It is Sunday, and I am volunteering at the local soup kitchen. I meet many sad, sick people there. One is Annette, whose black skin sags sadly on her face. There are wrinkles around her lips, and she reeks of cigarettes. "I used to sing, you know! I was(more) grand, too! People loved me!" she says over and over again. She is missing many teeth now. She never finishes all the food I bring her.
There is also Fred, who is bald and tiny. Jane is a young mother who can't put her life back together. Her five-year-old, Jesse, is incredibly shy. Brett came in a week ago, and he still picks at the bugs crawling under his skin. I usually just look away.
Today, I see someone new. He has a hunched back, and patches of his hair are missing. But he is smiling, and his smile is wide. His eyes catch mine, and he raises his ticket. I bring the man his tray of food. As I put it down in front of him, I feel his eyes on me. “God bless you,” he says in a warm, raspy voice. I smile. I collect his ticket and walk over to put it with the rest. I can feel him still watching me, so I glance up and over at him. “I believe in God!” he asserts. I smile again. He seems unconvinced, so he says, a little louder, a little raspier this time, “I do! God is everything!” I smile but this time I don’t mean it. I look down and tears burn the rims of my eyes. I want to ask him, but how can you love Someone who doesn’t love you back?(less)
The only thing she knew about Boss was his voice. Softer than a whisper, raspy, like it was full of splinters. It wasn't pleasant.
Allyn did not consider what she did as murder. It was more of an elimination. For the balance of power to be made equal,(more) for another life to be saved, for a criminal to be taken down...that was what the Boss determined, and what he assigned to Allyn.
To outsiders, Allyn was a college girl, mediocre in most things, with a boyfriend who took her on cliche dates every other week and a messy dorm room. However, Allyn was not just a college girl. She was an Eliminator, a Needle, a Mosquito. All of those were the nicknames of the Boss's girls. Needles were small, but could be deadly. Mosquitos were the same.
She had recently elimated a bank teller who was stealing money. She had sipped coffee in the table next to his, never making a sign, not even blinking when she slipped the slow poison into his coffee. The teller didn't notice, but he would be dead come morning. Autopsies would say food poisoning.
Allyn didn't know anyone else who worked for Boss. She could be the only one. She could be one of hundreds, thousands, millions. Her roomate, shy Clara, could be a Needle by night. Her elderly Calc teacher might be able to work a knife as well as a calculator.
Today, Allyn had another meeting. She was to go to the Sweetbrook Tavern and tell the waitress her name was Wendy. Then she was to take the taxi that would be waiting for her outside, that would take her to meet Boss. Then she would hear her orders in his raspy voice, and then she would kill.
the sun beaming into my eyes,
wincing at the brightness.
i hear the slight beating of a heart beside me.
(more) his eyes bright blue,
he kisses my cheek,
and pulls me closer.
"goodmorning," he says.
i loved hearing the rasp in his voice,
first thing in the morning,
from past cigarettes,
destroying his lungs.
our lungs, equally;
the tobacco smoke,
Its horrible now, looking back at the times of childhood, remembering how dreams were made and steps taken but now rarely achieved. The grownups always encouraging the pursuit, knowing full well that the likelihood of achievement was akin to winning the lottery.
I wish now tha(more)t someone had told me that dreams do not come true and that you may work stupidly hard but the chances of it being enough are slim to n0ne.
I have spent years trying desperately to reach my dreams, to find happiness, only to now realise that it really is nothing more than a dream, a fancy.
"I don't have a lot of time." she muttered to herself
Everything has been leading to this, all the planning, all the violence, and in the moment before the conclusion, she only wishes that she is better armed. No matter what's done is done, I will make my(more) stand, and this will end.
He had left his rasp in his carpenter studio, negligently almost. He was so tidy, this seems like such a lapse, no knives in the house, no tools, no weapons that could be accessed, everything was either absent or under lock. That was almost 6 months ago, and she'd been sharpening it, honing it to kill.
