Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Oh, Child

I remember you inside me. Raising hell.
You took my body as your own.
Molded my bones to build your temple.
Stretched me, swelled me, fenced your home to spin your web.
You saw your budding toes while mine became hidden.
The darkness inside me a safe shade from the harshness outside me.
My heart beating above you, my breath fighting for space against you- all the soundtrack of your squirming little dance.
A seed of a child sown within a child- sapling to infant, girl to woman.
I grew you.
You grew me.

You took what you wanted, stole it. But I would have given it to you.
The gentle havoc you wrought left me dazed. Was this body enough for you?
You took it all, took it over, erased the child I was to color the child you’d become.
The tiny heart of you beat for every step I took as a girl, and every tear I’d cry as a woman.
I made you.
You made me.

I’ve watched you outside me. Raising hell.
The tearing, gnawing, ripping of your wicked escape healed.
My bones are stronger for you, for all the times you’ve sought my shelter.
The evidence of your presence remains- the web you stretched me to spin.
Your toes are bigger than mine.
And the harshness outside me is no match for your fierce indignation.
My heart beats in secret for every moment of freedom you steal, the open windows, the stretching- inch by inch- of the cord between us.
I hold you.
You let go.

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 I pulled this one out of its silent obscurity from my Pleasantly Demented blog in response to the weekly Trifecta Challenge.  This week, the word was safe, 3rd definition: 
"Affording safety or security from danger, risk, or difficulty."
 
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Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Zoo Children

diagnose me, excuse me, give me a reason not to be me.

punish me for not being the child you wanted instead of being the parent i need.

label me, hide me, praise me for anything instead of expecting greatness- it creates such a martyr in you.

give me pills to depend on, since there will be no one else.

raise awareness, join in, hold signs, use me to perpetuate

your dream that it is no one's fault.

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Sunday, February 12, 2012

Fragmentia

I’m not your teapot
No whistle pause, or
lacy synecdoche
in your sweet spot.
That dangling thing;
junk (modified)
on the backs; of cheap believers
in the mouths; of silly proselytes.
Why the cross-hatchling?
Why the straight and narrow?
I ain't on your chain
of glitter anaphorics
with charming cataphorics
lost exophoric trinkets,
and stolen ellipsis shine
on...on...on...
sweet liar! That license is gold-
on a hot "clasp" of trite
your binary opus falls flat.
Sleazy hyphens on the [floor]
subjugation sister
gerunds smell of pretrichor
predication mister?
Round two, solder lingers
rolling in sheets of have-to’s
Mustn’t’s; or-elsing the beastmaster dry
Oh, lovely momma ingénue!
Your feelers don’t ride my avenue.
My full stops. and critter curls,
Skip she, bow she, curtsy to play
Lock it down: Sew it tight:
round the spyglass of-
turnable phrase.
Color but (crafty) white noise
buzzer shaming proper verse-
a palindrome, inside herself
oh, dainty pen girl, can't you see?
Your way forward
is my way back. 
Piquant nosh on cunt-flavored sin
where all rules melt on lines of men
The words, your prose
chew your cud; I'll wait.
Red shifter/dreamer/thief
Yes.  My chaste dot apostle-
your world dies
when you shut your eyes
but mine has just (begun)

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Friday, February 10, 2012

Trifecta- The Game

I had so much fun last week, I decided to play again. A love scene, no less than 33 words and no more than 333, without using any of the words on a list of 33 common/cliche lovey boo-boo kissy words. I accept the challenge. And again, here we go!

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She glanced up just in time. She always knew, somehow she just did. Always knew when his eyes were on her, even from across a crowded room.  It was a feeling just behind her ear, a bit of a tickle just there, so very slight. His eyes would move across her body as the hands of a potter at his wheel, following her every curve, tracing her mouth, down a shoulder, and the other. He’d studied her for so long that by now, he could sing her into existence to a blind man. His fingers had brushed every inch of her. His tongue knew X marked the spot. And the magic in his hands could raze her flimsy defenses with such a fury that the air itself felt wild and zealous. On this day, at this moment, a tiny wrinkle of time seemed to slow and whirl about them as the nascent sizzle behind her ear awoke to his attention. The tiny curl at the corner of his mouth told her everything she needed to know, and she returned his coy smile with one of her own, lightly flipped her ponytail off her shoulder and shot a wink straight through his jeans.  He mumbled a low growl and shifted his weight in the chair.  It was far beyond his mere human ken to fathom how this diminutive fay always seemed to play him like a panpipe with naught but a flick of an eyelid.  He snickered behind a smile to hide his awkward position.  She slid her tongue across her teeth in a flash of victory and satisfaction.  Works every time.

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Thursday, February 9, 2012

Quextions (Trifecta)


What is your name (real or otherwise)?
Deus Ex Machina, but you can call me Aimee.

Describe your writing style in three words.
Brash.  Foul.  Manipulative.

How long have you been writing online?
Since 2008.

Which, if any, other writing challenges do you participate in?
Eh.  Whatever cranks my tractor at the moment.

