30 November 2011


(note: this is smut after the set of asterisks.)

The boy’s frame was thin, he seemed unused to the length of his limbs, as if puberty was still a recent memory and he hadn’t had much time in the new body it had given him. Of course he wasn’t actually a boy. As a second semester freshman he’d have to be at least 18, right? But the gangly adolescence remained. He didn’t seem to realize that he could add to his meager muscles. Instead, what was there just stood on end when he moved. This is not to say he wasn’t fit. Though he moved as if uncomfortable in his body, he moved well, each joint sliding as it should under all those wiry muscles. He was not confidant, but not hesitant either, just steady; pacing down the sidewalk.

I was observing from my dorm balcony, sipping cocoa with Irish cream, watching people pass as is my wont. Studying one so long is a rarity, though. But I couldn’t not. He was fascinating.

He ought to be cold, walking outside in only a tight t-shirt in April. But all the better to observe how wonderfully he was put together.

Many people would look at him and note his spare frame and obvious youth. They might distain his flaming orange hair and the freckles that were splattered across his face and, likely, everywhere else. I distained none of it.

In twenty seconds he had walked from the right, to just under my balcony. As he passed, his eyes flicked my way. His intelligent, alive, jade green eyes glanced off my own and slid away. My stomach flipped.

I wonder if he’d even been aware of me. And if he had, did he see my interest? Surely he felt my eyes following his retreat, settling on his backside. His jeans didn’t hug it – there wasn’t much to hug- but I could imagine it. Suddenly, I needed to be somewhere private…

For the few hours before my next class, I thought about that boy. I memorized the angles of him. His posture. That keen glance. And I mentally undressed him. Several times. I couldn’t get farther than that though. I could visualize his legs, lithe, lightly covered in ginger hairs. And I could see his thin chest, with its delightful trail leading… somewhere. It was actually a bit frustrating.


I looked into those eyes, the deep green flashed longing and I felt the same as I had when we’d first shared a glance. My hand came up and touched his hair near his ear, pushing it back and burying my fingers against his scalp. His hand was on my arm, resting in the crook of my elbow. I pulled him in and brushed my lips against his. As usual, he was neither confidant nor hesitant, he met my kiss and followed my lead as I parted his lips with my tongue. The touch of our tongues was like being dowsed in boiling water. The pace changed instantly.

I pulled him close, kissing him messily. He arms encircled me as I clung to his head. Then I ran my hand down his chest, feeling his pulse. He gasped as I tweaked a stiff nipple. I pinched a bit harder and he bit my lower lip sharply as he squirmed. My hand continued lower, squeezing his hip and sliding under the hem of his shirt. He pulled his middle in at my touch, making all of his ribs stand on end. I moved my hand to his back, feeling up the length of his spine inciting sheet after sheet of delightful goose bumps. My hand slid back down, finding the hem of his boxer briefs and sliding under. At this he pulled away, stared at me, breathing heavily. His gemstone eyes unsure, yet eager.

I used my eyes and the tips of my fingers to reassure him. He grinned that wide, goofy grin, and came back in to kiss my neck.

My hand found his waistline again and I plunged under, gripping his lean behind. He rocked onto me and did some ass-grabbing of his own.

I toke the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head smoothly, exposing his clear white skin, patterned with clusters of auburn freckles. I began to kiss his chest while pushing him down under me. He allowed himself to be reclined, but looped his arms around my neck to ensure that I accompanied him. I sprawled next to him, still kissing his chest and neck. He gripped my shirt, pulling eagerly at it. I decided to allow its removal. It’s only fair. But before I could return to administering to him, his hands were on my chest, sliding across and down my sides.

With some effort, I pushed him back down onto his back and straddled him, running my hands along his chest as I slowly kissed down the center of his chest. And lower.

I slowly undid the button of his jeans feeling the hardened bulk underneath. He gasped and gripped the headboard with one hand and my hair with the other.

I drew his penis out of the top of his boxers and sat upright to admire it. It reached his belly button and twitched with anticipation.

A sound like a whimper escaped him as I gently kissed the tip and moved my lips along the length. But I wasn’t ready just yet. I wanted to draw it out more. So I gripped his jeans and pulled them down. Then I lay along side him and met his mouth with mine again. As we kissed he fiddled with my jeans and caressed me through my boxers. One arm was around his shoulders, holding him close to me, the other hand trailed down and found his erection again. Slowly I began stroking, feeling the veins bulge, stifling his gasps with my lips.

