this is my diary screaming out loud --

[pasogal2]

Night came fast tonight, Shannon mused while watching the shadowed blur of darkened buildings and lonely sidewalks flash by her. Like a nickelodeon, the images grew hazy around the edges and the silent conversations she glimpsed through the window of the luxury car left her feeling uneasy; she was lost in translation. The subtle smell of a new car wafted by her nose, mixed with the spicy taint of Raven's hand-rolled cigarette, and the soft leather of the seat felt rough against her skin.

Turning her head, she eyed her fellow passenger and captor, observing the deliberately negligent way he handled the cigarette, letting it dangle loosely from two fingers while shards of ash tumbled towards the expensive leather. Though his trilby hid his eyes, she knew that they were pitch-black and soul-shattering; a rabbit hole that only a foolish Alice would jump into.

"What?" he asked quietly without turning his head in her direction, as if he sensed the moment her attention left the window.

"Cigarettes kill, you know," she remarked, as close to a viper's remark as her softly-lined tongue could manage.

He laughed and she felt the sound roll over her with a prickling sensation lingering along the nape of her neck. "Dey won't be what gets me, girl. Don't ya worry 'bout dat."

Her nose wrinkled with a delicate scoff. "I'm certainly not worried about you," she said, almost sullen.

With another low chuckle, he raised the cigarette for another drag before waving it towards her with a lazy gesture. On the verge of saying something, he was distracted by the car coming to a halt. Shannon turned her head to glance out the window once more, searching for any sign of life or a recognizable landmark to orient herself around.

"We're here," he informed her while leaning forward to snag a crumpled pile of clothes from the front seat and toss it at her. "You'll need to change."

"What?" She caught the bundle, hands flying up instinctively, before turning it over to inspect the contents. It was a blue cover-all, like the uniform that professional painters or window washers wore while focusing on their daily grind. "I am not changing in here," she said, flicking anxious glances between him and the driver (whom she did not recognize and did not like on principle). With a nod slanted towards the rearview mirror, Raven signaled for the driver to exit the vehicle and it wasn't until the door was closed that he turned back to her.

"Ya don't want to get your pretty tings all messy, girl, do ya?" His smile was sly, like a dealer's when he knows the deck is stacked in his favor. "Now, I'll be waitin' right outside -- unless you need some help, ya?"

His grin was subtly mocking as he left the knuckles of the hand still clinging to the cigarette brush along the bare skin of her upper arm. Chills crawled up her skin and she leaned away as soon as she felt the brush of ash against her skin, free hand lifting instinctively to slap him as only a lady could. Whip-like, his hand shot out to catch her wrist in a flash and his low laugh filled the interior of the vehicle once more.

"I don't tink so, girl." Laughing still, he released her arm in order to angle out of the car. A low huff escaped her for the indignity of it all and she turned another frantic glance towards the window to search for anyone who might help, but this was not the kind of neighborhood where people went for leisurely strolls. Gang insignias lingered on vandalized signs and brick walls, trash littering the sidewalk and carelessly shoved aside by the homeless and hopelessly addicted as they searched for a new corner to claim for the evening.

There would be no hope of escape tonight.

Her fingers were shaking as she went about changing clothes, and coupled with the cramped quarters of the back seat, it caused the procedure to last far longer than it should have. Finally, she angled out of the car to see that the Raven was waiting near the mouth of a nearby alley, mouth curling into a sardonic line around the glow of that hand-rolled cigarette.

"What are we doing here?" Self conscious, she smoothed a hand over the front of the musty cover-all while creeping closer to the mouth of the alley, teeth scraping along the plush line of her lower lip.

"Ya sold our pretty paintin', girl. But she's not mad -- it gave her a better idea. We want somethin' a little bit larger," he informed her while watching her drift closer, a spider inviting a fly for a harmless tea party.

"L--larger? What do you mean?" She glanced about the alley for a moment before she noticed a collection of spray paint cans littering the ground near the wall and a slightly rusted metal ladder.

"Ya see dis wall, girl?" He waited for her to nod before continuing, "Ya need to cover it with dese." A wave of the cigarette in the direction of the hastily assembled supplies.

