Hey Girl, Your Eyes Smell of Vanilla 3WW

3ww Prompt: Punch, Unravel, T-shirt

"Hey Girl", he whispered as he moved in soo close he overshadowed her view, with plaid and circumstance.

"MMMmmmm, Your Eyes Smell of Vanilla."

Her dignity unraveled like the laces of a corset.

His t-shirt was sweaty, riddled with coffee stains and cigarette burns.

The stench was intolerable, but her nostrils flared to engulf it.

Collapsing on his shoulder was all she could do to resist the dirty temptation.

The punch came from out of the blue or that small, desperate place within her that was unwilling to be corrupted. She had no idea she was even capable of it. Square across his brow...one, two, three times. Across the floor, in a puddle of car grease he lay, beaten by her vanilla laced lashes.

Sunday Scribblings Prompt: Sleep & Teeth

"Teeth-...To dream that your teeth are very loose, portends to personal sickness; to dream that one of them comes out, denotes the loss of a friend or relative; to dream that they all fall out, is a sign of your own death."

-From the Universal Dream book published by W. Foulsham & Co. LTD. 1958

I solve problems in my sleep. It is a bizarre way to sleep, if you could call it sleep at all. I look at the obstacle in my minds eye from all sides, and inside out. Whether I am struggling or at odds with a work-related topic, a person or even trying to learn a new self-taught thing like crocheting a dog coat without a pattern. My eyes are closed and I fall into-and-out-of a jelly-roll type of consciousness with the repetition of my breadth. Finally, I come up with some kind of visual solution, an "ahh ha...that's it." moment. I have solved the problem literally, somehow I see it. Usually it is not until this moment that I have enabled myself to quiet my busy mind. A mind which in some form of tin-cymbal-clapping-monkey-way seems to be in a natural state of chisel hacking and gear turning. Sometimes, fortunately only rarely, I never reach this conclusive point and silencing me is a process of scrambling for little elfin helpers to induce sleep, like a glass a milk, or wine, or lastly, a sleeping pill or two.

Once a sleep, she is no longer me. She has ridden on the backs of whales, flown down flights of stairs and coasted over city skylines. Once a sleep, she can invoke a lover's touch, stop a rats oncoming vicious bite and dance herself into castles of glittery, shiny things.

This power is all her own, something she takes great joy and vindication in. No one can touch this place, for there she rules with throne and scepter.

Sometimes, once in a bright blue moon, she loses this magical power to control her dreams. She rises with ease unlike her true self in a pantomime of her morning ritual to go to work. She faces someone unlike herself in the mirror to see she has no teeth. They have all fallen out. The few that are left, are white pearls loose and dangling from a cord like acrobats in front of a fun house mirror at a carnival. These are the moments when she feels true helplessness. When the word 'can't' seems true. Where the weight of her 'real' body comes crashing back in and she is me all over again.

Thankfully it was just a dream.

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