Freeform: Permanence.

      Hidden beneath faded tattered robes, the lone observer stood upon the rocky shore, lost amidst the mist and crashing waves. From the darkness under its hood, two unblinking golden eyes peered out over the horizon, as though searching for something in the shapeless gray waters. Yet, with a hollow, tinny sigh, the seeker's watchful head lowered, as thin, metallic fingers wrapped tightly around a weathered staff.
      "Able," came a voice from behind, as the ever-vigilant eyes turned to face the newcomer. Clad in a traveler's cloak, she silently approached her companion, her footfalls barely seeming to touch the sodden ground. "Have your senses taken leave of you again, my old friend?" she continued, her voice barely above a whisper.
      "No, my young Tesslyn," came the hollow voice in reply, "not yet, at least." Ancient joints clicked and whirred back to life, as the watcher extended an arm to the young traveler, beckoning her to come near. "Come. There is something you must see through the mists."
      A soft smile upon her face, Tesslyn nodded, stumbling over the jagged stones to her mentor. Looking up at the featureless face beneath the cloak, the young traveler patiently waited for Able to speak, as its unblinking eyes flickered with thought. As the waves crashed into the rocks below, she casually brushed little droplets from her short locks, as another splash rang into the air. Without a word, she kept watching over the emaciated shade beside her, the young traveler's shimmering blue eyes made even brighter by all the endless gray.
      "There!" came Able's sudden declaration, as Tesslyn's eyes followed the now-outstretched finger to some hidden point in the sea. As the mists of morning began to part, the shadow of some great and terrible giant emerged, its body rising from the water like some armored warrior of a forgotten time. With a gasp, the young traveler reached inside a small pouch at her side, quickly retrieving a small spyglass without averting her excited gaze.
      "That's a machine, isn't it?" she asked her mentor, peering through the lens at the new discovery. "Like you and the others, only much bigger!"
      "From a time best forgotten," came Abel's sullen reply, as something much like a sigh rattled his metallic body beneath his robe. "There is a reason, my young Tesslyn, why my kind are still here, while the Giants are not. If you are to be one of the Masters of the Gear, you must learn why that is, and hold it ever dear to your heart."
      "And why is that, Able?" the young traveler asked, lowering her spyglass and turning to her mentor.
      "Why, my child, we are here to create," came a synthetic chuckle, as spindly fingers reached for Tesslyn's arm, pulling back the sleeve to reveal ornate patterns atop her mechanical prosthesis. Smiling at the gesture, she watched as Able again turned to the sea, holding her tiny hand in both its own.
      "And they," Able began, again rattling as though heaving some great sigh from within, "were meant to destroy."
      Touching her own mechanical arm, the young traveler's smile gave way to awe, as she retrieved her spyglass once more to gaze upon the giant.
      There, atop an outstretched claw of what once was a hand, a great nest of birds prepared themselves for the day ahead...

Freeform: Like rivers, streams, and estuaries...

      Fingers sliding, delicately interlacing, entwined in the feeling but never reeling, what words could there be for such smooth movements that flow like water over the roughest stone, gently peeling away jagged corners and frays until only the tenderness remains forever on the formerly unyielding face.
      Water flowing, skies glowing, stars shining in her eyes that sparkle only for me, for her, for something much more than fickle words could ever put to paper, the poet's dilemma, the writer's block, to be rounded and swept up on the ever-gentle currents.
      Together, we flow...

Freeform: Wounds.

      Standing in front of a mirror, I expect to see my own reflection when, instead, cast in the pale light of some long-ago moon, there sits a small girl, curled-up with her knees to her chin. Little cuts adorn her bare arms and legs, from scars freshly opened by tiny little fingernails, as she hides her face behind her silver-white hair, flowing atop her head and down past her shoulders.
      She trembles, but is afraid to cry. I want nothing more than to reach through the glass, and in doing so, I find myself in her dark little realm, looking above to see no moon, not even a star glinting in the distance. Just darkness, the cold unfathomable, and this little wounded, trembling girl, who glows just like the moon.
      She looks up at me with eyes red with tears, and irises a shade of red between warming and hurt. I bend down, crouching despite the effort, and follow my instinct to just take her in my arms, press her tight against my chest, and not let go.
      "It's okay," I whisper, feeling her tremble. "I know you hurt . . . it's okay, I'm here now..."
      She cries, and the tears run down my cheeks, as I see with her eyes all the little cuts and scars, her only desire laid bare.
      She only ever wanted to be loved, unconditionally.
      But instead, she found only pain, only the need to hide away, to keep from ever being hurt so terribly again, even if all she ever did was to keep picking at the scabs.
      She withdraws almost as soon as the tears began, returning to her curled-up position on the ground. "It's okay," I whisper, that little smile still on my face somehow, "it takes time. And we have all the time in the world, I promise."
      She winces at the word, but somehow, she doesn't hold herself so tightly. I slip away, if only for a moment, to write these very words, knowing that they, too, are flawed, but showing her all the same, as I look back into the mirror to see my own face again, wondering, hoping that she'll be in my arms to keep, that she won't have to be alone any longer.

