Body Fiction 3

Happy Saturday Post - I'm thankful for the life I've been given, and the stories I've been asked to post between now and the end of the year. Stay tuned! 

Meanwhile...

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Six Separate Thoughts - Part III

My scars are my best friend and painfully we show

He waits- a gentleman with outstretched hand

On display broken, seething bloody glow

My pride is a garment of sifting sand

He stands to the side while I flail about

For the storm to peter out

He laughs at my rage when I move as if solo

The lines within which I am free court cliffs

His correction abrupt when I push past where to go

Under my shoulder he helps my missteps

We argue over ownership
Kingdoms via bodies and lips

It's lonely in the space of justified anger
How dare he prove and show my lack
In this way emotions can not linger
I was untethered 'til he pulled me back

His loving acceptance a lighthouse at sea
Returning home, not yet free

He massages my foot like he's invoking a shaman's spell
As if my deformation is his most prized possession
His thumbs are the lovers of my arches, ankles, heels
The somehow lost wholeness he calls to attention

And I can march to the tune of his love
My limp is a hitch kick on hold

He asks me to waltz knowing I won't really do well
As if my lacking dancer is somehow in session
He takes my wrists- holding smoke and steel
Touch whispers fly while my soul screams broken

From here to heaven I don't dare fly
His caress dreams that I try

***

For Seddy Bear - with three more to go before the end of November.

With words, song & prayer,
Tiffany Vakilian

© 2015 Highlight Video Productions

Body Fiction 2

To keep a promise, here's a bit of a different Saturday Post!

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Six Separate Thoughts - Part II

From the hospital bed of a young woman:

It's the toe that pushes the accelerator. It’s the toe that puts the adrenaline and momentum in Vin Diesel’s inner thigh, and then in my imagination. All those car chases, all those dances with death. Ballet pointed toes with bullets and leaps across cliffs; leaps that I can’t do anymore. Then I watch Breakin’ 2 and crack up at the Boogaloo.

Right now I watch.

Meanwhile is healing. Meanwhile is pain. Meanwhile is trying not to drown in Percocet. Meanwhile are a million stupid detailed memories of things I will not be able to do. Even something as stupid as cracking my toe, which my mother hated, is something I will miss.

But I must remain positive. At least Mom won’t nag me about that anymore. And there’s the movies - Bond, Transporter, Fast & Furious. All of my friends vicarious. I’m in between.

All I have to do is choose, right? That’s what my big brother always said. “Once you make a choice, you’ll have more peace.” So, I choose. I choose to get up, to live, to fight, to honor the body part I lost by making it the underpinning of my future determination to thrive. I’m going to save my money and modify my whole frickin’ life to do the two things most unexpected of me in this new body.

First I’ve got to tell the doctors to stop acting like I’m dead already. I’m not dead, and I’m not letting their opinions of my sitch stop me. If Jason Statham can go from outdoor salesman to box office action star, then I can learn to walk without one of my big toes.

Once that’s done, I’ve got to tell my family to stop looking at me like a broken bird. It was bad enough after the accident, staring at my foot like it would suck them through the bandages into parts unknown. They stopped seeing me, choosing to focus on my one missing body part. A spotlight on phantom pain, and the irony of it is not lost on me.

Maybe I should get a new wardrobe. T-shirts with awesome slogans. STARE AT MY MISSING TOE SOME MORE PLEASE or WANNA HELP ME FIND MY TOE? What would that song Speed Demon inspire in a nine-toed woman’s t-shirt? I’ll make finding that out number 3 on my list.

Once I get out of this hospital bed, and through physical therapy, I’m going to learn how to race cars. I’m going to learn how to dance. Drive and dance.

I’m still frickin’ here people!

***

© 1984
Breakin’ 2 – Electric Boogaloo

For Seddybear - Thanks for the prompt!

With words, song & prayer,

TiMo V

Body Fiction 1

To keep a promise, here's a bit of a different Saturday Post!

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Six Separate Thoughts - Part 1

The shoes were pinched. They were jewel encrusted, heeled, and satin underneath her petticoat, but they were pinched. No wiggle room; certainly no air. Still, they were just too pretty to remain hidden under a dress encircling three feet round. Shoes of such beauty should be seen. Unfortunately for the young lady, ankles in this era should not.

Foolish intrigues amongst these powerful families annoy me, with gilded goblets and gossip, but I’m the part that makes the magic, and she paid with her toe.

In this guise, no one cares about me unless I hurt, fall off, or need painting. Foot hygiene bordering on the manic is the rage in London these days, so painting isn’t big here yet. It will be. Perhaps I’ll be put to use again. A new body, part of a new woman, a new time, a new future, a new past.

As soon as the deed is done, I’m leaving.

The slide-roll-slide friction of her gait was something akin to a rude massage. The relief when she sat down felt decadent, like butter on toasted bread. Unfortunately it was not too long before she was asked to dance by our conquest, ending my respite with an extended hand.

If I had a neck, I would have rolled it in preparation for the grand performance. Sensation ceased. A cinnamon and pepper spark inside my soul began flickering tiny fire, and while wrapped in perfect etiquette, I sent my yeasty dream up his spine, into the crook of the neck with the gentlest kiss of a single fingertip sensation, behind and then into his ear; felt more than heard.

“Mine.”

I returned bodily to the discomfort within her squish-pull-point lope about the ballroom. The sheerest curtain of frenzy fell around them, as if they were the only two in the room. A passionate air current ribbon wove tendrils around their never-touching wrists. The most accidental graze between the backs of hands, scandalous despite the gloves, began a storm of flipping fans, adding air to the fire. I claim full credit as the arsonist.

They’ll be married by Michaelmas, and her child will have a last name of good standing, within the same bloodline no less.

Time to go.

It actually works in her favor. It will hurt when I take my leave, and she’ll most certainly stumble. Perhaps there will be a fall, and the dutiful if not suddenly attentive fiancé-to-be will save her publicly. She’ll have a lock of her hair in his coat pocket before the end of the night.

It is a shame about the shoes though.

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For Seddybear - This was fun!

With words, song & prayer,

TiMo V