Another day, another story. I can't find my camera anywhere and it seems this isn't just me. I think my friends and I have been attacked my gnomes or some shit. Gnomes that steal cameras. Those bastards will die when I find a sharp pen to jab through their larnyx. Or I can forgive them if they bring back the camera in the next 48 hours.
Saw that Kimmi is taking applications for boyfriends and I'm intrigued to see the responses she gets. I may make my own for the fun of writing the application. It'll be like practice for when I break into interviewing. I know quite a few underrated authors that could use the exposure, so maybe I can rig up some for the site.
Been writing a consistent article a day for the news feed, well I've written more, but they're publishing a consistent one a day. Which I'm not going to bitch about. [It might be one every two days but whatever.] I'm happy to actually contribute and expose people to certain things happening in the world. Maybe they'll take the chance to come read my short stories since I seem to post a little something everytime I update.
EDIT: boom did two articles today, go me. Although I need to edit better.
And with that I present today's story, I'm still working on editing it and possibly getting it published by Cellar Door. Hopefully I can get it picked up. Let me know what you think of it. Feedback is always appreciated.
Hallucinations
I hover over the porcelain, my head held back by fingers entwined in my hair from the tub. Blood spewing with all the liquids from the last twenty-four hours into this rich man's bucket. The lights dim even though they blare and shout from atop the mirror. The person in the tub mumbles about swallowing butterflies in her drink, they were blue or green or some nonsense. I look at my blood swirling like tea leaves at the bottom of a gypsy's cup. I watch for the lone eye to follow it's gaze, but only a handle glares back at me. It's obviously disappointed in my decisions tonight. Used condoms float to the surface of this fortune teller's concoction. They could be baggies with white powder like the smugglers use to cross the Mexico-Texas border.
The hand tugs against the knot of hair trying to free its fingers like a fox in a bear trap gnawing at its leg and the pipe in her hand drops crashing into the tile like a car accident, glass everywhere.
Shit.
The hand drags my head down towards the scene of the crime before it wrings itself loose to gather the precious pieces. Maybe by putting it back together the drugs and hallucinations will come back as well.
I sit against the wall and see my set of needles on the counter with a vial of amber liquid inside it. Pushing off with the right arm I try to reach up to the counter from where I sit, knocking needles everywhere, syringes hit the ground, it rings in my ears. I twist and turn to gather them all up and fumble to put them back in their place, inside the case that lays face down in my lap. I flip it over unaware of my mistake and try several times to strap them down with the Velcro bands. I focus my eyes on the remaining needle stuck in the grotto between the tiles. If I can pick it up I might be able to stick the needle in the case without causing damage to something. I rub my fingers over the cool steel and try to absorb the needle. Apparently, I don't have superpowers, so I try to pick it up. It works with moderate success. I screw it onto the syringe and stick it into the vial with no troubles. I squirt a little and tap the bubbles out. A belt fashioned into a crude tourniquet magically appears on my arm like a Disney trick. I bite the loose end and pull tight, insert the needle, and close my eyes.
It hits me like the car did several months ago. Slowly pushing the metal around me and then pinning me between the door and light pole. The turn blinker counting down like a death clock. Blink. Blink. Blink. Four firemen, one jaws of life, three paramedics, and seven hours later, I was on a helicopter to Parkland Hospital, a hospital that specializes in treating burn victims. They're able to restore me like a robot. Polish me off and make me new. They should have erased my hard drive.
I pull the needle out and squirt the little blood left over on the ceiling. Ben Stiller shoots it in a movie once and I have imitated it since seeing it. He called it permanent midnight. I think of it as Pony piss. The Pony only picks me up when the pain grows to god-like proportions. When I think a child axes at my skull trying to get out, I pull the zipper open and produce a needle. It keeps me in the dark, a permanent midnight, I guess.
They'll admit me again if this second needle doesn't work.
***
A hand rests on my arm and points to broken glass in its open palm. Her eyes like ice stop at the needle with excitement building.
Morphine, I say, for the pain.
She nods her head knowing I'm lying to her and holds her arm out. I tap and wrap, tap and stick, push and pull. Her eyes roll back and the pupils fade white. I curl against the tub, pull myself up to her, straddle her lap, and grab her tongue pulling it out. She jerks upright, gagging. Collapsing into my shoulder, mouth open and tongue out. Her tattoos crawl off her arm and into my mouth and I can't scream. A smile spreads across her lips, her sweat and drool falling onto my jeans.
Love burns its victims with a kiss.
