Break this face,
Shatter this visage.
Destroy this face;
make it into something beautiful
something holy,
sacred.
Something to adore,
to worship.
Breathe lips across my neck,
my eyes.
Breathe teasing kisses
along hopeful cheeks.
Breathe your blessing, entreating
whispers along my ears.
Break this face
make it something tender
something worth of praise.
Make my name sing
along wondering nerves.
I don’t know how to write accents, so please forgive me, and simply enjoy, if that is possible. Sorry, i know it sucks… just bear with it *rolleyes*
After Alice had thoroughly investigated the considerable Nothing that she found herself in, she quickly realized that the Nothing was punctuated with the regular patter of very small feet and what seemed to be a couple of very peculiar voices.
“Aye, but now, ‘ow does won gae about losin’ a peach?”
At this slightly, Alice thought, absurd question, another more pompous and commandeering voice replied.
“Well, it was during the Great Jam War of 35 that i did just such a thing. First, i twisted around a caravan, rolled under a hedge, crawled, doubling back, and sloshed through a river before eventually finding myself five miles away and no sign of the blasted peach anywhere.”
“No, no, no,” another accent replied. “What ya do, see, is ya take her to the county dance and while she is admirin’ the lights and dances and such, you take another gal back behind da shed and make with the snogging….”, a wistful, regret deadened quality enters his speech, as though fighting back a rush of emotion. “Right, well, i damned well lost her, and what a peach, that doll.”
At this, of course, Alice had grown mightily confused, not quite sure how a peach could be a doll, her thoughts naturally following that one would get quite sticky if one tried to play with it, nevermind if one got peckish.
Meanwhile, the voices grew closer, jibing the one who had spoke about the peach doll, when the third spoke up, with a sharp SMACK, a loud “OW! What was that for??” , the one who had asked the original question replied:
“No you twits! You want to lose a peach, you drop et inna peach orchard! Morons, the lot of you…” the voice degenerated into vague mumbles.
“Well then, ‘ow’s this: How d’you get a cold duck?” the second asked.
“You beat it over the ‘ead with a large stick!” the third replied, sounding very triumphant.
“You dump sum ice awn et!” the first said.
“No you fools…”
At this point, Alice realized that the voices were practiaclly on top of her, echoing in the Nothingness with resounding peals. Looking around frantically, she realised that there was no where for her to hide. Setting her jaw, she took a stance, determined to face and fight such neanderthals that would consider beating a duck for no good reason (ducks did NOT have an entry in the Encyclopedia of Mean and Furry Things, being neither mean, nor furry for that matter).
Still talking amongst themselves, the three echoed as though all around her, then, abruptly, they were behind her. A little bewildered and befuddled (beings that tended to buzz around the eyes and ears for the sole purpose of confusing a poor soul, they feature prominently in Alice’s tale) Alice looked around her, probing the Nothing (which it should be mentioned, is very ticklish, and should only be probed when absolutely necessary, provided one doesn’t want to end up tossed about like a piece of jello) for the source of the voices, finally, and very cautiously whispering “h-hello?”
Screams buffeted her poor ears as the three beings, so startled to hear another’s voice, started scurrying around, anxiously trying to hide, but only succeeding in landing themselves in a quivering heap in front of Alice’s left foot.
“M-mice?” Letting out a loud, slightly giddy sigh, she bends low, looking them over.
“HURRICANE!!!!” one of the Mice screamed, his voice still echoing in a resounding squeak in the Nothing surrounding them.
Picking up one of the Mice, she tried to reassure it, only succeeding in stopping it’s shakes when she held it up to her eye and held her breath.
Seeing the crown on her head, the Mouse jumped up and bowed low.
“Your Majesty! Ehh…um… well, who are you, exactly?” The mouse blinked and looked her over, realizing that this was either a very large, overgrown rat, or a dragon, with it’s fierce breath.
The simple Question struck her hard across the mouth, gave her a scornful look and marched out into the Nothing fearlessly.
