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Those who aren't strangers...
Rattlesnake
She doesn't know who owned the jacket originally. Nobody claimed it after a party and she figured it looked good on her.
It says KISS and she does not like to kiss. People, men and women have told her that she is beautiful and she has no idea what they mean. When she looks in the mirror she does not see beauty looking back at her. Only her face.
She does not read, watch TV or make love. She listens to music. She goes places with her friends. She rides roller coasters but never screams when they plummet or twist and plunge upside down. If you told her the jacket was yours she'd just shrug and give it back to you. It's not like she cares, not one way or the other.
Happiness
She feels at home on the range; ear protectors in position, man-shaped paper target up and waiting for her. She imagines, a little, she remembers, a little and she sights and squeezes and as her time on the range begins she feels rather than sees the head and heart obliterate. The smell of cordite always makes her think of the Fourth of July.
You use the gifts that God gave you. That was what her mother had said, which makes their falling-out even harder, somehow. Nobody will ever hurt her. She'll just smile her faint vague wonderful smile and walk away.
It's not about the money. It's never about the money.
--excerpts from Neil Gaiman's Fragile Things
They reminded me of someone....and as always these things prompt me to write them down. Must be the heavy, leaden gloom of the day. Humidity is coating my skin with a thin film of wet, making it even more damp and uncomfortable than it should be in November. Oh well. It IS the South, after all.
drainedShe doesn't know who owned the jacket originally. Nobody claimed it after a party and she figured it looked good on her.
It says KISS and she does not like to kiss. People, men and women have told her that she is beautiful and she has no idea what they mean. When she looks in the mirror she does not see beauty looking back at her. Only her face.
She does not read, watch TV or make love. She listens to music. She goes places with her friends. She rides roller coasters but never screams when they plummet or twist and plunge upside down. If you told her the jacket was yours she'd just shrug and give it back to you. It's not like she cares, not one way or the other.
Happiness
She feels at home on the range; ear protectors in position, man-shaped paper target up and waiting for her. She imagines, a little, she remembers, a little and she sights and squeezes and as her time on the range begins she feels rather than sees the head and heart obliterate. The smell of cordite always makes her think of the Fourth of July.
You use the gifts that God gave you. That was what her mother had said, which makes their falling-out even harder, somehow. Nobody will ever hurt her. She'll just smile her faint vague wonderful smile and walk away.
It's not about the money. It's never about the money.
--excerpts from Neil Gaiman's Fragile Things
They reminded me of someone....and as always these things prompt me to write them down. Must be the heavy, leaden gloom of the day. Humidity is coating my skin with a thin film of wet, making it even more damp and uncomfortable than it should be in November. Oh well. It IS the South, after all.
