The Magician

The way he touched her so lovingly was like magic. Only in fairy tales did such electricity between two people exist. His eyelashes, so long and dark and delicate, framed the sweet chocolate of his eyes as they fixated on the hunger spilling out of her own. His hair was tousled, unkempt, but intentionally so, and he momentarily resembled a wild creature, torn between the lure of tameness and the right to ravage. Gentle but strong, his hands began to stroke her with authority, guiding her body to comply with their mutual desires. His skin felt like cream against her own, sweet to the touch and taste. It stretched over his soul like silk, like honey, rising like a thousand birds flying. Magic.

Photo by Cole Rise
http://www.flickr.com/photos/antimethod/27044463/

Writer's Block

Prickling her with an incessant, screaming sharpness was the notion that she was stuck, like a squirming insect in a delicious pot of honey, trapped and no longer moving forward. Questioning the pained purpose of her life, she dropped the silver pen onto the scribbled page of her notebook, infuriated by her words’ lack of grandeur. The strands of her shining blond hair wailed against the tightening grip of the pink ribbon around her head, and she was temporarily comforted by the vision of her pages in flames.

Photo by see what you want to
http://www.flickr.com/photos/cwhatuc/50079060/

Remembrance Cascading

He remembered her hair wrapped endlessly around the age of his fingers, soft and angelic, like silk from the underbelly of a beautiful and curious rabbit. Her mane was brown, teased by the rumpling hands of youth, and kissed delicately by the Saturday sun's resplendent rays. Cascading down the fairness and slight freckles of her back, the magical strands danced around her young and unknowing face, framing the purity of her smile and highlighting the crinkles of her nose as she laughed.

Photo by algo
http://www.flickr.com/photos/algo/140716457/

Eruptions

The seams of her pockets bursting against the strength of her stiffening hands, she begged the tears not to fall, trying to slow the pace of her racing heart. She hadn't meant to upset him. But as the thickness and brawn of his shoulders turned toward her, she could see the undeniable redness of rage smeared through his eyes and across his face. His growls growing louder and more fierce, volcanoes began to erupt within her as steady throbs of panic kept tempo to the nightmarish tune now playing inside her head. Frozen in the moment and overcome by the desire to turn back time, her body’s instinct to flee was ignored as her size six feet became permanent fixtures in the plush carpet of their newly redecorated bedroom. The heat of his breath now burning the porcelain of her skin, she looked down, noticing a chip in the red nail polish worn by her toes, and braced herself for the pain she was about to receive.

Photo by Nintoto
http://www.flickr.com/photos/nintoto/5221019/

Intricate Longings

Rolling a pearl earring between the delicacy of her well-traveled fingers, she allowed the threads of her memory to weave an intricate blanket of longing. A sigh escaping the parchedness of her lips, she listened as the pearl made contact with the aged floorboards below, and grabbed at a fleeting recollection of the man of her dreams.

Photo by Kariobinja
http://www.flickr.com/photos/kariobinja/6541721/

Losing Balance

The length of her fingers curling tightly around the briskness of the morning air, she lost her balance as one of the sidewalk’s many cracks caught hold of her stiletto heel. Unsteady, her coffee was sent cascading downward, missing the sleeve of her jacket narrowly and dangerously, only so that the caramel calfskin of her new leather boots could home the hot, brown liquid instead. Shit, shit, shit she thought, breathing deeply, firmly pushing her glasses to the very top of her nose. She commanded her teetering frame to regain its composure and find straightness in future steps. The thought instantly and painfully reminded her of her mother, flecks of her spit filling the air like the wild, homeless sparks from a magnificent fire as she scolded her daughter’s clumsiness. Releasing fierce disapproval with every bat of her heavily made-up eyelashes, her mother had been cold, heartless, a monster. Now grown, the wounded little girl had become all too conscious of her every taken step, constantly visualizing the thinnest of tight ropes leading her way. Like the drive of a September rain, it was through incredible force that she stayed on its impossibly straight path, hating her mother a little bit more with each new step.

Photo by David McConeghy
http://www.flickr.com/photos/davebluedevil/17497487/

The Kickboxer

Like dewdrops, the beads of sweat formed on his furrowed brow, marking the incredible force of his quickly thrusting arms and legs. He beat the red out of the punching bag, its color blurring to ferocious shades of pink and orange as it vibrated against the clench of his ever-tightening fists. Reverberations of impact performing a sweet song of victory all around, his face bore an expression of determination and of hunger; all thoughts focused on his target, his rival, his pain.

Photo by ~Carolina~
http://www.flickr.com/photos/sweetcarolina/66702459/

Glimmering Dissatisfaction

As he moved deeper and deeper inside her, glued to the depths of her brain was the overwhelming realization that it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not even close. Her sky-high stack of ridiculously sappy romance novels had successfully ingrained in her trembling psyche that this was the moment in which she should throw her head back with uncontrollable pleasure, moan gutturally, and dig her freshly manicured nails into the back of her irresistible lover. Only, her nails weren’t freshly manicured. They were jagged and splintering, scowling at her lack of care. More importantly, though, she was definitely not experiencing the level of gratification necessary to produce even a murmur of sexual response, let alone guttural moaning. And, sadly, her lover was becoming increasingly resistible with each new thrust and every passing second. In fact, she could list at least seventy-three other things that she’d rather be right now than screwing her poor, pitiful husband. The list swelling at an equal rate with her guilt, a glimmer of satisfaction finally sprang with her awareness that his stamina was quickly depleting, their romp would soon be over, and, more than likely, the next three days would be spared of a repeat experience. What a horrible human being she was.

