Behind the Curtain


I’ve spent my short life getting to this point.  I stand here behind the curtain.  The silken sparkly trap hiding me from the masses.
My body is toned and healthied to within an inch of starvation. I’m emotionally voided. My smile is plastered as naturally as the sun shines on the masses.  Perfectly manicured nails jut out from flawless fingers to slide my hand slightly from side to side. My legs stand smoother than the bottom of any baby. Exfoliated, professionally managed every day.  My bikini shows flawless smooth hairless almost pubescent, it is pearlescent.  My auburn mane is staggeringly beautiful each curl pulled every evening, hairnet slept regardless the day, incredible body like oiled springs bobbing with my every movement.  The dress I have on today costs more than the salaries of the people sitting in the first two rows. The beaded silk bodice flows with my body almost as if it was grown for me. The skirt, set above the knees holds slightly billowed with light crinoline tapering from my waist.  My breasts heave with my breath, shorter as I wait, they now hold themselves plump and alert after this years’ surgery.
I am the embodiment of perfection. I exult beauty. I am what they all want to see, to touch, to imagine. I’m the reason for the affairs, anger, and sadness in their lives. They all want to be what they see in me.
I am the exact representation of female perfection.
The stage was clear, the audience waited in anticipation for the next show. They had paid dearly for their tickets. The demand had been so great that the show sold out before most even had a chance to order.  There was no band playing, soft, excited mutterings were the only noises in the vast theater holding many thousands of spectators.  The show would start on time promptly at 21:00 hours.  At exactly 20:58:23 seconds the curtain started to spread open. It moved slowly both because it was part of the show and to keep the expectations high. The silent motors whirred against the wind as the silk curtains slid across the marble floor of the stage. At 20:59:32 the audience slowly started to gasp as they were able to get a look at the very specimen they were here to see.  There was only silence at 21:00 when the AD009.4 strode forward from its holding position.  Though, to all in the audience they knew the machine only as Eve.

Why Do We All Want to Be Beautiful?


The trouble with beauty, we all want it, desire it, it envelops us like a breeze splashing our hair around us.
The need never goes away, the desire never fades.
To feel beautiful is the true beauty, just me as I am. When we achieve that belief then no matter what we do or wear, everyone else desires the beauty we’ve so easily and effortlessly found for ourselves.
How do you achieve your inner beauty?
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Everything Will be Different After Today

Dirty diapers changed, potty training, dressing, school, all the lunches made, all the talks about friends, teachers, boys, drama, drama.
The crying, the yelling, the laundry!
I’ve dressed her, picked her up and cleaned her booboos.  I taught her how and when to shave her legs,
put on her first bra, I taught her about what her period. I was there when she had her first boyfriend. I cried with her when he broke her heart. I cried and hugged when she was happy, I laughed and cried and hugged her when she was sad. She’s been the first child I see in the morning and the last one I see at night.  She’s my first born, my eldest baby. She’s my daughter and I’m her momma.
But tonight I’m letting her go.  Tonight I’m relegated from mom, to mother of the bride, a title I now mostly share with a different woman across the room.  I bought her this lace, each fitting, and refitting, the veil, her beautiful hair.  I bought it all for her today so I could say goodbye and give her away.
“Momma, can you help button me up?” she asks?  I button each tiny loop as it works toward her beautiful hair. The bodice fits her body as if it was born for her this day.  The skirt billows from her waste tapering her as it cascades on the floor.
My baby is off to see her love today. She’s almost ready, my sweet honey.  “I love you” I say, and we both stare at each other realizing that everything will be different after today.

