My-life-in-words

4. "Are you comfortable?" Christine asked, fussing over Erik's body as he sat buried in the sofa. She had found as many pillows as she could and had refilled his cup of tea more times then he cared to think of. "Do you need anything more?" "No. I am fine. Please, continue your story, my dear," he said, shifting uncomfortably under all of the attention. Christine sighed, causing Erik to only tense more, afraid of what her next, fateful words might be. "Erik," she started, "do you remember when you told me about the bag of life and death?" Erik closed his eyes against the memory, ashamed of his outburst and his irrational moments of anger

3. Erik was dreaming. He stood from Christine's bed and wandered into the hallway on wobbling legs. Christine. She was in the kitchen, preparing some kind of stew. Her golden hair was tied up gently to the top of her lovely skull. He approached her silently, reaching for her with his horrible fingers. His thoughts drifted to the kisses she had given him, and to the ones she had allowed to give to her. It is merely a dream, Erik, he reminded himself. Christine is with her viscount. She will never know. He snatched at her waist, pulling her flush against him. She cried out, jumping slightly in the air. Erik growled. "Even in Erik's dreams

2. The first thing that came to Erik's attention as he woke was that he was not in his coffin. The second was that he was in a silken robe and light, cotton clothing when he was certain he had been in his dress suit the night before. The third, most important thing was that an angel was sitting in a chair beside the bed, her head burrowed into a novel. Her foot seemed to tap the rhythm of the words into the floor. "Christine!" he rasped, the burning in his vocal cords strangling the sound of his surprise. She looked up, her curls swinging slightly before her eyes. The moment she cast her eyes on his face she stood. Panicked, Erik seized

Erik was waiting to die. Christine had promised she would return after he died. "She will be here soon," Erik whispered his mantra over and over, rolling the words on his dry, corpse tongue. "She will be here soon." It had been a week since he had met with the Daroga at his little flat. Three days had passed since he had crawled silently into his coffin to await hell. Erik is already in hell, he thought wildly. It is hell without Erik's Christine. The silence in the house by the lake was think with Death, empty of the music that once ruled the darkness. Nothing existed in the cellars but Erik's home and the miles and miles of corpses

Writers heed your calling, Bare arms for your right, Take up your pen in action, And prepare yourself to fight Working until distraction, In you heart it's true For these things inside Make the words part of you. Writers heed your calling, Words from your fingers slip, To put bread into your mouth. For art you would once happily flip, Will keep you from moving south, The cold of winter beckons at your minds door Make sure to prop it open so they can come inside. Writers heed your calling, You read long past stars, making you intelligent with words meant to be ours but beware Astonishment, for he is a rouge who bottles

Blank white walls, Lockers sigh as they open, contents sliding out, like water in a stream. You learn things here, get new information even if you don't want it as the sky beckons from outside. People rush by worried about terrifying tests, horrendous homework and romantic relationships. They don't notice me, I blend into the barren walls. Doors engulf them, sucking the students into the darkness. There are so many things akin to, opportunities, people, love. Sighing, breathing, living, High School

Menagerie of hogs and cattle, Inevitable agony, No returning from the machine, Stench, Squealing hogs, swooping penalty, Scraped, severed, slit, cut, chop, jerked Screaming, crying, and squealing. Hanging. Human power, Labor, Bucher, Skinning, chilling, boiling, labeling, Forgotten protection, Yawning journey, Deadly triumph, Ruined creature Carcasses inch-deep in blood, Hog blood, Cattle blood, FATE. Sinclair, Upton. The Jungle.  New York: Bantam, 1981

       When I first watched the 1943 version of Pride and Prejudice I was already a huge fan of the book. It wound around in my mind like coil, curving and digging into my brain in some palaces while lightly brushing in others. Not surprisingly, I watched it alone, while my parents were out and I found myself captivated by the actors in the movie. The women weren't today's kind of beautiful. The ideal, big breasted, skinny women that men are supposed to fantasize about now days. They were curvy and a healthy kind of plump.  Their features were striking. I love that word, striking. I won't ever be gorgeous, but I have been called striking.