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UNTITLED

I’m nervous and I’m shy. Like a fourteen year old entering her first school dance. My eyes focus on everything but you. I ask for another glass of wine. A few more glasses later, I’ve torn the walls down, I’ve relaxed and we’re leaning into each other. The bar around us disappears, time ceases to exist and we drown ourselves in the attraction, at hand.

You tell me it’s time to go as you take my hand and lead me out of the bar to your awaiting car. The road is long, but the conversation flows as easily as the wine.

We arrive at your house. We can’t wait to get inside. Both of us on the edge of that moment, that need, that desire. It burns strong, deep down. We can’t escape it.

You pull me through the door and begin to kiss me. I melt and moan and want it so badly. I feel your hands as they glide across my dress and knead the muscles in my back. I’ve become your sculpture, you can mold me as you like.

You peel me out of my dress, so slowly, licking the sweat off my neck. My heart is racing. I can’t think anymore, I’ve become a part of this moment, and this is the only thing I care in the world for. You devour my mouth with yours. You begin to explore places on my body I never knew existed and I reciprocate.

Your hands travel up my thighs to reach my lace thong. You pull it back and gently caress the outside of my lips, soft and velvety. You tease me and take great delight in the fact that I’m moaning, shaking, begging you for more. I’m soaking, dripping and in great need of the release. Slowly, painfully slowly, you slide a finger between my slick, satin walls and I gasp. Then another. Two, gently moving together to create a wondrous friction of juices and velveteen skin. I lean back to give you greater access. I have surrendered. My white flag is held high and there’s no going back. I could die, like this, in the throes of such ecstasy. You’re reaching, spreading those fingers deep inside me. Your expert movements make me quiver and I can feel myself teetering over the edge. Over and over again, I loose my fluid. You have no qualms about how much or how many. I toss my head back and cry out, for the pleasure is nearly too much to bear. I’m covered in sweat, my eyes and hair wild, my heart racing. You look up at me and decide it’s time to stop. So terribly slowly you remove your fingers and I cry at the emptiness. I want so much more. You draw your sodden fingers to your lips. I can see you want to taste me. My mind blanks. My legs grow weaker and I think I’m going to faint. I’m overwhelmed. I lean back and close my eyes. They snap open at the sound of a baby crying. Too close to be a neighbor. It must be in the same house. I look around me, trying to gather my bearings. The baby has finished it’s cry but there’s something else. I look through the darkness, see the clock, can hear it ticking. I’m sandwiched between two wet, cold sheets. The rhythmic sound of my husband’s breathing greets me and I can hear the traffic outside my window. I allow a little cry to escape as the reality hits me.

A dream. That’s all it ever was.

hours

On such a restless night
Upon the hour the clock did strike
Through the sound did I move
My longing heart did prove

I looked ‘round
The garden wall torn down
How deeply my heart did ache
And wish to tremble in its wake

I will search till I wake

In the air, still and sleepy
I found the moment breathing
The night began to swallow
The shaded footsteps I had to follow

Wanting the moment
I was struck, though hesitant
I moved through the garden
The ground began to harden

On such a night so restless
Betrayed by the heart within my chest
I called the name
And fared the same

So it ends, I’ll haunt the halls
I’ll accept the hand as it falls
But I cannot look to the day
For I have been swept away

And I will search till I wake.

Welcome To The Continental!

Ah, another one. I know, I know.. it's tedious, boring.. sitting in front of your monitor reading another short story. But that's why I'm warning you. If you're totally not interested, no worries! Just pass go, collect your 200 and move on to the next. If you are going to hang and read it (which I'd very much appreciate, of course) bear in mind that I wrote this just yesterday and haven't really made any corrections. It's a very raw piece, rudimentary, at best. There are lots of things to fix.. it doesn't really flow very well, I noticed while skimming it last night.. but that will be taken care of in the next draft.

Those of you who are still reading and who will read through the story, I'd like you to be my editors. Critique the fuck out of it, I welcome any and all comments.. it's the only way I'll get better. Again, it has not been corrected or revised in any way.. I won't do that until I discuss it with you.

Thanks! Welcome to the Continental, we do hope you enjoy your stay!

"Welcome to the Continental, sir. We have a very special room for you, please follow me." The red uniformed bell hop, smiling with the whitest, shiniest pearls, greeted Albert. "You are a celebrity in our establishment, and you will be treated as such. The management thanks you for finally making it, we expected you much earlier. You definitely surprised us with your delay but we're glad you're finally able to grace us with your presence. My name is Jem, I will do whatever I can to make your stay with us as enjoyable as possible." He flashed another brilliant smile at Albert. His teeth were perfectly straight, a smile fit for Hollywood. But Albert saw something else. It happened so quickly he wasn't sure. The teeth morphed, became sharp and spiny, like fork tines. He dismissed it, though, like he would an annoying fly buzzing around his head.

