The evening had swung round again, and within minutes the sun would be pushing up past the edges. They two were still awake, smiling, kissing, holding. He said something dry; she laughed. There was a secret punishment which had been inflicted on both. It said: you will live like a cigarette, burning so beautifully at first, and falling to ashes. Ashes came with sunrise.
Friday, October 11, 2013
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Footnote 3 of Carl Edson's "Broken Mirrors: The Schism of Post-war Ke$han Scholarship" (2078, p.1)
3. Dr Branson's early papers regarding socio-distorted discourse, and the subsequent rebuttal to his claims on gender roles--spearheaded by Gayle's "Party Girlz: Glitter and Glam in Six Songs of Cannibal (2027)"--produced a fundamental new lens through which Ke$hanism could be viewed not necessarily as an actual academic discourse, but rather, through a Gรถdelian use of metafictional devices and "fourth-wall-breakage (p. 3)," a type of performance "in homage and honor [of] that greatest of all: Ke$ha. (p. 18)." This period would set the stage for pre-war philosophies to sweep the larger field of depersonalizational therapy, creating a fertile ground for the current period of scholarship.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Werewolf
My hands were incredibly warm, and beneath them was something so smooth and soft and giving that a part of me didn't believe. It would have been hard for anyone. To believe, I mean. How could another human being possibly see what I was seeing? Feel what I was feeling? The impossible blues, the smooth and gradual shadows, painting a gradient across her cheek. The cold tang of the water and the smooth warmth of her throat. My fingers were leaving beautiful indentations against her windpipe and arteries.
It was as if I were seeing her through a dream, the sensation. I knew it to be wrong, and I knew I would regret it so, but it came through filtered. My eyes had a shroud over them through which everything passed in a fog of vagary. I was briefly aware of the trickle of moonlight in the stream, but my heart beat loudly over it.
It was as if I were seeing her through a dream, the sensation. I knew it to be wrong, and I knew I would regret it so, but it came through filtered. My eyes had a shroud over them through which everything passed in a fog of vagary. I was briefly aware of the trickle of moonlight in the stream, but my heart beat loudly over it.
Laid Out
Laina hadn't moved in, she guessed, four hours. She'd lain down on the carpet of her room, plucked a string on the guitar a few feet away, and then hadn't moved for two hundred forty minutes. She blinked now and then. And she kept breathing. But she hadn't really moved.
She could not discern why this was so--her not moving and her general "not-movingness" that had developed internally as the not moving continued externally. She felt deadened. It was as if someone had, in that moment of acute pain when she'd taken it upon herself to lie down on the carpet of her floor, stuck her with a syringe full of soul-novocaine. And since then she hadn't moved.
She ran her tongue against the back of her teeth. They were smooth as all get out, but had weird little bumps and ridges, like you might expect of a topographical-map-made-model. Her eyes hurt from staring through the legs of her bed so long. She had counted the thirteen different wood grain knots in her floorboard seventeen times. She had counted how many times she'd counted her counting. Four times.
She felt absolutely nothing.
She longed to be high or drunk or rolling or tripping or something. But she could not bring herself to get up. And in the place she knew she should have felt guilt or crushing failure in wanting to resort to drugs, she felt a sort of a squeegeeish feeling. A lumpy, wet, nearly-soapy cleanness. An almost kind of dirty cleanness.
She breathed in, once, deeply, and she held the breath. Then she breathed out.
She could not discern why this was so--her not moving and her general "not-movingness" that had developed internally as the not moving continued externally. She felt deadened. It was as if someone had, in that moment of acute pain when she'd taken it upon herself to lie down on the carpet of her floor, stuck her with a syringe full of soul-novocaine. And since then she hadn't moved.
She ran her tongue against the back of her teeth. They were smooth as all get out, but had weird little bumps and ridges, like you might expect of a topographical-map-made-model. Her eyes hurt from staring through the legs of her bed so long. She had counted the thirteen different wood grain knots in her floorboard seventeen times. She had counted how many times she'd counted her counting. Four times.
She felt absolutely nothing.
She longed to be high or drunk or rolling or tripping or something. But she could not bring herself to get up. And in the place she knew she should have felt guilt or crushing failure in wanting to resort to drugs, she felt a sort of a squeegeeish feeling. A lumpy, wet, nearly-soapy cleanness. An almost kind of dirty cleanness.
