Unfettered contempt - Intro

My life is a tale of toil and turmoil.As is with all creatures of my species, I was birthed in torment, baptized in blood and amniotic fluids. The depths of my being were filled with the viscous liquids which I had to churn out from my system as I choked in an unfamiliar atmosphere. Contrary to popular opinion, the first contact beyond the darkness of the womb is not the warm embrace of the mother's robust buxom. No, it is the cold, bloodied latex gloves that grasp around the shriveled skin of pathetic pink mass, hanging it like a slaughtered sow at the butchery. The warm kisses and hugs only come after the seemingly cruel beating of the buttocks, the first act of violence, albeit non-malicious, that one would suffer throughout the rest of this relentless journey.

Of course, it would be an exaggeration to claim that I remember any of this, but the events that followed suite, the ones that remain ever so sharply in my scarred memory, seem to continue the pattern of violence, pain, and repugnance that were present at the beginning of my being.

Fishing 3

Not wanting to remember any more of their stupid past, the couple embraced each other in a frenzy and dove into the lake, drowning as slowly and painfully as this story.

-END

thank goodness.

Fishing 2

Back then it was slightly warmer. The sun shone a little stronger, and waters shimmered more gently, with the breeze but a coy sigh that lasted but a moment, which was still longer than how long it took them to realize their mutual bond.

Who knows how they ended up there together in the first place?

As for him, he had been somewhat of a regular visitor. He came a few times in his youth with his father who donned a gruffy look whenever they made the trip. The first few visits he enjoyed in his naive curiosity and ignorance of the going-ons around him. As he grew into adolescence he began to notice that there was a reason for his dad's gruffy look and strong smell of liquor. The lousy driving was also explainable. Most of all, the broken dishes in the kitchen that somehow came about every fishing trip didn't seem so coincidental. Not to mention the bruises, scratches, and the awful noise at night. Perhaps it's because he began staying up longer as he aged. He's never noticed it all before. Then one day, he just refused to come along on the trip. Instead, he left on a trip on his own.

As for her, that summer was the first time she visited the place at all. She fancied her eerie hobby of making a grand escapade twice every year, leaving everything behind for a day. Because she kept the getaway time to one day she saw some limitations in her choices of destinations. Hence once in a while she would bend the rule for really far locations. But most of the time she found a day was long enough for random trips as there were plenty of unexplored spots nearby. The night before, she made herself a lunchbox with two sandwiches and an apple. She got up early in the morning, fixed herself a bowl of cereal, and took off. She wasn't much of a breakfast person, but always made certain she started the day off on a full stomach whenever she made that biannual getaway. With a light white top and washed jeans, she was off to the train station.

The train station that awaited him on his first trip alone was more packed than he'd expected. After all, it was hardly sunrise, but people were already bustling about, ready to go somewhere. Work, home, vacation. Wherever. All sorts of feelings and thoughts rushed through his head like the mesh of the crowd weaving through each other, then as each batch cleared out with the trains, so did his apprehension. He'd been smart and old enough to leave home with enough cash to buy a ticket and perhaps a few meals, but that didn't seem so smart as he sat blank-faced on the bench. Sure, he'd thought about this before. Still, the fear that he had taken the wrong step never failed to keep him nailed on the bench and wondering if he should go back, and if his drunk father would come fetch him for another supposedly therapeutic fishing trip. Then he remembered all the bruises, scratches, and awful noise at night. And the blood. Then he got on the next train.

Fishing

With his legs propped up like a tripod by the glassy lake, he donned a brick-red corduroy unfitting of the weather and a tattered baseball cap that sat squat atop his wavy locks. With the checkerboard wool shirt thrown in with the rest, you'd imagine him to have a ruggedly chiseled lumberjack's face. Curled up next to the woodsman was a cat-eyed gal with pearl-white skin and pitch-black hair. The contrast continued down her chest with her ivory cleavage perking shyly out her slick leather jacket and low-cut black top. Who could tell why she wore a metallic miniskirt, but perhaps her fishnets could be deemed appropriate for the occasion, at least compared to the rest of the habiliments that she and her companion so curiously fashioned. As if to mock their own idiosyncratic buffoonery, their naked feet brushed freely against the soft, aged wooden planks of the sturdy dock. His feet were surprisingly clean and free of hair while her nails were painted black like her saucy apparel. He couldn't hide his slight look of disgusted disapproval on her choice of nail polish color, though he did not mind the rest of her outfit at all. Then again, he was dressed far more strangely, except for the fact that his rugged look seemed to fit the whole fishing situation much more than the girl's skanky outfit.

Everything about them seemed to contrast each other, in fact. She had sharp almond eyes, a thin crisp nose and even thinner lips. Everything about her face was winterlike, sheets of icy snowflakes. He, in turn, was the late summer harvest, or maybe even autumn, tan and round, yet with a boyish charm in his jawline. His eyes seemed to bear a touch of childish melancholy, pure yet mischevious in some odd way that led her to both pity and adore those big round eyes. Objectively, one would say he had the prettier face, with smooth and round features. She did have more delicate features, but the unexplainable coldness about it all seemed much less appealing than his warmth, although some would find such chillingness charming, as he surely did.

So they sat there like sun and the moon, with the late summer breeze caressing her silky locks and his waves peeking out of the grey old cap. The wind nudged the line a little and made the bell make a shy tinkle or two, but the metallic ding dong was hardly worth a whisper when breaking the awkwardly peaceful silence at the lakeside. Perhaps they were waiting for a violent shake at the rod, a silver beauty of a carp, like the one they caught last summer at the very same place. And the sameness of it all accentuated the change they went through. The coy awkwardness that presided between them then now heavily doused the entire atmosphere, while the intimacy that just began to sprout then now waned, leaking through their familiar, yet uncomfortable, juxtaposition with each other.

a request in earnest

prithee,

do not let the rosebuds wither,
whether the weather be summer or winter;
let neither rays nor blizzards consume
the dewdrops dancing atop the tender blossoms.

should the flowers wane and drop
crispily arid atop the morning blades,
so shall my tender, fragile heart stop
and shriek away to the frigid hades.

tend to them till they bloom in full
to whisper a moist and fragrant sigh
that breaks the silence of the azure dull
and welcomes the vibrant morning sky.