FairWriter

I stand on a precipice. I scrutinize the valley lingering beneath. I see a creek, like a snake, slithering through a gathering of foliage. This valley is a mixture of mud and seeds that are broken. The wind sneaks up behind me, a gentle breeze. Why this worthless and fragile breeze, when I could have violence? I hear the flapping of the skirt of my dress. It sounds like a violin played by an armature. I look at the horizon and there is no sun. The sky is melancholy and the air smells of cinnamon. Rather, it smells like autumn leaves and reminds me of cinnamon. I step closer to the edge to drink in sudden adrenaline. The wind builds, matching my daring move. The wind carries a hum of voices. They are too calm to be distinguished. I wait for them to exchange discretion for boldness. I strain to make sense of: “She should jump.” “She might enjoy the plummet.” “She shouldn’t. It could kill her.” “We will catch her.” I step off the edge to fly with gravity. This is not suicide; it...

This fire of rebellion rests under my tough skin. I can't live in that supernatural bliss of sinless. I bare my teeth, but childhood Bible lessons stop the bite. I want to rage like a lion, but sing like a canary. My blood is liquid vengence with draining forgiveness. I can't give you a "pick up your mat and walk" sermon. I can only tell you I am powerless.

Emotions dance on my playbill. They appear on a stage of paper. Expectation rises and tickets are sold. Miss actress, present these sensations and dress them up. Color them to the tune of makeup. The audience waits for the curtain to open and the soul to perform. The masterpiece is given. Listen to the applause roar. As always the set is dismantled, just as it was constructed. The spotlight shines for the monologue and goes black at the closing. The auditorium is bare. And still I feel like my soul lies there, just as Romeo and Juliet and Julius Caesar.

I want to be you with your honeyed hair, your diplomatic laugh, and your anorexic advantage. with your clear completion, your well-trimmed nails, and your practiced posture. with your clever conversation, your unblemished health, and your cost-effective job. with your quixotic death, your final breath, and your remaining ash.

My smile is overproduced and cheap. a simple muscle lift with a buoyant chuckle suppressed. a calm, universal, prosaic rainbow, too weak to revolve upright. a polite gesture while my soul drowns in insecurity. A production, a curtain, and silent applause. Lazy love, my smile is lazy love.

A stranger once told me your name was Allah. I spoke with a close friend and she warned me it was actually Yaweh. I went to my dad and he instructed that your name was Jesus. I read an epic tale about Zeus. I spoke to myself and wondered about Confucius. This mixture is forming a broken god.

The question of another world suppressed by civil society. Spiders, the demons, and the grandiosity. Eyes pierce through the common air to unravel what was hidden there. A delusion or a discovery? A hallucination or the holocaust of the unknown? Perception is weighed on the ordinary scale schizophrenic or sane, acceptable or not, wanted or worthless, beneficial or burned till ash. Let the world decide what is productive and what is inappropriate. Let the other world decide to force the warning on those unelightened eyes. An invisible war.

I am locked away in her flesh, a womb of ending. She brought me forth, but not with intent. I dare not call her Mommy. Assassin is more suitable. Her eyes are bleached. I have her bleached eyes, I inherit these. I encounter the professionalism of his plastic gloves, he pulls and cuts and replies, “It is finished.”

You are black and you are white. I run my fingers across you. I remember our first love affair. Piano, you ghost. Piano, you demon. You have such potential and you still collect dust. You are black and you are white. I pound on your fragile state. I force a sound out of ivory and hidden strings. Piano, you beast. Piano, you ox. You do what I tell you, whenever I want. You are black and you are white. I will leave you to soak in silence. I will laugh at your soul, which I give and take. Piano, you treasure. Piano, you bed. I will long for you another day.

I start in the illusive wonder- will He come? I stare at the ceiling, wishing it was a night sky with violent stars. I wrap my fingers, like a child is taught. I try to wispher, but fear the God of heaven can't hear. So I yell, I scream, I pound, and I wake myself up to a hidden reality. He is resting inside me.