Then in a surprising burst, he was on top of me, straddling my erection with his own. I bucked my hips, seating him further up on my chest instead of my waist. Close enough so I could get his cock into my mouth. He wasn’t expecting that at all, and wide-eyed thrust it deeper in response. I didn’t gag of course, but used my hands to move his hips back and forth until he got the rhythm and I could put them to use elsewhere. My fingers found his crack and I heard him moan to the ceiling. I felt along the crease, spreading his buttocks and touching my fingers lightly against his anus.

His knees were in my armpits which gave me leverage to roll him over. I lay between his legs, sucking away, using one hand to help in that endeavor while the other entertained his backside.

The remainder of that session is now a blur to me. It has happened to me once before, my first time ever in Jim’s grandparents’ hot tub. (All I remember from that session is nearly drowning and having a sore ass for days.)

But this was as different sort of blur. Even in his inexperience, he sort of took over and moved himself and me to all the appropriate position. I remember sucking him and dry, but also watching him spray me from my navel to my neck. Condoms and lube were broken out. I’m glad that’s a subconscious habit now, though I only know because of the wrappers. I remember the overwhelming euphoria that was far more than just orgasmic. Everything was right. As right as it ever would be.

I just wish I could remember how he sounded when I entered him or when he entered me, as I am assured that both occurred. I wish I could remember the feeling of his tonsils against the head of my cock.

I guess we’ll just have to do it again, without the blur. In the meantime, I’m safe in his embrace. I can feel his breath on my back. Our fingers are entwined.
Novemeber is at its end. And so is my desperate drive to write. I did fairly well with writing every day. Hopefully tonight or tomorrow, I'll type out all (or most) of the things I've written in my notebook. Fairly exciting.
Sleep tickles the edges of my mind. Clouding my head like miniscule cobwebs. Dusty. Stuffy. Cloying. My lungs seem not to be able to take in the proper amount of air. I feel stifled. My limbs are heavy. Moving is arduous. Yet my muscles jitter faintly. Never letting me forget they are there. Limp yet restless.

Yet for all that, my head refuses to quiet and give in to the lull of darkness, of the soft pillow and warm blankets.

I am reluctant to turn of the bedside lamp. Reluctant to succumb to sleep. And dreams. Never remembered, but tickling the edges of consciousness. Haunting vagueries. Remnants of an overactive brain. The faint memories of those dreams are more stifling than my sodden lungs.

29 November 2011

Frost like shards of glass. Or fuzzy and friendly looking. Dead footprints across the grass. Breath that hangs in a shroud.

28 November 2011

I don't know how to alleviate stress. My own or others'.

27 November 2011

I've been really off lately.

Sometimes that means I write more, but as you can see, this time it means I don't want to write.

I don't want to turn this into a journal blog, but I'll speak a little about my funk.

I feel very isolated. I don't talk to new people well and it seems I don't keep in good touch with old friends either. It makes me sad. Even the ones who are near are infrequent. And I dislike talking on the phone. And as much as I realize I'm not a great friend, I often wonder why it is always up to me to initiate most anything. Sometimes I want to be surprised. Invited. Spoiled. Anything but ignored.

I'm going to work on friendships. It's essential. I don't want to become a shadow to everyone but by boyfriend and my roommate.
I exist in silence
in the space between words
cut off from the art of speaking
limited to the arrangement of letters on a page

it's lonely here
between the light and the dark
a liminal space

24 November 2011

Thanksgiving has traditionally been my favorite holiday. I like it because it's supposed to be about fellowship and love. Not about giving or receiving gifts. It's also not particularly religious, which lately is an added bonus.

Usually, it's the holiday I like to spend with my family. Often not on the actual day of Thanksgiving, but usually on one of the weekends near it. This year, however, I wasn't invited to my parents' to celebrate. I recently found out that this is because my parents aren't formally celebrating. They're going to serve food to the local homeless people. I think that's great! Though, it is sad not to spend some time with them and eat some of my mother's wonderful home-raised turkey. And all the other great food she prepares.

Two years ago when I went back for Thanksgiving, I had just come out to my parents as queer. I was worried about their reactions. But my parents often do a maddening silence bit before a discussion. So for the first two days I was home, they acted as though nothing were different. I was freaking out inside and became very drunk before and during dinner. It was not the best year.

This year, I was slated to have dinner with some grand friends of mine. I made some chocolate chip whiskey pecan pies. However, my friend is now in the hospital and Thanksgiving with them is postponed. She'll be fine, I'm assured, but it does leave me a bit adrift this holiday.

