A Life Left On The Shores

JournalWord: To an island.

::

His fingers dig into the sand that spills away from his hands. He claws at a hidden rock but the silt sweeps away and pulls his handhold from under his palm. 

They want him to sink back into the depth. 

Coral scrapes at his ankles and shins as punishment for leaving home, and an urchin desperately threatens him to move another step. 

His limbs are numb and he can't feel the chill that waits for him in the morning horizon. His mop of dark hair clings to his neck and forehead as they break the surface, frightened and seeking comfort. Dripping locks dangle on lifelines before his eyes. 

The full height of his body greets the atmosphere, clouds of breath floating like bubbles of air escaping. 

His skin recoils and shudders at the foreign exposure, having shed his original layer during the riptide. He remembers the skin tearing silently as the ocean's hurricane howled around him. 

Absently, he brushes off the leeching seaweed and thick swatches of kelp that tether him to the ocean floor at the sight of the edge of water. The wall of green flora dispels childhood fear for excitement. 

Urging his muscles back to life, he treads through the sea with a renewed vigor, fighting the heavy tides until they are just light, helpless laps around his heels. 

::

Trudging through the waves. 

Lifting numb limbs from the sands. 

With the aim to leave behind the person he was before he makes it to the treeline.

I hope you enjoyed this short piece :) (And had a ball dissecting it :D)

mera.

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Pitch: Tonus: Part 3

The last part.

I hope you've enjoyed my gladiator ;P

::

This time, before he fully straightens, he lunges with his fists, but I easily dodge them for access to his uncovered back. I can feel the bone bend and crack under my knuckles.

He doesn't try to get up, instead he lays on the hot sand and gasps. When I stalk towards him, fear finally settles on his features, sending panic to his scrambling limbs.

Crouching, I easily grab a hold of him, grasping his long, thick golden hair in my left fist. He starts to sob, his mouth, once again, opening and closing, swallowing large gulps of his own tears. His eyes meet mine and suddenly something lodges itself into my throat.

The back of my eyes prickle and I tear my gaze from his to stare at the audience. They're up and stomping, the reverberation calming, but it doesn't stop the choking.

My eyes sweep the stadium, and catch on something glinting in the sand: the shield. It's close enough for me to watch myself debate how to kill him.

Is that his nose? I shake the thought away but the nagging noise in my mind continues to drawl. No, it's been broken too many times.

Angrily I shake my head, enough to sway my whole body and rattle my opponent by the roots of his hair. Slightly dizzy, I find myself staring back at my contorted reflection. 

Ah, there he is, in the eyes. No!

Wrenching his head back and without warning, I rip my right arm guard's metal edge across his throat, slicing through it and ending the show with a great display of shooting blood. Dropping the boy, I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly self-aware.

The thrum of the audience reaches my spine and I ache to know what they are shouting.

I am entitled to hear my own victories! They are mine, and mine alone!

Frustrated and hit with a bout of confusion, I open my own mouth and let out any noise I can muster, disgusted and distraught that I can't even hear myself scream.

::

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Pitch: Tune: Part 2

::

A net is fisted in his left hand, and a square, embellished shield in his right. I'm perplexed by the shield and realize it must be a gift, otherwise the weaponry of choice is appalling.

The shield glints bright and the shine takes me by surprise. I catch my reflection in the polished surface and don't recognize the tall, dark man covered in blood and scars. Is this what I look like? I hide my disappointment behind a stone face as we approach each other.

His eyes sweep over me and I draw myself up hoping to look especially intimidating as I tower over him. He doesn't react as expected, instead seeming to sigh and resign himself by calmly opening and closing his mouth. Enraged by his disrespect, I lunge towards him with a growl, hoping he will stop.

Sensing my fury, he swiftly dodges my attack, surprising me with his agility. Lunging again, he ducks and rolls out of my path and, from the corner of my eye, starts to wind his arm back. He throws his net towards me and I slash my sword as it tries to ensnare me. He quickly draws it back with a flick of his wrist before I can slice it to shreds.

He re-evaluates the move and we circle each other, eyes locked in anticipation. Sweat covers me in a thick layer from my previous matches, slicking uncomfortably from between the metal plates over my torso. The straps over my calves and arms from the guards are starting to feel numb.