These words are not destined for men's lips. These words are not made for women's fancy ears. These words are not created for you or the other. These words are not even sold for me. These words are for

There is a beast that roams my town. During all our gossip and hometown games, there is a man in the bleachers unwilling to grow old. He sneers at the cheerleaders for their provocative innocence. He disgraces the point guard when he misses the easy shot. He hates the fans who paint letters on their shirts. He disagrees with the referee's call. He considers yelling at the top of his lungs and telling the world to go to hell. Because with all the hype, he still loses his wife to old age. However, to know his soul, you must be white and play ball. Abrubtly, a cheerleader shoots a three pointer. She fails to see the old man (on the bleachers) who hates the world. Her flirty stare grows as the crowd cheers. It will kill his wisdom, remind him of a wife lost.

Inspired by the series Twilight I have teeth. They broke the gum when I was young. Now they bite and rattle when I laugh. They are white until browned by time. I have teeth to eat food to tear to manipulate my voice. I have teeth: baby, sharp, wisdom. I have teeth that bite and draw blood. They start white and then fall out.

How you tempt us nature; how you laugh. How you toss the soul; how you cover the grass. Winter covers the intelligence of fertile fields and men's graves. This fickle miracle, we have immortalized dirt. How we worship you as a god while you, the predator, drown us. Nature you are against man, or is it the nature of man to destroy? Who is the King? Who is the Queen? Who is nature’s heir?

I have the freedom to vote, but not the freedom to be a couch potato. I have the freedom to worship as I please, but I can't hate my neighbor. I have the freedom to be a good Samaritan, but not the freedom to eat that apple. I have the freedom to eat food...as long as it is healthy. I have the freedom to drive...as long as I can pay for gas. I have the freedom to be inspired by Obama. I have the freedom to be a patriot, so I miss President Gorge W Bush, wishing he was our current dictator.

The Power of a Choice Copyright 2010 Tamara Peachy As the money floated down to the bottom of the wishing fountain, I marveled that my baby girl already had aspirations. She was only three, but still genuine expectancy radiated from her confident smile. She had a secret wish tucked in her heart and believed in her two magical pennies. Beads of water dripped from her blonde curls. She splashed the water with her delicate hand. Her laughter seemed to bounce off the water and amplify. Several other children were tossing pennies into the fountain. Their youthful excitement was great entertainment. A thunderous truck engine interrupted the children’s sweet voices. I glanced behind me to see the man driving the truck. Judging from his expression, I assumed he was lost. He was saying something, but I couldn’t hear him over the engine. I lifted Sadie onto my hip. She nestled her head into my shoulder. Her grip tightened around my neck. “It’s alright Sadie. Mommy is going to help thi...

He told me to wear sexy shorts to show my legs. Then he had his way with me and left me alone. Then I moved in with a family who believed women must dress modestly. So I wore those skirts until the family found another sin to correct. My doctor told me to exercise to lose those unwanted pounds. So I ran and ran on that treadmill till I the sweat came and I couldn't breathe. My doctor looked me up and down. He told me I had anorexia and looked like bony death. I got angry at the world until the church told me to forgive. Then I was happy and going to hell.

One way. The only way. Go this way. What way? the only way. Far Away.

Beautiful women smell like cat urine and stinky feet. Beautiful women have dead ends and bushy eyebrows. Hindered by their angry dads and lunatic moms, beautiful women are being thrown in the trash because the bills were stacking up. After all, beautiful women cost of baths, jewelry, curled hair, contacts, surgery, and laxatives.

There were times when I worried about wasting time. I felt the teacher slap my hand with a ruler. I heard how to live my life. There were times when the teacher told me to write my name on the chalkboard. "But, I am an angel, teacher. I would never do something wrong,” I said. "Well, Satan was an angel too, little girl,” teacher said. There is a time when I hate the world. I curse it with my tongue and kick the dirt beneath me. There is a time when I color in the lines. There is a time I fear being wrong. "But, I just want to love you for who you are,” I sing. "You can't trust everyone or you might fall,” they sing. There will be a time when He returns. He will smile at me and slap my wrist. He will bring us together and tear us apart. "I will attend church this Sunday," I promise. "I may return on a Monday," he tempts.