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Sunday, June 24, 2012

The Quiet Massacre

The Quiet Massacre
Chrysania Marie Monroe

I was coming down a set of outside stairs and began looking out over everyone. With no anger in my heart, no vengeance to be sought I imagined myself with a gun.The one I envisioned was long and black, like a rifle from a war movie. Every time I wanted to shoot I had to twist this lever left, pull it back, and release the trigger. This gun, this metal and powder would sit over the top of the wall that came up to my chest, you know the ones that make sure you don’t fall over the edge. Then bullet by bullet I would send out for them to drink. They’d rush in anguish, some of them not even knowing why or what they were running from. Of course some, if not righteous than selfless guy would try to be heroic and come dashing at me in attempts to sweep me off my feet, knocking me down…it would be a shame, for a split second I would aim the gun over at him as he comes flying up the steps. He would take one in the stomach and reluctantly reverse his travels falling backward. Again, I would redirect my attention and the gun to the crowd struggling to escape yet finding all of the gates locked, all of the doors bolted, all of their futures even more non-existent than before. All of this happens in what seems to be slow motion. And the sites were horrific although I intended to spread no fear. These people used their friends as human shields and found it quite a shock when their cellular phones had all the textbook answers, but not one on how to stay alive. I suppose no one called the police because it wasn’t programmed into their phone and perhaps they had forgotten the number. And when the clicks and clanks of the gun halted, next to a paradox of silence came or at least the most calm I have ever experienced swayed over screams, washing them clean. It was queer, the smell of the gun residue mixed with the hot bullets still steaming in their skin, echoes that sounded like whispers of all the distress murmured against the next to perfect silence. I laid down the gun seeing how there was no need for it anymore. Daintily, for I meant no harm, I swept pass the hero suffering from internal bleeding and continued on toward the field of what humanity would from now view as the “could have been”, “would have been”, and “should have been”. I spotted an engagement ring bounded and promised to a woman’s finger, her body trampled, yet still possessing the whitest teeth I had ever seen. I bent down curiously discovering and uncovering her face how a flower would open so naturally to the inviting sun. I kissed her. I kissed her knowing somewhere a man would never again touch her body when it was still just as warm as when I stole from her cooling lips something that obviously wasn’t mine. Then I saw the most darling little girl whose hair was the reason envious women have bleach bottles in their bathroom cabinets. Oh so gently did I lift her as I took the liberty to swirl her into a playful swing and dance and it seemed so much untainted youth was found that all of the bodies would rise up and we would all be a part of a smashing masquerade. However, the sun wanted to set and I had no ability to interfere. So I lay the little girl down next to a grandmother type who looked loving and competent enough to care for someone who was so inexperience and that would have needed so much guidance. With that I saw him, and then inhaled as if sucking on a cancer stick as he slipped his hand over my face and, “Shhh…”

