"It's 7:50 and they still haven't started," I said. "That's twenty minutes late." I stuffed my phone back into my bag. Even with the back-light on low it was obvious in the dim lighting of the cramped restaurant. "I'm out of here at 8:30."
Adam just smiled and shrugged his narrow shoulders. He was a pretty obliging guy, considering I basically dragged him here. One of my classes required that I go to a literary event, or something, so I just randomly picked a reading series to check out before the due date. I realized after I paid the five dollar entrance fee that it was for poetry and short-short fiction.
Great. My two least favorite types of writing. Now I would get to listen to people read them at me.
I tugged on a short piece of hair that kept poking me in the eye and huffed, using one long finger to trace the tip of my nose. It's really fucking rude in my opinion. They made this event, people came to this cruddy little corner of town - graffiti on everything outside and people whose eyes would take in the size of your bag before going to your tits - and now they're not even starting the damn reading on time.
The lady - she was actually really nicely dressed and made up, so she's earned that noun - that took my five bucks for the reading kept looking at me, then turning and talking to some larger guy then returning back to her neutral position. The fuck was her problem? Yes, lady, I'm over 21. No, lady, I'm not going to stay for the entire damn thing.
How the hell do I write a review for a reading series anyway? "Oh, the atmosphere was nice but the locale was creepy and killed it for me." "The first reader had some nice lines, but her voice made me think of a duck's quack. No tone, no pitch. Just QWACK!" "This particular reading series amounts to nothing more than allowing for writers to masturbate in our faces in a literary fashion. Pretty sure I got some abstract ejaculate on my shirt."
Sure, that would go over well.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Moment of Movement
"What are you so excited about?" I ask as I step up behind two giggling imps. Their large ears bend and sway with their movements, the purple imp on the left has half of one of his missing. I think I did that, but I don't really care to try and remember.
They skip around a hole dug in the black dirt and chanting, bearing crooked and broken teeth in mockery of smiles, giggling and clapping their bony, clawed hands that were bigger than their heads. At my voice their faces shatter into looks of terror, the remnants of the smiles vanishing into the ground, wiggling and writhing. I brush my heal over where the malicious glee had been, digging it in a little bit. Stupid little insects, they get so excited when it's not even them doing the work.
"Well?" I make my voice snap and drop an octave, just to watch them cower and squeal.
"Ah! Master don't be angry! Zizil and Kirml doing good!" screeches the green one, scuffling around and clasping his hands together. "Zizil got the hole dug before the soul is here! Kirml has the seed ready already! We does good!"
I forget which one is Zizil and which one is Kirml. It doesn't matter much to anyway. I peer into the visually bottomless hole, and see that there is a tear in the air. Purple energy frames it to keep the breech from ripping through the entire plane. I can see a room, brown carpet, dull green walls. The image is still blurry.
So, another mortal is going to off themself. The imps are preparing the hole for the tree to be planted in that traps the soul for the rest of eternity. I have nothing better to do, that lazy Dexmes is taking his sweet time on getting back to me about the runework I need to find the girl Elizabeth. I think he enjoys it too much when I have to ask something of him. Damn bookworms. I will rip his head off at some point and bind it so I can use his information anytime I want.
So I might as well see what kind of tree this new idiot will make. If it's any good I'll stick around and break its branches to talk to it. See what it knows.
The two imps huddle behind my feet, occasionally reaching out to hug my boot and I swat them away with the flat of my tail head. I can't stand grovelling. Waste of time, energy, and pride.
The image grows clearer. The first thing to show up is a picture of pale, skinny ladies with butterfly wings bathing in a pond. Must be a girl's room. Mortal guys wouldn't have naked butterfly ladies up on the wall. Under that stands a desk, made of dark, solid wood, and it is drowned in papers, note cards, and an army of differently colored pens. So this person likes to write. Probably going to kill themself because they can't get anything published or they write some abstract bullshit that no one understands. They don't get me. What shit. If people don't understand then make it fucking clearer what you want to say!
