She knows she is characterised by displeasing textures. Her demeanour has been derived from an origin of melodic laughter, crooked nails and crippling waves of thoughts. She likes to entertain herself with the belief that her outward projection represents a sanguine yellow, but she knows it resembles a muddy orange.

Perhaps this image of her is a product of her playful hair. It spirals out of any constraints she imposes on it, and mocks her ability to control its descent. She is weathered and tired from her failed attempts. She can also blame it on the raised marks that cover her face. When darkness falls, she compares them to constellations. But the sun's bitter light exposes them for the blemishes that they truly are. The realisation always settles her back into a stupor of melancholy.

To ponder upon these things results in a tensing of her fingers and a twitching of the mind. Heat mottles her cheeks, and her breathing becomes disjointed. She is a twisted replica of paranoia and fear, and she despises how they have evolved and become an inherent part of her. It twists and grips her mind, simultaneously binding her lips and cracking her voice.

She turns to the pools of her eyes. Her final judgement. They are crystalline beings, clandestine and illicit. Foam roils, and threatens to burst out of their milky oasis. Light continues to radiate off of them, and the yellow morning light is reflected out of their depths.

When someone you love is taken away so suddenly, you try to remember every last beautiful detail of who they were.

I close my eyes to breath and calmly try to hold back my tears.

What I think of first; her laugh. God, that ridiculous laugh. When she thought something was absolutely hilarious, she would start her laugh off with a guttural “Huh-“ and end it with a witch cackle like nails on a chalk board. Anytime we went to a restaurant, we always got stared at. But I didn’t mind. I still smile every time I remember it.

The second thing, and one of my favorites, was the sound of her voice when we would lie next to each other in bed. Like a scratchy wooden board, but the grit of it would always fade the more she spoke up. Her normal speaking voice was like a song. Her pitch would float all over the place like a rollercoaster. Like a ride I never wanted to get off of.

But finally, how she looked, I never want that to fade away from me. Her chocolate hair was always kept to a mid length bob with short curtain bangs that felt as soft as kitten fur. Her skin was olive was freckled everywhere, and a single touch of her hand reminded me of holding a silk goose feather pillow.

She loved to wear grandpa sweaters from thrift shops. Her favorite one was a navy woven 6 button sweater pattered with golf balls and driving clubs. It was bumpy to the touch and slowly unraveling at the bottom, but she never cared because it made her feel confident and safe.

I start feeling the tears rolling down my face. I still can’t believe she’s gone. She was obnoxious, caring, charming, and absolutely one of a kind.

God, I love her and I miss her every day.

Emily, Rest In Peace.

Trixie is a fireball of a girl - a careering clump of fire and gas, whipping flames too hot to touch, spiralling too fast to catch. Trixie is chaos. But Trixie is also brilliance. Writing spoken word with a crumpled rollie hanging from her bitten, peeling lips. Dry curls of tobacco peaking from the end until she lights them with a practiced, calloused thumb and a plastic, neon lighter. Inhaling the dusty remnants of her bag and exhaling wispy smoke into winter air that nips at her fingers.

He was like the desert. Not in the romantic colors of flaming sunsets, but in the bleached skies of high noon. His was not golden-sand skin, but worn leather, smooth and creased. His lips were dry and cracked like the parched earth beneath his feet.

He wore the day like a cloak, his shoulders hunched with the familiar weight of its heat, wrapped in the coarse fibers of windswept sand. At night, he settled, as the silken cool of darkness embraced the landscape.

Yet he was unyielding, firm and steady, unlike the shifting hills he treaded. He was stubborn, and resolute. He was like the mountain.

It’s somewhat confusing how disarming her smile is and how quickly one can forget to articulate himself the moment she laughs. Her eyes innocent and wide behind those clear narrow-rimmed glasses. She had short hair, a dark and gracious frame for her silken face tinted with florid cheeks. Subtlety was her charm and great humility adorned her so that one would seem almost reticent to approach her at all. Or maybe that's just me. No, it's definitely on her. Its unfair how she can draw you in so simply and then make you so nervous the moment she starts to talk. Who am I kidding? I'd embarrass myself over and over talking to her just to see her smile and blush, to hear her say my name.

i’ve never reacted this way, to one of these kinds of creatures before. i mean, a Black female?! i swear, in all of my thirty years, i can honestly say i’ve never felt this way.

