See, I can be classy too

The setting was the downstairs living room, a place that he had rarely gone down to since he had been home for the sole reason that he enjoyed far too much sitting in the large comfy armchair that his mother had so thoughtfully placed in his room. But this evening called for a larger space than his room. This evening called for a large television. This evening was to be classy, in a terribly hipster way.

Dressed in a tank top he didn't fill in quite right and a pair of basketball shorts, he cradled a fancy glass filled with sparkling cider in his dominant hand and rested his legs on the couch with the rest of his body. In his other hand he picked up the remote that lay next to

his fancy chocolate, and pressed play on the classic film that would, on this evening, be his getaway, his best friend, his supposed one and only. But just for that night, just for those few hours.

This evening, he was 'classy.'

The Man Who Was Fire; or, the Story of Averett Emberhart

Flames savagely licked up and down Averett’s large, imposing frame; he was the son of rage and fire and all he wanted to do, more than any other thing, was hug her. He wanted to embrace her, kiss her, dance with her, be with her, his unreachable goal—but all he could do was burn and uncomfortably laugh at his misfortune. He was a man who had become the very sin that consumed and raged in his insides, and he couldn’t hide it with fancy words reserved for fancy occasions, used to conceal the most troubling of secrets in the most polite of societies. His pain and anguish was visible to all as he lived on in a state few could understand, a state so misunderstood that others mocked and scorned out of a primal fear of the burning light and pure unpredictable emotion he produced.

        His body betrayed his desire, unable to succumb to his wants, only regret and temptation. So instead he stood afar off, not daring to reach for the woman he wanted to adore until finally the rage and flames devoured him, leaving only gray ash floating in the breeze that came from the breath of his scorners, a breath that had previously fed him. The tiny bits of gray ash danced in circles round and round, fell on her with a soft kiss, and embraced her in a way she could not appreciate, because she had only seen the man who was fire as something to fear.

The Nagging

It was twelve-thirty in the evening and Anna-Marie Tufton, as per her usual agreement with her unspoken wedding vows, was troubling her husband. It was not the usual hum-drum bothering a typical nagging wife would chide her husband with such as changing the car oil or not leaving crumbs in the bed. No, these naggings were much more painful and involved Anna-Marie telling her husband Franklin-David Tufton III to pluck his eyebrows, wax his body because his hairy chest made her convulse, and to clip his toenails daily (she always complained that in bed at night his toenails would scratch up her legs). Franklin-David was going to kill her.

Gruffly, he shoved the well-worn plugs into his ears and kindly reminded his wife Anna-Marie to take her sleeping pill, then with a weighty suspiration rolled over to sleep. Anna-Marie scoffed and swallowed her single rouge pill, wincing at the bitter taste of the water in her cup. She concluded right then and there she would simply have to remind Franklin-David to either change the water filter or buy more of the liquid in bottled containers.

Late that next morning, Anna-Marie found herself wakened by the aroma of bacon. She was for once pleasantly surprised rather than irritated her husband had decided to use the kitchen. She always assumed Franklin-David was a clumsy oaf who would put cereal in the microwave given the chance, but the maple-y smell of the pig soothed her. She lazily made her way down the stairs and sat at the new kitchen table she had to remind her husband over twenty some odd times to get, waiting for him to take notice. When he finally turned around his face morphed to a ghastly, chalky color. His grip loosened on the frying pan of bacon, allowing it to slip between his large fingers and hit the floor. Anna-Marie groaned; she would have to remind him to change that tile if it left a crack.

Over the course of the next baker’s dozen worth of days, Anna-Marie noticed her husband’s demeanor greatly alter. His eyes grew dark circles underneath them; his face became gaunt and never lost that chalky color from the morning he dropped the bacon. He would barely eat the food Anna-Marie would slave over (or so she’d claim), and he refused to touch her. Then there was also that hideous smell that followed her wherever she went, despite her frequent bathing and use of perfumes. Anna-Marie was about at wit’s end until one day she could stand it no longer. She decided to confront her husband and found him by the side of the house where she had reminded him earlier to rake the leaves. She got behind him and shouted his name. Startled, Franklin-David spun around and hit Anna-Marie in the skull with the rake.

