why roses are red

Deep in the forest there was a wild rose patch.

They wound through the brambles and branches in beautiful disarray, like the sweet script of words on the pages of a fairy-tale book. The petals were fresh and soft, with the magic of the long-gone Folk, untouched, hiding the thorns that lay underneath. 

Of course, the traveler didn’t know this as he walked through the forest. There was hardly a chirp, or the soft scattering paws of a frightened animal. Instead he saw spindly trees, the roots slightly blackened, the branches balding. The wind was an underlying presence, like a shrill whisper in the dead silence.

It was almost a little too silent. No life in the dead of the woods.

Funny, how he thought he was only a wee bit lost. He didn’t know he was wandering towards that rose patch. The trees grew taller, wider. He found himself in the thick of the forest, waiting for a place to rest for the night.

And then he saw it.

It was a grove, a clearing, a field shielded by the forest wall. There were the roses, blooming from the edges, evanescent, perfectly shaped.

Except…

He stopped. Stood still.

There was no perfume, no fragrance of the flowers. The smell was odd, rotten; it clung to the air like rusty patches.

The moment his hair began to crawl, on his arms, the forest came alive.

A trunk struck him, enough to knock him off his feet. Branches shot out, trapping him in place. The rose branches crawled sinuously, the long, sharp thorns flashing in the light.

The traveler opened his mouth to scream, but the thorns reached in and sliced his tongue apart. The branches were taking him, binding him, constricting him. The rose thorns gouged into his cheeks and tore his clothes to shreds, then feasted on his skin.  He thrashed; terror seized him, rendered him immobile as he realized why there was no life in the forest.

Slowly, slowly, like in the jaws of a carnivorous animal, the man was eaten apart by the trees and branches and thorns.

Three days later, the rose petals turned a fresh, brilliant red, and blood that oozed out dripped onto the fertile ground.

-Christina

Yes It Is Sunday Not Saturday So In Conclusion, Socks.

So, this happened.

...and then this happened.

Then Pinterest invaded and totally bested any idea I could have come up with: http://www.pinterest.com/pin/511299363918297564/ (for those that like the mildly creepy)

So I just decided to write about socks. No creepy, because that was already taken. And then I thought about it. And then I wrote things.

---

i read a book in

God knows what grade.

it was Gooney Bird Greene, and every time i use the word

"suddenly"

i think of her.

because here is the thing about Gooney Bird Green.

she does not mind being herself.

she adores it. she will wear tutus to school.

she will interrupt class with the world's greatest story.

she will wear mismatched socks.

i remember when my mom did the laundry,

she would have me sort the socks sometimes,

and she had this special way of folding them in on themselves

so that the pairs would

stay pairs,

green by green

blue by blue.

i wore them, hitched up over

my tiny elementary school shoes,

with all the stubborn pride that

a person can be born with.

that was the year i was interviewed

by the school broadcast. the teacher

who ran it remembered me after that, 

and

in the crowning era of

third grade, i was part of broadcast.

i helped mainly with post production,

making sure the

audio lined up with the

video. it wasn't much, but 

i loved it.

sixth grade, he was my tech teacher, and he remembered me.

seventh grade, i watched the jr high broadcast, wondering, waiting.

and then there was eighth grade, and i was in broadcast.

i did the editing.

it was filmed live, so it was 

different.

but 

i still loved it.

the year wound down.

i remember one day my teacher said that he

still remembered that little girl with

mismatched socks;

he told me this,

beaming,

and i laughed and looked down

all my socks were black, so

it didn't matter anymore.

but for a moment, i remembered

that girl too, so proud

so young so inspired.

then i turned and

sat down and

started prepping,

watched the clock wind down

until the microphones went live.

-kat

Fanciful Fridays (3)

"Darcy can go play Whack-A-Mole in the corner by himself." 

So remember when I mentioned Pride and Prejudice in that first post?

Well...I haven't actually read it.

*ducks, hands cover face*

I've seen parts of the BBC adaptions (which are GORGEOUS). I know that's not the same thing as the novel, but I WILL get around to it. I will.

