human she didn’t know and now never would. Wiping away a straying tear, she looked down and unfurled her had to see what she had been given.
There, hard and cold against her taut, white skin was a glass vile about six inches long, an ornate pewter stopper at one end, shaped like a face swallowing a flower, a star, and a bird.Emily Kinney
April 3, 2013
From Afar . . .
At this point, she was quite familiar with the sensation of the blanket sliding off her body, bunched off to the side like a downy cliff, and her feet, sockless, touching down on the cool floor by her bed. The quiet brush of clothing being removed and replaced was now routine, as was the cold metal of the doorknob as her fingers and palm encircled it. At first, it had made noise when she turned it, but now she was seasoned and could exit and enter in silence.
And then, of course, there was the curtain of early morning air she encountered upon stepping out of the house. It always wrapped around her face like a mask, invading her pores, urging all her senses awake. This, she always welcomed, and even looked forward to. It provided that extra boost of alertness, and when she inhaled, it scrubbed at her lungs, refreshing her from the inside out. Whatever sleep might have lingered disappeared right then. She was free, aware of everything surrounding her and what came next.
Next, was leaving the house behind her, her naked feet alighting delicately on the dusty gravel of the front yard until reaching the dewy plushness of the lawn. Who knows why the morning weeps, scattering its tears across bent green stalks and drooping leaves. Perhaps it is in joyful anticipation for the approaching day, and all the possibilities it holds.
The lawn carried on for a good five minutes, the grass well trimmed and carpet-like, until stopping abrubtly at the long grass, just as green, but wild with growth. Black-eyed Susan and Queen Anne’s Lace stuck up throughout in lovely unobtrusiveness, and together the flowers and grass swayed harmoniously in the breeze. As she walked, yet again, while another dawn unfolded, through this medly, yet again in this direction, she had to be much more careful of where her feet landed.
It made the going slower, but by now she had mastered her timing. Sifting through the uncut fields was just one more thing incorporated into the schedule. As the early morning light stole up from the horizen and illuminated the clouds, bathing the world in a gentle array of golds and rose-colors, her skirt, white and cottony, swished against her legs. Occationally, long grass blades and stringy Queen Anne’s lace would find its way up and swat at her bare skin, but she hardly noticed.
Her eyes, and her attention, were in front of her, scanning the distance, as the land gradually rose. She was searching for what always first appeared to be a skinny line. But it grew bigger, extending both ways for miles and miles. It was a fence. The closer she got to it, the less she stared at it. Now her eyes lay partially on the fence, and partially on what lay beyond.
The fence itself was comprised of two narrow wooden slats suspended between posts. The wood was gray and splintered from exposure to the elements. Unprotected, and unable to protect itself, the world had done a number on it. Running in no longer taut lines between the slats and across the top was barbed wire, loose and rusting, its glory days forgotten.
How well she knew this fence! It had always been there, as a marker, a divider, and an indicator to “Stop Here”. This counted no matter which side of the fence it was. And she was on this side.
So, she came to a stop, a safe six inches or so away from it, afraid that going any closer would mean that she was actually there. Her back straight, mouth set, and eyes squinting, she gazed over at the other side. There, the same overgrown green grass stretched on, sloping down and down to meet the banks of a small pond. It was shaped irregularly, with patches of cattails and ferns growing in tufts by its edges, its surface sparkling with the golds and pinks of the new day. Not far away grew several oaks, a trail winding amid them.
And she waited. She waited, knowing why, picking distractedly at the weeds all around her. She waited, forcing the desperation to stay low in her chest, willing it away, to not exist. But it did. However, she could ignore that it did. She had been doing it for a while now. She was almost good at it. But not quite.
Her eyes stayed on the pond, occationally snapping to the trees, her chest rising and falling evenly, because she made it be even. If she stopped focusing on being calm, on only half believing that she was really there, then her breathing would change. She waited.
But not for long. Never for long.
He came. Seemingly out of nowhere, he came down the trail through the oaks, his strides wide and sure. His sudden appearance made her catch her breath, her hands falling still.
Their ages might have matched, maybe him overtaking her by a year, but no more. Tall and tanned like ripened wheat, with a long, narrow torso and lean, toned arms and legs. His hair was wild, dirty-blonde, and did what it pleased. He wore a holely tank top that once was white, and scraggly jean shorts, fraying badly just above his knees, the remains of scraggly jean pants. Scruffy, bare-footed, and in a hurry, he made his way over to the pond, a netted contraption in one hand and a look of absentminded consternation on his face.
