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Becomemymuse is a writing community that encourages creativity and friendship. You can post short stories, anecdotes, novels, fanfiction - anything! Become my muse, and I'll be yours.

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[December 30, 2008 | 07:28 PM]

The sun is setting quietly on the field, disappearing behind the false security of neighborhood fences. The lights inside these comfortable homes flicker on, televisions blare, blinds are pulled. You sit in the cold on top of an itchy blanket, leaning uncomfortably against the brick wall. She's smoking, blowing little rings out into the settling night. These wisps dance and spiral into nothing. It's distracting.

She has the bluest eyes you'll ever see, always rimmed in dark mascara and eyeliner. They're glazed over at the moment, from the pot, but you can still see she takes pride in them. Her socks don't match; one is purple and blue, the other is orange. Everything smells like herb. You look into the lives of other people, gazing through their windows and taking part in their nightly routine. She packs another bowl. The black lady in the third house over is walking around in her underwear and she really shouldn't be because she's incredibly overweight and it's disgusting. A line of smoke clouds your vision and you cough, laughing. It's night now. You can see the stars. The empty field is a cool place to look at stars. She asks you

What are we gonna do? Sarah? What are we gonna do?

You don't really know what she means by this, so you ask her what the hell she's rambling about.

With our lives? What are we gonna do?

You look down at your hands, following the lines in your skin. You have a short lifeline.

You'd bet a million dollars she does, too. The night is no longer refreshing and cooling. It becomes consuming as it swallows you. Smoke wafts into your nostrils and you ponder.

It's kind of hard to think clearly. You battle the fog.

You want to know the truth? You ask her, turning your head. She nods, slowly, without rhythm.

I wouldn't fucking ask if I didn't want the truth. She says, packing another bowl.

You pause, and gesture to the world around you: the vacant field, the bag of bud, the dirty houses. The shitty people, the dumb kids, the empty night.

I think this is it. You say.

She looks at you for a minute, her eyes turning overcast. It takes a while, but she finally nods. You take a hit and make your own smoke rings.

That's what I was afraid of Sarah. I think so, too.

You pick up the blanket because the bud is all gone. The fabric folds wearily and the two of you start the long walk home, pushing through the weeds and just trying to see your way through the dark.
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[December 30, 2008 | 07:26 PM]

The air smells like salt as we clamber down your Grandmother's steps, laughing and tugging at obnoxiously bright beach towels. The steps are brick and smooth against my bare feet. Your hair is sticking up in that familiar cowlick. I like that everything about you is becoming familiar.

I count the freckles on your back one more time, a habit I acquired that you'll probably never know about. 21. The number never changes. You have 21 freckles on your back, and 3 more on your neck. All in all that's 24 freckles. I think about telling you about it – after all, it's not like there's any way you'd be able to count them without help – but decide against it. My hair tickles my cheek.

We reach the bottom, slightly out of breath. I lean over and kiss your smile. Your lips taste like Monster as you push me against the wall, still smiling. A challenge. I accept it; I always do, and squirm away at the last minute, pinching your butt to be cute. The wind feels nice against my heated skin as I pull off my shirt, tossing it onto the pool table. My bathing suit top is tied in a double-knot because I don't want to make it too easy for you.

Leave your hair down, you say when I go to tie my hair up.

It'll get all tangly.

Yeah, but you look sexy with your hair down. Tangly is sexy.

I pout but leave my hair down. Anything for you. You smile your smile because you love to win. I realize that you smile a lot around me.

We race to the beach, tumbling down down down the rocky steps and onto the sand. The water splashes like diamonds against my feet, and I laugh. I laugh loud and hard because I'm happy. You laugh loud and hard because I'm laughing loud and hard and eventually we're racing around in the sand. The water isn't too cold for me, so I go under and splash up, smiling. You're too cold, too too cold to come in just yet.

I am dripping as I run up to give you a hug. Water tickles down your skin and you grin and it's good and you kiss me again but our lips are wet so it's slippery. I like that you're hugging me close even though I'm soaking – you hold on like you never want to let go.

The sun is so warm. Your skin is so soft. The grass is so green. The water is so refreshing. Our smiles are so genuine. I am so happy.

We get out of the water because it's too cold. The wind is picking up as we lay out on the grass, propping up reclining beach chairs and snuggling up under the beach towels. You keep the towel over your head because the sun is too bright and we talk and talk and laugh.