Dressed in his best Armani, he followed the bell hop to an ornately crafted elevator. Jem pressed the call button and Albert could hear gears and cables grinding. Jem's uniform, he noticed, was not just red, though, it was the deepest red he had ever seen and it seemed to be glowing. Everything around him seemed to be glowing. There were women scurrying over the marbled flooring like busy little bees in the cathedral sized lobby. Some were polishing the distinctive hand carved mantel above the vast fireplace, some were cleaning the deep leather chairs and sofas. Others were shining up the windows and glass tables. Most were raven haired with green piercing eyes, a thought that perhaps they could all be related crossed his mind. He wanted one and would have one, by day end. But he hadn't the foggiest idea of how he had arrived at this hotel. It had been just the day before that his lawyer, Jonathon, sat with him, in his cell and had dinner. But he was out now and maybe being released scrambled his brains a little. It did happen. Cell mates of his who had been behind bars for many years became acclimated to a caged life. Upon being released they wouldn't know how to deal with society again. Often they'd have nervous breakdowns and sometimes they'd commit suicide.

The elevator arrived and the red clad bell hop pulled the gilded gate open and gestured for Albert to enter. Gears and wheels and cables began their grinding. Down, they went, slow and steady, further and further. The ground floor must've been feet above by the time the elevator had shuddered to a stop. Strange, Albert thought, most high end hotels keep the rooms above the earth's crust, not below it, but he wasn't going to question. He was out, away from that horrible prison, and he didn't want to jinx the impossibility of such freedom.

Jem led him down a long corridor carpeted with rich colors intertwining in vibrant designs that seemed to slither, as if the entire cushy flooring was a writhing, serpent dance. But that was impossible, almost as impossible as his newfound freedom. It was cold, too. That was the second thing he noticed. He could see his breath. Jem read it in his eyes and remarked, "it's cold, the boiler doesn't heat the lower floors very well. But your room is plenty warm. Remember, we've been waiting for you and everything has been prepared with the highest of standards for your stay." Albert's heart fluttered when Jem's grin showed spindly teeth again.

They walked for a few more minutes until Jem finally stopped and stood in front of a room at the very end of the corridor. Large, heavy mahogany double doors gated the entrance. A brass plate reading 777 glinted in the low lighting. Jem pulled a large golden key out of his pocket and turned it in the awaiting key hole. Blasted by the warm air gushing out of the opening the two made their way in. There were no bags, Albert realized, but maybe they were to come. He still hadn't any idea of where he was or how he got there. He was just relieved to be out of the cell that took five years of his life.

The suite was decorated with antique, dark wood. A sleigh bed covered in a deep red duvet sat in the center, full of pillows, beckoning Albert to, finally, a peaceful night's rest. He walked into the gleaming en-suite bathroom. It held a clawed bathtub large enough for five people. The antique spigot shone brilliantly and revealed his reflection. He looked good, damn good. He turned to the mirror covering one entire wall. Yeah, he did look good. Receded hair had grown back, many wrinkles the last five years of captivity had drawn were faded. His eyes were bright and clear no longer suffering the plaguing dullness. He had color in his face, looked well fed and yet in better shape than he was at eighteen. There was a fluffy (red) bathrobe and matching slippers in the corner, next to the basin. Along the counter top he noticed designer (red) carved soap. Jem made a clicking noise with his tongue and Albert realized he was waiting for a tip. He reached into his pocket, as if he had been doing it everyday for the last five years, and pulled out a large wad of one hundred dollar bills. Albert's eyes widened, he hadn't seen that kind of cash in a very long time. But he had to be rich. His suit was expensive, the hotel was expensive. Maybe his lawyer arranged all this. He made a note to himself that once he was settled in, Jonathon would be the first call.

Jem left without further ado, gracing Albert with a small bow before exiting. He realized that his body ached terribly and maybe climbing into that large tub would be the best thing in the world. He thought that if he could relax, he might be able piece together this very strange jigsaw puzzle he had found himself in. He ran the water hot, steam filled the bathroom. He walked back into his suite and began to undress. Being in the joint gave him discipline he never had while growing up. He arranged his shoes neatly under the bed, hung his suit up and deposited his dirty underwear and socks into a laundry bin just inside the bathroom.

He looked through his jacket and found a full pack of Marlboros and a glowing (red) lighter. How that ever got in there he didn't know. But he knew he wanted a smoke and knew that was the right place to look for such things. He strolled to the mini bar, grabbed a cold beer and the (red) ashtray sitting atop the bar and made his way into the bathroom. Out of the corner of his eye, through all that steam, he thought he saw a glimpse of smoking, charred skin on his back. He looked again and saw only smooth, supple skin, stretching under his flexing muscles. "Getting out of the joint has really done a number on me," he said to the steam. "Guess I'll need a couple of good nights sleep before I come to grips, huh?" He chuckled to his distorted image in the mirror and turned to the bathtub. The curtain was pulled. He cocked his head to one side, "now I know that was open when I ran the water. We ain't what we used to be, huh, mind?" Again, he chuckled. He grabbed the center of the (red) curtain and pulled it back. He placed one toe gingerly in the water. The warmth circled and he stepped in, bent his knees and laid back on the cool porcelain. "Ah, now this is the life," he sighed. He placed the ashtray on the lip of the tub and opened his beer. He took a long, hard swallow, lit the cigarette and closed his eyes. It was only a few moments later when he drifted off, listening to the sound of the fan spinning above.