She breathed in, once, deeply, and she held the breath. Then she breathed out.
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Saturday, October 5, 2013
Serial Killers Getting High
"No man, it's weird. You just like... it's strange."
"When do I feel it?"
"Soon."
They each took another hit, the second boy coughing.
"Okay. I feel it. Do I feel it? What does it... feel like. I feel it."
The first smiled.
He saw, in his mind's eye, the animals he'd dissected alive. He saw their hearts beating, and for the pleasure they'd brought then, an endless wing of remorse unfolded within him. He let it go.
"Oh my God," the second said, "it's like a... it's like..."
"A great big wing man. Don't hurt too bad. It's okay, you didn't know."
His friend started weeping for his past, and he held him. Absolved him. And all of this is the cloud of a new future.
Friday, October 4, 2013
A Chat
The day I met God it was in the mid-70s and overcast. I love that kind of weather. It was later in the evening; I'd driven into the edge of town to have a few drinks with a friend of mine, but he'd cancelled at the last second.
I've never minded drinking alone, so I sat down, ordered three fingers of Jameson neat, and started reading a book.
A man came and sat next to me and told me:
"You won't believe this, but I'm God."
I told him he was right.
He said: "When you were thirteen, you fantasized about living inside a woman's breast, non-sexually."
I told him he was right.
"When you were twenty, you didn't threaten to kill yourself to your ex-girlfriend, because you felt that would be unfair."
I told him to get to the point.
"You're going to kill someone tonight, driving home drunk."
He was probably right, I was already on my second drink.
"You saw the little girl today, but you didn't really notice her. You remember the red balloon though."
I did.
"You're going to slam into her mother's car going home, and kill the mother. The girl will be brain-damaged for the rest of her life. Severely."
"Then I won't drive home," I said.
"Yes you will. You can't help it."
I looked down at the drink, then back at God. I finished the drink and ordered another.
I asked him why he was telling me all this.
He didn't really know. "There is no reason, I guess," he said.
"Okay."
After a few hours, after I was considerably drunk, I stepped outside. I felt decently dizzy. We had talked about the world and our favorite drinks and why certain animals existed, but Pokemon didn't. He was pretty nice.
I came to my car and looked at it for a long time, admiring the dents and the duct tape that held my driver's side headlight in. I ran my fingers across the cracked window moulding. Or whatever that stuff's called. I fingered my keys in my pocket, and took them out. Held them up against the lock of the car, and dropped them.
As I was turning my eyes back up to the car, after picking up the keys, I noticed a storm drain maybe ten feet away.
I slid the keys in, hearing them bounce and jingle and scrape across the asphalt.
When I went back into the bar, the man said I had to go to Hell now. That it wasn't a test, that the mother had needed to die. It was all very important to him for some reason. I offered to buy him a drink, but he shook his head and left.
I've never minded drinking alone, so I sat down, ordered three fingers of Jameson neat, and started reading a book.
A man came and sat next to me and told me:
"You won't believe this, but I'm God."
I told him he was right.
He said: "When you were thirteen, you fantasized about living inside a woman's breast, non-sexually."
I told him he was right.
"When you were twenty, you didn't threaten to kill yourself to your ex-girlfriend, because you felt that would be unfair."
I told him to get to the point.
"You're going to kill someone tonight, driving home drunk."
He was probably right, I was already on my second drink.
"You saw the little girl today, but you didn't really notice her. You remember the red balloon though."
I did.
"You're going to slam into her mother's car going home, and kill the mother. The girl will be brain-damaged for the rest of her life. Severely."
"Then I won't drive home," I said.
"Yes you will. You can't help it."
I looked down at the drink, then back at God. I finished the drink and ordered another.
I asked him why he was telling me all this.
He didn't really know. "There is no reason, I guess," he said.
"Okay."
After a few hours, after I was considerably drunk, I stepped outside. I felt decently dizzy. We had talked about the world and our favorite drinks and why certain animals existed, but Pokemon didn't. He was pretty nice.