It's cold still. We get up and lay on the warm steps and tiny grains of sand scratch my stomach. I ignore the breeze and focus on the sun. Everything is good. You reach over and grab my hand – I'm warm, and you're cool. I smile slow.

You're good.
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cowabunga [December 30, 2008 | 07:18 PM]

It is very hot outside and my skin is burning uncomfortably. Your pool is a sparkly pretty glittery blue and it looks so good, I want to jump in. We're sitting on a fountain rock mountain and playing with Lion King action figures. I have Nala because she's a girl, like me. And you have baby Simba because we lost kid Simba last Summer. He fell off Pride rock and landed inside the fountain somewhere under the stones. I remember because we spent two hours with a spatula trying to save him. Our mission was unsuccessful. Nala was very sad.

You have golden blonde hair, blue eyes, specks of freckles across your face and a crooked smile. It's okay because I have a crooked smile, too. I have green eyes that are sometimes blue and sometimes brown. My hair is darker than yours but still blonde and it tumbles in curls over my shoulder in a long ponytail.

Nala says that they should go swimming.

Baby Simba shakes his head no. He's too little to talk yet.

I tell you that maybe we should just pretend baby Simba is kid Simba because it's no fun when
he can't talk.

Kid Simba says that we should go to the watering hole and go swimming.

Nala says that she thought you said no before.

Kid Simba says that's because I was a baby then, but now I'm big so I can swim.

I move my Nala action figure across the edge of Pride rock. She moves in little jumps because
her feet don't move.

Oh no, says Nala, it's too far down! We'll never make it! It's too dangerous, Simba!

I know you like this part because you get to say it just like Simba says it in the movie.

Kid Simba says Danger? I laugh in the face of danger! Ha ha ha ha!

Kid Simba jumps off Pride rock and onto another, smaller ledge. Nala follows him and they jump, jump, jump all the way down to the desert.

The desert is the pool area. It doesn't really take that long to get to the watering hole, but when they get there they are both gasping for breath.

Nala says, Waterrrr! I need waterrrrrrr! and crawls towards the pool. I drop her in and watch her sink to the bottom. She spins and spirals until she lands right by the green goggles.

Simba says COWABUNGA! And you throw him in, too. He doesn't land near anything.

I am wearing a purple green tweety-bird bathing suit and you're wearing a red and blue stripy bathing suit. I turn to you and tell you that Nala and Simba are in trouble because the watering hole is too deep and they are drowning.

And you tell me that they might get eaten by sharks.

So we jump in, one right after the other, and it's all splishy splashy and everything goes mute and I open my eyes under water and you're there, your hair is floating, swishing above your head like wheat and I realize that you're my best friend ever in the world. And that you're a very pretty boy with blonde hair and sparkly blue pool water eyes. And I also realize that we are meant to be best friends forever because we tell everyone that we're cousins when we're really not. And because I saw you naked once when you were putting on your bathing suit, and you said it was okay because we were pretend cousins and pretend cousins are like real family. I realize we are meant to stay together until the end of the sun because I can't remember a time when you weren't two blocks behind me.

We're supposed to be happy forever.

I can't breathe anymore so I push off the bottom of the pool and back into sound and reality and Summer. You are smiling and making Simba swim with you and I feel different inside.

I tell you you're like my best friend.

And you smile and say yeah, I know.

And I say that we're like Simba and Nala only we're not going to get married.

And you splash me in the face and swim away, and everything is normal again and I forget everything except the desire to splash you back ten times worse. Because that's all I know in life. And it's not so hot anymore because the pool is cold and nice and everything is good.

We stay in the pool until night time, when all the lights burn a rainbow ring around themselves because of all the chlorine in our eyes. And mosquitoes are coming out so your Mom wants us to come in and it sounds like night.

And we are happy.
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[December 30, 2008 | 07:15 PM]

I wanted him to kiss me that night, he looked so beautiful. Curled up in a ball of covers in our tree, leaning comfortably against the bark and gazing steadily at the stars. I learned his hurt, her hurt, my hurt. We took turns emptying ourselves to each other, shedding our problems, letting them flutter down like leaves to the grass below. Away from us for the moment. We were free to just exist.

When I think of that night I get a distorted strobe-light image in my mind, flashes of sights and sounds and smells and thoughts. Jumbled, tangled, like headphones in a backpack. I can’t seem to get them unraveled.

He was wearing an Atticus sweater. She was cold. Ants were crawling on my legs.