Her head flopped into her hands.

Anna-Marie contorted her face, staring up at her stout neck and shoulders. After the briefest of pauses, she allowed herself to speak out loud the question that plagued her mind, asking, “Am I dead?”

What The Snowman Learned About Love

Far and away in an unspecified frozen tundra at an unspecified time (for you see time did not matter much here), a snowman sat un-frightened yet alone in the middle of it all. To his left was a pile of downy white flakes, then to his right a pile of slightly less white but just as lovely white flakes. In front of him lay an endless, dreamy view of white, and behind him—well, he wasn’t sure what was behind him as he had never been able to fully turn around, but he assumed it wasn’t nearly as impressive as what he could see hence his not being blessed with the mobility to view it.

The snowman himself was painfully average, almost mediocre with his two stick arms and charcoal face. His one defining characteristic, the one thing he was most proud of, was his heart of ice. You see, his frosty little heart was indeed tiny but it sparkled ever so magnificently in the tundra’s blinding sun and then glittered so softly underneath the ever waning moon. The snowman had the utmost regard for this heart and the love he knew it held, careful not to just share it with any snowflake or beam of light that could possibly catch his fancy. No, as unique as each snowflake was they were everywhere and did not deserve the secret love he held. And the beams of sun, while warm, threatened to melt the snowman on a daily basis. How could he love something that would kill him? For it was common knowledge the sunbeam could not help but be what it was, unable to change for anything—even love. The snowman was saving his love for the bipolar polar bear.

The bipolar polar bear, BP to most, though most really only meant some since most did not survive encounters with BP, wandered past the snowman every day in a search for something. BP was never sure exactly what she was looking for, for she would constantly and rather violently switch moods and lose track of what she had been doing to begin with. The snowman, of course, knew none of this and was merely attracted to the strong physical appearance of the creature.

BP shone a blinding white, matching the snow exquisitely. But unlike the snow or the snowman, she was free to move in a large hypnotizing mass. Similar the snowman’s lone beautiful heart, BP too had one characteristic that made her stand out. Her eyes were two very different, very brilliant colors. The right was a strawberry red while the left a deep blackberry purple. The snowman felt it was quite queer to call it a blackberry when it was in reality not black, but nevertheless that was the shade of purple the eye reminded him of. Together they were striking, unsettling, unnerving- they would have left him breathless had he been able to breathe. They were easy to pick out in the blanket of snow and every time they drew near the snowman pleaded the beautiful creature would take notice of him.

On one confusing excursion undertaken by BP the snowman finally got his wish, for his glittering heart caught the attention of the bear. She drew closer to the snowman she had never once noticed before that point. The snowman stared into those curious eyes he was so drawn to, contemplating what to say to the bear once she arrived.

He saw her breath rising in puffs from her nose. He felt it on his face, which caused it to melt little by little. His eyes slid down roughly an inch each and his black smile, the second thing he was most proud of (which would have been the green scarf he once owned had a gust of wind not blown it away), became malformed as well, forming a blank expression. Wasn’t this what it would have been like had he given his love to the sunbeam?

The snowman saw BP’s eyes turn from curious, to puzzled, to ferocious; she had forgotten once again what she had been doing. She stood up on her hind legs, rearing back her arm and swiping the glittering heart from the snowman’s chest and forcing him to crumple down into a worthless pile. BP sniffed the heart as curiously as she had come, gnawed on it lightly, then plopped it in the freshly demolished heap the heart had come from before moving on.

