So seeing as this week is Halloween I figure I can get away with a creepy story and not seem so creepy.
So, Happy Halloween:

THE MAN IN THE MIRROR

“She always found herself in the dark. It wasn't a coincidence, it was mandatory. If the lights were not turned off and the mirrors were exposed, the Man in the Mirror would claim her for his own. She couldn't handle it, she wouldn't  If ever she caught a glance at him in a fragment of glass, she would know he had alliances near. She knew he kept them near her home,” his voice was deep and melancholy.

“There was the bakery owner on Roosevelt and 3^rd; he always kept on the lavatory light and left the door ajar, when not in use. She was once brave enough to question his reasons for doing so. He simply looked at her and said, ‘The customers need to know where the restroom is.’ She didn't believe him, not for one second. That was October 1992. She hasn't been back since,” there was a small whimper from the back of the room.

“She knew the Man in the Mirror frequented her parent’s house. She had been devastated to discover they were working for him as well. As much as she cared and loved her parents, she never went to see them; they had to come to her. They had been the ones, on numerous occasions, that had urged her to see someone; someone that understood what was happening; someone she could talk to. She agreed that she would like to have someone of whom she could share stories with, someone that would know more about the Man in the Mirror,” the older gentleman continued; all eyes fixed upon him.

“She had scheduled the appointment herself; she had driven to the office building in which Doctor Rooney worked. She had sat in the waiting room, and she had stood up when the nice, young nurse had called her name. But she did not stay long. She would never be back there again. Her one chance at having an accomplice on her side was comrade to the Man in the Mirror,” his voice was growing pained.

“It didn’t take much for her to realize that maybe; just maybe, she would be okay with the Man in the Mirror. Maybe he could protect her from whatever other horrors were in this world. She talked about it. We thought it was just a fantasy world,” he nearly pleaded, “If she were with the Man in the Mirror; if she were on his side, she could escape from these tortuous waters, filled with the savage sharks of the modern world,” the priest, dressed in all black, finished, with a difficult swallow.

“So today,” he said, in a weaker tone, “we ask you to bow your heads and pray for Lily Gane, who will forever be embedded in the marrow of the mirror and will forever find herself in the dark.”

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

I'm back! I hope you missed me, otherwise this would all be just another pretty page to look at. Sorry for my momentary leave of absence things have been pretty busy.

So as a little pick me up I will give you a long story today. Though, of course, it's a little messed up so I kind of I hope it plays with your head....

STERILE

She sat in that sterile room, leaned against the sterile bed, felt the sterile floor beneath her naked scabbed skin and she smiled a twisted, tangled mess of a smile, because finally they had let her see her Leah again.

When Leah Mark was nineteen she went home, leaving Park Preparatory as soon as graduation was finished. Her mother hated large formal events like that; they were just like weddings and funerals. Everyone wrung each other’s hands and put their arms around each other as though they had some sort of perpetual unity because they had they gotten through the same event together. Mrs. Mark had caught the first train out of the city and made her way back to the family home in the suburbs of New York.

F or awhile she just stood outside the house, next to the hunter green mailbox with the red flag. There was a white picket fence in front of a light blue, wooden slated house. The grass was clipped to perfection, the garden was neat. It looked completely out of place; it was the only house on the block, it had always been like that. Outside of the Mark’s property, tall, wild grass continually grew, much to the dislike of Mr. Mark. There was a ten meter strip of sidewalk outside the house. The cement had no dirt, no pine needles, and no cracks. It seemed, like the rest of the property, to be quite sterile.

She let herself into unlocked house, pushing her daughter’s bags before her into the foyer.

“Leah, darling? Is that you?” called her own nervous voice reverberating around the numerous walls of the large house.

“Yes, Mother,” Leah said softly so as to settle her mother, “It’s me.” Mrs. Mark could hear her voice coming for the kitchen and hurried in, to see her daughter. The kitchen was immaculate; every surface shone; light danced upon the countertops, making them gleam. Leah was standing at the kitchen sink, scrubbing the grates of one of the oven racks in warm, bubbly water.

“Leah, where’s your father?” She asked softly, so as not to startle her; she didn’t want her to disappear again.

Leah had her back to Mrs. Mark; she stopped her ferocious attack of the oven rack and slowly turned to face her mother. Her face was pallid and the color of ivory, “I don’t know.” She sounded passive and nonplussed, “Is he not here?”  She appeared to be fading, as though she was becoming one with the background.

“No, Leah, Leah!” Mrs. Mark screeched at her in a tinny, monstrosity of a scream.

The eruption of noise pricked at her unconscious mind. She was opening her eyes, attempting to take in her surroundings. People in white coats were rushing around her, talking in low, hushed, urgent tones, “It’s not working properly. She keeps falling back into those weird memories about Leah.”

She sat up quickly, her head began to spin, but she didn’t care about that; she cared about Leah. “Have you seen her? Have you seen my Leah?” She begged of the doctors, begged them to tell her where she was, where they were hiding her. “I just saw her. She was in the kitchen. Is she still in the kitchen? Where’s my Leah?”