White tipped mountains, fresh, bubbling brooks, green meadows and a lovely girl of 17 or 18 dancing, naked in front of him, greeted his eyes. Her body was perfect and her long, blonde hair glinted in the sunlight. She was calling to him, stretching out her flawless arms. He floated to her and lowered his face into her full, ripe breasts and began to devour them. Then it turned dark and he could hear screaming. He was standing now in an alley, holding a bloodied knife, looking down on the limp, bloody body of the radiant creature he was just fondling. He heard sirens wailing, getting closer. He began to run but slipped and fell in a puddle of blood. Her skull had been opened up to reveal jellied, gray brain matter and clumps of red streaked blonde hair. Her eyes blinked at him, her mouth gaped wide and he saw those teeth, again, Jem's teeth. The sirens were gaining and he had little time to run. But he was frozen, staring at those green blinking eyes and that freakish, curved mouth full of pointed teeth. He felt the bile rising from his bowels and began to throw up. She laughed with a low animal sound and started to rise, holding her arms out. "Oh, lover, it's your turn, now. It's your turn," she didn't speak it, she was growling He screamed and tried to move but he had become glued to the sidewalk. Her hands were around his neck, scalding his skin. Fire was burning in her eyes and he could smell cooked flesh emanating from her mouth. And those teeth, shiny and wet and elongating and getting closer to his face with every second. He could only scream. He woke with a start, shivering from head to toe. His throat was raw from screaming. He leaned back on the now cold porcelain and rubbed his closed eyes. He felt for his beer, took a sip and spit it out realizing it was warm. He rested his hands back into the water and noticed something chunky, floating on the surface. He could feel it hitting his legs and feet, too. He opened his eyes, not believing what he saw. Thick red liquid splashed against the sides of the pristine tub. Hundreds, hell, maybe even thousands of putrid gray, bloated and gangrenous severed fingers, all without nails, rose and fell in the small red waves. A rotting stench filled his nose. He began to vomit and slipped as he leapt out of the bathtub. His head hit the porcelain and he vomited again, slipping, sliding in all that red stuff, fingers everywhere, bumping into him. He grasped the edge of the tub, smearing his bloody prints and lifted himself out. Burning flesh, he knew the scent, replaced the rot. He turned his head to the mirror and saw smoke rising from his back. His skin burned and he watched as the impossible reflection of himself bubbled and blistered and blackened. Thick, gagging smoke filled the bathroom. The fan coughed and sputtered and finally stop whirling. His eyeballs bulged and burned while green acid poured from them. His face began to melt, dripping down onto his charred chest. His left eye slipped down his cheek and hung by shiny red and black smoking tendrils. He was still screaming, of that he was sure but the pain, the pain and the horrible vision were to much to bear. He sank to his knees, holding his liquefied face, trying to make sense of it. "It's just another dream," he screamed. "This has to be another dream!"

He writhed on the floor, it seemed, for hours. His body wracked and burned. His skin stuck to the (red) bathmat and peeled off in layers. The agony pushed his mind to the limits. That's when Albert saw them, each one, laughing at him. Nine naked, bloody women, all with those horrible teeth and with that low, growling laugh. They stood over him. Nine index fingers, without the nails as if they had been pulled out, pointing. He pounded the floor with what was left of his hand and tried to beg for forgiveness. But his smoldering tongue tumbled out of his mouth with a dull thud. There was only a gurgling sound coming from the back of his throat. His tonsils exploded with two loud popping sounds. Hot lava poured on his vocal chords, down into his stomach and out of his nose. His mouth filled with the volcanic acid, thick and slow, scalding what was left of his lips and chin. The women enclosed him, cutting off the light in the bathroom, cutting out the air, too. They clawed at his blistered skin. He was horrified to see one, Bridget, he remembered, eating a panel of charred skin from his foot. At the sound of the door the monsters backed away (but they weren't monsters, were they? No, they were women, women he knew and loved very deeply in his own way) and Jem strolled into the bathroom. "Sir?" He inquired, "Mr. Polk, are you enjoying your stay?" A snarled grin spread across his face, revealing pointed, wet, long teeth.

****

The sun was shining and it was hot. Too damn hot to think. But that was Texas in the summer, for ya. Jonathon blinked at the blazing sun and wiped his forehead with his red handkerchief. He always had it with him, considered it lucky, in the way football players considered certain jerseys or jock straps or socks lucky. Today he needed all the luck he could get. He had been a defense attorney for over 20 years and had won nearly every case. He was the best of the best. He knew most of his clients were guilty and hell, they deserved to burn. But a few weren't and he had saved their lives. That's what he prided himself on. There was always a chance that maybe the feds had caught the wrong man and he could be heralded as a life saver, but that was rare. Mainly they were guilty as sin. Some even confessed to him. But his job wasn't to be god damned Mother Theresa, his job was to buy them a get out of jail free card, pass go, collect your damn two hundred bucks and sail right on out of that hot seat. He laughed to himself, he always laughed to himself when he called the electric chair the 'hot seat'. He believed strongly that he wouldn't survive being a defense attorney without a sense of humor. He unleashed monsters into the streets, he knew full well and had to laugh. It was the only thing he could do.

It was three in the afternoon. Mosquitoes chewed at his bare arms as he walked the steps up to the entrance of the federal prison. He swiped at one and it smashed into bits leaving a bloody trail. "Damn 'skeeters," he muttered under his breath and entered the cool building. "Afternoon, Bob, how's the wife?"