I wish I was spending this holiday with my boyfriend, but he is with his family. I was told I could go with him, but I would have to be careful about everything. I didn't want to worry about whether or not I'd inadvertently make his parents angry at him.

I've been invited to accompany my roommate and some friends, but I do not know the host, though I do know many of the other attendees. I'm uncertain how I feel about being one of them.

It's very warm here today, around 70 degrees, and through my open window I can smell various neighbors cooking deliciousness.

This ends my Thanksgiving ramblings.

23 November 2011

I hate that I'm tired always. Lids heavy and eyes unfocused. I hate that I have to attempt sleep earlier than him. Shutting him out behind my back. Easily ignoring the light and small noises.

My favorite is when he closes his laptop. The soft click rouses me from my light slumber, but I do not fully wake until he flips the light off and climbs back into bed. He wraps an arm around me and kisses my ear. I make small movements and noises, acknowledging him. He whispers "I love you." And I mumble it back to him with a smile. It's easy to sleep in his embrace.

22 November 2011

Today, I am sad.

The news makes me sad. World news. Egypt. Domestic news. Occupy. Presidential Campaigns.

Sometimes (most times) I just want to run away somewhere and hide. Or, barring that, hide for days in a book.

21 November 2011

As kids we're told we're unique as snowflakes. And while that's ture, they do neglect to tell you that, like snowflakes, we're pretty worthless and weak alone. Pretty? Sure, but brief.

This could be taken in two contexts. One is optimistic, hinting at utility though unity and cooperation and community. The other a bit dour, that no one can ever shine individually. That we only ever have use in the big picture. That idnviduals don't matter one bit in the scheme of things.

I take either view depending on the day. Today is the latter.

20 November 2011

There was a time when I was a Jedi Master. I feel that during those time, my padawan taught me more than vice versa. Sure, I was older, and perhaps I introduced the fandoms, but I was not the driving force. It was she who taught me the choreography of certain fight scenes. It was she who came up with the best of out satirical screenplay jokes. I was simply a wealth of rather useless geeky trivia.

I miss those times.

19 November 2011

My beef with the "community"

Sometimes I really dislike the queer community. Or at least many individuals within it. I think that one of the main goals is to be accepted and open and sharing with all people. Apparently though, some people want the community to be completely separate and uninfiltrated by anyone who may be an ally. Or they want thier particular letter of the acronym (LGBTQIA etc) to be a separate entity apart from all the others. There is a lot of animosity because of this. Gay men and lesbians disliking bisexuals because they aren't fully homosexual. Lesbians disliking transguys for deserting womanhood. Gay males refusing to acknowledge transguys as datable males. Transguys thinking they're better and more trans than transwomen simply because they might pass better. Trans people who are further along in transition thinking they are better or more trans than those who are further behind and those who don't desire to medically transition.

All of those instances are reprehensible, but the biggest transgression I've recently seen is the queer community not ackowleging acceptance from hetero and cis allies. If we ever want any weight in this world, regarding politics especially, we need allies to work with us. We need to be seen as normal, everyday people and not a separate, exclusive club.

Unfortunately transpeople cannot escape from the sexuality acronym. We are simply not as accepted or numerous. We need the extra voices. Also, often transpeople do end up or start off within the sexuality letters, whether a transguy was once a lesbian or a transwoman is now, etc.

The animosity within the community breaks down all its arguments about inclusiveness, normality, love and, well, community.

18 November 2011

I ranted on another blog.
It's my friend's birthday today. You should go check out her blog about writing. It's far better than this one.
I had a rough night last night. But I had a dream about job searching. Sort of. That's the vibe I got. One of my college professors was in it. And I don't recall what he said, but he was encouraging and helpful. It was generally a good dream.

I hope he'd write me some sort of recommendation when/if the time comes. He's certainly got ins in the nonprofit sector.

17 November 2011

I'm tired pretty much always. I try to eat decently and I do fairly well with that, but I don't get much exercise outside of work and I don't get much outside time at all. On my days off, all I want to do is sleep in, eat and lie in bed all day.

And so here I am, the first day of my weekend, I slept in a few hours more than usual, ate a bit, then went back to bed, played the sims on facebook, listened to streamingsoundtracks.com. And only got up take the trash out around 3 in the afternoon.

What I should be doing is probably going for a walk. Searching for jobs that don't eat my soul. Catching up with old friends (or family).

Perhaps tomorrow. Or next weekend.

