Travel Junkie

Flood

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 17:10:00 +0000

Father sky sends drips and drops and deluge but the bridge remains steadfast. Angry currents rush beneath the cement foundation, hissing against the grassy bank, thwarted in an escape from the predestined path.
She stands in the middle of the treacherous swell, my sister, the icy froth to her thighs and slowly climbing. Furniture floats in her grasp, all colors, mint bookcase, cerulean armoir, red-rose chair. I wonder that she doesn't grip the edges of the rainbow suite, and I scream that time is of the essence. She can't hear me.
Or she doesn't want to.
The splash of tears swirls with cold rain on my cheek, my admonition carried away by the sprites on the wind and all is silent, silent, silent.

I open my eyes to the interior of a leasing cottage, flooded, the water deep enough to cover the tips of my shoes.
"Ready?" A voice behind me.
It is Alesha, and this is to be our new home, creeping brown stains now our nearest and dearest companion.
"You're sure about this?" Already the sour pungence of drowned carpet is threatening.
"We get to stay one night, just to try it out," Alesha prods.
I concede without protest, in a daze, only aware that one night is too long in a place like this while the winter air burns my rain-soaked skin.

The dark comes but my eyes open wider, straining for a way out. I try the door only to realize there is no escape, a lock on every outlet, no window or door left unchecked.
I glance at Alesha.
She sleeps, haphazardly lying on the dining room table, and I vaguely wonder why she didn't take the bed. Something urges me to let her rest, that she will be of more use to me if I do. But the blackness is becoming palpable, the steely fingers of panic pulling at the edge of the dark room.
"Daylight, daylight, I beseech thee, come quickly." The words fall from silent lips, vanishing snowflakes in the November chill of midnight.

And finally, sun bursts through the faded frilly curtains and Alesha bounds awake, energy popping from her like electricity.
"Let's go! I'm sold!"
Taking my hand she leads me to the next room, bare but for the plain desk and pre-PC era computer taking up most of the metal surface. Behind it stands the agent, gangly and pale with a shock of orange hair like the fires of ancient Rome.
No words, but she motions to the chairs in front of her without ceremony and I slowly sink to the cold pine seat. I hear my father's voice as he warns against this place. I wish I could see him so I would feel safe.

And then I woke up.

Blue Desert

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 04:36:00 +0000

Another dream...

Two weeks from now I am moving, but where I’m going I know not. Neither do I know who will help me move all of my belongings, for my current roommate and best friend has already packed all of her things and gone away from me. I head back to the bed where my current boy toy resides, all dark skin and hair and eyes. I lament my lack of help, mourning the loss of strong men in the world and then I hurry to answer my cell phone in the other room. I get a strict verbal lashing from my parents, a scolding for not being able to find any good friends in the world, ones who will stick by and help me when the world calls for true friends. Suddenly Boy Toy and one of his chocolate friends appear beside me and offer the service of their incredibly thick arms. I accept with nary a token refusal. One can never have too many men with guns.

Soon I leave the yellow-wallpapered flat behind and take up residence in a nearby mall, one that provides room, board, work, and a meal ticket to the expansive food court. Everywhere I go I notice Amazonian women, tall, with shoulders like men and boxy clothes that don’t flatter in color or style. I wonder if a drag show takes place after hours in one of the many theatres, and I begin to wonder if perhaps I might get a job in one of the dramatic theatres myself. Indeed there is a musical theatre a few steps from my hotel room door and I prepare for my audition with much vigor.
And then there he is as I stand by the staircase to run lines with the wall. Eyes like a violet sunset, skin like the Sahara, a deliciously full mouth and I ache to trail my finger down the marble edge of his jaw. I am instantly in love and I wonder at the fact that I can see his entire face. My dreams usually hide the visage of the men I fall for. He just stares, and my knees buckle as I sink to the floor, the taffeta of my ridiculous Victorian-era costume in a tangle around my feet and I feel the heat of embarrassment on the tips of my ears. He walks closer, offers to teach me how to dance, says he knows my part in the play calls for it. I accept but don’t ask his name. That would spoil the mystery and I like the tickle of forbidden love in my blood.
I see him throughout the next few days, but never do we speak. Never do I ask him to dance. His skin touches mine, once, as I sit on a bench to watch people and contemplate my uncharacteristic loneliness. I see him approach and he reaches out to me, silently, and I take his hand and almost flinch at the fire in his fingertips. His eyes burn sapphire into mine and I hold his hand until he walks away, the edges of our fingers gripping frantically to prolong the hot contact. My mouth aches as if he has kissed me, bruised me with his teeth.
Then one day he asks me to dance with him, and tells me the time to meet him at his room, as he lives in the mall, too. I have no idea he was so close and thrill to the knowledge of what might happen when his body presses against mine as twilight dawns. I ask my only friend, Ebony, the head maid, for the master key in case I lose mine in the throes of impending passion.

Only once do I fly, and as I work the flight I receive a vicious ferret bite and a passenger with no seat, only to be discovered during takeoff. I thank God that I can walk out that day and leave such drama behind. After all, I have the dance lessons to look forward to.
And then I woke up. Sadly.

And Tiffany Takes the Cake

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 04:49:00 +0000

Ironic, unfair, cruel. Synonyms for life, all.
Selfish, fickle, heartbroken against her will, synonyms for the fair maid on the wrong side of the glass.
How could it be that only twenty four weeks ago, five hundred and seventy six hours past, he had claimed her as the mate of his soul? For now here she stood, hidden as she watched, and tried not to whimper too loudly when she saw the sun catch the diamond meant for another through the window of that blue-box store called Tiffany's.

She didn't want a sterling silver circle on her finger just now. No, not now. But someday. She aches for it at times. Maybe when she grew up a little and lived life...maybe it could have been like her fantasy where she met him again when the time was right and her heart and head no longer warred.
But those days now seem as fleeting as that glint of blinding golden sun. Over in a flash, hopes of her future snatched away and she ponders how much he really loved her. Oh she knows she ended it. She knows that if she had stayed the course it would be her before whom he knelt on bended knee and opened that midnight-lined robin's egg. Still, she can't help but wonder if it was her he wanted or merely the white dress and tux and two-story picket-fenced house.

She knows he will invite her to the wedding but he doesn't know she'd be a walking lie, all plastic smiles and cold skin that would forever remain bereft of his touch. No, she couldn't bear to watch them laugh and cry and vow while she is an empty tomb. Her soul would die at the sight of threading nightlights catching love in their gaze. She knows that he will feel a sense of relief at her decline, although he won't recognize it as such.

It's better this way, in the end. She wouldn't be happy. She wasn't happy. That was why she said goodbye in the first place. She knows it was foolish to think he might wait for her. And she does love him even if she never fell in all the way; that's why she has to let him go and be happy and try her hardest not to let him hear the catch in her voice when she bids him a bounty of blessings.
The Universe beckons and Freedom sings and the fair maid still holds the key to her heart's cage.
That's the way she has always wanted it, after all.

Rendezvous at Dusk

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 04:48:00 +0000

Esmerelda glanced at the pink buds blooming on the limb's end outside her window. She wished he might poetically reduce the tint of her full mouth to the brillant shade of innocence those flowers sang. But how could he? She hadn't yet spoken to him. And she wouldn't, although her flatmate and best friend, Allie, prodded and probed and perforce interrogated her on the lack of gumption she possessed. No, Essie was old fashioned and meek, and for now the only help she allowed Allie to bestow on her was the use of the hot rollers on the vanity.
Essie flinched when her mocha fingers touched the sizzling plastic-coated metal. It was no use. She wasn't sure what had ever made her think that curls bouncing in her raven locks would capture his attention.
"He will notice because you will make him notice, dear. First rule of womanhood - flaunt your assets. A man who sees a lake of voluminous tresses such as yours is only going to imagine one thing. His hands. Threaded through. In the Throes. Of. Passion."
Allie had grinned knowingly, the diamond on her finger glinting as they stood at the jewelry counter on Third Avenue.
"You're only asking the Flirt of the Year, of course, so I completely understand if you deem me an uncredible source."
Allie had a intermittent itch to visit the local jewelers and try on the newest inventory. She always insisted to the clerk that she was happily single - it was merely something she was trying on for size. Allie laughed at the idea of committment. Sometimes Essie laughed with her, but mostly she felt sorry for Allie. She knew a facade when she saw one. She was the posterchild for disguises, after all.
And so she sighed deeply and curled the black silk of her hair around the first roller, setting it with the grave air of one resigned to failure.

_______________________________________

Laughter and sunshine burst into the quiet room later that day as Essie finished donning the black sweater mother sent last week.
Allie stopped short.
"Oh my dear Essie. What have we here? No, no, no. This shall not do. He'll never kiss you while you appear in mourning!"
"But it isn't as if he has even asked me out! Let alone spoken to me...what makes you think I shall ever receive a kiss?"
"Ha! With that attitude, nothing does!"
Allie skipped to her overflowing closet. "I know you like to wear my things on occasion but this time we are going all out!"
She set out the sleek red dress straight out of the local vintage shop with a flourish. Essie's eyes grew huge.
"How ridiculous. Whereever would I wear a contraption like that? Remember, it was your idea to 'accidentally meet on purpose.' What shall I tell him when the question in his eyes begs to know why I am dressed like I'm attending a 40's Detective Lollpalooza?"
Allie's gaze was full of challenge.
"I don't know, Esmerelda. You're the one with all the stories. Why not play pretend when you by chance fall into step with him at half past five this evening? Spice of life, my dear. You gotta add it to the mix or you'll taste just the same as everyone else."

______________________________________

Essie felt like Cinderella. She was most certainly as conspicuous as the fairytale maiden right now. The bench in Hyde Park was growing colder beneath the scarlet fabric of her dress as the wind blew in the remnants of winter's chill. More than one handsome pair of eager eyes had taken in the sight of her there beneath the blooming dogwoods, and against her will Essie felt her blood run hot with appreciation.
It wouldn't be long now till she caught sight of the light brown tweed of his coat. Surely he would be passing this way and she rehearsed the ludicrous scene in her head as she remembered that Allie said the right story would come.

Oh god, there he was. Essie was certain the cinnamon and chocolate plaid coat adorning his lean frame must have been passed through more than one generation. It was worn, but it looked well loved, and for that its threadbare cords were dear. Strong fingers clasped the handle of his briefcase and she wondered at this for she had always thought him to be a satchel sort of guy. No matter. He was coming her way and she found she was having trouble breathing as each step brought him closer to her cold bench.
From a safe distance her eyes searched his face, that beautiful sculpture of fine white marble, cheekbones carved high and straight, the set of his mouth tinted with hints of secrets. She found herself aching to know those secrets, and she wondered what this young professor had to hide.
She didn't want to speak first. What would she say? What reason would she give for randomly bursting out with a salutation she was sure would wobble and squeak?
But leave it to her hero to save the day.
His brown loafer stepped even with her bench.
"Well, hello," he said, dark chocolate laced through with a honeyed American accent.
Speak to him, you dope!!!
Allie flitted through her thoughts - "Spice of life..."
Essie didn't want to taste the same as everyone else. Cue the grand actress.
"Hello yourself." Her voice was throaty, more so than she had meant it to be, but she recalled that great American sex symbol, Scarlett Johannson, and she kept the husk in her tone.
"Beautiful evening," she purported, hoping it might spur a conversation.
"Indeed, midnight stars are my favorite. New York was never big on open sky," he chuckled somewhat ruefully. "Say, don't I know you? Forgive my frankness, but you just seem familiar."
Her thoughts flew harriedly. Had he caught her watching him those Tuesday afternoons in the library? She often sat mesmerized by the alabaster of his brow furrowed over midterm papers, the diligent scratching of his red pen, the way he took his coffee black in that styrofoam cup. God she sounded pathetic. She hadn't meant to watch him all the time, but the library was her dearest friend on days that Allie had a date - which was most of the time - and so it was only natural that she should find him there on occasion.
"The library," he said jovially, startling her from her reverie. She was encouraged by his tone.
"Y-yes, I'm there occasionally."
"Yes. Oh I know! Last Tuesday you borrowed Anna Karenina. Tolstoy? I remember thinking how impressive it was that you chose to read it of your own accord."
Essie looked at him in confusion.
"I uh, I overheard you tell the librarian that you wanted to read it a second time now that you were older." He grinned sheepishly. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop."
Joy bubbled up in her throat and erupted in a relieved giggle, one she hoped he didn't realize was bordering on hysteria.
"I do love Tolstoy so. And Dante and Shakespeare and Hugo. Karachi was never big on modern novels so I found myself a friend of the Greats. Not that I'm complaining, of course."
"Karachi, eh? I was there once, when I was twenty.That was five years ago, although I know I don't appear a day over fifteen." He grinned at her. "I was most enthralled by the colors. It's like the shades of my soul were splashed on every street corner. I flashed away with my camera, eager to bring that vibrance back home to my apartment in Manhattan. Later I found that my photos didn't turn out the way my eyes took in the scene but I wasn't really disappointed. I just tucked the memory away and vowed to go back one day. Speaking of colors, that's quite a dress you've got on there."
The moment of fact or fiction. No way could she tell him the truth, so she spurted out what Allie was most likely to say - that she had gotten ditched by her date to the opera and wasn't that the most scandalous thing he'd ever heard?
"We were supposed to meet here, and have dinner across the street and well, I decided to make the most of the evening by having a conversation with my favorite bench."
She smiled at him.
He smiled back. A bigger smile than hers, even.
He glanced at his watch.
"Well, I know I'm probably not much compared with that grand date you had - that dress is enough to woo even the most hardened of hearts."
She felt the brown smoothness of her skin heat with a flush at his bold words.
"Still, Mr. Sun is going to bed soon and there is the best coffee joint around the corner and down the next alley. Sounds shady, I know, and I'm sure we look like a couple straight out of Hitchcock's classics, but I'm willing to bet I'm more interesting than that maple bench you've replaced as your date. And I know you're certainly much too beautiful for such a drab companion. So whaddya say we give it a go?"
What did she say? She sang a thousand hallelujahs to the distant hills in her heart but outside she merely cocked her head to the side and relished his admiring green gaze. She took his offered hand and rose to stand beside him, almost swooning at the height he was afforded by his Creator.
"I'd love to. By the way, I'm Essie."
He winked at her.
"Alex Von Sky, at your service."

And one by one they took the knife

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 04:46:00 +0000

Another dream. It's official, people. I am screwed up in the head. Lol.

