Here’s a piece of ripped fiction from my brain. Make of it what you will, but do dig deep to explore the reasons why you write as you read.
Huddled in the corner of a dark, stuffy room and having my bottom scrape the end of the floor, I close my eyes and no longer see the red popping blood vessels that dim with the closing of the lens like vanilla curtains draped to cover the sun.
I see nothing but darkness. So now I am in a dark and stuffy room. A darkness I purposely chose because then the shapes and eyes, and other formidable creatures can fully take form and then I can really see. It is these monsters I can deal with when the days get so hot I can barely walk without a hot rock piercing the bottom of my thin, cheap sandals. Or the hot days when I am reminded I have more meat on my bones that I did at 19 and so the sun wants to cook me.
These monsters behind my eyes are my friends who were my foe at age 8. At night when the air finally tries to cool and the AC is still screaming at me, tired of working-at night I can watch 1000 Ways to Die. At night I can laugh at King of Queens. At night the moon is more respectful than the sun and so it doesn’t toast me or coax me to pull apart curtains and face it. It is gone or hidden behind old, tall buildings and roughly jagged mountains.
At night I can be free to dream and in the dreams I tear my body apart with the help of ugly talons and bug eyed pals. They remake me into one of them. Only I’m leaner, meaner, stronger, and more creative. In my dreams I am the sexiest, intriguing, most volatile vixen…
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