Scribble: Three years.

      A single candle burns. Life flickers in the breeze, while little gobs of wax trickle down pale cheeks, running along ridges of scar tissue.
      It's all a painting, sepia, faded, slight wear along the worn-away frame. No one knows the artist, though hushed rumors say he's long gone. Singature's hidden in the lines of the face, but not in any language we can read.
      Why this angle? Why this symbol? Why are we even here, staring at this damn painting for the third year in a row, when little insight has been gained? Did the artist know his message would be obscured?
      But there is no message. The artist was a madman, barely in control of his own impulses. Half these cuts on the canvas were his.
      No meaning but the one we assign . . . but what are we to make of this, then, when we want to just turn away and find some art that makes sense?
      Running along ridges of scar tissue, little gobs of wax trickle down cheeks, life flickering in the breeze.

RLW...

Scribble: I haven't written anything sweet in a while, and Junk Science's "Bancroft" is playing...

      Her bangs fall gracefully over her eyes, just long enough to hide the round, brown orbs from the streetlight. A bashful smile falls soon after, sweet, shy, and sincere, if the flushing cheeks are to be believed.
      Her gentle laughter flows, bubbles along a mountain stream, just enough to tickle. A slender fingertip brushes little brown locks to the side, as a certain smile reflects in certain eyes in the dim glow.
      "Really?" she asks, voice as smooth as silk, half-giggled words casting wrinkles in the sheets.
      Really.

"Distance"

      it keeps going, punching keys despite the static swirling over the screen.
      every line dead. nothing to be said of the other operators.
      with unblinking eye, it keeps typing, a breathless "no" repeating in echo...

Scribble: Trying to pull nothing out of something.

      She slides past the counter, disappearing into the kitchen once more. Her hair seems to follow her a few paces behind; her face is just a made-up mask, stolen from a dime store Pierrot.
      A door opens, another customer slides into the bar. She emerges once more, hair barely moving, face barely moving, holding a basket of fresh wings so close that the oil's gotta burn. Not a flinch, though.
      Stepping back into the twilight of swinging lamps and burnt-out bulbs, she smiles, as shadows steal away the thick lines of compound and eye shadow, leaving her resplendent. Her hair is absolutely perfect, raven locks that never stray no matter how many times she turns her head to take an order.
      Now who is the fool, of course.

Scribble: A series of dreams about love.

      The building was an amalgamation of three high schools, three colleges, and a hospital that I'd known from various points in my life. Linoleum flooring, drywall randomly giving way to tiles, lighting that changed with every blink. Faceless friends came and went in the halls, none of them notable, but all familiar in that tip-of-the-tongue way.
      Soon, I stood in a room full of sinks, a former lover beside me. She appeared to be only one of my ex-girlfriends, but as she spoke and her mannerisms showed, I could see that she, too, was an amalgamation, just as everything else in this dream. Neither of us felt anything for the other, but we still had to pretend for everyone around. It was all so familiar, yet nothing felt it.
      We splashed water at each other, and gave fake laughter as a response. We stood together, in awkward silence, not knowing what to do without an audience.