Her lips struggle to push against my shoulder and suck her dragon ink back under her skin, but it remains coiled tightly around my neck. The shower curtain rears up from its perch and licks at my elbow, trying to nibble and taste flesh. I push at it with my hands, but it sends us crashing to the floor near the toilet. It stomps at my ears. I have to run, have to flee, but nothing responds and I fall into her. Glass sticks to her face and paints a bloody picture. I touch it and it sticks to my fingers, melting. She starts to fall apart.
Just like the Mona Lisa, she hisses.
She leans in and sucks at my air. I break the kiss, gasp, and scurry backwards on all fours, dragging my ass. I'm ten and I'm running from the monster under the bed, except she's real and I'm more than twice that age. Pieces flake to the floor and she starts crawling. My back against the wall I stumble, I trip, I twist and scuttle down the hallway bumping into drunks everywhere. I knock over some guy's drink and he pushes me into the sofa. I flip over and crack my head against the coffee table. The twins on the couch stop kissing the guy and pull me up, checking for blood. Using their spit as antiseptic. She sits on the bar stool next to the asshole who knocked me over peeling away the first layer of skin. Biology class was never that disgusting when dissecting the fetal pigs.
Some guy yells about me being an asshole skank.
The twins mumble about this being fun as they help me to the bedroom and lay me down. She stands in the hallway pulling the piece of skin down her arm and off her fingertips like a glove, exposing the raw pink skin. The twins close the doors and I still see her on the ceiling. Dropping the skin onto me, but the flakes turn into petals and I can taste them. The twins stroke my chest, giggling between themselves. We trade spit, my belt removed, petals caught in my mouth. Then the petals fuse the twins skin and they peel away the first layer. Three of her peeling themselves away. I run to the closet. Golf clubs, baseball bat, shotgun, axe. I grab the axe. Swinging wildly. She backs off laughing, taunting.
Spiders should be crawling from her mouth.
I drop the axe and grab the shot gun, aim, and squeeze. The three combine into one and blow back against the wall. Blood and brains and screaming all around. Paint with texture. The door opens and someone tackles me, wrestles the gun out of my hands.
What were you thinkin'? You loved her. What were you thinkin' pointin' a gun at her?
I try to shout back that I didn't love that foul demon, that witch, that bitch trying to kill me, but she's not there. She fell away and my girl lays in her place.
I struggle, I scream, tears streaming, I want to hold my baby. Let me hold my baby. I'm let go and scurry over to her and pull her head into my lap, cradling it like a dying fetus. My tears become the next flood to hit Texas. God can hear my screams.
Love burns its victims with a kiss that stings like a bee bites.
***
Three hours later, in tears, I kiss her lips.
le fin, nick.
Saw that Kimmi is taking applications for boyfriends and I'm intrigued to see the responses she gets. I may make my own for the fun of writing the application. It'll be like practice for when I break into interviewing. I know quite a few underrated authors that could use the exposure, so maybe I can rig up some for the site.
Been writing a consistent article a day for the news feed, well I've written more, but they're publishing a consistent one a day. Which I'm not going to bitch about. [It might be one every two days but whatever.] I'm happy to actually contribute and expose people to certain things happening in the world. Maybe they'll take the chance to come read my short stories since I seem to post a little something everytime I update.
EDIT: boom did two articles today, go me. Although I need to edit better.
And with that I present today's story, I'm still working on editing it and possibly getting it published by Cellar Door. Hopefully I can get it picked up. Let me know what you think of it. Feedback is always appreciated.
Hallucinations
I hover over the porcelain, my head held back by fingers entwined in my hair from the tub. Blood spewing with all the liquids from the last twenty-four hours into this rich man's bucket. The lights dim even though they blare and shout from atop the mirror. The person in the tub mumbles about swallowing butterflies in her drink, they were blue or green or some nonsense. I look at my blood swirling like tea leaves at the bottom of a gypsy's cup. I watch for the lone eye to follow it's gaze, but only a handle glares back at me. It's obviously disappointed in my decisions tonight. Used condoms float to the surface of this fortune teller's concoction. They could be baggies with white powder like the smugglers use to cross the Mexico-Texas border.
The hand tugs against the knot of hair trying to free its fingers like a fox in a bear trap gnawing at its leg and the pipe in her hand drops crashing into the tile like a car accident, glass everywhere.
Shit.
The hand drags my head down towards the scene of the crime before it wrings itself loose to gather the precious pieces. Maybe by putting it back together the drugs and hallucinations will come back as well.
I sit against the wall and see my set of needles on the counter with a vial of amber liquid inside it. Pushing off with the right arm I try to reach up to the counter from where I sit, knocking needles everywhere, syringes hit the ground, it rings in my ears. I twist and turn to gather them all up and fumble to put them back in their place, inside the case that lays face down in my lap. I flip it over unaware of my mistake and try several times to strap them down with the Velcro bands. I focus my eyes on the remaining needle stuck in the grotto between the tiles. If I can pick it up I might be able to stick the needle in the case without causing damage to something. I rub my fingers over the cool steel and try to absorb the needle. Apparently, I don't have superpowers, so I try to pick it up. It works with moderate success. I screw it onto the syringe and stick it into the vial with no troubles. I squirt a little and tap the bubbles out. A belt fashioned into a crude tourniquet magically appears on my arm like a Disney trick. I bite the loose end and pull tight, insert the needle, and close my eyes.
It hits me like the car did several months ago. Slowly pushing the metal around me and then pinning me between the door and light pole. The turn blinker counting down like a death clock. Blink. Blink. Blink. Four firemen, one jaws of life, three paramedics, and seven hours later, I was on a helicopter to Parkland Hospital, a hospital that specializes in treating burn victims. They're able to restore me like a robot. Polish me off and make me new. They should have erased my hard drive.
I pull the needle out and squirt the little blood left over on the ceiling. Ben Stiller shoots it in a movie once and I have imitated it since seeing it. He called it permanent midnight. I think of it as Pony piss. The Pony only picks me up when the pain grows to god-like proportions. When I think a child axes at my skull trying to get out, I pull the zipper open and produce a needle. It keeps me in the dark, a permanent midnight, I guess.
They'll admit me again if this second needle doesn't work.
***
A hand rests on my arm and points to broken glass in its open palm. Her eyes like ice stop at the needle with excitement building.
Morphine, I say, for the pain.
She nods her head knowing I'm lying to her and holds her arm out. I tap and wrap, tap and stick, push and pull. Her eyes roll back and the pupils fade white. I curl against the tub, pull myself up to her, straddle her lap, and grab her tongue pulling it out. She jerks upright, gagging. Collapsing into my shoulder, mouth open and tongue out. Her tattoos crawl off her arm and into my mouth and I can't scream. A smile spreads across her lips, her sweat and drool falling onto my jeans.
Love burns its victims with a kiss.
Her lips struggle to push against my shoulder and suck her dragon ink back under her skin, but it remains coiled tightly around my neck. The shower curtain rears up from its perch and licks at my elbow, trying to nibble and taste flesh. I push at it with my hands, but it sends us crashing to the floor near the toilet. It stomps at my ears. I have to run, have to flee, but nothing responds and I fall into her. Glass sticks to her face and paints a bloody picture. I touch it and it sticks to my fingers, melting. She starts to fall apart.
Just like the Mona Lisa, she hisses.
She leans in and sucks at my air. I break the kiss, gasp, and scurry backwards on all fours, dragging my ass. I'm ten and I'm running from the monster under the bed, except she's real and I'm more than twice that age. Pieces flake to the floor and she starts crawling. My back against the wall I stumble, I trip, I twist and scuttle down the hallway bumping into drunks everywhere. I knock over some guy's drink and he pushes me into the sofa. I flip over and crack my head against the coffee table. The twins on the couch stop kissing the guy and pull me up, checking for blood. Using their spit as antiseptic. She sits on the bar stool next to the asshole who knocked me over peeling away the first layer of skin. Biology class was never that disgusting when dissecting the fetal pigs.
Some guy yells about me being an asshole skank.
The twins mumble about this being fun as they help me to the bedroom and lay me down. She stands in the hallway pulling the piece of skin down her arm and off her fingertips like a glove, exposing the raw pink skin. The twins close the doors and I still see her on the ceiling. Dropping the skin onto me, but the flakes turn into petals and I can taste them. The twins stroke my chest, giggling between themselves. We trade spit, my belt removed, petals caught in my mouth. Then the petals fuse the twins skin and they peel away the first layer. Three of her peeling themselves away. I run to the closet. Golf clubs, baseball bat, shotgun, axe. I grab the axe. Swinging wildly. She backs off laughing, taunting.
Spiders should be crawling from her mouth.
I drop the axe and grab the shot gun, aim, and squeeze. The three combine into one and blow back against the wall. Blood and brains and screaming all around. Paint with texture. The door opens and someone tackles me, wrestles the gun out of my hands.
What were you thinkin'? You loved her. What were you thinkin' pointin' a gun at her?
I try to shout back that I didn't love that foul demon, that witch, that bitch trying to kill me, but she's not there. She fell away and my girl lays in her place.
I struggle, I scream, tears streaming, I want to hold my baby. Let me hold my baby. I'm let go and scurry over to her and pull her head into my lap, cradling it like a dying fetus. My tears become the next flood to hit Texas. God can hear my screams.
Love burns its victims with a kiss that stings like a bee bites.
***
Three hours later, in tears, I kiss her lips.
le fin, nick.