I was vacationing alone at an ocean resort, complete with plenty of activities and gorgeous men to lead those activties. Two of those beautiful men certainly caught my eye and I flirted like mad. With blonde waves that curled about his ears and eyes bluer than the nearby sea, I set my sights on Jeff, certain that by the end of my time there he would surely be mine.
It was a shock to all the vacationers when we learned that Sean, Jeff's best friend and my other romantic interest, had disappeared from the resort, nowhere to be found. All the tenants and employees searched but to no avail, certain that he must have been swallowed by the bright salty ocean.
And then one day in mid-afternoon, rejoicing went throughout the resort - Sean had been found and Jeff was on his way to bring the hero home. I was more thrilled than anyone and waited up all night just to be the first to see him home, sure that the boys would notice my devotion and fall in love.
Suddenly, I was whisked away and floating high above the earth, aware that I was using what the resort called their UFO's - a hanglider shaped like a tire. I hung on for dear life, afraid of falling and disappearing in the dark water that loomed below.
Sounds of frantic splashing caught my attention and I peered through the night to spot the source. There they were, Jeff and Sean, struggling together, and I beamed when I saw Jeff lift Sean aboce the water to rescue his friend.
In horror I realized I was happy too early. In the next instant, Jeff slammed his friend back beneath the murky surface of the water and held him there even as Sean tried to scrape and kick his way out of Jeff's murderous grasp.
The bright beams of a rescue helicopter shot through midnight's blanket and illuminated the boys, and in an effort to appear innocent, Jeff waved for help and lifted his unconscious friend to safety.
But I knew better.
Like a flash the scene appeared before me - Jeff and Sean were lovers, and resort rules forbade dating within the realms of employees and most definitely frowned upon homosexuals. Jeff confronted Sean, declaring he'd lived in shadow long enough, and wanted to take their relationship public. Sean loved his job and had worked hard to maintain his position, and not even Jeff could make him give it up.
And so, there in the night's shroud, Jeff had taken the life of his one and only love, not aware of what he did until the light shone on his transgression and he frantically tried to right his wrong.
But it was too late.
Sean was dead. And no one knew that I carried so treacherous a secret.

At least, I thought no one knew. A letter came in the mail days later detailing the gruesome death and admonished anyone in the resort to come clean with any information they had concerning the murder.
I remained quiet. No way could I betray Jeff.
Even though I knew he'd never be in love with me I was loyal to him in a way that Sean never was and I was determined that he should know that one day.
And then suddenly there were only six of us left in the gigantic resort, and I was an employee rather than a guest. Jordan Robinson was the butler, so to speak, and headed up all of our duties. It was our job to find the killer.
We only had three days. What would happen if we failed was only hinted at, but all roads led to inevitable death and yet I remained steadfast. I wouldn't tell.
And so began the horrors.
The walls of the resort were ever shrinking and at times I barely escaped before rooms swallowed me in their sheetrocked mouths. Once I found a room that belonged to a musician and I tried singing in hopes that it might save me from the grave. Instead all I saw was the stuffed head of a dead black cat floating before me and I knew death was close behind.
At night I shut all the blinds in every room, frightened that whatever power was taking over the house could watch from the cloak of darkness. It was no use - no sooner had I shut them than they were forced open, leaving us exposed and naked to the terrors of midnight.
And finally, the zombies came. We all sat around the table, Jordan desperately trying to keep us calm, when suddenly his expression went completely slack and his skin seemed to melt off his face.
We all screamed.
Jumped away from him.
And that's when I knew Jordan knew that I knew who killed Sean.
"It's up to you to save us now," he said with his eyes, moments before they became glazed with the steely intent of murder.
And somehow I knew what to do.
"Get a pot of boiling water!" I screamed. The others hastened to bring it and I instructed them to hold the steam next to his misshapen face. I sighed with relief as it began to go back to its original form. But then I saw his fangs and fingernails-turned-claws and knew I had to take more action.
I grabbed the nearest kitchen knife we all kept for protection from the curse.
I put the knife to his throat.
I cut him with one clean slice, and watched his blood drain into the pot of boiling water, praying that this was indeed the answer. And then, slowly, Jordan appeared back in the bright blue eyes of the monster before us, and we thrilled to the knowledge that we had beaten the final test.
It took us a moment to realize it would have to happen to all six of us before the curse was broken. We looked at each other in horrified silence.
Who would be next?
Jordan healed in record time, relunctant to detail the feelings he'd had during his "possession", aware that each of us had to endure the horror, and trying to spare us as much worry as possible.
"Just be ready," he advised.
It took several hours, but one by one each remaining person would begin the melt, and each time we had to use the steam machine and drain them of their evil blood.
Finally, I was the only one left.
They all looked at me nervously, knowing they would be free to go after I underwent my transformation.
Then the pain seized me.
I could barely even think, but I noticed in terror that no one made any move to help me. They remained where they sat and I screamed while I still could to please, please, just cut me.
Time was running out. I could feel my skin dropping off.
"Jordan?" I pleaded in a whisper.
Suddenly he grabbed the knife and held it to my throat, the sharp edge cold against my burning skin.
"Thank you," I mouthed to him.

And then I woke up.

Rafters of Salvation

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 21:55:00 +0000

Training for the new airline took place beside the beach, the sandy edge of the coastline white with pristine grains. The hotel was immaculate, and much to my pleasant surprise, the uniforms were tailor-made and colorful beyond any other airline I had ever seen.
I was proud to work for such a company and had hopes that my career would prosper and last for many years. The fellow crewmembers were friendly and young and we spent afternoons lazing by the blue water, studying in the yellow sun.
Halfway through training, though, new arrivals showed up.
The came bearing old clothes and battered luggage, and nary a hair nor face was ever checked in a mirror. They crowded our hotel, the dirt from their bodies leaving stains on the white furniture. We all loathed them.
They never spoke, or moved for that matter. We had to step over them to prepare for class, carefully avoiding their ugliness, afraid it might rub off and mar the "real" employees.
I could do nothing to jeopardize this job. A day came, though, when one of my friends went off on the ragmuffins, and at that moment all hell broke loose.
It was like a riot, fists flying, the smack of skin on skin echoeing over the roar of their mingled voices. I watched as if I were an outsider, angered that these fools were ruining my chances at a good job, and I refused to join in.
That's when we heard it.
The clink of white china sounded like hundreds of chattering teeth, and I vaguely wondered at this since no china existed at the hotel.
Enormous windows lined each wall and in the confusion of the mob, I caught a terrifying view of the monster outside.
"You did this!" I screamed to the fighting crowd, in a voice far too loud to belong to me.
Suddenly they ceased their fire and followed my horrified gaze. The ocean stood as tall as the Empire State Building in the distance, and I knew that at our inability to get along had angered the peaceful sea gods and they were smiting us for our wicked ways.
Suddenly the hotel melted away and I stood in an enormous plane hangar, the yellow bars of the rafters high enough to be my salvation if only I could reach them.
The rest of the group scattered, knowing there was little time to reach high ground before the waves took them to their cerulean graves. Rocky cliffs graced the landscape behind the training center, and so in their high heels and leather loafers, the newly united enemies held hands and gripped granite as they tried to evade death.
I ran to the nearest handhold, the walls of the hangar like a magic yellow ladder as I caught a glimpse of a rafter so high it seemed to reside in the clouds. I climbed, faster and faster, tears on my face as I watched my weaker comrades fall to their deaths, but there was nothing I could do, so I pushed onward to the yellow bridge.
Heather Locklear was climbing directly above me, and she turned to shout that even if we reached the rafters, it would be days before a rescueing crew could help us climb down again. The water would still be too high, she said, and for a moment I almost let go and fall, tempted by an instant death. But something inside me said not to trust her, so I ignored the warning and climbed higher still.
Then the wave hit.
The walls shook me like a rat in a dog's mouth, and I held on till my fingers dripped blood. I watched my friends disappear into the frothy white water, and it spurred me onward. The rafter was in my reach, but just as I threw my leg over the cold metal bar, another wave slammed into the building and I was catipulted into a muddy crater on the top of a nearby mountain.
Suddenly I was surrounded by hundreds of naked people clustered together, dried mud caked on their bodies like a second skin. I noticed that my clothes were missing, too, but strangely that only made me feel more at ease with these people. They were natives to the crater, and even children ran around the brown landscape. I noticed that tunnels existed in the side of the mountain, and when I asked what they were for, they said it was our only escape back into the world I had just left, that we must work together in order to make it back to our loved ones. They had been here a long time, and it seemed they were waiting for me to begin the journey back to their pasts.
It took us days, but slowly we passed through the tunnels, at times only big enough for one to crawl on hands and knees. Everyone was frightened, but together we encouraged one another in the dark, sure we would make it back to restore our families.
And then - sunlight! We all wept tears of joy as indeed we came through on the other side of the mountain, the ocean that had been my demise only days before now placid and turquoise.
I frantically searched for my family, certain they must be there among the wreckage.
I watched as each of my new friends was reunited with their people, the families dressed in their Sunday best, making the survivors all acutely aware of our nakedness.
I still hadn't found my family when I suddenly spotted my mother standing on a wooden porch, remniscent of the house where she grew up. She had on a white hat and gloves and I wondered why everyone insisted on dressing like it was Easter.
Screaming her name, I flung myself into her arms and wept, asking about the rest of the family. As she said each of their names, my father, followed by each of my siblings appeared beside her.
I hugged them all in turn, realizing that my brothers, Jon and Jamie, were missing.
"Mom, where are the boys??" I asked in a panic.
She leveled a dead gaze on me and said flatly, "I have no idea."
I knew they must be dead.

And then I woke up.

The Devil Wears a Halo

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 20:15:00 +0000

Worship. It was sprawled across his features in the early morning sunlight and she shrank from her reflection in his cornflower gaze. He thought she wore a halo but what he really saw was the glow of the golden pitchfork she so deftly hid behind her back.
She knew this.
He didn't.
A whisper of a sigh escaped her mouth and before she could catch it, it fell on his ears.
"What is it?" A gently posed question but she doubted he realized the danger belied in such a query.
What if? She pondered.
What if she threw caution to the wind and let him spy the pitchfork?

I need a man, she would say.
I need a man with a backbone. Being with you is like being with a spineless guppy, all puppy dog eyes and silent agreement when I tell you that you're wrong.
When are you going to yell at me?
For God's sake, when will you finally tell me no?
I want to hear the edge in your voice as you defy me. Just once I'd like nothing better than to feel the heat of your eyes, a fiery ocean of anger only calmed by a stolen kiss in the rain hours later. Don't you realize that all the times I raise my tone it is merely in the hope that maybe this is the time you fight back?
I need you to slow down. To let me set the pace of our relationship. To not say things that I'm not ready for you to say.
"I love you" fell from your lips thirty days after your eyes locked mine and I feel guilty that only I know I was lying when I said it back.
But you painted me into a corner and wouldn't take "I'm not ready" for an answer, so I put on my work boots and trudged through self-doubt to please you. I thought that if I "gave you a chance" in the end I might find a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but instead the gleam I saw on the far hill was the sun shining on the mirror of self-reflection. I looked hard at the girl staring back at me, gripped by panic when I realized it was through your eyes and I was fast becoming an undeserving goddess.
How was I to live up to such a standard?
And how do I tell you that you fail to make me burn, that your mouth leaves me wanting something more, something you can never give me? I think of the kiss of another man so long ago; you are sugar when I need salt and sometimes too much sweetness can make me sick.
I realize I am accusing you of being too nice and isn't that the oldest line in the book? I have placed judgment on too many women for me to ever speak those words out loud. I can't bear to be called a hypocrite. For that is surely what I am. I want to say I can chalk it up to naivety, that I had no knowledge of such feelings until they were thunderously upon me, but somewhere deep inside I know that is merely an excuse.
But how to tell you all of this? How to say all my doubts aloud and still expect you to believe that I truly think you are the best man who has ever loved me?
Is it really your fault that you do the things you do or is it because I let you? If you don't know what I want how can I ever place the blame on your shoulders?
I am afraid to tell you, though, because maybe I know that if I do you will eventually leave and for once I'd like to reserve the right to walk out first.
Perhaps I am entitled to issue a broken heart - but then again, one reaps what one sows and I scurry from the thought of dripping mascara and worded heartache scribbled in the moonlight.
Maybe I don't tell you because I am selfish. Because I like having someone. Because maybe if you do as I ask I will resent you for changing into someone that you really aren't, someone you don't even like.
I am not the sort of girl who goes against intuition, pursuing a romance once my heart screams otherwise. But for you, I did, and maybe all of this is actually self-loathing projected onto you, an undeserving passerby, and I'm glad you don't taste the indecision in my midnight kisses.
But can I really say all of this? What am I going to gain? I sit here and feel your fingertips on my skin and I know I won't do it.
And I know you will be none the wiser.

