my last doc writing exercise ever. w00t!
I am a fairy. I don't have wings, but I flit and float in a gown of sky-spun silk and a drape of white sprinkled with the meadow's brightest flowers. The wind tosses my hair about and dances over the pointed tips of my ears as I search the patch for the tiny four-leaved clover among its ordinary brothers. I blow bubbles and watch them dance off into the wild. I am as tiny as a mushroom or as grand as a tree.
I am an international super-spy. Twenty-one hundred hours: stealth mode activated as I use the guise of cold to ensconce myself in a blanket, covering the deliciously unsuspecting mark's key chain so that I can borrow them undetected. Leaving my partner to seduce him, I grab my gear and go to his apartment, where I enact a solo reconnaissance mission, successfully skirting the guards at the door, and leaving without a trace.
I am a succubus. Powerful and seductive, my blood pulses as I go to work. Wanted and adored and, for the moment, the center of his tiny, insignificant world. I live for the look in his eyes as I stare straight into them and he knows that he has lost control. He has relinquished everything and now travels at my speed, rides with my rhythm, goes wild for my touch. My pleasure is my power at his utter helplessness in my hands.
I am urban. Dressed up in a little white shirt and wide-leg pants with fluorescent trim, my hair in tight little buns all over my head, streaked with red, my face adorned with ultraviolet-sensitive glitter, and wrapped in a shiny black leather coat, I hit the streets, ready for some parties, where I can rave the night away with my glow sticks and liquid moves. In the oversized pockets of my pants, I have three Red Bulls, which I will chug in succession for an extra jolt once I get to where the trance pumps from gigantic speakers and the energy of the room throbs in time to the beat.
I am barefoot-and-pregnant trailer trash. Deciding it's time for a new image, my best friend and I bleach my hair blond, but since we have no experience, it looks rather streaky. I put on my shorts and stretch a t-shirt over my ball-like stomach-no need for a bra-and slip my favorite star slippers on my feet. My red lipstick and blue eye shadow bring out my best features. It's time go out on the front porch to have a cigarette, and then go in search of my baby's daddy. Is it Paul? Or the Papa John's delivery man? Or Brad or George? So many possibilities