A lot of girls I knew wanted complicated things. Guys who could read their minds, whilst decorating them in diamonds, as if they were Christmas trees as yet uncut, in the middle of an ice storm.
It always seemed to me that getting picked was an ending more than a beginning. Chopped down and carried away home to clean and fetch and cook, until they forgot how to want or dream or even think of things they weren’t told to think.
They got to keep the diamonds, but they had to die a little bit in exchange.
(c) J. A. Brown, Storyteller February 14, 2017 –Exchange- Voices In My Head
Previous: Velvet Darkness
She was wearing a little blue dress, skipping rope the first time I saw her. Her hair was in braids, tied with little ribbons that matched her dress. She was eight, I was nine, and time stopped for me.
She was wearing jeans and red t-shirt, sipping beer in my backseat, with her hair down, the next time I saw her. It was a new game, filled with hormones and dare you’s, and when she let me slide my hand under her shirt, time stopped for me, again.
She was wearing a white dress, I think it belonged to her mother, maybe her grandmother, too, but it looked like it was made just for her. When she saw me waiting there for her, I could feel the warmth of her smile on my cheek, like a touch, and time stopped for me, keeping that feeling next to my heart forever.
She was in a hospital gown, her hair matted with sweat, heaping curses on me, and the men of my family ten generations back, as she gave life to another of them. Time stopped there, holding her safe and fast, my son in her arms, and my heart in her hands.
She was in a black dress, the last time I saw her. Her hair was short and silver, with a thousand laugh lines on her sacred skin, and I refused to let time stop. She was gone now, leaving me with frozen snippets of love and life to huddle near for warmth, but this place wouldn’t do without her. I pushed time on, faster, that I might follow her, and do it all again.
©2017 J. A. Brown, Storyteller
The door to Hell was blue. That seemed wrong. My brain glitched tripping over my thoughts as I argued with no one that it should be red or black. Yeah, black maybe, like the old Rolling Stones song. Just not blue. Blue was the color of cool, of the sky, of his eyes…right. I giggled madly at the realization that the door to Hell was the color of his eyes.
It was right; I was here because of him. I could hear him screaming, and wondered if the door to his Hell was the same green as my eyes, or still blue because he was his own Hell, too.
She tasted the whiskey on his lips before she tasted the sweet man himself.
“I’m not the man you think.”
“If you knew my thoughts, you’d know otherwise.”
He slipped under the covers, pulling her closer. She loved it, and him.