No one sits in the armchair, which is set askew so the arm of the chair presses against the lip of the desk. The image turns to locate the soul. I'm right, it's a girl. She's tall, her legs are really long. Thin though, she must look like a stork when standing straight, especially with the round hips that they connected to. Good handles.
Her hair is messed all over her face, head bowed. I can't see her face, but the base of my spine tingles. My tail curls up like a scorpion's. Shit.
It's Elizabeth.
I whirl and snatch up the two imps by the necks. Their heads enlarge as I clench my hands and their eyes bulge out from their weird skulls. I toss the green one up into the air and swing my tail, slicing through his pointed nose and cutting him clean in half. He didn't squeal. He had no time to. The purple one gasps and chokes, clutching at my hand as my claws dig into the side of his neck.
"Master, master Kirml does good! Kimrl does good just tell Kirml--"
I stick my tail's blade into his mouth and twist it before pushing it through his small body into his stomach. I flick my tail to knock the twitching mess off and to the ground.
That takes care of the imps, buying me marginally more time. I clap my hands together to brush away the grimy feeling of imp panic. The tear is still open, but the energy fizzles now that the imps were rebuilding themselves in their spawning grounds on another plane. I launch forward and dive into the collapsing rift.
They skip around a hole dug in the black dirt and chanting, bearing crooked and broken teeth in mockery of smiles, giggling and clapping their bony, clawed hands that were bigger than their heads. At my voice their faces shatter into looks of terror, the remnants of the smiles vanishing into the ground, wiggling and writhing. I brush my heal over where the malicious glee had been, digging it in a little bit. Stupid little insects, they get so excited when it's not even them doing the work.
"Well?" I make my voice snap and drop an octave, just to watch them cower and squeal.
"Ah! Master don't be angry! Zizil and Kirml doing good!" screeches the green one, scuffling around and clasping his hands together. "Zizil got the hole dug before the soul is here! Kirml has the seed ready already! We does good!"
I forget which one is Zizil and which one is Kirml. It doesn't matter much to anyway. I peer into the visually bottomless hole, and see that there is a tear in the air. Purple energy frames it to keep the breech from ripping through the entire plane. I can see a room, brown carpet, dull green walls. The image is still blurry.
So, another mortal is going to off themself. The imps are preparing the hole for the tree to be planted in that traps the soul for the rest of eternity. I have nothing better to do, that lazy Dexmes is taking his sweet time on getting back to me about the runework I need to find the girl Elizabeth. I think he enjoys it too much when I have to ask something of him. Damn bookworms. I will rip his head off at some point and bind it so I can use his information anytime I want.
So I might as well see what kind of tree this new idiot will make. If it's any good I'll stick around and break its branches to talk to it. See what it knows.
The two imps huddle behind my feet, occasionally reaching out to hug my boot and I swat them away with the flat of my tail head. I can't stand grovelling. Waste of time, energy, and pride.
The image grows clearer. The first thing to show up is a picture of pale, skinny ladies with butterfly wings bathing in a pond. Must be a girl's room. Mortal guys wouldn't have naked butterfly ladies up on the wall. Under that stands a desk, made of dark, solid wood, and it is drowned in papers, note cards, and an army of differently colored pens. So this person likes to write. Probably going to kill themself because they can't get anything published or they write some abstract bullshit that no one understands. They don't get me. What shit. If people don't understand then make it fucking clearer what you want to say!
No one sits in the armchair, which is set askew so the arm of the chair presses against the lip of the desk. The image turns to locate the soul. I'm right, it's a girl. She's tall, her legs are really long. Thin though, she must look like a stork when standing straight, especially with the round hips that they connected to. Good handles.
Her hair is messed all over her face, head bowed. I can't see her face, but the base of my spine tingles. My tail curls up like a scorpion's. Shit.
It's Elizabeth.
I whirl and snatch up the two imps by the necks. Their heads enlarge as I clench my hands and their eyes bulge out from their weird skulls. I toss the green one up into the air and swing my tail, slicing through his pointed nose and cutting him clean in half. He didn't squeal. He had no time to. The purple one gasps and chokes, clutching at my hand as my claws dig into the side of his neck.
