The Painting

I stumble into the stairwell, heedless of the random crap on the cement. That's what my life is now. Crap. Random crap everywhere. Well, that's how it goes, I guess.

I don't feel like climbing to my apartment so I light a cigarette. I leave the main door open just enough for a shred of sunlight to die before me and to allow myself a small glimpse of "life" out there.

There is a picture above that door. Something with nature or animals or whatever. I hate it. I've demanded it be stripped from the wall but apparently the other tenants think it "livens up their day" or some shit like that.

But I guess that picture's all I have to look at now. Well, that and the random crap. But I guess that's life for me now. Life, or rather death.

Inspired by Thursday Tales: http://talesthursday.blogspot.com/2011/05/tale-60.html

Image for inspiration found here: http://hidlight.deviantart.com/art/cigarettes-and-lonely-man-169106281

The Siren's Lament

I skidded across the water's surface. My power incensed the siren. I could feel her watery hands grasping and clutching but always missing.

My legs grew tired. My power began to wane. The faint lullaby in the damp air pulsed greedily on what skill remained and I began to sink below the unforgiving surface. I could feel the siren drawing closer. I could feel her nails in my skin and the scales of her bosom as she held me close.

Her song wrapped me in a vicious lullaby as I drowned.

Made of Stone

There it sits. The stone figure from the Otherworld. It taunts me with its beauty. The magnificent doves in my master's hand...they are a lie. It is all a lie. Except for His likeness. And there are birds. Only they are savage, evil things. Meant to keep their master's subjects in line. Like me. Only I escaped. To the beautiful human world where my violent skills don't matter. They aren't needed for a power crazed master. Because He is not here.

But now the thing taunts me. My master, with His closed loving eyes and soft fingers. This is not Him. This is not my master. This figure looks holy, wonderful, magnanimous.

He is not my master. He will never be again.

Inspired by Magpie Tales.

http://magpietales.blogspot.com/2011/05/blog-post.html

City Streets

In the merry month of May, in a morn by break of day, I walk along the bruised sidewalks, flipping into cut up alleys. I pass by the shops in this sweetest of months and watch the young couples at their games. And games they are as the young couples sit and chat about nothing, holding hands and leaning close.

In this most merry month, I walk through the meadows. Well, meadows of my mind. There's none of that here, in this sweetest of cities. Especially not at the break of day. But I supposed that's the best time of day to find a meadow. In a city like this.

In May, the morning month, I walk along and peep at the animals, fighting each other for the steel garbage bins along crumbling brick walls. Rabid. Wild. Abandon.

In the merry month of May, in a morn by break of day, I walk along these city streets until I am home.

This one's for Sunday Scribblings and Carry on Tuesday.

The Spider's Silk

Ren drifted through the tall grass. Her jittery hands parted the strands, curving into a thin wisp of sticky thread. Violet eyes fell to the spot. A spider's web. That's all it was. She kept moving, past the shining beacon of silk.

The grass crackled under her foot, rustled like a lady's skirts as she brushed them aside. Soon, the green disappeared, leaving a man in their wake.

Heath turned with the grace of silk, reminding Ren of that sticky spider's web. His eyes met hers and he fell toward her. Heath lifted her hands in his and guided Ren forward. His gaze raked the bag hanging forlorn by her side.

"Are you ready?"

Inspired by Three Word Wednesday.