June 25, 2005
Volume 2, Issue 25
Some people have a thing for random lines from books; I like lyrics (btw, my story titles every day are bits of song lyrics)Give me your hair, just a lock will do
An old photograph to capture the spirit of you
And I'll keep these things wrapped up in an old cotton blouse
The one you wore that summer before your love petered out
--Toadies, Jigsaw Girl
**Admin Note - The word count for author posts has been vastly irritating us, in that it insists on counting formatting tags as words. Sometimes. So, we've ditched it. We'll continue to verify our own word counts via Word, WordPerfect, etc., but will not necessarily make a note of it in our entries from now on.
Michele: From Her to Eternity
He pounded cutlets and chopped peppers while he yelled.
"Did you think.."
"...that bringing me here, to our favorite summer spot.."
"..to tell me you’re bored..."
"..was a good idea?"
"Did you think the calmness of the lake..."
"...the quiet of the woods..."
"...would lessen the blow..."
"...of you finding someone else?"
He stalked towards her, precariously slipped the blade under circles of rope and cloth.
"Did you think..."
"...that I would ever..."
"...let you go?"
Her body slipped lazily to the floor.
"Dinner’s almost ready, my sweet."
Stacy: Love Hurts
He stared at the picture for a moment, lost in memories of that summer. Trips to the coast, intimate dinners, wild and heartrending sex. He thought she'd be there forever, she apparently had other ideas.
He placed the photo and a lock of her hair on one of her old shirts, wrapped them up tenderly and placed them in the brazier. He poured lighter fluid over the bundle and lit it with a match. It flared briefly then smoldered, filling the area with acrid smoke.
If I can't have you, no one can, he thought bitterly, then began the incantation.
Laurence - Bobby Digs Wendy
Bobby had all of her albums. Every concert bootleg too, thanks to other obsessives and Napster.
Obsessives, not stalkers. Stalking is bad. Very bad.
He had other trinkets from her life. A curl of her hair from a hotel shower drain in a locket. Photographs that the corner drugstore duplicated and collected for him. And dresses that the cleaners said they'd lost.
All he needed was her. He had to prove his love.
He patted the gravestone, picked up a shovel, and began to dig.
All I have left is a lock of her hair. She died when her appendix burst on vacation.
We had been having such a good time, drinking until dawn, sleeping until four. Balling our brains out.
Then Raul came along.
I found her at the Plaza del Mer casino on his arm. I didn't even make a scene.
I packed up her brushes and makeup, everything else I had paid for.
Doctor Legbastone called in the morning to say she had collapsed in pain and expired right on the blackjack table. I thanked him, packed my bags, and came home.
Tanya: Growing dim
I can still remember her face, the way she smelled, her fingers in my hair.
I have a letter she wrote me from Cairo, and one lock of her golden hair, curled like a fiddlehead fern. The silver locket that belonged to her mother, too. And the fuzzy flannel shirt she wore at the lake that summer, when we sat in the canoe, laughing and watching the fish ignore the minnows on our hooks. And nothing more. Only memories.
"Be still, my darling," she whispered to me, sitting beside the bed. "Mommy will be right back." And she never was.