Comments Posted By Wonderlion
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I was preparing for a house tour at six when the world ended. Jane and her husband Craig never did get to see the bay windows, freshly vacuumed carpets and small room we shoved a bed into to hike up the asking price. Perhaps they perished in the blast, or maybe they just fled. Whatever happened, they missed out. I made cinnamon cookies.
» Posted By Wonderlion On 11.29.2018 @ 12:21 pm
I watch your hands on the steering wheel. The air that whips around me is hot, stuffy, clammy and the red scarf I tied around my throat is threatening to blow away. I kiss my lips at you when you look at me in the mirror. You’re a darling for driving us this way, this long, winding way. Just for me. Because you know I adore the sights. The city lights disappearing behind us, winking at us in the dusk.
I do adore the birds, the hills, the clouds, the frothy top of the beer, which I tend to dip my finger in. I adore the scenic route. I adore the quiet unspoiled countryside. I adore you for taking us this way, far away; where nobody will ever think to look for you.
» Posted By Wonderlion On 11.25.2018 @ 2:23 pm
I remember how you smelled. No matter if we were out on the land for three days, you always smelled good. The horses stank. Just about everything stank. But you always smelled like soap and smoke from the fire. Only twice I got close enough to breathe you in. Once at your bedside, after you got sick. You told me to find a nice man and settle down, to stop making mistakes and chasing sad dreams. You were right, I’d made a lot of mistakes in my life.
Telling you I loved you was the biggest one.
» Posted By Wonderlion On 11.17.2018 @ 3:24 am
There’s nothing to suggest
across the room
your skin too
» Posted By Wonderlion On 07.29.2018 @ 12:21 pm
Pond skaters dance across the water. Their long legs create tiny pools and disrupt the thin film of water around me. Cool and deep, my limbs outstretch, long arms and legs wading in the water underneath the beating hot sun. And the hum in the air is the beating of insects wings, not traffic. And the thump-thump-thump on the ground is a herd of sheep grazing nearby, not the rattle of a train. Their gentle bleating and the hollow beat of their bells surrounds me, even the great racing inner-city thoughts can’t touch me now. Paradise.
» Posted By Wonderlion On 03.19.2017 @ 1:30 pm
I grabbed the bottle, wondering if it would taste anything like sweet, dark rum. If it would slide down my throat easily or cause me to cough and choke. It was what I needed, right then. Something that would take the edge off and help me to forget everything. Something that would coax out a side of me I rarely indulge.
I curled my fingers around it and cried.
» Posted By Wonderlion On 08.25.2016 @ 4:52 am
I have no structure when I’m writing this novel. It comes in parts. Wishes and kisses and flashes in my brain. There it goes again. The novel I need to write. The one that flows through my veins. Out it comes. Out and out and out.
» Posted By Wonderlion On 08.11.2016 @ 9:23 am
It’s not proper to lose one’s temper. It’s not proper to flirt with the boys who visit the summer house, or to sip a daiquiri while men talk about investments. Or to flash one’s bikini top. Even if it is embellished with little twinkling gems. But I am not proper, and I will do as I damn well please. This summer is mine, mine, mine. I have decided, no bars on windows or bruises on arms can stop me from living. I want to huff the experience into my lungs until it makes me sick. I want to bleach my hair and buy a corset and pop chlorophyll pills that make me smell like dandelion stems steeped in powdery water. I want to flick through glossy magazines and gaze lustily at the tennis playing boys. I will.
» Posted By Wonderlion On 07.31.2016 @ 4:40 am
Shoulders exposed and long flamingo gowns twirling. The rococo amber light flooding the room and bathing the walls. Silken oysters offered on platters like little blue irises and delicate cones of chicken that fry and bubble and hiss and spit. The fire of the setting sun marking us out. Cognac, Gin, Whisky, Bourbon, the sharp delectable taste of rum. Twinkling piano music reminding us that someone will die before dawn.
This is our ritual. This is how it has to be.
» Posted By Wonderlion On 07.30.2016 @ 9:00 am
Her skin was olive. Her hair was golden. She belived in silky-limbed nymphs and chased butterflies in the garden, chattering excitedly. She was a singer. An actress. A writer. She was all things to all people. But she was nothing to me. I never met her, but I hear her voice in my head. She’s the sister I’m named after. The other. Gone. And now I remain, just me. My skin is milk-bottle white, my beliefs are flat and stale. I don’t dance or sing or twirl or twist. I’m just the replacement that started going stale from the day I was born when the nurse swung me upside-down in front of my mother.
Everything about me is upside-down. Mirrored. Wrong.
That’s why I’ve decided to run away…
» Posted By Wonderlion On 07.27.2016 @ 3:07 pm
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I used to lie underneath this elm tree when I was young and gangly and my limbs were peppered with purple bruises. I used to hold your hand here. We carved our names into this tree. Did you know that elm trees symbolise strength and intuition? We used to lie here and think about what our lives would become. Who would we be? I lie here now but the years don’t roll back, they just keep going.
» Posted By Wonderlion On 05.03.2016 @ 6:09 am