Morning Fights

I didn't mean
to yell so loud, to cast her out
into the bitter cold
thinking I didn't love.
My harsh words bit back,
thoughts of her sliding
over black ice, metal crushing and pinching
bright lights flashing.
I didn't mean
for that to be the end.
I hope I can cover it
with something else. Dear me,
do I hope for another
chance to make amends.

Poem - 3/6/2014

It seems as if the fates are sick 
of letting me find my way, 
as though the mask of control 
has been shattered and 
destiny is suffocating me.

The scars of stories slithering 
in my ears, ripping their way from 
the far reaches of my voice,
deep into the hollow stains of my eyes. 
The bright sharp snap of knowledge is pressing 
closer, whispering, heavy breathing and moist hisses.

It chuckles with a deep growl, 
mocking the candle of future reprieves. 
Could it swallow me up, softly holding me there, 
dripping heated screams
the color of lavender and cream

-Britny Musson

Update : The Bunny Saga Full Of Drama

Hey All,

Sorry for the hiatus. I've been quite the busy Bunny. If you follow my Tumblr, there have been more recent updates but I figured that you lot deserved a little bit of backstory for this past month.

I started vlogging again and have taken to being more honest and direct in my posts. As you can clearly see here:

Yikes, I was in quite the mood that day.

In other news, there was a Welcome To Nightvale live recording in Washington DC on Tuesday and I was lucky enough to have a ticket. The theater was packed and sold freshly baked giant Ho Ho's. It was a beautiful night. I even dappered up for the occassion:

Needless to say, a night with Cecil and the Nightvale Community Broadcast was exactly what the doctor ordered.

Oh, and I wrote a screenplay, which I am in the process of editing along with my novel.

And I met a boy, the one from the poem replies saga, and he is quite the swoon worthy accountant.

Its nice to have cuddles and snogging again. It will be sad when I leave in August but a meaningful connection is nothing to reject based on timing. 

Until next tme, and I promise that will be sooner than later,

B

Working from home: Mother and Texting

Technology isn’t my mother’s forte

Not something she grasped, I must say

And so it is to me the teaching must fall

Regardless of my plans, I answer the call

But timing is another failure on her part

Especially when at work, as meetings start

Down from her room, she will descend

Cell phone in hand, with a draft I must mend

The words are mispelled, too many spaces between

But providing that criticism, is far too mean

So I edit and explain, and roll my eyes

And then she asks about emojis, how will I survive?

He Reads Me

"Same library, and sometimes the same section, but our pages are different, we write them in different ways."

I could hear him walking down the aisle, the echo of his boots shaking the walls of my world. I wish I could move a little bit farther from my spot, to stand out from the others. I was wedged between the classics, not really in any particular order. I could hear the murmurings of the others. The display case said that he was young but how young? Sometimes the taller children could reach us and we would sit scattered around the building for hours to days before we found our way back home. My spine was growing stiff, the muted grey and blue couldn’t match the sparkling appeal of the leather and gold.

I settled in the beginning, rooted softly in the large wing-backed chair that was my home for three pages out of the rest. It was my favorite part. I watched as the room settled itself, moving back to where it was to start. The fire in my study crackled softly as the day shifted back to night. I could hear the wolves howling next to my window and I hissed at them to quiet down. They didn’t scare me until chapter seven and it was not the time to start showing off. The soft cracked leather of the chair slowly repaired itself. I knew that we were all doing the same, preening and preparing; Settling into our molds in hopes that the hands would reach up and wrapped around us.

I held my breath as the footsteps stopped in front of my row. The display case shouted out that he was reaching for Sherlock, they always picked him first. I could hear his victorious chatter as Watson lectured him about propriety. They giggled maliciously but their joy was cut short as they were put back in their spot. Emma complained from her opened page, that he didn’t seem romantic enough to appreciate her story and went back to painting. My skin itched as I felt him gripping me. The room shook and my lunch threatened to stain the purple and gray checkered rug beneath my feet. The books on the table swayed lightly and I watched as my tea jumped from its cup a few times. I never got used to being picked up.

Once the tremors subsided I readied myself for the change. They never opened to the first page. Sometimes I ended up mid sentence in a completely different location and other times I tumbled through so many pages as they flipped nonchalantly through it all. My story wasn’t very unique. I felt boring in comparison to the great works of literature I was forced to reside with. People seemed to like the beginning of my story but they never made it past the woods where I hid. Sometimes, I would be trapped huddling in the forest up in a tree for weeks while they avoided me. The wolves would tirelessly circle, we would talk about what we saw from our open perch, usually on the night stand. I spent a whole summer wedged between a box of crackers and a pile of smelly socks underneath a bed a few years ago.

Most of the main characters were aware of the world outside of the ink. Usually, it happened immediately after printing but sometimes it took decades to become sentient. Supporting characters didn’t feel the need to acknowledge the readers. Others grew bitter and their words faded or they made pages stick together for events they preferred not to repeat. My life wasn’t very interesting, in my opinion, but then again, I had done it a few hundred times.

