for the very few of you here who haven't already read this via my own journal - I'm after some help

[dreamfire.livejournal.com]

art wank.

that is selecting which of my 100 word bits I might be prepared to read if there is an open mic session on friday after the poetry reading that I'm not that keen on cos its not Joolz this time but that I'm gonna go to cos at least it gets me out of the house and its only in Lincoln...

so, a poll then. And it really is cos I'm not sure which to go with not just because I want to get you lot to read my writing all over again. Its a series of polls in fact yes or no for the pieces I post here. f there are two 100's together before a poll that would be because I reckon they are inseperable. bear in mind I'll be able to read maybe three selections max so don't go trying to flatter me and saying yes to all of them please!



1. Isobel

We consume stories.

I - most of all - devour tragedy.

No greater joy than sitting in a darkened theatre, sobbing for the violent wrongs and atrocities presented on stage. No finer pleasure than glimpsing a new and perfectly expressed heartbreak in the pages of a book. I seek to witness fictions that sicken my soul.

Reconcile this with a belief that every moment of life is worth living.
Take a step closer to understanding this story.

In many cultures there are myths of creatures, not unlike Vampires, who take their sustenance from pain and despair - rather than blood.

Sometimes, of course, the stories aren't fiction.

I was fifteen, she was either a year younger or older. It doesn't matter.
Isobel.
Messy blond hair.
Sad brown eyes.
She wore a blue denim jacket and the shadow of her sister, freshly buried after a car crash.

I longed to reach out and push my fingers deep into her pain, twirl them slowly in dank sorrow, reclaim them and suck away each bitter drop.

I was in France. For the first time, I was aware of boys checking me out in a bar. Isobel, of course, barely noticed me at all.

2. Black Magic Woman

I have been loved.
Called my black magic woman...
My angel...
My reason for getting out of bed in the morning...
Even
My torment...

With each of these namings, I have been possessed. Ownership has been claimed. I have been given a purpose.

I have also been touched as a piece of meat. Touched as an incidence of the female form - not an individual, not me.

The latter I was aware of immediately, and immediately disgusted. The former only began to seem equally disgusting when I considered it from a distance.

Must we always be loved on their terms?


3. jealousy

For many years I claimed not to be a jealous creature.

The first time I was confronted by my own feelings of jealousy was a shock. The intensity was overwhelming.

I sat, I looked at her, and I wanted nothing more than to sharpen my nails into claws and tear them down her face.

I did not. I sat and let my stomach churn and tried to keep the hatred out of my eyes and voice.

When he asked - later - why I had been so quiet, I described the feeling quite precisely.

His delight - was equally unexpected.



Since that one evening I am changed.

The silence and the stomach churning.
The sensation that my nails might lengthen and curl, knuckles crack, hands evolve to claws whether I willed it or not.
It rules me.

Never since in relation to a lover. No. Instead, I have become unreasonable in my reactions to many things.
Friends.
Lifestyle.
Skills.
Dreams.
History.

There is no pattern to what will provoke my jealousy. It appears to be a wild force.
However since that first time, I have at least gained a little wisdom.

I no longer describe the possession to the cause



4. Single


Many things change when you chose to be single for a long time and go home alone at the end of the night.

Loneliness - you anticipate. Frustration - also part of the territory. But the realisation that for many months no one has seen your face - that comes as something of a shock.

Staring in the mirror, cotton wool streaking lotion down your cheeks - carefully beige perfection wiped away to rough red flesh - one day it hits you - no one sees this when you sleep alone.
Somehow that is harder to bear than the rest.



5. Fantasy Romance


I fell.
And was caught.

Gentle hands, and a soft touch. Eyes blazing with fury but not when they looked at me. Strength. Kindness. Protection that need not cloy.

I knew him for only a moment. A few short days in a short, short life. I did not love him. I would not love him. Nevertheless.
Nevertheless he cradled me and nurtured me and blew the right words through the hole in my forehead straight into the centre of my brain.

And when he was gone I did not mourn him. I did not cry. But a door locked shut.
Is he alive in the world beyond the mirror?

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and bile rises in my throat.

You do not know me well enough to ask that.

Behind the mirror I turn the corner just as he passes out of sight. I hear his voice in a room full of voices but cannot make out his face in the crowd. I wake and know that until the very moment I opened my eyes he was beside me watching me sleep.

It is the only thing that does not change from that world to this.

6. Ethiopia

That sickens me.

Another one of those phrases that doesn't take on its full power as a metaphor until you have experienced it literally.

The first time I remember it happening was those reports that changed the world in the 1980's. They made Paula Yates start a collection in a jam jar in her house and turned her lover into a modern day saint.

I had had spaghetti for tea. Alphabet shapes. I cried all night because I had wasted food while children were starving.

I still cry if I am offered a plate of Alphabet spaghetti for my tea.



whilst doing this I discovered I stopped 100words the day the war broke out. it wasn't a conscious decision.
I also discovered I can't fix the stupid poll creator - Ians given a nice format for none to taxing replies - I'll try and sort it later - got a Utena download to watch

the poll for easy responses is here