LOL.
I'm so enjoying your story.
Syl
He Killed Our Father
by compound complex 123 Replies latest members meetups
-
-
compound complex
Thank you both, VE and Syl, for your welcomed posts.
I was about to set out in search for you, V, and here you are! What terrific news re: the rediscovery of an old friend and your collaborating together in a music project. You know how it is, when everything is right, when it all comes together and the disparate pieces mesh. Inspiration! Oh yeah, some intense effort, too.
Wishing you the absolute best!
Love,
CoCo
-
compound complex
Foolishly dressed in the minds of some for the likes of such a consistently wet atmosphere, the drenched boy returns to a tentative warmth of school corridors. Lightweight shirt clings alluringly to his lean but well defined torso, sorrel waves of Absolom's glory cascade soaked yet glorious down his shoulders, unknowable though knowing mind prepares to get down to the business, the joy, of creating a music that will unhinge fellow students. Teachers. Public.
Upon his violin is a folded sheet of stationery containing original verse, newborn words sprung from the poet's bursting heart, they soon to cleave the reader's heart, making it bleed unstanched within as a world of both brilliant light and profound darkness reveal without ...
-
compound complex
With no more than the fierce beating of my heart as your signal, you must hasten into my presence and cherish me as none other.You are so sweet, so delectable. You delicately remove the shackles from my heart. You, sweet savior, are a liberator, whose glance, whose touch, whose kiss shall revive me.
My window is ever open to you. Upon wings of desire you will float through and light softly upon my chamber floor.
Where, now, have you and your sweet offerings of love taken up residence?
I am sick with love and can bear my aloneness no longer.When will my dream of love become entwined with my corporeal self, and, thereupon, with you?
Where, my errant love, are you? -
nancy drew
The weeping camel listens to the music of the morin khuur and feels the harmony. Will she become reconciled to her rare white calf whom she has rejected out in the mongolian desert.
-
compound complex
Dear Nancy Drew:
Exotic and captivating. I am there on the desert with her.
Thanks so much!
CoCo
-
compound complex
Young Wingate fell to his knees, crumpling the lavender sheet in a tightened, reddening fist. Veins bulged, voice groaned. He gazed upward at yellowed, stained ceiling tiles and screamed ... silently.
He commenced beating himself repeatedly about the chest with both fists. Sweat rolled down his forehead, stinging his eyes, and down his already fog-soaked back in rivers that pooled at a too tight belt and slim 401s. Ordinarily methodical, direct thinking became no thinking - a noisy jumble scattered in the brain, zigzag and without direction. His shortened breath went in, went out, in sharp, irregular bursts. Convulsive, close to hyperventilation.
His own verse - sensuous words of erotic longing and despair over love's loss - had been whisked from their unique hold, the love-starved poet's diary, and inscribed upon the stationery of another ... -
compound complex
Living With Psychosis, by C.J. Woodcutt.
Below is an excerpt from the above title, an actual letter written by an "ordinary" man to his alter ego, duly appropriated the moniker "Narcissus." [Chapter 5, page 121.]
Ever dear and splendid Narcissus,
I once gazed with love upon your reflected image and yearn for that day when ne'er again shall we part company. When last you left my side, I was seized with an extraordinary compulsion to run after you and beg you stay and console me. I am not accustomed to such aloneness that has been enjoined upon me.
Since that forced separation, that damnable schism, I have reeled with uncertainty and self-doubt as to who, truly, I am. I fear that, deep down, I am little more than a shallow, empty nothing. Where shall I find a deepness of soul, a true and abiding reason for my existence if not with you, for you? There would appear no possibility of success were I to continue on in this fashion of incompleteness.
It was you, not I, who demanded liberation from the confines of our conjoined spirit and soul. Why, pray, the blind necessity of searching out foreign waters to cast your eyes, my eyes, on an image too well and oft observed? Have you not considered restraint? A diversion centering on others? Perhaps a little less self-absorption?
I long for your return, knitted back in place where you belong, to terminate once and for always this useless dichotomy of body, soul, spirit. Granted, I acceded to your pleas for personal liberty, but can you truly say that you are the happier lad for seeking your reflection without my sage eye upon you?
Please reflect, not so much upon the physical aspect of youth's beauty, but that which runs deep and true. Eternal youth and ageless outward beauty are but a myth ... a paperwhite, though lovely, is but a passing springtime fancy. It cannot be forced.
Hermes has promised swift delivery of this missive to you, my better half ....
Love eternally,
Narcissus
-
-
compound complex
Wingate locked up the precious instrument in his hallway locker and barreled out of the practice room, out the school doors. Looking neither right nor left as he crossed Moraga Boulevard, the double-crossed raced up two long city blocks to get home. Home - a three-story apartment building that was but a tiny part of the vast spread of Bay City's ticky tacky.
Unlocking the metal gate - oxidized by the perpetual high moisture content of City's close atmosphere into a verdigris that blended like osmosis into the lush interior garden of fuschia and sword fern - Win flew up the concrete stairs two at a time and, upon reaching the upper landing, wrenched out a latch key from his front right Levis' pocket.
Inside, he kicked his way through a week's worth of ankle-deep detritus and hit the closet where, he begged God, his diary - his life, his loves, his hidden thoughts - would still remain secreted away, ever and always for his eyes only. He grabbed and pulled down from the single crowded shelf a wrinkled and torn shopping bag, jammed with junk mail going back months, sales receipts, the odd note to himself, ad infinitum, and reached down to the cul-de-sac and felt for the hardcover of his 7- by 10-inch book of secrets. It was there, to his relieved touch and mind.
Pulling it through the strata of diffuse scads of paper, the anxious and rapidly aging young man riffled hastily through the book's leaves and found them all intact, none, as he had feared, torn out. It came to him, in correlation to all this worry and upset as he came out of the closet, that the willy-nilly contents of the bag had in no way whatsoever been compromised. Giving way to exhaustion both emotional and physical, he collapsed languidly to the floor, his bent head drooped over the bag.
There within, only now coming into his range of vision, poked through the edge of a small box of cardboard base and plastic cover. What must have been the original binding of ribbon was rolled neatly and held fast by a rubber band; there it was, conspicuous, alongside the box. The container itself was enwrapped by three rubber bands, two the box's length, one the width.
A sweet little box of stationery - lavender stationery.