I felt the spine crack and a pull in my stomach as I jumped from my seat and into my bedroom. He was on the second chapter, just after I discovered I was being given a position as a tutor. My story was a dystopia, “a story of adversity in high society with a futuristic spin” or so my back wall proclaimed. I felt dizzy and I shook my dress out a bit before the bright lights of the aisle touched my floor. His eyes were bright blue behind silver thin rectangle frames. He had a scar starting above his left eye that slightly went through the tapered end of thick dark eyebrows. His complexion was a ruddy tan, from spending a great deal of time outdoors, but his lips were much paler and a little fuller at the bottom. His cheekbones were high, and his eyes tipped up at the ends, barely obstructed by the glasses. His hair was thick and greasy, black and shiny, like overly polished dress shoes. He was beautiful.

I felt the heat rise up my neck and warm my face. I knew that he couldn’t tell that the blush wasn’t from my shouting match with my mother, after she tried to forbid me from taking the position. I ached to crane my neck to get another look at him but he was reading about my escape. My eyes snapped forward as I pulled the blue dress from my wardrobe and changed into it. I was used to having to change with eyes on me but the propriety was shielded by the words which never quite went into enough detail to give away what I really looked like. I blushed again anyways. He was at the end of the page now, I was at the window, looking over the trellis, calculating my climb down. I would make it down safely but a bee buzzing in my ear would distract me enough that I lose my footing and tumble down the back hill. The bruise would last six pages.

“Jason!” The word shot out from beyond the page and rang in my ears. He turned his head and answered back, his thick booming voice almost sending me toppling over the edge of my sil. The book snapped closed and I sat down, unbuttoning the collar of my coat. I waited, listening for the soft slide of being put back. It didn’t come. My room shook and dipped as if someone was running with me. I clapped excitedly, calling back to the others, some of them cheered while others did not. It was nice to feel the lasers warming the back side of my hardback, to hear the soft rustle of papers and the swift shift back to his hands. He placed me in the dark of a bag and onto his back. There was a deep growling rumble around me that was only mildly muffled by the fabric. The bag shook and tilted.

I fell asleep shortly after, the vibrations rocking me gently. I didn’t notice that we had stopped or that he had walked into his room until I was being jerked back into my leather chair, the chamomile tea filling my senses, a vase of lavender on the table in front of me. It felt good to be read again. He read through my introduction, aloud, the smooth timbre of his voice was peppered with sweet peaks brightly springing out over the clunky sentences. I never liked my beginning. It always felt pretentious, the author seemed quite pleased with it though, he put me in other works, but just the mention of me. When a finger ran over my name, or a tongue slid through the sounds, I felt the uncomfortable pull to somewhere foreign and cold. I could taste the acidic ink on bleached paper, my name pulled apart and reconstructed in their image. I missed the rich tang of stained quills and uneven scraps of parchment.

He had stopped reading and moved on, flipping me over again. I tumbled again, the hot tea scalding my arm before it landed in my lap.

-Britny Musson

Working From Home: Daughter of a Cancer Patient

In my pajamas, fresh from a shower

I prep my desk and give my devices power

The tea is steeping, my oatmeal quite hot

To my chair, becuase this is my spot

Cracking my knuckles and stretching slowly

I prepare myself for a long day of data entry

But from upstairs, my name come sliding down

My mother needs help and makes it loud

So I will type and report, scurry as required

Multitasking makes one very tired

Stubborn as the night is cold

Forget not the screams of my shadows
Pulsing deep with the light
Of a moon over the moors
It's a sweetness, the tell tale bittnerness
Wrapping from tongue to limb and back again
Pulling at ropes and dirt piled low
Arching like heated wood

-Britny Musson

Two or Three in One: Read Between The Lines

The fog rolls in, bright white flashes, 

       pulsing with slow moving ticks of the clock

Burrow deep, shuddering

       against the tight tangled clump of day 

Beating it back, drifting 

       into the calm, the spinning shadows

in a darkened room.

-Britny Musson

UCAS: The University of Lincoln and the Conditional Offer

The letter has been received, I should be completely relieved

They just need a copy of my degree, the one my college sent to me

My mother is without answers, but we blame the medecine and cancers

My grandmother is just the same, she will not take any blame

It seems that while they were cleaning, they have forgotten where it was hiding

So I am not upset, with maturity I will not fret

My alma matter, it would seem, will happily send a replacement to me

But of course, there will be some additional fees

The road to education didn't run smooth

And it will take more than this to ruin my mood

UCAS: Falmouth Uni and the Unconditional Offer

A flurry of chills and sniffles greeted me quickly

The croak of a cough rising with the morning

And with a phone call, my mood would change

Another place in the UK was waiting for me

Though I still feel like death warmed over

This happy news has me once step closer

My first week back home

At first it was flights and a time zone change

Pretending to unpack and meetups to arrange

The mornings arrived faster and errands piled high

My mother and I, to the hospital we would drive

And then came a Tuesday full of interviews galore

Repeating myself with enthusiam was the chore

And now after 72 hours of jobless couch surfing

I have been hired, stress I will be purging