“The medication is completely backwards,” said a man in glasses, with graying hair, clearly in charge. “She is seeing Leah more vividly, in some extreme resolution, so she believes, more than ever, that Leah is real. We have to alter that. Just leave her off medication for now; she’d be better without it than with. Just bring her back to her room.” The man talking was wearing the cleanest white coat of all the other white jacketed people, Mrs. Mark noticed. She liked him.

And so they brought her back to her room. And she sat in that sterile room, leaned against that sterile bed, felt that sterile floor beneath her naked, scabbed skin and she smiled a twisted, tangled mess of a smile, because finally they had let her see her Leah again.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

So far I've only shown poems to draw you in. But I figure if you're still reading this you must be a pusher (maybe drugs I don't know your life). So forget the happy endings and prepare for a psychological trip. This one is a bit more tame so that I don't scare what few followers I have away.

THE COLD IN THE CORNER

The air was bitter cold; it gnawed at her lungs with each breath she took and resurfaced in a puff of steam as she exhaled.  She sat, huddled in a doorway corner, her back pressed into the depths of two adjoining walls, attempting to find any last vestiges of warmth from the sun that once graced the side of the building. She was bundled in a men’s tattered winter coat, it was dirty and had small, soft white goose feathers poking out of minute holes. She wore jeans, so worn in places the denim had faded into a pallid white. Tan leather work boots encased her feet; the only item on her body that resembled newness.

                It was past dusk, nearly twilight; the sky resembled a clotted bruise masking the stars from earth. The street lamps hummed; the only noise in the silent alley. The wall against which the woman’s back leaned was stained from years of existence: gum was stuck to it half way up the wall, the first few feet of the wall were smudged black and there were a few tattered pieces of posters still hanging on; ripped and torn. The badly cracked sidewalk that lay in front of the woman’s corner looked practically impeccable in comparison. There were only small darkened spots, the last remains of someone’s gum and a few mangled pieces of paper littered the sidewalk. The woman was the only person that sat, unmoving and alone, in the bleak alleyway. 

Horns and street cars and late night revelers could be heard a few streets over. Laughter and shouts rang out above the din of the traffic. But the woman sat, hunched, solitary in a corner that was very much her own.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and The Bullshit 

Okay so here's the awkward day where it's still the beginning of the week and you have a lot of work but you're getting steadily closer. Hopefully more people are reading this but being a newbie at blogging I'm not sure how to find out so I'm pretty much just hoping someone stumbles across it.

I have a few little spies that are keeping an eye out for me and have been posting about this blog (you know who you are) so if you have come here because of that thank them!

It's been raining at night here, which, being a PNWer, I have dearly missed. 

THE SOLITUDE OF RAIN

“When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder

If I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,

Or full of argument.” – Mary Oliver, When Death Comes

If I have made of my life something particular, and real

I should have wisdom dripping from my pores.

Or full of argument,

I will taunt myself into a knot of nothingness and dreams.

I will have wisdom dripping from my pores.

I will shout it to the universe until my throat is hoarse.

I will taunt myself into a knot of nothingness and dreams.

And I will sit in the rain and wonder if I am particular and real.

I’ll shout it to the universe until my throat is hoarse,

I am waiting for its arms to wrap around my mouth.

And I will sit in the rain and wonder if I am particular and real,

And wonder if the universe will steal me away from the solitude of rain.

I am waiting for its arms to wrap around my mouth.

And when the universe comes, I weep until my eyes have drowned,

And wonder if the universe will steal me away from the solitude of rain.

 I close my bleary eyes and wrap my arms around the universe.

And when the universe comes, I weep until my eyes have drowned:

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened.

 I close my bleary eyes and wrap my arms around the universe, because

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit

It's Monday! 
Hopefully you got all your work done...anyways I thought today you could all use a little pick me up. As it is Monday and it is the beginning of another work week AND, if your in school, there is a high chance that you are starting Hell Week. Hello Midterms.
I will give you a short and sweet poem to (maybe) lighten the mood:

Into the Dark

We met on a country lane.

The air was thick and sweet,

The aroma of honeysuckle was rich on the air.

I stared at him from the end of the road,

His face dark.

The stars drowned in the sky painted black.

The sun had gone to rest.

A single smudge of light appeared around the cheek of a cloud.

My heart skittered along the crumbling dirt road.

It bounced and it bumped and I heard him utter a gasp, soft and sweet.

I let his long arms envelope me in a denser dark than the sky above.

Love from Pullman,
The Blonde and The Bullshit

I know Sunday is no one's favorite day but here it is. Tomorrow's Monday and today is just an excuse of day to try and cram as much work into it as possible and pray that you get it all done. So here's hoping you do...and I do.

Today is also a day when Pinterest becomes more addicting than chocolate. Don't even try to deny it. Seeing as I know that you are trying to procrastinate as much as possible here's to reading this poem. I made it slightly short so you're teachers/boss's/parents don't harass you too much.

I AM LIKE THE ATMOSPHERE

I have holes in my heart,

Where I once trusted this world.

I have hair thick with stars,

Each rivulet drips across the evening sky.

I am like the atmosphere.

I have dust from the moon gleaming on my lashes,

Prancing in the light when I blink.