Friday, June 22, 2012

The Dark World: A Malkavian Prospective

 The Dark World: A Malkavian Prospective
Chrysania Marie Monroe

While gliding down the broken streets, Olivia finally gazed up from the concrete of New Orleans partly leaving her thoughts. There it was still standing. The house simply was not trusting. It was in a sense, guarding its self with the bliss that one day the salvation of restoration would present itself. Nails stuck out sickly as rotten teeth and beams shed its exterior from termite infested wood. Looking close enough to breathe the stench of abandonment, Olivia found dust on silver antique doorknob frightened of falling out of the socket for the lack of being touched, yet no longer pure like a virgin the same as Olivia. But, virgin she would remain and there lay her true inner child, a child seeking her teacher, for she was one of the damned.
            Even the yard had been left to nature’s course. The lawn had over grown and lost in it was a graveyard of children’s toys. The black iron gate still standing tall was being taken over by browning vines and bleeding petals. Olivia wondered if too much life of anything was detrimental. All she had wanted was to understand truth…truth she later found, was a curse.
            Calmly, she pushed the door of what used to be a bohemian palace and saw the destruction of it after only two hundred years of being un-kept. She remembered the reason she had been there the first time. She had been an entertainer, part of a traveling show who had taken her in when she left to find more. Floating from place to place till she was sixteen, this man let them into his great home and took special interest in Olivia. Only at night did they perform and only at night did he come out. He would drink dark wine, only wine and she would join him for seven nights. Each night she became unwillingly yet yearningly closer to him, longing for his words of truth and beauty. His words offering zealous passion she had only read of from poets.
As Olivia eased each step walking up the grand stair case in fear of falling through the tender wood, water began to leak in through the cracks of the walls crumbling as those of an ancient statue. The parts of her and the house used to be one, just one masterpiece of natural creation now left to become their own salvation and create their own salvation. This idea tore her apart almost as much as it haunted her mind when the demons of her nightmares would came to life.
            Gliding down the hall, the only door was open was the one she had been lead to before by the man who had feed her wine that tasted like a home she had never had. Once in the master bedroom as she had before, the beautiful man finally touched her face as Olivia did now knowing he was near with the same cursed cold hands. She followed her steps from before when he had led her to the bed of feather pillows and expensive sheets. After he had blown out the last of the candles only one light showed, that of the blood red moon.
            And she saw him! As he was before as she sat on the bed grasping in her hands the sheets not torn and full of dust out of excitement or fear. He reached his hand out as before. Last time she had accepted it and he had kissed her, promising her she would see the honest beauty of truth without really real death. He kissed her neck as if sucking the life force out of her. And as she let herself go, a penetration of her soul began and her visions of life were lost in an abyss of misguided enlightenment and an honest nightmare of bliss was formed.
When she finally lost all of her breathe and came to, she found herself in another man’s arms not quite cradling but caring. He was chilled much like the man before, but his skin was as black as the dilated pupil of his eyes. And his eyes were not of man, not of one man. She saw him for what he was with this curse and could not describe the horror of it, the beauty of him as he was in nature, but by no means forgetting her lover’s disappearance. Desmond was the black man’s name. He could sense her uncontrollable confusion, confiding he would not hurt her, because she was the victim of a wrong; that her “lover” had not asked to do what he had done as most of those types don’t. Desmond picked up the violin she had been using earlier and said her soul was safe around him. He waited till she was older to explain what he meant by that and what he did for a ‘living’.
The arm currently stretched out to her, although she couldn’t tell if she was still partially asleep, was inching back as Desmond walked almost abruptly intruding on what Olivia and the man she fell in love with two centuries ago were having. As Desmond stepped behind the man longing for Olivia’s company, the man disappeared into Desmond. Olivia’s emotions began to flood down her cheek in tears of blood.
She had promised Desmond that night to never look for the house, to never come back to it with a blood bond. But after all this time playing cats cradle with barbwire and making puppets out of small animals no longer pulsing, she couldn’t handle the nightmares. Not anymore. Even showing others, enlightening them with her curse didn’t help.
            Dragging her toes solemnly towards the window passed Desmond, Olivia ceased her feet feeling his large hand against her fragile arm. Looking straight at him, “I understand the beauty of it.” She continued to crawl out the window facing the rising sun, “I am the moth”. Olivia made her way to the top of the house while Desmond made it to the basement out of the suns damage to rest.

            Once the sun had receded, Desmond came out from his morning in the cellar and made his way to the roof. Grey ash now lay where Olivia had stood just hours ago. Desmond biting his entire bottom lip till it bleed out scooped up her remains and sucked what he could of it in. Infatuated with her taste in hopes of keeping what was left of her soul, he opened his eyes, his pupil a little bit darker.  

Sunday, June 17, 2012

"The Promise"

I envy the Amish.

I moved here to get to know a man. His mother who has been like a mother and friend to me told me stories about him. Stories that made me love him, the idea of him anyway. He lived in another state with another family. A wife and a daughter that had come from a previous husband. I could share. I was sure this man had enough love to go around.

Six years later, just over a year ago I left that man's house. All he had to say was, "Wow, I can't believe it's come to this".

