SephirothsChild15

Day 50 His paintings represent life. Each picture is a chapter, each brush stroke a day. The apartment is covered with painting. The walls are lined with canvases, sometimes three layers deep. The counters in the kitchenette has been converted to drying smaller artworks, and curing charcoal sketches. One canvas has a pastel pink teddy bear in footed pajamas in memory of his cousin that barely lived to see the morning. There's a monochromatic memorial to his father. He has a blue abstract flower bouquet to commentate Magdalena's marriage. In retrospect, He seems to only paint tragedies. He's painting now, using chunky brush strokes to writ

When I was a little girl, my mother would take my brother and I to the old church down on the corner of South Elm.  It was the oldest building in the city and mossy vines had begun to creep up the old castle-like river stones. The giant clock tower seemed like it reached straight up to God himself, and its church bells sent a baritone ring reverberating throughout the city streets every Sunday at 9 am sharp. My mother would spend all of Saturday night pressing my little white eyelet dress, and all of Sunday morning rolling my reddish hair into sausage curls. I'd wake up to the smell of my brother's starched dress shirts and mom's sweet, swee

                                                                      Lightening Rod Seto was the first clearly lit image I had seen after my life time of steadily growing darkness. It was only for a moment that I saw his form, tall and thin like a lightening rod.  It barely registered in my mind — after all, my brother was this close drowning—but that doesn't change how he affected me. I imprinted on him  like a baby bird, a weak and fragile creature cowering before his awe-inspiring defiance even as the world threatened to crash around us with the weight of an anchor, taking two lives with it. And somewhere in my mind, that's w

It's 3:33 in the morning., just at the right time when Monday fades and Tuesday is born. I have a pop-punk remix of Hit Me Baby One More Time blaring through my flea-market headphones. My sheets are so soft, my bed is warm, and I have class at eight in the morning but I can't sleep. Because, I'm just thinking. About you . Again. I find myself tracing the lines of your face in the cracks of the ceiling plaster, wondering why I wait by the phone for a call that never patches through, while I kill time by deleting voicemails from men who would actually treat me like a human being. I wouldn't love them. They would be a replacement, an inadeq

I'm going to die. I know I am. My heart flutters like a dying butterfly at that realization. I never thought fire would be so loud. When I dropped the match I expected the heat, but not the horrible noise. The aged house frame sizzles like a bloody steak on scalding metal. Dark paneled walls gnash their teeth against the flames, as heat melts the wood stain away in a hazy mahogany waterfall. Inanimate objects scream and hiss at me in their agony as the hotness bends and warps their frames. They are demanding that I be destroyed with them, and I'm not disagreeing. "I'm terrified," My lips crack and bleed from the flame-parched air, and the w