Scary psycho Valentine

“Honey!” Jane yells from the so-called bedroom of their studio. “Can you turn that down, turn it off. Just make it stop!” The music and human voices, human sounds travel through Jane’s pillow as she tries to suffocate her eardrums. What seems like five minutes passes, it has only been 45 seconds.
“Alex? Honey?” No response. She crawls out of bed and sluggishly shuffles her feet across the span of the apartment to where the dreadful, whatever, is perched in front of the laptop. “can’t you use head phones or…” her voice changes pitch as it trails off when she realizes what her eyes are watching.
“PORN, You’re watching porn?
“uhhhh…” Her messy haired scruffy chinned Husband, now officially demoted boyfriend, managed to gurgle out right before he hit the escape button. “It’s not what you think.”
“Really, then what is it?”
“Ok, so it is what you think. But what do you expect, it Valentine’s Day and I got all hyped up and your too tired.”
“You are unbelievable. You can’t even use heard phones. I have a career making presentation with a substantial client in 6 hours and all you can think of is the loudest way to get rid of your boner.”
“If you weren’t so selfish, always on your terms, where you want it, only if you’re too stressed and don’t have time to work out.”
“Oh, so your gonna start with that crap again. Little mister, I can’t get it up with all this pressure.”
“So you’re looking to go down that road, miss cum fountain.”
“NO, I just want you to shut up so I can get some sleep. Maybe if you didn’t have to leech of me we could afford a larger apartment, one with ROOMS!”
“You asked me to move in with you! You knew I was in-between jobs at the time you…”
“That was almost a year ago! And here you are, still sitting on your ass in front of your computer.” Gasps, “is what you do all day watch porn? That’s it... either you find a job or move out, end of story.” Jane proceeds to stomp back to her bed in anger but Alex violently gabs her arm pulls her back towards him.
“Don’t you walk away”, he spits, his faces inches from hers.
“Don’t touch me you ungrateful mooch, go back to the pitiful life I found in. “
“Look her doll this is the last time I am going to put up with you treating me like this, you spoiled daddy’s girl. You would have never gotten to where you are today if it wasn’t for his death, even the board members know that. He just died before he could take you out of his will. If you think for second I am gonna let you…” A cracking thud interrupts his rant. His body slumps to floor as the blood oozes in a round pool around the circumference of his head that stretches out towards Jane’s feet. In her right had she holds the neck of the grey study lamp that used to sit mouse side of his Toshiba. Her dark green eyes glazed over in fear, changing to disgust, and morphing into delightful acceptance.
“No one has seen him in months, no close friends. His family only sees him during the holidays, if he shows. Dump the body, report a missing person, collect the insurance money. A little messy and unplanned compared to my father’s undoing, but satisfactory in the long run.” She gazing down at the lifeless body and coos, “Oh my love, why did you have to go and ruin everything?”

Perfect Place

My perfect place is probably a home away from home for many. A cliché most would say. However, no matter how “original” it may be, a perfect day at the beach can be beat by nothing.
Early morning, a light breeze strengthens the sound of the ocean as the wave’s crash upon each other. Not a sole within spitting distance, nor am I able to hear their voices carry to where I lie. I enjoy the restrained rays from subtle cloud cover, giving my already sun kissed cheeks a break from direct contact. The beads of water from this morning’s swim slowly dry, while my soaked curls lighten to an auburn hue. Back ground music softly tugs at my imagination while I drift off to sleep sprawled in the sand.

Miss Lemon

Two am, it looks cold outside, probably is. She lay awake, her round blue eyes staring at the barley visible shadows on the ceiling. She could picture his soft hazel eyes and dirty blond hair. It has been nearly two years since she had spoken to her brother.
They were, are, inseparable, though continents apart. Irish twins are what they’re called, born one year apart, to the day.
She violently thrashes the bed covers to the side and slides to the edge of the mattress horror-stricken. Her toes dangle just above the hardwood and she realizes she cannot remember his face. She can imagine the indistinguishable curls and those familiar eyes, but not his face.
The hall mantelpiece to the left and down the stairs, right behind the front door, next to the kitchen contained what she needed. The bottom cabinets contained albums, some untouched since the day they were purchased.
Those that had split backbones, or were worn at the edges she handled with care. The rest she let fall from her arms and onto the table with a light thud. Carefully she opened the one closest to the kitchen chair she sat in. Delicately she flipped through the pages, stopping to gaze momentarily at the child like versions of herself and her siblings. Moving from album to album, she continued to browse through every album. Gazing upon former adaptations of her brother, struggling to visualize what he might look like now, how the war might have changed him.