But in the meantime? Let me tell you how it showed up on my radar at all. Because if there is one thing about me you should know, it is that I was not initially drawn towards classical novels, much less classical romance novels (I'm more of a fantasy girl).

Well, it started one day when I was perusing the internet as usual...

You know what? No one has time for this. Short version: the Lizzie Bennett Diaries came along and my brain exploded and I love, I love, I loved it *.

Imagine Pride and Prejudice, noted classical romance novel, adapted into a sassy nerdy vlog (video-blog) version and...

BAM. 

Magic.

Watch the episodes, folks. All the episodes. Feel the feelings, laugh the laughs. Super highly recommended.

Maybe it will even get people like me interested in P&P, who knows? It certainly already has.

-Kat

* "I will have to tell you: you have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you."

-2005 adaption of Pride and Prejudice

Flutter

Opening eyes

with eyelashes that flutter as wings,

lifting off to new pedals,

revealing irises and morning glories,

are without reason to see.

 

Listening ears

tunneling deep,

twitching at echoes

too far gone and too muddy

are materialistic without purpose to sound.

 

Lithe fingertips

that can only feel the patterns

full of icicles in the air.

freezing shoots before they grow

are useless if only numb.

 

Tasting tongue

full of eager buds

that sprout and bloom

when ignited

means nothing if nutrients are void.

 

Curious nose

with caverns for flurries

of petunia pollen and

thick, woody maple syrup

could care less with only rancid scents abroad.

 

Heart beats

that pulse rivers through a body

to jar awakening senses and

pull at thin soul strings

don’t matter unless they’re wanted.

 

The bubble that is built around

our wispy-walled worlds,

isolating feelings

from actions,

makes stony faces acceptable.

 

It means that

kissing eyelashes closed

and cutting off sound, touch,

tongue and smell

positively alleviate life away.

 

Here are my rising goose bumps,

and gritted teeth

seeing bodies turned to ash

with their wonderful, beautiful

spirits trapped inside.

 

Bubbles are the

pulsing enclosures,

keeping out the oxygen

those fragile soul strings

so need to breathe.

 

They thought that the

terrified fluttering of their

heart beats, trapped in cages

didn’t matter,

and that shatters the heart inside my chest.

 

Every word you say,

every breath you take

has meaning!

I want to shout.

Maybe a few will listen.

 

But many have

turned blind eyes, deaf ears,

numb fingers, tasteless tongues

and senseless noses

so soon.

 

Bubbles close in,

boa constrictors around their necks,

with no yield, they feel, leaving them

suffocating.  They turn to the ash

because where else can they go?

 

Pop!

 

One is too many to lose.

-Suzanne
(To be honest, I wrote this a while ago but I don't feel so good and couldn't get my brain to function properly. Sorry!)

Dreams of Ships

When she was small, she dreamed of ships.

Tall, lumbering ships that forged the Ice Seas, with tattered masts and wind-swept sails, like scars borne from a great tale. She listened to the stories her Da told her, the sea monsters who reared their heads and stirred up storms, swallowing the sailors with a gulp. She dreamed of the open seas under the starlit skies, with nothing but the moon and the hum of the wind to guide her. She dreamed of the glint of a sword, the tang of the salty air.

Ships were the first of many dreams. As soon as she could read, she disappeared into the library for days on an end, carrying a hand-bound book of once-blank pages. She came out with a head full of tales, a tongue full of forbidden words, and hands blotted with ink from the pen.

She was a hero. An oathbreaker, a fatebender. She dreamed of an isle to claim.

She whispered the stories to her brother, who laughed at her and told her to stitch, and to her Ma, who gently smiled and told her to tighten her laces.

She saw the lumbering sailors on the docks, with rough hands and scurvied teeth, and saw in their eyes the battle scars and jubilant song of adventure, and she smiled to herself. But the ribbons and bodices squeezed her insides, trapping her like a cage, and now her Da pulled her away.

Maybe she wasn’t meant for the seas.

 So she turned her head from the sailors’ docks and walked on.

They layered silks on her, beautiful ruffles of taffeta and chiffon. They rubbed rose oil and powder into her skin and painted her lips. They led her to parties, lessons, where they smothered her blasphemous wit with a soft voice and a yielding manner.