Water Under the Bridge


It started with that faint wisp of moisture, usually so subtle as to be mistaken for a breath, possibly a light breeze against the cheek, but everyone feeling it knows, it’s the rain.
Standing on the bridge I watched the water run its course, swishing and angry moving from one side of the bridge toward the continual swirl on the other.
The wind picked up and I shivered, wrapping my arms around my chest to warm up against the coming storm. Grey colors swirled above as the water rushed below.  I stared off at the leaves and branches, they swayed in unison, mocking the weather, laughing at me.  Why was I here?
“We have to talk.” I told him on the phone earlier. He was bothered by something, it was almost as if he knew already. “Meet me at our bridge” I stated, though, my voice lacked the confidence of my tone. The single tear escaped me then, but I held true through the conversation.  “I’ll be a little late, I have to stop at work for a thing” he responds, his voice trails off earlier than it should have.  “I’ll be there” he says finally.
“I’m here” I think, as I feel another dusting of moisture. Looking at my feet ( why am I barefoot? ) I ask myself. I see some moisture beading on the deck.  Lacking the will to give up, I decide to stay.
He did have to stop by work that day, there was a meeting, though that wasn’t the reason he was there.  Too many missed deadlines, too many mistakes.  Today he was simply picking up his ‘stuff.’ Though, initially he had planned on continuing on. There wasn’t much reason to stay.
“Meet at the bridge” she said, why did she sound so sad?  The breakup had been mutual, both had felt the relationship wasn’t enough to keep them together.
The weather picked up around him as he left his office, rain began dancing and mincing across the road.
She stood while the water fell from the angry sky, it first flattened her hair, working it’s way through her dress and eventually into her skin, soaking her to the point she slid slowly down the railing and sat on the decking. Her foot barely able to hold her knees while looking for something to grip.
He didn’t realize how little traction he had after accelerating onto the highway.  Though, he should have.  No one would have believed the story that he lost control in the rain. Though, his mind was racing, faster then his response time to the weather surrounding his mind.
Three weeks ago, the week before they broke it off.  They fought about direction, was the relationship swirling out of control? Where were they going she asked?
That night.
His eyes widened when he realized both the reason for the meeting and that the rear wheels were not going to hold on to the corner, the river in the road took his life for a final ride.
Waiting for her man on the bridge, the rains poured.  The wind whipped around her, She cried realizing he wasn’t coming.
I’m pregnant she said to herself, and looked up toward the sky as the rain continued to pour.
~Morgan Werhen
Image Credit:

Her Permission


We’ve been through so much together, her and I.
Our lives thrown to the sides by circumstances neither of us could control, nor would anyone have ever asked to.
She was growing so fast, her eyes constantly searching for approval in mine. One daddy lost, today, a new one almost to be brought in.
“Do you like my dress mommy?” she asked? “You’re absolutely beautiful!” I responded, tears fighting to run my mascara.
She walked to me with her adorable smile, eyes lit up in awe of her best friend, me. “I’m ready to have a new daddy now” she says, her eyes following the smile now on her face.
The veils collided, light streamed through the windows and I kissed her in the light as we both waited for our lives to start anew.

Standing Here Waiting Only for You


I walk down the aisle today, toward you and I forever. All the memories, experiences, laughter and crying

all end and begin today.
The me you see today is the first day of the rest of our lives.
I’m standing here in front of you wearing white.
Cherish this version of me, love me, make me your princess. I’m standing here waiting only for you.

I do. ~Morgan Werhen

For as long as we both shall live

I heard her voice at the edge of the room, we’d kept our promises to each other about today. I’m sure her maids of honor, and subsequent family were helping her preen.  Her voice escaping from the other excited sounds in the room sounds happy and quiet at the same time. I’m standing here in the hallway, tux fits, shoes hurt, ready to take the biggest step of my life. She cried last night, long sad tears streaming down her cheeks.  The day, now here feels less anticipation but small hurt.

We both drove in separately this morning.  The church opening its doors as one accepting us as we were.
I just need to see her, though, not see, just touch her, let her know that everything is okay.  Today I know she is radiant, excited, nervous, but also so beautiful.
The room she enlivens is suddenly quiet, I lean on her closed door, back against the glass. I suddenly hear and feel the knob slowly turn.
“I can’t see you” I say, the door slowly pushes towards me. My feet stepping slowly with the movement to allow the door to open. At this point it feels like we’re the only two here.  The door separating our lives, but allowing us to feel together.  I slowly move my left hand toward the edge of the wood slab, fingers expectant for her, any part of her.  “I’m here” I think “I’ll never leave you” I whisper. My hand reaches beyond the edge of the door, turning toward her.  I feel her breathe, while waiting for something.  Not looking, but hoping.  The tip of her finger floated passes by, searching.  I open my hand, guaranteeing a life boat to reach the next time she moves toward me.
As her hand moves back up, I grab hold. We hold hands silently for an age, a time, long enough. “I love you” she says, “I need you.”  “I will never leave you behind,” I say, “I love you”, listening to her breath slightly quicken.
We stand there a moment longer, staring away but standing together.  My bride, my love, here with me. For as long as we both shall live.
Image Credit:

