Blood Lust

She enters the room, her skin so pale,
Her body weakened by hunger;
Her blood-lust has become a necessity,
Screaming for just a drop,
A small taste to resurrect her passion
He makes a small cut upon his wrist,
Offering it to her with a predatory grin.
She hesitantly tastes a little blood from him
Then begins feeding eagerly.
Wrapping round her,
He lets his breath caress over her skin,
His fangs scratching against her pale flesh.
She feels his blood surging thru her,
Her skin becoming flushed
From satisfaction and passion.
She bites into her own wrist, and offers it to him
He smiles, taking hold of her wrist,
And kissing the drops from her skin,
The taste burning his lips.
In a surge of lust he takes a tighter hold,
Driving his fangs into her flesh,
Feeling the burst of life explode into his being
She smiles, trembling at the heat
Coursing thru her veins as he feeds from her flesh.
She licks her lips
Savoring the last drops that were resting there.
As the heat builds so does the fever of his feeding,
And his hunger for the prey increases,
Feeling the intoxicating thump
Of the rhythm of her heart
He draws more of her sweet taste into himself,
Feeling it nourishing every fiber,
Feeling the power of her heart feeding him,
Driving his need more and more
With each beating of her heart
She can feel his strength growing
And she pulls him closer to her,
Needing once again to taste him,
Her desire escalating,
Her heart beating in rhythm with his
Upon feeling the 2 hearts beating as one,
Images flash in his mind of her thoughts;
Her view of the world is blended with his,
As the frenzy of the act builds
Seeing his thoughts in her mind as well,
She digs her teeth in deeper,
Enraptured by the taste of him,
By the desire building inside her
He, too, begins biting with more hunger,
Feeding on that desire,
Feeding on her hunger and feeling it fuel the fire
She pulls away, the intensity of their hunger
Growing too strong to continue
Yet so powerful that it calls to her,
His blood screaming for her to taste him again
He licks the droplets of her blood from his lips,
The images still flashing clear in his mind,
Every sinew aching for the fuel of her blood
Together they back away,
Their blood still screaming for each other
As they disappear into the shadows of the night,
Their hearts still beating steady and hard as one.

copyright 2004, Brandi Eissinger & Gordon McIntosh

Precious Stones

Memories. I hold onto them like precious stones. Whether these memories bring tears or smiles and anger, they are what make me who I am here and now and forever. So many little things will bring up a memory. Coffee at Perkins, Astronomy class, English class, the college orientation dance. These are all good memories, vague, but bring a smile. Yet, they are bitter sweet at the same time. Halloween (which has its own set of memories), Pebble Lake, sunrises. Again, bitter sweet. Bryan Adams, crosses, swimming with friends. Driving for hours, talking till dawn, dreaming alone and hours.

Why is it so many memories must be so bitter sweet? Why do they bring smiles and tears? Why do I hold so tight to these simple little visions? Wonder Woman, Solar Stars, helicopters, grasshoppers? Little frogs, the cleaning fairy, sledding, dancing? Ballerinas, and tears and fears, and growing up.

So many people I've loved and lost. So many lives gone too early. So many loves fading into the sunset, never to rise again. This is life. This is what we cling to so hopelessly. This is what makes memories we hold close to us, like precious stones.

Forgettable?

What the hell? She's forgettable? She learned this fact several months ago, but it still nags at her constantly. How can someone not remember her? How can he not recall the passion and love and dreams and desires? How can he not remember at least a few things she remembers? It would make her memories and losses mean so much more if he would only remember. But he doesn't. He won't. She meant nothing to him.

Isn't this so often the case? One remembers the love and dreams and hopes. But the other? It was just another conquest. It hurts her to realize she was just another girl in his bed. Even now, after so many years have past, she doesn't like thinking she was just a notch on his bed - even if that's all he was for her.

Truth, love, sex, dreams, desires, passion, hate, memories. Is any of it real? Is any of it worth recalling? Is any of it more than just a concept racing through the mind?

Physical

She used to absorb herself in the physical. Obviously, if a guy wanted her, he loved her, and she was worth something. And besides, she wasn't hurting anyone. Except that one time. That one little baby. She miscarried him, and consoled herself by reminding herself that bringing a baby into the world under normal circumstances was wrong and evil. But to do so under these conditions? There would have been no excuse for that mistake. And what conditions? She was unmarried, sleeping with the one, dating another, and fooling around with a few more. And the father? He didn't love her. He didn't even care about her. They had an agreement - no strings attached. If he knew there was suddenly a string? She dared not imagine that. But, it was no matter. She didn't even know about the baby until it was too late. While it hurt, she took comfort in knowing this baby would never suffer.