So she let him kiss her and shut her eyes to hide her soul.
But then the time soon came that it was indeed over and she rejoiced in the freedom of her spirit until one day retribution caught up with her.
She watched in agony as one by one the women in her life became victims of heartbreak, their cries an icy chain on her feeling of relief. There were so many murders that it seemed a cruel joke and she could do nothing but gaze on each killing with a fascinated horror.
There was her Cousin, the dark-haired beauty, so loyal in her love for him, so willing to give second chances where second chances were never deserved. She devoted years to the hope of their future.
How it made the one with Freedom weep to see the day he sliced her cousin’s heart in two with a dull knife, as she screamed for him to stop, and he just laughed as she fell to the floor. It was so calculated, so cold, and she lay in the pool of her soul’s blood while he walked away arm in arm with another woman.
And then the Sister of Her Heart, the one who shared all her secrets, was one day finally happy.
“He wants me!” she lauded, but Free Heart knew better than to trust him. His eyes were dark with secrets but there was no convincing her friend.
“His arms are true when I am feeling blue and I know him better than you,” she stewed.
But this time Free Heart was right and so she was there to hold her friend when the fateful Monday came and he picked up the phone to make that most cowardly of all exits.
The Sister of Her Blood spent a year with the one she loved, in a country of palms and sandy roads. He strummed romance on his guitar, crooning lullabies under the starry sky and she knew she had never been more content in life. The year came to a close and he promised meetings on other shores, but the day she sailed her boat to his home and waited to be taken in open arms, he slammed the door of his heart with nary an explanation. She clung to the stern as she treaded the waters of confusion, her added tears almost enough to drown in.
The Indian Princess was sweeter than peach pie in August, and for a while it seemed the two of them were happy. He brought flowers and called her beautiful and said she was his love. She gave and gave and gave, never expecting anything in return, and soon enough he took that for granted. She sat in the corner while he laughed boisterously with the other men gathered around the TV and never took the time to look into her big brown eyes anymore. She realized she carried a slingshot in his World of Warcraft and it wasn’t enough to win the battle. So he left and she cried and threw her flimsy weapon in with the towel.
The Fellow Flight Attendant brought word of a brand new man, tall, dark, and carrying the keys to an airplane. Free Heart knew where this was headed but offered support in spite of her own distrust. First lie – I’m single. Second lie – I have no children. Third lie – You can trust me, I promise. When news of his unfaithfulness reached the ears of the free heart, she was saddened but not shocked at the demise of her friend’s new marriage.
The Stand-Up Comedienne had laughs-a-plenty with the dark-eyed beau she snagged from her past. Regular text-message updates filled the inbox of Free Heart as her funny friend reveled in a new romance. Months and months of midnight ecstasy but suddenly it ended and the comic stopped smiling as she searched for an answer. The reason for her constant grin now eyed the heart of another man and she felt the rays of stunned grief flow through her like sand in a sieve. Doubt and disgust and derision made their way into her heart and she wiped from her mind the memory of his kiss.
The Southern Blonde loved him for two years, longer, really, but he had officially been hers for seven hundred days. Marriage loomed on the horizon, and she felt sure that soon he would kneel on his beautiful knee and propose, her nights filled with dreams of children and picket fences and fishing by the lake. But the day she never expected was soon upon her and with no warning he packed his bags and walked out, putting the ring she thought was hers on the hand of the other woman. She was the one who would get the giggling babies and quaint cottage and catfish dinners. Grief consumed the one with the sandy-blonde curls.
The Pixie Virgins had a charm that led men to their door with merely a wink. They filed out in lines so long it seemed they had no end, and the Pixie sisters had hope that at least one decent man existed among the hoards. But time and again they reached the question the men most wanted answered and when the beauties said no, they bounded quickly away from the sweet-tempered interview. Given the nature of the sisters, though, the men still left marks and it was only a matter of time before the Pixies became scarred for life.
The Childhood Friend stared into his big velvet eyes and fell with no handhold. She was sure he would catch her. He promised with his flowery words that he wanted no one's heart but hers. But the distant beat of drums called him elsewhere and before she could grip the hem of his coat to keep him by her side, he had followed the music and left her behind. The moon shone through the window onto her beautiful, tear-streaked face, and she endlessly questioned what she could have done to make him stay.

Free Heart saw all of this and she cried until there were no tears left. Again she pondered her state of soul.

I am now a graveside mourner, except the coffin holds the broken heart of the man I left and I can do nothing but transform into a cliché, missing what treasure I had until it was gone and now I am alone with my grief and second thoughts.
Is this what I have to look forward to? A lifetime spent sweeping up glass hearts and diamond tears? I wonder if I am due any near misses or if my punishment shall be to lie on the torturer’s table and wait for his heinous tools.
A Free Heart. That is what I have called myself. But now I know that I would give it back to the captivity of love, for such freedom frightens me with its unknown risks.
I think I gave it up too quickly. I can do nothing now to rescind my decision, for the victim of my affliction has been granted a fresh beginning, and even if I made my sorrow known, he wouldn’t hear it over the voice of his new true love. I saw her once, her ruddy, uneven complexion and less than chic style obviously of no concern to him.
Perhaps he sees more depth and truth in her eyes than he saw in mine and I can’t blame him for looking.
All I can think of now is how much he loved me. I felt it even when I didn’t want to and when I tell myself otherwise it is only because I am trying to ease my own pain. Anyone who knew him knew I was his world and isn’t that what I have been watching crumple all around me? The universes of my friends have disappeared and I shudder at the thought.
Why is it that we can only remember the good things when we lose something beautiful we never knew we had? Try as I might I to forget, I realize the qualities he contained that I deemed undesirable were nothing that couldn’t have been mended with a little communication. But it was merely that I wanted a reason to escape and so I harped on what made me unhappy until it was a constant grey cloud and it wasn’t long before he felt the rain.
I do hope he is happy. I won’t deny that I am jealous, that he has moved on and forgotten me and laughs while I cry. I am jealous that she gets to kiss his mouth and stroke the calloused skin of his palm and rest her cheek on his argyle sweater. I feel a deep anger when I think of her name caressed in the lilt of his Scottish brogue, the purr of each syllable like the ocean in the moonlight. I want to feel the curve of his body as our dreams meet dawn’s sunlight.
But those days are over and I face my future with a harrowed fear, sure the chopping block looms somewhere that I least expect it.
I won’t give up on love and I refuse to settle, but I must take to heart the lessons I have learned through all of this. I know that evil men lie in wait, their traps set for the innocent and trusting smile of a girl with bright eyes, and I curse them for their malicious intent.
They are all Devils, every one.

And yet this time, she thought woefully, this time the Devil was me.

In Lieu of the Death of MJ

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 20:57:00 +0000

Another dream...

The house was meager, typically musty, befitting the resident who spent most days in her white-washed rocker. Her graying hair reeked of cigarette smoke even though she had given up the habit years ago; old age clung to her fading flowered robe. Her sleek, grey tabby made his abode the comfort of her lap, gnarled hands stroking his shiny coat as he purred in contentment.
Oak shelves lined the four walls of her living room, the one collection item for the last fifty years displayed in pristine condition, chronologically positioned in perfectly straight rows. Michael Jackson, her one obsession.
I was her keeper, the one to watch over her in her old age, to ease the inevitable coming of death. The dolls unnerved me a bit, but they made her happy, so I dutifully cleaned them each day, polishing their plastic surgery-ravaged faces and dusting the records plastered on the otherwise bare walls. I shuddered as his black eyes bore into mine, the turned up tip of his nose inches from my face as I cared for my ward’s one love.
I never understood why she lived for the modern King of Rock, but I made good money and I wanted to ease her death as much as possible. I thought she was a sweet old lady. That fateful day came, however, when Michael Jackson was the target of death’s skeletal pointed finger, and the tenant of the rocking chair fell into the depths of despair.
Life held no more joy for her, and she begged me daily to end her life. I refused, horrified at the idea that someone could truly put their life’s worth into a stranger, and a psychotic one at that. I continued to protest her supplications, until one day I couldn’t stand staring into her listless eyes and so I relented, asking what it was she wanted from me.
I listened in revulsion as she detailed the best way to kill her, the way that would ensure she succumbed to the same fate as her idol. I was to take her favorite Michael doll, she said, the one with a porcelain face, and the big hammer from beneath the counter.
“Smash the head,” she said, her icy blue eyes wide above the hollow of her cheeks.
And so it was set. I waited until she went into her front yard, one that stood at the end of a cul-de-sac, visible to the rest of the neighborhood. I was nervous that I would get caught, certain that a passerby would see her in the throes of death and as her sole caretaker, I knew I would be the main suspect.
Hurriedly I gathered the necessary tools and waited until I saw the sun go behind the grey clouds and raising the hammer high, I brought it down upon the disfigured glass face of MJ.
It shattered into a hundred pieces and I heard a thud in the front yard. Tears were streaming down my face as I used Windex and paper towels to rid the hammer of my fingerprints and picked up the shards of broken porcelain from the shag carpet.
I heard a meow and through the front door I caught the lime stare of her grey feline, scarlet blood dripping from the corners of his mouth as I realized in disgust that he was drinking the lifeblood of his dead owner. I screamed at the tabby, running towards the yard, skidding to a stop as a black sedan pulled into the drive and a terror-crazed woman got out to help the old lady.
I ran outside, yelling at the woman to call 9-1-1. My yell was cut short as I watched the woman I had just brutally murdered get up from the ground and walk towards me. Her head was patched back together, bloody red lines zig-zagging across her face where the pieces of flesh had magically healed themselves.
I saw malice in her gaze and she smiled evilly as she said in a high-pitched tone, “Someone is going to jail!”
I realized she had filmed the entire thing with a hidden camera, and I knew my life was over.

And then I woke up.

Haunted

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 19:40:00 +0000

She had watched the lithe swagger of his body as he made his way through the crowd. He shouldn’t be able to move like that, she’d thought. Muscle and brawn shouldn’t have such grace. It was as if he contained some sort of magic, like he held an invisible scepter in his hand and commanded the world to fall at his feet. Time and again she watched in disbelief, heralding tangible proof that indeed, the world obeyed.
Not me, she silently vowed. I won’t give in.
She refused to feed the powerful jaws of such a man’s ego, for surely it meant imminent death of pride.
She secretly referred to him as a modern Henry VIII. Females flocked to him, making fools of themselves in an attempt to attract his attention. She knew of more than one woman who would kill for a mere glance of those turquoise eyes.
Please, not me.

But against her will his face returned to haunt her, and for seven hundred and seventy seven days the images had swirled in her dreams, the spicy and sweet and bitter morsels of fantasy. She considered the eight seasons that had come and gone, the two birthdays that had reared their monotonous heads, putting from her mind the infinitesimal amount of lips she was sure had brushed his since he had sauntered into her life.
She cursed herself for a moment as the sunlight cut through the dark shade of her sunglasses, as she watched his panther-like car idle on the curb. She cursed him, too. He knew what power he had over her, no matter that for eighteen thousand, six hundred and forty-eight hours she had wished he might find her attractive. Even now, while he sat grinning at her from the open window of his sleek ride, she wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about her.
“You lookin’ for a date?” he purred in her direction.
She grinned back in spite of herself. Damn his charm. Flipping shut her eight hundred page novel, she rose from bench where she had waited for him. She was annoyed with herself, knowing she had brought the book for his benefit, hoping that he realized her brain housed more than Brangelina fodder. Her inner self rolled her eyes in disgust. She knew the type of girl he liked. And why did she care what this man thought? He would never be more to her than a handsome flirt and she felt her heart squeeze in disappointment.
She opened the passenger door and slid a long, thin, shorts-clad leg in, again aware that she did so to elicit his admiration.
It worked.
She felt her blood rush as his gaze rested on the bare skin of her thigh, hoping – though she knew better – that he wouldn’t notice the quickening of her breath.
She had to make it through the night without losing her sanity.
Or her heart.

Their laughter sprinkled the night air and she ached at the bittersweet ease that wove its way around them; one little tug and she would unravel completely. She was struck with the truth that although he was cocky, underneath his confident façade lay an insecure little boy, one who constantly amazed her as each new layer was revealed, his mind more attractive than his beautiful face.
The proverbial line loomed on the horizon, one that they both wanted to cross, she knew. She felt it in the way his eyes brushed her face, and in the electricity that sparkled across her fair skin.
At midnight he walked her to her door and with a hesitation so brief she might have imagined it, he accepted her proposal and followed her inside.
He lay on the bed.
He offered her the place beside him.
She said she was afraid.
At that word his gaze softened, replaced by what she might have deemed regret if she hadn’t known better, hadn’t been aware that she was merely taking her place in a long line of females. So she pretended she didn’t see his eyes go dark and lowered herself into the crook of his heavily muscled arm.
When would she learn? The question hung in the air as his divine mouth found hers and she was swept into his Herculean grasp.
Oh god, his kiss. She danced in a storm of falling stars, purple night gripping the edges of her conscience, and she fought to keep from drowning in the fiery waters of desire. She had never tasted anything so sweet, except perhaps the kiss of another man so long ago, one who appeared sometimes in the crinkle of laughter around the eyes of the man whose lips she now devoured.
She felt the hum of irony against her skin as she sluggishly contemplated why she insisted on self-torture. Their case had been tried endlessly for two years. They could never be together, she knew that. “Opposites attract” had been the best argument of the defense, but the jury knew that adage would never hold up in the court of her heart.
For some people, beliefs in complete opposition were the icing on the cake, but not for her. Never for her. She was always left with a sticky mess, one she had cleaned up more times than she cared to remember and she wondered where this kiss would lead, wondered if she had the strength to tidy the ravaged heart he was sure to leave behind.
Why did he have to know how perfectly to touch her? Why did her body ignore what her brain commanded, to rip her mouth from his, to tear his hand from her breast? He murmured her name against her neck and she was flooded with the scent of him, blackberry sin and October starlight.
She knew this would change things.
This night wasn’t like the times she had kissed a mere stranger, one who made her body tingle but failed to reach the part of her that mattered. This time she had given pieces of her heart to the man who held her now, in amounts so small she’d hardly noticed and the realization dawned that he had more of it than she had ever intended.
And then his mouth left hers and he was talking, and she fought him as he raised her to the pedestal that so many men put her on. But he was stronger than she and so she went rigid, balancing precariously on the edge of her jewel-encrusted prison.
She listened to his words as they floated up to her perch, I’m not good enough. Don’t love me. You. Are. Perfect.
She didn’t have the strength to combat his misconceptions. Her body was still weak from the heat of his mouth, from the delicious bruise his fingers had left when he accidentally held her too hard, and the lazy gaze of his honey-lashed eyes.
And so she lay down on her golden throne and tried to forget, tried to ignore the melodic lilt of his voice as he said out loud what her heart already knew.
She wished he didn’t have the power to read her so well. He saw it. Her tragic flaw.
She ached to save those who only sought destruction.
But what about me? She silently wept. Sometimes even superheroes need a savior.