The guard looked up from his book and smiled, "doin' fine, doin' just fine, how's your new grand baby?"

"Oh, she's as pretty as a peach and as calm as a cool, summer's night."

"Well, that's good to hear. Have to empty your pockets onto the conveyer belt, Jon."

"Yes sir. More picketers today, I noticed." Jonathon said as he strolled through the metal detector.

"Yeah, they've been comin' in waves since about noon. Wantin' that boy of yours to stay alive, you know. Shoutin' out there, causing quite a ruckus."

"I know it." Jonathon gathered the contents of his pockets and made his way through the prison to the viewing room. A wall of plexi glass separated the onlookers from the chair, from the final moments of a monster, convicted. Kept them far enough away from where the 'sparks would fly', another favorite saying of his, but close enough to see the smoke rise. Family and friends of the nine women his client raped and murdered had taken the best seats. Many tear streaked faces looked up when he entered and he saw hatred replace the grief. Yeah, well, somebody has to protect the fuckers, he thought, due process, innocent until proven guilty. If he didn't do it, who would?

Albert Polk, chained at the hands and ankles, shuffled to the 'hot seat', flanked by two guards, on the other side of the glass. A Catholic priest stood on one side of him, signing his cross with floaty, long fingered hands. Jonathon's thought drifted to the night before, to the steak and lobster dinner and German chocolate cake for dessert he had shared with his doomed client. He had thought about those nine women and how they hadn't the chance to have a perfectly cooked last meal. No last requests, no priest praying over their dying, pillaged bodies. Just that crazy stinkin' face of Albert Polk leering over them, eyes wild with excitement and insanity. His drool and cum mixing with their blood. The lights began to flicker and brown out, it pulled Jonathon out of his thoughts and he saw the last few twitches Albert's legs gave from the electrical current. He was dead, gone and dead, a right fine crispy critter. Some in the audience clapped, some vomited in the bags provided by the prison, some cried and some just sat silently in horror.

The gatherers began to get up and slowly trudge out of the room. Jonathon rubbed his eyes and shook his head. One monster less in this world, one monster with all of the evidence clearly pointing its finger at him. Albert deserved worse. He should have been tortured to death in prison but he was mainly kept in solitary and always closely watched by the guards. They wanted to see him burn, Jonathon guessed, wanted to watch his skin smoke and limbs twitch, by their own hands. Albert had been raped, at least, several times a night for nearly a month straight. There was only so much the guards could do, after all. He was a skinny little pussy and Jonathon knew he was a very easy target for the big motherfuckers. But he deserved worse. He deserved to have his fingernails pulled out, one by one, with a pair of pliers, just like he did to those women. He deserved to have his hair ripped out and his brains bashed in with a dull carving knife, just like Albert did to those women. But he didn't get that. He got a steak and lobster dinner with chocolate cake for dessert, a priest to wash away his sins and an electric bolt to stop his heart.

Jonathon roused himself and began to leave after the room had emptied when something (red) caught his eye, on the floor. He leaned down and saw it was a business card. The moment his fingers touched it he felt a cold chill run through his legs all the way up to his spine. Hands trembling, he turned it over. Something was printed in a shiny, black, curly font. The kind of font his daughter picked out for her wedding invitations, six years before. He moved the card in front of his eyes, trying to sharpen the letters to where he could read them. "The Continental," he said, squinting at the delicate lettering, "Your Stay Is Our Pleasure!" There were numbers (777) embossed in the top left hand corner. Sweat ran into his eyes, he felt stifled and scared shitless, looking at that card. He dropped it and turned to leave. Throwing a glance back, he was mortified to see it burst into flame, leaving only a blackened spot on the concrete floor. The smell of burning flesh hung in the air as he wiped the beading sweat from his forehead with his lucky (red) handkerchief.

People Like Me

There are places for people like me. Places where real cages for ‘out of their heads’ humans exist. Cages and bars and locks and cemented barricades. Where normal people won’t have to be disturbed by people with sick minds and venom spouting mouths. People like me. There’s a lot of anger boiling deep down, my therapist enjoys reminding me, from behind his big, phallic, mahogany desk. Bars are the only places I can keep it sated. He didn’t tell me that. I figured that one out all by myself. If they’re too stupid not to lock me up then I gotta find relief somewhere. So I go to drown my sorrows. What a stupid cliché I’ve become.

I love the bar. I love the fascinating alchemy of mixing drinks. The magician bar tender pulling potions out of his hat, one shot of any colored goodness after the other. I love the glass in my hand, the sound of ice chatting, the swish of the liquid. The smell, when it meets my nose moments before it hits my lips causes my head to spin and nostrils to burn. Then that moment, that beautiful, lost in time moment when the comfort drug actually swills into my mouth, smooth, hot. And the long slow burning aftermath, scalding my tonsils, blistering my throat. I love it. The bar. She’s my only love. I’m a fucking loser. How pathetic, to be in love with a drink. Something so unsubstantial. I’ve got nothing.

