The old writer watches the world as it fades like the black in her eyes.
Do you want to play this game?
You already know the ending.
There are no surprises here.
I sense a great cabal.
The roaches have left the walls and are laying eggs in my head.
Don't fear the black cat!
She'll lead you to the Western Lands without fellaheen involvement.
The old writer doesn't have the words left to say good bye.
His last were
"Love. Greatest painkiller what is. Love is."
He would know. He killed his.
I can't imagine anyone else celebrating.
We drank champagne as Katrina hit land. It was, after all, just a few days after my birthday, I'd gotten a bottle of bubbly, and then, thanks to the evacuation, found myself with friends in town from New Orleans. For the most part we weren't that concerned yet. Mother Nature regularly displays her awesome power in the South, and sometimes we just yawn at her.
(Dear Edouard - I am unimpressed.)
So at first, this was just another mandatory evacuation. People were instructed to flee the city regularly, and nothing but gas expense usually came of it. This time, surely, was the same. We had no doubt that it would all still be there in the morning. We opened champagne.
Levees began to break. Some leaked and some popped open like corks. I think it was kind of like that. That's how it looked on TV. That's how it looked on my friends' faces.
I don't know exactly why, but lately I wish I had kept that bottle. It seems important somehow, something solid and heavy to wrap your hands around while so much else disappears. While so much else is set in motion and we're all swept away. And if nothing else, I could have used it to send you a message across all that water.
Connections are being made
"If you don't come with me right now you'll look back for the rest of your life and regret it."
BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
"A woman who died 40 years ago was discovered in her apartment that had not been changed in all that time."
How could no one notice?
"The list of substances he was used to having in his body was longer than he could remember by now."
You know your nipple's pokin' out there, doll
"Rabbit?"
The reader should not be subjected to such tripe.
"I don't even need to describe that to you. You want a Stephen King fifteen page description, but I ain't got it! You don't fuckin’ deserve it."
This world is dissolving
Little by little it's going to end.
Interloper
----------------------------------I was expecting more. Perhaps a sleek, slim shadow following my steps just out of sight as I move from dimly lit bar to empty store front. I turn into an alley, yearning for some of that magic that is supposed to ride up from the river on waves of pulsing desire.
Too many vampire stories. Too much Lestat.
Instead I find this shop filled with glossy eyes and porcelain skin. I've never seen anything like it. A small bell tinkles as I open the door and move sideways between a little girl with curling blond locks and a prim woman who barely reaches my shoulder watching me with a brightly painted moue.
Children surround me, brown hair, black hair, curling and straight. They wear bonnets and ruffled skirts with tiny velvet slippers. Their faces tight and watchful, I move with hesitant steps among them. I am halfway across the room, trying to look at all of them yet afraid to meet so many curious, angry, sad, hopeful, condemning eyes.
The hand on my shoulder throws me forward in surprise. Stumbling around, my legs tangled in bright peach skirts, I am confronted with this city and I wish I had never asked for more.
Large callouses crest his palms and thick, bulbous fingers press tightly against the stretched column of my throat. I can't breathe right. I'm not breathing right. His face isn't pretty, his shoulders too wide, his stomach bulging as though pressed tightly from the inside.
This isn't magic. This isn't what I asked for.
Things are blurring, disassembling. A straight, solid nose seems suspended by itself, then thin lips with peeling skin replace it. They descend and everything fades again. Odd what stands out in times like this. Odd what you think important.
The buttons on his coat are thick and ragged, they sting my fingers when I slap at him, trying to pretend I am able to fight back.
Do you know what this feels like? Can you imagine? Go ahead, try.
His breath is all I notice now. I think it must be solid, to wipe across my face like this. Cinnamon. That seems wrong, but his breath is strong and sweet. When his lips meet mine, I'm scrunching my eyes, pursing my own lips and trying to move my hands from beneath his. Trapped to his chest, tight against those horrible buttons...
The doll shop. The blank night outside. The musty scent of months old dust sparring with spicy breath. He doesn't bite my neck. He doesn't whisper soft words and take me into eternity, willing, limp. He forces my body to bend, to part, to tear.
I'm tuning out now. You think I'm weak, it's crossed my mind. I am weak. But I'm not going to feel this. This isn't magic. This isn't the city I wanted to see.
Posts
