Tuesday, November 27, 2007


There was a pretty girl named Meredith Beecham who worked in a second hand store somewhere next to a coffee shop in Philadelphia.

Meredith had dark brown hair, eyes that resembled fresh swimming springs with glints of sunlight shimmering through, which were pretty if she'd ever let them out, which she hardly ever did.

Meredith liked her job. It gave her the opportunity to guess the lives of others by the smell of things they left behind; to stick her nose in the yellow-paged-dog-eared-soft-cover stories; hands in the pockets of over sized suits, she'd wrap her arms around herself sometimes, rubbing rough tweed sleeves, the scent of faint cigars across her cheeks, fingering leather elbow patches, soft seams going everywhere under her slender stained and steady fingers.
Meredith had a thing for black and white Fellini movies, strange fruits like kumquats, persimmons, and prickly pears; she loved feeling like she was on the verge of losing herself to a well-versed stranger at any moment.

If someone were to walk up to her in a bar, for instance, a crowded shopping center, park, convenient store, or coffee shop; if that person were to look her dead in the eyes and say something along the lines of:

"You are an exquisite formula, a rainbow stopping children dead on high street. The full circle of your darkly cast eyes festoons with raw privilege, such is your hold on me. When the delicate order is given I will tear into you, dark guttural hound, snarling lusciously. You will ask me to give it to you. I will make you beg. Precious need in your lips open quivering, when your naked beauty strikes me my god burned soul will take a ten count to recover, salaciously beating your unspoken needs, making sure that when we are both dreaming, it is of the very same thing,"

she would probably pass out a little, still standing, or sitting, and go with the person, dizzy, into whatever bathroom, backseat, or unorganized house, and let them have their way with her.

Meredith thought about this a lot, staring at walls, face in her hand, drooling, because she had a weakness for slightly absurd sexually romantic jargon, which was very specific and original, and a little disgusting; with the idea of someone seducing her into some state of dazed whimpering slavery and electrified madness.

She also had fantasies about being conquered, taken, and owned generously (if that makes sense). She could not be neglected unless she brought it upon herself to be neglected. She felt abandoned otherwise.

To be owned generously, for her, was to be owned graciously.

Which meant: she didn't mind the idea of seeing herself as some poetic stranger's purring bedside kitten, their toy, as long as they could make her mindless with words which were used and clustered into what seemed to be a second language of someone who exuded the demeanor of being exceptionally aware, or hyper-perceptive, and creatively ambitious.

To Meredith a touch of the divine was the greatest cause for curiosity, and more than enough warranted inertia for spark enticing physical indulgencies-also known as foreplay, which for the patient sort was quite the sport, according to back country poets, such as herself.

But what if the person was disgusting, revolting, old and hairy, with sticky magazines all over snot ragged hair carpet blood on walls, too much violence and abuse and incest as a child, what if they were a needled prophet with cold sores, a video-game-playing-stoner-pseudo-intellectual-with-terrible-hygiene?!

Tough titty for her is all she would say. An honest answer.

Meredith didn't dwell much on causes, or reasons. She didn't like to analyze the intentions of whoever might pursue and seduce her with their words, for the sake of preserving what seemed to her an inexplicable myth, defined, illustrated in her occasional banquets of exploration.

Hell in her mind was coming back to earth some clone of an animal who didn't even know it was an animal, standing around with other animals, replicas of each other eating grass or wild rabbits when it was time; and her mind would wander furthur, and wonder: if it would be worse to know exactly what kind of creature she was in a realm of creatures, the burden it would be, to be so limited within a range of comfort and mirrored familiarity.


Glacial Spain said...
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Sabra Embury said...

Crappy and verbose with rhythm. Psychological. Scattered. Cathartically driven. Lacking structure. Honest. Spew.

Sabra Embury said...

Or, I think about punching crotches and then I write a story from the build-up of that fury.



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