Overactive Imagination

Personally, I think this title doesn't do me much justice. Sure, I've been told I have an overactive imagination. I've also been told I have a healthy imagination. Both have come with a bit of a negative connotation. I don't care. I like to write and I like to pretend (another reason Halloween is so much fun for me).

Well, I never used to enjoy writing. That is until I was in High School writing stories in competition with my best friend. These weren't for class either, they were just to try and out do each other. My bud almost always had the better story. Anyways, skip ahead to college and I was talked into a Writing Minor, since I'd completed half of the required courses as part of the core curriculum. This is when I became comfortable writing in earnest. (It began by trying to become a better song lyric writer and morphed into other aspects of writing). I had a poetry class, a short story class and a self-imposed project to close the credit gap I needed to graduate (I'm STILL trying to polish this last one fifteen years later -- well, there was fourteen year exile to the storage box in between graduation and last Winter) I digress. I did graduate. (My instructor enjoyed our music trivia sessions after class and during our sessions working on this solo noose) *grin*

So here I was, November 2005, with a blog of my own. What would I do with it? Write of course! Initially I had intentions of being humorous "kill rabid porcelain dolls before those zombies eat your children" kind of thing. But more often than not I wound up espousing hot headed ignorant social commentary (which I fully resolve to not do here). Occasionally, though, I did get some creative writing (and by creative I mean somewhat bizarre) entries logged in; some will no doubt emigrate here, like these two:


Coast Evening March 28, 2006

The sun sets on another perfect coastal evening. The sea breeze blows gentle for once. Well, it's no different really, but it doesn't bother your spirits for a change. The gentle strains of nature fill your subconsciousness as the red sky darkens to a deep blue, purple then black. Your hair blows in your face, but that doesn't bother you either. It's great to be on the beach tonight. You get goosebumps on the way up the bank leading to the parking lot and the car. The two of you are the only ones out here tonight. He says something but you don't listen, you're wrapped up in your own thoughts. It's only after a few more steps you realize he's not right next to you. He's stopped, waiting intently for your answer.

"Aren't you coming?" you ask because you don't know what he said and honestly don't care. Why not? There isn't anything more pressing in your mind. No hairdresser, groceries, sales. Work isn't hard -- sometimes it's boring but isn't EVERY job?

"That depends" he replies, sadly. What is his problem now? He's going to spin his words, make you the bad one.

"On?" maybe you replied a little sarcastically but what the heck. You pretty much want to get back in the car and go home now, be rid of him for the rest of the night at least. Ugh, you need to suffer the ride home. He looks at you funny.

"Ice cream," his face suggests you answer in the positive, as if his stare will pull a 'yes' answer out of you.

"No thanks," even though some food product might be nice for a snack, "I'm tired. It's been a long day."

The breeze blows the enthusiasm from him. Good. A hot shower will make you feel better, or at least warm you up. You don't realize you're rubbing your arms until he asks if you're cold.

"Maybe a little," you say watching him turn the ignition. He puts the heat on low for a few minutes, just til you're back on the main drag. Within minutes he's pulling up to your door. You let yourself out of his car and key the lock to your gate.

"Thanks for tonight, I'll call you tomorrow," why did you say THAT? You have no intentions of calling him, not tomorrow anyway. You slip off your shoes and head towards the bathroom, still wrapped in the empty thoughts of your mind.

end



A sparkle emanates from her eyes like the glow from the full moon

A sparkle emanates from her eyes like the glow from the full moon
blue/white lasers shooting from her retinas
Cool beams brilliant to behold and drink in
coating your throat like milk of magnesia
tasting like mint
Her voice angelic
and she has a subtle aura of fruit about her body
that blinds me with her taste when I lean in for a kiss on the nape of her neck
Cynthia Miller radiated beauty in the middle of farmer Don Baggett’s cornfield
It wasn’t so much a cornfield as it was a haven for lightning bugs
They flashed and blinked like old time news photographers
Getting the scoop on the big story
"Moon Girl Lands in Millville"
Published above the fold, front page
with the story of the local millinery burning down below the fold
People thinking she did it with the moonbeams in her eyes
"It’s a damn shame" residents spoke but I knew better
Strong arms of obsession wanted lustfully to bear hug Cynthia that night
and squeeze the love out of her like Popeye opening a can of spinach
but Moose Boy could never be so lucky as to have this girl love him with such conviction
A love as true as a politician’s would be more suited to him
Years later they will still be yearning frustrated by a lack of any more attraction than the wanting of true love
Killing themselves inside from it
Stifling one’s stagnant heart prolongingly
until each of them is nothing more than a blob of human mass
Zombies still drawn to each other
Soulless but not undead
Voulez-vous couchez avec moi ce soir?
Standing motionless amidst the bugs and stalks staring soundlessly at each other

8/6/05