From where she stood, on her side, her own bare arms hanging listlessly, she watched as he squatted beside the water. Carefully, he released the thing he was carrying into the water, keeping it attached to the land by a length of twine tied about a rock. It floated a ways before sinking. Standing up and scratching vigorously at his flat belly, he took off along the shore. After travelling almost to the other side, slipping on rocks and shoving aside rushes, he finally waded into the water. Once up to his hips, the rest of him tensing from the chill, he flexed his arms and dropped like a stone, the water swallowing his head in one large ripple. Two seconds later, he emerged, gasping loudly and letting loose one emphatic whoop. A smile tugged at her lips.
On her side of the fence, she watched, unmoving, sad, and longing. The breeze rustled her uncombed hair and thin dress. She tucked the loose strands behind her ears, swallowing hard, staring hard. Had the fence not been there, would she continue to stand there? It was the ever present question. How long could she bear to feel from afar? But she had no answers.
Emily Kinney
January 9, 2013
November 11, 2012
I lost my head the day I opened my heart.
I lost my head when I opened my heart. All the reasons to reverse it continuously get countered by reasons not to. Now it boils down to which reasons are more potent. They may be matched in number, but in strength?
How do you kick someone out of your heart? Especially when they didn’t even fight to be there, but you invited them in without their knowledge? How do you exspell someone who has made you so extremely happy? . . . By remembering that they have made you equally miserable.
But, for so long, I have always loved someone. Ever since I was twelve, I have been in love. Ten years with one person . . . and then they were replaced by another. One that, based on all gathered evidence, I was going to fall in love with eventually anyways. And so how can I blame myself . . . or defend myself? Yes, I know exactly where I could have stopped it. When I could have. And at the time I knew this fact with astounding clarity. I knew I was falling in love, I knew it wasn’t a good thing, and I knew it wasn’t a part of my plan. But, I let it occur anyway. I did. I made a foolish decision. I didn’t block my heart. I didn’t reinforce the shields or bar the windows. I didn’t take precausions. I didn’t harden the soft and yearning flesh of my heart, like I should have, like I’ve done for so long. Because, once upon a time ago, I used to be smart.
Oh my, but did I used to be smart. I fought against intruders, I logicked my way out of emotions and over-imaginative hoping. At least, whenever I did allow my mind to wander to all the possibilities and might-be-if-we-did-this’s, I always remembered to provide a rational unhappy ending. Some event to ensure that the outcome would be cancelling, would devastate and demolish. All before anything came anywhere near my heart. Because, it was already inhabited by one person, and I was determined that it remain that way.
As silly and unprecedented as it may seem, I am an incurable romantic. I love Love, and all that it stands for and all that it can do. What we are capable of when we are caught in it. Maybe it’s because I fell in love at such a young age. I still understood that love, the real thing, is not transitory or superficial. It is long-suffering and pierces deep. You can’t rip it out by will or trample it to death. Real Love is a surviving thing. And, boy, did I love.
A very, very unknown fact about me is that I am one of history’s greatest lovers. I am capable of loving at a level of profoundity and sincerity that most mere mortals don’t even know exist. No one can love like I can when it’s true and I let myself. But I alone hold this information. I, alone in this room, with only a kitten for company, know just how much love I am capable of giving and at what strength. Perhaps it is because nobody else knows about it that not a soul wants it.
But . . . that helps no one. Particularly not me. I am lost right now. I am moseying aimlessly, uncertain as to where I’m headed and none too enthralled with arriving there. Right now, the question that is burning brightest in my mind and spirit, the one that refuses to go away, the most pressing matter at hand is, Who am I if I’m not a person in love with another person?
Where does that leave me? For so long, long enough for it to ingrain itself into the fabric of my being, into my identity, I have been in love. But, now I love someone who has effectively flipped the middle finger at my love and said, No thank you. And so I must give up on him. I should have long ago. This won’t be the first time I’ve had to quell my feelings; to extinguish the flame that he refuses to let stay cold and dead. But it will be the worse. The other times I wasn’t in love. My heart wasn’t speeding along full-throttle, turned inside out, slashed up while simultaneously sewing itself back together. Meanwhile, my head is shaking itself, grimly wondering just how long that dang heart can keep it up, when it will ever learn. Is your heart seperate from you? Can the heart make decisions on its own, without your say so? Where are you when you don’t want to listen to your head, but at the same instant want your heart to quit? Where am I?