What Happens In Vegas

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 02:37:00 +0000

I've always wondered if the adage "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" ever rang true for any other cities. Cities of prevalent size, with a large amount of culture and history, and a respectable handful of denizens - like, say, Atlanta. Sure in a city so big late Saturdays spent dancing with a stranger at three am would freeze in time, only to be revisited in memory, right? However, I recently learned in a most ironic and hilariously humiliating way, that Atlanta is unfortunately NOT one of these cities.
It started off like any other birthday party, except this time I was dressed to kill and had landed on the VIP guest list, and we all strutted behind the birthday boy as he made his way through the nightclub. Much to my chagrin, Devil Boy - a purveyor of nightlife I had met on a former evening - had managed to skip on this occasion, leaving me with nary a straight dance partner. Well, there was one, but his sexuality was a puzzlement to all the partygoers, so I tried in vain to search for a boy who I was sure appreciated female assets.
2:30 am dawned and I was still high and dry, having been saved by Colin from a "Party Boy" by two beefy jocks. Ashley and I stood against the wall, trying desperately to avoid the slosh of liquid from precariously held cups, bemoaning ad nauseum that we had yet to get a good dance in. The night was coming to a close, after all.
Heaven must have heard my plea - later musings told me that perhaps the Devil's minions were involved instead - for out of the darkness HE came, straight over to...Ashley? Oh HELL no!
Broad shoulders, tapered waist, and a whif of - was that Abercrombie Fierce? - leaned nonchalantly against the wall next to my best friend, so I sidled up to her faster than Ali Baba could say open sesame. His back to me, I quickly ducked beneath his propped arm, and doing my best impersonation of Jessica Rabbit, I lifted heavily-decorated lashes to meet his gaze.
Nice.
He flashed a grin at me and I giggled, sounding like a dope and unfortunately noting that my idiocy couldn't be blamed on alcohol as I'd had none. Ashley and I stood against the edge of the DJ's stage as self-proclaimed "Cripp" introduced us to "Rip", his best friend forever. Rip declared they weren't lovers, further arguing his sexuality with Ashley that although he was a shoe designer, he was NOT gay. I took full advantage of the distraction, and like any good girlfriend would do, I stole Cripp all for myself.
Score.
Lady Gaga sang incoherently about her poker face while Tweedledeedum and Tweedledeedumber literally danced ON us, employing moves I’m certain can only be called “Dance Rape the Wallflowers.” I wanted Cripp closer, so I gripped the long, silky length of his…TIE, of course. Mind Gutter Patrol IS on duty, folks. I reeled him in and spent the next two songs trying to ignore the extra dance partner that had joined the space between the two of us.
He leaned in, whispering dark promises of special moves in private rooms and I gasped at him in horror. Well, mock horror at least. Heaven knows half of me was tempted to take him up on his offer, but that half knew she’d be bitch-slapped by the good twin later, so as the lights came on and the bouncers ushered us to the door, I reluctantly bade the Chippendale Twins goodnight.
Two nights later I decided to wash my soul clean again and attended Prime – ironically close in name to Primal, the nightclub – an organization of twenty-somethings who met for contemporary Christian worship and preaching. I took my seat next to Ashley in the same spot for the third week in a row, and settled in to sing along with the praise band.
The first note stuck with a squeal in my throat as I watched a pretty girl and handsome boy decked in Abercrombie make their way down the row of seats in front of us. The stopped directly in front of my chair, right in my line of vision so that there was no mistaking what I was praying fervently was a dream.
Cripp.
My fingernails dug red crescent moons in Ashley’s skin as I gripped her arm and pointed frantically. Her response of wide-eyed shock proved to me that I wasn’t – unfortunately – mistaken, and before common sense could intervene, fight or flight rushed through my blood and I reached out and grabbed his arm.
“Hey!” I yelled over the thrumming music.
He appeared completely flabbergasted at the audacity of a complete stranger invading his personal space, so I took advantage of his pause and asked, “Were you at Primal Saturday night?”
I could swear I literally saw beads of sweat form on his brow in a record two point one milliseconds.
“Uhh, yeah…why?” He glanced up sharply, searching my face, harrowed consternation in his eyes and I almost laughed as I watched his mind swim quickly through hazy memories.
“You totally danced with me!” I yelled into his ear, reminded again of the way a mere forty-eight hours before we had maneuvered in this very fashion, cheeks pressed together as I tried to avoid the kiss he was so ready to give. I failed to mention his titillating offer, certain he would remember it.
He looked nervously at the young blonde beside him, his girlfriend I supposed, and shook his dark head curtly. “I was there, but I don’t remember you. Maybe you’ve got the wrong guy.”
KSU student, business major, twenty-two years old. You drink Budlight and own a black and white striped skinny tie, Abercrombie being a favorite brand of yours. And what was that you said about a girlfriend? Oh, right, that you didn’t have one because you were too young for a relationship. Want me to tell Blondie for you? Better to break her heart now while it’s just getting started.
I said all of this mentally and to his back of course, as he had shut me out of further conversation when he turned to face the music. I should have told him the music was standing right behind him.
I contemplated burning holes in his beautifully shaped neck and cursed my lack of magical powers. Perhaps I still had a poison dart in my purse? But no, that was used on the last pilot who tried to accost me. Alas, I sat there unable to do anything except focus every channel of my mind on the words of the songs and not the ironic position of our bodies, his back to my front, except this time there was a plastic chair as a partition. Thank goodness.
I flippantly pondered the paradox of a wolf in sheep’s clothing, reflecting on my much-argued point with my mother, that just because a boy attends church, it does NOT mean he is worth dating.
I kept my eyes from meeting Ashley’s, for certain uncontrollable laughter was inevitable should I look at her. I glanced again at Blondie, skinny of course, and cute, and I wanted to hate her, but there was such an aura of innocence and trust in the way she slipped her fingers through his and rested her curly flaxen head on his shoulder that I ached to tell her the truth.
RUN, sweetheart, and never look back.
She dutifully took notes in her Bible while he barely even glanced at the passages on the screen and I wished again for heat vision. At this point, however, a machete would do the job I had in mind just as efficiently. I waited on pins and needles for the end of the service, anxious to see what awkward conversation would befall me.
I needn’t have worried. The speaker had barely uttered “amen” before Cripp snatched Blondie’s hand, and with his head buried conveniently in the colorful screen of his iPhone, he scurried past my bold stare and out of sight.
“I’ve seen them here before,” Ashley said as she watched them make a run for it. “Every week they sit in that spot. I know, because Cripp has a distinctive blonde streak in his hair and your friend Zach wants to date the cute girl.”
I suddenly realized she was right – I HAD seen them before.
“Should we chase them down and tell her?” the other half of my Dynamic Duo asked with shining eyes. They were eager with the anticipation of retribution.
I laughed. Who needs a machete when I’ve got Ashley?
I declared that unfortunately Blondie was sure to discover what a dud followed her to church on Monday nights, a dog salivating for just one thing, and I prayed that the potential damsel in distress wouldn’t settle for a frog in place of Prince Charming.
Ashley agreed and sighed with a chuckle.
“Such a calamity would only happen to you, Mere. Only you.”

But then again, what good is a Drama Queen without the jesters and ill-fated suitors of her ever-entertaining court?

Love in the Time of Pyramids

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 02:36:00 +0000

Another of my dreams...

I grew up with two boys from my small hometown, specifically Drake and Josh from the ridiculous Nickelodeon show. However, they were my best friends and not the stars of a sitcom, and summers passed in a blur with them. We had hundreds of adventures as kids, traveling to all parts of the globe with our vast imagination. I never had feelings past friendship for Josh, not as a child at least. It wasn't until years later, when they both returned home from college and we all sat on the beach by the blue ocean that I realized I was in love with him.
I wasn't sure if he felt the same and so we tiptoed around the subject, both unwilling to ruin what might otherwise stay a perfect friendship. He had changed so much from the husky boy he used to be. He was taller now, lean, with muscles flowing in places I daren't look for fear of giving myself away, that he might see the way my gaze lingered on the olive tone of his broad jawline or the ripe fullness of his beautiful mouth. I barely knew him anymore, and yet, I knew him better than I knew myself, and the irony of that did not escape me. We had been together since the days when pretenses were not to be bothered with, when one's word was as good as a written contract, and I wondered at the silent attraction that I was sure hovered between us, ached that we had lost the ability to telecommunicate.
The day came when I realized my grandmother was sick and I watched the agony on her face as she tried to get up from her chair, the twist of her hips too excruciating to bear. She lived in her wheelchair now, and the days of homemade chocolate chip cookies and sweet tea had come to a close. I sat with Drake and Josh in our old treehouse and they talked to me until the dam of tears broke and I cried a thousand tears for the pain in my grandmother's eyes. I never wanted her to be like that. She was too good to suffer such a fate.
Before I realized what was happening, Josh placed his hand on mine and the treehouse suddenly vanished, replaced by the whiz of rushing scenery. I knew somehow that he was taking me through our childhood memories, the ones he had stored with precious care in the deepest part of his mind, kept there for a day when he might need them most. I saw the past and the future, kings and courtesans, and test flew the first airplane with Wilbur and Orville. We swam with the dolphins and slept in a rainforest and sailed with Christopher Columbus to the Americas. Josh's hand felt perfect in mine and I never wanted the journey to stop. The flow of pictures slowed and stopped until we stood together in front of the great Sphinx, our bare feet in the warm sand of Egypt, the pyramids looming in the distance as the setting sun cast fire on the dust.
I knew this was it. He was going to make love to me here, all alone, just me and him and the ghosts of the ancient gods and I had never wanted anything more in my entire life. I loved him so much that I hardly had room to breathe and I almost wanted to make the feeling stop, so covered in peace that I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He kissed me when the night shrouded us and then the sun rose the next morning as his sandy fingers traced circles on my bare hip.
I wanted to tell the world how happy I was, but when I was ushered back into reality, no one seemed to care that my world was now paradise. Mother and father merely shook his hand and I wondered why they pretended not to know the boy who spent summers on their backporch until I realized that he was Tyler Cole, a flight attendant and intensely attractive man, but not the love of my life. I tried not to panic, assuring myself that I would find Josh again and went about introducing Tyler in as normal a fashion as possible, as if my entire world hadn't been turned upside down. He loved me, I knew, and I felt guilty that I only half-heartedly returned his affections. His arms felt wrong somehow, too strong. When his adept fingers kneaded the knots in my shoulders, I tried to ignore the pulsing in my blood, sure that my attraction was merely displaced because I couldn't find Josh.
Jessica LaRegina sat at the kitchen table when she met Tyler, scowling her disapproval as continued to sketch Marie Antoinette's slippers on sheets of white paper.

Suddenly Josh and Tyler and Jessica disappeared and I lived in New York City. I took the subway to work every morning where I worked as a writer for a magazine. As I meandered through the near-empty station, I began humming a tune that seemed to come from inside me, a song I didn't actually know but made up as I went along. There were no words, but the pristine tone of my voice echoed off the walls and I suddenly turned to see a group of people following in my footsteps, humming a back up harmony for the original melody that was escaping my lips of its own accord.
I smiled at the scene, somehow aware that I was dreaming because a morning like this was impossible. When I came out of the subway, there was a man waiting for me, a middle-aged black man dressed in a fedora and a theadbare suit, all varying shades of brown.
"You're good, you know," he said to me.
I was surprised, not sure what he was talking about.
"Back there in the subway. I heard you singing. I'm the owner of Phelini's and I'm directing a musical, an off-Broadway production, and I want you to try out. I haven't heard a voice as clear as yours in a very, very long time . Come see me - my store is at the corner of 9th and Broadway."
I was shocked and unsure I was actually awake as I thanked him and hurried to find Christina. She waited for me at our usual bench, the one where we caught the last bus into work. I tried to tell her about it, still confused as to how it had actually happened, and I asked what Phelini's was.
"Oh my goodness, only the biggest music store in NYC!! You're so lucky - don't test fate. You MUST try out!!"
Then Mr. Phelini was in front of us as he handed us each a red business card, and I remembered worrying that he was going to get hit by the purple bus if he didn't get out of the street.
He heard me gush to Christina about our future as Tony-winning Broadway stars, and the last thing I heard was the linger of his jovial laughter as he got behind the wheel of our bus and began to drive away.
I wondered if he had tricked us.

And then I woke up.

Primal Instinct

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Mon, 23 Mar 2009 03:10:00 +0000

Excitement at a feat untried weighs deliciously on the air. Three women as yet uninitiated into the world of fantasy hover on the edges of it, like catalyst snowflakes to a crushing avalanche. They are as rare as Unicorns and the funny thing is they seem to forget how well those creatures weave magic.
The night breeze is silky against their skin as they laughingly link arms, personal style undiminished even at the daunting prospect of judgemental once-overs.
Let them stare, the fiery red-head muses. After all, she is no stranger to unwanted appraisals at the cost of being unique. She is glad she wore her leather cowboy boots. Or cowgirl. She grins mischeivously to herself.

They promenade along the city sidewalk until the yawning door is before them. Timidly they step back, pushing the leader of the pack to enter first as he laughingly acquiesces, remnants of ocean water and his last cigarette still clinging to his Parisian leather jacket.
The darkness swallows them whole and now they know there is no going back as they sign their names in the book, still huddled together, the thrill of potential wickedness pricking their skin as tendrils of pulsing music tickle their ears. Their leader snakes his way through the dark night club looking for all the world like a Rockstar with clutching groupies, no matter that he'd rather kiss the boy lurking at the edge of his female entourage.

The hazy blackness is suddenly shot through with lines of brilliant colors, glowing needles on a midnight quilt and the one in the cowboy boots marvels at the striking beauty. Shards of leftover diamonds glitter on her skin as she glides beneath the immense disco ball, noticing the light gives her best friend's skin an ethereal glow.
The bar is ahead and she follows her Rockstar, pretending she has done this more times than she can count, surprised at how comfortably she wears the color-stricken darkness. Yelling her drink of choice over the roar of the music, she is glad no one can see her blush as she tells a strange man she wants Sex on the Beach. Although she has tasted many flavors, she's never had a drink before. Never one to call her own, not really a fan of double straws and plastic cups. But tonight is a night of firsts and she smiles inwardly as she sips the naughty cocktail, congratulating herself for remembering that she likes the taste of this one.

City air welcomes them as her group takes respite on the cool patio, the beat of the music changing as the ivy-clad walls absorb the quiet murmurs of cozy couples. Laughingly they pose for numerous photos, blue lightening against the night sky as the camera captures new friends and old, the two women in heels giggling with the Unicorns as the Rockstar drags long on his fresh cigarette.
An arm raises in salutation as another group joins them, hasty introductions exchanged as conversations quickly ensue and the auburn-tressed virgin chides herself for the lingering glance she gives the dark-eyed devil in their midst. But now he has her in his grip and she can't escape, nor does she want to. She likes how free she feels and hardly thinks she can blame the vulgarity in her glass - even without the alcohol she often fights the dark side of her nature. A truer Gemini there never was.