"Wha-- I don't use spray paint. I'm an artist. Find some kid to do that for you."

"Nah, girl. Ya know to use dem. Or ya will." His tone caused her attention to skip back towards him and every muscle in her body (including her poor broken-down heart) went still for a moment when she saw the vial in his hand. The dark liquid inside the glass reflected the delicate glow of his cigarette as it wobbled about in between his lips, and her fingers burned with the impulse to grasp it.

"No," she choked out, swallowing harshly. "I won't."

"Now, now. Ya know ya want it." He coaxed with a low tone, subtly seductive, as he edged closer.

Her nostrils flared with alarm and she rocked back a step, preparing to run. "No!"

In a flash, she found herself slammed back against the wall, one strong hand curled about the slender column of her throat to keep her in place and the other holding the vial in front of her frightened gaze.

"No no no no no no," she repeated in a pleading mantra with fingers clawed at the hand holding her throat -- but it only left her more vulnerable when he moved to force the harsh liquid down her throat.


<center> --------------------------------------------------------------------------- </center>


Hours later, she emerged from the alley with the harsh scent of aerosol paints clinging to her hair like a heavy dose of cheap perfume and her hair was a medusa mane of colorful streaks and wild curls. Her eyes glowed like molten silver in the pale moonlight when she spotted Raven, lounging against the side of the car like a chauffeur with nothing to do while waiting for his client's return.

"It's done," she purred, raw-voiced and sleek.

He nodded before easing away from the car in order to inspect her work, the sound of his rich laughter echoing off the old brick before he returned once more to the sidewalk. "Ya did good, girl," he murmured against the shell of her ear while guiding her towards the waiting car with the urgent pressure of hips against her back, snaking an arm around her waist while the other moved to open the door. "Real good," he murmured again, breathing in the scent of her madness before brushing a harsh kiss to the crux where her neck met her shoulder and pushing her into the waiting vehicle.

"Now it's time to find an audience," he informed her with a trickster's grin before slamming the door shut. He was gone before the car even left the safety of the curb.


<center> ----------------------------------------------------------------------- </center>


Beep. Beep.

"We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you this breaking news bulletin. A riot has broken out in the southern part of the city around Nebraska avenue. Local businesses near that area have already begun to be vandalized and we are receiving reports from eye witnesses of violent activity continuing in that area. Police are on their way to the scene -- and wish to advise everyone to avoid this area if you can."

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 06, 2008 06:53 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

[pasogal2]

Riot on Nebraska Avenue

RHY'DIN -- June 6th


A mostly intoxicated mob of at least 1,500 18-to-25-year-olds caused extensive damage on Nebraska Avenue in the early morning hours.

Rioters knocked down street lights, started fires in the street, smashed windows in three local businesses and destroyed car windshields. Twenty people were arrested when police dispersed the crowd at about 4:15 a.m., but not before rioters caused minor injuries and upwards of $150,000 in damage, the City Police Department said.

"It is still unclear what caused the violence to start," said a policeman on the scene.

Based on eye witness accounts, the riot began outside of an old warehouse that was to be remodeled into an outreach center as part of the Mayor's recent "City Rehabilitation Plan."

The building was recently vandalized with disturbing images.

"It was horrible," one eye witness said. "I've never seen anything like it."

At the time of publication the Mayor's office could not be reached for comment.

[pasogal2]

<center></center>

<font face="Freestyle Script"><font size="5">Persephone,
Thank you for the lovely note. I'm so glad that you like the peacock and that your Master enjoyed the muffins. The brooch was made for you, sweetling. And you were correct, he neglected to mention that when I saw him last.

Will you be coming to play soon? Perhaps I will see if Lola can come and join us.

I've included the sketch of your Master I finished recently. He mentioned that you would want to have it. I would love for you to visit my studio and let me sketch you. Perhaps you would like to see the paintings I am sending to New York? They might appeal to you more than the painting your Master chose.

The books you selected for me to read were wonderful and I certainly appreciate your help. I will stop by soon to return them.

Let me know if you need anything, dear. I am always here to help.

Shannon </font>
</font>

[pasogal2]

<font face="Freestyle Script"><font size="6">

I forgot I had this thing. I thought I threw it away a long time ago, after everything ended. For the second -- or maybe it was the third time? I'm not sure. I am learning to be better -- to play it safe. There won't be any need for destruction this time around.