The sun shines blindingly off the shield and I have to break out of my revere to focus.

Who was that man? I shush my thoughts when I catch a glimpse of myself again in the mirror-like facet. Where did the boy go?

I lunge towards him and instantly he throws his net at me in response. Holding out my pilum, I tangle the net by weaving the metal head through the openings. He attempts to tug back, but the differences in our strengths is monumental.

I pull hard, but he instantly releases the tether at the end of the net, freeing himself from my trap. I stumble back, driving the end of the staff into the sand to keep from falling.

He opens his mouth again, this time aiming it at the audience with a smile. He jabbers on, flicking his hair off his shoulder, and the annoyance burns.

Leaving behind my ensnared javelin impaled in the sand, I jab my sword at his shield, the force denting the polished metal and sending a shaking pain up the arm of my cocky opponent. He yelps and pulls his arm to his chest protectively, eyeing me with a confused and awed expression.

In reply, I smirk.

Massaging his arm, he regards me then unwinds himself to have a squared position. Unsure of what he is doing, I am caught unaware when he dashes at me, hidden behind his dented shield as he rams me with all his weight.

After a panicked shuffle that causes me to stumble, I'm in the sand, and it is scorching. Spitting the grit from between my teeth, I swing my sword above me to fend off any attacks while I am down. I stop when I realize I'm just slashing at air. Lifting my head, I find him doubled over, his body shaking. Picking myself up, I seethe at the embarrassment of being thrown down by a slight amateur.

Without a second thought, I charge at his exposed back. He catches me in his peripheral and mistakenly releases his shield as he turns to face me. His hands reach for mine around the hilt, and as I charge, he pushes my hands away from himself.

The force is shocking, and the sword with my hands swing right, dangerously close to my cheek. Releasing my sword so it spirals far into the dirt, I twist my wrists out of his hands and marvel at the unexpected tactic.

He starts to move his mouth again, but I can't bother thinking too much anymore. With no weapons in hand, I resolve for my fists. They connect with his exposed navel, quickly disabling him and halting his constant chatter.

He's doubled over again, this time in pain, but I wait for him to straighten up before landing a fist into the side of his ribs. No more games. This is a fair fight with strict rules of life and death, and we're going not playing anymore.

::

Whoa, today was a doozy.

Finally got to go to a concert by THE Mother Mother! 

And I am so psyched by how awesome they are! 

Definitely my favorite band ever. :P

Mera.

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Pitch: Tone: Part 1

JournalWord: Gladiator

::

The air always smells and tastes the same: salty and dusty.

The screams and gurgles go unheard when I plunge my pilum into the throat of my fallen opponent. Not a sound escapes my own as the spectators scream from the surrounding stands.

Dislodging the spearhead from the corpse, I kick at the bloodstained sand underfoot without a glance at the severed neck of the man. Eyes up at my audience instead, I revel at the pulsing reverberation that travels through my chest from the stomping of my fans. A smile approaches my lips, but I halt the action and exchange it for a more appropriate smirk, and the women stare wide eyed and enchanted.

I'm a monster in this stadium and heart breaker out. This bloodthirsty being they play me as is a Gods-given dream. Not a trace of the scrape of a boy left to fend for himself in the slums, abandoned and constantly hungry. Nor a hint of the fear that had wracked the boy's thoughts present in this heavily muscled body.

I usually notice the gate opening by the distinct rumbling of the sand as the chains hoist the metal gate up, but with the stadium in an uproar like this, I take the instant swivel of everyone's head to my left as the signal of my next opponent.

Hefting my javelin over my shoulder, and posing for the ladies with a quick tense of my arms and shoulders, I spin around and hurl the wooden and metal weapon. It ripples the atmosphere and I can feel the dense, humid air being sliced by the bending of minuscule hairs in my ears. It tickles comfortably, like a familiar graze.

Watching the javelin arch gracefully across the arena and find itself home into the chest of my victim, I pick up my feet into a light jog to effortlessly scoop the sword my previous opponent had left behind. He hadn't used it and now I know why; it's unexpectedly heavy. Most likely a cheap apprentice's mishap in allot selection.

Gripping the curved metal between my palms, I race through the sand, avoiding as many patches of dusty burgundy sand as I can. I am quite proud of how easily I can dispel the thoughts for the origins of them.