She moves with the flow of their ever expanding crew, boys who love boys and the women who wish they didn't parading back to the luminescent dance floor. Fingers thread through hers and she can hardly tell who is guiding her as the beat pounds rhythm into her blood. She dances like no one is watching, drowning in a carefree ocean. She spies the Devil watching her, his gaze full of enticing temptations. Dark and light duel inside her, forces clashing like swords of steel, and she is faced with two choices. Snow rests on one shoulder while crimson stains the other and it isn't long before she feels the scarlet threads join the raging tapestry in her veins.
They move together, molten lava racing through her as she gasps at the sensuous prickle of his warm whiskers on her neck. Soft contours mold to hardened planes and she knows the dark is winning. She thinks he mentions demons and only grips him closer. He purrs against her ear as they swim in a flashing sea of lights, riding waves of electric passion, the residue of salty sweat tingling on their skin.

Soon, though, she feels the cold pierce of conscience and recluctantly breaks free of his tempestuous grasp. He is too dangerous. From the wall she watches her friends mingle with the crowd, exotic strangers to this new world and she thrills at the knowledge that men crave those women who are hard to catch. She is glad to be herself, an individual with many shining facets, two separate beings in one body and she wonders at her ability to adapt to her surroundings.
Maybe she shouldn't question it.

The dark is decadent, after all.

Who Knew Unicorns Could Dance?

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Mon, 23 Mar 2009 03:07:00 +0000

Two weeks after my twenty-first birthday I was invited to a co-worker's birthday party. I Mapquested the address and arrived on time, swinging my Sentra into the dark parking lot. I glanced at the address again, not sure I was at the right place.
That's when I noticed the purple lights showingcasing Diamonds - the night club was smack in the middle of a deserted strip mall. At least three homeless people were scrounging in the dumpster and I was quite certain I was the whitest thing for at least fifty miles.
My key never left the ignition.
I have avoided clubs ever since, the horror of my first experience seared into my memory as I assumed all dance joints were the same.

I recently discovered my male Twin - read: soulmate if only he wasn't gay. Oh, the disappointments in life. He invited my girls and me out on a Friday night, promising wicked fun and plenty of gorgeous men for all of us. Jigna, Ashley, and I set about looking hot, forlornly surveying our closets and finding little in the way of "clubbing attire." In the end we chose what made us stand out, ironically all wearing varying shades of gray, laughing at our self-made titles: Indian Sex Kitten, Sultry Princess, and Fun-loving Flirt.

We made our way to Colin's house, discovering upon arrival that my Twin displayed black cowboy boots, a perfect match to the ones on my feet. Hmm, maybe I can Google a gay-reversal spell. He introduced us to his friends Alyson and Cydney and we all laughed as Alyson declared war against Colin's razor for mauling her shapely legs. She lost so much blood from the cuts that she could have been a traveling Red Cross. The clock struck ten and we piled in the car to head downtown, pathetic mimics of Bollywood dancers as we jammed to the Slumdog Millionaire score.

We swung by Chip's place, another of the lovely gays we met through Colin, and crowded into the living room as introductions were exchanged. Jeff and I did flight attendant fingers, the typical gesture upon meeting a new co-worker in "real" life.
Then I saw him.
Oh snap.
Tattoos, dark hair, sinful eyes - please let him be straight, please let him be straight, please let him be straight! I chanted inwardly. Thankfully my reverie was interrupted and my attentions diverted by a squeal from Jigna as the resident mini-dog tried to make chew toys of her fingers. We laughingly assured her he was no harm but I played the loyal friend and protected her from Fifi's canines.

Finally, our group ever-growing, we zipped through Atlanta until at last we arrived at Primal, a mere door on the side of a plain building. I was surprised until we stepped indoors - the place opened up on itself and we played Colin's entourage as he informed the staff with a flourish that he was on The List. The dance floor was suddenly before us and I finally stopped to notice what the rest of the fair sex was wearing. Shit. The entire disco-illuminated space was full of toothpicks in LBD's. Actually, make that Practically Invisible Little Black Dresses. Too bad I left mine at the back of my closet. Oh wait, I don't own a PILBD. Perhaps my dominatrix outfit would suffice - even then I'd be wearing more than three girls here put together. Added to mental checklist: polish my metal corset.

Colin's friend Justin tended bar as Colin ordered the first round of shots. Ashley and I being non drinkers - as in we've never downed at entire glass of alcohol in our twenty-two years - we tentatively anticipated what my Twin called a Space Pussy. Personally I think they should rename it Cat-In-Orbit and omit potential clientele embarrassment. A toast to the night and we all guzzled the pink liquid as cool fire coated my insides.
Interesting.
Jigna and I sipped our Sex on the Beach while Ashley nursed her weakened Appletini and we all posed for pictures on the patio. Our new friend Marcus was there, his broad smile Cheshire-like against his dark skin. We chatted about the wiles of KFC going healthy while I halfway flirted, resolving to take my Gaydar to the shop for a checkup as soon as possible. Josh mentioned his ex-girlfriend while he ahhed over Jigna's clothes, declaring we all must have gay men who shopped for us. I exchanged confused looks with my friends. I reeeaaaalllly need to get that Gaydar fixed.

We all made our way back to the dance floor to break it down as I pondered my state of consciousness. Am I drunk? I don't feel drunk. Then again, what exactly does drunk feel like? I'm pretty sure I'll remember it all in the morning and that's what counts, right? Then I laughed giddily as I almost tripped and I reconsidered my musings.
Usher yelled "Yeah" and I was transported back to Prom, thanking my stars that I was enjoying myself MUCH more this night. Most of the boys and girls got dirty, hips grinding and booties shaking as the loud beat pounded through the cement floor.

I took a breather and tried to ignore Devil boy, for upon discovering he was straight he may as well have pinned me to the wall with his wicked pitchfork, so strong was his hold over me. I mentioned to him that I liked bad boys. "Then you'd better stay away from me," he murmured temptingly. Damn him. Those dark ones always know what they are doing.
Ashley was swept away by a hottie with a body from West Virginia and Jigna chatted flirtatiously with a guy who called himself Bermuda. I thought I should warn her that she might get lost if she stayed around him too long. I stood there and stuck out my lip, abandoned by the gays, the Blood Bank and Cydney nowhere in sight, and swearing I'd never end up like the Asian wallflowers on the far side of the room, I grabbed the Devil's hand.
"Let's dance."

Before I knew it we were practically one person, fused together from top to bottom as we swayed to the beat, and I suddenly started to panic.
Oh god, could I get pregnant? I was pretty sure this was safe, but dear gosh, there were countless demons mere inches from me. I feared their iron will might cause them to swim through four layers of clothing and there is no WAY I'm gonna have a kid. I've already told my parents that any child of mine will be left in a basket on their doorstep and they have my permission to christen it Moses, no matter the sex.
Although I knew I was overreacting, the thought of a kid made my head swim - or maybe it was the liquor, but I'm just saying - and I reluctantly broke free as Chip and Russell made a seqway in and I joined them in their dance. Our entire group was there, Cydney and Alyson right at home on top of the box, and we shook it till the lights came on. Colin loudly congratulated us for closing down the club.

We wound down the night in Russell's retro studio on Tenth Street, his giant white headboard the coolest thing I've ever seen. Kathy Griffin droned on the plasma television as a drunken Jeff and Josh begged me to belt out Broadway - perhaps if I had had as much to drink as THEM I'd have been warbling like a Mimi on crack. We gathered our things to go and bid everyone farewell, promising to join them all again soon. Surprisingly the boy I deemed Devilish ensured that my girlfriends and I made a safe arrival to my car, a real-life Ying Yang, good and bad in the perfect recipe.

I fell into bed back at the apartment, glancing at the clock before I drifted off.
5 am.
I giggled. It had definitely been a night to remember.

Frayed

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Thu, 19 Mar 2009 18:22:00 +0000

He touches her skin with a lover’s intent, but sparkles fail to glitter. She wills them into existence; she begs the shiver to swim in her veins. Realization sinks like lead into the well of her sorrow, ever expanding ripples in the grey waters until tears sting the backs of her eyes. She holds them there as she stifles a gasp and she wonders if he can taste the forced fervor in her kiss.
Time and again it happens this way and she hates herself for lying. Her lips never speak untruths but her heart fails to leap and therein lies the real deception.

He says the fated words, three icicles shattering on the pavement of her soul. She wishes she could glue them back together as if he never said them, wishes she could return the pieces in their original purity, but there isn’t time for that. She knows what is expected of her – and who does she really have to blame but herself? She knows he doesn’t see through her. He doesn’t want to. And so she mimics his romantic admission, melted ice becoming black rivers in her blood.

Her heart hardly beats at the thought of him; in fact, it seems to flutter more ardently as she ponders her potential freedom, like a bird trapped inside basement rafters on a sunny day. She is losing herself as the days drag on. She dies a little more each time his eyes brighten when he sees her.
She is sure she is defective in some way – when he holds her she burns with indecision, overheated in the circle of his arms. She is floating in a sea of safety, and the only handhold is the ladder to complacency.
She knows she would rather drown.

And so she ends it, just as she always knew it would. She asks him if he ever suspected their demise and he answers no. There is nothing but sincerity behind his glassy eyes and she resists the urge to gag at the pain she knows she is putting him through.
He won’t hate her though she begs for it. The well of her tears has finally overflowed and she feels it is bottomless, so endlessly do they fall. He thanks her for respecting him. If only he knew. The salt water rivers on his face cut canyons in her heart and she aches to know she is the cause of his agony. He is so good, so kind, loyal, and honest.
She doesn’t deserve to be happy for hurting him this way. She isn’t sure if it is worth wanting fire on her skin when she fears his heart will forever remain frozen.

His one request is that she continues as his friend, for that is what they have become, is it not? She ponders his plea, and later begs advice from objective listeners.
No, they tell her. Be wise. You will only hurt him more.
She knows they speak truth and yet she is selfish, she wants to have her cake and eat it too and damn them all, she agrees. She trusts his declaration that it will carry on as a mere friendship, that he won’t beg her back nor accept her repeal should she feel so inclined to offer it.
And so she leaves the black ribbons of heartache uncut, the edges as yet unraveled, and she prays they will stay that way. But loose ends left to tarry in the wind often meet a tattered demise. She forgets she already knew that. She longs for a flame, shimmering heat to melt the frayed boundaries of her heart, numb, unfeeling hardness left behind. He stands before her now, and they both know this is the true finale. He asks her to reconsider.
But she has made her decision and there is no going back, though she stings all over at the thought of him with another. She is surprised she hasn’t yet suffocated in the black tar of selfishness nestled where her heart should be. Maybe that is her punishment. To long for death, to ache for a respite from the scalpel through her gut and never receive it.

He struggles to keep his composure as she turns to walk away. For his sake he can’t know she is barely held together, like an ice cube in August, and it is only a matter of time before she disappears completely.
The echo of his words is chiseled on her soul.
“Goodbye, my love.”
She watches him through the window as he slowly fades from sight, the defeated slump of his shoulders forever imprinted on her memory. She whispers to the universe to give him the woman of his dreams, pledging her own perfect match as a sacrifice for his happiness. Raindrops run across the glass pane, colors blurring together, the dripping scene something Monet would paint.

She realizes it’s only her tears.

Lions and Tigers and Pilots, oh my!

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Tue, 17 Mar 2009 06:37:00 +0000

It's almost funny the way they feel me out - not to be confused with feeling me up, which, incidentally, is another of their tactics, but I will get to that. They are all so predictable, each no different than the last. As prey in the world of flying predators, I have grown accustomed to the stealth - or lack thereof - with which these pilots stalk.

It begins with a flash of pearly whites - or sometimes slightly browns - in my direction. After the third implication-laden grin I grow suspicious. The smile I wore on our initial meeting becomes a mere sticker on my face, plastered there for all to see, albeit few recognize that it's actually fake. My eyes sheath dangerous daggers, but like most animals at the top of the food chain, they feel invincible, and fail to note the danger belied in my clover stare.

Mistaking my faux-grin for an actual smile they attempt a PG joke, one bordering on slightly inappropriate. After which, of course, they snicker together as if no one gets it but them, reminding me of horny middle school boys. As is typical in the airline industry, there are many "pretty young things" out there, my crew usually consisting of at least one of them. And that one typically laughs loudest at the simpering one-liner, a flick of her hair or an "omg, that's SOOO funny" accompanying her high-pitched giggle.
If I do laugh it is out of politeness and the deflection of potential drama, but it rarely grows past a grunted "ha." If I'm in a supremely good mood - as in, I just won the $200 million lottery, I may give an extra "ha." If the wise-crack goes beyond a simple innuendo, I don't care if I become an instant billionaireness - I ain't laughin'. A lightbulb seems to go off if there is another female to guffaw at their lame attempt at standup comedy and the attackers retreat for a while, their attention spent on a captive audience. I thank God for my brief respite.

Like a cat and mouse, though, they return to play with their food, seemingly unable to keep their paws off me. Often it is an "accidental" brush of their fingertips across my back, the beginnings of a very dangerous game. Almost without a conscious effort my shoulders go rigid and I stay frozen until their mealy hand leaves, doubting that the callous hunters notice any difference. Unlike their friends in the wild they are terrible predators, only attuned to the most blatant signals. No wonder men never bothered flirting with the Amazon Women - they wouldn't have survived.
Some have the nerve to freely place their hands about my waist or in the small of my back as they "move me out of their way." Hey, I know, how about you Google the phrase "EXCUSE ME?" Then again, most of them are too lazy to even fly the plane, more often than not pushing the Easy Button and setting everything to autopilot. Of COURSE they can't be bothered with pretenses. Although it coud be that they are just too ancient to understand modern English, resorting to motion-infused grunts and cave-man paintings on the galley walls to communicate their needs.

A once over with their weasly eyes is often followed by the typical wink they employ when an outright cat-call must be tamed. I offer them the subtle jaw-clench. Or perhaps not so subtle. At times it feels like I'm biting through metal so dedicated am I in my endeavor to prove that body language and non-verbal cues are ninety percent of communication. I can hardly blame them for failing to understand. Obviously their vocabulary is very limited - sex, sex, and oh yeah, more sex. They probably think the Jaw Clench is one of the 265 Flirtatious Moves screaming from the cover of the current Cosmo mag.