I found a record by a band called the Spill Canvas the other day in a music store downtown. I bought it for their band name alone. The lyrics are rather haunting and I mind myself humming a few melodies while I'm working. It makes me think of my life, and reminds me of how selfish we humans are, even we try so hard not to be. But it's all merely a game of projection.

And if I am just projecting... well, <u>I don't care.</u>

Last night I dreamed of a hurricane.</font> </font>

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 10, 2008 04:15 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

[pasogal2]

<center>



Ever carried the weight of another?
For how long?
I walk as far as i need to recover
For how long?

I want to carry a piece of who I was before,
So when I hit the wall, I really hit the wall.
I want to tear away the death again;
A whiter shade of fucking meth again.
I want to stick to clues; I want to come unglued.
I want to shape the world to fit the way you move-
Oh, should I listen for a dress size?

I owned up. I've grown up, do you remember me?
I showed up and so what if I'm the used to be.
I'm here to tell you that I'm sorry I was sorry,
But I'm happy that you're happy.
This is no longer about me.

Pull my hair back, look me in the eye.
There's a self-destructive meaning in the bleeding of a guy.
It's the guilt of what reality has given me,
Making sense of all mistakes and my stupidity.
And when you're sick you seem to think
You've failed eternally.

And that the people you let in are only crumbling-
When you're sick of thinking life is just recovery.
When my decision paved the road
That lies in front of me.

So to my friends that even call but I don't call back:
I want you deep inside my heart upon a hill.
It seems to hide sometimes and run away and wonder;
I'm really sick of saying sorry but I will.

I want to learn to walk with others as an equal.
I want to treat the ones who love me with respect.
I want to tell the world I'll give them all a piggyback,
And try to take away my negative effect.
I want to kiss the boy; I know I'll never lie again.
I want to call my dad and tell him that I care.
I want to let my brother know,
He saved my life a thousand times.
Throughout the years he's been my friend
Who's always there.

Ever carried the weight of another?
For how long?

</center>

(lyrics are blue october.)

[pasogal2]

In the few days since she had stumbled like a tumble-down Alice to the Mad Hatter's door and let him blow her house down two things had occurred to Shannon: Fate was a fickle bitch and she hated trilbys. Her eyes no longer glowed like molten silver, painting the world with the hazy brushstrokes of a Van Gogh nightmare, but when she dared to rest she dreamed of the cruel winds of a tornado. The gusting winds left no corner of her mind uncovered and made it clear that it would send her to a place very different from Dorothy's Emerald City if allowed to take control of the citadel in her skull. When the winds died down she spiraled into a world of shadows, guided by the residues of the Tengu and the case of the bodysnatcher.

When she was awake she passed floral stands on every corner, having seemingly appeared overnight (and likewise disappearing faster than a chop shop) and making it impossible for her to avoid them during her daily rambles through the city. White lilies waved at her as she passed, blossoming before her very eyes until she was unable to avoid thinking that the Heavens must be allied against her. Trilbys had become the newest trend, appearing on the heads of various men from all walks of life and her lip curled in a subtle show of distaste every time she spotted one, but the image never failed to make her pulse leap into her throat like a frightened rabbit in the presence of a sly fox.

After a week of this torture she had no choice but to seek the solace of a dive that Dillon had introduced her to a while ago (it seemed a lifetime ago now). It was a seedy place with crumbling walls and glasses that appeared to be fighting a losing battle with the dishwasher, but even cheap tequila held onto its kick when it was subtly watered down. The bathrooms were coated in personal ads and subtle warnings about the health of the regular crowd and Shannon did her best to avoid them whenever possible. It was easy to do when the bartender had control of her credit card and a strict order to keep the drinks coming.

It wasn't until the second drink that she started to feel the burn of cheap tequila burning at the sensitive lining of her stomach and the apprehensive edge that had been licking along her spine throughout the day was forced to fade into the background of her mind. Returning the glass to the counter with a subtle thud, she ignored the sheen of film that coated the glass' interior while glancing towards the bartender with a faint smile. Idly, she considered the possible consequences of asking about the meaning behind the odd tattoos that coated his arm while she watched him go through the motions of making her next round, and was therefore caught by surprise when a hand settled on the small of her back.

