I sometimes have the urge to just write, and write, and write. No promises on it being good writing, but hey.
I welcome all forms of critique. Whatever you feel, I'd love to hear your comments.
MoonlightI did not expect to find you here, beneath the women blooming in the moonlight - breathing in the story of their scars.Moonlight by iridiana
She Wanted ItSometimes, I stalk you.She Wanted It by iridiana
It's always in those desperate moments that come with weekends - when work is over, and there are no thoughts to drive you from my mind, no exhaustion to dull the memories of everything you did.
I have a special account, for this purpose and this purpose alone. I can't see all of your information, but oh - the time I've spent, scrutinising the smiles you adorn on your profile pictures. Hoping, wishing, praying to pull at strings of misery, hiding behind your teeth.
Are you well? Fit? Healthy?
No matter how hard I pore over what you reveal to the world, I can't find any trace of guilt in your eyes - can't detect the slightest hint of remorse in your relaxed pose.
Do you think of me? Do you think of that night? Or is it enough, to tell yourself she wanted it?
Published FictionHere is what I disliked about the place: it was efficient. Efficiency hung in the air and clung to the ties and blouses and pressed skirts and trousers of those around me. Clung like the scent of disinfectant; like industrial bleach, bleeding out the money in my words. I twisted, inwardly. This was not the place to bring my prose.Published Fiction by iridiana
T936126/JRWe're laid out on the porch, breathing in cool air and watching the sky slowly drown in its own fire. There's a silence between us, but somehow it feels different: sticky and caught up, like the words in her throat. She's been running over the creases of the paper in her hands as though in prayer, folding and unfolding, but never quite finding the courage to lay the whole thing bare between us. It ain't like one of those trashy bits of paper spiralling on the breath of the wind. No. This one's different. I get the sense that even if we tossed it, it'd be way too heavy to travel further than the spaces between our ribs.T936126/JR by iridiana
"Dear Mrs. [surname],"
Ain't even kidding. That's how this chapter of her life begun. No Mrs. Scott, No Mrs. This-or-that. Simply, Mrs. [surname]. She bore the law her memories, her heart: heck, a truckload of courage, at that. The system took it in, chewed it up, and decided from hence onwards, she was Mrs. [surname]. Risk versus reward. Money in, m
moralistI want to curl my handmoralist by toxic-nebulae
around your heart,
squeeze death from you
like overripe fruit.
CharlieI had a stalker.Charlie by 0hgravity
I didn't know his name but I'm sure he knew mine.
I called him Charlie.
He always had a camera hanging from his twig thick neck and he cradled it in his hands; a wispy finger stroking the shutter release. His dark brown hair was a curly mess and his shirts wrinkly and thin. He had the most perfect eyebrows, sweeping and gentle. He must have the most captivating eyes, I thought every time he'd glance my way. We'd never made eye contact. Charlie preferred it that way.
He came into the bookstore once a week, not to watch me leaf through the used books or reach high to shelve the approved ones, but to actually browse them. He read the unknowns; the virgins with their unbroken spines. I imagine he liked the smell of them aromas preserved for him alone. Charlie appreciated the books wearing dusty coats and factory perfume a decade old.
The rest of the time he spent on the outside looking in. My co-workers were tickled pink. "What a geek." "Poor guy doesn't realize you
urban oceanThe wet roads are my urban ocean.urban ocean by consolecadet
Some men see God in the break of foam--
I see God in the freeway.
I see God in the spray off the backs of eighteen-wheelers hauling consumer garbage to southern Maine
as I walk along the side with my boots soaked from puddles.
The sea reflects the sky and Route 2 reflects the sky
and the waves go shush, shush, and the cars go shush, shush
and the clouds roll over,
the clouds roll over.
The wet roads are my urban ocean.