"Master, master Kirml does good! Kimrl does good just tell Kirml--"
I stick my tail's blade into his mouth and twist it before pushing it through his small body into his stomach. I flick my tail to knock the twitching mess off and to the ground.
That takes care of the imps, buying me marginally more time. I clap my hands together to brush away the grimy feeling of imp panic. The tear is still open, but the energy fizzles now that the imps were rebuilding themselves in their spawning grounds on another plane. I launch forward and dive into the collapsing rift.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Another Jump Start
She keeps a tranquil smile on her face as soothing as the rippling blue of her eyes. Just the edges of her teeth are framed by her lips, amplified only slightly by the pale rose color of her lipstick. She doesn't like a lot of make-up. She says it makes her sing poorly. I have never been able to make the comparison, having never seen her sing with heavy make up on. She says it makes other sing poorly as well, and I believe her, no one can sing the same way she does. No one can make the air fill with a invigorating electricity while setting everyone at their ease.
Her fingers are long, almost too long, but she wears gloves where the fingers only go to the half-point of her finger, hiding that. She wears them even when she's playing her lyre. Some say she was crucified for her voice, to make her cry and hear her scream rather than smile and serenade. That she wears the gloves to hide the scars. I won't tell them that's true. That I was the one to rip the nails out of her hands, lick the blood from her hands, seal the wounds and lay waste to those that would do it to her. Their corpses might still be hanging if I had not set the trees alight for her. Her smile is different now. It looks heavy, even if it still spreads to her eyes.
Her voice cringes. I look up. She has dropped her lyre. Her hands have started to bleed through her gloves. I race to her side on the stage and pull her into my arms, covering her with my cloak to hide her from the world that has abused her so. The room has gone silent, even the fire in the center of it all seems to die a little on the inside. The wood fizzles and whines, popping as if it had gotten wet, as if it was crying. The shields and coats of arms that decorate the walls fade into darkness as the fire retreats. The faces in the room are a blur, I don't care about them, I don't pay attention to them. I would rather kill them all and keep her safe, far away.
But she wants to sing for them. She wants to play even if she bleeds, for them. They that caused her such pain.
I have no right to stop her.
Her fingers are long, almost too long, but she wears gloves where the fingers only go to the half-point of her finger, hiding that. She wears them even when she's playing her lyre. Some say she was crucified for her voice, to make her cry and hear her scream rather than smile and serenade. That she wears the gloves to hide the scars. I won't tell them that's true. That I was the one to rip the nails out of her hands, lick the blood from her hands, seal the wounds and lay waste to those that would do it to her. Their corpses might still be hanging if I had not set the trees alight for her. Her smile is different now. It looks heavy, even if it still spreads to her eyes.
Her voice cringes. I look up. She has dropped her lyre. Her hands have started to bleed through her gloves. I race to her side on the stage and pull her into my arms, covering her with my cloak to hide her from the world that has abused her so. The room has gone silent, even the fire in the center of it all seems to die a little on the inside. The wood fizzles and whines, popping as if it had gotten wet, as if it was crying. The shields and coats of arms that decorate the walls fade into darkness as the fire retreats. The faces in the room are a blur, I don't care about them, I don't pay attention to them. I would rather kill them all and keep her safe, far away.
But she wants to sing for them. She wants to play even if she bleeds, for them. They that caused her such pain.
I have no right to stop her.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Jump Start
He strikes a match, lets it burn, swings his wrist and snaps it to make the head die in a puff of pitiful smoke. It wasn't even enough to survive for two seconds in the scented air of the room. It smelled like lavender. Now it smells like burnt lavender.
He flicks the match, it strikes the wall, leaves a dusty black mark and drops into the garbage bin. The bin is full of crumpled and ripped papers that the girl has given up on. Half scenes, short scenes, single sentences and full exposition mar the once smooth and pretty paper. Failed words and writing, a disease on the sheets that never asked for anything but to be useful. They aren't useful. She made them useless. A word was wrong, it gets scratched out, a sentence is wrong it gets scribbled into oblivion. But what if it is wrong? All of it. The very core reasoning of the original thought that sparked to life a match in her mind that burns bright until it reaches her pen and then it fizzles.