This loss only fueled her desire for the physical. It shouldn't have. It should have done the opposite. But too many had taught her that hte physical was what life was about. Sex and pain and bruises. That was life. And, if and when she had the choice, sex was the better option. And so she chose it. Whenever and wherever she could. Wrong? Perhaps. But live the life she did and see if you can still choose the "correct" path. Only then can you or I judge her.

THe problem though was she learned to use the physical as an escape. Whenever she wanted attention, she looked towards the physical. Whenever a relationship became too close...too emotional...she turned towards the physical. Whenever she thought she was losing someone...again, physical. It became so much a part of her and her relationships, she lost track of anything emotional. Her feelings disappeared, vanished. She liked this. Emotions hurt. Sex didn't. And physical pain? Yes, it hurt, but it could quickly be alleviated by a touch or two.

And now? Now, she is lost. She still feels the pain of the child lost. She now feels the pain of loves lost. But what loves? She doesn't even know anymore. She thought she knew. But these loves are confused and lost and found and here but not. She wants to feel that love again, but did that love ever truly exist or was it simply a way to feel wanted and loved and needed? She doesn't know. She wants desperately for that one person to remind her and show her and love her. She wants desperately for that miracle.

Want to Write

I want to write. No, I need to write. And yet every time I sit down to type something up, the words hide in various corners of my brain, sneaking into the shadows, refusing to show themselves.

Right on the tip of my tongue or fingers or brain lurks the words to the best poem or song or story one has ever heard or read. It's there. I can feel it, taste it. I can almost touch it, feel it caress me. And then is disappears again, playing this game with me, driving me to the edge of sanity.

Or would it be the edge of insanity? I'm uncertain. Is there a difference? I believe the edge of insanity would border or share the edge of sanity, therefore making it the same. So, I could simply say it is driving me to the edge.

But the edge of what? So many edges I have walked along. The edge of heaven and hell, good and evil. Edges are so much fun. Such thin little lines. One step in either direction dictates everything and yet nothing at all. One step can bring you closer to everything you desire, or further away from it, or perhaps closer to what you desire yet further from it at the same time. Odd. Yes, definitely odd.

But, most things which involve desire can be categorized as odd. Or perhaps it's only things which involve love. No, love would be considered an insanity, not an oddity. But desire? Passion? I choose not to use odd for those. Those are special. Those are life. Those are what edges are made of.

Every time you walk along an edge it is because there is something you desire on one side or the other, or perhaps on both sides of the edge. This is what makes the edges so exciting. I think this is why the words hide from me. They enjoy watching me teeter on this edge. It excites them.

New Look

It was time for a face-lift. I wish I could do that to myself as easily. Look through a few websites, say "I like that body," and voila! I'm lookin' sexy in my new skin. But alas, I once again deviate from my original point. Did I even have an original point? Ah, so confusing life can be.

As I was saying (or not saying as the case may be) I have given this blog a new look. On the one hand, I like it. On the other hand, I'm not really sure it's me. Please, give me opinions and feedback and comments and whatever else you feel like giving me. I'm quite open to something new and different here (so long, of course, it is still me and fits with the general title of this blog).

Trinket Hoarder

That's right. I'm a trinket hoarder. I don't have boxes of junk hidden in every nook and cranny of my house (well, actually I do, but it's not from hoarding - it's from being a poor housekeeper). What I do hoard, however, are little special trinkets from the past.

Yes, my jewelry box (which itself is a treasure I'd like to burn) is a hiding place for trinkets. All these silly little trinkets - memories of times long gone but never forgotten.

I still have my NFL pin from 9th grade when I was on the speech and debate team. Ah, those were some some days. I sucked at debate, but the trips were tons of fun. And Alexandria boys were really hot.

I still have a homecoming pin from sometime back in the late 80's. Go Spuds! It was something I stole from my big sis after she left home. Lord knows I was too much of a geek to care about homecoming.

I still have two very special friendship bracelets. Sam and I made them, sitting in the middle of a pasture on a large flat rock in Wisconsin. We couldn't have been more than 14 if even that. She's the one who taught me how to make them. I loved those days.

I still have one pair and two lonely pairless earrings - all from the same set. They were given to me when I was in 4th grade by my "husband" and his brother (I got married several times to this guy when I was 8 and 9 years old). His brother died shortly after I got the earrings.

I still have one earring from my college days - I lost it in my best friend's bed one day when we were discussing the meaning of life, or staring at the ceiling to see what shapes we could make out, or having some incredibly odd conversation (such as what would be the first thing we did if we could be the opposite gender for a day).

I still have a necklace of beaded seashells one of my best friends gave me sometime in Junior High. We were friends for years - could tell each other everything. His family and mine were very close, and have experienced a lot of hardships together.

I have many other little trinkets hiding within this box - all memories, whether old or new. Actually, mostly old. My newer stuff is strewn about on top of my dressing table. That comes from being a bad housekeeper. But the trinkets? That's because I'm a trinket hoarder - and proud of it.