Kathy Brier-Don’t Put a Tax On the Beautiful...
Fiction: To Old Friends →
paintedfictions: ….“Oh but,” she narrows her eyes and gives him a smile, that smile, that he remembers, that sly flash of teeth and flicker of tongue between her narrow lips—she used to always wear a coat of something, some peach creamy balm on top of them that made them look irresistible, but only when she smiled, for the rest of the time she kept her lips pursed and tight like a frosted...
I never go outside unless I look like Joan Crawford the movie star. If you want...– Joan Crawford (via oscarprgirl)
Fiction: A Lost Cause (part 3) →
paintedfictions: (read part 1, part 2) There were things that Claire had never done. She had never, for instance, said I love you and meant it. It wasn’t something she felt bitter about, simply an abstract idea she had never bought into. When she was much younger, her mother had tried to explain love. “It’s when you wake up next to someone and you feel grateful and right,” her mother had said,...
i sit staring at this glowing screen typing short lines of figurative language in all lowercase i have a lot of feelings.
Fiction: A Lost Cause (part 2) →
paintedfictions: (read part 1) John had been one of her lovers in college. They had always skipped sleep in favor of each other, fucking on rooftops and in hurriedly locked bedrooms and stained bathrooms of loud bars. They would try to have conversations in coffee shops and wind up breathless, desperate to get else where…
Fiction: Home →
When we get home we’re bigger strangers than we’ve ever been before. You start soaking the dishes we’ve already cleaned in the sink. I go to water the plants, but the bright red and yellow tulips along our windowsill have become dead, crisp pieces too bruised to use as bookmarks. We eat dinner in silence, with the orchestra of a careless fork scraping the bottoms of our fine plates. I ask if I...
A good mascara is hard to find...
Don’t you agree? What do you use?
Fiction: A Lost Cause →
paintedfictions: His hands reminded her of her father’s hands, the fingers stout, the nails flat and clipped, peeling slightly at the top. They felt soft against the side of her face though, gently pressing half moons into her cheek. “This is the last time,” he said, and kissed her. Was he reassuring her or reassuring himself? Perhaps it didn’t matter. She returned his kiss just as hungrily, her...
Here's to 2012
May all of your new years be magical and thank you, as always, for putting up with me. Happy New Year’s!