Heart-Strings

JournalWord: Fate

::  

Red strings hang, waving from the ceiling like curtains swaying in the breeze invited by an open window. The girl treads through the red fibers, pushing them aside with her fingers as she weaves between the fluttering threads. Her fingertips strum the strings like a harp, but the only sound in the endless, white hall is the brush of her knees against the hem of the mint sundress she wears. 

She follows a path only seen by instinct, winding herself further down the hall on soft footsteps with only the sight of red all around her. As if struck by impulse, she shoots her hand through the wavering threads in a direction beyond her field of vision to an area by her peripheral. 

She runs her fingertips down the strand, slowly, teasingly stroking the gossamer tendril like a precious vein. Without hesitance, she sharply grasps the string in between her fingers and palm, and tugs it towards her. 

The string pulls loose from the ceiling and the end hanging close to the floor ravels around her ring finger and the other end pulls tight in the opposite direction. The end not tied to her leads off through the other strings like a path, elongating into the sea of red. 

Pausing, she waits, her eyes focused on the taunt string that disappears down the forever hall. A tremor suddenly travels down the string, like a call that pulses through the throng of threads. It's calling for her, just as she has searched for it. 

Before the strings tugs, her feet pick up into a run and she sweeps through the curtains, following the trail to her fate.

::

This short is inspired by Japanese fate, where love between two people is tied together with a red string.

This is one of my versions of love. 

This being, that I don't actually believe in love. 

(shoot at me Cupid, I dare you!)

It's kind of funny, considering I used to write a lot about love when I was younger, but what does a 13 year old girl know about love anyways?

So yeah, my friends try to prove me wrong, and I'm sure they can be right and believe what they like (I am very open to knowing everyone has their own mindset that I have no control over), but I'll stick to my original plan.

Which doesn't involve love.

And instead involves the possibility of a one night stand or, in the case I am deterred from Plan A by family and friends, artificial insemination via Folder-Boy (y'know, a dude chosen from a bunch of folders.. HarHar).

Maybe I've got too much science in this brain of mine, or I'm just neurotic. Who knows! But so far, that's the plan :P

I mean, who wouldn't love a gorgeous son (manufactured by chosen genes-Yay for eugenics!) by the name of Hexane??

Well, that's a tidbit from my mind :)

Hope it didn't freak you out too much ;P

Be bubbly,

Mera <3

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Anything But Green

JournalWord: Shucking.

::

The greens of the corn stalks are the only shade to the unrelenting blaze of the flaming ball, tossed into the vast blue and whites of foaming clouds on a cool glass of water. The flat lands of the farm are covered in a stand-still carpet of tall, swooping stalks, heavy with the late summer harvest. The hanging pods of the corn bob like sunflowers dancing to the hum of bumblebees, and wait for the grateful support of a calloused hand twisting the vegetable off it’s precarious cliff. 

I shimmy through the crop, picking, twisting, and placing ears into a basket chaffing my arm. I test the weight of the basket as I walk through the maize, hurriedly loading the wicker until my arm slacks from the picks. The shed is a shabby, worn but steady wooden structure in the middle of the maize. The peeling rustic red paint peeks through the emerald leaves, a sliver of unrequited love on an otherwise dry afternoon. The glitter of tools underneath crusts of mud lead me to the shed, and I take a moment to wipe the sticking sweat off my brow. The brown wheelbarrow beside the shed is half full of bright golden corn, cloaks of husks ripped off and piled beside a crouching girl. 

I trample through the clearing, sliding over the packed dirt with a conscious ease toward the girl, wicker basket between my sweaty hands. I drop the basket beside her tiny, three legged stool and reach for the empty basket beside her, eyes locked to her frayed pigtails. Her dark hair is frizzing in the heat, curling and sticking to the sides of her neck. She rips off a chunk of husk from an ear, revealing the shock of color hidden under layers of deceitful green. 

The muscles in her arm flexes the tan line on her forearm when she tosses away the corn’s cloak. Her raw, practiced hand grips and rips another portion of the cloak with a sharp yank from the corn, digging green stained fingertips into the layered leaves. The gilded kernels shine in the palm of her hand, a smile to her pressed chapped lips. I watch her cast the cleaned ear into the wheelbarrow with a twist of her faded, jean overalls and the habitual reach for another. 

