Portfolio Contest, Round 4


Please be aware that this portfolio contains adult material. Writing is an art through which I address reality, life, society, and whatever else I feel the need to. I don't believe in stifling this flow.

I. Wild

PG-13


The man
Men who control my patheticity
    plug-in’s angry brows
He’s one man like many
The slender skin
  arms, voice, insanity
driving me crazy
I wish I was
          wild
I wish I was savage
  barbaric
Hungarian Rhapsody on my lips
my fingertips
In a piano room
  the perfect cage for us
The perfect cage for wild

II. Dark Fairytales

III. Paradise

PG-13

The Darkness


  Then we were standing there, the three of us. I was looking at the door. She was looking at him. He was looking back and forth between the two of us. The encounter was just a couple seconds, but I knew that we were looking at these things because I wasn’t really looking at the door. I was looking at them. Then I was looking at the door. She had intense features. Blonde, but intense. She looked as though she might bite something. Her chin, her lips, her eyes and eyebrows were all sharp. She was like a very pretty, squishy shark.
  I couldn’t help but feel a bit of connection with her though. We were the only girls on this campus who had put our mouths on him. We still held our heads high, for the most part. We still looked pretty. Our faces hadn’t been disfigured. There we were, two girls who had done the same dirty deed, looking at each other. Existing and thinking about the same man, but from completely different worlds.
  How little she knew about the situation. She didn’t know that he was a cheater or that her heart would be broken. She didn’t know that I didn’t want to be the tool he broke her heart with. She didn’t know how difficult it was for me to resist him. Or what we had already done. I aimed for the door and rushed.
  “Bye,” I said.
  Somehow she got the impression I might be talking to her. Or she thought there should be some reason for me to introduce myself to her. I wasn’t about to do that. I didn’t want to meet her, see her, hear about her, think about her. I wanted to rush out the door and feel the cold air and the wind hit my face and neck. Then I would want the warmth of my room.
  “Bye,” he said.
  He said it. She made some pathetic noise that sounded like a mix between “Bye” and “why didn’t you introduce yourself to me?”
  Then I was out the door. I walked fast. I walked professionally – it might make me feel more interesting, busier, and uninterested in him. If I could look that way, maybe I could feel that way.
  I knew what they would do. I knew what they were going back to. He would take her to his house. They would go into his lair. He would smell good, he would touch her, she would feel him. They would have a background sound. Then the lights would be off. And I knew what she was going home to. She was going to her dark deceit. Because he said I was better. Because she didn’t know what we had done. Because I got to him first. Perhaps I was going to be alone, but she was going to be with a two-sided painting. She was going to her lovely darkness, su novio, and I was going to my warmth, my paradise. I didn’t feel so bad.

IV. Flower Vase

R

A Glass Vase


  He was on the table, half naked, half dressed, looking at me. His arm was wrapped around the flower vase. He raised an eyebrow, trying to be sexy. He had never been very good at being sexy. He had never turned me on very much.
  But I played along because I liked the game.
  “I’m on the table,” he said. “What are you gonna do about it?”
  I meandered over to him and crawled onto the table. I put my arms around his body and the vase.
  “Maybe nothing,” I said.
  “Are you sure about that?”
  “Maybe something.”
  I slid his already unbuttoned jeans down a little and pulled at the elastic on his briefs. It snapped. Again. Again. Maybe I would do nothing. I couldn’t get myself worked up over him. I couldn’t get worked up on the table, over the vase, looking at him.
  “Ya?” he said.
  I kissed his cheek. He smiled at me. He was sweet, clueless. He was happy. I kissed him hard on the lips. I pushed my tongue in his mouth, wanting so much to be inspired. He pushed back, not creating a spark or connection at all. Not creating anything between us.
  Then I kissed his neck, his chest, his stomach. I did the deed.
  “Do you like that?” he asked as I did.
  I wanted to run away from him. I wanted to give up and walk out of the room. Then I pushed the vase off the table. It was shattered. He just moaned. He wouldn’t be distracted. I had a way of doing that.
  It was shattered. So I cleaned it up when he had finished.

V. Natural

G


It's natural to forget. We surrender our problems, misunderstandings, disagreements, just for the sake of a picture. So that when we look back we won't remember those problems because they last for such a short time, we'll just see the picture and think how happy we look. How happy we were at that time. Picturesque is no problems, a simpler time of life. What lasts longer than heartache is happiness. Strangely enough, when heartache is more immediately overwhelming. But finally, when things are settled, dust on the bottom of the ocean, we don't really remember anything - just see how happy we look in pictures.

X. Secret

G


"And he kissed me till the morning light"
Told me I did alright.
told me what I did was right
that it was okay the way we played
tortured ourselves, hurt, crushed
the dreams of a woman who loved him

he held me held me
till the morning light
all night mine
and it was right the way she loved him
right the way i loved him
that we both loved him was alright

she was feeling justified
had been abused, had found love now
the one
treats her like a goddess
worships the ground she walks on
is a walking cliche

walking talking cliche man
tell me you love me
please tell me you love me
because i did alright didn't i?

marry her then and she'll never know
that it follows you wherever you go
i know
the abuse stalks you, uses you, manipulates
then you choose wrong, get so confused,
can't think clearly
and your judgment will never be the same.





Portfolio Contest
Writing Portfolio
[Annie T.]