untitled.

under layers of graveyard dirt and rainwater
her heart lies soaking up that thick new orleans voodoo
hot like saturated summer and spanish moss.
she told me it just wouldnt stop beating
when I first met her, sprawled in the devil’s
mouth alleyways of the lower ninth ward.
her irises were wilted red she had
gris-gris hung like bells around her waist
knotting together as she shook her hips
to that slick, sweet, poisonous sound
of the ouanga jazz music echoing where
her soul might once have been before
her heart started beating.

WOAH. Sneaky character!

(i have never had a character come up and surprise me this fast before. i hadn’t even meant to write about him, and suddenly, this appears under my hands. i don’t know his name, but he really does need one. i’ve got his entire world planned out already, and he hasn’t existed for more than six minutes. this is fantastic. i think i’m in love. sigh.)

An alley wasn’t that scary to the kind of person who belonged in one, and the boy slipped through them naturally, as though he were pulled by an unseen current, cursing in a strange language as the tail of his jacket caught on a rusting piece of scrap metal, heavy boots keeping pace as they crushed cans and rotting things underneath. He never stopped to think about what or whom he might be stepping on, no. He had work to do, and pity anything that got in his way.
He carried a package under the folds of his jacket, always carrying something from one place to the next, but never questioning what it was he’d been handed. It wasn’t that he trusted any of the parties he worked for, but he needed them to trust him. So he arrived on time with not a piece of packaging paper, nor a bit of twine out of place, and they respected him for that. At least, he felt that they did. They never allowed him to see their eyes, which should have bothered him, but he’d learned not to complain long ago, carried the scars they’d given him as a reminder. He kept his part of their bargain, too, kept the color of his skin hidden under as much clothing as the weather and his budget would allow. It was part of the deal that many had struck with his kind after the Fall. They weren’t sympathetic to him, nor any of his kind. They viewed the few survivors of the Fall with loathing, as though any moment their infection would spread, and bring about the fall of their rusting iron world. But when he slipped gloves over his unnaturally long fingers and covered his silver scarred skin with layers of cloth, they could almost convince themselves that he was something resembling human, almost convince themselves that business was business and they couldn’t afford to care about whether or not the boy’s grim smile would reveal dull canines underneath, or the painfully bright, painfully sharp grin of a fairie.
The painful sound of glass crunching underneath a steel toe echoed through the night, and the curious glow of an alley cat’s eyes reflected the indistinct light of the inner city that hovered even here, in the darkest of places. But they saw nothing more than last week’s front page floating forgotten to the grimy ground. The boy was already gone.

A POST ABOUT RAIN.

(rain the girl, not rain the precipitation, which we are severely lacking right now.)

Rain Townsend is a supernatural force that haunts the creative writing room, her presence detectable only by the faint smell of oriental cooking, and the cool, sticky feeling of your brains leaking out of your ears. Powered on Thai Bowls and obscure mythology, this harbinger of doom and destruction prowls the blogosphere, looking for unsuspecting n00bs to attack and educate about Atlantis, where the Norse originated, and other such horrifying information. When her victims are catatonic with knowledge and terror, Rain feasts.
After plucking the fingernails of these unfortunate souls from her teeth, their screams still echoing in the air, Rain settles down to a comfortable evening of rererererererereading The Mists of Avalon and speculating about birdcages with her partner in crime, the elusive “Toni.” After pulling several teeth, and attaching our sources to a strange machine, we managed to learn that this strange creature rumored to move like a shadow in the night, but it is unclear whether this is fact or simply a racist joke.
The loathsome pair can often be found lurking about on the third floor of their high school, waiting for SAFE kids or unfortunate student teachers to separate from the pack. What Rain does to them is unclear, but the variety of bodily excretions spread across the ceiling gives us a pretty good clue.

these people are asking to be trolled.

http://www.birminghampost.net/birmingham-business/birmingham-business-news/legal-business/2009/10/28/birmingham-wragge-team-to-focus-on-online-comment-defamation-65233-25030203/

that’s awfully rude of them.