How can I be me if I don’t love someone? The person currently inhabiting my raw and battered heart replaced the person from before. He truly seems to have been gently, almost thoughtlessly, removed. Not even removed, but faded out. Like a forgotten piece of furniture that has been there so long that it now blends in with the walls and soon you forget it’s there entirely. And when you do remember it’s there, it’s a little hard to make out, and you no longer know what your feelings are.
So, the resident for ten long, beautiful years is gone, and the current rent-free personage doesn’t want to be there. What do I do?
The answer should be simple. I should fight for me. But who am I? I know, I have always known, that I am More. I know that I am constructed of More, and that I can offer More. I am well aware that this quality makes me singular, but it still feels so far away from the core of me. The core. The fabric. My DNA. What’s that?
How can I force myself to fall out of love when Love doens’t work like that? And even if I find a way, what will become of me afterwards? What will I be? Just a shell? Just a hollow, rattling, rocking-in-the-wind shell? . . . Would that be so bad compared to how it is now? When someone has rejected love from one of the greatest lovers in history, doesn’t that make him a moron? And is it really all that wise to be in love with a moron? Logic says, No. Reason says, No. Rationality says, No. Self-respect says, No. Pride says, No.
But . . . Love consists of none of those things. Love is foolish. Love is rediculous. Love is preposterous. . . . Yes, yes. . . . But love is also wonderful. It is capable of so much more than all those other things combined. If allowed to, that is. If not . . . admittedly, love tends to get in your way.
It is right now for me. And so, it seems, the best solution is to realign my heart with my head again. To patch up that poor, festering organ and put it to rights once more. Maybe . . . maybe it will be good for it to be empty for a little while. That, at least, is all I can hope for.
October 29, 2012
Tilting Tower
Source: morjers-art.de via Emily on Pinterest
The tower could be seen for miles all around. It easily cleared the crowns of all the trees and almost always had at least one lit window at night. Only rarely did it’s chimney take a break from puffing black smoke, though it was debated in whispers who stoked the fire.
October 25, 2012
October 16, 2012
And you didn’t say a word. . . .
I just don’t know anymore, man. What I would like to know is what’s wrong with you. What glitch occured in your brain when you were born. What event struck you so hard in life that it made you what you are now. Not Who, but What. What’s wrong with you, dude? Because I’m done thinking that it’s me. That I’m the problem. That something is the matter with me. It’s not. Never was. I’m not perfect, heck to the no. But I’m still great. Very great. A person worth pursuing. A person worth fighting for. Someone you should be dying to talk on the phone with, or be always sending little messages to just because you can’t help it. Dang it, dude! I wanted to give you everything!
I was offering you my heart, on a big freakin’ silver platter, all served up and ready for you to devour or cherish or something, freakin’ SOMETHING, but no. You didn’t take it. You didn’t want it. Crap, dude, I don’t think you even glanced at it. While I was groping and crawling around in darkness and confusion and despair, you were off having a jolly time, totally unaware and determined to stay that way. Screw the fact that we’ve been friends since we were five! Screw all those years of feelings and getting close, being willing to try, but nothing ever actually happening. Hell, right? It’s just me. “It’s just Emily, she’ll be all right. So what if I lead her on? So what if I envoke feeling within her that she’s never felt with anyone else nor ever will? She’ll be okay. She’s a real down girl. A real tough little weirdo. She’ll muddle through one way or another. I needn’t worry about her at all. So therefore I can do whatever I want to her without concerning myself about the consequences. Because, as long as I play my cards right, none of it will ever get back to me. I won’t ever have to rue what I’ve done. All I have to do is exploit her soft and forgiving heart. Lucky me that she has one of those, otherwise all this cruel meddling would never work! Ha! Well, it’ll be fun while it lasts, and after I’ve had my gluttonous fill, I’ll move on and find a different woman to treat right. Emily’s not the scum of Skid Row or anything, but like hell she’ll be the one I’m going to treat right!”