There isn't much left for me when I finally reach my opponent. He writhes pathetically in the sand, gasping, unarmed, having tossed his wooden shield and rusty dagger far into the dirt, and attempting to stave off the bleeding around the spear's visible staff with his blood-drenched hands.

I bite a scowl through my lips at the trouble of running all the way here for a dead man, shaking my leather sandals of the clumping grit. Deciding that he isn't worth the exertion anymore, I slam my sword down and sever his head to end his misery.

Despite the short conquest, the audience gifts me with another warm thunder to my chest at the sight of the spurting blood. This time I cannot hide the smile that breaks across my sunburned cheeks. Wiping the blood out of my eyes, I end this battle with a flourishing bow in all four directions, adding a couple winks to the noblewomen batting their lashes provocatively.

They love me. Thank the Gods.

The thrumming in my ribs subsides and I instantly regret the loss. It can only be because of another opponent. A bubbling stirs in my gut, of anger, of fear for the loss of adoration. Holding my head high, I pivot to face my next victim, my shoulders flaming from the heat and displeasure.

This one is the match I've been waiting for, I realize when I find my opponent striding towards me in a slow, purposeful stalk. For once since the first months I had entered the arena as a boy, I watch my opponent and study him in detail.

He is lightly tanned and lean, the leather straps of his simple armor wrapped around his slight chest. I scoff at him, proud with only a couple victories under his belt. He's fresh from the gutters. His hair, extremely fair and long, curls around his shoulders, probably to entice the support of the ladies. He has the audacity to keep it untied in the arena.

When he smiles at my audience, fury balls up between my shoulders, boiling unpleasantly. Squeezing the hilt of my sword in my right palm, I grab the staff of my javelin with my left hand and rip it out of the corpse. With my weapons in hand, I decide to greet my guest.

::

Who doesn't like a good bloodthirsty gladiator? ;P

Can you decipher the special characteristic I have left out in this story? 

It's a valuable piece of information about Mr. Gladiator, just saying :D

Also, there will be a second part for this piece, so look forward to it! 

-Mera.

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Wooden Horse

JournalWord: Fighting gravity.

::

She examines the horse, poised on the tips of its back hooves and balancing as it stands tall on the clear glass tabletop. The curve of its back is a series of slopes and arches, almost a vertical posture as its front feet kick at the sky.

His mane is tossed back in frozen waves, curling into itself like a tornado, and the wispy tail is a whirlwind of incoming clouds. The dappled grey hide glints from a polish set into the grain. She wonders if he's even touching the table.

"Papa," she asks her grandfather as she settles her head onto the backs of her hands, waiting for the sparkle to appear in its eye. "How long did it take for you to carve him?"

"Two months," is his gruff reply as he tinkers on a wooden cuckoo-clock on his work bench. "It took two months to fight with gravity."

::

Another short!

I'm juggling (when am I not?) work and responsibilities, and studying for my interview is not helping for time to write :(

I'm in need of some time for intimate laptop-me-inspiration cuddles..

Well, keep bubbly, and wish me luck :)

Mera.

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Drop Dead Pet

JournalWord: Imagining perfection.

::

Aiming for the bathroom to inspect my hungover condition, I shuffle down the hallway and turn left, thankful that I don't feel nauseous. The eastern skylight catches the last few color pitches of sunlight and I realize how lucky I am only a few hours have passed. 

Already demoted, I know if I am late or miss a day, my reputation would get much, much worse. And now I have all the evening to unravel this male mystery with casual interrogation. 

He follows me like a puppy to the bathroom. "Do you have somewhere else to be?" I ask at his reflection after I splash freezing water onto my face.

"Hmmm. Not really. Lately I've been staying here and there, you know." He jumps up onto the counter beside me, the sink basin between us as I pat my face dry with a towel.

"Are you some kind of stray?" I tease.

"I guess so. I was staying in this garage for awhile, then a tree fort, then I found a man who let me stay on his couch for free but he tricked me and said I had to pay him back with my body. I couldn't bring myself to do that so I ran away as fast as I could but the guy chasing me was really persistent. I was hiding in that pile of trash. Before I knew it,
 I fell asleep."