There’s different levels of crazy, I think. When I brought it up to my therapist he said, “Crazy is not a word to be spoken in this office. No one is crazy here!” Yeah, Doc, take a long look in a mirror. He was trying to make me feel better about my pointless existence. Not because he wanted to, because I’m paying him to. Well, who’s to say? Maybe he does have some weird fondness for me, but that’s all part of the show.

“Doc, I can’t get out of bed before noon, anymore.”

“Why do you think that is?”

Such a fucking stereotypical Doctor question. Because I fucking hate you! I want to yell. But I don’t. Instead, I say, “well, it’s difficult, you know. To get out of bed. To find a reason to get out of bed. The only reason I ever get out of bed is so I can walk my ass to the bar”.

“Maybe you need to walk past the bar, next time. Get some air, clear your head. Do you do the breathing exercises?” Yeah Doc, great. Breathing. Something every fucking living creature in the world does instinctively and yet, you have me doing it like it’s some fantastic feat.

“Yes, I breathe,” I answer through gritted teeth. But realizing the angst wasn’t directly caused by him, just that ever fucking presence of burning hatred for everything I’ve become in the hell pit of my stomach, I soften up and expand upon my civility “the techniques. I do them. Yes.” Gentler, good boy. Keep that shit up and maybe you can make it to forty without putting a gun to your head.

The drink fills my stomach. Hot and cold all at the same time. Whiskey is the answer to all of my little fucking problems. And who gives a shit? The magician with his back to a hundred different bottles? The fat, balding, joke of a man slobbering all over the sexy blonde waitress, at the other end? Or that sexy blonde waitress with legs up to her fucking eyeballs and tits you could bounce all night on? My therapist says he gives a fuck. But he gets paid to give a fuck. The magician, he gets paid to fill the glass. And the blonde, she gets paid to look good. I roll the thoughts around, I can’t believe my life has turned out like this. I was the golden boy, the hero of the age! The Great Alexander! The one who would lead this world to a better place. Yeah, fine. Expectations. That’s all my life has ever been. One person’s expectations after the other and it’s turned me into this shriveling, drunken fuck. I tell Mr. Magic Man to pour me another. And to keep ‘em comin’. I’ve hung out at this dive long enough, you’d think it’d be second nature by now. As soon as my glass empties he should fill another, automatically. But he doesn’t. He makes me ask. He always makes me ask. Payback, he smiles at me. Payback for me being a worthless fuck in a sea of worthless fucks, night after night, he has to cater to.

The sensation to relieve myself takes over. At least I can feel that. I hate not feeling anything at all. Numb. I get up slowly and take that long walk to the room housing the perennial wicked stench and stained, cracked urinals. For a second there, I felt SOMETHING. But it was over almost before it began. I push the piss stained door open and begin my trudge back to, hopefully, a full glass.

“David?” A voice, over the limp, flat notes of that terrible karaoke machine floats to me. But it’s not just a voice. “David?” Again, this time louder. More definite. It’s female. The spirit voice belongs to a woman. And it’s louder, approaching. Women. I’m no good with women. Nice to look at but difficult as hell to talk to. I run a hand through my greasy, dark hair. A woman. And here I am looking like the fucking worst piece of shit to ever be dragged home. I can’t bear it. I don’t want to turn around. But I do, like any sad fucker who hears a woman calling his name over the crowd.

“My God, David! It’s been years! It’s so great to see you again!” Brilliant white flash of teeth greet me. Shining eyes, hazel, multi-colored. Long red hair, definitely colored, but who the hell cares and the rest. The beautiful female form. I stumble, I stammer. I have no idea who she is. White arms encircling my neck now, the female form presses close to me and I inhale roses. The thick scent spurs a headache but I can’t stop breathing it in.

“Wow,” she murmurs in my ear. My back prickling with the heat of her breath, “it’s really been too long.” I hardly hear her. I can’t stop breathing her scent. It’s overpowering. It makes me think of a soft bed, soft breasts, long legs intertwined with mine. The goose bumps rising over my legs, now my arms, creeping up my neck, to my face. What kind of man loses his will so early in the game? I don’t care who she is, if I really do know her. I just wanna stay like this, this close to her, breathing roses for a fucking eternity. She pulls away.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” And behind her another female. Females, they encircle and toy with their prey before you (the witless man-prey) can do a goddamn thing. This one, raven haired. Red dress. Curves for miles and eyes as dark and deep as an abyss and familiar.

“Hello, David,” she purred. The way my name came out of that burgundy framed mouth, the very sound of it..Daaavvviiiddd, it was enough intoxication for the entire catalog of bottles behind the magician. The voice was completely different than the previous. It was low, deep, round, seductive. It made me sweat. I still didn’t recognize them, but these days I could barely recognize myself. “Good to see you’re still alive, somehow.”

“Uh, yeah, hi.” It was forced. A forced, stupid greeting. Then it happened. A complete surprise. The room blurred as burgundy, shiny lips found my lower lip. Teeth chewed on it, for a second. Then those shiny, wet lips forced mine open and a tongue began to stir, lightly at first, over my own, then increasingly becoming more aggressive. This scent was different, too. Like the voice. It fit the voice. She was musky. Hot, sweaty and salty. Her mouth tasted of lipstick , cigarettes and beer. I allowed this husky scented, raven haired beast access to my mouth. I kissed her back, I explored every part of that tongue, those tonsils, tasting taste buds. I was inside the hottest part of hell, being devoured by a sex scented demon in a red dress. And I would never stop. But she would. And finally she did. When she pulled away, a long nailed finger, topped with the same color as the lipstick, drew across my lips. Hot trails left in it’s wake. My tongue and lips still trembling from the pillage she forced on them.