Sputtering a little, Alice suddenly realized that she couldn’t answer, anymore than she could get the Prince-essly crown off her head…
This was a short piece, done junior year of high school for a creative writing class. While perhaps the writing could be better and the idea more fully fleshed, I do have a fondness for it.
I sat in the chair behind the artist, watching as he added the shades of grey that had come to dominate the features of the man who sat at the window. He was an aging gentleman, just a faint hint of dark chocolate lingered in his hair, the rest faded to gray or white; it was difficult to tell at times which it was. The artist continued his sketching of the ragged corpse, the sunlight playing across the eyes that had slid shut. In the time I had known him, his skin had turned a pasty grayish green, where once it had nearly glowed with pinkish health. He looked so fragile, sitting there, as though one small draft would blow him into dust.
Giving a small snort, the dead figure moved, slowly awakening from its peaceful slumber. Paper thin eyelids slowly glided open, revealing haunted, bright green eyes. I smiled to my long time friend and watched as he turned from sickly, gaunt, animated corpse, to laughing schoolboy who had been long away from the playground. I smiled again and stood, turning to cautiously pick up the tray the serving woman had forced on me, careful not to spill any of the broth she had carefully drugged with the medicine she wasn’t able to force him to take. I had taken a mere two steps when the rug tripped me up, sending me stumbling forward toward the man I owed so much to. As the china rattled threateningly, he caught my arm, and putting the tray aside, tugged me into the chair across from his place on the window seat.
“here I am, come to help you, and yet you find yourself helping me,” I exclaimed dejectedly.
He gives a short, scratchy laugh at this, and after giving one last disdainful glance at the covered tray, leans forward, his entire being now fully animated. He stands, and totters a few steps, then paces with a stronger stride, eager and excited at his good fortune to have a friend drop by.
“Now, now,” he started, “where did we leave off? Was I in Borneo? No, no, that was a while ago. I was at the excavation wasn’t I? Yes, now sit, sit!” he rambled, the last comment directed at my attempt to usher him to his seat.
The artist, in the background now, worked on at his masterpiece.
“Now, when I was 25, I and the love of my life, Alessandra, left for a small desert town just outside of Cairo. That’s Egypt you know. It had been assumed that the reason it was uninhabited was due to the town well drying up. I, on the other hand, had my suspicions…” he began, a soft, gleaming twinkle in his eye and a lightness in his step that had been somewhat absent during the long years of his illness.
I sat there, watching his emaciated figure parade around the room, laughing at the jokes, frowning at the betrayals, growing panicked with the time restrictions that pervaded his stories. With each turn about the room he seemed to grow just a little slower, though his speech retained its youthful vigor, his body was slowly starting to shut down. After a bit, just when he had gotten to the part where he and Alessandra were trapped by 50 Egyptian guards, he grew weak enough to be suffered to be put in bed. I sat with him until finally his eyes drifted close, and he fell peacefully to sleep. As I watched his chest rise and fall shallowly, his lips flutter once more with the words of his beloved on his tongue, his illness finally taking him to places beyond what the mortal eye could see.
With a sigh of sadness, I stood and taking my coat in hand, walk to the door. Before I got there, however, I noticed two new pieces, leaning on the old, dusty mantle. It was the portrait that the artist had worked on that afternoon. The first one was how he was before; his ancient clothing, the wear and tear making it nearly transparent and just barely hidden by an old silk robe, his hat, perched upon his head, like it might very well fall off with every quick movement. His face was ashen, and sunken in as though he was already past life and well into the stages of death. But the second! The second picture showed him in all his glory, a man in the prime of his life, animated and lively. Instead of the dry, dusty gentlemen I saw when I entered, it pictured him as young, eyes twinkling with the light of his own burning passion and good humor. It was a face that had seen the world, and rejoiced in it’s mystery and awesomeness.
A note was attached to the paintings, it was simply signed “the Artist” and on it, written in a simple scrawling script was a plain message; “No charge. Life is in the journey.”
© K.A.Price 2005
“No wonder you’re late. Why, this watch is exactly two days slow.” -The Mad Hatter
