The High Society, Anthocyanie

  The High Society 

Mary’s cup became full as the waiter poured the substance.  The wine smelled of grapes and memories, strong, intoxicating, yet a substance that would soon disappear.  Across the table sat her boyfriend, a cool man.  She couldn’t exactly call him cold, but cool.  His short black hair shined from a slight greasing, his green eyes hidden by the dim lights of the restaurant.  His eyes traced her face for a reason she didn’t fully understand.  He wanted her mouth, slightly aroused, she sensed.

Around them, people chatted politely, minding their manners.  The noise echoed in a unison, one and yet apart.  The wood beneath her feet vibrated to the motion of others.  Servers came to the beck and call of their guests.  People wore designer clothing of all colors, not gaudy, suited for the evening in the respectable atmosphere.  

Perhaps they demanded respect, Mary thought to herself.  She pulled a long strand of blonde hair rudely behind her ear.  

“So, Alex?  Are you going to be coming to dinner on Thursday night with my parents?”

“I have prior engagements,” he replied.  The tone of his voice stood aloft, distant with his mind distracted by work, by rituals.  The white shirt he wore reflected the light and neglected the stains.  

“It would mean a lot to me if you could cancel those plans,” Mary said.  

Alex ignored her. 

Mary hated Alex sometimes.  He was always about himself, never caring about her needs and wants.  Her gown annoyed her, and she shifted in the seat, not sure of how to respond.  

“May I ask, are you ready for the check?” The waiter asked, a tall man much like a tree in a hidden forest.  

“Yes, please.”  

Annoyed, frustrated, and angry Mary marched into the parking lot with the will of a private ready for battle.  The slick black car came to life as Alex hit the button.  The rain saturated outside smelled seductively of flowers and paradise. Somewhere, Mary couldn’t find.  

“I’m sick of it, Alex!”

“You’re sick of what, Mary? You’re so emotional.”  He opened her car door.

“I can do that myself.”

“I’m sure you could,” Alex replied.  His eyes traced her legs and projected an air of forgiveness.  

A flower is designed by nature to look beautiful.

“It’s always all about you!” 

“Not again, Mary.”  His tone became hostile and dominating.  

“What? You don’t want to listen to me?”

“I can hear you as clear as day,” Alex responded.  The moon peeked out of the clouds.  

Mary turned her attention the homeless man on the street.

The world is so cruel, she thought.  

A few weeks passed, and Mary’s depression grew into a monster consuming her.  The nights rattled with words she didn’t want to hear, the light rose and fell from the sky, not caring about taking its time, and the cat wouldn’t stop meowing.  

That damn cat, Mary thought.  I fed him already.  

The droll drum of life pulled at her.  She tried to open a book but lacked the appetite to read it.  Some romance. Something she didn’t have. Something more.

Love needs to be nurtured, she told herself.  Love needs to be whole.  I need love in my life.

She left her house and went outside to her car.  The green paint reflected the strong glare of the sun.  By that time, it was almost noon.  A breeze blew through the area, a few misfits left their high trees destined to dry up and little wherever they went.  

Mary stopped at a little diner on the outskirts of the city, the area humble and modest, boasting only about the fried chicken on the menu.  

“What can I get you?” The server asked.

“I’d like a salad with extra tomatoes,” she replied.  

“Comin’ right up!”

The crisp lettuce and crunchy croutons rolled around her mouth, satisfying her hunger.  Around her sat the regulars.  She knew them well, as she stopped in this small place often.  

Bob, an old man with a white beard eyed her from across the room.  He turned away, and Mary couldn’t see the expression on his face but could smell the musk of his body a mile away.  It interested her senses, not repulsing them.  

Mark came out of the kitchen.

“Hey, Mary,” Mark said in an enthusiastic tone.  “What’s in the head?”  

“The usual, boring life, boyfriend problems, and school.”

“Problems are easy to solve when one wants a solution.”

“Not for me.”

“Sometimes, the simplest solution is the best. Ever heard of Occam’s razor?” he returned.  “Then again, “Eyes can only see what he [or she] is seeking.”

“What?”

“Oh, ignore me. I’m a philosophy junkie, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I love knowledge.  The end justifies the means.”

“If you say so.”  

“Well, I have to get back to work.  We all know only fools get philosophy degrees.  Socrates died just the same.”  His red hair shifted as he pushed the plastic door open and went back to frying that good old chicken.  

I don’t understand him, Mary said to herself.

