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Delicate tips pressed firmly into the tan clay, it’s nails creating a thin trench between the dotted lines that curved into a stretched out ‘C’. Faded lines disappeared behind the bulge of the clay’s cheeks, the palm circling the structure to smooth out the rough ridges that had risen from the temperature. Cluttered and crowded, ‘her’ work space was filled with loose paper, scalpel, tools made from wood and shoots of bamboo. Books on top of books were stacked and staggered into a leaning tower of anatomy and biology. What was once a floor was nothing more than a river of fallen clay and charred rocks of led and graphite. ‘Her’ polished nails were hidden by the veil of lilac that’s cover was obscene and over the top as it should have been. There beneath the coat hangers and wired dolls for design were soaked slabs and concrete blocks from the construction work a few blocks down. 

The room was dark with very little lighting, no thanks to the old Victorian styled lamp. It crimson, sunkist flicker bobbing and shaking to the small taps of ‘her’ knee as she brought it down then raised it to the underbelly of the circled desk. Silence was key to the project at hand, and ‘she’ did it well. Almost breathless ‘she’ worked her hands and the steel color of her orbs. When it came to art even the faces detail was the most important. Detail was the red thread wrapped and coarsed around the pinky finger. It’s the sun everyone loves, but can’t truly look at. It i the truth , a beautifully woven truth that can construct and evolutionize even the smallest lie. When your detail is perfect, the lie you half heartedly expressed would be hidden , veiled by the beautiful alibi of truth. 

‘But who is to say one won’t look for the lie?’ 

Was a statement she had often received when she gave her own perspective of the ‘mental’ meaning of Art. Of course when she told her stories and bland riddles, they all scoffed and looked away. Rumors passed that she was fake,  a rouss to those of far greater talents, but no one could create like she could. Life was putty in her hands and the dolls she crafted were brought to life by the illusion of lies that were crafted beautifully with the alibi of truth. What they saw was mere clay hardened by the sun, but when the figure was painted, dressed, and born a new. They saw life.

“I have a pickup order, pickup order. Mister? Mister?” 

“Coming.” He cooed as he rose from his three legged stool, the wine colored cushion expanding from its demise as he hurried over to collect the tied boxes from the cabinet. Trudging across the heaps of trash that were nothing but tossed and failed art, he managed to make his way toward the counter. “It’s a mess back there. I’m terribly sorry.” “It’s fine , it’s fine. I have the money, hurry up. My daughter’s birthday party starts in thirty minutes, I don’t want to be late.” With a small smile he nodded his head twice as he took the money from the man, his other hand swiftly bagging the items in a large ebony sack into which he slid forward when the drawer popped open. Sliding the money in, the man tipped his hat and without further a do, left with haste.

Slowly he turned his head toward the clock and without a minute to waste, he himself changed clothing’s and jolted out of the door. The run wasn’t far, not by his standards. Getting to the market was easy, and putting the clerk to sleep was even easier. All it was , was a simple strip and replace for his clothing, and a rustle of his hair to return to the neatly ebony bob cut he adored so much. There within the mirror he admired his young figure. Youthful but an abomination as most would claim him today. He himself found him to be the best work of art there is. A lie with an alibi that many wouldn’t think to catch. 

-DING-

The door sounded. Excited he grabbed a few cups of coffee to seem like he was working, but alas no one turned the corner. Impatient, he made his way toward the front to spot a man getting coffee. There at that moment with the voice of an angel singing a hymn, his voice broke into a melody of a few short words. “Are you waiting in line too?” She spoke as she tilted her head to the side in curiosity.

Testing to see if i can make threads now. And if this works works this can just be a free talk area. ;)

Here are some of my favorites, feel free to add in the comments section:

“Fear is negotiable…memories are not.  I have been told to come here, you might have a place for me.  So much time has passed since I have rested.  Memories created from past times will not let me escape the reality of the present.  Clouds of confusion and slivers of doubt prevent me from an unbiased examination of my past.  My memories mock my self-worth.   It is these memories that evoke visions that my mind finds painful and my soul unforgiving.  Still, these memories must be allowed to surface and be examined or the past will have been of no consequence.  Tears are no longer the measure of pain held in the heart.  It is sleep I crave, yet once upon me the blackness of my past envelops me, threatening my very existence. My heart and soul pray that my past actions will not destroy the man you see before you.  I stand exposed for all to judge.  I fear that to examine my self-worth would further diminish my spirit.   I make no apology now nor do I ask for forgiveness.  I am a man responsible to my conscience and free will.  If it is true that your bed will allow the body to rest, the mind to heal and the soul to regain a sense of worth, it is with a joyful heart I would rest on your bed.  For so long I have wanted to come here and lie in the bed of true life.  Peace will be upon me and my soul will feel the warmth of your bed and love.  I sleep.   I had been in the Nam for approximately fifty hours.  I thought of the three hundred and sixty-three days remaining.   I vomited.

heart wrote these words: “Fear is negotiable…memories are not.  I have been told to come here, you might have a place for me.  So much time has passed since I have rested.  Memories created from past times will not let me escape the reality of the present.  Clouds of confusion and slivers of doubt prevent me from an unbiased examination of my past.  My memories mock my self-worth.   It is these memories that evoke visions that my mind finds painful and my soul unforgiving.  Still, these memories must be allowed to surface and be examined or the past will have been of no consequence.  Tears are no longer the measure of pain held in the heart.  It is sleep I crave, yet once upon me the blackness of my past envelops me, threatening my very existence. My heart and soul pray that my past actions will not destroy the man you see before you.  I stand exposed for all to judge.  I fear that to examine my self-worth would further diminish my spirit.   I make no apology now nor do I ask for forgiveness.  I am a man responsible to my conscience and free will.  If it is true that your bed will allow the body to rest, the mind to heal and the soul to regain a sense of worth, it is with a joyful heart I would rest on your bed.  For so long I have wanted to come here and lie in the bed of true life.  Peace will be upon me and my soul will feel the warmth of your bed and love.  I sleep.   I had been in the Nam for approximately fifty hours.  I thought of the three hundred and sixty-three days remaining.   I vomited.

Hey guys!! My name’s Kody, and I just wanted to introduce myself a lil’ bit... I’m gay, which is why I joined this group! I’m just looking for a safe place I can be, to post my writing without judgement. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to ask me!! Thank you for your time~

lhlakld;

lashhsldgh

Okay, so far this hasn't been working. Why?

I guess this is how you do it.

Can you guys see this?

If this shows up I can just delete it. 

How about now?

Is is visible now?

Is this working now?

Hello?

Testing