A subtle knock at the front door, Mrs. Lemon answered. She had been awake for some time now. The sun streamed in through the kitchen window and bounced off the golden highlights draped over her daughter sleeping face.
Mrs. Lemon had no knowledge as to how long Stacey had been awake, nor, of what time she had finally laid her head to rest atop snap shots of childhood memories. It did not matter, she had watched her sleep while silently brewing coffee, mixing pancake batter and pre-heating the stove.
Mrs. Lemon spoke in a hushed tone to the government-suited man as she accepted the letter he handed over. Stepping back into the kitchen she unfolded the creased parchment and began to read.
Stacey did not understand the high-pitched gurgling shout, followed by weight meeting the tiled linoleum at an unexpected speed that woke her. She maneuvered her heavy head to see her mother collapsed on the floor in sobs. Crouching next to her mother, Stacey slide the letter from her fingertips and began to read.

Days had past, maybe longer. Stacey sat straight at her desk, stationary ready, pen in hand.
What was there to say, thank you? Thank you for being in that horrid place, for being there for him. There when he died, when I was unable, I wish I could have been there when… No, that would be a lie.
Thank you I know how you feel. No, I do not. I felt the same way about him… of course I did! That would be insulting.
He wrote to inform me that in his death, wherever he was, others loved him. When those who loved him could not, that he was not alone. He would not look me up, it would be too much of a reminder, and he was just being polite. I would have done the same.

Comment Post

http://maggiesmarvelousmayhem.blogspot.com/2009/01/letter-to-my-friends.html

I responded to Maggie's letter because she mentioned she used to be theatre kid. I too was a theatre child for a long time so I choose to look at her letter. She mentioned that it was a little intimidating working around all these people who seem to have been writing all their lives, and I agree. I don't write often for myself and rarely feel I would be able to to put out a whole novel like I plan on attempting to someday. I also thought I might want to try journalism, but decided maybe writing for a magazine would be fun.

Bigfoot Lives

It is common knowledge to those that know her best that Monique Munro is an odd commodity of the people found in her inner circle. Her values and disposition have never been altered to suit a situation, but rather, she has had the same base group friends since 1997.
Born in the streets of suburbia, in Portland, Oregon, much of this young woman’s quirky behavior is the result of having suffered the transition from public education to a private high school. In which many skills and traits of her character were developed.
Standing at five feet five inches, she is nothing short of a clumsy giant fumbling through life’s everyday tasks. Do to the bulk of her, freakishly large, size eleven feet there has never been a single painted line of her paved neighborhood roads that has not caused her to stumble and fall to the ground.
Her curly, dark brown hair hangs just over the edge of her shoulders. However, these glossy ringlets are consistently abused, flat ironed, and strangled into a messy bun; despite the protests of horrified witnesses.
To the surprise of many of her Payless customers, Monique is unfamiliar with Spanish. And on a daily basis must fight with local strangers to prove she is not Hispanic. Unfortunately, the only defense she has is, “this is what I was told by my parents”, and most don’t buy it.
She is often described as a loyal and ambitious individual driven by chaos, whose abilities feed off pressure and procrastination. Her compassionate nature is shown not only towards others but expressed toward all creatures.
She is always hiking, enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells of nature. In her youth, she took it upon herself to band together local neighborhood kids dubbed the, “Bug Savers”. Saving poor innocent potato bugs from death by mud puddle in order to subject them to, death by hot water. However, not one insect was ever been harmed outside the comforts of her own home. She respects their environment as she expects them to respect hers, as insect free. Any violators are quickly put to death.
Never a tedious moment experienced in her presence; her infectious laughter, resembling that of a trembling hyena, is more than enough to send the room into an uproar. Her animated personality and enthusiastic need to share, the summarized truths of day to day situations continue to strengthen her exaggeration skills.
Her ritualistic routine is set into motion on a daily biases, but rarely followed. Her inconsistency is constant and can always be counted on. Never achieving what she planed, she has found that planning nothing is the best way to meet deadlines. Claiming, she adopted the “Just Do It”, attitude.
When misfortune beckons, she greets the cloaked figure with a sense of adventure. The evidence: with having murdered thirteen cell phones in the short period of four years; as well as the incident of sleep deprivation taking effect on the last bus of the day in an unknown town, only to wind up on the other side of the city, with no other option but to call a cab. She also has the unfortunate habit of needless gibber. Never experiencing a dull day, each escapade is an additional chapter in the chronicles of Monique.