drabbles: vindictive, a unicorn named bob, passion
all super old drabbles that I never really got time to look at again, til now.
---
There is a dotted line on my wrist like the tracing of a blue vein, except there is no vein there and the dotted line is a series of scratches from the fake pearl bracelet I bought to remind me of you.
But you hated your pearls, didn't you, the sheen of every white sphere only a product of your irritation. Like a speck of dust got under your skin and you merely ignored until, nursed by your forced indifference, it gave itself life. You were never very hard to read.
I'm never going to wear those pearls. How stupid would I look? People are barely used to seeing my braided hemp knot, the same one you gave me once upon a time threaded on to a leather thong. Men don't wear pearls. But neither did you.
Maybe that's why I kept on buying expensive three-strand necklaces and dangling earrings for you. Because you would never confront those gifts, except with a fake smile and peck on the cheek that meant, I have you, you fucking bastard.
And I imagine your surprise with some delight when this bracelet shows up on your doorstep. I was always a little vindictive.
---
It was like something out of a dream, either that or directly out of "Catcher in the Rye" - he wasn't quite sure which. Maybe it was the cupcake he'd gotten from the shady guy on the streetcorner wearing a frilly pink apron emblazoned with red hearts, like drops of blood all down his front. He wasn't quite sure what was in those things or why he'd bought them but damn did they taste like heaven! All moist and gooey and chocolately with the creamy buttercream icing, then came the head-spinning purple sparkles and the pink unicorn that'd pranced by which he'd named Bob. Walking down the street was life-changing. he saw everything with more clarity than ever before despite the occasional bright display of pyrotechnics that burst and dispelled in front of his eyes. Shit, the colours! He called out and clapped appreciatively for a certain gree display, garnering slightly frightened glances from the others on the street.
Yeah, definitely the cupcakes.
---
It started as a slow-burning fire in the pupils of their eyes that was mistaken for passion. Enthusiasm, perhaps, a fiery enthusiasm that seemed to crackle in the darkest points of their eyes, unnerving and unnatural yet impossibly unnoticeable. Wasn't it funny, though, that the next symptom of their pain was just that, pain, a prickling pointed pain that tickled the back of their eyelids, made them claw at the skin pulled taut across their eyeballs, leaving red raised marks where they had torn their own skin. Pain, eroding the edges of their lines of sight, ate away at their sanity, pulled their minds into frayed shred that left loose ends fringing at the sides.
When the eggs were ready and people would start to wonder, start to worry about the thousands complaining of aches in their heads, they would hatch, taking their own sweet time crawling one after another from newly drained eye sockets.
---
There is a dotted line on my wrist like the tracing of a blue vein, except there is no vein there and the dotted line is a series of scratches from the fake pearl bracelet I bought to remind me of you.
But you hated your pearls, didn't you, the sheen of every white sphere only a product of your irritation. Like a speck of dust got under your skin and you merely ignored until, nursed by your forced indifference, it gave itself life. You were never very hard to read.
I'm never going to wear those pearls. How stupid would I look? People are barely used to seeing my braided hemp knot, the same one you gave me once upon a time threaded on to a leather thong. Men don't wear pearls. But neither did you.
Maybe that's why I kept on buying expensive three-strand necklaces and dangling earrings for you. Because you would never confront those gifts, except with a fake smile and peck on the cheek that meant, I have you, you fucking bastard.
And I imagine your surprise with some delight when this bracelet shows up on your doorstep. I was always a little vindictive.
---
It was like something out of a dream, either that or directly out of "Catcher in the Rye" - he wasn't quite sure which. Maybe it was the cupcake he'd gotten from the shady guy on the streetcorner wearing a frilly pink apron emblazoned with red hearts, like drops of blood all down his front. He wasn't quite sure what was in those things or why he'd bought them but damn did they taste like heaven! All moist and gooey and chocolately with the creamy buttercream icing, then came the head-spinning purple sparkles and the pink unicorn that'd pranced by which he'd named Bob. Walking down the street was life-changing. he saw everything with more clarity than ever before despite the occasional bright display of pyrotechnics that burst and dispelled in front of his eyes. Shit, the colours! He called out and clapped appreciatively for a certain gree display, garnering slightly frightened glances from the others on the street.
Yeah, definitely the cupcakes.
---
It started as a slow-burning fire in the pupils of their eyes that was mistaken for passion. Enthusiasm, perhaps, a fiery enthusiasm that seemed to crackle in the darkest points of their eyes, unnerving and unnatural yet impossibly unnoticeable. Wasn't it funny, though, that the next symptom of their pain was just that, pain, a prickling pointed pain that tickled the back of their eyelids, made them claw at the skin pulled taut across their eyeballs, leaving red raised marks where they had torn their own skin. Pain, eroding the edges of their lines of sight, ate away at their sanity, pulled their minds into frayed shred that left loose ends fringing at the sides.
When the eggs were ready and people would start to wonder, start to worry about the thousands complaining of aches in their heads, they would hatch, taking their own sweet time crawling one after another from newly drained eye sockets.