Outside – Chris

The Werhen house had been very quiet these last few months.  Vehicles would come and go, but the largest change was the empty driveway when they left. I hadn’t spent time to meet the new neighbors as work kept me busy, and frankly living this close to downtown and an amazing lake largely kept me away from the house in the summer.
Something had happened though.  I remember the police cars this early spring. I don’t know why, but I heard a scream that night, chilling, hopeless.  Then only quiet.
Today though, there is activity. An older gentleman is talking to a younger man with a tablet, he’s tapping away furiously while the older man gesticulates somewhat hastily in what seems to be some frustration.
A moving truck is rumbling down the road, and looks to be stopping at 168 W 12th street. The house with the red door. I kept staring at the door, just now noticing the windows above frame it like sorrowful eyes. The door finishes the face though, not in a smile. It seems the house is crying today.
The door slowly opens, I can see a bit of light brown hair, emerging, though the rest of her is silhouetted  by the presence of trucks, and the two men discussing something of importance.
The older gentlemen sees her, and suddenly stops talking.  He rushes over and gives her a fatherly embrace, I can see her hair bobbing in the motions of heaviness, though she only comes up to below his eyes.  She pulls away, says a statement to the man with the tablet, and while turning toward the house, waves at it, and him, to almost say good bye, or at least take it all.
 I see her sad face now, she looks back at the man who must be her dad, and begins what may be a smile, or a slight brightening of her face. As she starts to walk on, he follows her for a few steps, but she returns to him, and stands on her toes to give him a peck on the cheek.  His hand gives her back a small squeeze as she turns back toward the road.
She was beautiful.
Her hair was pulled up partially, leaving the rest cascading down her back.  As she took each step down the sidewalk, it bounced confidently with her body, in a paradox to the sad face I noticed before she started in front of me.  Her ensemble of clothing hugged her body, but the skirt slightly billowed at her waist.  I tried to ignore it, but her ass was perfect.
“Butt” I kept saying to myself, “Butt! No need to call her body parts derogatory names in your head.”
There was something about her, I must meet her.
I’ve now realized that I was staring.  The hose in my hand that was supposed to be washing my motorcycle, was now squirting helplessly in front of me. I quickly turned to look busy as her dad looked my way with an odd look on his face.
Trying to clear my head, I realized that my eyes had betrayed my thoughts.  This poor women was obviously grieving about something or someone.  There was no way she would be interested in meeting me.  It seems she is leaving anyway.  Typical, work, fun and circumstances would again not let me follow up on meeting someone.
I quick snuck another look her way, her back was to me, but her face was looking directly toward me.  “No, she must be looking toward her dad.” I thought. I checked, and he was busy talking to the truck driver.
“Who is she?” I thought?  “What happened?” “Would she ever be interested in the likes of me?”
Tear Drop

Down the Hall, Starting Over

Stepping into the hallway toward the stairs

I hear the muted click of my rubber edged heels against the gleaming oak floor. This house though now too much for me has so many memories. The scuff over by the base trim we made while I helped him bring the dresser upstairs.

“I got it, I got it!” I kept saying.

The wall ended up getting it as my fingers finally let go.

He would have been frustrated, but since we were making a bend, my scuff ended up distracting him as momentum carried his edge into the wall directly across from me. I take my hand and follow the gouge, still unpainted.

Sliding my fingers along the punctured wallboard, from afar it has looked like a painting error, or a heavy brush stroke resulting in a dimpled line along the wall. Staring at it now I could see the chips of paper hanging tenuously on the chalky plaster beneath. Each one perilously close to falling free from their ‘home’.

There is nothing that doesn’t remind me of his words.

“I love you.”

“I can’t wait to come home to see you.”

His smile, some would call it lazy, like his mouth wasn’t sure it should entirely comply with the request.

I loved it.

I loved how his eyes would brighten just before his lips would start to change shape.

I always knew that our fight was over, or he gave in when those eyes brightened. The smile was always the chocolate syrup on my own personal sundae. He would let me hug him for indeterminate amounts of time. Some of our friends would make comments, like “get a room” or “really? Again?”

I just liked the feel of him holding me.

Fighting back my tears, though not being very successful, I continued on down the stairs.

Tear Drop


These steps shouldn’t be a big deal, I have run, jumped and nearly slid down them so many times in the last year. It feels like I’m slipping now. That the steps themselves have morphed into a slide that will take me away, away from safety, away from our home. The end of the slide is unknown, it’s black, thick, and hard to breathe.

Each step echoes lightly, the oak treads recently refinished by his very hands. It’s as though I’m ripping each tread off the stairs, almost taking his work away from him.

Why does each step feel so final?

My left hand goes to my ear, and habitually wraps stray hair around it.

The knoll post is approaching, I hesitantly approach it. I reach out to touch it one more time. My hand graces the beauty and smoothness. The post that anchors the stairs.

His post.

It’s round, natural grain seems to stream into my eyes, as the sun hits the blond clear coat. I move my hand and the change in position splays shadows over my body.

The final step, the door stands in front of me, imposing, judging me.