Nights at the bar are definitely NOT the highlights of my trips, but hours on a plane is often cause for a raging appetite and so I go for the chips and salsa if nothing else. Being late is something I loathe with my very core, but if it ensures that the seats on both sides of the perching vultures are filled, I would gladly wait an eternity. As glasses are emptied and bellies slosh with poison, the real games begin.
I get a feeling right before it happens. Often it is reminiscent of sickness, like the hints of nausea before the virus hits full force. The fifty-year-old Captain, who sports a shiny bald spot with greasy leftover salt and pepper strands and a beer belly too large for a maternity top, makes his way to my place, wheezing his alcohol laden laugh in my direction. I'm waiting for the day I pass out from holding my breath. Note to self: stock up on smelling salts.
They often try their pathetic talent of beating around the burning loins bush, seeking refuge in innuendoes meant to evoke nervous laughter from the intended victim. I don't even take out my plastic grin, instead I merely strike right below the belt - "Yeah, Grandpa, I'll be sure to remember that next time we fly together!"
Brow furrows as realization dawns, and then, thank the heavens above, it becomes increasingly uncomfortable as he finally takes his long awaited cue and exits stage right.
I am saved. Awkward silence lingers for a few moments as the rejected auditioner returns to his seat, looking for all the world like a Dunce complete with pointy hat. At least, that's what I picture when I look at him. Inevitably my insides start to hurt from screaming with surpressed laughter.

Soon enough the conversation picks back up where it left off before the One Man Show; I gladly sink unnoticed into the background, people-watching, gears turning, my elders unknowingly showcasing valuable life lessons to the pulsing refills of beer on draft and the acrid sting of cigarette smoke.
Silently I thank them.

Burn

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Thu, 26 Feb 2009 00:45:00 +0000

She wanders through the clothing store, the high ceiling and unseen walls lending an infinite feeling to the building.
"He's waiting for you," they tell her. She stares in surprise at the women browsing through Gucci and Prada. Surely they can't mean it.
"Back there." The motion with their manicured hands to the back of the store, her eyes barely making out the sign of a restaurant in the far distance.
She turns to ask how they know but suddenly the store has disappeared from view and she is standing in the front of his workplace, the smell of smoke and alcohol strong on the wafting air. In trepidation, knots clenching her stomach, she pushes against the giant wooden door and enters.
It is dark inside, and although she hears the murmur of voices, there is not a soul present. She makes her way to the bar, the shiny oak surface gleaming in the dim light, hoping that someone will appear soon to alleviate her anxious nerves.
And then there he is, the dark edges of his hair curling around his angular cheeks. She longs to reach out and sweep the stray raven lock from his eyes, chartreuse embers lit from within. His fingers graze her cheek as she leans into his palm, his hand warm against her winter-white skin. She waits for him to speak.

"Listen, I..." his voice trails away. She knows what he is going to say and still she waits.
"I love you, so much." She hears the passion in his voice, the ache of words long repressed.
And suddenly the darkness is shattered with bright light, colors shooting through her veins as his lips find hers, as his fingers grip her waist, pressing her body hard against the rippling muscle beneath his cotton shirt.
He carries her as if she is weightless, his mouth never leaving her delicious grasp. He roughly sets her on the counter, his long arm clearing the dishes with one sweep, his hands on her knees as he yanks her hips to the edge. She feels his hardness at her tingling place and moans, her skin screaming against the fabric of her jeans, begging to be free, sobbing to touch him without barriers. He is moving again and she gasps in pleasant pain as she is half-thrown against the wall of the back room, the heat in his tiger's gaze enough to set fire to her soul.
She craves the burn.

And then...sadly, I woke up.

Torn

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Wed, 25 Feb 2009 16:45:00 +0000

He stands in the distance, his broad silhouette dark against the turquoise sea, the grey-green of his eyes like storm tossed waves. He waits for her there, all fire and light and passion. She longs again for the brand of his skin on hers, for the poison of his kiss, aches for the deep promise in his gaze. Memories unconsciously summoned slam through her, their power to cease rational thought almost frightening.
She sees the question in his stance, in the way he leans towards her, unsure, not quite certain even of his own desires. And yet, she hears the longing in his voice as he calls her name over the crashing of the afternoon tide, willing her to be his and stay.
The sea and sky are the perfect lovers, she notes, the way they fit together, storms and peace and inspiration united in their blue expanse. She sways for a moment. Would life be that way were she move now into the haven of his embrace? She recalls his declaration of love and while she believes his heart she isn't sure his promises are strong enough to stand on. The strength of his word is at times as flimsy as the distant sand dunes, barely able to withstand the weighty tests of truth and loyalty.

Miles away another man waits for her in the coolness of the cottage, his love and dedication proven true. He knows not that she stands here in rigid indecision, choosing between passion and propriety. How his heart would bleed. He is so good, so kind, so devoted...and yet, she longs for the frenzied cascade of drowning emotions when her gaze meets that of the man on the far shore.
Sunlight catches a single tear as it falls unheeded, a shining diamond on her fair cheek. She savors the salty sea on her lips, remembering again his mouth on hers, tasting the kiss of the man in the cottage. A fond smile brushes her lips but it fails to reach her eyes. She feels nothing. No storms or peace or inspiration. She is safe with him and taking risks brings dangerous and thrilling adventures. But adventures make her heart live and spirit sing.
And so she is decided.

She hears her name on the wind as he calls to her yet again, the sound of his musical voice caressing each syllable, the allure of fire and unswerving desire almost tangible in its deep rumble. Even as she steps towards his waiting arms she knows she has at least chosen truth if not wisdom. Her heart will forever be wandering if she goes back to that seaside cottage, if she lets him kiss her, lets him shower her with adoration and undying promises. She cannot deny this part of her any more than she can deny his complete happiness.
Lies do not become her.

Oh, What I Would Have Done For a Bridge Over Troubled Water

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 21:05:00 +0000

Childhood summers are often remniscent of two main events - fun and trouble. It was hard to seperate the two, my thirst for exotic adventures in the confines of my own backyard rarely sated unless the escapade ended in near misses with the iron fist of the law, in most cases my mother. Perhaps that is why, in the summer of my thirteenth year, I listened to my cousin and thereby ended up in one of the biggest debaucles of my kid life.

We all stood at the wooden fence, my toes digging into the cool dirt while I peered into the open field in front of us, admonitions to stay out of trouble having conveniently faded from memory as I contemplated the exploit posed by my cousin, Brianna. Matti, ever the law abider and also my baby sister who had the most annoying habit of looking out for me, was skeptical.
"I don't know, Bree," she hesitated, her nasally ten year old voice grating on my nerves. I was GOING into that field.
Still, I had to cover my own tracks in case the FBI later investigated our potential catastrophe and discovered that I was heedless and therefore deserving of the repercussions, so I asked again.
"You're SURE it's okay?"
"Yeah, Mr. Bateman won't care at all!"
"So we won't get shot with his machine gun for trespassing?"
I stole a glance at Matti, smirking at the look of terror on her face. Gosh, I was such an evil big sister.
After much prodding and persuading, along with manipulative tactics such as, "Only babies are scared," we all crossed the threshold and set our flip-flopped feet onto foreign ground.

The birds soared overhead and the sun beat down on us as we ventured further and further from my cousin's house and irrevocably into mischief. Recent rains had left the ground soft with damp dirt and gave a cool edge to the July day. Unfortunately, these same rains also caused the creek in the middle of Mr. Bateman's field to swell to a hazardous level, the waters nutmeg brown and completely impervious to our eyes.
We followed it for almost a mile, the comforting rush soothing as I recalled my survival techniques - when the heroines of my favorite stories got lost they always folllowed the water and were inevitably saved from a death by aimless wandering in the end.
"Follow the water, follow the water," I chanted under my breath as Brianna's house disappeared from view.
Eventually we got lost for a while in our world of pretend, playing "shipwreck" on the island I almost broke my ankle when the limb I climbed over on gave way. Giving up on pirates and looting, we found the lowest part of the creek and crossed over, realizing that we would inevitably have to brave the murky waters again to get to the safety of Bree's house as the creek ran in an almost circular pattern around the field. Our plan was to cross back at our original point of passing, where the water barely reached our calves and the distance from one side of the bank to the other could be scaled in a few steps.

As we set about collecting ingredients for mud and berry pies, my ears picked up on another sound besides the rushing creek behind us. It was an engine, the loud puttering of the motor strangely familiar. I gasped as I crawled to the edge of the brush that was hiding us as we pillaged the grove of trees for acorns, shushing my comrades as I endeavored to pinpoint any potential danger. And then I spotted him. A massive tractor loomed in the distance, its gigantic wheels headed straight for our hiding place!
"It's Mr. Bateman!" Brianna exclaimed in a hushed squeal. "Oh no! What are we going to do?"
I looked at her in incredulous horror.
"But I thought you said he wouldn't CARE, Brianna!!" I could hardly believe our misfortune. And then it dawned on me. Perhaps this Bateman guy was a descendant of those Bateman's in that Hitchcock film, and suddenly, the image of a dried-up grandma with no eyes shot icy fear straight through my veins. We must escape.
I glanced over my shoulder at Matti who had hung back, taking shelter behind a big oak. I had to take action.
"We've no choice, my friends, but to do one thing. RUN!"
Following my natural born leader instincts, my posse braced themselves to flee. Brianna warned us to bend down, seeking what cover we could from the sparse brush which separated us from Bateman and his killing machine. I can only imagine the pathetic sight we must have been, three gangly pre-teens half bent over, oblivious to the fact that running in a nintey degree angle did NOTHING to help us.
Suddenly I lost one of my favorite flip flops and cried out when my bare foot made contact with what I swore must have been an ancient Indian arrowhead.
"Your shoe!" Matti cried.
"No!" I gestured bravely. "Leave it! We must only think of our lives! Onward!" I half limped in my boomerang-shaped canter, suddenly realizing that we had left the shallowest part of the creek far behind. I stayed close to Brianna, throwing glances behind me as Psycho slowly closed in.
"Listen, our next task is to find a safe place to cross the creek."
We frantically searched for a low point but to no avail, gauging that the water was dangerously close to being over our heads.
"Here!" Bree yelled. Thank goodness, her house could be seen in the distance; I figured this part was as good as any as we began the treacherous descent down the steep muddy bank.
Brianna led the way as I stepped with trepidation in her wake, my sister grabbing fistfuls of my shirttails and sobbing with fear at the prospect of sea serpents and the Loch Ness Monster. With a shout Brianna lost her footing and fell willy nilly, sliding the rest of the way down the slope. My eyes widened as she stood, black mud covering her back side from head to toe. I began snickering, unable to contain my sputtering laughter as I finally let loose a loud guffaw at the tortured look on my cousin's face.
I should have known. She who laughs last...
Half a step later and I succumbed to the same fate, my laughter cut short as my skinny arms flailed wildly and my tailbone made sharp contact with a thick tree root.
"Gosh, Bree! Way to go!" I scolded as if somehow the fact that I tripped was her fault. I helped my blubbering sister up from the wet earth where she had inevitably followed my crash landing. I paid Brianna no mind as she crossed the creek, which, of course, was at its widest berth. I readied my capri's to wade across, rolling them up high past my knees.
"Oh no!" Matti gasped as she continued to blankly stare at me.
"What? What's your problem?" I was quickly losing patience.
She reminded me that we were supposed to attend a church function with our cousin's family that night, and in an attempt to pack lightly for our two day vacation, we'd only brought pajamas. And now, that outfit had gritty, slimy creek-bed mud spread all down the back of it. Matti wailed in consternation as I turned back to see Brianna safely on the other side. I bent to roll Matti's capri's higher as well when Brianna informed me of the futility of that gesture.
"What do you mean?" My mouth gaped open as she indicated the water mark located at her shoulders. Matti burst forth in tears anew, realizing that meant the water would be up to her neck.
"Come on!" I yelled as I began wading into the churning water. I was halfway across, the water splashing against my midriff, when I discovered Matti still stood on the bank, screaming that she refused to cross.
"You have to! Stop being such a baby!" I screamed back in an attempt to be heard over her sobs. I sloshed back to where she cowered, grabbing hold of her collar and giving it a harsh jerk. I had no choice. If her arm had been caught in a trap I'd have had to amputate it to save all our lives, and this time it was no different. I knew my duty and I wasn't about to let us all become cow food.
Unable to break free from my grasp, she had couldn't help but follow me as I literally dragged her into the water. Brianna shouted encouraging words from the opposite bank as we slowly made our way across. Suddenly, without warning, a rushing current swept through and I lost my footing on the sandy bottom. Simultaneously my cousin and sister screamed, the shout turning into a gurgle as I noted with horror that Matti was completely submerged in the dirty water. My heart leapt in my throat - did they put kids in juvy for inadvertantly drowning their sisters? My fingers still had their iron grip on the collar of her t-shirt, so I pulled as hard as I could against the current, her silt-covered brunette head popping back to the surface. She was too shocked to have a reaction until - thank goodness - we reached the other side where she promptly burst into more tears. The fence was only a few yards away, the last barrier separating us from the safety of home.

At this point I left Brianna to tend to Matti, worrying now about the massive amount of anger and punishment we were sure to encounter. After we crossed the fence, I found a sunny spot in the warm grass where we could at least dry off before facing the jury. I examined my bleeding left foot, briars and rocks having attacked it after I lost my shoe in the field.
When we had sufficiently brushed off what dried mud we could and our clothes were only slightly damp, we all silently made our way back to the front porch.
"Listen, whatever you do, do NOT open your mouths," I instructed. "I will do ALL of the talking," I said, confident that I'd finaggle us out of the worst repercussions with my glib tongue.
We waited at the front door, Matti and Brianna on either side of me as I mentally prepared my speech. They stood petulantly, with heads hung and hands clasped behind their backs just as I directed. I think my idea was to appear as forlorn as WWII POW's, therefore eliciting pity instead of retribution. Instead we all probably looked like pathetic wet sewer rats and really, who feels sorry for those? With trembling fingers I reached to ring the doorbell.
The door swung open and my aunt loomed like a giant in front of us, her eyes widening with shock at the sight. Within moments her mental calculations transformed her mouth into a thin line, her eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms, evidently ready to disbelieve any yarn we might try to spin. I knew that look. I also knew it was pointless to lie, and so I did what I did best as a kid - shifted the blame to someone else.
As I ranted and raved that Brianna said it was okay, and that I tried to be the good girl but she coerced us by saying that Mr. Bateman wouldn't care, only to recant her story and say he was trying to kill us -
My aunt cut me off, the smirk on her face barely concealed.
"Oh, Mr. Bateman wouldn't have cared if you were out there!"
And then Brianna piped up with a comment that made me want to punch her into the next century.
"Oh, I know!" As if!
I turned a hateful stare upon her as she cowered beneath my gaze. She could have prevented the entire last hour of terror. Still, we had disobeyed by crossing that blasted fence and therefore indicted punishment upon ourselves. My aunt ushered us into the laundry room where we stripped out of our dirty clothes and headed for the showers. We were lucky there was enough time to wash our clothes before church. I had to borrow shoes from Brianna.
Our punishment was to sit in separate rooms in silence until we left for church, verbal lashings having been given over the phone when Aunt Terri made us call our parents.

