Because Oki doesn't ever want to buy another book, there's now this pressure to continue writing.
And I like it.
This is my little foray for the day. I probably started it a few days ago, but haven't figured out how to bleed it into the next segment without the story. Especially since I have no story for him to tell yet. I guess I could come up with one. I just don't know what to tell. So many stories drowning in my head and I'm not sure which one is the appropriate one. Oh well. Enjoy. Feedback to me.
Street Light Stories
Sky black like blood through an abuse child's eyes and Jerry tortures Tom the same way. White holes in the black, the part where light reflects off the surface, point to a belief of something larger than our lives, but only provides a beautiful backdrop for romantics in movies. In the back of a full-size truck a decade old and showing the age, Snow and I lie in the drive-in theater staring up, but telling stories horizontally. She lies on her snowflake tattoo between her shoulder blades and I can see every inch as I draw it into the constellations while pointing out Orion to her. She loses her constellation virginity tonight, with me. Her black hair contrasting with the blue comforter laid in the truck bed for us, a red checkered ribbon holding it poorly together. The ribbon matches the sash belt accessorizing her black plaid skirt. We act like teenagers in love and sometimes I know I'm younger, because of her, but older now that I fear death. It's the first time I've ever felt the half-chewed meat panic caught in my throat and the bits and pieces of half-digested meals battling in my stomach for the opportunity to leave.
Star.
Star. She calls me Star. Ever since I drew them on her birthday card a year ago. It was cute to her. I have a trail of stars tattooed up the inside of my left arm, because of it. The biggest one has Snow tattooed in a slightly different color so I can see it, but it doesn't scream for attention. My secret. She held my hand, because the tattoo gun scared me, I'm afraid of needles. I'm not afraid of a needle killing me, but one slipping into my eye freaks me out. I watched the artist work with fascination as she cooed in my ear and stroke the sin between thumb and index.
Yeah?
She rolls onto the her side, propping her head onto her hand with a smirk spreading across her face. The red dragon on her arm slips under the sleeve and into the dark reflected light of the moon, full circle like a gunshot wound, blood filling the pavement and creating a sky for cells looking up into the light. I turn to face her and think of how we look like an ill-matched pair of socks.
Kiss me, then tell me a story.
I sit up, back against the rear window and she slides into position, straddled across my lap to receive her kiss. She puckers her lips and I can see down her shirt to her skirt, no bra.
How much does each kiss cost me?
She looks at me with confusion and then chuckles in realization. In her best kissing booth voice, she begins to gesture.
I do believe sir, that the sign overhead says a dollar a kiss, but for you I'd be willing to make an exception provided you pay me with something more satisfactory.
She leans forward and delicate as a bee raping a flower touches my lips with hers, then bites just as gently. All the blood in my body pools in the pit of my torso, cramming and rushing to collect into the six inches of tissue swelling with mass hysteria. The guns tattooed on her hip bones peak under her shirt and above her skirt. I want her to push one to my temple and threaten me, tell me to eat or she'll pull the trigger.
I reach for the side of her head and pull her into me, lips on lips, tongue versus tongue. The cherry red lipstick smears across my lips and I lick the mint flavor of her toothpaste off her tongue. Menthol.
She unbuttons a sole button with two fingers and slips her hand inside the cloth and holds her palm against where my heart beats frantically, trying to jump into her hand so she can hold it. Keep it. I pull back slightly from the kiss and she bites my lower lip. I see the stars through my eyelids, glowing with warmth and a million stories that no one knows. I listen, but can only hear her breathing. I push her shirt up and she pushes my hands down, breaks the kiss.
I said kiss me, not attempt to fuck me.
You're evil.
She sits back and the grin spreads from ear to ear.
So what, tell me a story.
I just smile.
And I like it.
This is my little foray for the day. I probably started it a few days ago, but haven't figured out how to bleed it into the next segment without the story. Especially since I have no story for him to tell yet. I guess I could come up with one. I just don't know what to tell. So many stories drowning in my head and I'm not sure which one is the appropriate one. Oh well. Enjoy. Feedback to me.
Street Light Stories
Sky black like blood through an abuse child's eyes and Jerry tortures Tom the same way. White holes in the black, the part where light reflects off the surface, point to a belief of something larger than our lives, but only provides a beautiful backdrop for romantics in movies. In the back of a full-size truck a decade old and showing the age, Snow and I lie in the drive-in theater staring up, but telling stories horizontally. She lies on her snowflake tattoo between her shoulder blades and I can see every inch as I draw it into the constellations while pointing out Orion to her. She loses her constellation virginity tonight, with me. Her black hair contrasting with the blue comforter laid in the truck bed for us, a red checkered ribbon holding it poorly together. The ribbon matches the sash belt accessorizing her black plaid skirt. We act like teenagers in love and sometimes I know I'm younger, because of her, but older now that I fear death. It's the first time I've ever felt the half-chewed meat panic caught in my throat and the bits and pieces of half-digested meals battling in my stomach for the opportunity to leave.
Star.
Star. She calls me Star. Ever since I drew them on her birthday card a year ago. It was cute to her. I have a trail of stars tattooed up the inside of my left arm, because of it. The biggest one has Snow tattooed in a slightly different color so I can see it, but it doesn't scream for attention. My secret. She held my hand, because the tattoo gun scared me, I'm afraid of needles. I'm not afraid of a needle killing me, but one slipping into my eye freaks me out. I watched the artist work with fascination as she cooed in my ear and stroke the sin between thumb and index.
Yeah?
She rolls onto the her side, propping her head onto her hand with a smirk spreading across her face. The red dragon on her arm slips under the sleeve and into the dark reflected light of the moon, full circle like a gunshot wound, blood filling the pavement and creating a sky for cells looking up into the light. I turn to face her and think of how we look like an ill-matched pair of socks.
Kiss me, then tell me a story.
I sit up, back against the rear window and she slides into position, straddled across my lap to receive her kiss. She puckers her lips and I can see down her shirt to her skirt, no bra.
How much does each kiss cost me?
She looks at me with confusion and then chuckles in realization. In her best kissing booth voice, she begins to gesture.
I do believe sir, that the sign overhead says a dollar a kiss, but for you I'd be willing to make an exception provided you pay me with something more satisfactory.
She leans forward and delicate as a bee raping a flower touches my lips with hers, then bites just as gently. All the blood in my body pools in the pit of my torso, cramming and rushing to collect into the six inches of tissue swelling with mass hysteria. The guns tattooed on her hip bones peak under her shirt and above her skirt. I want her to push one to my temple and threaten me, tell me to eat or she'll pull the trigger.
I reach for the side of her head and pull her into me, lips on lips, tongue versus tongue. The cherry red lipstick smears across my lips and I lick the mint flavor of her toothpaste off her tongue. Menthol.
She unbuttons a sole button with two fingers and slips her hand inside the cloth and holds her palm against where my heart beats frantically, trying to jump into her hand so she can hold it. Keep it. I pull back slightly from the kiss and she bites my lower lip. I see the stars through my eyelids, glowing with warmth and a million stories that no one knows. I listen, but can only hear her breathing. I push her shirt up and she pushes my hands down, breaks the kiss.
I said kiss me, not attempt to fuck me.
You're evil.
She sits back and the grin spreads from ear to ear.
So what, tell me a story.
I just smile.
phineas:
that's pretty fucking impressive.