Grammatical errors and spelling mistakes do not need to be pointed out. If you're going to critique, please remember that flow is off center because of how it is meant to be read.
This was turned in by me to my therapist, and I dunno, I thought it was decent, figured I'd share. I haven't written in YEARS so a lot of this is...rusty. Forgive me. :P
Ovens, jars, and boys
The thick, moldy green folds of dollar bills were stuffed into the glass jar, the waves of blue offset by the light brown woodwork of the counter top, teasing the peripheral vision of eyes which stared absently towards the retreating back of yet another man towards the door with its textures. They blinked, hardly make-up'd eyelashes colliding their slightly, but almost constantly damp bodies against ever so unflatteringly sunken in eye sockets. The bell on the door jingled, heard for only a moment before the sound of it was swallowed whole by the vicious roar of the oven.
Ovens, monstrous things they were, massive boxes of heat and teeth, with their red eyed buttons and consistently misleading clocks, fire breathing dragons issuing out their siren calls to everyone, 'Touch me, I won't hurt you, feel how warm my flesh is, feel the tickle of my hot, sensual breath.' The words echoed around her head, faster and faster, screaming louder and louder at her bare neck, the violent air currents attempting to dislodge the intricate mess of a bun which sat at the very top of it. The oven existed only to agitate, to prompt a turn of flaring anger, then a moment of gentleness, where an unsuspecting girl would reach out, and press her hands to what seemed to be cold metal..only to be viciously burned, to pull her hands away quickly, but never quickly enough, the hands forever reduced to burning stumps. Yet, this girl, she only focused on the jar as if it held the secrets of the world, as if all of the magicks and sciences of the universe were hiding somewhere within it's thick glass, amongst the moldy dollar bills.
She was told once that long, long ago, money didn't buy happiness, even though the television with it's neurotic flashes of couples on beaches, children in pools, and old marriages rusting over which can be saved by a little blue pill, the flashing letters of 'BUY NOW' projected through the eyes into the brain, unprocess-able and raw. Hot and raw, blood pouring from the 'channel up', and 'channel down' buttons, commercials, commercials, commercials, sitting like fat on top of the water forming the words of 'Even though you don't have it all, you could, you can, for nineteen ninety-five, you do..' Though still, money didn't buy happiness. The truth of it there, was all inside of the jar, hiding somewhere amongst the folds of dollar bills, and textured glass.
Alone this girl with her wide eyes and fear of ovens stood, behind the counter of light textured wood, staring at her jars of rippled glass remembered it all. She remembered how it hurt when she first touched a fire breathing dragon, and pulled her hands away, raw and red the hurt inside of her chest at the betrayal swelling like blood blisters over her heart. Yellow fibers of her shirt shifted as her entire body jerked with a shiver, her head turning to observe said fabric she she smoothed it down with her hands once more, feeling the fool. Yet, when she turned her head, she caught sight of that oven.
It hypnotized her even in that moment, the heat, the raw feelings of metal and grinding gears, fingers of heat being blasted, gas powered and dark. The jar, now to her back. It was calling, begging for her to return to the coolness of it's rounded shape, the shapes of protection. Denying it, and it's opposite, the girl, sank to the marble floor, knees drawn up to chest, staring up at the beast, resting her heavy head against the tile.
He had needed no reasons, had no care to hand them out as most did, had no care to the sound of shattering glass as a pair of overly rough hands reached out and grabbed, and tore, and destroyed. Reasons were tossed to the wind when the blood broke, when the door closed, and she was left with nothing more than an oven and a jar to act as extremes, as the middle ground of a dial tone ringing cell phone clutched to the right ear, sweat dripping down between cold, clammy face, and hot battery powered receiver.
Reasons, reasons, reasons! Hurting, bloody, bruised, broken, cold, clammy, hot, and unreasonable. Words, words, words, even her words couldn't fix it now, dams of water breaking down bridges and the spines of old men caught in the way of the waves, canes dancing on the top of a torrent like the little slashes against the milky white flesh of her arms, breaking down and drowning out the nonexistent reasons, drowning in the work of the philosophy of 'Nobody has to know! Nobody has to know at all!'
Somewhere in the turmoil, the writing stopped. Corks of creativity lodged in the neck of the bottle, choking the flavor and masking the sweet scents, useless, tossed into the dark places no one visits, save for curious children with sticks, poking and prodding at the vacantly staring faces of soulless and abandoned porcelain dolls left behind.
Dragons, oh how bored they grow, the creatures who never learned that the hordes of gold in the world can't earn them their happiness, force their scales to fall of into the dust of the earth and make them men, teach their claws to not rip at the flesh of women. Yet, still they do try. With their dreams of fame and happiness, moving onto their newest target, the prey that is woman falling before them like servants to be used, tucking in moldy shades of green bills to their clothing, the heat of the oven burning their hearts away, leaving them to repeat the endless song, nobody has to know.
