This is my cool notebook. A simple exercise book I decorated with Raven stickers and Glittery Alphabet chips.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Sunday, October 19, 2008
♥ My Leather bound journal
♥ My sketch pad
♥ My Sugar rush notebook
♥ My Stop A Bullet notebook
♥ Blu tack (colored)
♥ Orange post-it-notes
♥ My Penline Optic Pens
♥ My Bic Smoothie 1.2 pens
♥ My Highliters (orange-n-pink)
♥ Grey lead pencils (2-4)
“All I know is that at the end of Scarlett season, I won't be staying in this realm much longer,” Jethro stated, a guttural growl echoing through the chipped wood of his shack.
“You can alert Atlanta that my presence will me made after the blood bath is over.”
“But sire,” Jethro's slave pressed on.
“This is our generation at war. Atlanta is the only surviving female left to the throne of independence. Do you not expect the hunter to travel in thousands, conquer and destroy our land? Destroy our livelihood? They would no sooner kill Atlanta than seek you out. These are our people.”
“Where are our people,” Jethro stung. His usual sensual, sweet toned voice heated and aggressive in the light of Betook's pressure. His eyes burning molten red with frustration.
“ We are the only remaining of our race. There are no people. Our race is long gone and we must move on into the mortal world to find our soul beings to live on. You are living in the past Betook, you must live in the present to survive in our world,”Jethro continued a deep burrowed frown rising underneath his smooth, onyx locks.
“You need not worry, for once your life is over, your soul will pass on. As for Atlanta, she is the sole, remaining, female yes. But she is safe and sheltered. Her child is safe as long as its blood runs through my veins and if I feel danger arising in her. I will come forth and rise to battle.”Jethro sighed, pressing his back against the nails that dug temptingly into his back.
The feeling sensational, overwhelming. He needed the pain coursing through his body. He hungered the pain.
“I must remain in the mortal realm. I must stay in hiding. It is the only safe option for Atlanta, for my nephew and for my families future.”
Silence retreated at the other end. Betook soaked up his masters every word, locking them inside his mind. In a place he could not forget. He was certain his master meant well. Though the looming feeling of danger was wide spread amongst the servant realm and Jethro was having none of it.
How to convince the last know male Vampire that he was alone, was proving to be more than a hassle, or a chore. It was becoming increasingly dangerous and sooner or later the darkness would unfold. Leaving the vampire race to the ashes of the hunters.
“Do I make myself utterly clear?” Jethro questioned. Immediately knowing Betook's answer, pressing the question: regardless.
Surely the being would understand? Surely he would not doubt his master? For doubt could loose one in an alliance with the enemy; the hunter.
And where safety was concerned. His being knew to much. It would be slaughter to Jethro to have to rid himself of his companion. One he had grown to love and trust with his very life.
Though when and if the darkness came to shine down on Betook. Jethro would do everything in his right to ensure the safety of his sibling and nephew.
“Yes master,” Betook spoke dully. His voice trailing uncertainty for his master's request.
“Good. I wish for you not to worry Atlanta and their will be consequences for your actions if you choose to disobey my requests. If I wish to confine in her. I shall do it in my own time,” Jethro stated. His heels digging into the cold, concrete, flooring. His body warming to the soft chill that surrounded his body.
He needed to mark... he needed to feed. Scarlett season was fast approaching. The dry season long behind him, leaving him parched. Now was the time to feed, build strength, train. For the battle would be crucial faced alone and he needed all the power he embedded to defeat the hunters.
“Am I free to leave now master?” Betook questioned: remaining uneasy. His breathing rising in awareness of his master's frustration.
“Please do,” Jethro allowed, snapping his cell shut to cease their conversation.
Jethro's body burned. His pearls elongated, dripping with the thick moisture that hung in the air.
“How long?” he questioned himself, peering through the termite, infested cracks of the shack. The sunlights glaring its haunting, revengeful, raze of his skin.
“Dorian,” he whispered, completely forgetting their arrangements in the midst of the dawning attacks.
What was he thinking?
Another broken promise. Another day he had pushed Dorian aside as something less important than he truly was.
Jethro flipped open his cell phone, flicking to his inbox to see one unanswered call. A call from Dorian.
“Shit,” he said, stabbing Dorian's number into the phone, holding his breath while watching the sun hide behind a thick, layer of Grey clouds.
He would need a miracle.
It was his luck, the charm of his being, that today the sun had chosen to hide behind the shadow of an approaching storm: Atlanta. She had done this. She knew that he was in trouble.
Jethro's cell rang out. His patience dry.
“Pick up the phone Dorian,” he hissed. Tapping his foot against the rough skirting. His eyes darting between the sun and the heavy wind that pounded fierce against the shake walls. Warning him of his approaching freedom.
It was of no use. Dorian was pissed and he had every right to be.