Describe one way in which you could improve your writing.
Unfuck my fear of dialogue.  In my writing and my life.

What is the best writing advice you’ve ever been given?
"I believe that oft times the wordiest among us are the ones who have the least to say.  And those who are uncomfortable in the silence between their words are those who only see the world with their eyes." ~ The Worm.

Who is your favorite author?
My son.  

How do you make time to write?
I write constantly, whether or not I have a medium with which to archive or display it.  Sometimes, I wish I could make time to stop writing. 

Give us one word we should consider using as a prompt.
dregs- 3)  a small remnant; any small quantity.

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Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Gray Girl

My little Gray Girl
she runs amok at times.
Never far, Never long.
Some days, a fuzzy splash,
drop, drop, blotchy flash
But others, she curves just right.
Strong, skipping lithe
twisty player on ballerina toes
humming hints on rocker bottom souls
In secret, I dream those legs are mine
Sleek
on and on
hours long
In secret, she dreams I'll set her loose
facile feet
chase rain
moor tight her lover star.
Sad Girl, Gray Lady, always stuck in my footsteps
tide locked on the deep side
round and round she go.
Fly away lovely, so much prettier than I
whip a fit, silent screamer
follow
follow
run girl, go.
She'll sing her spite, chained baby, so bitter.
Faceless taster, her smile hides flame
I keep her safe, she holds me so
Never less, never lone
My little Gray Girl
please stay.

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Saturday, February 4, 2012

Trifecta-Thirsty

My first time trying Trifecta. This week, it's a story in three sentences, a la Hemingway-esque baby shoes flash fiction. And here we go!

***************

Her hand steadied against its weight, finger firm, shallow breaths.
There was a certain satisfaction in the cool steel pressed against her temple.
"Momma, I'm thirsty."

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Friday, February 3, 2012

Bricks

Another One-Minute Writer prompt.  This one was fun.  True story, meteor shower and all ;-)


lying on them holding
raining stars
Over his shoulder
I watched
just kids, but we knew how to kiss
and fuck.  
At that age, 
the scratches on your back 
are worth it. 
Squeal of the hinges
on the old screen door.
frantic scramble in the dark
giggles swallowed
"I'll be there in a minute, momma....
Geez......"
Alone again.
In the dark.
A slide and a scrape
pulling the threads
of my silk panties
wiggling back in my britches
little crumbles and dirt
get stuck in the even softest of places
One last tackle
sharpness pressing skin against his weight
tender skin breaks the fiercest, you know.
but at that age
It's worth it. 

 



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Drivin' and Strokin'

If you missed my Dickholes and Psychos rant, let me recap.  Apparently, my youngest son has been "diagnosed" with "ADD" twice in his life.  Once by his preschool teacher when he was 4, and again about a week ago by his driving teacher, when he was/is 15 (which, curiously enough, are the only two times he has ever seen the inside of a classroom).  I have appropriately put a Santaria curse on both misguided psycho-quack teachers who think they are qualified pediatric psychologists.





But anyway.  Today, I was perhaps vindicated just a wee smidgen when my perfectly brilliant baby chile with his amazingly unique brain  not only passed his driving test, BUT SCORED HIGHER THAN HIS BIG BROTHER.  (And according to the DMV lady, she said they both scored higher than most adults).

So.  Um.  Yeah.  Suck on THAT establishment!




And remember when my oldest kid's girlfriend "friended" me on facebook?  Well.  Last night, I got a little message from her precious little self.

*Basking in my well-stroked ego*

Now, he must marry her, I say!
(spelling mistakes notwithstanding)





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Thursday, February 2, 2012

Drive It Down

So.  My homeboy Lance over at My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog has started a new writing challenge called the 100 Word Song.  It pretty much goes like this.  He gives the song, you give 100 words.  Ms. Machina likey dat.  This week the song was Idioteque by Radiohead.  I must admit, I don't think I have ever heard a single song by Radiohead.  But it's definitely a groovy tune to write to.  So, here's my first contribution to the 100 Word Song challenge.  Yay me!  I like things that make me say "Yay me!"
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Don't dare me, boy.  Don't dare.  Dare me not.  I'll drive it, drive it black, window's down, to the ground with my eyes closed.  You dare me, boy?  Move the wind between her fingers, change the scene on the edge of a lash in her eye.  I'll drive it down, like you asked.  With the window down.  Don't call it free, but I say it ain't chained.  She can't roll where the rubber don't go.  But oh yeah, she'll move the wind.  Move it right, move it down.  Shame the fingers caught in her throat, shame the lash falling down.



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Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Carry

The rain show's at 10.  Gimme your hand.  We can skip the crowds and giggle on the side streets.  When you fall, which you will, as I like pushing puddles and mucking troubles, I'll carry your regrets and drag your dream behind me and we can dance the show together.  You might cry, and I understand.

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I decided to try the One-Minute Writer today.  Mainly because I am bored.  But it was pretty fun.  So you should go do it, too.   I'm just sayin'.  It's better than working.  Which is what I'm supposed to be doing. 
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