Whispers of kisses float on my lips,

While the Earth’s roses paint my sunrise cheeks pink.

I am like the atmosphere.

I have sea-sprayed memories.

My throats been tickled by the sparrows wing.

I have embraced the clouds,

Squeezing out their tears.

I am like the atmosphere.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and The Bullshit

                                                             

Well, happy Saturday, World Wide Web. 
It's not bright and early, but it is bright outside and after WSU's Friday night out I'm sure this is early for most of Greek Row's finest. No worries, they'll pull it together: we have our first home night game tonight vs. Cal. You know they'll rally. 
I know that I said I would be posting less than happy poems, but (and don't think I've lost my cynical side already) I thought I'd give a small antidote of happiness for the faint of heart. So here's this for you tender hearted creatures:

GHOST

I can hear your breath on the wind,

I can sing your sweet Spanish lullaby,

I can taste the melody,

I can touch your memories.

I can be your heart,

You can see my born again soul.

I can hear your soul,

I can whistle on the wind,

I can taste your sweet heart,

I can touch your battered lullaby,

I can be your softest memories,

You can see my broken melody.

I can hear your whispered melody,

I can beat the rhythm of your soul,

I can taste your desperate memories,

I can touch your throat to the wind,

I can be with you in your lullaby,

You can see my burnt little heart.

I can hear your rhythmic heart,

I can listen to our melody,

I can taste your worn in lullaby,

I can touch your tender soul,

I can be your tears on the wind,

You can see my shattered memories.

I can hear your faint memories,

I can wake up your heart,

I can taste the succulent wind,

I can touch the bare melody,

I can be your soul,

You can see my re-born lullaby.

I can hear your sweet Spanish lullaby,

I can begin your memories,

I can taste your rejuvenated soul,

I can touch your brittle heart,

I can be your tuneless melody,

You can see me through the wind.

Now let me sail on the wind, in your sea sprayed memories,

Let me sing you a lullaby and whisper in your heart,

Let me be the melody to your song and a ghost in your soul.

 Have a quality Saturday and remember: Go Cougs!

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and The Bullshit

Well I made it to day two! That's got to be something right? So here's a poem I wrote last year and it's my favorite. 

WE LOVED THE MOON

We loved the moon like a sweet, sad lullaby
And the moon awoke and nudged the sleeping stars.
Brilliant light descended from her rays.
I hugged the rough, scarred bark, tilting my head back to the sky.
The gentle wind whispered in my ear,
While the thick pine scent tickled my nose;
Tasting like Christmas on my tongue.
The first droplet of rain nestled into my skin like my hand cupping my chin.
And I remember Trish Elliot standing under this tree in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
It was a different tree than the one I was under, but it sure felt the like hers.
We danced past the window and I spun

Across the hardwood floor, spinning

Dreams and wishes for tomorrow.
And the music was bitchin' and his toes were tapping.
The bass was beating the floor and the chandelier was quivering.
"One of these mornings, you're gonna rise up singing," hummed against the glass panes.
The heavy air was masked by the luscious melody.
We sang with the lyrics, voice as silky as a bull frog’s croak.
Our steps were perfectly in unison, my feet were yours and yours were mine.
Annie twisted her hips as she riffled through records.
We will stay there, trying to dance the pain away and close the shades on the terror outside.
Our smiles slipped through the crack under the door and hopped the last step.
Annie's record was placed on the player, beginning to sing before the needle touched.
Nous avons ri et nous avons pleure et nous a vole la lune a domicile.
But we danced until the moon cried and we sang until we fell in love
And the moon fell asleep.
That was the summer we loved the moon.

So after sharing a couple of my stories and poems with the girls and after drinking more caffeine than then the human heart can handle the idea came up that I should start a blog. 
So starting things off with a bang, I'll go with a story. A slight warning: some of them are a little unnerving so if murder mysteries, unrealistic situations and amazing fashion aren't your thing, stop reading here.

The Devil’s Crown

The shattered glass, swallowed by the night, seems to have drowned,
Encircling the remains like the devil’s crown.

The burned tires still send smoke into the air,
Even when no one remains to care.

The beaten in door hangs by its singed hinges,
Wincing in the wind; a sound that should make me cringe.

The cloth bag, once full of air,
Now hangs limp against my skin, raw and bare.

The dark streak that stains the street black,
Gives warning to other travelers that the night is ready to attack.

The headlamp still shines on,
Hallowing out the evening air, fragile as chiffon.

The silence is my greatest fear,
As it echoes in my ears.

Rivulets of red make a stream down my neck,
As I hold tight to my heart and hope to protect.

My helpless fingers peck at the window,
Like some freakish crow.

A burning, acrid smell hits my nose, 
It is my constant; keeps me close to my woes.

The tail light is hanging by a thin stripped piece of wire,
Tapping against the bumper like a twisted metronome, ticking for a choir.

The siren bites into the air, the silence torn,
The juices stream into my ear, like blood on a thorn.

People scatter, swallowed by the night, they seem to have drowned,
Encircling my remains like the devil’s crown.

Maybe someone will follow this...is that how this works? Stick with me, I'm new at this. That's why I'm in college.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit