Something or other is amiss in my fifth chakra (yes, go ahead and laugh). To that end, I present various snippets (though not the juiciest ones; those are reserved for my other super-racy blog) from my head, starting with a few sentences and growing progressively longer.
The flutter of wings. Then nothing.
**
He cheated. He was a tiny, sneakered, whining ping-pong cheater.
**
She prayed once to lose her tonge and then remembered a girl who had none, her cheeks sunk deep in search of their rightful shape. She grew ashamed.
**
She was thirteen years old, but had the perfectly shaped hands of a beautiful woman. This was not necessarily the root of her problems, but it was certainly the beginning. Because when Arturo Jonas Miner saw them lifting a can of Coke to their owner's lips, he knew he must have them. At first he simply wanted to paint them, but the more he stared the more focused his desire became. He wanted to caress the hands, nurture and kiss them. He wanted to hide them from the rest of the world and smother them in cream.
**
I often tell people that my grandfather was the bastard son of a wealthy Spanish businessman whose name I never quite caught. It is close enough to the truth not to be a lie and besides, it is far easier than explaining that I came out looking this way because my great grandmother fell in love with a Chinese food importer (who was already married to a fifteen-year-old girl who would one day become a popular lounge singer in Manila) and, in turn, their daughter fell in love with an American soldier with black skin and yellow eyes. He didn't return her affections, but in his carelessness he left behind a child—my mother—who to this day draws curious stares from strangers. My mother fell in love with nobody at all, and as far as she knows my father was a German exchange student who studied at the International School one especially rainy and humid summer.
**
So maybe that will help. You never know.
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