I remember the bruises. His story is impossible. Yet it is told with the same sincerity he has said the hour and admitted homelessness. "Who are you?" I ask.

"Are you frightened?"

"No," I say automatically. The thought had never crossed my mind. Concerned? Yes. Confused? Deeply. But this man could do nothing he hadn't already had a hundred chances for. "Why would I be? If you wanted to hurt me you would've done so by now."

The friendly atmosphere is sucked from the small room. "I've met all sorts of people," he admits, suddenly dark and raw, hopping from his perch. There is little distance between us and his encroaching prowl forces me backwards until my spine bumps against the wall. His smile is unholy. I hear the shower curtain jingle and bend to my weight before I realize I've grasped it for balance. 

He breathes into my hair as his hands grip my hips. "But this is the first time I've ever met someone as trusting as you—"

I pull on the shower curtain, taking it down along with the steel bar its metal rings held firmly. A good whack across the head sends him back to the hallway where he topples over.

"I don't wanna get the wrong idea but that stung."

"Get the wrong idea." I stomp over and dig my shoe heel into his shoulder. He yields with a grimace. "I found you hurt and felt I had to help you but if you're healthy enough to get frisky, you're healthy enough to get lost."

"But I don't have any money!" He clutches my calf with a whine, abruptly a new person. It's too late; I know which persona is the act.

"I'll give you money."

"But... I don't feel so good..." He crosses his arms over his stomach, performing with all the candor he can manage with my heel still sticking into his shoulder. I merely tap the pipe against my shoulder for emphasis. He and I both see the head-shaped depress on its smooth surface.

"I want to eat first!"

"I didn't ask you for tonight's dinner menu! Get out!" I snarl and assault him with the pipe again, this time impacting his left shoulder just as I move my leg. Without a brace he bounces against the ground like a dog toy.

His hands catch my third strike. I am shocked when he holds firm, my strength matched pound for pound in a stalemate. "I'll have sex with you."

"What the hell?" I fluster, offended. I am ready to crush his nuts with my foot. I would've tried if he wasn't curled up on himself, smartly blocking access.

"Why not? Do you have a boyfriend?"

"That's none of your business! And I'd never be interested in a pervert like you!"

I wrestle the pipe away just as he gets to his feet. Without a shirt it's hopeless to get a hold on him for long. 

He ducks beneath a few more blows but I manage to sink my free hand into the crest of his blonde hair. I instantly yank him up. He yelps and bows forward with the momentum. His distress is muffled in the valley of my breasts. I jerk his head down and away from me, but the damage is done.

"Small..."

"Fuck you."

With the pipe in one hand and his hair in the other, I drag him all the way to the front door where he renews his pleas. "You're a great lady! Your refrigerator has food! I think we'd get along great— do you know how cute you are when you're asleep? And when you woke up, I felt so happy! Your sweet smell—"

"Don't go smelling me!" It is regrettable that I have to drop the pipe in order to open the door. He senses the lost advantage and immediately thrashes like a shark on blood lust. But he hasn't laid a hand against me. Despite my animosity, he fights like I am his only lifeline. His eyes promise so.

"Let me stay with you! Please, please, let me live here! Anything, I'll do anything—" He isn't even halfway out the door before I begin to succumb. 

I have to; my energy is teetering on absolute depletion from drinking and his strength is insane, probably greater than my own. I realize that even on my best day I'd be hard pressed to force this stubborn man out the door and nothing said he wouldn't force his way back in. My only chance of success is to fight him on other terms.

"Fine," I say. "You can stay on one condition. Agreed?"

"Yes! Oh, thank you!" He bounds away from the door and tackles my couch like it's a gazelle under the kill. "I'll do anything. I can pose as your cousin, your bodyguard, a masseuse, you name it."

"Become my pet."

He falters in bouncing against the plush cushions, dropping to his rear like concrete in water. "Your... pet?" he squeaks.

"Yes. If you're good I'll take care of you and cook for you." Crossing my arms not unlike a prison warden I eviscerate his simplistic fantasies with the clause, "But you won't have any rights and you'll have to do everything I say."

"... I wouldn't have any rights?" He drags a pillow over his lap, an emotional safeguard to my harsh criteria.