She can't finish. She goes and goes, writes and writes and breathes life into people and worlds. They grow in her head, a forest, spreading wide and reaching high. Then a flame starts at the corner and she stops. She can't save it. It's the biggest moment when all is supposed to explode in a beautiful flash of acceleration. It stops. She closes her eyes and the forest withers into darkness. She puts her pen down and slides the notebook into her desk, where seven others sit, half full, full full, never finished.
He lights a match, he lets it burn. He lets the flame engulf his hand. It doesn't hurt. He's a devil. It turns black as it feeds on something not there, that it can never completely consume.
He flicks the match, it strikes the wall, leaves a dusty black mark and drops into the garbage bin. The bin is full of crumpled and ripped papers that the girl has given up on. Half scenes, short scenes, single sentences and full exposition mar the once smooth and pretty paper. Failed words and writing, a disease on the sheets that never asked for anything but to be useful. They aren't useful. She made them useless. A word was wrong, it gets scratched out, a sentence is wrong it gets scribbled into oblivion. But what if it is wrong? All of it. The very core reasoning of the original thought that sparked to life a match in her mind that burns bright until it reaches her pen and then it fizzles.
She can't finish. She goes and goes, writes and writes and breathes life into people and worlds. They grow in her head, a forest, spreading wide and reaching high. Then a flame starts at the corner and she stops. She can't save it. It's the biggest moment when all is supposed to explode in a beautiful flash of acceleration. It stops. She closes her eyes and the forest withers into darkness. She puts her pen down and slides the notebook into her desk, where seven others sit, half full, full full, never finished.
He lights a match, he lets it burn. He lets the flame engulf his hand. It doesn't hurt. He's a devil. It turns black as it feeds on something not there, that it can never completely consume.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
A little more Serious
Annabelle played with the syringe between her narrow fingers. Her slender digits looked like flailing spider's legs as she spun the needle around as if it was a pen. It was a clean one, she paid extra for that, and even had a plastic cap on the end to protect the point. The liquid inside the graduated cylinder was a dull white, as if someone had collected it from a puddle where a child's chalk drawing used to be. For all Annabelle knew, someone had.
She wondered if injecting chalk-water into her arm would be as dangerous as injecting heroin. She tugged on a loose piece of frazzled, dried out hair. It was from dying and bleaching it too many colors too close together and not taking care of it. She was too lazy to wash her hair as often as she should, though she thought about it constantly. If she shot up would she forget about it? Would she stop constantly poking her thighs, watching the fat jiggle and regretting quitting dance? Ballet, of course.
Annabelle flipped the syringe around her hand again and looked at the curtains. She had made them over the summer, for her dorm room that had huge windows that anyone could see into. Idiot architect though huge windows around a courtyard would be brilliant, let all the other students have a clear view of your entire room. No where to hide unless you fucked around with the bent and broken venetian blinds. So she made curtains.
Green curtains, trimmed with a kind of tye-dyed green-yellow mish-mosh.
It reminded her of the forest canopy during the summer back home. It always smelled really clean back there, until they developed the big lot on the other side. Now she had to angle herself just so in order to not see any houses.
The room was dark, even though it was only four in the afternoon. She had the curtains drawn, sitting on the shag rug. Brown shag, it was soft and comfortable. Her suite-mate liked to sneak in just to lie around on it. Annabelle didn't mind.
She looked down at the syringe again when the cap popped off from a missed twirl. She picked up the cap and put it back on, then shook the needle so that the liquid spun around like a snow globe. She didn't know heroin glittered like that.
"Annabelle!" said her suite-mate, throwing open the door to the bathroom that connected their two singles.
Annabelle stuffed the syringe under the papers of essays, stories, and hand-outs that were strewn about near her ass. She put on a smile as she looked up at her friend's round, cheerful face. She was always so eloquent.