Every day had been torture that he'd find it and end her life, but he hadn't, and now the time has come. He is coming home from work, expecting a prompt dinner, then he would violently rape her. And leave her bloody, and in agony from his attentions.
A sound interrupts her thoughts, tires on asphalt, the sound of his truck's engine. The moment has come, and she is afraid. But she fears that is now pregnant, and he will never kill her baby.
"God give me strength to end my torment, to destroy this monster, if I am to die then please let me send him to hell" she whispers to herself
She stands to the side of door her hands gripping the rasp tightly, sweat running down her face, she's filled with fear, but is resolved. It ends now, one way or another, it ends now.
The sound of keys in a lock, the sound of a door opening, and a shadow fills the door way. She launches herself at him with a scream, and nothing is ever the same again.(less)
His arms have been tied on the other side of the pole for hours, and they're starting to get sore. He's on his knees, and he would be praying if his arms weren't wrapped around a pole and ziptied at the wrists. His hands are numb and so is(more) his back. Snow piles on his shoulders and down his aching back, his shirt wet with melted snow and blood and sticking to the crevices of his lacerations. He's not sure if he's sill bleeding; he wishes he were. Maybe then he could bleed out and die.
Director Smith had said that he will be let free when the will of God allows it--either when he's prayed enough to make up for his sins or when He takes mercy and sends out a messenger to release the bound and bleeding man. Maybe God will take mercy on his soul and pull it from his body, so the children will wake to a frost-bitten and blue corpse with a bleeding, broken back. "This is what happens to sinners." Teaching by example.
The tears of pain and bitter regret have long since stopped. His voice ran out before the tears, after his darkness came out and screamed obscenities to the sky and his tormentor.
"Jonathan?" Snow crunches under soft, careful steps. Familiar, cold hands touch his back, and he twitches hard at the pain. "Shhh," the other man soothes. He walks around and pulls out the knife he uses to whittle wood, using it to cut the zipties. The secretary comes back around to pick the broken man up under his arms, dragging him through the snow.
"Why?" Jonathan rasps, coughing.
"Is this like what your grandmother did?" the man he only knows as Luke replies.
He nods. "Yes."
Luke hisses venomously. (less)
Women will always be a little jealous of their husbands' male friends, however nice they may be. Because however much they try, men will continue to save the things they want to say for those twenty-one minutes they spend with their best buds.
(more) You see, women understand what screwdrivers and pliers are, but only men will know of rasps.(less)
There were unfamiliar footsteps in his woods; too clumsy and mortal to be the Queen's, too loud for the sleek beasts who accepted him as one of their own. Tom narrowed his eyes. Whatever it was, it did not belong here - it was not of Arcadia, and outsiders(more) were to be avoided at all costs. (He does not remember that, once upon a time, he too was not a rider of Faerie but a small boy on a teetering pale bike, held together by the fragile balance of birds.)
He saw her, long hair flying in the wind, green sundress swaying around her muddy knees. She crawled forward towards the bushes, then sat back on her haunches, beaming at the double-rose caught in the cage of her fingers. She strokes the petals, once, twice, and he's had enough of insolent mortal intruders.
"Hey!" He skidded in front of her, "who said you could come in and wreck my home?" She arched her brow, amused, her lips quirked in a delicate feline tilt, her fingers a maddening rasp on the blood-red petals.
"Who said this was yours?" She challenged, dark eyes flashing. "Daddy brought the place and said I could do as I please. I can certainly pluck myself a rose if I wanted." She dangled the flower by the stem, as if taunting him. He bristled like a cat with its fur rubbed the wrong way. "Who are you, anyway? I didn't know there were people who camped out here."
"It's none of your business." He snapped. "And besides -"
"I'm Jane Froster." She offered, still playing with the rose. "It's only fair for you to offer up your name, now that you know mine."
We are constantly modifying our language, even to the point of insanity. How did 'raspberry' become "razberry"? Alas, I suppose it is a truly human endeavor to change the world around us, even if what we are changing was ours originally.
(more) In the end, though, the tartness and sweetness are just as poignant when taken with a 'z' as with an 'sp'.