* * * * *

      It was a tall, wooden lodge with a high ceiling, where several cats played on the rafters, caught-up in impossible games with birds and mice. A solid oak bar stretched deep into the room, seemingly endless and forever caught in the dim light of late evening. I sat there, halfway facing the great glass entryway, but was nursing water instead of booze.
      I knew the owners well, one of whom looking surprisingly like the older husband of a babysitter from my childhood. I don't know if he was also named "Tiger," but it wouldn't surprise me, given his general attitude. He was quick with a joke, quicker with a smile, and seemed to know everyone around, even if he didn't. Wrinkles had taken what looks he had, but he still had the ol' charm in him. Someone you'd want to run a bar.
      The other, who was serving drinks, never stayed away from me for too long. She was a few years younger than me, but walked with the gentle grace of someone who had grown used to acting older. Even her way of dressing was flattering only in that her sweater revealed the lines of her petite frame. Her laugh was soft, her smile was bright, and her long hair kept dancing between orange and an almost pinkish red, like the sunset itself. Our hands seemed to naturally fall against one-another, and more than once, on that bar, her slender fingers mingled with mine. We couldn't help but smile when near each other, which was almost all the time.
      I was the only one who knew their secret: plenty of men, particularly men his age, would come to the bar and want to try their luck with her, only for him to come around and remind them that she was his wife. A few chuckles, the same kind of laugh a good-hearted fellow will use to warn those of lesser stature. I was the only one he never got protective around.
      They weren't actually married. He was just being protective of us, because we made each other happy, and didn't want anyone to get in the way of that. She was an orphan who needed a job, and he was a good enough man to give her one in such a sketchy town.
      By the end of the dream, we were holding hands, and not letting go.

* * * * *

      It was a massive convention hall, though one that had collided with a warehouse of novelties and random pieces of memorabilia. For once, I was not a character, but a camera, watching the drama of another set of lives unfold before me.
      Four friends, joking quietly, visiting some sort of festival. Two young men were there, one Asian-American, the other I guessed was Cherokee. They were joined by two young women, one of whom was nondescript, but only because of the angle of the "camera." Only one of the young men spoke frequently; the other young man, and one of the young women, just never elected to speak that often. The fourth, the dark-skinned girl with long, bright pink hair, almost seemed incapable of speech. Everyone had a seat at a great, long table, which was, in turn, in an area surrounded by other such tables. A sampling of foods and drinks was going-on in the uproarious hall, and the quiet young man, alongside the mute, seemed uncomfortable.
      As soon as glass pipes were being drawn by most of those in attendance, to sample a variety of smoking herbs, the young man and the mute left in haste, remembering the words of a fortune teller who had come to them, sometime prior to the dream. "You will see flowers and a sacred room, wherein your truest love will come to you." Scrambling across the convention floor, the two searched for nothing in particular, though the words of the fortuneteller rang in their heads. Separated from the massive gathering, the young man finally found his voice: a chipper, upbeat tone that sounded much like any fellow outside of his teenage years. After some time, the mute, too, spoke, in such a tender and sweet voice that it sounded like music.
      After an endless array of junk, kitsch, and strange displays of plumbing, there came a grand display of white lilies, beside a glowing door that seemed out of place in the industrial maze. Clenching hands tightly, they ran toward the light seeping through the cracks. They reached for the doorknob, seemingly as one.
      He died almost instantly, falling into a mysterious pool of lava just beyond the door. The fortuneteller lied to them, in order to reveal two men who were planning on destroying the entire building -- and later, all of humanity -- out of spite and broken hearts. She fought them both, and soon they, too, died in the same trap set for the young man, realizing too late that all they needed for their happiness was each other.
      She, too, gave her life to save the unknowing crowds outside, but was granted with a vision before she died: a little boy and his grandfather, a woodcutter, stumbling upon a little girl in the wilderness.
      She saw that their love would bring them back to life, and so she closed her eyes, accepting what was to come.
      I felt powerless. I felt my heart break upon her passing, and wondered if there was some other way she could've gotten her happy ending...

Scribble: Evaporation.

      Eyes closed. Fingers crossed. A single footstep, followed by another. Legs and arms becoming fluid, swimming in the melody, flowing over the rhythm.
      A single strand of hair flutters over eyelids. Body language in a cursive script. Lights dance across her skin, beading with sweat. Somewhere her fingers come uncrossed, where she flips onto her hands and back again.
      Percussive sounds of palm against palm. Feet no longer bound by gravity's gravitas. Eyes flutter open, only to see forms and hues sharper, brighter than before.
      Floating above the ground, freedom lifting her to the sky.
      "That girl can fly."

Freeform: Empty.

On a desk there sits a cup, where once two could be found.

Two cups, four hands, steam rising into the air alongside laughter and voices, a cluttered desk, and a bed full of warmth.

A bed, formerly of two pillows, now only of one.

All that's left to be doubled is space. All without a single wall having been knocked down.

Two cups.

Bare walls.

And no sleep.