I less than 3 you.

Twenty-four hours had passed. Her sheer blouse still covered the bedside lamp. The memory of its rosy haze blanketing her naked curves melted back into his core. He fingered the delicate fabric, pulling it as slowly and gently as he had the night before. His breath hitched in his throat. The anticipation of the scent it would hold beckoned his response before the final threads left their final resting spot. Even in her absence, she gripped him. She pulled him in, the legs of her influence wrapping him up in a blinded tunnel. Through this uncharted territory he clamored. Picking up his phone, he realized no words coming from his mouth could carry the weight of his soul. So with a few nervous keystrokes, he told her as simply as he could. I <3 you.

You As My Quarterback...

This entry is in response to Trifecta's prompt, "image", and inspired by Imogen Heap's song Half-Life.

I lay in the darkness, the thick carpeting and clothing walls stashing away my whimpers like a folded sweater. Trying to make sense of the duplicity was futile, unsettling. He'd warned me - in perfect detail - just how they'd fall. I had watched a few myself, full of pity over their weakness. But I was far to wise to be taken a fool. I could not so simply model myself in his image. I would not fall, would not paint an irresistible facade or polish my new opinions to a mirror shine. And so I hadn't. Instead I'd stayed, a perfect heart's length away, raw and unapologetic. Truthful to the point of brutality.

Through with pacing the sidelines, I had begged to be played. He was the perfect quarterback. On love's battlefield I had found my joy, drunk with adrenaline. But my legs of distant candor had grown weak with each drive until hopelessly, helplessly, I collapsed into him. And now, here I am, without the protective guise favored by the rest. Here I am, exposed to the point of transparency. Love and lost, my ass.

Karmic Bitchslap - Part 2

This blog is in response to the Trifecta Writing Challenge, Week 11, wherein it must be inspired by and contain the word "beast". It seemed an appropriate prompt to drive the continuation of my Week 1 submission entitled "Karmic Bitchslap". So please, if you haven't had the opportunity, read Part 1 (Nov 2011) in order to fully appreciate the situation.



Spitting the last of the pooled blood from my mouth, my friable frame shook and heaved with the overwhelming effort.

I remembered now. That same silver coupe - the one with the hole kicked out of the front grill - had circled back around the corner. Still a solid block away from the crowds, my heart sputtered with fear at the sound of the accelerating engine. The combination of ridiculously high heels and a ridiculously high blood alcohol content made the cobblestone-lined street a beast to navigate. And the haze of the drugs and the early morning fog had found an unwelcome home in my panicked mind. I ran. The last thing I remember was screaming out to a God I wasn't even sure existed.

The splintering impact of my body reaffirmed my lack of faith.

Trifecta Challenge Week 10 - "Sway"

She locked in on his stare from across the island. He had his hands planted along either side, desperately gripping the countertop like a protective barrier. Leaving now was not an option. Pulsing surges of expectation coursed through their bodies, the magnetism heightening their senses. The outside world blurred around their tunneling vision. Time slowed to a fraction of their quickened breaths. Silent pleas begged. Hungry eyes answered. And in that instant, the rules of morality no longer held sway. He rushed, fingers tangling wildly through her hair, his lips clamoring for hers with bruising force. She rocked back, the momentum of their passion driving her against the cabinets. Unrestrained, insatiable, they climbed until their bodies wept with passion.

Close, but no closer.

This post is in response to my friend's Trifecta Writing Challenge. This week's word is "cutting"...

She smiled as she talked to the food on her plate, her ennui growing increasingly more oppressive. The sex had come to a standstill and the conversation hadn't taken long to follow. What she didn't know was why. What he didn't know was that she didn't care anymore. Their last discussion brought her to her knees once in pleading tears and again in supposed remedy. And for two weeks they had managed to cordially invite one another to witness their definition of living. But tonight the bitter taste of truth felt shoveled farther down her throat than a forkful of duck a l'orange.

Her utensils clinked a lonely melody as she meticulously crossed them over her plate. She released an audible sigh and stared at the top of his bowed head until even he couldn't ignore the weight of her stare. But his eyes glanced up only momentarily. It was that familiar, cutting glare that still successfully intimidated her. So she swallowed her bravery once again, and instead set about washing their plates.