Mary drove to the park.  The nice afternoon inspired her feelings, and she let her mind wander in fantasy.  The words made no sense to her, the feelings did.

A homeless man woke up from the adjacent park bench and came over to her.  

“Do you got change?” The asked.  

Pulled from her thoughts, Mary was slightly surprised.  

“Um, yeah, sure.”  

The man moaned in pain. 

“Are you okay, sir?” Mary asked.

“I’ve got them years on me.  They tattle on old bones.  You don’t happen to have a cigarette, do you?”

“No, no, I don’t smoke.”

“You’ll live longer.” 

Mary didn’t know what to say.  She felt so much sympathy for this man.  He seemed so kind and gentle.  What had he done to deserve such a fate?

“I’ll tell how I feel,” the man said.  He grunted a little more.  “I grew up in there Mississippi.  My mom did the best she could in rags, and my dad had a love of them women, the kind who like shiny things.

One night, we went to the casino for a good meal, as dad had promised my mother.  We ate it up good then couldn’t pay.  So we got ourselves banned from the place.  

I’ve rambled around the gutters ever since cause my momma left pa, and I’ve seen all sorts of fools and wise men.  When they’re in that environment, you can’t tell them apart.

I’m trying to get me, my woman back. She has a habit and had been on the streets again.  I tell her it over and over, it ain’t gonna heal nothing.  Stones are graves, too”

“I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“What did you ever do?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, then, I best be on my way.  Thanks for the cash.  It’s not enough for a woman, but I can get some of that fine whiskey.”  

A duck followed by spring’s ducklings made their way to the small lake.  

What a cute sight, she told herself.  They know just what to do.  

Mary walked across the park to the zin garden.  Many of the blossoms reached toward the sun, full of the light’s radiance.  The plants were strong and green. The dirt stayed humble. 

Some people have rotten luck.   They try and try but don’t get anywhere.  What a wicked world.  

“Do you know what time it is?”  A man asked her.  She turned around and saw him dressed in comfortable attire, a jogging suit with a coffee stain.  The sight relaxed her.

“It’s two.”

“Thanks, my name is Roger. What is yours?” 

“I’m Mary,” she replied.

“Would you like to walk around the pond with me?  I know they call it a lake, but it isn’t.”  He smelled like a man’s sweat, inspiring.

“Sure.”

“So, what’s your story?” He asked.

“I don’t have a story,” she replied.  

‘Everyone has a story…”

“I guess.  I had a normal childhood, lots of friends and parties, but I felt and still feel empty somehow like I’m missing something.”  

“Love.”

“Yes, love.”  Mary’s cheeks flushed at the thought.  The emotion possessed her.

“It’s definitely a strong emotion.  I like strong emotions.” 

“Why?”

“Because they’re wild and free, but they don’t beat the grave.”

“Ah, yes, we have but a short time on Earth,” Mary replied.  She knew Roger could see her flush.  For some reason, she liked that.  

They went around the lake and then parted ways.  He slipped her a piece of paper with his number on it. She shoved it into her pocket quickly.  When she arrived to her car, she sighed.

Later that night, she toyed with the phone.  She didn’t want to call him too quickly, didn’t want to appear too desperate.

Her cat annoyed her again.  

“Buttercup, shut up!” She yelled.  The cat turned around and showed Mary her butt.  

Love is an emotion! Love is a great thing!  What is the purpose of life but to love?

A few days passed, and she became bold enough to dial Roger’s number.  

“Hello,” he responded.

“Yes, hi, I had a great time with you at the park.”

“I had a great time with you, too.  I don’t want to be too quick, but would you like to come over to my apartment?  I’ll text you the address. I have a few friends over.”

“I’d love to!”

Mary grabbed the expensive purse that Alex bought for her from Italy.  The leather still appeared brand new, like desire.  

The apartment’s crumbled exterior fell beyond humble, but Mary didn’t care.  An urge drove her, compelled her to move forward.   

“It’s great to see you.  This is John, Randy, and Bill.” The men wore greasy t-shirts.  They held glasses of whiskey and Bill had a joint.  

So different, Mary thought. 

The five sat down on the smelly sofa.  

“Would you like a blunt?” Roger asked Mary.  

“Um, I don’t do drugs.”

“You have to try them if you’ve never done them.  We have to broaden our experience, man.  I’ll get you something to drink, too, to loosen you up.”  

“Thanks,” Mary said.  

The liquor burned as it went down her throat.  The weed relaxed her muscles and her mind.  She felt open to the world and it closed on hers.  

Her mind became fuzzy like fizz.  