“Yeah, David, brilliant to see you again.” And she walked away. Hips swerving, high, round Mother of God tits spilling over the top of her dress. Rosie Red ran after her. Giving me a quick sideways glance. I couldn’t move. I watched what I could only perceive to be my dream woman walking away without being able to intervene. Fucking Feet! RUN goddamit, RUN! Follow her, bring her home! Make her your own! But I was stuck. And I still had no idea who in the hell they were.

There’s moments in life, Doc likes to say, that take you out of reality and you can see yourself from an outside perspective. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes, most times, it’s damn depressing. The Raven didn’t leave the bar. She sauntered over to a group of Old Navy clad boys and girls. None of the girls were dressed like her, though. She stood out. She laughed loudly, gestured big and walked with a ‘who gives a fuck’ attitude. She had it all. And I had no idea who she was. It worked, I guess. I had forgotten myself over the years. I had been drowning in self pity for so long I couldn’t recognize my own dick. I wanted it that way. I wanted to forget. I stood there, simply staring after her. Observing her movements like a freak stalker. Is this what I’ve become? A freak stalker of girls who happen to know my name in bars? A hanger back who doesn’t have the confidence or the wherewithal to gain answers to the burning, curious questions? A hand on my shoulder, strong, hard, brought me out of my utter obsession with the Raven. A man, this time. Thank God. A blonde dude. Bright teeth, warm eyes and a fixed _expression of surprise and absolute joy. He embraced me. A tight, quick embrace that made me feel somehow real, like I was a human being again. Not a stalker freak, not a drunken lunatic. But a person. The person I used to be. The person I’ve tried so damn hard to forget. It’s times like this Doc’s prescription of taking a seat out and viewing your own life through a lens actually makes sense. I look on, the watcher, to the two men.

“David, man, it’s been way too long! How ya been buddy?” The voice, those bright eyes, that goofy grin. It all comes flooding to me now.

“Brian Paulis, how the hell are ya? What are you doin’ in town?” We make our way to the bar, led, obviously, by me. There’s a drink waiting. Fresh, full. I thank the magician.

Chap.2

It’s a small town. A coastal suburb of San Diego, California. It’s own little bit of paradise. It has picture perfect palm trees, white sand beaches, crystal clear coastline and it’s far enough away from the hustle and bustle of the big-city life. It’s rich, it’s expensive, it’s full of fools driving European makes. The streets are cleaned meticulously, the grounds leading to the giant pristine white houses perched on the cliffs over looking the ocean, are always perfectly manicured. It’s a little slice of heaven. Or hell. Cuz I see it as hell. I wouldn’t have stayed if it weren’t for the water. And the quiet solitude of small town life. I have one of those houses. It’s white, like the others. It has a pool that backs up to the edge of a jagged cliff. The sunsets last forever, out here, if you’re lucky enough to be sitting on top of the world to see it. But sunsets and designer pools aren’t enough for me.

I was a writer. In my former days of being human. A damn good one. I was published. Even made a couple of movies out of my shit. Shit, that’s all it is. Those published goodies. I have an agent who still calls. She wants to cash in. That’s all she cares about. “David, you need something, something new out there! People will forget you if you don’t peak their interest…” When Joan realizes her niceties don’t work, she tries threats. “You’re still under contract with Iccarus. You have four more left before your contract is up! They paid you in advance! When are you going to get me a manuscript?”

“Joan, stop worrying. I’ve been writing. I have a bunch of new stuff.” I lie. I’m a shitty client. The worst kind. “Iccarus will be thrilled. Just buy me some time so I can work out the kinks.”

“Good news, David, but I don’t know how much longer I can hold them off.” Hold them off? I was the goddamned Superman of writers, still am, in their book. They can wait. They can wait for the Earth to finally implode, for all I care. I wanna tell her that. I wanna tell her she’s a venomous leech who’ll never understand how damn difficult it’s been to sit, day after day, toiling behind a typewriter with nothing, not even a fucking fart to write about. But I don’t. I placate the nosy bitch. “It’ll get done, Joan. I like where it’s going now but like I said, I gotta smooth out some of the wrinkles.”

“Thanks, David. I’ll let them know.”

