Two Sentence Horror Stories

http://www.mandatory.com/2014/02/21/20-terrifying-two-sentence-horror-stories/
She had gotten used to being alone. It was strange now that her house was full of people, who had no idea she was there at all.

He watched her comb her long, dark hair and stare contentedly at herself in the mirror. "She is so beautiful," he thought, opening the closet door and stepping into the light.

Gnaw

Some days,

my mouth forms around the words “I love you”

and nothing comes out

until my second cup of coffee

Some days,

you ask too much of me

Some days,

I need taking the lead

to exist beyond the bedroom

Most days

my mouth explodes with emotion

from the moment I open my eyes

Most days,

I can move mountains if you ask me

Most days,

I am more than content to give you the reins,

while leading the cart myself

But those other days,

I don’t know how to alert you

to my need for a firm hand

for you to take initiative

for something else

to tell you that I love you, but I am not entirely sure I like you right now

Will those days become more frequent

the longer we share a bed?

a life?

obligations?

Or will those days

the ones where you hung the moon in honor of me

the ones where I miss you even though I am only at work

and am bound to see you in a matter of time

Will those days,

become the norm?

How do I keep that “do no wrong” halo above your head

the red out of my vision?

How do we continue to find new ways to fuck

and laugh

and talk

and sing

while life continues to try and shut us up

down

away?

Will you still look at me with amazement

when I brush my hair behind my ear and smile

while telling you a story?

If you have heard all of my stories?

Will you still put your hand

gently on my neck while I drive

guiding me as I guide us down the road of life

my hand on your knee

our final destination

unknown.

Will you still want to marry me,

When we have been married for most of our lives?

Will our marriage

mean as much

now that (most of) society agrees it is a marriage after all?

How do two people, make a life

when there are more people

on the sidelines

rooting against them

and creating their own teams

fighting over who gets picked last

Will there ever be enough

of you

of us

of time

of space

to share all of the things that we want to share with all of the people that deserve to be shared with

How

How do you do it?

How do you make a relationship work

when it feels like WORK

when it isn’t all laughs

when the bad things come and I can’t say the right words

because my tongue is nailed to the roof of my mouth with stubborn rage

and the tears are acid on my cheeks

and your stare is 100 kinds of painful

Do you hold on

to that morning where we were the only ones there

and we had just finished making love

our sheets damp and tangled

the dogs staring up, waiting for their space to be returned

and we laugh at something silly

and we created stories for things that never happened

and people that have never existed

and everything. just, everything, is perfect.

in that moment

Is that what gets us through those other times?

Those times are hard

How do we remain separate, autonomous individuals,

when we have entwined our lives

and security

in each other?

When not seeing you for an evening confounds me?

How can I use imagery in this instance

so you can better understand my gnawing fears

little beavers of self doubt

there I did it.

I am never sure what tomorrow will look like

only that you will be there

next to me

holding the back of my neck

your fingers

electric

Irene and Joy and Grandma

This is the one i am thinking of reading in its most recent incarnation, thoughts>

A Boston marriage my grandmother called it

Two women, independent of the support of a man

living together in a romantic friendship.

Irene, and her companion Joy

raising a son named Rodger together

no one asked who was his mother

It didn’t matter

we made necklaces together

in a loft bed

he was somewhere in his thirties, his mind still somewhere in early childhood

I watched the women

drink coffee

and touch hands

while we made necklaces

It did not occur to me to question the status of these two women

of my grandmothers friendship with them

of the “situation”

in which they lived.

When my grandmother died

a gnarled image of the woman she used to be

in slacks and turquoise jewlery

knuckles like tree knots

and skin hanging off of her like paper streamers

the aftermath of a party long since over

My mother told me that when my grandmother was young

tall and fit

the only woman on the assembly line

in full makeup

and heels

standing for hours at a time fitting pieces into pieces

in her high shoes and lady face

There was a theory goin around the family that Grandma, or Betty, or Mom,

wanted to be with, or was, one of “THOSE” women

like Irene

and Joy

living in their shared house

just down the road from my grandmother

where they retired

together

after 30 years as teachers

friends with my grandmother for  most of that time

they build their house on a hill just down the road

so they could always

drink coffee in the sunshine

and touch hands

I never considered this Boston Marriage

while making necklaces with gentle Rodger in the loft bed

staring through colored beads I watched them laugh

and I thought,

how nice.