"I got an apartment!"
"That's great, Claire."
"You aren't going to be staying in the city after graduation then?"
"Nah. I'll probably end up going back to my parent's house for a bit until I get a steady job, then look into apartments back home."
"I understand. You never really took to the city like me."
Annabelle wasn't sure if that was an insult or not, but decided it wasn't because her friend just liked to state her idle observations.
"Yeah."
"Well, I'm going to grab dinner. You want to come?"
She glanced at the ruffled papers, tented over the hidden syringe. Annabelle got up to her feet and tugged her pj booty shorts straight. She didn't poke her thigh.
"Sure. Just let me get some real pants on."
She wondered if injecting chalk-water into her arm would be as dangerous as injecting heroin. She tugged on a loose piece of frazzled, dried out hair. It was from dying and bleaching it too many colors too close together and not taking care of it. She was too lazy to wash her hair as often as she should, though she thought about it constantly. If she shot up would she forget about it? Would she stop constantly poking her thighs, watching the fat jiggle and regretting quitting dance? Ballet, of course.
Annabelle flipped the syringe around her hand again and looked at the curtains. She had made them over the summer, for her dorm room that had huge windows that anyone could see into. Idiot architect though huge windows around a courtyard would be brilliant, let all the other students have a clear view of your entire room. No where to hide unless you fucked around with the bent and broken venetian blinds. So she made curtains.
Green curtains, trimmed with a kind of tye-dyed green-yellow mish-mosh.
It reminded her of the forest canopy during the summer back home. It always smelled really clean back there, until they developed the big lot on the other side. Now she had to angle herself just so in order to not see any houses.
The room was dark, even though it was only four in the afternoon. She had the curtains drawn, sitting on the shag rug. Brown shag, it was soft and comfortable. Her suite-mate liked to sneak in just to lie around on it. Annabelle didn't mind.
She looked down at the syringe again when the cap popped off from a missed twirl. She picked up the cap and put it back on, then shook the needle so that the liquid spun around like a snow globe. She didn't know heroin glittered like that.
"Annabelle!" said her suite-mate, throwing open the door to the bathroom that connected their two singles.
Annabelle stuffed the syringe under the papers of essays, stories, and hand-outs that were strewn about near her ass. She put on a smile as she looked up at her friend's round, cheerful face. She was always so eloquent.
"I got an apartment!"
"That's great, Claire."
"You aren't going to be staying in the city after graduation then?"
"Nah. I'll probably end up going back to my parent's house for a bit until I get a steady job, then look into apartments back home."
"I understand. You never really took to the city like me."
Annabelle wasn't sure if that was an insult or not, but decided it wasn't because her friend just liked to state her idle observations.
"Yeah."
"Well, I'm going to grab dinner. You want to come?"
She glanced at the ruffled papers, tented over the hidden syringe. Annabelle got up to her feet and tugged her pj booty shorts straight. She didn't poke her thigh.
"Sure. Just let me get some real pants on."
Friday, April 8, 2011
The "Garden"
When the sun set was when the President's garden showed just what made it unique. It wasn't the sheer size, spilling out from the buildings in every direction for miles. It wasn't that what appeared to be every plant on the planet coexisting peacefully and healthily. All the rivers, pools, ponds, and fountains that made their way in the wild sprawl of land became pronounced from the vibrant glow that was nearly impossible to see during the day. It wasn't only that though.
All the plants. All of them that fed from the waters of the spring beneath the company headquarters, started to glow as well with their respective colors. Veins in the leaves, steams, and flowers pulsed with what seemed to be a collective hum, every rustle of the wind or creature moving through it sent off harmonious chords and notes, each one slightly different from the neighbor beside it.
From years of living in a barren wasteland of a dying world, Frederick wasn't sure he could handle the view, the scents that mixed together and wafted their way up to his balcony. He gripped the banister tightly, refusing to look away, he would rather pass out from being overwhelmed than disrespect the beauty and hope that the President worked so hard to nourish and bring to the rest of this decrepit world.