I have it all, wouldn’t you say? I’m living my dream of dreams. People pay me to type my useless thoughts. So why the burning pit of shit fire in my stomach? Why the need to destroy myself? That’s what Doc’s for but he hasn’t come up with anything in four fucking years. Joan’s right though. She’s honest. She’s a cunt, but still an honest cunt. I have been paid in advance. I have to get something to them soon or I’m gonna lose everything. But at this point in my life I think it’s something I’d like. Get the bum’s rush, for once, turn everything I touch from gold to brown turds. That’s what I want. That’s what I’m doing. Fucking myself for the sake of feeling something, anything. I need to experience that loss. I need to be beaten to a bloody fucking pulp night after night, be broke, useless, destroyed. That’s what I want. That’s where I’m heading. I’m like those blank fucking pages, stuck standing, collecting dust in the mouth of my typewriter. Nothing’s ever gonna be written on them. Nothing’s ever gonna change, for me. The shrill ring of the phone sends my hung over head swimming, again. Thump, thump, thump. My blood pumping in my ears to the beat of a pounding, alcohol induced headache. I feel like I’m going to wretch. I am a wretch. And I do. The bushes in my backyard work just fine for vomit collecting. My stomach pumps up and out the liquid only contents. The alcohol burns on it’s way up. My teeth, coated with bile and burning sulfur alcohol begin to ache. Finally my stomach decides its rid of most of the filth. I can stand up, feel a cool breeze slide across my brow and I’m thankful for that. But the phone. The fucking phone is still ringing. In my haste to relieve my head of the foul sound I hurriedly push the talk button.

“David Jenkins,” I answer in my most abrupt business tone. Still coughing up little bits of what must be my stomach lining.

“David, man! What are you up to? It’s Brian.” Brian.. my old friend. The guy who saved me from looking like a serial killer, last night. “Dude, I would’ve called you earlier. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting. But I had some other shit to take care of, first, and it took longer than I thought. I’m on my way over now. If it’s still cool with you.” It wasn’t really a question. It was a plea. Brian was pleading his case and wanted to desperately to come over. But, Jesus. Did we make plans last night? If he never called I would never have missed him.

“Yeah, Brian, that’s fine. You know how to get here?” Apparently he knew damn well how to get here. Thanks to a map I had drawn on the back of a bar napkin. Fuck if I could remember that.

A half an hour later a high end SUV, shiny and silvery, pulls up in my driveway. There’s Brian, handling the wheel. And someone else, sitting shotgun. The Raven. The demon, the sexy beast. My heart jumps into my throat. A moment of clarity. We fucked. A long time ago. When my heart beat for another. She steps out, a ring of smoke circles her head like the Devil’s halo. Black heels click on the drive. Black heels, the start of the sexiest legs I ever could remember. And the memory of the taste of her skin, of her juices pushes forward in my mind. “Diane,” I whisper to myself, “Diane the best fuck in the world Martin”. Her dewy face splits in a gleaming smile. Oh, God. I remember everything now. I remember like it was yesterday. The kiss, last night, I was too drunk to put two and two together. How could I forget? That body of hers. It used to be my own private vacation spot. A place I got lost in. She saunters, this girl. She doesn’t walk. Her every step drips with desire, sexual longing. Her black, pencil skirt hugs tightly to those rounded hips. The high slit revealing a beautiful, tanned, toned thigh. Her black v-neck tank, showing off the ample valley of cleavage. It’s hell, but hell is fucking amazing, sometimes. I give her my sexy boy smile. The old one, the one I used to stand in front of the mirror for hours at a time to perfect. The one that lights up my green eyes and could turn even the staunchest bitch into a pile of jelly. It affects her. Slightly. Well probably more than slightly. She’s too fucking proud, too fucking in control to show how much it drives her crazy. She’s here. It’s been years. At least seven. And she’s fucking hot. She’s hotter than my memories recall. She pulls me into a deep embrace. Whispers something in my ear, I’ll never know what. The sound of my blood pounding is loud and it distorts the moment. But her breath and the sound of her words make me tremble. There’s that smell again. It overcomes me, this time. And everything comes flooding back. Sweet but musky, sweaty and thick. The scent of the greatest fuck I’ve ever had.

We decide on lunch. Isn’t that what normal people do? They sit, they eat, they gossip, they catch up, they do business. And they piss and shit. And they fuck. This is me.. This is why I’m a complete fucking loser. A loser with no soul. This is why hell burns hot in my stomach.

My stomach turns at the sight of the restaurant. Clean. White linen draped over sidewalk tables. Lovely blue umbrellas shielding the high society sunglass clad diners. It’s not hot out, but if feels hot, standing next to Diane after so long. I’m at a loss. My tongue betrays my mind and stupid nothings pour out of my mouth. Every man in close proximity gapes at her. She’s a sexual marvel. She’s dirty, yes, but ravishing, all the same. And my chest puffs out a little, as does Brian’s. We’re her company for this hour. Eat your hearts out.

I’m shy. The conversation between them is draining my blood from its veins. I have nothing to say to them. I’ve missed them? Yeah, but that’s a lie. I’ve been stuck in my hole for far too long to think about anything outside my box. I’m a shitty human. I’m a non-human, a bad reject. I shuffle around in my coat pocket. I need a smoke. Bad. And a drink. Something to take the edge off. Our waitress decides to finally get off her ass and show up to our table. Yeah, I need something. Now. Fast. Strong. She’s blonde, perky, very young. I tell her Scotch. Rocks. Double. Fucking pronto, kid. She stares back at me, big pretty blue empty eyes. I ask her if it’s ok to light up on this heavenly porch. “yes,” she answers timidly. What the fuck, Blondie. Get me a fucking ash tray and a goddamned drink, already. Brian and Diane (fucking damn Diane) order food. Food. Don’t think my gurgling, abused stomach can handle something solid, but I don’t want to look like an asshole. I order a steak sandwich.

