5&½ Minute Hallway
A writing blog. Stories. Story outlines. Rants about writers block. Mostly unedited. Character sketches. Stuff about zines. Favorite books.
All it takes is one touch.
Maybe it was on accident, maybe it was on purpose. It doesn’t really matter.
Maybe it was the back of her knee, her stomach, or maybe it was her neck. Wherever it is, she’ll jerk, maybe she’ll scream, and she’ll back away from you, terrified. She’ll be afraid of you, because all of a sudden you’re the one bringing back the voices, the memories. Because all it takes is one touch to bring back those voices whispering ‘bitchslutwhorefatbabypatheticuseless’ and those memories she fought so hard to keep down.
That’s all it takes for her to pull up the drawbridge, lock the gates and post sentries to keep everyone out.
No, go away, you have to be invited back.
but i promise no one will love her the way she wants
cutting her up into lovely little woman pieces
breaking her bones and cutting her hair
so she can slide away and die one death
instead of thousands in the song she’s sung
the components of a human are thus: one part flesh to one part bone, with equal parts mind, and two parts soul
somewhere
a piec
e
is
missing
because, to me, this is worth noting
part of a conversation with tim about tripping, and what visuals i see
When I listen to music, I can see it. Notes and pitches and genres have distinctive colors, patterns and wavelengths that are now visible to me. For example, classical music tends to be either pastel colors, or those that are ‘dark’ and ‘regal’. Violins are a light blue, and as the notes get higher, the color becomes brighter but lighter until it eventually fades into a white that has the slightest tint of blue. Cellos are a navy blue, lower pitches eventually darkening into a blue so deep it’s almost black. Most concertos show up as us undulating patterns reminiscent of designs featured in wrought-iron gates, but constantly shifting and changing, never constant. Patterns that appear only once, and then fade, never to be made again by my mind.
I’ll imagine a girl.
And you? You’ll imagine her too.
She’s part of a chorus with matching listless expressions. I see her twirling her hair—blond and sparkling as it waves with the wind—as she sings “America the Beautiful” with a wad of discolored gum in her mouth. She never did realize that it was in bad taste—to begin with yellow gum, and then mix it with red and blue gum. It always results in a terrifying mixture of nastiness, spit and sugar. It is this same mixture that makes girls and, when improperly done, gingerbread houses, and is consequently generally undesirable.
part of a satire piece i wrote so fucking long ago, with some edits so it’s not as full of grammatical errors and is more cohesive.
