they.

They have no faces.

no names

no identities

in the scheme of things.

not here.

beneath a burnt-out sky

The harsh desert land stretches out before them, as far as the eye can see. She puts her stockinged legs on the dashboard, her red heels hanging off the side of the mustang. Grinning ferociously at the (dashing) young man with hair slicked back next to her. Letting the summer breeze specked with dirt and grime wash through her red hair. She lifts her sunglasses to look at the sky.

"Ain't it a beaauuutiful day?"

"Yes mam!" the young lad replies cockily, his white teeth bared.
She playfully smacks him with the palm of her hand, and the convertible swerves just a little to the right. They both laugh it off, unfazed.
"Don't worry babe, I've got it all under control" he drawls.
"You'd better. This is an o-p-p-o-r-t-u-n-i-t-y of a lifetime! Don't wreck it. What we've worked for."

He nonchalantly flicks the ashes from the cigarette butt into the wind and begins to hum. "follow the yellow-brick road, follow the yellow-brick road."
"Follow the yellow-brick road paved with GOOOOOLDDDDD!"She screams, as she jumps up onto her seat.
"Calm down woman!"
She yawns at him, her red lips parted wide enough for him to see the one gold-filing in her molar.
"Where do you want to go now, honey?"
"Me?" She pulls out a piece of paper from her purse.
"Now lookie here, I have a list. Amsterdam, Portugal, Rome "
"Honey, theys are excellent! Good work, but don't you think we have a little too much money now?" he winks at her. She throws back her head and laughs a shrill laugh, as she turns around to pat the black duffel bag containing the mutiple wads of Franklins and the Smiths & Wesson.
"Perhaps."

stage fright

She was far more confident than she'd ever been, as she strode onto the stage. The lights dazzled and blinded her, and she stood there, stunned- like a deer trapped in a truck's headlights. Her pulse began to quicken, her heart raced. then stopped, then went off full speed ahead. A member of the audience coughed, and then she heard some of them shuffling impatiently in their seat. She squinted into the blackness, trying to find some sort of hope in the shape of a person, smiling attentatively at her. She was, by now, extremely conscious of the bright lights directed at her frame, the eyes she couldn't see that were watching her. She had began to sweat a little, slightly profusely, her body feeling cold, and hot. She tried to lick her parched lips, and tasted a little blood. She swallowed nervously, but her dry throat was cut. All of a sudden the lights flashed stronger, and she put her hands up in front of her face in defence. "Come on.." moaned some members of the audience. The impatient shuffling sounds were now louder, now harsher.
She stepped up to the microphone.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Herringbone College's Fifth Musical Production, A Midsummer Night's Dream"

noise.

that incessant beep, constant. that ringing in your ear- soft, but there. Now it's increasingly louder, until it fills the void in your head. A frown crosses your face, squint into the sky. hear me now; no i can't hear you.
head pounding.
head ache.
head burst.

you smack your head- stop this ringing!, so relentless, so...so. Both hands come up to your ears and you squeeze your eyes shut and press tightly against the sides of your head where it hurts most.
you make a noise, some kind of unidentifiable noise. a grunt, perhaps.

and so you rock, you rock back and forth. you find it surprisingly relaxing. you don't care everyone is looking, no Staring, at you.

"is everything ok? "

"get away from me!"

night-time regrets

She steps lightly over the pavement cracks, her thin stilettos nimbly securing the worn down path. Past the greyed-out buildings, the dogs, oh the dogs. A dank, musty aroma wafts between the blackened alleyways; it reeks of cigarette smoke. Her light summer dress wallows in the cold, midnight air. It's not enough to look the part; you have to feel the part. Past the crumbling buildings, the perverts secretly eyeing you as you pass. A coy whistle rings out from the darkness, but she ignores it. No, she needs to be someplace else. She'll be in trouble otherwise, trouble that she does not care to experience again. Beneath her caked-on mask of foundation, beneath her darkened eyes laced with mascara, beneath her red, red lipstick- are the signs of his regrets. Bruised. Blackened. He said he was sorry. He looked like he was sorry. Her heels clip the concrete, faster, faster. What are you doing woman? Get home.

Is there any choice?
She needs him, oh she needs him.

Postcards From Italy

This music video evokes the simplest forms of love and peace. It sets of an amazing feeling of nostalgia, in her. Innocent memories of playing as a child, when we were without a care in the world. As one comment puts it:

"This video says to me, "Stop watching me. Go out and live!"
haha
Yes sir!

And with that, he was off. "

(azimuth457 )

don't be a coconut, God is trying to talk to you.

Having recently become interested in the concept of blogging, she found that the blogging world was one to be treasured. A place where your thoughts / musings/ ramblings would be indelibly (hopefully) pasted on a canvas of story and rhyme. A poem to start the day:

Like a withering flower,
Not to be heard, not to be seen
Swept up by the invisible hands of the wind
She floats on by
Like a speck of dust in an intergalatic realm.