The snowman’s smushed head rolled and rolled, then rolled some more before it finally settled down surprisingly not that far from his deconstructed body. He now had a full view of what had laid behind him and he was more than a smidgen surprised. There, only inches behind him, was the destroyed body of a lady snowman with a heart glittering just like his, the snowman’s missing scarf hanging from her outstretched stick arm that jutted out from the downy pile that once was her body. And, right next to his head, was hers. They now stared at each other, uninterested in anything else that happened to be near for the snowman had finally found what he had been searching for.

The Windmill

The foundation shook, and cracked. The world crumbled underneath Nicholson’s swift feet, feet that carried him with little effort as though he was Hermes dancing on the wind. The concave city ate itself without any care for the trouble, chaos and anarchy it was causing. The spell cast only hours ago on the city to make it prosperous once more had gone horrible awry, leaving the population to grasp out desperately for refuge. Only those who thought as quickly as Nicholson ran could conjure up a way to escape and fewer were kind enough to share their knowledge. But not Nicholson Schiaf. Nicholson shared his escape with the red head he was so painfully infatuated with, Rennet de la Fraisier. She was waiting for him patiently by the old city windmill, clutching her art supplies with one hand and keeping her straw hat on with the other.

“Nicholson, I’m ready!” Her voice sounded strained as she shouted, her high voice fighting with the sounds of their dying home, Lé Plumfields. Nicholson might not have known this, but her affection for him was grander than the destruction that followed the young man on his path to her.

“I shan’t be but a minute, Rennet!” And indeed he wasn’t. He met Rennet with a kiss and handed her the leather-bound magic book he was carrying. She opened up to the dog-eared page, and began painting the symbol she saw in the text in a light pastel blue on the windmill; the colour having to do as much with the symbol and spell as the actual shape. It was a simple enough sign, and once finished it shone magnificently like the light from a lighthouse leading a ship to safety. The patch of land with the windmill rose from the ground, and hovered.

“Magnificent, Rennet!” Nicholson gasped in awe, marveling at the girl’s work with the magic spell. He fastened on his padded goggles over his teal eyes and tightened the soft white scarf around his neck.

“It was simple, really.” Rennet warmly responded. With little effort the floating windmill island took to the azure skies, and flew along the azure sea and azure flames that engulfed the crumbling, tumbling buildings. Nicholson and Rennet flew forever free.

“Where is our next stop, Rennet?” An excited Nicholson asked, awed by the sight of destruction below.

“Adventure, Nicholson. Adventure is our next stop.”

Two Lovers Kneeling on a Grave

Grimshaw and LeRose kneeled over a grave facing one another. Meticulously they began clawing at each other’s chests, for to truly know one another they had to dig deep. LeRose was extra curious and with each scoop of flesh she learned more and more about the boy in front of her.

In the first layer of skin she learned about his growing up with the family dog; long afternoons of playing fetch, messy baths, an unfortunate death. They were close, and the dog’s sudden demise still plagued him. Another scrape revealed fond memories of a Boy Scout camping trip where he learned to fish, and a scratch on his arm revealed a severe case of arachnophobia. Scratches and scrapes here and there showed his fear of growing old and dying alone, a boy who maybe wasn’t hugged enough as a child but always had his guitar to turn to. Another scrape, his dream of becoming an astronaut. A hand full of flesh, a game of truth and dare, his first kiss, and his first summer job. She plucked off one of Grimshaw’s finely pointed ribs and it shouted emphatically to her about how complete he felt every time he got a new girlfriend. Finally, LeRose held Grimshaw’s pounding heart in her pale hand. Bu-bump. Bu-bump. Bu-bump. Each little beat whispered ‘I love you’ into her ear. She rolled her eyes.

LeRose gazed down at her own chest and at Grimshaw’s large, clumsy hands scratching away. His nails had barely drawn blood. The blood flowed little by little, drip drip drip, plopping on the ground. Each bead of the liquid screamed in a shrill voice. He was hopeless, she was bored. The game was long over, but he still knew so little.