That’s how it is, isn’t it, you little scumbag? The whole world revolves around you and your desires. And me? Weeeeeell, I’m just sort of here, right? Nothing to bat an eyelash over. “Hey, Emily fell over! She’s splayed out across the floor.” “That’s okay. Just step over her.”
Is that it? Is that how you and everyone else sees me? I would love for you to shove some evidence in my face that speaks to the contrary. Shoot, dude! I wanted it all with you! I wanted the dang house, the dang wedding, the dang sex, the dang freakin’ growing old together and holding each other when we cried. (That is, when I cried, since, of course, you aren’t a cryer, are you? Not one dang tear ever dribbled down your face, has it? What’s it like? Must be nice. Hope you’re eternally grateful that you don’t know what it’s like to cry. To cry when you don’t want to but have no power stop yourself. To cry until you fall asleep and you wake up with your eyes stiff and crusty. To cry until your throat is raw and you feel empty. Lucky you’ve never known these things, dude. Real lucky.)
. . . . I was going to continue on ranting, and considering how torn up my heart is, I have every right to and you deserve it, but we just had an earthquake and, let’s say, the Bigger Picture just got a whole lot bigger.
So, I think I’m just going to tie things up here. It’s not even like you’ll ever see this anyway. So . . . yeah, I told you I was in love with you and you never said a word. I realized my own worth and that you don’t deserve me, so I am now free but still in love, so not entirely free I guess. You are tactless, thoughtless, a jerk, and all kinds of other, more profane words. I wish things had worked out between us, or that we even might have a possibility in the future, but apparently not. Because you essentially said No. “No thank you. I might have implied, or even down right stated that I want you, but I lied. I want something else. Someone who is not you. Someone who, if I listed my criteria right, could never be you. I might have said sorry at one point, but I didn’t really mean it. I don’t really care. It was hilarious that you thought I did, though. Thanks, kid. You gave me a good laugh.”
Well, you know what, Joel? Efffffffff you! You never chased, you never pursued, you never stepped up or called or told me what was going on so that I was in a constant state of confusion. You never kept me informed about how you felt or tried to make plans with me, or even tossed me a cookie. All you ever freakin’ tossed me was crumbs, and I gladly gobbled them up like the idiot I used to be. Well, why don’t we try to change things now? How about I become the ultra-awesome, desirable, yet untouchable one? How about you salivate after me while I continuously brush YOU off, for a change? This sounds like a good idea to me, because I am dang sick of all this freakin’ pain.
You’re a moron, Joel. You really are. You could have had all of the purest, most profound, most potent love that the world has ever known, and you said No. Whoa! Wait a minute! Uh-uh! You didn’t say no, did you? You didn’t say a word.
October 9, 2012
For every time I’m forced to look at a girl rolling around in panties:
I want to do more, be more, than what is expected from women today. What’s driven into our brains is that we must be worth looking at, or lusting over, in order to matter, in order to be worth noting. Well, I’m here to say, screw that. My mind’s more luscious than any organ I pocess. My values shine brighter than the sparkle of my eyes or the gleam of my teeth. My heart’s more valuable than any pose I could hold. I want to be a woman of Substance. I want to stomp on the mold and make it shatter. I want people to be drawn to me without knowing why. I want to exude safety and understanding, and radiate strength and wisedom. I want to be a woman that the greats would be proud of. So no, my shirts don’t ride that low, and yes, I refuse to parade around in yoga shorts, and thank you, my own hair’s just fine, I don’t need extentions. I won’t hang off a man’s arm, but stand on my own, alone, until I find a fellow worthy enough to Stand Beside me.
September 30, 2012
The Story-Artisan’s Creed
For all those who daydream and are not caged by reality. Together we rise above the mundane and stale, and combine forces to eradicate monotony and mediocrity. United are we who search for beyond, stand for creativity, and reject conformity. Empowered by inspiration, we march forth, hand in hand, an army of originals. Nothing can detain us, for we are driven by love, bred for imagination, and fueled by whimsy.
Emily Kinney
September 28, 2012
The Lights Did Beckon
She opened her eyes. She couldn’t help it. Yes, she remembered the warnings; the insistance, the logic and reason and concern behind the inhibiting words. Just one glance, and all would be undone. If her lids spread open, they would never close. And in turn, she would never return. Because she wouldn’t want to. All of this echoed within the walls of her mind, but the echoes grew fainter and fainter, receding back into the hallowness that swallows up all responsible reasoning and task. Temptation swelled and prodded and stoked her, until she could bear it no more.