Although it seemed traumatic back then, like all things, given time, it morphed into a humorous and often-told story.
I don't think my parents ever let us go back to their house again

Nutmeg

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 19:30:00 +0000

The sky is that navy shade, the one when night is curling under the covers and dawn is yawning as she sleepily peeps open her umber eyes. Stomachs rumble in hunger, making midnight's lovers realize it's been hours since any real food has served their famished insides, although ravenous hunger of a different kind has been sated all too well in the blackest hours of the night.

They are the only ones in the twenty-four hour diner and the heavy-set, jolly waitress seems glad for a set of giggling clients. He steals an empty corner booth, placing a quick kiss on her pretty mouth as he pulls her down beside him. Normally she would protest his cliched representation of coupledom, but tonight she goes with it, trying on a new style of living in this second and thinking not of the next.
The bubbling waitress serves their meal cooked to order, the grits dripping salty butter, just the way she likes. He playfully grabs the spoon and digs in the gooey white mass, producing a bite much too big to be lady-like. She laughingly protests as he tickles her ribs, refusing to show any mercy unless she promises to show appreciation for what he honestly believes is a romantic gesture.
"Okay, okay!" she squeals, hurriedly procurring a napkin to alleviate the inevitable catastrophe. As she predicted, he mimicks a groom at the exchanging of cake with icing overload and makes a mess of her chin. She is too happy to be angry, though, and softly moans in wicked delight as he attempts to clean the sticky mess he made with his glib tongue, trailing her jaw lightly until his lips find her neck.

She sighs in complete contentment as she leans into the warm crook of his shoulder, her eyes drifting shut to the comforting clink of dishes and the soft sizzle of hashbrowns frying. She feels the hum of quiet laughter deep in his chest and opens a sleepy eye, biting her lip as she looks up to meet his nutmeg gaze.
"What?" she asks him with a tentative grin.
She feels the strong clasp of his fingers on her waist. He breathes deep.
"You just..." he trails off, still holding her clover stare. She stays quiet, letting his eyes speak for him.
"I know," she whispers. "Me too."
Suddenly, nutmeg brightens to cinnamon as he pulls her to him, the waitress and the restaurant and her scrupulous reservations deliciously slipping away.

How My S.A.D. Turned Glad!

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Fri, 13 Feb 2009 21:42:00 +0000

The fourteenth day of February has long been declared S.A.D. by countless singles on both sides of the sex. Single Awareness Day, also known as Valentine's Day by those lovey-dovey, ooey-gooey, mushy-gushy couples lucky enough to be in love, has always been just that to me. I am made brutally aware that I will not receive any cute button-nosed bears or heart-strewn Hallmark cards. I have always scoffed at the sentiments, but deep down I envy the recipients of that overpriced fodder. My entire life has been spent bemoaning ad naseum the unfair lonliness of those poor unfortunate souls who have no one on this day reserved exclusively for pairs.

Every year in highschool I silently cursed my peers as they walked through the hallways, oohing and ahhing over their roses and chocolate. It didn't matter that I swore I'd never WANT roses and chocolate, abhorring the typical cliche - as long as they had it and I didn't I stuck out my bottom lip and sulked until, thank goodness, hell finally came to an end.
The worst ever was my senior year, when I was confined to the gym for fourth block. As if being in that stinky, sticky, sweaty room wasn't bad enough, I was forced to watch as the Ringgold Florist unloaded bouquet after bouquet, those silly hearts and ridiculous balloons like Cupid's vomit all over the bleachers.
I pretended not to care, tried to ignore the stupid tears that stung the backs of my eyes as I watched the line form, my friends giggling in delight over their "Okay I got you flowers now what are you gonna do for me" arrangements.
It couldn't get worse, I thought as I escaped to the parking lot, glad to be rid of the nonsense.
"Meredith, wait! We got you something!" My heart jumped at the familiar voice and I turned to see two of my best friends, Austin and Angel, beckoning me to their cars. Thank goodness, at least SOMEONE cared, even if they were more like my brothers. The closer I got, though, I detected mischief in their gleaming eyes, Angel's hands behind his back as he smirked at me. I knew that look too well.
"Oh no," I lamented. "What did you get me?"
With a flourish they presented me with the one gift I ever received on Valentine's Day - a lip-print-boxer-clad, tapered-waisted Grow-A-Date.
They burst into laughter while I tried to refrain from bursting into tears, knowing they meant no harm and strangely comforted that at least they understood my pain even if they didn't exactly know how to make it better.
I never grew my date; I suppose I had hope that maybe, just maybe, I'd actually get a date for that day I have always loathed.

Years of empty 2/14's passed, and then one day, after a long layover in Milwaukee and a few flirtatious exchanges with a handsome Scotsman who now resides there, I had a glimmer of something that looked like a potential date for Cupid's holiday - and a life sized one at that.
And finally, just when I had almost become a bitter cynic, my doorstep was littered with a beautiful bouquet of purple tulips, the color and flower a perfect compliment to my tastes. Granted, I had to go to Wisconsin to find a guy who ACTUALLY wanted to go out with me, but here I am, incandescently happy to have someone special to spend V Day with. AND he's European - a born romancer!
Although it was twenty two years in the making (yes, I count the years I was little - remember the "aww" invoking kids on the front of every sweet card, their lips barely touching in an innocent kiss? Romance can happen at ANY time, people!) I have finally scored a decent man. My minutes shall be filled with whispered sweet nothings, my hours complete with long kisses and soft touches.

And that is how, after many a rejection, my S.A.D. finally became GLAD!

Hell, I deserve it.

Marked

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Wed, 04 Feb 2009 06:36:00 +0000

The restaurant glows warm with orange light, the tinkling laughter of wine glasses and the sharp clink of metal singing in the background. She doodles on the napkin in front of her, the ink as heavy as her heart at the thought of leaving him.
She doesn't feel like talking.
She aches to linger in the frigid city, warmed by the strength in his lean build, his soft skin as delightful as a late morning spent lazing in silk sheets. Dragging her thoughts back to the party, she forces a laugh at another lame joke cracked by the struggling stand up comedian across the table from her. His thin lips are distracting.
She heaves an involuntary sigh, stealing a sidelong glance at the full, heart-shaped mouth of the man beside her. She smiles softly. Reaching out her fingers she grasps his, marveling again at the absolute perfection of the way her hand fits his, a tailor-made pattern of skin and planes, of lengths and scales.
Grinning mischievously to herself, she subtly turns over his palm, trying unsuccessfully to mask her devious plan.
His hand slips from her grasp as he laughingly realizes her intent.
"Sorry, sweet, I can't have you doodling on me, too." She stifles a giggle. Even when he scolds her his lilting brogue makes her knees weak.
Ah, so he has yet to learn that she rarely gives up without a fight. She'll teach him.
Setting her bottom lip into a petulant frown she crosses her arms and sighs deeply, her chair now angled away from him. She need only be patient.
Three, two, one...
"No, wait, it...it's okay. Here."
She slightly glances behind her to see his upturned palm being offered like the sacrificial lamb. Triumph gleams in her eyes as she smiles broadly at him, poising her pen above the warm skin of his wrist, contemplating her design.
He leans down to murmur in her ear, his breath hot on her neck.
"Just so you know, I've never let anyone leave a mark on me. Ever." She senses a deeper meaning behind his words.
"So, I'm special?" she intones, cocking an eyebrow.
"Sorta," he grins, placing a quick kiss on her rosy lips.
Setting her tongue between her teeth she draws a solid heart, simple and clean. She adds the first letter of her name with a flourish, settling back to admire her handiwork.
He begrudgingly admits that it isn't so bad. She asks if he'd like to visit the tattoo parlor to make it permanent?
They all laugh at that.
Even the stand up comic. Score one for the new girlfriend.

Later, she sways in his arms as they dance to Sam Cook in the middle of his miniscule bedroom.
"So, why'd you let me?" she wonders aloud.
He sets the steel blue ice of his gaze on hers and answers simply.
"I can't say no to you."
She giggles at that.
"Kiss me," she mockingly commands.
"Aye, milady."
He is good at following orders.
Very good.

Scarlet Death

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Fri, 30 Jan 2009 06:12:00 +0000

Each day it flourished anew, fresh blooms bursting forth in brilliant hues of sinful scarlet. If the rose bush thrived, she knew her true love lived and breathed and waited for her somewhere in the world. Smiling, she would lovingly stroke the sun-warmed petals, the heat of silky desire traveling through her fingertips. She knew not who he was, but she dreamt of the day when she would finally meet him, when her eyes could rest on his countenance, when the hardened contours of his hand would fit the curves of hers, a tailor-made pattern of planes and lengths scaled to perfection.

But the day dawned when sunlight no longer shone through the clear glass panes. In darkness she floated to the window, despair raging in her veins as her gaze fell to the blossoms, their color like the stain of crimson blood against the white window frame.
As the flowers began to fade so did the hope that she might ever meet him. The tears began to spill unheeded as she scooped up the vase, holding it close to her heart as she hurried to the one place she felt completely safe.

Her mother opened the door, the winter wind whipping around them like daggers. But at the stricken look on her mother's face she ceased to feel anything except the empty numbness in the place her heart used to be. She was pierced with panic; she didn't want to look at the glass vase she clenched tightly with her fingers. And yet, she knew without looking what she would see.
The flowers were all dead.
Tears streamed rivers down her cheeks. A black heaviness settled on her chest.
She couldn't breath as she struggled from her mother's grasp and ran to the woods where she fell prostrate and wept, wailing her grief in screams and ragged sobs, her fingers digging into the dirt and brown leaves cradling her limp body until she could cry no more tears.

When I awoke my cheeks were wet and the heaviness in my chest were slow to subside.
It felt so completely real.

25 Random Things

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Fri, 30 Jan 2009 06:12:00 +0000

RULES: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you. If you've already done it, then ignore this, obviously.

(To do this, go to "notes" under tabs (+) on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)

1. I feel secretly cool when I am able to talk in airline jargon and someone with me doesn't get it. Wow, I can't believe I actually admitted that.

2. I read my favorite book, Secret Sacrament, once a year.

3. When I'm at a red light I like to watch car blinkers slowly come into sync with one another and then will them to go out of sync again.

4. On the plane I often speak in a British accent and when people ask me where I'm from, I make up a story about moving to America from London when I was 14 and that my parents owned a watch shop and that's how we made our fortune, etc...and when they say "Really?" I revert to an incredibly hick accent and say, "No, I'm from GA."

5. I always buy cute heels but then I never wear them again because they hurt my feet.

6. I'm a thesaurus whore - I HATE using the same word twice within a short amount of time.

7. Sometimes I get lost on purpose so I can find a new way home. And then I feel really cool when I say, "OH!! THIS is where that road comes out!"

8. When I feel down or sad I love watching heart-wrenching movies so I can cry really hard and then I always feel better.

9. "That's what she said" jokes always make me laugh. Always.

10. I try really hard not to step on sidewalk cracks.

11. I HATE when people throw a piece of trash into a brand new trash bag. Don't ask me why.

12. When I write anything that is going to be posted as a blog I MUST write it out on a piece of paper first, preferrably in a bound notebook, and then after my revisions have been made so that it is almost illegible, I type it out on the computer.

13. The only reason I want children is so I can name them cool names. Which, I understand that this is bad reason, so therefore, I'm not having any children.

14. When I feel like I'm getting a stomach virus I constantly tell myself, "You're not going to throw up, you're not going to throw up." And then it becomes a game to see if I can actually refrain from throwing up, lol.

15. Once I ran away to the pond behind my house and prayed that I would get bitten by a water moccasin so my mom would feel bad about getting mad at me.

16. Sometimes I can't watch the Travel Channel b/c I get a lump in my throat from the ache I have to visit those places.

17. I actually REALLY REALLY like Britney Spears' Womanizer music video.

18. I used to rub the tops of my mom's fingernails when I was feeling scared as a kid and it always helped calm me down.

19. I feel empowered when I ask a man out.

20. My cat is a freak and hasn't grown physically past kitten stage - she is a year old.

21. I wish I had been born in 1985 b/c then my birthday would be in the middle of the year, in the middle of the month, in the middle of the decade - 6/15/85

22. I have over 1000 songs on my ipod but I can never find anything to listen to.

23. I love the fact that my dreams are so vivid and real. I feel like I have a magical power.

24. If past lives were real then I surely was an Indian princess at one time (India Indian, lol).

25. I always make a wish when I blow away the puff of a dandelion.

Lifetime supply of Red Hots, anyone?

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Fri, 30 Jan 2009 06:10:00 +0000

*DISCLAIMER*
Brianna told this story on her page in the way SHE recalls it...although my story is quite different, this is what I recall from that day.
And as is evident throughout the story, we may as well just go ahead and say that MY version is the RIGHT version. =)

So, I admit, I have a bit of a bossy streak. It was never more evident than when I was a child and endeavored to rule with an iron hand in our worlds of make believe, ones where I was often worshipped by every man in the land (only the handsome ones, of course) and magic hung in the air.
Growing up in a house surrounded by woods was definitely the envy of all the kids in school. Rather, it would have been if we actually WENT to school. We were homeschooled, although in my kid mind that meant, "get all your schoolwork done by lunch so you can PLAY!" My notebooks were always filled with new ideas I was determined to make my sister play with me, even if that meant I had to tie her up and duct tape her mouth shut so I could make her say what I wanted. My mom was sure I would give her a complex, but I just saw it as valuable lessons in listening and obeying.