16 November 2011

I don't lie much. I certainly won't lie to you if I don't care about you. If I don't care what you think. Not that I lie to people I care about, but I do approach things differently in order to be a bit gentler to them.

Generally, if a question is asked to me, I'll answer truthfully. Just don't ask questions to which you don't want to know the answer.
She resembles a Great Dane. Tall and thin, complete with the plethora of nervous tics.

But I like Danes.

15 November 2011

Thye're making tootsie rolls smaller these days. I know these things. I know candy. I once laughed for about thirty minutes about tootsie rolls...
Lady Gaga isn't my main diety.

She is part of the trinity though...

13 November 2011

Why is it that people assume I want to lose weight when I say I'm on a diet? Yes, I do have some excess fat, but actually, I'm trying to simply be healthier. I am also trying to gain muscle mass, so I think I may actually gain weight to reach my ideal.
Also, everyone is technically on a diet. A diet of fast food perhaps, or perhaps a starvation one. But a diet. Sort of like the weather. There is always weather. Even if it isn't raining or windy etc, it is still there. Existing.

Wow, strange rant.
(in light of the previous post... This is very rough and instantaneous. Don't judge.)

Nothing could prepare him for zero gravity. Sure, he’d heard everyone talk about it. How it was cool, how it was hard to get used to. The disorientation. The nausea. How at least half of them had thrown up the first time. And often the second time as well. Masks were provided, because no one wanted to be in zero gravity with free vomit.

He watched the video attentively, understanding that it wasn’t like watching the flight attendants on an airplane explaining seat belts. If that had to be explained, people would be better off on the ground. But this video gave pointers. Like if/when nausea hits, close your eyes. Orient down to your seat, the one your body is tightly strapped into. That’s where gravity will return. Hold onto the armrests, floating arms can cause more disorientation.

And then they helped him strap in. The zero-grav jet was much like an airliner in interior appearances. But the seat belts were elaborate. They didn’t just cross over your lap like usual. Thick, padded straps hugged everyone’s chests and even came across thighs.

Then the tremendous pressure of acceleration. He figured that they should warn people of increased gravity just as much as decreased. Then, suddenly it seemed all force was turned off. There was no sense of movement at all, yet his stomach kept its course. It did a little flip, making him feel much the same as he had during his first kiss. Tingly and sick, and amazing and free.

After the first flip, his stomach seemed to settle in and he opened his eyes to observe. He could tell who was used to these trips and who wasn’t by whether they had their eyes open or not. Some people even looked a little bored while others clung to their seats.

He still very much felt his own center of gravity and had no problem feeling that his butt and feet were down. He directed his gaze out the nearest portal, and that’s when some disorientation crept in. Because he had assumed the planet was behind him, not to his left. And the motionless feeling was instantly proved to be false because of the rate the planet was shrinking.

“Why are we traveling sideways?” He thought, trying to calm his brief panic; trying to reorient. He had to close his eyes for a bit. When he looked again, the planet had shrunk more.

“Prepare for deceleration” The captain’s voice said over the intercom.

And the forces hit him hard again. Down was once again , firmly in the seat.

He'd arrived at the moon.
I watched a clip of the Apollo astronauts falling on the moon. It's not something often seen. It was amusing to be sure. They generally show the graceful bounding and ecstatic thumbs-ups. This clip brought to life exactly how awkward and foreign the moon really is. I'm sure everyone knew that the gravity was low, but surely nothing can actually properly prepare you for that.

Still, I think I'd love to have a go at moon gravity.
Concentration suspended.
Eyes fixed; vacant.

12 November 2011

My head's been overactive lately. Usually I retreat to my journal or into some senseless movie or video game. But I realize that I need to write. I need to put it out here. Not just because I said I would, but because writing for an audience is actually great therapy.

The thing I've been overthinking is the fact that I'm not who I want to be. Not yet. I don't even know exactly who I want to be. I know that I'm closer than I was, but that I'm not where I need to be.

I've made a lot of progress these last few years. Mostly in the respect that I'm far more comfortable in my own body than ever before. Sure, it's costing me a deal of money and some slight heartache with regards to my family and some old friends. But I am far more confident now, and comfortable.

I think I need to start switching my focus soon though. These past couple of years I haven't made any other sorts of progress except for on the trans front. Now I need to find a job that I actually like doing. I need to develop other aspects of my life. I need to remember my friends.