Soon, she felt hands on her.  In a surprise, she pulled away, but her body lacked strength.  

Roger went inside her.  His face kept pulsing and lights changed colors around his body.

She laughed and felt a rush of sensation.  

“I’m so stoned. This is so cool,” she told him.  He carried on, happier than ever.

They both were.    

There. Together.  

        Forever.  

New Poem-thought "Real"

 

 I'm kind of repeating, but it has another meaning. It has more to do with abuse. I hate the way my brain works, but I might as well roll with the punches.

"Real"

You left me with permanent stars.

My head, it reels and reels.

I spin in a hurricane, the eye,

Left for what is truly real.

The Reign". -- AnonyMISS Hag

"The Reign"

     Clevy glanced at her coffee and then turned her attention to the morning news.  On the colorful screen, bright and happy like prozac, a man went on and on about how it would rain part of the week and possibly a shining sun toward the end with full confidence.  Great, she thought, another man telling me what it’s going to be like and not having a clue.  One can never guess the mind of the weather, and it always seemed dooming to Clevy.

She didn’t like the cold, having grown up in a harsh winter’s climate up north around Virginia, Norfolk area.  While she appreciated the beauty of falling crystals amassed in ornamental icing, the chill of the wind reminded her of a falling shard of the hanging ice’s and its broken wings, failed relationships and, of course, Kevin.  

Kevin said he loved her, said he cared, came to her side when she smiled for him, and kissed him in the dark on all parts of his body. In the light, his eyes magnified other girls and their well-endowed, rounded breasts, their succulent sticked lips, and their squeaky voices, high on daddy’s approval and green cash.

“Can I get you another cup of coffee?” a perky waitress asked.  She wanted some change.

“I’m alright,” Clevy said.  In reality, she wasn’t.  She expected so much out of reality, a glass half full of optimism, hope, dreaming desire, and it always seemed drained and wasted.  

“Well then, are you ready for your check?” Clevy grabbed a bill.

“Sure.”  

Clevy walked out of the small diner and to her car. 

        The rain.

When Clevy arrived to her afternoon lecture, she sighed. She barely remembered the material and failed to have the confidence to surrender to understanding.  Her long, blonde hair poured out in front of her, and she wondered if her dark, darting eyes would betray her thoughts and feelings.  Her pupils were hidden, at least, she reasoned, not that anyone ever got that close to see.  

“Good afternoon, class.  Today we are going to talk about moving bodies.  Has everyone read the chapter?  I hope so.  Otherwise, I’m wasting my breath.”  

Clevy shifted uncomfortably in her seat.  

“As you know, a body will continue to move in a straight line forever unless a force is acted upon it.”  

Clevy’s mind drifted as he began to drum out equations and the others scribbled out their quick notes.  Her mind followed the numbers for a minute until they turned into shapes and dresses, ladies and gentlemen.  

Somewhere else.

“Clevy,” a man said.  He put a golden chain around her neck.  

Clevy’s neck turned to a man with azure eyes stared into her, clouds began to form in her mind along with panic at being caught.  She couldn’t peer into him, couldn’t behold beyond.

“You have a scarlet blush, you know?  You are embarrassed when you shouldn’t be.”  

Clevy began to form words in her head, trying to defend herself, trying to break free, trying to reason with a reasoning above her.  

“This is a fantasy,” she said at last.  The words came out of her like bullets.  She wanted to kill what was inside of her.

“I will possess you,” he returned. 

“I am not an object.”  

“I know, you are motion.”

Someone dropped a pen.

“Clevy, what does X equal?” The professor drilled her, knowing her mind had wandered.  

“Why?” She replied, lost at the same time.  

“You are exactly right!” 

The Snake Said

            The clouds loomed above.  Lightning cracked and thunder yelled, challenging the devil. The old women walked covered by black attire with dolled-up faces, a contradiction in this sordid fate.  Dim lights betrayed their lingering eyes at dawn, dreams gone and life frail, soon to be forever forgotten as the cracked shells of unimportant, decaying dust.

The ceremonial makeup melted at the rain’s harsh command; these women ruined, now wet “witches” walking to the guideless gallows during their stolen time, raccoon eyes dark and infected with cries for innocence long gone in drowned memory.  They wanted to be pardoned to another life long and pleasant, to a haven hidden from the world and its tricks on the poor.  The arrow of desire was trapped in their minds as they looked forward, most crying for the injustice unheard by their captors’ keen yet selective ears.

They continued anyway.