Her pale, velvety eyelids popped wide open, revealing the vibrant blue of her irises, magnified by the pulsating water. At first all was murky and blurry at the edges. She quailed as a trailing, thin shape appeared beside her, but she quickly recognized it as her hair. Brown and long and swirling in the water, tickling her face and along her bare arms. The next thing that came into focus was the fluttering white of her gown. They had insisted that she wear the most comfortable thing she owned, possibly something that was so light and soft that she wouldn’t even realize she was wearing it. So she has chosen her summer nightie, the one that she had bought too big by accident and had zero hope of ever gaining enough girth to fill out. When she stood, it hung loosely from satin straps on her shoulders, feathering out about her body like it could float away at any moment. And now, suspended in water, it truly looked as though it was trying, except that she anchored it.
Perhaps if she had only observed these two rather unextraordinary things and then had hastily shut her eyes, she might have been all right. No pernament damage would have been done. But, no. She strayed on. Blinking, her eyeballs cool and not smarting at all, she lifted her vision from her eddying, ethereal garment. Tilting her head back, causing her hair to balloon around her face, she looked up at the surface, not five feet above her. The last fretting echo gasped its last in the back of her mind, reminding her not to let her mouth open. If she hadn’t heard it and minded, she might have gasped.
She could see them, the lights. They were on the other side of the surface, bursting and popping and darting about, the flow of the water warping their shape. All sorts of colors, some she could never have imagined existed, exploding for miles in all directions. Their brightness permeated the water, making the depths glow all sorts of shades. On and on it went, as if they were keeping time to a tune only they could hear . . . that only they knew about. It all entranced her. She couldn’t stop staring, her limbs shifting unconsciously in the water, the tube in her arm knocking gently against her wrist. But she didn’t notice. She was unaware of anything other than the lights. Or whatever they were. Whatever was doing that.
It was beautiful; beyond that. It mesmerized her, it beckoned her while warning her to stay where she was, for she simply didn’t know; it stole her. Maybe at one point she had belonged to herself, and to her physical form and mumblings of her brain and tears of the end of rough days. But now that was no more. She now belonged to whatever was up there. A soft joy blossomed inside her, leaching into ever inch of her cells. In a last effort of purpose, she made sure her mouth was tightly sealed as she smiled. And she smiled hard. She beamed as much of her own happiness as she could up at what had given her such bliss.
And maybe they saw it, for they seemed to respond. The flashes increased in speed, as if encouraged. Their color and vibrancy enhanced, as if they were delighted by their effect on her. The bounding, dancing lights skipped across the surface of the water with something like renewed determination. Like they wanted to please her.
Languidly lifting a hand, disturbing both her hair and the tube, she waved at the lights. In reply, they exploded in a flurry of sparks. Laughter tumbled about in her chest, but could not get past her lips. Maybe she’d had a past, a beginning, and maybe she’d meant to have a future. But not anymore. It was all gone. All that was or would ever be was now. The world, the universe, everything that ever had mattered or ever would matter or had the potential to matter existed in the space between her and the spectacle above the water.
She had not listened. She had thought she would be able to, since she had spent so much of her life being a listener and an obeyer. Honestly, she had considered an order like Keep Your Eyes Shut to be very simple and easy. Something that she wouldn’t have to worry about following. But, she had been wrong. She had failed. But this fact did not matter to her.
Contentment and wonder and all things lovely filled her as she floated on her back, so close to the surface and yet so far. Somewhere in her, in the place where things still had meaning and decision, she knew that she would never reach the surface. That there was something preventing her from moving, from propelling herself in any direction. But even this wasn’t a concern to her. She didn’t mind in the least not being able to join the preternatural activity above her. All she wanted to do was watch and feel.
She could vaguely hear cries of alarm and demand, all skating across her eardrum. “Shut your eyes! Shut your eyes!” But if she didn’t focus, they became less and less distinct, until it was as if they weren’t there at all. Smiling up at the wavering lights, she let herself forget about the voices, forget about the tube and her dress and why she was there. Soon, she even forgot about her.
Emily Kinney