Writing really is a big help for me. But it also makes me a bit sad. Because I know that I won't really be able to do anything worthwhile by writing. I don't really want to be published, because that means that I cannot really write for myself, but only for others. Even if it does mean money. Much of the fun of things goes away when one is expected to do them for money. Like enjoying animals for instance.

I also have a problem with plotlines if I'm writing fiction. I seem to do well enough with description and decent with characters, but I'm crap at actually coming up with a storyline. Perhaps I just have a negative attitude.

I'll work on that too.

11 November 2011

I have been writing in my notebook. Except for yesterday.

I don't wanna write.

08 November 2011

The dogs don't bite. Not if you kick them first. He'd heard that some people kept dogs as friends, in their homes and fed them. But here, they just shredded trash and fought among themselves. They also loved to transfer bad things to people. Sometimes it was something fairly normal like fleas or lice, but occasionally it was rabies from a bite. Manuel had seen it before. Usually, when a rabid dog was noticed, the mayor of the village was notified. He was the only one with a gun. But once a rabid dog bit a little girl. Her mother was worried, but didn't know what to do. The girl's leg healed, but several months later, she got sick and Manuel had heard rumors that she'd died grotesquely. Death was normal to him though. Two of his own younger siblings had not lived to one year old. This was so common as to be almost expected, therefore neither of them had been named.

Manuel remembered one of them, the other had only been two years younger than himself and he'd heard about him from Tiwe, his older sister. The one he remembered was a girl, she'd been very vocal and active at the beginning, but had become sick from water. She then just wasted away silently. The smell is what he remembered most. Diarrhea. Death. He'd tried to spend most of his time out of doors, helping father in the field.

The corn was life. They ate it. They sold it. And they drank it. Without corn, nearly every small Raramuri village in the Copper Canyon would disappear. Only those along the railway would survive, due to tourism.

Manuel helped his father by building up berms of rocky soil against the newly sprouted corn. water was directed into the channel between these berms, if there was water. Some years the small creek all but dried up and they had to hope and pray for rain. Some years they went hungry.

I could keep writing about the basic life of the Tarahumara/Raramuri, but I feel it's a bit redundant. I'll return to Manuel at a later date. If you want to read more about them I can send you an essay I wrote in college.
Today I've been nostalgic about Mexico, and so I wrote several snippets about it, centering around a Tarahumara character I created some years ago.

The footpath traced a tenuous trail along the canyon about a hundred yeards below its rim. It was steep on either side, but not completely impassible. The trail wound around towering yucca stalks, their foliage reavealing inch long points. Red barked trees oozed their roots over and around and even through the copper-coloured granite.

Manuel was making his way briskly along the trail, almost running, surefooted in his huraches*. He kept glancing to his left, down the canyon slope to the green tinted water below. He knew the trail would not take him there, and he wanted to find a decent spot to descend the treacherous scree.

He finally found it, a break in the yuccas that seemed to lead almost directly to the river. His feet slid in the loose, dry rock, but he was careful not the grab any plants to stop his fall. The yucca leaves would easily slice his hands to the bone and the spiny trees were no better. Only firm rock and the occasional surdy root could safely stablize him.

His rough brown hands found the appropriate holds to keep his downward momentum in check, and within a few moments he was at the bottom of the canyon, perched on a boulder at the water's edge.

The normally sluggish water was swift in this place, bottlenecked by the boulder on which he stood. Upstream though, the backup caused a slow, deep pool. With no futher hesitation, Manuel plunged in fully clothed. The water was only a few feet deep, his head never went under, yet he couldn't breathe for several seconds. The river was pure snow melt. Even in mid-June it was icy.

Refreshed and breathless, Manuel slithered back onto the rock and stood, dripping. Drops fell like crystals from his shirt and shattered on the rock.

He began to scramble back up the way he'd come.

Going up was difficult, but at least he'd cooled his body for the trek. Again avoiding yuccas and other plants, he hauled himself upward. His pants were soon muddied and he could feel the grit between his toes. He left a slimy trail behind him. He made it up to the level of the trail, then crossed it in one step and continued upward toward the canyon rim.

The sun was now just west of center, beating down mercilessly on his back. His shirt was dry before he reached the ridge.

At the top, he stopped to catch his breath and survey the land, getting his bearings. Behind him the ground dropped away, but ahead of him it sloped gently into a plain before being inturrupted by more cliffs.

He'd come from the south, upstream, along the trail and now, he could see another trail, skirting the edges of the plain before him. Another creek ran through the area and it was surrounded on all sides by fields of vibrant foot tall corn.