"No. Because you'd be a pet." I remain steadfast in body and voice but for however stern I sound I feel an uninhibited smile cross my face. His troubled visage spells victory. He has fallen into this agreement like a fool. "Take it or leave it," I sing.

I watch him worry a thumb between his incisors while his other hand tugs the roots of his hair, silently and dejectedly going back and forth between the benefits and provisions of servitude. 

I am a lion on the plains. My kills come from diligence and wit, so I am perfectly patient to let him corner himself into my trap. I know no man would degrade themselves to my standards. Their honor would drag them out the door and to some other sap's doorstep. His morose nod accedes the same conclusion. I copy him, smiling. He wouldn't comply to my terms.

And then things change.

I watch anxiously, feeling my own eyes widen as I decipher the slight nuances of his true feelings. He shows bewilderment, but not humiliation; unease, but not opposition. It takes my full concentration to pick out what is underneath the underneath and by then it is too late.

"Woof!"

I trip backwards and that asshole laughs at me.

"A pet? That's it? Man, how lucky!"

"What do— just a second— by pet you understand that—" I cut off as he launches himself across my living room's wood flooring and slides on his knees right up to my waist.

"Thank you master! Woof!"

I feel lightheaded. I think it might be delirium. "Wait... you... weren't supposed to..."

"Are you a person that talks a lot to themselves?" He blinks and even tilts his head to the side like a curious Corgi. "There are weird housewives that do that, mutter about husbands coming home late and single women..."

"Shut up! You're the one who's not normal! Don't you have any ounce of pride?"

He taps his chin with a finger in thought then smiles. "Mmm, none."

I clench my teeth and look away to keep from screaming. He sits there with nothing, not a lick of integrity. I've stripped away the very valor of his masculinity and thrown him into this inane subservient responsibility. Calling him 'compromised' isn't even close to accurate; he's been castrated. And he let me do it. That's how men are. All of them. Not a single one care about character, about superiority, dignity, anything. Just like Lee. Now this.

I look back when I feel his touch firmly grab my wrists, lifting my palm to lay kisses in its center. The unanticipated sight of lips against skin is hypnotic. His beryl blue eyes gaze up at me unabashed, so honest with his display of wanting that my breathing balks and I pray for a sense of how and why he belies nothing but true desire.

Then, there unstoppable, kneeling before me he whispers in the manner a proposing man reassures and promises a woman 'I'll love you forever', "I'll become your pet."

I rip my hand from his and slap him across the cheek.

"I'm sorry!" he cries and clutches his cheek. "What'd I do? Don't send me off to the shelter!"

I hate him. I hate all of them. I am sick of their selfishness. The thoughts and images of Lee assault me, all his little pieces I want to crush and grind in my hands. The deformed legs I'll happily rip away, along with his deceiving lips. I'll burn away his arms, the same arms he held me with only to wrap around someone else. Most of all, I want to fry his brain with boiling acid until his ears bleed and mind melts. Or do it to myself. It seems like the only way to relieve myself of his memory.

I stomp to my bedroom like Athena, bitter and vicious and shrewd, wishing to be a reborn virgin purified from the infection of weak males. The idiot had the audacity to come after me and even more balls to look confused.

I stop as he is about to pass the threshold of my room and snap an arm against the frame to block him. "What do you think you're doing?" I am clenching my teeth so hard my jaw begins to hurt.

"You look upset... and I... I want to make you feel better..."

"In my bedroom? Just because you're living here now, don't get stupid ideas. I'm not going to have sex with you. In fact, I want nothing to do with you outside of our agreement. Got it?"

"No, I mean— I am concerned—"

"I don't want your concern," I turn around to see him looking surprised and I start to really seethe. "What's that face for? Of course I wouldn't! You're a pet. You're nothing."

"Ah, yeah..." His timid smile is stricken in anxiety, unsure if I am going to do worse than a slap with my clenched fists. To placate me he backs down the hallway and lowers himself to the hard floor like I'd told him to sit by command. 

A sudden wave of apathy doesn't surprise me. This man is pathetic. No thought of resistance cues his mind, not even the inkling of being stubborn. The smallest hope is dashed and I am defeated.

He lays onto his back and paws the air.

"What're you doing now?" I sigh and lean on the door frame with arms crossed.