I grip the handle of the empty wicker basket, shaking my head from the buzzing of the burning crickets. I tread back towards my section of the crop, smiling through the leaves in my face and chuckle.  

“She sure knows how to shuck.”

::

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Ax-Amore

JournalWord: She's sex.

***

She's sex, with stiletto heels and dragging her bright red ax behind her. Her thin heels click on the tiles of the building's floor as she exits the elevator. Her hips sway, tantalizingly slow in her catwalk march away from the open metal doors and petrified man. 

The impeccably suited businessman's lips tremble, sporting her vibrant lipstick, tremendously confused and terrified as he brings a trembling hand to slick his hair back into its original gelled-down state. 

She doesn't look back when the doors completely close, instead, continues down the hall, sliding her ax over the tiles, hoping it will scratch. She regards the secretaries with a challenging smirk that sets them back down onto their seats when they notice the ax. She knows that security is going to be sent, so she better hurry this up. 

Interns drop their stacks of documents when she passes them, shocked into frozen spectators, moving out of her path with gaping mouths. She finds his office fairly easy and doesn't knock. When she opens the door, he's on the phone, face low to his desk, writing down as he amicably speaks to the person on the other end. He doesn't even look up from his papers when she closes the door. 

She softly tuts at his inattention and transfers the ax slowly so it rests comfortably between her manicured hands. Her fingers flex before hefting the ax up onto her shoulder. She walks forward towards his desk, and before he can fully acknowledge her presence, she slams the ax down. 

The ax chops through the wood of his jomocha desk, trapping the papers he was writing on as it embeds itself into the grain. The edge of the ax peeks through the wood, inches from his nose. The pen in his hand drops onto the desk, rolling to greet the ax that is inches away. 

He is silent when he lifts his head, and she greets him with a perfect, angelic smile, cracking open her devilish lips to display her pearly teeth. While he is still speechless, she pivots on the ball of her black heels so he can see the splash of crimson on her soles before she struts to the door. 

When she opens the door, security waits outside to swarm her, but she holds her hand up to stop them. They look into the office to see her damage and are as stunned as he is, producing a pathway for her in their shocked stupor. 

She sways her hips tantalizingly slow on her exit, a little smile on her vermilion lips. Her hand tosses her hair over her shoulder when she approaches the elevator, a coo of surprise when the man she had left in the elevator is still there, still stunned. She enters the elevator, presses the button for the ground floor and to close the door, and grabs the paralyzed man's unwrinkled tie to pull him in for a kiss.

***

I'm still thinking about red (teehee!). But I've got to say, this is my ideal woman, the epitome of sex: the devilish goddess. Now, how sexy is that! Everyone can feel sexy (especially when doing something down-right naughty and dangerous!), just need the self-confidence to achieve it.

Purposely lacking in description and detail, because, hey, this can be anyone. A dangerous smile and something that makes you feel pretty (seductive) is all that is needed. In this case, it's manicured nails and a pair of gorgeous shoes (I love-love-love shoes.).

I liked using words for surprise here, if you can tell ;P

Now, be good,

Mera ;)

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We're All Red Inside

All these words that resemble red:

saffron.

crimson.

scarlet.

blush.

cerise.

vermilion.

ruby.

cardinal.

carmine.

cherry.

garnet.

magenta.

rust.

blood.

wine.

salmon.

rose.

flush.

brick.

burgundy.

coral.

maroon.

hot.

flame.

fiery.

anger.

embarrass.

feverish.

ruddy.

aroused.

burning.

vibrant.

boil.

scald.

burn.

raw.

Almost pink, emotional description, and a series of temperatures. Red is surely one hell of an emotive color. It's one of my favorite colors to wear when I'm feeling passionate and confident.

What comes to mind when you think of red? Did I miss any?

~mera

p.s.my nickname (mera) is red in Indonesian. Just one of the many reasons I am nicknamed Mera ;)

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