Sometimes its hard to think about those years. Those years are the reason if I ever have children, they will barely know what the word DVD is. So much escapism into film and it has consumed my life. Its the only truth I know.

He's had another child, one of the very few children I will tolerate. And it saddens me to see parts of my childhood in his. The television specifically. Although most of my favorite memories with him are in from of a television.

Yet now that things are changing, knowing I may never see him again: I bought him a card for Father's Day, one that was sappy but I knew was the right one. I doubt I will ever send him one like it again. I hope he knows, but I don't want to say it. Not really. Not aloud. I'm not that strong.

I believe fully that he did what he thought was right and I can't fault him for that. I chose to endure those year just to stay in his company, regardless of how much I wanted to leave. I stayed. And now I'll be gone. I just hope that we spent our time the best we could.

I promise you, I will...

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Flash Fiction: Judas’s Jesus Feast

Judas’s Jesus Feast

            So after we took him off the cross, we severed his limbs and barbecued him for a late super. We used the robes he was dressed in as the table cloth. We scalped him in preparation and decided to give it to one of the lepers. We thought he’d want that. We skinned parts of his body to make a few nice coin sacks which would later contain some of the blood money we sold his life for.
            You know, everybody said he was such a good guy, the Lord’s son even, but I swear to Christ he tasted just like chicken!

Author's note:
This piece was made to practice literary allusion and make a funny. Please take at face value.

When We Met: Snowflake #1 The Stressed Smoker


I am sitting in my neighbors garage late at night, talking to my new friend who is going to soon propose to the woman he has lived with for six years.

A car drives up.
You're tall. A young man with a hard living soul.

And I want to give you a kiss, tell you its going to be okay. Finish your cancer stick and take a seat. Tell me all about it.

You give a hand shake to my new friend and are going to be leaving as quickly as you arrived. You're just picking someone up to take them home.

You've given me a handshake as well. But you're breathing doesn't slow down. I finally tell you to breath.

"I'm not usually like this"
"I know, so don't forget to breath"

He's stops what he's doing and does as I said.


A minute goes by. He gives me a hug. A real one.

"Don't forget"
"Thanks, I won't. I'll be around here, you live next door...I'll see you."

Keep taking drags, try to make some of them of air.

"When We Met": Introduction to the Series

Because I'm a creep...I go out to the movies by myself. I am one of those youngsters who sits in Denny's at three in the morning sipping stale coffee for no reason other than to exist. I make it a habit to talk to those in teaching/athourity positions because it makes me feel secure. I like taking the bus every once in a while just to see the way other people live. And oh! Do I make up stories!

"Man on the Ceiling", read it if you ever get the chance. Everything that I tell you, everything that I say in "When We Met" is true. Everything. But truth isn't always real in the way that its a "fact".

These are the stories of the people I meet in a grocery. These people I make interaction with once or maybe its the first time you and I ever spoke. These stories are those of the perfect strangers, the humankind I fall in love with or those who left me to soon. These are those who I may or may not have exchanged numbers or names with.

Whatever the circumstance of When We Met, remember...its all true.

Thursday, June 7, 2012

"Lowered Expectations"

Through my many years of wisdom (you can start eating up my sarcastic regergitation any time) my thoughts on how to run your relationships has formed two ways: Expectations and Standards.

We already know that by putting your emotions in someone elses hands leaves your happiness in someone else's care.

Sarah, "What was that line?...You have no power over me"
Exactly Sarah.

And expectation in any relationship usually is something you are holding the other person accountable for. A standard is a something you want for yourself and when someone does not meet that standard you can simply accept the fact that they are not willing or are capable of what you want and or need.

No longer are you accountable for someone else. This way you are only resonsible for your happiness.

Don't lower your expectations, it will not turn out as comedic as MAD TV.

WARNING: Being in control of ones own happiness can also lead to disappointment if the standard is not set properly for ones own means, motivations, and drive. See doctor for easy fix or your local kitchen knife drawer.

