Winternite

I listen to songs that shouldn't remind me of you. They should remind me of summer and sun, of mischief and laughter and joy. They should remind me of running running running through the rain with no destination in mind, just the sense of lightness and freedom that fills my body. I listen to songs with words I don't know in languages I don't speak, so there's nothing to spark a memory. But in the back of my mind I always know that I'm listening to them because of you. I close my eyes and try to block out everything but the music. - I stare determinedly at the images flashing on the screen as we sit in the dark. I try not to feel the curr

Years pass, things change - but not this. For a while she consoled herself by thinking that if she stuck, you know, fought the good fight, he'd come around eventually. Now it's become starkly clear this isn't even a fight anymore, it's an addiction. It's soaked through every pore and become essential. She's been there for everything. Every chase, every conquest. (It's not surprising that those numbers are nearly equal.) She's a spectator at a sporting event; watching and feeling the adrenaline and bile rise with every play and every score. She screams at the top of her lungs, but the stadium is too big and everything is too loud and the star

Did you ever wake somewhere not knowing how you got there? My eyes open into the bright lights reflected off the water of the river. There's a dent in the soil of the riverbed that's a familiar shape, much like the one in my bed when I rise. Did I spend the night here? My hands are black with something that looks like ink. My head is pounding and my eyes are swollen and I can feel dried moisture and dirt on my cheeks. I scramble for my phone; you're probably sick with worry and wondering where I am...but there's no messages, no missed calls. Did you ever want to forget something so bad that you did? The (nightmares)memories come flooding

You are like vodka on an empty stomach, and I am rolling on silk here. Your hip kissing lips are breaking this bottle-shaped heart. Your faithless replies catch like thorns in my skin; I'm beginning to like the feeling. And you may not be quite trustworthy, but you are just so lust-worthy that the feel of you is sin. What you really need is a taste of your own medicine, because it's badly addictive and we are quickly losing sight of the point of the lightning strike that began this whole charade. I am bending over backwards for a simple chance; I am cutting it close with every planned- out glance. This new you is making me doubt the soundness

        She never cared much for art. Sure, it was pretty enough to look at, but she never could grasp what people meant when they asked what the meaning of it was. It was paint on a canvas, pencil on paper, hands on clay. A decoration, a distraction, nothing more.        If you asked her what her tastes ran toward, she'd say she liked Renaissance art the most; it's perfect, studied, structured, realistic… not like that silly impressionist style, or even worse, that confusing abstract art. How did some squiggles and something only partially resembling a fish qualify as art?        In 10th grade, on a field trip to the Metropolitan

        When it comes to hunting, they all have their preferences. Edward has his mountain lions and Emmett his bears. Alice prefers the lithe, graceful does, and Jasper takes the regal stag. Carlisle and Esme are happy with whatever the forest provides, but Rosalie wouldn't deign to such predictability as having a favorite. When she has her choice, however, she prefers much more exotic cuisine. Nothing you'd find in America.        Bella finds she has a preference as well.        On a trip deep in the woodlands of Washington she stumbles across a pack. Hairs stand up on her nape as she catches the smell of something almost familiar, evo

        Later, maybe centuries of extensive therapy later, she'd find it wonderfully ironic that she found her singer in a bookshop. Not in one of the dark, smoke-filled clubs she frequented looking for prey, or in one of the alleys she roamed through during those forever sleepless nights, but in a small, corner New England bookstore on a rainy day when she was well fed and happy. These last two factors had probably contributed greatly to the fact that he was still alive.              She'd been browsing the new releases when he opened the door and hurried inside, looking to escape from the increasingly heavy downpour. The hearty wind carr

A burden. A weight on my chest. Pressing down, it's there every night. He's there every night. Like the gentleman we both know he's not, he holds the door open for me; the doorway to Hell, to damnation. "Come." He waits for me to go through. He promises new heights. His eyes roar with the same fires that wait for me if I cross the threshold. I want to - so much. But I shouldn't; I can't. He bows his head in concession to my denial. He is always patient. So tonight we stay in this familiar room, with these familiar sheets, with his ever strange hands on this familiar body. "How long can you resist?" He wonders in a whisper by my ear. "How lon

She knows it’s him from the knock. He always did it the same way: three quick, hard raps. Her stomach lurches. He knows she’s there and she knows that he knows just like he knows that she knows it’s him. Even after all this time they are still connected, they are still two conjoining parts of a jigsaw puzzle. She knows what’s coming next, and she turns her back to the door and braces herself. One, two… “Let me in.” It’s a command, and she immediately stiffens at the tone. He always was so fucking authoritative. That prick of memory gives her the strength to keep her knees from buckling. The moment

I met a cool guy with the iciest eyes of blue I'd ever seen. His name was Frost, Jack Frost, he said, and he liked his eggnog shaken, not stirred. I took him by the hand and led him to my sled, where we proceeded to burn the mistletoe to warm our hands (and other parts) in the back. But I guess the heat was just too much, because pretty soon he was just a puddle at my feet. Then I went slaying. Its that time of year again. Christmassacre. Your face is green, it makes me sick. The snow is red from your bloody lips. I'll hang you up on my front porch for my neighbors to admire. Another naughty boy to cross off my list. Shouldn't you know better