I came to my car and looked at it for a long time, admiring the dents and the duct tape that held my driver's side headlight in. I ran my fingers across the cracked window moulding. Or whatever that stuff's called. I fingered my keys in my pocket, and took them out. Held them up against the lock of the car, and dropped them.
As I was turning my eyes back up to the car, after picking up the keys, I noticed a storm drain maybe ten feet away.
I slid the keys in, hearing them bounce and jingle and scrape across the asphalt.
When I went back into the bar, the man said I had to go to Hell now. That it wasn't a test, that the mother had needed to die. It was all very important to him for some reason. I offered to buy him a drink, but he shook his head and left.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Swinging
He was swinging on a porch swing, looking out over a field of soybeans as the sun swung low over them. He was thinking about his classes and what all he had due in the upcoming week, with a feeling of stress and, as he thought about it, fear. He wondered what he might be forgetting as he cataloged his assignments, and thought about the teachers he could wheedle extensions from. He thought about a girl he had been talking to in History and whether or not he might have a chance with her--he felt himself to be a sort of hero to her, for helping her study this big test they'd just had. He thought about the dishes he had yet to do tonight.
She too was swinging on a porch swing, looking out over a field of soybeans, the sun swinging low. It burned a dull red, the color of the roads after rain. The sand roads, speckled with invisible but tainting particles of clay. It was beautiful the way it hung, and very warm in the dying evening. Grasshoppers flitted about from plant to plant in their endless search for... what did grasshoppers search for? They were ceaseless in their leaping, though, and for every one that landed, ten more took flight. The sun hung so low, now hardly just a sliver of grapefruit red, burning brighter as it fell lower over the edge. The back and forth of the swing was lulling, and made for good sleep. She could begin to imagine her eyes closing if she'd wanted.
Then there was also this paper that was coming due in two weeks, and he wasn't sure about what all came before the actual paper. Plus, the professor for that class was a huge stickler for grammar and so he'd have to go down to the writing lab at some point. Was she sleeping, now, he wondered, but was afraid to look over. He felt sick. He felt anxious and jittery and sick, but he couldn't begin to tap his foot on the porch, or he'd feel weird about it, and she might start asking about it, and besides it might kill the mood he'd tried to cultivate. Did she like sunsets and porch swings and crap like that? He wondered if this other girl, this one he'd met through a friend, liked that crap. She had been homely, but still very pretty, with a sunburned face and black hair that fell down over it in a mess, poking every freckle it seemed like. And when was the next he worked, he wondered? He'd have to check the schedule. He wondered if she would ever want to marry him, and he was afraid that he'd never want to marry her.
The sun was just slipping over now, and the sky was still a beautiful, gem-colored color. It was so warm though, still, despite the sun going, and the swinging of the swing lulled her, and she felt safe and secure, and sound. And very beautiful. And very much at peace.
She too was swinging on a porch swing, looking out over a field of soybeans, the sun swinging low. It burned a dull red, the color of the roads after rain. The sand roads, speckled with invisible but tainting particles of clay. It was beautiful the way it hung, and very warm in the dying evening. Grasshoppers flitted about from plant to plant in their endless search for... what did grasshoppers search for? They were ceaseless in their leaping, though, and for every one that landed, ten more took flight. The sun hung so low, now hardly just a sliver of grapefruit red, burning brighter as it fell lower over the edge. The back and forth of the swing was lulling, and made for good sleep. She could begin to imagine her eyes closing if she'd wanted.
Then there was also this paper that was coming due in two weeks, and he wasn't sure about what all came before the actual paper. Plus, the professor for that class was a huge stickler for grammar and so he'd have to go down to the writing lab at some point. Was she sleeping, now, he wondered, but was afraid to look over. He felt sick. He felt anxious and jittery and sick, but he couldn't begin to tap his foot on the porch, or he'd feel weird about it, and she might start asking about it, and besides it might kill the mood he'd tried to cultivate. Did she like sunsets and porch swings and crap like that? He wondered if this other girl, this one he'd met through a friend, liked that crap. She had been homely, but still very pretty, with a sunburned face and black hair that fell down over it in a mess, poking every freckle it seemed like. And when was the next he worked, he wondered? He'd have to check the schedule. He wondered if she would ever want to marry him, and he was afraid that he'd never want to marry her.