Stiffening instinctively, she caught the scent of spiced tobacco and tried to ignore the prickling sensation when Raven's breath tickled the sensitive slope of her ear.

"Now what do ya tink you're doin' in dese parts, girl?"

She carefully leaned away from him, turning her head to watch him settle down onto the stool beside her. He took in the sight of her (clothes drenched in smears of white paint with a few dried bits in her hair and the bruise-blue shadows that lingered underneath her eyes), with a curious tilt of his head.

"None of your business," she said, heated and obviously feeling the need to play defense, though they had not even passed the coin toss.

He glanced aside to take in the sight of her drink, turning to rumble an order to the bartender before glancing back to her with a narrowed gaze. "What did ya do?"

"Nothing." She shot back immediately, before raising her glass for a healthy swallow of liquid courage. "It's done -- there's nothing you can do about it."

He paused to pay for his drink before turning on her once more, pointing that hand-rolled cigarette in her direction. "Y'be playin' wit' fire, girl. Be careful or you'll get burned."

"I'm sick of your huffing and puffing." It was possible she was already tipsy.

"Ya have no idea what I can do, girl." He ground out, dark eyes flashing from beneath the brim of his black trilby.

"You're nothing more than a lap dog -- and I hate your hat." A point of her drink towards the brim before she finished it off with one long pull. Slamming it onto the counter, she moved to grab her handbag with trembling fingers and pushed to her feet.

"An' where do you tink you're goin'?" He watched her movements, taking note of all the cracks in her brave facade with a darkening expression.

"Away. I'm out. Stay the he--- ow!" In a flash his hand had snapped out to catch her wrist in a vise-like grip and he was on his feet in an instant, towing her towards the bathroom. She cast a glance about for help in vain; the patrons of this bar were used to couples needing to use the restroom to take care of unfinished business. No one even glanced up as she continued to shout and struggle against his hold.

Slamming open the door the brute force of one shoulder, her shoved her back against the steel frame of the closest stall. Sucking air between her teeth in a sharp gasp, she could do nothing but stare up at him in horror. Caging her in with the breadth of his body, he settled one hand on either side of her shoulders and leaned in to growl menacingly in front of her face. His black gaze was boiling over with dangerous emotions. "I am no one's lap dog, ya hear me? If you want to stay alive then ya need to start playin' dis game a little smarter, girl."

Teeth scraped along her bottom lip and she tried to break the eye contact before she was permanently burned by his bristling stare. "Why are you doing her dirty work, then? What does she have on you?"

He growled and shoved her back against the steel wall once more, mouth tightening in response to the pained gasp that escaped her lips. "That is none of your business! Dis is a dangerous game you're playin' girl -- are ya tryin' ta die? Or maybe ya want that little boy --"

"Do not threaten my son! He is not involved in this."

And then, quite suddenly, he laughed. "Ya foolish girl. He has everything to do with this."

She stilled in the face of his sudden amusement. "What do you mean?"

"Ya don't know?" Incredulous, he took in her expression before leaning in to whisper fiercely against the shell of her ear before releasing her in an abrupt motion.

The last thing she heard while sinking downwards to a crumpled mass of limbs on the ground was the sound of his cruel laughter.

[pasogal2]

What will you do when I've horribly disappointed you?

Underneath the glow of strobe lights and lost in the tangle of writhing bodies moving in time with the music blaring from expensive speakers, the stars aligned before her eyes and a constellation formed to point in the direction of a drunken nirvana. Beneath the undeniable force of a pulsating bass line, another rhythm was echoing in her mind with unyielding precision, a lilting phrase that could not be denied:

Murderer.

It was her own personal mantra, born from the taunts of a petty harlot's viperous tongue and the firelicked memories of her sins hung like an albatross around her neck, leaving her with no choice but to melt into a tequila-coated haze and melt away from the ties that bind. Lola excused herself to seek out the restroom while Shannon came belly-up to bar, unconcerned about anything aside from the neatly sliced pieces of lime and row of shot glasses being displayed before her like an offering to a (blood)thirsty animal.