She dreams of a prince to carry her away.

Once vivid, now her dreams are now delicate, muted. She carries the spirit of a fierce romantic, a blazing spirit, but the world has worn her around the edges and tamed a fury, bent her and shaped her, surrounded her like the diamonds around her pale, creamy neck.

Once in a while, she still sees the ships from her childhood. But only from afar.   

-Christina

It Started

Because my car broke down 20 miles from the airport, and because you were stranded at the gas station with a wrinkled airplane ticket in your hand.

...Because my tire gave out.

...Because your brother abandoned you there.

Because I'd forgotten to go to the shop the day before.

Because you didn't understand why your brother was driving so slowly.

Because I was loaded down with work meetings.

Because you never really understood anything about your brother.

Because the previous night I'd spent four hours on the phone and I missed the meeting that was supposed to happen then.

Because you'd really only known your brother since his dad married your mom, and then again you'd never really known him anyway.

Because my friend had called in a panic.

Because there'd been a rough breakup about three months previously and you didn't really want to talk to your new sibling. Hell, you didn't want to talk to anyone.

Because her boyfriend had cheated on her and she didn't know what to do and frankly I didn't either but you know, I talked, and the time sort of ate itself away.

Because you thought your parents would always love each other. They said that they'd always love each other. And you believed them.

Because I didn't want to lose her.

Because you'd never been hurt.

Because I'd been hurt before.

...Because everything mattered. Every misstep and every falter.

Because of everything, our story has a beginning. 

-Kat

Couldn't find a picture soooooo STARS yay so pretty
background-pictures.picphotos.net

Fanciful Fridays (2)

FANCIFUL FRIDAYS:

"You have these boys in handcuffs. In a HIGH SCHOOL, Mr. Turner."

I think I like this title much better than last weeks. Imma keep it like this.

Low on time here, so let's cut to the chase:

OCTOBER SKY

Man, for Christina and I at least, that is a loaded movie title. We were in the same science class once where the teacher played it at least three separate times throughout the year. We can quote parts of it. It's kind of ridiculous.

October Sky is the movie adaption of the memoir Rocket Boys by Homer Hickam Jr. A bunch of boys set off rockets and things and it's a great movie and everything but

ahhhhhhhhhhh the soundtrack. The soundtrack the soundtrack the soundtrack.

Some of the most gorgeous music I've ever heard. We all agreed that it basically MADE the movie.

Here. Listen. Right now.
DO IT.

If I put the whole soundtrack here I'd never finish this post, but by all means, PLEASE spend your entire day traipsing around the internet looking for all things October Sky.

Now excuse me. I'm going to go listen to good music and feel feelings.

-Kat

Blacks and Blues

Mommy says that boys and girls handle stuff differently, like ‘emotional’ stuff.  (Emotional stuff is the stuff that makes you feel happy and sad and angry, if you didn’t know.  That’s what Mommy told me, and Mommy’s always right.)  She says the boys try to punch away the emotional stuff and the girls try and torture it out of themselves.  I asked her what torture is.  She says torture is being covered by blacks and blues on your skin and underneath it.  I asked her how she knows that blacks and blues on the inside are actually black and blue if you can’t see them.  She says they hurt the same, just different.  (It didn’t make sense, but I nodded all the same because Mommy’s smart and if I’m a smart, nice, and good girl, I get to eat dessert and I don’t want Mommy to think I’m not a smart, nice, and good girl.)  She says Kaden won’t get better until he learns to ‘talk’ (which confuses me because he’s fourteen and clearly already knows how to talk).  She says his blacks and blues won’t go away until he learns to ‘talk’ instead of punch.

            I asked her if Kaden’s sick.  She says that Kaden’s sad.  I asked her why Kaden’s sad.  She says there are lots of things that make Kaden sad.  (Then my brain made the frowny face it makes when the colors get all mixed up, but this time it was because I don’t understand why Kaden’s sad and he has blacks and blues but when I’m sad I don’t have blacks and blues.)  Mommy says that it’s because when Kaden feels sad, he gets into trouble and hits people when he’s not supposed to.  (This was very bad news because Mommy told me to never hit my friends even when I really want to.)  Mommy says one day I’ll be able to understand why Kaden doesn’t play with me anymore and I’ll be able to understand what it’s like to torture myself every day in front of the mirror and torture myself about what my friends things and torture myself when I feel all by myself.  (That does not sound fun, but I don’t tell Mommy that because it sounds like very grown-up stuff and I want to show Mommy that I can understand the grown-up talk, too.)