The women’s burning souls blazed and roared, twisting, and playing on the emotion of their tense, stiff bodies like the spells they’d never uttered in Satan’s church, where they’d never been. There was little escape for the tormented minds save the coming death and also the final pride of a fighting flame, dignity screaming out the cursed words of the faltering reality that demanded review, for peace, for goodness, for justice!

These women wanted to be remembered beyond their time but not for mighty fame.  A slight notion of revenge brought grins to several dun, cracked faces, a disturbing sight for the crowd to wonder about, a hint of worry traveled on the wind.

 The old women were to be carbon copies, never again named with crying black streams of unholy mascara on their faces, like coal instead of glittering diamonds.  They waited their turn in the line, their own funerals in the mountains of mourning where their loved ones might have once grieved.

They were not loved due to delusional distractions of hardship, never unique in tears and fears with the poor children crying at their warm breasts to suckle just a little more.  All the same. Cellulose and loose skin had come for them all along with guilty spider veins slithering around life like Eve’s friend the snake: you are but a mortal. 

A runway train of insincerity crashed through the ignored truth that day.  The truth never boasted for esteem, a casualty of the long and difficult war, always honorable in the conduct, but weak on the world that belongs to the devil himself.  The fiend roamed and delighted in the grey graveyard at the edge of the small town where it was under his control.

The unworthy feats of the minds’ eyes brewed within the narrow scope of the crowd’s ignorance.  They cheered as the blade fell each time. The glamor painted a fierce reality of ruby gems. Those judgmental faces smiled as the women’s heads were positioned on sticks, seeds the group’s egos used to inspire the arrogant thirst of self-righteousness within this foolish crowd.  They would one day fade with the crime where they’d be equally helpless to cheering murderers, even if they had to wait for cancer or winding, ugly veins that spoke in simple words.

You are but mortal. 

           

             

           

             

Dance

Ashley let her thin, pale fingers trace the edges of the small, rough box. The golden design wrapped around the object like a choking necklace, tight with eternity’s embrace and promise, an overly invested mother to favored offspring, perhaps. The woven words had lost their previous meanings to time, dead hands caressing each in faded memories, desires and dreams themselves.

The bold symbols were exquisite beyond the cheap charlatans of imitation, along with all the careless collectors with spitting words akin to noisome monkeys, banal verses from fools with powdered, rose blush and sagging breasts who fell to death into a deep grave of complacency, a slumber that would never be bothered or cared for by the gods of housewives. Their possessions gathered in the trash, not dwelling on the final, flawed manicure or the life without meaning that wasted away blubber to bones under the great green grass.

The box breathed in its own right, alive.

The carvings wanted to hold on, the lovers in a foreign world where awe was damned to the talent-offended masses, and the power given to the obscene and ignoble peasant kings with their ill-appetites of self-indulgence above honor and truth.

The box seemed to know the ways of the world without having to scream the profane. It knew.

Rays from the sun acted as a grim reminder in the pungent, stale air of the attic where Ashley’s mind crawled with these useless analytics and ponderings, idle thoughts with distracting weight. How long could she wait for this power? What would it mean for her? She asked herself.

Mold held fast to the old wood and insulation, and she coughed on its cue. She wanted to move to a newer house but couldn’t afford to. So particles moved in the heavy, hot air and spun around enchantingly, landing on the box with a whisper louder than a drum.

Disturb me, the box seemed to say. She hoped she was worthy of its contents, of its will.

Ashely knew well what rested its crimson, cubed interior, knew and what it would take to use such a strange item in context of her modern world where simple witchcraft meant lunacy, dancing in the woods under a full moon and chanting to the sky gods and the forces of elemental nature.

The box meant nothing to their passing hands, not to the typical witches, a pretty thing but not prized, not an accomplished item for them to use with wishes of acceptance through orgies and cries to the waving forest air, to the creeping tide, to grey hair, to the dead stars with ancient and useless light they looked at for answers. They embraced each other as willing, strong closet lesbians in order to quell the mediocrity of their lives in which they mostly spent in the trashed kitchen with screaming babies and neglectful husbands.

They forgot the truth and tried to cheat a way to escape. If only they would have known about its powerful secret, a something in the void they falsely worshipped, those women.

Many people kept boxes and secrets even more glamorous, though scarcely together as in this case. Ashley’s grandmother often warned her of the power within the dark, redwood chamber, “Don’t let the flames reach you! I see fire.” A vision. As a child, such words struck fear in Ashley, and she obeyed with wilting emotion. The box stayed under the bed like an unwelcome pet from a past life – almost. Now older and perhaps wiser past a juvenile fear of the unknown, temptation won the dual in her mind, and Ashley let her finger move on to the lock seductively, slow and paced. She toyed with the key. She pulled the gatekeeper open with a snap and held her breath. Her eyes closed momentarily.