*sandals made from tire and leather cords.

07 November 2011

I don't like forcing myself to write. I like writing when the muse takes charge and flows within me, writing for me. But the muse is elusive, wandering distant lands currently. I've made a promise to write every day in November. So here I am writing about not writing...

06 November 2011

The sands dripped like viscous liquid around my bare feet, eradicating all but divots behind me. The steady winds caused a layer of particles like steam to swirl above the crests of the dunes. The grit in my mouth was metallic and harsh, sand drawn in on my panting breath. Each step was laborious, and only gained half the usual distance due to the shifting sands beneath me. The tawny, moving dunes were backlit by a weak autumn sun and framed in a brilliant backdrop of sapphire. Had the sun been at it's summer angle, my feet would be blistered under scorching sands. Instead, the sand was cool and pleasant as it enveloped my feet and scuffed the dry skin gently.

We've come to a time when Autumn borders on Winter. When the crisp air turns to cold air and one's breath shows in white steam. The air makes nostrils tingle and the urge to cough rises in the throat.

Because of the heavy nightly frosts, the fallen colors do not cruch satisfyingly anymore. Instead, the leaves are damp and heavy.

Chilly winds blow the almost bare branches. They reach skeletally to the weak sun, praying for warmth that they will not recieve for many long months.

They days get just warm enough to cause the thick frost to melt, sending rivulets of muddy water down the storm drains in a constant trickle.

The air smells of rotting leaves and more cold to come.

04 November 2011

The bright, fresh sun, slices through the chilly morning air, seeps through the slats of my blinds and illuminates a patch on my far wall. I can feel the air creeping in around my rattly windows, and pull my comforter up higher under my chin. It's too early to wake, though the presence sun means it's later than usual. I can hear the breathing of my boyfriend next to me, and the sound of cars driving nearby. And further away, a siren. Ambulance.

I take my time getting up. There is no rush except the pressure on my bladder, but I am loathe to leave the warmth of my bed.

03 November 2011

Cold sweat seems so trite rolling from my tongue, or leastwise, coming out of the ends of my fingers onto the keys. But cold sweat is an apt description of how I woke up this morning; later than usual, but not as late as I would have liked for my day off. My brain was in a dream-induced confusion; my down comforter too heavy; and my bed unfamiliarly empty of anyone but me.

It took me a good solid minute of controlled breathing and staring at my dimly lit ceiling to piece things together.

I won't tell you about the dream, or what I remember of it, but only of the feeling it created in my gut, in my head, in my whole being. A feeling of profound wrongness. All was lost to me. My world had been shaken around like a trinket snow globe, but the pieces refused to fall back to logical order. My bastion of support in life is ever-present in my dreams when I remember them, but he was strangely absent from all but the beginning of this one. Replaced only by dread. Dread of decisions about the future, fears about my past, my mother, death, hiding, test anxiety. Apparently the only person I could think of in my dream to help me was far too engrossed in texting and came dressed in a slightly too large Storm Trooper uniform.

I seldom like remembering my dreams. I rarely remember the good ones...

Nov 2

I did not forget to write yesterday, I simply wrote in my notebook and haven't translated it onto my laptop etc. I may not post here every day, but be assured, I am writing.

01 November 2011

There is a beagle who lives above me. He is the loneliest beagle in the whole world. I have never seen this dog, but I hear him daily, singing for his owners to return to him and end his cruel lonely torment.

I know that the floor above is not carpeted. This is evident when aformentioned beagle scuddles across it in frantic attempts to find some company.

These are not the only things I know about the apartment upstairs. I also know that the people like to tap dance in each room (on the hardwood floors) at all hours of the day and night. Additionally, they seem to be training for a wrestling title by throwing themselves repeatedly at the floor from some great height.

Also, I'm sure I'd find burried treasure just above my coffee table. I heard them them sawing and digging and pounding there recently.

They are whimsical people who enjoy a new veiw every day or so by routinely dragging heavy objects such as sofas and shelves back and forth.

Then there is the rocking chair. The slow, rhythmic creak wakes me up in the wee hours, as it is directly above my bed.
I feel it in my stomach, heavy, dead. The taste on my tongue contaminates my mouth, makes my throat dry, my lips crack.

The feeling is dread, the taste; fear.

Surprisingly, my hands aren't sweaty, I must have wrung them dry. And my breathing, despite the foulness inside me, is steady and even. i hope my voice can mirror that.

(read nothing into this, it's just a description)