"And I had been sent to kill her," he thought, and felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. Even after the attempt had ended in humiliation for him, President Rikkia Angelius had put him in this grand, comfortable room that was almost too comfortable for a soldier like him. With this view. This perfect view.
All the plants. All of them that fed from the waters of the spring beneath the company headquarters, started to glow as well with their respective colors. Veins in the leaves, steams, and flowers pulsed with what seemed to be a collective hum, every rustle of the wind or creature moving through it sent off harmonious chords and notes, each one slightly different from the neighbor beside it.
From years of living in a barren wasteland of a dying world, Frederick wasn't sure he could handle the view, the scents that mixed together and wafted their way up to his balcony. He gripped the banister tightly, refusing to look away, he would rather pass out from being overwhelmed than disrespect the beauty and hope that the President worked so hard to nourish and bring to the rest of this decrepit world.
"And I had been sent to kill her," he thought, and felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. Even after the attempt had ended in humiliation for him, President Rikkia Angelius had put him in this grand, comfortable room that was almost too comfortable for a soldier like him. With this view. This perfect view.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Escaping the Trap
Each inhale made her feel like she was falling backwards, and exhaling felt like someone had shoved her at point of where her shoulder blades met the ribs. She moved her arms accordingly, struggling to keep her balance that wasn't thrown off. The muted colors of the room then exploded into brightness, really throwing her off physically and she crashed to the floor with a yelp. Above her, a rune seemed to be unaffected by these psychedelic changes. It stayed still, pulsing a heartbeat, pouring red light down at her.
"It's only a matter of time..." a dark voice whispered from below her. Cloyingly sweet in her ears, tugging at her heart, and her arousal. "And you know just how much time I have, do you not? As much as I need..."
Synestra moaned, her head wheeled around and she rolled onto her stomach. Her breathing wrenched her lungs violently, and her hand slipped on the polished oak floor. She crashed down again, her head slamming to the floor. It sent a ripple of pain through her eyes, which she squeezed shut tight. Someone was screaming. Someone was screaming in pain.
"Is it me?" she wondered for a brief moment before she unleashed another scream. Her bat-like wings sprouted from her back, shedding hawk-pattern feathers that grew in uneven splotches along the sheet.
"Silly little succubus..." whispered the voice, phantasmal fingers rolled up the curve of her hip. "What are you trying to do?"
Synestra dug her nails into the floor and they transformed into claws. She wrenched up an entire plank of wood and spun, throwing it at the ceiling. The jagged end of the plank pierced through the rune. It instantly drained of its color, the red light that seemed to flood the room was sucked back into it in a vortex of anti-light as a high, rattling scream echoed in Synestra's head. The building shook, and Synestra just held on to the new hole she made in her floor until it ended.
When all went quiet, she gasped, and let her consciousness slip away to rest.
"It's only a matter of time..." a dark voice whispered from below her. Cloyingly sweet in her ears, tugging at her heart, and her arousal. "And you know just how much time I have, do you not? As much as I need..."
Synestra moaned, her head wheeled around and she rolled onto her stomach. Her breathing wrenched her lungs violently, and her hand slipped on the polished oak floor. She crashed down again, her head slamming to the floor. It sent a ripple of pain through her eyes, which she squeezed shut tight. Someone was screaming. Someone was screaming in pain.
"Is it me?" she wondered for a brief moment before she unleashed another scream. Her bat-like wings sprouted from her back, shedding hawk-pattern feathers that grew in uneven splotches along the sheet.
"Silly little succubus..." whispered the voice, phantasmal fingers rolled up the curve of her hip. "What are you trying to do?"
Synestra dug her nails into the floor and they transformed into claws. She wrenched up an entire plank of wood and spun, throwing it at the ceiling. The jagged end of the plank pierced through the rune. It instantly drained of its color, the red light that seemed to flood the room was sucked back into it in a vortex of anti-light as a high, rattling scream echoed in Synestra's head. The building shook, and Synestra just held on to the new hole she made in her floor until it ended.
When all went quiet, she gasped, and let her consciousness slip away to rest.
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