            Sesame Street was on, so I told Mommy that we could finish our grown-up talk later.  Cookie Monster was waiting to show me all the cookies I could eat and more if I was a smart, nice and good girl.  Sesame Street is very important.  Grown-up talks will have to wait.

            Mommy got up off her knees and began to walk towards the kitchen (hopefully to start making some cookies).  Then, I thought of something.

            “Mommy,” I asked, “is Henry coming over?”  Henry always gave me candy.  He’d sneak it past my mom so then I’d get to have two desserts!  Mommy stopped.  She turned around.  She looked at me.  She walked back over and got back on her knees so the top of her head reached the top of my head.

            “Do you know how it feels when you fall off your tricycle and scrape your knee?”  Mommy says.

            “Ouchie,” I said.

            “That’s right,” she said, giving me a small smile.  “Now, if a car was going faster than a tricycle--”

            “Faster than a tricycle?” I asked.  I was the fastest tricycler around.  Nobody was faster than me on a tricycle!

            “Yes, honey, faster than a tricycle.  Like I was saying, if a car was going very, very fast and something happened to the car that made it fall over like a tricycle, you could get a lot more blacks and blues than if you fell off your tricycle.”

            “Even more blacks and blues than Kaden?”

            “Even more blacks and blues than Kaden.”

            “Ouchie,” I said.

            “Double ouchie,” she agreed.  “Well, honey, Henry got in a triple ouchie accident and he had so many blacks and blues that he fell asleep.”

            “Fell asleep?”

            “Yes, sweetheart, he fell asleep.  Do you remember when we went to the church and Kaden was very, very sad?”

            “Yeah, I had to wear the black dress.  It was so so so itchy.”

            “Good memory; you’re a smart girl.”  I beamed.  “But Kaden was very sad because Henry was asleep.”

            “Why didn’t he just wake Henry up?”

            “Henry didn’t want to be woken up.  He had too many blacks and blues.  Can you imagine having lots and lots scrapes on your knees from falling off your tricycle?”

            “Million billion trillion ouchie!”

            “Yes, a million billion trillion ouchie.  You’re getting quite good at your numbers.”

            “I know!  I can count to a million billion trillion for you!  1...2...4...3...6…”

            “Very good!  You’re quite the big girl, now.  But can you just think about how Henry not waking up would make Kaden very sad?”

            “Henry is Kaden’s best friend.”

            “That’s right.  Now what if one day you wanted to watch Sesame Street on the TV and the TV didn’t work.  Would you be sad?”

            “No Cookie Monster?”  The thought made tears come to my eyes.

            “No Cookie Monster.  That is how sad Kaden feels times a million billion trillion.”

            I was in awe.  Kaden must have a lot of emotional stuff to “punch out” if he feels sad times a million billion trillion.  I couldn’t imagine life without Cookie Monster.

            I looked at the floor.  “So, Henry’s not coming over today?”

            “No.”

            “And he’s not bringing candy?”

            “No.”

            “I think I miss Henry.”

            “Your brother does, too.  He doesn’t know what to do when he feels so sad and that’s why he comes home with blacks and blues.  He doesn’t know what to do with all of his emotional stuff.”

Then, I heard the rumble that says the big yellow bumblebee bus is here with Kaden on it.  A long while later (Kaden’s very slow--I’m faster than him), Kaden came in the door and Mommy went to take off his coat.

“Mommy?” I asked.

“Hm?” she replied.

“Are you going to make cookies?”

“Yes, I suppose I can.”

Then, I went up to Kaden and looked up at his face with his black and blues.

“Kaden,” I said.

“Yeah, sis?” he said, his voice a weird mix between Kaden and the Grouch (Mommy says

that’s because Kaden’s growing up).