Photo by jayjuice
http://www.flickr.com/photos/lucidpieces/91733510/

Unfortunate Company

There was deafening silence, the sickening glow of an unnaturally bright light, a feeling of emptiness that was impossible to pry from her young and aching soul. Those were the members of her unfortunate company, seated around a table of utter sadness and hopelessness, as the hands on the clock crawled deeper into the depths of that steamy July night. Her sins were all around her, suffocating her soul, throbbing sharply through her veins. Disgustingly encased in a cold and stifling sweat, her body continued to drown in the sorrow of all that comprised her world. Within her every movement, her every breath, and every beat of her bleeding heart, there lied enduring reminders of her eternal pain, her ultimate failure.

And in that moment, all decisions were made. Final. Finally. One by one, the pills were counted out until at last there were thirty, lined up side-by-side on the gleaming honey-colored surface before her. They were so perfect, she thought. So purely white, so smoothly cylindrical. If only she could somehow contain their simplistic beauty, their soothing peacefulness. She breathed heavily, contemplating her dying place in this world. And then, gazing upon the pills with a quiet placidity, she proceeded to deposit each one into her mouth, slowly and deliberately, though never truly realizing the true immensity of her horribly irreversible actions.

With all thirty pills swimming inside her stomach, she brushed her teeth, washed her face and crawled into the same bed she had slept in every night for the last twenty-six years of her tortured life. Her soft skin sliding against the luxurious caress of her sheets, she turned out her lamp and muttered a resigned goodnight to no one and everyone at the same time.

Photo by mr oji
http://www.flickr.com/photos/02705724@N00/104838922/

Belonging In Boston

In the loneliness of that moment, the water somehow glistened under a dull and fading sun, and the dramatic arches of the ancient bridge spread magnificently through the gray winter air. She drifted along Beacon Street like a ghost through the thin sheets of time, the path forever in front of her, the wind seeking entry to her tired and aching bones, crows circling endlessly above her head. The creaminess of a thick scarf wrapped lovingly around her neck, she looked to her left and saw groups of people passing over the bridge, strangely happy to continue their consumption of the cold February air. She saw the tired trees with so many stories to tell, reaching nobly into the sky and adorned by deadness below. The grass was brown and sad, dreaming of the sun and summer, acknowledging her heartbreak. Gazing at the impenetrable cauliflower clouds above, she thought of the battered bricks on which she stood and the million searching souls who’d marked them. Long, deep breaths passing through her lungs, she looked around at her new home and in that moment was overcome by the knowledge that she did not belong.

Photo by Cole Rise
http://www.flickr.com/photos/antimethod/14736412/

Perfection

Like the life in the lights that that transports a New York night toward brilliance, his teeth were bared in delight, commanding attention, painting a centuries-old masterpiece of beauty and magnificence. Beaming behind those ruby red lips, his soul was exposed, pieces of his insides shining naked and radiant for the entire world to see. His eyes twinkled and crinkled, reflecting undiscovered universes that she longed to swallow her whole. His cheeks were tiger lilies, and with his smile they blossomed, gardens of happiness alive in the cream of his skin. It was the perfect smile.

Photo by kimberkit
http://www.flickr.com/photos/kimberkit/99903820/

Blissful Discomfort

Her deep sighs interrupted only by the audible shattering of her heart, she tells herself that she must continue to get out of bed each morning, must continue to live. But it is a fight, a never-ending struggle that is gradually breaking her spirit and confining her to the bed she has known since childhood. The safety of sleep surrounding her, she could happily stay in this sanctuary of familiarity and unwashed cotton forever. Her body swims inside the most ridiculous, non-matching pair of over-sized sweatpants, and a crumbling old t-shirt with ripped seams and mysterious holes. It is her new uniform. It smells. She smells. She smells of failure, of exhaustion, of day-old heartbreak. She is musty and worn down, the colors of her soul having faded nearly as severely as those of her once red t-shirt. Drunk on a cocktail of false hopes and backward longings, she is without the ambition to even dress herself in fitting clothes. She is young and lazy and in love with her bed. Her terribly uncomfortable bed. The springs of the mattress jut into her tender, tired back, punishing her self-pity. Every movement of her body is answered with a great creak or groan from the old, unavailing metal coils. Her sheets bunch up like clumps of wilted flowers, dead, disappointing and void of the soft, gentle touch that she craves. They disobey her demands for smoothness, and their uneven terrain makes her angry, causing a fire to ignite within her chest. Her body snakes over the bed, restless. She is not resting, but yet she wants to stay. She wants to stay and complain about the wonderful, blissful discomfort of her mattress, rather than risk another slap in the face from the cold world that lies outside her thin and wooden bedroom door.

Photo by Lastexit
http://www.flickr.com/photos/mydnight296/136100511/
http://www.mindfulmotionphoto.com/