"The pose of submission. I," he touches his chest, "submit to you." He expands his hands as a welcoming gesture to me and smiles. "I won't do anything inappropriate. But if you say you want me to... then I can do that for you too."

I shut the door when he winks at me. It seems the peon is delusional as well because there is no way I would ever ask for something like that. Slapping my face, I attack the blush that threatens to blossom on my cheeks. "Ice your cheek before it becomes inflamed," I yell before tossing myself into my pillows.

::

A sadist looking for perfection when her world is crumbling down and a masochist who doesn't mind a new role.

I'm quite interested in the characteristics of a masochist and sadist. So drop me a comment on what you think :P

Bear with me and my strange interests,

-mera. 

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Through The Chest

JournalWord: Listening to a heart.

::

"You have a heartbeat?"

"You can hear it really well if you press your ear against her chest."

"You let him touch you?!"

"No, I didn't!"

"You promised that I could listen again."

"No, I did not." 

"That's not fair! I want to listen too!"

"Get off me! Let go-"

"I want to listen too. It's only fair."

"Wow. That's quite aggressive."

"Stop him! It's your fault that this is happening!"

"That looks fun. Can I join in?"

"No!"

"Please?"

"Of course not! It's my turn!"

"How about I hold her down for you and then we can switch-"

"Hello! I've got a message for my pretty princess-what is the meaning of this?"

"Oh."

"Help!"

"Get your filthy hands off her!"

"Calm down. We were just trying to touch her chest."

"Well than, you deserve an execution!"

"That guy was doing it too."

"Hey! You sell-out!"

"I see. But you'll go first and then I'll kill him!"

"You guys, enough!"

::

A dialogue between 4 people. Could you follow?

~Mera.

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A Tiny Tune

JournalWord: When a misfit comes home.

***

He stumbles into the cafe, slamming shut the front door from the peeking rays of the morning. The jumbled chime of the bells over the door announces his arrival and he grunts, clutching his head at the sharp pain the sound induces. 

He shuffles one of the tables, knocking down a chair from it's upside door position on the tabletop. It's too early for anyone to be up. Dan isn't even up yet to turn down the chairs for the day.

Placing the chair on it's legs, he falls into the wooden seat, ducking his head under his arms as he places them on the table. He attempts to ignore the pounding at the back of his head with whispered curses. No one messes with him. No one should mess with him, he corrects. It's their own goddamn fault for bringing a bat to a fist fight, he scowls. 

So he fights the beginning of pain, knowing if he doesn't sleep now, the bruises will be keeping him up for days. Dan will know, then, and when he knows he's been in another fight, he'll have to be kicked out. 

He doesn't know why he fights. Dan should have kicked him out months ago. Coming home every week with a new set of bruises and gang members out for revenge, he's endangering Diana and the cafe for being here.

Damn, he curses again, a fist meeting the wooden surface of the table. A jagged pain runs through his knuckles for his efforts and he swears quietly, praying he doesn't have any broken bones or fractures. Then he wouldn't be able to help out. Then he wouldn't be able to teach Diana her lessons. 

He cradles his hand in his lap, hiding his eyes in his other forearm, wiping away ungrateful tears. He doesn't even deserve to cry, not for his actions, and not for his broken promises. He's still mentally cursing himself when tiny pattering of feet sneak down the stairs into the dining hall.  

He wipes his eyes again and plucks his head up from his arm to the stumbling tune of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. He watches as she struggles over the keys of the old upright piano. Her tiny fingers flutter and stretch to reach the ivory keys, tripping over others in the obstacle to complete the children's tune. 

She finally finishes the song and spins on the bench, her nightgown twirling along with her long hazel braid. She beams when she sees he's been watching. "Are you feeling a little better now?" she asks, hopeful.

"Not in the least," he gruffly replies at the child. Her smile falters and he adds, "yeah, so play it again for me."

He drops his head back down onto his arm, hiding his smile in the crook of his arm when she starts to play the tune again, this time with an exited gusto. He stays awake knowing she'll be lonely when he falls asleep. The pain will be worth it, he vows. It's the only equivalent to the sweet serenade of an angel.

***

Love, love, love misfits!!

I'm realizing I like writing from a limited third-person point of view. Seems to feel right.

Let me know what you think!

~mera

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