Those streets belonged to us, we tromped through them nightly and explored, wide eyed, grinning, laughing, holding each other. I felt free at last, but still so trapped inside myself. Her blue eyes stick with me still, outlined in black mascara and smudged liner. She was also trapped here. It’s what made us so close.

I remember sitting mute on top of gravel, pebbles imbedding themselves into my knees, and her throwing rocks as hard as she could into the distance. She was screaming. Hunched over, with tears in my eyes, I dragged my fingernails across the dirt and filled my fist with stones. I stood up and joined her, hurling the gravel into the trees and screeching until our voices became hoarse and tired. We spent the next hour in silence.

She didn’t need to say anything; I understood.
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[December 30, 2008 | 07:13 PM]

I am defiant against change essayCollapse )
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[September 20, 2008 | 02:12 PM]

Raspberry strawberry coloured strands, ice cream bubblegum cotton candy ringlets. I love girls with pink hair and tattoos.
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[September 20, 2008 | 01:52 PM]

Her eyes glazed over slowly as she exhaled, the smoke making patterns against the ceiling and creeping into the corners of the room. I stared at it so long the wisps almost became a solid thing, something I could reach out and pluck from the air, but I blinked and when I opened my eyes again it was just a cloud seeping into the walls and carpet. Music played softly in the background and I had no fear. I was practically sleeping with my eyes open, numb, without feeling. When I closed my eyes it stung and tears rolled down my cheek. I pictured them lifting off of my face and evaporating into the ceiling, too, but they just tickled their way down until they dripped off my chin and into the palm of my hand.

"California is a shitty place." She finally spoke, staring squinty eyed at me from across the room, "Well, maybe not California but the people are just fucking shitty."

I murmured, "Clones..." before closing my eyes again. I was feeling drowsy from all the smoke.

"They're all drug addicts and liars." I could hear her packing another bowl, "Complete filthy trash fucks, I hate them all. It's not even just Oceanside anymore."

I heard the flick-flick-flick of a lighter.

"Not all people suck, just most of them." I turned my head and looked in her direction, speaking slowly "Everyone's selfish and self-absorbed. No one smiles anymore, no one's friendly. Especially girls, I'll walk through the hallways at school and they'll pass me and I'll smile, you know? But they don't give a shit, they just glare and snarl. Fucking bitches, I know I don't do that shit."

She just shook her head and continued to smoke. I was restless and shifted again until I could see the two of us in her mirror; my feet were stretched out on her bed, my brows were furrowed and my hair twirled off in curlets across her blanket. She was sitting on a beanbag chair with her piece in one hand and her lighter in the other. Her hair was tossed up in a haphazard ponytail and mismatched socks adorned her feet. A bag of bud rested in her lap.

"I'm worried."

She coughed a little and met my eyes in the mirror, "Why?"

"I don't know, for humanity. Everyone sucks. Everything sucks. The world is shifting, at least in my eyes, and everything around me gets bleaker and bleaker and shittier and darker and it's really fucking me up." I realized I was biting my fingernail off, "I mean, I've always been super optimistic and happy and I had hope in things and faith in people but lately, all of that is slipping away. And fading."

I pictured all of my hope and faith drifting up and seeping into the sky.

"Shit, I've always known people were fucked," Kristina shrugged, "Life's fucked, too."

"Thanks." I said sarcastically, rolling my eyes.

"Honestly, that's the way it is. You should smoke some weed and chill out like everyone else." She laughed, then shrugged again, "That's what I do."
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[September 20, 2008 | 01:21 PM]

Lace fingers with me, sew them together with string. I want to feel like this forever. When I close my eyelids your face plays behind them like a broken film on a giant screen and I smile wide, unable to help myself at the sight of your face.

Stronger than words, your eyes tell me everything - they're pools, seeing glasses, they hide nothing if I look hard enough. I feel like a fortune teller draped in beads and layers of colorful handkerchiefs when I'm laying in bed with you at night, the soft glow of the streetlamp filling your bedroom and peeking through the curls of your hair. I look at you and see everything written in your face, in your eyes - you don't smile if you don't feel like smiling. I look into you through amber orbs, and I feel magical.

Love boils up inside of me when I look at you like this, until it explodes out of my ears and eyes and nose and mouth. I imagine that it looks like bubbles floating around the room, bouncing off the walls and your mirrors, into each other, never popping, only growing and growing until the two of us are inside of it and floating away while hugging and talking into the night.

I love you.
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