Everyone has to know.
This was turned in by me to my therapist, and I dunno, I thought it was decent, figured I'd share. I haven't written in YEARS so a lot of this is...rusty. Forgive me. :P
Ovens, jars, and boys
The thick, moldy green folds of dollar bills were stuffed into the glass jar, the waves of blue offset by the light brown woodwork of the counter top, teasing the peripheral vision of eyes which stared absently towards the retreating back of yet another man towards the door with its textures. They blinked, hardly make-up'd eyelashes colliding their slightly, but almost constantly damp bodies against ever so unflatteringly sunken in eye sockets. The bell on the door jingled, heard for only a moment before the sound of it was swallowed whole by the vicious roar of the oven.
Ovens, monstrous things they were, massive boxes of heat and teeth, with their red eyed buttons and consistently misleading clocks, fire breathing dragons issuing out their siren calls to everyone, 'Touch me, I won't hurt you, feel how warm my flesh is, feel the tickle of my hot, sensual breath.' The words echoed around her head, faster and faster, screaming louder and louder at her bare neck, the violent air currents attempting to dislodge the intricate mess of a bun which sat at the very top of it. The oven existed only to agitate, to prompt a turn of flaring anger, then a moment of gentleness, where an unsuspecting girl would reach out, and press her hands to what seemed to be cold metal..only to be viciously burned, to pull her hands away quickly, but never quickly enough, the hands forever reduced to burning stumps. Yet, this girl, she only focused on the jar as if it held the secrets of the world, as if all of the magicks and sciences of the universe were hiding somewhere within it's thick glass, amongst the moldy dollar bills.
She was told once that long, long ago, money didn't buy happiness, even though the television with it's neurotic flashes of couples on beaches, children in pools, and old marriages rusting over which can be saved by a little blue pill, the flashing letters of 'BUY NOW' projected through the eyes into the brain, unprocess-able and raw. Hot and raw, blood pouring from the 'channel up', and 'channel down' buttons, commercials, commercials, commercials, sitting like fat on top of the water forming the words of 'Even though you don't have it all, you could, you can, for nineteen ninety-five, you do..' Though still, money didn't buy happiness. The truth of it there, was all inside of the jar, hiding somewhere amongst the folds of dollar bills, and textured glass.
Alone this girl with her wide eyes and fear of ovens stood, behind the counter of light textured wood, staring at her jars of rippled glass remembered it all. She remembered how it hurt when she first touched a fire breathing dragon, and pulled her hands away, raw and red the hurt inside of her chest at the betrayal swelling like blood blisters over her heart. Yellow fibers of her shirt shifted as her entire body jerked with a shiver, her head turning to observe said fabric she she smoothed it down with her hands once more, feeling the fool. Yet, when she turned her head, she caught sight of that oven.
It hypnotized her even in that moment, the heat, the raw feelings of metal and grinding gears, fingers of heat being blasted, gas powered and dark. The jar, now to her back. It was calling, begging for her to return to the coolness of it's rounded shape, the shapes of protection. Denying it, and it's opposite, the girl, sank to the marble floor, knees drawn up to chest, staring up at the beast, resting her heavy head against the tile.
He had needed no reasons, had no care to hand them out as most did, had no care to the sound of shattering glass as a pair of overly rough hands reached out and grabbed, and tore, and destroyed. Reasons were tossed to the wind when the blood broke, when the door closed, and she was left with nothing more than an oven and a jar to act as extremes, as the middle ground of a dial tone ringing cell phone clutched to the right ear, sweat dripping down between cold, clammy face, and hot battery powered receiver.
Reasons, reasons, reasons! Hurting, bloody, bruised, broken, cold, clammy, hot, and unreasonable. Words, words, words, even her words couldn't fix it now, dams of water breaking down bridges and the spines of old men caught in the way of the waves, canes dancing on the top of a torrent like the little slashes against the milky white flesh of her arms, breaking down and drowning out the nonexistent reasons, drowning in the work of the philosophy of 'Nobody has to know! Nobody has to know at all!'
Somewhere in the turmoil, the writing stopped. Corks of creativity lodged in the neck of the bottle, choking the flavor and masking the sweet scents, useless, tossed into the dark places no one visits, save for curious children with sticks, poking and prodding at the vacantly staring faces of soulless and abandoned porcelain dolls left behind.
Dragons, oh how bored they grow, the creatures who never learned that the hordes of gold in the world can't earn them their happiness, force their scales to fall of into the dust of the earth and make them men, teach their claws to not rip at the flesh of women. Yet, still they do try. With their dreams of fame and happiness, moving onto their newest target, the prey that is woman falling before them like servants to be used, tucking in moldy shades of green bills to their clothing, the heat of the oven burning their hearts away, leaving them to repeat the endless song, nobody has to know.
Everyone has to know.