She could not share the moment.

Her grandmother was dead, taken by the worms to dust and buried under the old woman’s favorite waving tree, a weeping willow that swept the air, reaching for what it could never have, but, at the same time, not ashamed of its roots, a swift song to wish for peace around frail branches. Only the wind pitied it, paying it more attention than necessary. The tree never thanked anyone.

The box hummed, bringing Ashley back to the moment. Her eyes opened. A light glowed within the chamber, shy at first then…

No one could warn or stop her from opening the box minus sheer divinity. The old forms of gods were busy deities with more pressing matters in the flawed world of lame species that had fallen from grace in evolution’s clockwork binge.

She flipped the lid all the way off. Her eyes greedily gazed forward. She took in the reaction.

A flash boasted itself through the hot air to show off its power with flipping sparks of various hues: pink, purple, green and blue. Four rocks cracked and broke out of the blood red box to overdo a first impression. A quick flame leapt into the air then spun down with in the hard rocks not from this world. Within their brilliant shine, the mysteries of the world could be understood, a sort of philosopher’s stone but real, not imaginary and not for prolonging the life of feeble mortals in a decaying world of flesh and sin.

What do I want to know? Ashley thought of a lifetime of questions: why do bees sting? Does a diamond really last forever? Where am I in the universe?

I could ask Google all of these questions, Ashley scolded herself with a hushed cry. What wouldn’t the internet know? Could such a question exist that mankind had not sought with a sloppy tongue, the greatness of the mystery teasing the slow comprehension of weak, sentinel beings beneath it?

The flames, beware of the flames. I see fire. The flames engulf everything.

Ashley picked up the pink rock and held it in her hand. The hot stone sang a note then glowed to show its power, its loud beats pounding forward the alien life. It pulsed with a heart, a living creature. On the ground, the others grew impatiently hot. Ashley picked them up and lined them on the cracked wooden table.

Okay, think of a good question, Ashley told herself faintly. She still hadn’t overcome the original shock and show of the rowdy, all-knowing stones.

“How will time end?” She asked.

“It will only continue to begin.” The stones sang a few notes into the tense air, creating a laughing atmosphere. Were they mocking Ashley?

“Will I find love?”

“Not in death.” What a strange reply Ashley thought. She rubbed her hand against the rocks. They hopped to life and started to cut her, jagged edges piercing her fragile mortal flesh. The blood poured out in a river of pain and surprise.

Ashley jumped to her feet. Her head spun in the clouds of confusion and primal fear. The rocks sizzled and teased underneath her and then grew, a sour odor filled the air. The blood brought them to life, an ancient sacrifice having been performed in a modern haze of miscommunication and damnation. Soon, strange creatures stood before Ashley with thick, rotting and purple skin, no eyes and a slick, protruding stomach that hung forward. Why did her grandmother only say the stones know the universe and that the flames would engulf all?

“That is the answer.”

“Wha-what…” Ashley said.

“We are beings of fire and knowledge. Do you fear the truth, you lowly being?”

Ashley’s mouth sagged.

“Do you think we’d give you the answers so that you could keep destroying the universe with your childish and selfish ways? We’ve kept the box alive in the arms of the fearful, of the delusional, of the vain seeking what should never be asked. Who think they are better and worthier than they are… The other Earthlings that were seeded on faraway worlds have left a path of destruction in the universe. Their disorganized minds disrupted the sanity of the stars. Your current population is no different, wars and nuclear bombs, lies and greed. The blood must be purified for the next creation.” He sounded like an Aztec god.

“What is the fire? The next?” Ashley asked.

“Purity.” And with that, the beings began to burn through the attic’s flimsy wood. An unnatural wind blew in the room, and the resident rats scattered and ran save one. Ashley protested, staggering, her own words drowned out by destruction’s wisdom and the rat’s dirty paw which penetrated her shocked, open mouth. The small creature hurried to freedom with the same quick moves as when his kind had walked with dinosaurs on that buried world of teeth and muscle, size and hunger in dangerous, wild jungles never seen by mankind

I should have danced with the lesbians, came Ashley’s last thought before the passion of heat and fury took her under the piercing flames and laughing gods.

She joined her grandmother in the silence of forever, time she’d never remember.