Jethro was certain Dorian would have been “Her”. The beauty he had fallen in love with and he deeply regretted what he had missed.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
“Thank you for calling Craft and co, You have reached Jeth Martin. I am currently unavailable to speak at present. So please leave you name and number and I will get back to you as soon as possible.”
“Stupid Jeth,” I hissed snapping the cell shut: before throwing it back in my handbag, feeling the strong urge to throw it at the strange woman who sat in the booth in front of me, sipping her drip, yakking endlessly on the phone with annoyance.
There was no point in leaving a message. If he was not picking up now he was obviously preoccupied. Preoccupied... too preoccupied to meet with me, his lover, as we had arranged, as we had planned weeks ago.
“Bitch,” I muttered to myself, angrily.
Not only was I angry with Jeth. I was furious with myself for ever believing in him. How could I have been so foolish to believe in his promises: promises he never kept.
I had never been outside longer than an hour, masquerading as I was and I sure was not about to make it abundantly apparent to the people who knew me, that I was something, someone that they would never understand, nor accept.
Jeth. Why had he done this to me? What had been more important than this, than me, than leaving me sitting here alone, waiting, hoping. Hoping he would show up and make my dreams become a reality.
My emotions were becoming vague. My happiness scarce.
I had been shown up, stood up by the man who had promised me the world and worse yet I had been shown up as “Her”.
I pushed my empty mug away, wiping my mouth clean, hindered. The coffee tasting foul on my tongue, on my teeth causing my mouth to become parched and desperately dry.
I grunted, baffled. Before even having the chance to escape I was once again confronted with the service of the pin-up waitress. Her arm already extended. Her body towering over the booth, ready to pour me another round of the sickly,bitter liquid.
“No more coffee,” I groaned. “His” voice deeply becoming apparent.
I held back a sigh and waited. I had no strength to hide my secret, nor was I ready to put on a smile and act politely in her intolerable presence. I instead brushed her hand away, careful not to burn myself in the process and cocked my head to the side, waiting for her reaction.
Ms. Cherry raised her eyes. Her blond, wispy, eyebrows thin fluff under her electric, bleached hair.
“Freak,” she muttered, retreating the boiling kettle away from the table. Her hands grasping the mug from beneath my fingertips, making it her cause to veer as far away from the “Freak show” as possible.
I extended my hand, glaring unnerved in her direction: bitter with her disrespect and inhuman decency.
They were all the same. All of them. Another scene, another day, another word.
Did they not know that I was human too? Or did they not care? Would they ever?
I was unsure, uncertain and unable to answer my own question.
I would one day.
I had made it a personal promise to myself and it was times like these when I got closer to the truth.
Times when naive strangers took a personal stab at me with no justification or no idea about who I was or where I came from.
It was times like these that crushed me deeper into the hole of fear, but readied me for the night ahead hour less writing and I had an idea in mind for the Cherry, Pin-up, bitch.
I could fee myself sinking deeper inside, deeper in sadness and embarrassment. My glare fading to a troubled frown.
I would not let her see my weakness. I could not let her see that her cruel, daggered comment had got into me and who was she anyway?
I could answer that well.
She was another narrow minded, lower-class, bigot. One more enemy to society and one more tragic soul to stay away from. In her case, as far away as my sanctuary as possible and that pained me.
I hated Jeth.
How could Jeth have been so insensitive? How could he have left me, alone, sitting in a place like this? Dressed the way that I was? Dressed for him and only him? Being the man that I was?
It was immoral. It was humiliating and I wanted to bury my head deep in the dirt of my backyard, so deep that I would suffocate and wake up to realize that this was all just a manic nightmare. That this was not happening. That I was not so lonely.
I reached into my handbag, taking out my David. J, designer wallet.
I expected the best. I earned the best. I was the best when I was “Him”.
The pin-up bigot stared at my hands:outreached. Her mouth crippled in disgust.
“There is a coffee shop down town, east, off the corner on Holland street. I think it would be more suited to your kind.”
I could smell the coffee in the kettle. The hot steam exhaling, drifting, reminding me of the anger I was pushing down deeper inside of me.
I took out a twenty, throwing it on the table.
There were a million spiteful things that I wanted to say to the woman, knowing most of them would lead to me back handing her the “shit-don't-stink” expression of her face.
I instead turned my heel with my dignity still in shape, heading towards the entrance not turning my back once.
I did not deserve this derogatory service. I would be the better person.
Ms Cherry need not worry. There was no way I was coming back to this place: sanctuary or not and I had made a note to myself to file a complain when I got home. Luckily for her, home was where I was headed.
I could not stay in the daylight dressed like this: not any longer than I already had.
Jeth had taken his chance and blown it. I was not waiting around in humiliation any longer.
I held my head up high, tossing my hair behind my shoulders. The pain now burned me deep. My anger sizzling into the dread of loneliness.
Jeth had a reason. He always did and I loved him: no matter how much I was hurting right now. But for now I needed to wipe myself clean.