So with that boredom ringing, shouting in her ears, she did the only thing she could to make it stop. She crushed his heart.

Two Lovers Hanging From A Tree (Story)

Two lovers hung from an old birch tree, ever so daintily. They swayed in the brisk wind, the ropes around their necks anchoring them to the creaky old tree they considered home. And while the couple never wished to be apart, the fact of the matter was one was afraid to open up to the other.

“Daria, my sweet, you must understand!” Joseph cooed softly, trying so desperately to calm his love. “There is simply no way I can commit so fully at this particular instance in time.”

Daria, choking back tears from her pale cerulean eyes could not understand. All Joseph was willing to do was admit that he liked her, which was all well and good but, alas, he refused to say the blasted word love. Of course the way Joseph felt it nearly killed him just to say he liked her. He even imagined it might have if he was not already dead.

“Joseph, I fear I cannot handle this much longer. How dreadful and dire a situation we’re in. It is a standoff of two towering wills!” The blue in her face got slightly darker in her despair. She understood Joseph’s heart had been broken many times, but she hoped oh so much that he would have trusted her a little more. “We are here for eternity, until we are bones and then dust. You must admit love at some point.”

“Precisely my sweet, sweet kumquat. We have the roads of eternity ahead,” Joseph pointed out.

Daria did not like this response. She turned her head as far away from her lover as she could, aided by a chill gale. The dainty dark-haired Daria stared, discouraged, at the abyss of the night sky splattered with the stars and planets. She could hope to name not but a fraction due to their sheer overwhelming numbers, even given forever and a day. It was a daunting task, nigh impossible, and that was how she felt about her once bright pumpkin, her Joseph. She wondered if she could wish on just one of the plethora of sparkling, glistening stars, and have her love’s heart be mended.

Joseph stared longingly at Daria’s frame. He knew it was rude to stare, but he could not help it. Though he was afraid to say it, he knew he was smitten, he was in love. Oh, what a love it was!

“Just tell her that you love her,” a little coal colored crow cried into dead Joseph’s rotting ear. “You will never regret it, for as long as you are here!”

“My little bird, my little bird, I was told that over and over once upon a time. I find that is not true and I have regretted each time I have said that word. Oh, the loves that have shattered my frame! I have regretted using that word every day, every hour, every minute!” Joseph wailed. He wanted the tears to drain from his eyes but it just could not be so. The little crow, flustered and worried for his friend, soared gracefully next to Daria and pecked at her shoulder.

“Daria, Daria!” The little crow cried. “Joseph is so sad, so heart-broken you see!”

“But what does that have to do with me? What can I do when he so radically refuses to love?”

“You see my girl, what he really needs is someone to cry with,” the crow whistled ever so gently to the stubborn corpse. Daria stared at the little bird, then at the endless sky blanketed with the white smudges of the milky-way. She pondered. She poured over her feelings for the boy and what the crow said, and then came to a conclusion.

“Joseph, if I love you then I must respect you.”

“What, my fragile plum?” Joseph nervously responded, his eyes locking into Daria’s and the key being thrown away.

“Joseph, if you are not ready then I shall no longer insincerely insist you say ‘I love you too’. What you need is someone to be patient, someone to cry with. So for now, instead of boorishly bickering, we shall weep instead.” A brisk night wind lifted up her arm and Daria caressed his frigid cheek. Clouds whelled together in the sky far above, and for a moment water dropped lovingly on the two corpses, dancing and spinning as it descended. Together it seemed as if Joseph and Daria cried through the divine forces of nature.

Under the sobs of the celestial body of sky Joseph whispered ever so faintly, “You too. I love you too.”

The two lovers hanging from a tree learned a lesson that day. Sometimes what you really need is someone to cry with and pour out your troubled soul, and your shattered heart to whether it be black or blue or yellow too. Everyone at some point needs to know they are loved, that someone else will cry with them, and that all will be well. Someone to whisper, “I love you too.”