DANCE ME TO THE END OF LOVE .

So , here's the thing . I love to write . Fiction . I get a huge rush from creative writing , but I have never been brave enough to share actual stories I write . Just ramblings and lecture-like things . I've started quite a few projects (as in thousands) , but I never have endings . But , I've found that I really enjoy short stories . Someone (thanks LC) showed me blurb.com and now I'm really inspired to create a book . Full of my short stories and illustrated by my photographs . It really motivate me to feel good about my art I think . Because right now , I honestly only feel that I am an untalented nobody . I've got this hobby that I enjoy but since I am not doing a single thing with it , I feel like it's completely insignificant other than a passion .



So , the thing is , I think I'm going to start putting my short stories on this lovely blog . Which is a big step for me because I know at least one person reads it , which is terrifying for me .

DANCE ME TO THE END OF LOVE .

Ours is a world of Terror . We know loss better than gain , we know fear better than comfort . And yet , we feel love over emptiness . Before this war , we lived in a wonderland . We held hands and smelled flowers and made love and noticed stars . What a silly dream land , but we really believed life was perfect . Until those stars began to explode and our flowers burned .



The war , I don't understand it . My love always told me it was rage from angry people in big ways . Who really knows why . He knew what they told us , something about control . I call that fear . All I knew about the war was that it turned my world orange and gray and everyone cried at night . Except us .



We live in a paper apartment building . Tall , our windows see all . The city , the old parks . The old parks are now campsites and graveyards . Campsites for the solidiers of course , and graveyards for their tropheys . The walls are paper-thin and you can hear sorrow like a loud heartbeat . Weak , our building has taken a few hits and homed many casualties . At night , you can hear the sobbing from all over . But we make love .



We will not feel fear . When the morning comes , you can only hear tear-drops hit the hardwood floor . No footsteps , or the clattering of silverwear or even crying babies . But behind our door , we dance in our kitchen . We look deep into each others eyes and we dance . I still sew up the holes in our clothes and my love still cleans out his musket .



Until the day my world caught fire .



We haven't heard bombs in minutes . My love , why won't you touch me ? The lights are calm now and the masquito's buzz has returned and you've just stuttered over my name .

We're not okay , I know it instantly . I cannot say why . But I feel the shift . Just ask this place .

Darling , I'm sorry . I am sorry .

Glass , not even sharp enough to notice lines the walk-way to our bedroom . And I'd gladly walk it to run away with you .



In the midst of this war , I have always felt your still . I heard your beautiful songs and I witnessed your art . And now . . . something peculiar . Your hands do not reach , your fingers do not lock and you've got something pulling at you . Pulling down your shoulders and the corners of your mouth . Oh , but it's fine ! Just a case of faulty mechanics . We're fine . With the sky on fire , anyone would frown . At least once . Except , we never did .



The thunder is back and we only assume it's from Hell . You've moved now . You're clutching a wrinkled paper . Perhaps a photograph . Perhaps a letter . "See how much I love you ." I offer . The crying walls are back , but I can't tell where they're coming from anymore . I feel it deep inside and I can hear it loud in my head . I can see the city from our window , but your back is turned . And I think your eyes just died , and I saw it happen .



Bombs explode and I can hear death all around me . The very smell of loss fills the air , penetrating our border . All of this tragedy never broke in before and now it is seeping in through the cracked windows and scratching its way in under our door . But those are all insignificant happenings , as all I can see is this shell whimpering before me . A corpse , climbing into the window .



"Love was always a silly belief . Always ."



My walls went orange , my world went gray and I cannot see you anymore . A blast knocks me to my knees , but who can say from what . The bombs did not stop even if the beating heart of My Love did . Or maybe my lack of functioning limbs and inability to form a complete thought has me weak . I choke and refuse to breathe the breeze that slithers it's way into my apartment through the now open window . A porthole to Hell . The curtains tangle , but I leave them be .