Monday, June 4, 2012

Poem: The Lovers

 The Lovers 

Fingernails melt leaving
White hands dripping slush
Of skin and smudged bone

He is burning of the canvas
While eating make up off
Her face

The tub fills
Up with bleach,
They sip black ink breathing
Words of yearn

Smoke engulfs
Bright eyes
High brows

Poem: My Silent Picture Show worth More Than Two Bits

My Silent Picture Show worth More Than Two Bits

I can taste your iron sweat seeping through your sugar skin.
Piercing eyes I’ve seen before, an old soul.
Clothes unveiled like a brides on her wedding day.
Your face never radiates a smile, rather a smug approval or sorrowful sag of facial features.
I am drinking the ecstasy of momentary waves you baptize me in.
Extraneous strides, a motion of belonging, a sense of undivided presence.
Your next move will either make or break my existence.

Doing What Feels Good

Suppression. Oppression. Repression.

Have you hung out with a two year old lately? If you tickle them, they laugh. Kiss them, they smile. Take something from them, they cry. And you will know, you WILL know if they are dissatisfied with life.

But we are taught that we are to control our temper. We are told to be quiet. To settle down. As a girl, I am told how to dress. When I was younger, I was taught my body needed to be covered up because...because why? A good number of girls show "too much skin" because they want to be noticed. They use what has become taboo as a way of validation. I think that maybe if people were validated in nakedness, they wouldn't use it as a crutch to self fulfillment.

Most people don't seem to know that everybody, I repeat: everybody is naked under their clothes. I love being naked! Why is that wrong? I don't like undergarments unless thats the only things I'm wearing or I actually Need the support. Why should one feel comfortable being naked in the shower, but not walking around in their house when no one else is around?

And food! My god man! People are stressing over a number of carbs then restricting themselves for the sake of healthy? Doubtful. When I am hungry, I eat. If I feel the craving to have ice cream I have a bowl of ice cream. When I eat to much my stomach gets upset. Simple solution: I eat smaller portions that make me feel good. I'm not a huge fan of meat, but when I feel a certain way, I know my body is lacking something. Rarely does this happen but sometimes I get a craving for meat and I don't feel well. When that happens, I eat some chicken. Its so simple.

Last but certainly not the least interesting example of why I am doing what feels good: sex.

Through out the past few months of going through the resolution of a long term relationship that was old school monogamous, I have been listening more to the world around me. I have been hearing the voices of multiple reasons and have come up with my own outlook which I have concluded after trying to expand my horizons.

If a person finds themselves comfortable and content/happy in a relationship with another singular person, great. If another person finds happiness with multiple people, great. If you like straight missionary sex, good for you. If you happen to be gay and like reverse cow-something, anal vibrating, cooch slapping, hair pulling, mile high-whatever...great!

At this point in my life, I think marriage can be a beautiful thing. I think having a steady significant other is great. I think going out and finding people that you can connect with is fantastic. And I think if you meet someone and you feel comfortable exploring your relationship further in whatever way, mentally, physically, emotionally, spiritually, or whatever way that may be...that's pretty alright too.

Enjoy being a human. Love your body. Express your desires. Don't wait for other people to validate you, accept who you are, what you are, and "just fuck it, do it".

Without Admitting It

Truly, it looks wonderful. Let me start from the top.

My gal and I decide we want to get something sentimental and all that Jazz, so we think something Irish. Nothing. Then maybe a saying; something thats just between the two of us...nothing. Finally we start shooting into straight air...hit.

We go. She had road rage. She throws a partially eaten donut out of my side of the window at a truck. We sing  about being sexy and walking into clubs (the catchy-ness of today's media) and finally its time.

I lay on my stomach. I manage to relax my body after jumping a few times by clenching my teeth. But then it feels good in a way and slowly like creeping hours I begin to feel at ease with the world and although I am totally aware of this feeling, this penetration...its still hard to breath sometimes and I don't wish to speak...

Everything is so present. It hurts good and I am so very proud.