Who is Allen Smith? I am.
The Who is? I am. series is a collection of stories based on fictitious characters. I take inspirations from bits and pieces of real personalities and character traits of people that I have met, walked over, or both. However, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental and perhaps, a miracle. That includes animals.
The explosions in the sky signified the turning of a new century. To Allen, the only emotions he had of the colourful spectacle and the exaggerated movement of bodies around him was nothing. He knew that if there was a day of happiness left for him, it wasn’t today.
Who is Catherine Boyd? I am.
The Who is? I am. series is a collection of stories based on fictitious characters. I take inspirations from bits and pieces of real personalities and character traits of people that I have met, walked over, or both. However, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental and perhaps, a miracle. That includes animals.
With a cigarette clamped loosely between her fingers, she reaches out for the wine glass filled with a sip worth of Merlot. Her trembling hand hovers over the glass, threatening to turn it into an ashtray.
Who is Rachel Rox? I am.
The Who is? I am. series is a collection of stories based on fictitious characters. I take inspirations from bits and pieces of real personalities and character traits of people that I have met, walked over, or both. However, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental and perhaps, a miracle. That includes animals.
Rachel Rox is a bag of sluts. She hates it when people call her that, especially Simon, a Chinese Crested/chihuahua she bid for and not surprisingly won off eBay. Simon was initially named Yoda by its previous owner, the 2011 winner of the annual World’s Ugliest Dog Contest held in Petaluma, California. She named him after her recent ex-boyfriend. Her ex-boyfriend before him is a kennel which now houses Simon.
Soixante-neuf
Aimée leans over the balcony looking out at the skyline of Mexico City. The night paints a waterfall. A gradient shade of black, purple and blue that leads to the lights in the city below forming a canopy of unexpected stagnancy. The air is warm and eager, as her head slowly turns to look behind into the room, a trickle of sweat drips down her spine.
Cigarette Sex
You hide. I would like to think that you are hiding but you know better than I do. You are poised, quiet and approachable. The sophistication in you is unbearable to me. It makes me want you. You act like you do not want to be taken. You laugh knowingly when I do. You line yourself up against your kind. I notice you among the rest and you look the same but I’m only noticing you, lining yourself up against your kind. Quietly poised. I approach. I take you out from the cigarette box. You know better than I do. Quaint.
A Letter To A Lover-A Portrait of a Beast
Dear,
A final note –here’s a painting of my mind. Just as the purpose of a painting is to express nothing but the nature of an artist’s inherited vision, this letter shares similar aesthetics. I use words as my medium and a blank page as my canvas.
Where Are We Now?
The morning wakes up in warmth silence but the sound Kristen makes while she stirs her piping hot coffee is that of an alarm clock. She should have used a cowbell as a mug instead. She would have done great. This Olympic gold medalist of coffee stirring did not allow the vapors to rise accordingly; minimizing the full-bodied aroma that would have usually welcomed its drinkers to the day ahead. Kristen, her sweet double eyelids are heavy; her small nose flared and pale; her sharp features blunt and her tender mouth gapes open, subtly letting out slight versions of snores; she is not welcoming today just like every other day.
The Unlikely Heroes
On a quiet overhead bridge against the backdrop of nighted skies and empty buildings; two lovers stood grounded in fight. The circle where they had imprisoned themselves was doused in reflections of broken promises and the burning stench of promises to be broken. They stared into each other eyes, glares so ferociously it pulls their sheltered darkness into light.
Dear Marilyn
Marilyn leans against the cold rusty rails outside a disco called Home Club. The lamp post overhead reveals a slight drizzle that the eye can’t normally see but the skin can usually feel. The flickering light provides a lukewarm response for warmth as she seeks hers from a contraband cigarette. She holds it like a pencil. She draws imaginary outlines from the faces she sees in front of her. The faces that hides from the rain; as they would from the world. Her cigarette-cum-imaginary-pencil holds no eraser at its end. Marilyn’s end cannot be erased.
Emily and Simon
Once upon a time in a land far far away,
across the horizon,
pass the Pacific and Indian Ocean,
denying days of its weakening weeks only to suggest morbid months,
tangible in the illusion of a tangerine tri-state occupied within that of Orion, Zion and Eden,
over a spread of white lotion clouds on the skin of blue and black skies,
through thick traffic of spastic movements, like ants running around with glow-sticks, all the rave,
