It was the perfect drug for the times. Mesh traded for lace, traded for nylon stockings, and the best part?
Youth faded. It dulled and conformed, consist-icized to constricted positioning, arguments of logic and the final acceptance of belief, time, and all that consisted of pieces. Pieces of you; pieces of her. Places to please and treasure the time when her boot heels dusted that dance floor, black lace trailing a dream that never blossomed; only her tattoos were hidden after five years under corporate sleeves and that clove cigarette so mystified and died back when the smoking ban killed all forms of self-pacification.
It’s an arrow to the psyche, this welling of feelings and hurt residing from something that sliced through the ego twenty years ago. Zits traded for wrinkles, tongue ring traded for rings around the eyes, and a sigh into the bottom of the last glass of amber solidification.
Perfect drug equals that which made her believe the minivan far exceeded her LeBaron convertible; replaces her secret lover on the beaches of memory. Purple hair dye washed down the drain to maintain that concrete anonymity of Life as it Should Be.
Piss in a barrel, stack cards on top and pick her future. Sensible heels or spiked demeanor. Bills aren’t paid with attitude, honey. Individuality is fucking overrated.
The dream is dead.
Photo credit: demondimum from morguefile.com
My favourite. The flow of language here is like some kind of amazing coffee.
Beautifully written word melody. Nicely sardonic and tight, this is fluid writing that bears you along in a seductive flow.
That's my girl. I felt it much more than read it.
Oh how things change with time... this was like poetry.
To what do we owe this gorgeously-written Saturday Special? Poetic, true and utterly readable...
Wonderful. This piece has this magical alliterative quality to the composition that made so much more of an impact.
Love the voice in this one, but damn that truth stings like hell.
An Ode to Selling Out. Yeah, I hear you ...
All Saturdays should have surprises like this one.
So true, Carrie, all of it.
It's not at all that we plan to give up our youthful identities, our dreams - it just happens. You write it so damn well.
This is a dark, truthful commentary. Something I might think in the dead of night, when everything seems to be closing down. You're voice is always so poignant. You nailed it, Carrie.
Beautiful flow of language. Excellent word choice. Quality writing, as usual. Damned dismal though.
Now, if I may be permitted to paraphrase a man of great distinction...
"Do not go gentle into that fair light.... Rage, rage against the dying of the night."
And that's all I have to say about that.
HEA Girl here, and I love this!
This one goes right for the gut. Ow.
Lately, I've had thoughts that brim over and engulf me in the weird hours of my few nights in bed awake. This was one of them. You all coming to my blog for a not #Fridayflash humbles the hell out of me.
Thank you for your words, all of you.
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Loved this piece. I can so see this as a song. Well done.
So very dark and disturbing. I loved it!. :)
The dream doesn't die, it just doesn't need the costumes and the props to find the motivation. We grow up, and we step up to the mike and sing from the soul even if the house is empty. Sing it, sister. Your voice is deep and strong, and you know you won't stop.
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