He reminded her of the past, a thought which lingered much too long but was satiable just the same. She danced to further herself from him, to rid him of her flesh, her bones, her muscles; they ached and tugged with each maneouver trying to justify the reasons he haunted a vacancy she had not wanted. She spun and twisted her body in impossible archs until her breath escaped its prison and she lay flat on the floor; a butterfly torn of its wings, all flight and flutter gone or ghostly. A cymbol's crash sounded her denouement and the dance ended with the same violence that had preceded it. She didn't want to resurrect the past, but it lay a hollow grave in his watery eyes. His touch was the rotting flesh of a corpse. His voice a mingling of lost souls drowned in syrupy cadence that reverberated a sunken feeling in the back of her mind; that vacancy.
She slumped to the floor, defeated by the ghosts of her past.

The wind tugged at her regret, pulled the sinewy threads of her guilt until the gauzy web intricately formed a cage. A tight noose around her neck reminded her of what the future held, while the clasps around her wrists captured her in the present. The only thing left of the past was that feeling she kept coming back to, like a foreign taste one can't forget, musn't forget for fear one will never taste it again, never secure it on tantalized tastebuds.

(Remember what it feels like to be free.)

The night was glazed over by the diluted iridescence of street lamps. On a crowded rooftop, dark feathered birds huddled in collective masses, transforming into shadows. Every so often a bird would stretch its wings and the shadow would morph and twist, as if it had sinew and bones. Heat soaked the city until a deep fog wove into the streets and suffocated the sleeper's sweet dreams. Between the cracks of the sidewalks, tangled amidst the roots of demanding trees, pounded the heartbeat of the city. The same thump thump, thump thump palpitations of the restless city resided in the heart of a sleeping Audrie Seville.

On a fishing boat, south of the disquieted city abed with fog, a spark gasped to life. In its wonder it beheld the world anew for several seconds: the water as it sparkled under the beam of a flashlight moon, the shore not farther than a stone’s throw to the sandbar, the murder of an honest man. The spark was so intrigued by these sights that it held on tightly to the side of the vessel and it spread and grew and gave new life to everything it touched. The fire-webbed veins of the spark branched out until the entire ship and its sole passenger were engulfed in flame.

From the shore the small boat reminded one of a Viking funeral. It stayed lit and maneuvered the water aimlessly for several minutes until it was finally dragged below the surface of the cool water. The veins of the ocean were strong and pulled in the burning mass, like a mother to her lifeless child, wanting the closeness of a forgotten womb.

(More to come...maybe?)

27 More Days.....Excuse me a minute while I squeal all girly like...eeeeek! :D Yeah, got my passport yesterday. They're so cute and little. : )

10 More Days Until YouthWrite....Yay! Hehe...Awesome.