Brad’s form fitting, tailored blue suit, was bulging at the seems. he discreetly adjusted himself, successfully, without gaining the attention of other patrons in the coffee shop.

he adjusted his combover, just so, in order to wipe the beads of sweat glaring on his forehead. he cleared his throat, gently, as to not bring too much attention to himself.

get control of yourself, man. Brad thought to himself as he adjusted the sleeves of his perfectly tailored suit jacket.

he ordered a grande cinnamon dolce late, hot. his usual. but when he stepped over to the counter where the drinks were being served, he kept finding himself searching for reasons not to turn around. he just couldn’t resist, he just HAD to get another glance at this stunning creature.

he scanned the room quickly, looking for someone else to divert his attention, to distract him. he saw no one, until the homely woman in front of him received her drink and slowly walked away.

and there she was: she was his usual type, long blonde hair, stunning blue eyes. 5” 3’, 140 pounds and thick in all the right places. her smile, too, was priceless.

he looked on as she joked with her co-workers while elegantly floating across her station: pouring espresso shots, heating the milk, adding in the syrup, pouring the milk, popping on the top, sleeve, and finally stopper. again and again. it was something about her aura that called to him.

how could doing something so simple, look and feel this good? Brad thought to himself.

she had such a way about her. in the few moments he watched her, their life flashed before his eyes. from the flirtatious dates, to making her his wife, to building a family and a life together. he could picture it all.

just as he was about to get her attention in order to make his move, the creature, the Black woman, walked up to the counter to retrieve her drink.

he barely caught a glimpse of her face, but he could tell she was stunning. her chocolate, clear brown skin, her wavy tresses, and firecracker red lipstick drew his attention away again.

she wore a beige slacks, fitted, in all the right places, a ruffled white blouse, a long cinnamon double breasted classic trench coat, and beige and white pumps to match. she was a force to be reckoned with! her presence was simply too enamoring to be able to ignore.

Brad simply couldn’t resist.

thoughts of the life he could have had with the barista, slipped away as he followed the Black woman outside.

the Black woman smiled confidently, knowing she had been successful.

today, she, was the predator, on her way to securing her prey.

We traveled along the old mining trail, now a highway, through the rugged, granite mountains to the old mining town. In front of the once blue wood-planked hotel, where rumor had it Old Doc Holiday once lived and died, he sat.

Old miners’ boots, traces of years of old mud and years’ worn. Turned up cuffs on the faded blue denim jeans, waste-high, with a cracked, black leather belt holding in the once-red plaid flannel long sleeved shirt. The aged, swollen hands loosely hanging from his sleeves on the arms of the dark wooden chair, showed the years of hard work through the sun-darkened, deeply creviced skin.

Looking into his face, his deep-set, hooded black eyes with a bulbous red nose between, stared emptily towards us. Deep gouges creased his brown porous skinned face and neck with years of living on this unkind planet. Long silver white thinning hair peeked from under the wide brimmed straw hat, a black with silver coins hat band crowning his head.

He was old; as he began to speak, we all sat and listened to the stories of the miner’s past.

I fingered my cold, smooth, golden necklace and pulled the charm around front. I feel the engraved heart on it and tug for it to straighten out. I run my hands down the long, soft fabric of my sky blue dress. I straighten it out and fluff out my blonde curls. I walk out of the bathroom and find my seat at the awards ceremony that is more like a party. A tall, tan man with soft hair the color of syrup and piercing, yet kind blue eyes slides into the seat next to me. “Hello.” Just one word. It can feel as if you are floating on a cloud on a warm sunny day sipping on a delicious mango smoothie. His voice is smooth and deep and rich. It is just like velvet.

Her hair was tangle-free and layered. When fingers ran through it, hair would slide right through them. Her skin was relatively smooth, acne free. Her clothes were normally flowy, and reminded her of frolicking through flower fields whenever she wore them. Her voice and actions were always soft and smooth, never harsh or rough towards anything. The words she would use were like honey, soothing to those who heard them.

My name is Laine, i have been blind since i was 3 years old because of a simple accident. I learned how to read and spell by learning braille. Even though i cannot see i feel the world through my hands. I feel the textures of blankets, clothes, soap and flowers. I can even imagine what people look like by feeling their face and hair. I even know how to put on makeup by the size and feeling of the bottle or container.