Monthly Archives: November 2015

Profiles: Her Royal Sweetness

How could crimson even lay itself over an entire summer’s tan? But there it was, crawling proudly from the slope of her cheeks where her smile begins.

Her feelings could not be kept secret. Love spread itself light pink across her skin, from the edges of her soul to her lips. She blinked in flutters that sent eyelashes dancing on its tips, to an orchestra of bees buzzing beneath the flesh of her left breast. Love glistened like honey from her eyes and dripped thick and sweet from her core.

She filled the air with the scent of sweetcakes and wildflowers that trailed from the hive of her exhales, hung upon his every inhale, swinging with his every breath.


Profiles: The Bystander

He was knee-deep into the morning, following the spill of sunrise from one empty shed to the next busted stoplight. The night has buried itself on his skin, deep into the bones of his cheeks, throbbing around his eyes, slipping into the cave of his throat, settling in the hollow den of his chest where myths and legends rest with the rest of the city’s dust and grit.  

He gathered the evenings and hid them there, plucking out stories that lapped back and forth from the streets to his lips. His voice broke over alleyways and street corners in surges of whispered secrets and gushes of revelations: adventures of infidels and hushed preys, giggling schoolgirls and the thumps of fists. He told them again and again until the waves of daylight have washed it clean. The stories floated from his veins, drowned in the high noon, rippled in the sunset, and, in the moonrise, murmured true.

Profiles: The Lady At Half Past Three in the Mourning

She longed for the time when a story or two of fairytales still worked.

Now, she keeps a bottle of Russian Standard right under her neck pillow and sets alarms that go off six times in an hour. It allows her to ease into the next morning and gives her a sufficient knock on the head on some nights.

It must be the tough edges and the thick glass.It bruises but will break eventually.

She still hasn’t lost faith in counting sheep. Or computing tax returns to put her out.

Numbers grow on you, just as foie gras or wine age and its accompanying price tags would.

Except that at some point it all just won’t add up: the age, the alcohol content, the remaining balance, the outstanding credit, the insignificant exes, the quantitative assessments, the waistlines, the Facebook notifications, the retweets, the Instagram likes, the nutrition information, and the numbers on the digital clock.

We all count on it but none of it actually would. 

Pour yourself another glass, read another fairytale,

rewrite the ending just as you know you should. 

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