One particular sweltering afternoon in August when I was around the ripe old age of ten, I ran ecstatically to meet our cousin, Brianna, at the edge of the woods separating my grandparents' house from my own . As often belied her visits, we had already planned exactly what we were going to pretend in the playhouse that day. Can I just say thanks to my Daddy for building that AWESOME playhouse. I always swore that even when I grew so tall I would have to bend down to fit through the door I would never stop playing in it. Ah, the ambitions of a kid.
As Bree and I gathered papers and pens to play the pre-appointed "schoolhouse," Matti sat and waited patiently for us to start. As was often her outfit of choice, Matti had donned her "cowboy" clothes, her shirttails tucked into her chaps, the little leather thingie that I still don't know the name or function of tightened around the collar of her pristinely buttoned shirt. Her white hat was half-cocked on her head as she absent-mindedly clicked her boots against the wooden floor of the playhouse.
When Matti and I were kids we were obsessed with candy. Well, actually, I still am. Anyway, we specifically had a Red Hots fix for a few months and participated in many a contest against each other, seeing who could hold the most Red Hots in her mouth at once, our eyes watering and our noses streaming as the cinnamon fumes infiltrated our sinuses.
Damn, we were dumb sometimes.
This day Matti was clenching her own bag of Red Hots, claiming she had bought them at the Dollar Store with HER dollar and she refused to share. That may very well be the reason for the following incident.

"Matti, you're the boy. Your name is Tommy," I instructed. She willingly complied as she was the most tomboyish of the three of us girls. Actually, she ALWAYS played the boy. Hmm...maybe I DID give her a complex.
Brianna was the play the schoolteacher and I was to be the prettiest girl in class, of course. And what was my part in the scenario? I was trying to get the attention of "Tommy" so I could have a boyfriend and look cool. Not much has changed. Imagine that.
We ad libbed conversations uneventfully for a while until I decided we were being too boring and needed some "dramatic intervention." Again, imagine that.
"I know!" I gasped. "I'm writing a love note to Tommy (ever the agressor, I was) and you catch him with it! I'm your favorite student so you won't get mad at me, but you have to pretend to slap Matti as punishment."

Now here I must pause and defend myself. In the years that followed it was never decided whether or not I said PRETEND to slap her or if Brianna lost all hearing and logical common sense for three point two seconds. I maintain my innocence that Bree had damaged her hearing with her "rub her nose flip her hand through her bangs" technique that she was fond of employing as a child. Thank goodness she grew out of that. At least, I think she did.

SLAP. Brianna's hand became a blur as it made sharp contact with "Tommy's" cheek.
I stood there in stunned silence as the Red Hots slipped from Matti's fingers in slow motion, the cinnamon candies skittering across the floor (which we later picked up and ate). Tears welled in her eyes and I squealed breathlessly "BRIANNA! You weren't supposed to ACTUALLY slap her!!" If I had known any cuss words back then I'm sure I would have used them.
All I could think of was that fact that ALL of our parents and aunts and uncles sat mere yards away on the driveway enjoying lemonade and the cool shade as they talked about how perfect and well behaved all their children were.
"Matti WAIT!" I yell-whispered as she bolted out the back door of the playhouse. She ran to the woods holding her hand to her cheek, crying loudly.
Always a fast thinker (well, when I was trying to save my butt anyway) I quickly hatched a plan.
"Bree, you go and try to talk to Matti, apologize, tell her we will play whatever she wants to play for the rest of the day and I will buy her a life supply of Red Hots if she just promises that she WON'T TELL!"
"What are you going to do?" Bree asked.

Well, my plan worked in my head. I had watched countless movies where the kid inevitably breaks his mom's favorite vase but it always seemed that if he whistled non-chalantly while strolling by with his hands clasped behind his back she suspected nothing until he could flee the scene and thereby avoid punishment.
Perfect, right?
Wrong.
I'm pretty sure it wasn't long after this incident that I learned my mother has an almost MAGICAL ability to sense when something is fishy. I took two steps onto the driveway, whistling the theme song to Barney (which, I was CLEARLY too old to have been watching that show) and casting furtive glances into the woods behind me to see if Brianna had succeeded in bribing Matti. I wished I could have been both places at once. No one knew how to land a deal like I did.
"Meredith, what's going on?" The tone of my mother's voice caused my head to whip around, my lips floundering to form a carefree yet believeable reply, while my brain went haywire - how does she KNOW?!?!
In the same moment, Matti screamed and my mother locked gazes with me, cocking her left eyebrow in a way that always made my knees buckle and my heart beat faster.
*GULP*
"Umm, nothing?"
Right then Matti burst out of the woods, tears on her cheeks, Brianna close on her heels, pleading, promising something about buying her a pony and a barn and mucking out the stalls for life if only Matti wouldn't tell!
We kids stopped short as all the adults stood up, their lemonade left to the flies as they turned steely glances on us, determined to get to the bottom of the situation.

I begged innocence, pleading for mercy, insisting Brianna was just too stupid to know what I said!
According to Matti, she snuck and watched Brianna's mother use a honeysuckle switch to swat the backs of Bree's legs. Apparently Brianna ran in a circle as her mom tried to catch her.
In the end, I only got one stinging smack of the leather belt across my backside. I think my mom just thought it was funny. I remember seeing her lips twitch in contained laughter as she left the room where I sat pretending to cry after my punishment.
Oh, I milked it, just in case she changed her mind. I don't even think it really hurt. It was more the anticipation of it that so frightened me.

If my memory serves me well that was one of my MANY beatings I survived that summer. Ah well, even if I never learned my lesson, it definitely makes for good entertainment

A Priest, My Cousin, and a Times Square New Year

noreply@blogger.com (Travel Junkie) — Thu, 08 Jan 2009 20:21:00 +0000

"...Three, two, one, Happy New Year!" My voice rang out with the rest of the New Year's revelers as I sat in my living room nine years ago, a bushy-eyebrowed thirteen year old who dreamed of joining the crowd in Times Square. My constant companion at the time - my journal - lay beside me as I wrote in my New Year's resolution for the Millennium; I was going to get those "2000" glasses by the year 2009.

Fast forward to New Year's Eve, 2008. I had planned on this trip for a month now and nothing except death itself was going to thwart me in my endeavors. I glanced out of the plane window for the fortieth time in an hour; still no lights were visible through the fog. It was almost six pm, just six hours till the famous ball drop in NYC and here I was, stuck in the sky above the city, fearing a diversion due to weather. Imagine that.
"Flight attendants, landing check." Upon hearing the captain's command that we had been cleared for landing, I did a Napoleon Dynamite-esque "Yes!" and proceeded to take my seat for the remainder of the bumpy descent. Finally, the wheels touched the runway and I could breathe my relief.
"Buh-bye, thank you, buh-bye." I was almost certain the deplaning passengers could hear the underlying, "GET OFF PEOPLE! I'VE GOT A BALL TO CATCH!" in my salutation.

An hour later and I was sitting on the N train headed to Fifth Avenue and Central Park. Abdulla, my seat mate, became my new Facebook friend as we studied the dense map of train lines and city streets, two non-natives on our way to our first NY New Year. I bade him farewell at my stop and waited to meet up with my funny friends from high school, The Catholic Priest In Training and My-Yet-To-Be-Discovered-How-We-Are-Related fifth cousin. The night wind shot needles straight through me. There was a small nook of sheltering concrete at the edge of the subway station, so I squeezed myself tightly into it, praying that my friends would show their frozen mugs soon. Finally, I spotted them, sarcastic hellos exchanged in jest, their warm hugs belying their true feelings.

Ben, the cousin, was appointed the official tour guide, eliciting a giggle from me and I'm sure a mental guffaw from the Priest as he pulled out his $16.95 guide book to NY. I was too cold to be opinionated about where we partook of our dinner so I blindly followed Ben to the F train as Austin delicately stated, "Let's just get out of the cold...I can't feel mine anymore."
Off we paraded to SoHo, the train car surprisingly far less empty than I would have expected on New Year's Eve. I leaned back into the lull of the rocking car, the clicking metal of the wheels on the tracks chanting a spell of imagined words. Apparently Cuzzin Benny had decided on Brazilian food, because he led the way to a quaint spot situated on a street corner, the robin's egg blue paint framing the windows marred with age. We squeezed into one of the ten tightly packed tables in the restaurant, my eyes flitting flirtatiously to the cute Hispanic waiter in the corner.
"Hmph," I murmured when he failed to make eyes back at me. Well, he was too skinny anyway. As a matter of fact, I couldn't help laughing as the waiters shimmied between the narrowly stuffed tables. Being a skeleton must be a prerequisite to work there.
We settled in to enjoy our meal, the boys laughing at my expression as I sipped their offered Cabernet Sauvignon. Red wine always leaves my throat feeling like I just drank a bottle of Vick's Throat Spray. When I recovered enough from my internal third degree burns to enjoy my food, I dug into my delicious spinach and goat cheese salad. Austin began to ramble about his new obsession with cheese and how he thanked the French for their dedication to bringing the world the fine delicacies of exotic tastes and smells. He also said he would definitely give up celibacy for a French Natalie Portman who served him cheeses in bed. At least, I think that's what he said. That sip of red wine could have gotten to me more than I thought.
I stole a bite of Ben's dish, declaring it tasted like Seattle's Pike Place Fish Market in my mouth. Ben, who, of course, wins smartass of the century, proceeded to inform me that that was impossible because his entree is, indeed, shrimp and chicken.
"Um, yeah, fish," I quipped.
"Crustacean, Meredith. Crustacean."
I glanced at my Priest for a little help, but in typical Austin fashion, he raised his hands in an attempt to avoid taking sides.
When the boys had downed their third glass of wine each and the Priest's conversation began to meander into prostate territory rather than the prostrate one, we decided it was time to return to the Arctic to clear our heads.

No sooner were we outside than I needed something hot for my insides. We headed two blocks over to Prince Street, whooshing into Fanelli's Cafe, joining the eclectic group of patrons already sipping warm liquors. We sat at tables adorned with red-checkered table cloths, the heavy wooden decor adding a nice coziness. Gene Kelly musical excerpts played on the tv above our heads as the boys oogled, er, I mean ordered from, the waitress. I cocked my ear to eavesdrop as the man at the next table over declared he could discover the native New Yorkers in the bar within five minutes of conversation. I almost felt sorry for the man, so oblivious to the glazed eyes of his trapped audience. Suddenly the chill from the front door whipped around my ankles as I glanced up to see the most eccentric bar-goer of all. His fedora sat cocked on his salt and pepper hair, a crisp, ebony bowtie adoring his neck. He took off his coat with a flourish to reveal a smart and shiny tux, complete with coattails. He deftly flipped his coat over one arm, silently commanding the attention of everyone in the room as he stood in the doorway. My imagination began running wild as I pretended that he was from another time and place, that perhaps he was even the founder of the cafe as Fanelli's was almost one hundred years old. I grinned to myself as I sipped my hot chocolate.

An hour to midnight and we decided to make our way back to Central Park, the closest we were going to get as Times Square had been filled by the gluttons for punishment hours earlier. No thanks, I'd rather keep my appendages than lose them to frostbite by spending hours in a subzero climate.
As I ascended the stairs from the subway at our stop, I caught sight of colored flashing lights. I gasped in glee - the glasses!! I recalled my resolution of nine years and squealed as I ushered the boys to the street vendor who offered me a sweet deal.
"Five dollar for you." Ha! How many times have I heard that line in NYC?
I picked out red ones, unable to wipe the silly grin off my face. I put them on, my face transforming into a blinking ad for 2009. A final piece of my spirit fell into its rightful place as my inner thirteen year old squealed with sheer delight. I wore them proudly until I discovered that I would smash my face AND the glasses due to the my lack of depth perception through the dark lenses. I decided to save them for the ball drop.

11:30 pm.
The streets were getting more and more crowded as we crossed Fifth and Sixth Avenues, where the police directed us to Central Park.
"Ok, hold on," the cousin commanded. I grabbed his hand as he plunged into the sea of people, more concerned about dropping my glasses until I realized I had to make sure the Priest didn't get lost in the Mass.
Finally, we made it as close to the big screen as possible, the Jonas Brothers warming the night with their lip-synched vocals. I was disappointed that - yet again - I would receive no kiss at the New Year count down. Of course, I could always be Kissing Cousins with Ben. After all, we did have a Priest at our disposal. On second consideration I dismissed the idea. My thoughts drifted to the Scotsman I'd met early that morning in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, his swoon-worthy accent still ringing in my ears. I decided my best bet would be a virtual kiss with the Scottie, so I readied my phone as I waited for the ball to drop.
I reveled in the relief from the biting wind, warmth emanating from the surrounding bodies. I laughed at the drunken Frenchies in front of us as they downed Vodka disguised in Evian water bottles and puffed on cigarettes in the most French-like fashion. I listened to their lilting voices, quite taken with the beautiful Gaspard Ulliel look-alike in their midst. I'm sure he was gay.
We snapped pictures and stood close together as the countdown began.

"...Three, two, one, Happy New Year!!!!" An unshed tear gleamed in my eye at the surreal feeling of it all, my voice one with the crowd, my feet on New York City concrete as I sported my ridiculous glasses, two of my best friends in the world on either side of me. One of the Frenchies planted a wet kiss on my cheek and I laughed as I escaped to hug Ben and Austin. My phone buzzed and warmth flitted through my middle when Scottie sent me a "soft and passionate" New Year's kiss. Hey, even if it WAS virtual it was definitely a step up from the last twenty-one years!
We were jostled and heaved through the crowd as they dispersed, death daggers shot at us from the couple proceeding us as Ben exclaimed, "Hilary Clinton is the MAN!" Yeeeah. Wrong part of the country to be saying that.

We all munched on burgers and downed a milkshake at a local joint before heading back to our respective hotels. My bladder had taken enough abuse and threatened to commit murder of the nearest unfortunate soul if I didn't give it relief soon. I set out on the adventure of finding the bathrooms in that place.
"Down there," the cook said gruffly. I hestitantly peered into the dimly lit stairwell, loud music drifting from its cavernous depths.
"I've got a gun!" my bladder reminded me. I ventured through the dark hallway until, at last, I saw the restrooms. Thank goodness they weren't unisex. However, they WERE still big enough for two.
I learned that the hard way when I opened the unlocked door and happened upon a man and woman in the girl's bathroom. They hastily explained their mussed hair and rumpled clothing, muttering a lame excuse, something about discussing the weather, I think. Look, jist bekuz i'm frum the south, it dont mak me stoopid.
It actually hurt me to write that.

I bid the boys goodnight and headed uptown to Queens. I got off at the last stop; after waiting for forty minutes in the searing wind, fighting tears and harshly scolding myself for being weak, I realized I'd missed the last city bus. I had no choice but to take a cab to my hotel, rolling my eyes at the cabbie's "deal"of fifteen bucks for a mere three miles.
I had only three hours until I faced another grueling day of complaining passengers and all day on a metal tube, but it was worth it.

My 2009 New Year celebration topped every single one in my book