“After dinner, for dessert, you can have my cookie.”

He smiled a little down at me, “Oh?  Why’s that?  You going to try and get me to do your chores for you again?”

“No,” I said very matter-of-factly, “Because you’re sad and have blacks and blues because of Henry and I don’t want you to be sad and have blacks and blues because of Henry so I’m going to give you my cookie so you will be happy and not have to punch out your emotional stuff.”

Kaden looked at me, kind of stunned.  Then, he wrapped me in a hug.  “Mommy says you’re a smart, nice and good girl.  Mommy’s always right.”

-Suzanne

 

 

 

Red Angel Lost

She is a pale ghost

swathed in silk.

Apple-cheeked

Lips the color of blood

A complexion of milk

A smile of honey

She flies through the crowd

Effervescent, effortless

An angel, immaculate

Seen through the blurred glass rim

Of the champagne flute

She is a falling star that has burnt herself out.

The devil visits her

When the night turns quiet

And the champagne turns dark

Among the scattered bottles

Elaborate dresses

strewn on the floor

Pills click like pearls

Tears blur

Anger

Sadness

Heartbreak

Little by little, she

loses herself to him

In the haze of delirium and

Chanel No. 5

She is cracking under the porcelain skin

With a dangerous red-lipped smile

That can fool a sage

To guard the remnants of her heart

But who can see her?

Who can tell?

Even angels lie.

She pulls on the dress

And straps on the shoes

The music is starting

and

Maybe she can dance

This

One

Last

Time.

-Christina

(inspired by pictures below and Lana Del Rey's "Carmen")

The Things He Painted

I do not know much about him, but I do know that he was a painter.

The best kind of painter. The old man that sat on the street and covered his canvas whenever anyone walked by. The kind that still had sandy hair when he was sixty with a shortish beard to match. The kind that forgot to smile until you reminded him. But he'd laugh anytime you told a joke, even if you both knew it was awful, and he had a hug for anyone that needed it.

He'd go out to the bars. The barkeeps all knew his name, and they smiled when he came in, gave him his usual, and forgot about him. He'd make friends for the evening, swear he'd keep in touch, then go home alone. He had another canvas for when he was drunk, and he always insisted that he painted better when the world was blurry, and the sober grey of the daytime markets didn't fog his mind. He didn't show the drunk canvas to anyone either, but he seemed happier with the results than the day canvas.

His night brushes were smashed, twisted, and snapped. His day brushes were pristine, ordered by size in a tiny box attached to the leg of his easel. I don't know for sure, but I would say that both sets of brushes loved him equally, if they could love at all.

He was hungover in the mornings, and he could barely bring himself to paint at all. He hadn't seen a sunrise in twenty years without cursing at it. He was usually too far down a bottle to see the sunsets.

The day after the accident was the first time I saw his canvases. He stacked them tall in his closet, in his spare bedroom. He started stacking them in the bathroom towards the end.

It didn't matter where he put them because, Christ, that man was a genius.

His day canvases depicted anything and everything. Green, smeared landscapes. Mountains that kissed the clouds, and clouds that tumbled across the earth. Worlds aflame, skies athunder. Blackened voids. Brilliant stars. All painted with expert hands. I could sell them for a fortune, if I wanted.

I knew he kept his drunk canvases underneath the floorboards. I found them in an hour, after bending one of my nails and snapping a paintbrush I tried to wedge underneath the wood. I found the space at last. Only one canvas lay beneath.

There were rumors abound on what he painted those nights. His wife lost at sea, his sister lost to disease. The marketplace, or the charming barkeep Saturday nights. God, maybe. The King. Some fling of his in recent years, although everyone knew he hadn't taken a girl home for ages.

But painted over and over on the one canvas was the same image: an orange orb wavering before the bleak horizon. Pink flew in every direction like a cape. Deep yellows, soft reds. A soft suffusion, scalding spark.

To this day, I'm not sure whether he meant to paint the morning or the evening. End or beginning. Sunrise or sunset.

Nature is ambiguous that way.

http://rusticmeetsvintage.tumblr.com/post/25429194999/hans-blomquist-the-natural-home

-Kat