I reach out, and grasp hold of the knob, the last barrier to my exit. The old knob normally would creak in resistance to the twisting motion, today greets me in silence. I pull slightly, and the sun streams into its new opening. Stepping onto my porch, I continue. Standing straight, looking good for the part I have to take.

Outside, starting over again.

Next Chapter

Rockabilly Halter (Rework)

Standing there in front of the mirror was nearly impossible. The polish on my left pinky toe was gone, and a major chip and crack of the toenail had removed the teal glaze. I’m standing here willing myself to fix it, to restart my life. “Walk over to the bathroom and reapply the nail polish.” It was more of an attempt at willing my psyche, because like my toe, the very smallest and vulnerable of all of them, was reminding me of my life. It was small, wrecked and teetering on desperation.

I hate everything about me right now.

My thighs seemed to pop out around my waist. I’ve done nothing, hardly ate, slept profusely, and gained weight? It seemed so far from this angle that looking to the right only showed thigh. “I can’t even see the carpet?” “Why am I so ugly?” “One big thigh” I thought. My stomach used to have so much panache and yet now so floppy. If it wasn’t for my “misguided now” belly ring, the front sag may have eternally hid my current only favorite body part. Standing straight, I temporarily fixed the problem, at least made me feel a little better.

Here I stand in my bra and panties, no place to go but no place to stay. Scrunching my hair to give me something to do, I continued with the work at hand. Fix my life by just living, pretending, willing myself to go on.

It was time to cover up this patchwork of sloppy with a magical dress. Opening my sixteen year old ‘wooden’ jewelry box, I grabbed my silver hoops. I wasn’t sure on the size for today’s ensemble, but these were my favorite, and made my face pop. With the right earrings and mascara I could make a thousand bad makeup days disappear. Big eyes, and cute ears. My hair never hurt either as it waved down past my shoulders some resting on my chest. He used to love just sniffing, breathing in my hair. “How is it that you smell so good?” He constantly asked. It was almost as if he was more surprised by the power of it, than the smell itself. For me I never thought much of these locks until I realized his total absorption with them. He would come behind me and just grab hold, twisting, and climbing “my mane” he called it. I smiled a bit in the mirror just then, happy that this thought was finished with a smile.

Earrings in, it was time to try on my find. The ivory and black Rockabilly picked up last Spring from Hot Topic.

The dress laid there on the bed, halter straps traipsed around each other like lovers in an embrace. The light nautical print brought a touch of ebony to an already pearlescent bodice kissed by crinoline tulle at the bottom of the skirt. The clothing called to me, daring me to transform into that warm soul that everyone used to love. The beauty who some men just wanted to touch, or bump up against as their conversation was veered toward me, and seemly some never knew how to pull away.

I started by adjusting this new bra. The hope was that the current strapless model would provide the protection needed against the mighty gravity, which if it won would automatically force all conversation away from me, and instead involve sudden shock and awe as everyone would be gaping at my chest.

Adjustments made, body parts appeared to be sound. A quick light pull at the bottom while quickly pushing everything inside the protective wire and pad seemed enough to move onto the quest at hand.

I picked up the article from my bed. It laid in my arm like a bouquet of roses. This dress was made for my body. The skirt lightly billowed out as the straps now hung loose. I undid the hanger straps while spinning it around to pull down the zipper. The light crackle of metal unfastening, provided an electric shock as I now forgot my sorrows and allowed my guilty pleasures to take over. I excitedly lifted the skirt, careful of my hair, over my head. The silver earrings did their bidding and caught the tulle like a sergeant holding up traffic.  The lace tickled my nose and tummy as it slid over my waist. Once the skirt fanned out at my hips my arms grasped hold of the two halter straps.

A halter provides that free open back aura while protecting everything in the front. I delicately tied the bow while adjusting each so they equally fell just below my neck.

Looking in the mirror, I noticed a small, delicate shaping bow and lightly adjusted that tie to cinch up the bodice perfectly against my waist. The change was electrifying and my eyes widened at the site before me in the mirror.

Sometimes the right dress can be magical. I need magical today. I smiled a bit, and it felt good. My arms looked nice, pearly white but smooth. My hair appeared to add body, while noting that subtle shape of my waist now accentuated by the flow and twist of the skirt. My mascara popped and with my blush raised my cheekbone making my face feel skinnier. I felt light, and wanted to swish my hips.

While leaning down to grab the lipstick I twisted my hips. The skirt happily complied with the request and lightly swished about, the lace lightly tapping my legs as it fulfilled the requirements of the request. Looking back up I noticed my butt causing that subtle curve from the waste. “Now why don’t you look that nice in underwear?” I thought.

Next Chapter