I hope when I grow up,

I have love like this

Like Irene and Joy

and Rodger with his beads

Grandma walked me home and held my hand tight

my necklaces twisted around my wrist in wait of being handed out to Shelly

my 9 year old companion

and third grade life mate

She glowed in the sunlight

and promised we would be back tomorrow

As a woman now

my own lady face constructed

and still a love of plastic, beaded jewlery

I sit in a kitchen and hold the hand of a woman who is my companion

at least for that morning

and I think about the delicious normalcy

of drinking coffee

and touching hands

while my daughter makes necklaces in her loft bed

And I wonder if seeing us here in the kitchen

gives her peace and a desire for love

like it did for me

with grandma

I told my daughter I was gay when she was 5.

Her father was gone and I was not interested in sneaking kisses after bed time or pronoun changing for her “benefit”

I introduced her to my girlfriend and after dinner that night, as I walked her to the door, I kissed her full on the lips as my daughter watched from the kitchen

I did not feel sorry

but I did question my decision

When she asked me

if she was gay now too

No one ever told me that Companions

were also lovers

that Irene and Joy must have made love in the moon light in their shared bed

with Rodger asleep next door

secure in that both mothers would be there to make bacon in the morning

In telling my daughter that I was gay

that something was different for me

than for the mothers of her friends

did I remove that sunlight touch and plastic bead viewpoint from her perspective?

Does she now have too much information?

Did Grandma love these women

love them like they loved each other

shared vacations excuses to be alone

to create memories

and touch hands

away from prying eyes

of adults with too much information

Is that why Rodger and I were safe

with our beads

and our loft bed

quiet witnesses to soft touches

drinking coffee

love that needed no additional information

Maybe sometimes nothing

is better than something

so everything

can quietly exist

on its own terms

poet

here is the other thing i wrote...also wanting to read it...let me know...

i tell people i am a writer

it sounds solid like i produce things

things of substance

i WRITE things

novels

stories

things that take up some space

i call myself a poet under my breath

a whispered word in the corners

poets are frivolous

stringing flowery sentiments

with verbosity

simile

metaphor

hyperbole

what i want to scream is

that poetry

is a metaphor

the only way i know

to put my guts on display

to harvest the deepest parts of myself

and beg to be seen

there are no characters

in my poems

just me scraped raw

see me here

covered in these words

like bandages

i am pouring myself

out onto paper

with no regard for sentence structure

and oxford commas

i want vocative commas

and my throat tight

around words

i am scared to speak

i want words pouring

from my mouth

in pulsing rhythms

like the vein i

just tapped to spray

myself in red

on the wall

i am not sitting in room

full of people in black

high-necked shirts

waiting for them to snap

their fingers in some

hipster mating call of

approval

i am here

to pull out my mess

and translate it

into a stanza

for you

i am not here to call myself a writer

i am here to

bleed my life onto paper

to build a rescue

ladder of words

to save myself

and my beating

open heart

from a world bent

on its destruction

counting on its silence

i am a poet because

anything else is

a lie my skin cannot bare

i whisper the word poet

because

it is me

and all the bleeding words

i can scream

won’t save me

if that one goes

unsaid

fluid by nature

So this is the thing i wrote...tell me what you all think...i think i'd like to do this one at the reading at western but want some feedback first...

not the wishy washy

sloshing in a bucket

back and forth

kind of fluid

not the indecisive

ebb and flow

that always leaves

 the shore in doubt

of the wave’s intention

no

the crashing on the beach

pulled by the moon

taking a thousand years

to change the shape of a stone

sort of fluid

tears rushing down cheeks

crashing onto pillows

take your breath away

cold splash in the face

warm wash away

your sins of a day

kind of fluid

dripping thick rain forest leaves

 lush places

discovered

opened

coursing rivers

brought by lust

and a firm hand

kind of fluid

i am fluid by nature

wet and watery

but never watered down

briny and rich

depth of flavor

that plays salty tricks on your tongue

momentarily quenching a thirst

but leaving your mouth wanting

rushing smooth like silk

over rocks

twisting the turns of phrase

the water of life

pouring

crashing

diving for the depths

of meaning

for the rain of words

tapping against the

windowpane of my mind

until the torrent rushes

pouring past my lips

falling with pounding ferocity

hurricane force rains

of my tears

and my phrases

deep blue pool held back

held back behind the dyke

with a hole in it and

only a finger

to stop it up

never enough

and more fingers just bring on

the flood

i am fluid by nature

thick slow and sticky

viscous like honey

sweet and hard to wash off

pooling golden

in the curves of you

making your fingers

leave prints on glass

sometimes i don’t move quickly

but i always move

flow over

push out the cork and

fill the long stemmed glass

with gold and bubbles

bursting my words

on the palate

i flow like water

like wine

like honey

like oyster broth

like the sea

like tears

like hot blood

like a trickle

like a flood

i am fluid by nature