The first thing she noticed about the man who settled into a parking spot next to her after the third shot glass had been slammed onto the counter, as sharply as a judge slamming the gavel to decide a person's fate, was that he was blonde. While licking the leftover lime juices from her fingertips, she realized the breadth of his shoulders and unkempt style of his hair was faintly familiar. He'll do.


Hours later, while attempting to crawl into the waiting cab alongside Lola, fingers already flexing to delete the number that had been clumsily programmed into her phone by Rex, a single thought broke through the haze of drunken abandon.

It's time.

[pasogal2]

<center> </center>


I should have known.

[pasogal2]

<center>I would dial the numbers
Just to listen to your breath.
I would stand inside my hell,
And hold the hand of Death.
You don't know how far I'd go,
To ease this precious ache.
You don't know how much I'd give --
Or how much I can take. </center>

Flipping through this thing, I've noticed that all my entries are organized around the men in my life. It's funny, I never really looked at it that way. But isn't it the duty of a lady to be so connected? Even the sun is chained to the orbit of the planets. The house is quiet now, Jacob is off fishing and doing other manly activities with Cooper at a nearby watering hole. I'm so relieved that they are getting along. The burden that Cooper has been forced to carry eats at me even now, it reminds me of my own struggles with conception all those many years ago, and it's cause. I know he doesn't mean to, but over dinner I was once again reminded of why I instinctively avoid spending time with him alone. It's not because of the unspoken emotions that I can sense in the way he touches me, the mumbled reminders of a childhood crush that I never noticed at the time. It's the fact that he always has to remind me of <u>him</u>. That he has to try and clear his conscious by reminding me that he was always in the wings, desperately trying to protect me from the monster that I happily invited into my life. It burned inside of me, the desire to show him how awfully he failed at that mission. How no one was able to stop him, to remind him of Jeremiah's status as the beloved son of small town royalty. He was my perfect match, in that life -- I deserved exactly what he did to me. For Jeremiah never would have done any of it if I had been perfect. Thinner like my mother always wanted, more docile as my father often demanded. <u>Better</u>.

Though I will never verbally acknowledge the taunts that woman launched at me from seemingly out of nowhere -- to be honest, I cannot remember the last time we even spoke, aside from the ridiculous shot she took a few months ago. But I need to acknowledge them here, to you, my dear diary. To myself. As I sat there, waiting in the coffee shop for Mesteno to arrive (my sweet, wonderful, practical confidant) this morning, I found myself trying to recall dates and memories from years ago, recall information that I had locked away once the pain became too great. I don't remember when I ever met the wildcat, I know that we were decently acquainted during the second round of my relationship with Bjorn, but we merely discussed my engagement and her marriage in the casual, guarded tones of two people who were merely occupying the same space and seeing no harm in indulging in a little small talk. I never would have considered us friends; we're far too different. Once this past year, we likewise discussed our children, promising to arrange a play date that we both knew would never actually happen. And yet, I knew that she was dangerous, knew that she was prone to fits of jealousy, but I had no idea that she would need to lash out that intensely to mark her territory. That she had any territory that needed to be claimed aside from her husband.

Aden. I can smell the cinnamon flavor of the muffins I'm making as it wafts through the house, but I find no comfort in the scent. It was all I could do to keep his secrets when Mesteno pressed for information, to easily avoid any of his hints about how connected he thought we were. But I have always been excellent at denial.

As Mesteno so gamely mentioned, the only person that ever really drew Sutton's attention away from me was himself, but that was well after I had made the fatal mistake of letting him walk out on me. Let him give the escape he thought I wanted. And I did, though hindsight makes me wish that he had never given me the option. Years of counseling have allowed me to see that it wasn't me that caused Sutton to choose that path -- he had always had suicidal thoughts. And as Mesteno pointed out, the only thing Sutton ever really cared about, aside from wearing his body to the ground, was me and the need to have a child. It ruined us, the way he refused to believe me when I said I was too damaged to conceive. The way he wanted to use a band-aid to fix a gaping wound.