The sun was just slipping over now, and the sky was still a beautiful, gem-colored color. It was so warm though, still, despite the sun going, and the swinging of the swing lulled her, and she felt safe and secure, and sound. And very beautiful. And very much at peace.
The Waitress
The waitress waddled over to the boys carrying their eggs and bacon and pancakes. Each step was slow, painful, and her knees trembled slightly. They were at the table, singing to each other some popular song, one of them leaning back against the wall with his legs stretched out across the booth's seat. The other playing with his phone.
"Here y'are boys, two breakfast smileys. Can I getcha more coffee?" she asked the one on the phone.
"Nope. Thanks." he said, looking down at the plate.
She turned and began walking back towards the obnoxious women who'd been there almost an hour now.
"Hey," said the one who was practically lying down now, "You all right?"
"About what you'd think," she said, wanting to move on.
"You look like you're havin' a rough night," he said, smiling. He was open and inviting, and she was, after all having a bad night.
"You know how it is," she motioned with her head towards the women, "some folks just can't make up their minds. Do this, do that, get this, we didn't ask for that. It get's pretty old fast."
"Hey, well, don't worry about them. You can only do what ya can. Should we go beat 'em up for ya?"
She smiled and laughed a little bit. He was very handsome, and forty years younger than she.
"Oh God no, I can't ask yinz to fight customers," she said, smiling back in a way she thought of as flirtatiously.
"Well," he said, "You let us know what we can do for ya."
She kept smiling back at him.
"Well, she said, I guess I'm just pretty tired. It's been a hard year, y'know?"
"Oh yeah?" he said, picking at his eggs. The other played with his phone and now and then cut into a pancake.
"Yeah, I've been lookin' forward to my health benefits and now they're sayin' they wanna shut it down. So I have to go to a meeting and everything. And since my husband died in the fire--my house burned down a few years back--I don't really have anyone to help me out with it. So I been a little worried about that. It's pretty stressful I guess, you know what I mean?"
She was saying this at him, but he was picking at his eggs and his bacon now, and she could see he hadn't really been paying any attention at all.
"Here y'are boys, two breakfast smileys. Can I getcha more coffee?" she asked the one on the phone.
"Nope. Thanks." he said, looking down at the plate.
She turned and began walking back towards the obnoxious women who'd been there almost an hour now.
"Hey," said the one who was practically lying down now, "You all right?"
"About what you'd think," she said, wanting to move on.
"You look like you're havin' a rough night," he said, smiling. He was open and inviting, and she was, after all having a bad night.
"You know how it is," she motioned with her head towards the women, "some folks just can't make up their minds. Do this, do that, get this, we didn't ask for that. It get's pretty old fast."
"Hey, well, don't worry about them. You can only do what ya can. Should we go beat 'em up for ya?"
She smiled and laughed a little bit. He was very handsome, and forty years younger than she.
"Oh God no, I can't ask yinz to fight customers," she said, smiling back in a way she thought of as flirtatiously.
"Well," he said, "You let us know what we can do for ya."
She kept smiling back at him.
"Well, she said, I guess I'm just pretty tired. It's been a hard year, y'know?"
"Oh yeah?" he said, picking at his eggs. The other played with his phone and now and then cut into a pancake.
"Yeah, I've been lookin' forward to my health benefits and now they're sayin' they wanna shut it down. So I have to go to a meeting and everything. And since my husband died in the fire--my house burned down a few years back--I don't really have anyone to help me out with it. So I been a little worried about that. It's pretty stressful I guess, you know what I mean?"
She was saying this at him, but he was picking at his eggs and his bacon now, and she could see he hadn't really been paying any attention at all.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
In The Moments Before Death
Yes, and while the thrum of the engine were not at the forefront of her mind, they still did occupy a part of her understanding of this moment. Though it existed, this drone, it lay deep beneath her, or what she would conceive of as her. Above it, the space almost always just beneath her, and which now supplanted her, floated every memort of breaking glass and twisting metal she had encountered. Yet farther beyond, above all things, were her deep and undying apathy for her lover in the seat adjacent, the fast approaching concrete wall, the scream of tires. And above all, a profound misery, not that she had been a thing birthed and dragged through this nothing emptied of all feeling, but that she could not possibly have known any other way.
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