© Tennille Chase 2008
“More coffee?” a woman in a cherry, pin-up girl dress asked me, filling my half full mug with the rich aroma of impatience.
Impatience: A virtue that I wish more people were immune to.
I smiled a crinkled smile of appreciation, dreading her return. There was something about her that I could not put my finger on. She was different; fresh. I would find a place for her somewhere, someday. Today was not that day.
I had been sitting in the same dingy booth since the rising of dawn. I had watched as the strangers filled my sanctuary, my eyes straining against the flickering sunlight that caught my attention when the door was slammed shut: another customer content.
“Where is he?” I hushed to myself. The question brimming in my mind, uneasy and unsettling.
I was at a point in which my own fears had hit their highest limits, causing my fingers to tremble, to shake: fighting against my own self-inflicted nervousness.
I sipped from my lipstick smeared mug. The taste bittersweet in my mouth. The same as Jeth had been so many nights ago.
I wiped my sugar-coated lips on a nearby napkin, taking the time to feel my fingertips touching my skin.
How I yearned for his heavy body in collision with mine, pressing hard against me. His teeth nipping the lump in my throat that distinguished everything that made me who I was, In society's eyes: Sickening.
How I longed for the sheltering tear drops of rain that we had surrendered to. Together in the midst of the hot, storm season. The Monsoon, as Dolorous had called it and I had her to thank.
For if it had not been for her childish humor, peer pressure and unquestionably, filthy, bed jokes, I would not have been sitting in this tattered booth sipping on musky coffee. While dreaming of the man who had taken my heart and ravished it in a world where I was Cinderella and he was the charming prince looking for the perfect glass slipper.
I was by far “The cliché maiden.”
I replied heavily on society's stereotypes to get me by.
By day I was respected, loved, cherished. People looked up to me as an inspiration. A knight in shining armor. The good guy, with a good job, a good home, good friends.
What else could I want when the sun rose and set over the sky scrapers, over the parks in which the trees swayed their peaceful melodies of beauty and over the city I had grown up in? Where I had been surrounded by so many, but felt so alone? What more did I need?
By the night I was someone different, someone I was only beginning to understand. Someone who had been locked inside since my bitter childhood. Someone who knew how to escape it all.
The lights, the sound, the tastes, the smell. The men, all of them like me. Though in my self awareness I had doubt.
The man I was when the stars danced over the city, was a man I could not be with anyone else other than Jeth.
By night I was no Bridget Jones, neither was I any Angelina Jolie and while though the singleton life of chronic alcoholism, tobacco spitting, anti-social journal feasts kept me thoroughly occupied on myself. There was much more to me than the endless pages of drivel I churned out in hopes of one day fulfilling my wildest dreams.
To share my story, to make a difference in the world. To somehow, someday, step outside and walk the streets as I did every Saturday morning. Four blocks away from the man that everyone knew to the man I wanted to be. The man Jeth had allowed me to be.
The man I was. I had defined as simply as I could on a regular basis.
How could anyone ever love someone like me? I was simple, drag, monotonous. At least as long as the sun shone bright I was.
How could someone of my personality and dedication be someone that Jeth had fallen in love with. Who he wanted to live with and someday Marry--- Marry? Who would want to marry a person like me?
Marry. How foolish of me.
No man nor woman would marry a man like me.
A man so dependent on the observation and journey of life itself that I hardly had the time to live my own.
If my inclinations were no flaw to Jeth. Nothing mattered to him, but our connection, our love.
For some unquestionable reason Jeth had fallen madly in love with the writer I was to become. He had become infatuated with the storyteller I was. He had invested his whole livelihood into making my dreams come true and for what?
I continue to question myself with a heavy heart and mind.
I look up to see that the clock had long stricken past Twelve.
He is late, tardy.
Once again I am left alone in my thoughts. The place where without my characters I fall into the darkness that pulls me under the vines of self-conscientiousness that strangled me whole.
Today is yet another day. Another page. Another story to add to my every growing collection of life's juicy secrets.
Today I have learned detachment.
Oh the sorrowful detachment from my yearning.
For yearning and longing can spoil a person, degrade a person and lose a person in insanity's ferocious grip.
I detached myself from my surroundings, hearing the faint jingle of the doorbell. A warning that yet another stranger had walked through the doors of my sanctuary. Thirsty, ready to quench their parched souls with the optional juices that life had to offer.
I sipped on my coffee, draining the warm, bittersweet release, knowing that in no time the cherry, pin-up waitress will be back to fill my mug with her intolerance & impatience.
As the clock strikes half-past. I dig deep into what feels like a bottomless pit inside my handbag.
I reach for my cell. I can feel the caffeine surging its way through my body.
My nerves, cliche: like steel.
I feel aggression igniting inside of me, fear becoming weary.
Patience was never one of my finer virtues.
© Tennille Chase 2008