I didn't realize it until that moment in our coffee shop (as I have come to think of it) that rather cruelly, I've linked myself to not one, but two men who were desperate to get me pregnant. It was all Sutton wanted, and the only thing Bjorn could think of to mention while wooing me away from my lover at the time. Even when he was with Adam, Bjorn made sure to gain my promise that I would bear a child for them one day. And, just like Sutton, he never really believed that I was damaged.


And so, the wildcat's words stung me to the core, though she surely has no idea how deeply that knife went, how perfectly she had chosen her weapon of choice. For while I do not believe they were ever unfaithful, the very <u>thought</u> was enough to make me see red for a moment. To wound me. For -- if he had been, if Bjorn <u>had</u> ever looked her way (though he would never, she's not his type), then everything I went through for Jacob, for the little dream in my head would have been for nothing. That I am indebted to a witch and her violent raven for no reason at all.

I would hate to think that I am killing myself in vain.


(lyrics are melissa etheridge).

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 15, 2008 05:09 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

[pasogal2]

Shannon Maguire has always been a well kept secret in the art world, a regular diamond in the rough, but her latest collection entitled Dreams and Provocations has the potential to change all of that. Set to debut next week at the Cast Iron gallery (159 Mercer St.) in New York City, this show is marked as Maguire's return from a lengthy absence from the American art scene and I sat down with her to discuss the themes and her plans for the future:

Thank you again for speaking with us. Are you excited about the show?

Of course! I'm always excited about the opportunity to share my work.

This is your first show in America since your Intimate Conversations series in 2005. Why the long break?

I became a mother and wanted to fully relish in the new experience. It was a chance for me to recharge my batteries, so to speak, as well.

Speaking of your son, your recent style has changed dramatically from your former work. Do you think your new status could be the reason behind it?

Every painter changes their style from time to time. It's part of the growth process. I don't know of any painter who would want to paint the same thing over and over again -- or any audience that would want to look at a whole series of the same image.

You have focused solely on portraiture in the past but there isn't a single portrait in this collection. Any particular reason?

Not really, no. I'm still incredibly fascinated by people -- the human condition, you know? But I found that I was more inspired by the inner workings of a person. Their dreams and secret obsessions.

Some of the pieces are quite exquisite. I especially like the one called Torn Tarot. What was the inspiration behind it?

I'm quite fond of that piece as well. For me, it represents the way we are fascinated by the future. We as humans have always been trying to figure out what's coming. Trying to learn what path we are meant to follow.

Do you believe in fate, then?

I do, but I also believe that we have the ability to change our destinies.

Do you have a favorite piece?

I am fond of all of them.. I suppose I would say I am in love with Peacock in Repose.

That one is about vanity, I'm assuming?

They are horribly vain creatures.. But no, that painting means something to me. To me, it represents the one main obsession in every person's life -- to become connected to someone who adores you. To become bound to them and serve them in any way possible. That painting is about love.

And hopefully everyone will fall in love with it as well.

I hope so, yes!


<center>

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- </center>

"I sound like an idiot," Shannon complained while tossing the magazine down onto the small desk that was situated just inside the main doors of the gallery.

"What?" From behind to ornate wood paneling, Samantha turned about in her comfortable office chair in order to stare at Shannon from underneath the brim of her crimson beret. She thought it made her look like one of the characters from Sex and the City; Shannon could only think of tomatoes.

"I sounded like an idiot," Shannon repeated with a sigh, pushing the magazine closer to Samantha's side of the desk before she pushed back a few steps.

"No, you didn't," she soothed with a flutter of a smile. Samantha was used to Shannon's swiftly changing moods and weathered it all with her usual grace, the same way a breeze lazily slices through the humid air of a summer swelter.

"Oh well. Better luck next time right?" A wry tilt to her mouth and she shifted her wrist to glance down at her watch and its unmoving hands. When the time comes, you'll know. The voice of the raven drifted through her mind and she moved to retreat to her sanctuary.

With the ease of someone who was familiar with a task, she settled on the floor and reached for the stack of tarot cards, shuffling them languidly before dealing them into the usual cross pattern. One glance down at the collection of her cards had her cursing softly and moving to gather them up in order to repeat the process all over again.

It didn't change anything -- everything was still in reverse.

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 17, 2008 11:12 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>