“David, I’ve seen all your interviews on TV, I’ve read all your books, seen the movies. I’m not surprised. Everyone always said you were the one to go straight to the top. Ride the wave. I’ve missed you. We all have. I’m so glad we’re all back in town.” She’s talking to me. Directly to me. Paying me compliments. Where’s that damn drink? I search for our waitress. She’s flirting with some business casual assholes, with their Blackberries and coffee in Styrofoam cups. She feels my stare, my impenetrable hatred flocks to her brain and for a moment I see a spark of lucidity fly into her eyes. She shuffles off inside the restaurant, returning moments later with our drinks. I drink, deeply. My nerves begin to calm, a little. I look back at Diane, my demon child, my savior from hell.

“Yeah, I was given a lucky break..” is all I can manage to muster out. God, I fucking hate myself.

“A lucky break, my ass,” chimes Brian. “A brain like yours should be petrified and put on display at the Getty.”

I’m getting hot around the collar. These people. People I haven’t even thought about in years are telling me what a fucking superstar stud I am. And Diane. I’m stuck swimming in the pools of her dark eyes. As if it were all yesterday. And my mind never took a dive off the deep end. When I had hope. And I had hurt the one I truly loved. I’m starting to stink. I can smell me. Smells like my flesh is rotting. I order another drink, light up a smoke and try, my best, to figure out what the hell they’re doing here, sitting in a sidewalk restaurant with me, in Anywhere, California.

Our food comes. At least if I can handle eating this thing, I won’t have to talk much. The bites sink in my stomach. But that’s alcohol for you. I get the runs, daily. Probably gonna have to excuse myself soon from this lovely lunch just to take 10 minutes to empty my bowels of the remaining poison. But not yet. I’m ok. For now.

They’re here, they tell me, for a friend’s wedding. They don’t want to divulge who. But everyone and their fucking mother is in town. Because it’s just so damn lovely, the perfect backdrop to the beginning of a perfect marriage, the perfect end to the perfect courtship. I ask in earnest, even though I’m getting a little frustrated with their game of hide and seek. I fucking hate secrets. Say what you’re going to say or shut the fuck up.

Brian starts. “David, we don’t really know how to tell you this,” oh shit. It’s always bad when a sentence starts like that, “the wedding, well, its Michelle. She’s getting married to Dustin.” Here come the runs! I excuse myself from the table. I can feel them glancing at each other behind my back. I’m in shock. The runs were, obviously, propelled by the shock. My wife. Well ex-wife. But she was my wife. Getting married to a red-headed git. A true wisp of a man. A con artist extraordinaire. A greasy car salesman. A fly on a pile of shit. I ask our bubble headed waitress for directions to the nearest can. It’s burning in my ass and won’t wait too long. I reached the stall, perched and let out the ass bile. Three rounds we went. Sometimes we go four, sometimes only two. I like to keep track. Gives me something else to think about. I cleaned up and strutted back to our table. With a smile, I saw, Brian or Diane, doesn’t really matter who, had ordered another round. I stuffed a fried potato in my mouth while they stared. Waiting for the explosion, the tears, the whys to come pouring out. But those things didn’t happen. They would happen later that night. In a back alley, after getting my dick sucked for thirty bucks, her pimp beat the shit out of me cuz he wanted fifty. Twenty bucks was a small price to pay for all that pain I desperately craved. I’m a fucking pussy. Wouldn’t even fight the fucker back. But I wasn’t there yet. I was still sitting in the sun, feeling the ocean breeze, having lunch with old friends. Like normal people do.

Chap. 3

Diane, she seemed to be everywhere I was. If I’d hit up ‘Los Mexicano’s’ for the best damn burritos in town, she’d already be there, sipping a margarita. And inevitably we’d dine together. If I was getting my ass kicked in the alley, she’d be waiting for me at my car. And inevitably she’d drive me home and tend to my fresh wounds. She didn’t understand why I got the shit kicked out of me so much. In truth, neither did I. But it was something I did. Nearly every night. Something I needed. I was addicted to it as much as I was addicted to the alcohol, the cigarettes.

She would tentatively bring the wedding up. Here and there. I didn’t want to talk about it. Dealing with all these people, back again, was punishment enough. She told me Michelle forgave both of us a very long time ago and would like me, David Jenkins, to observe the former Michelle Jenkins shack up in matrimonial bliss with one Dustin Dickhead. The clan was out for two and a half weeks.

Michelle was brought up with trust funds, stocks and bonds. She had the cash. We married quick, in Jamaica. Just Michelle, me and that crappy coconut wedding cake. We consummated our marriage in a hammock hung between two palm trees, in the heat of the Jamaican night. We toasted each other with personal bottles of rum and fucked like the world was going to end if we ever stopped. But now, this two and a half week wedding blitz must’ve been something she had missed out on. I know the festivities were provided from her pocket. But Diane, Diane was with me more than the wedding crowd. Much to my own pleasure. I still hadn’t touched her. Maybe, if I did, the memory of how great things were between us, albeit very bad timing, would dissipate. I didn’t want her to get into this body. I’m much too sour, now. I have nothing to live for anymore and I wouldn’t want to pull her into that fucking mess.

One night, after a particularly pissed drunk slammed my head into a brick wall and gave me a gash the size of Texas over my left eye, she sat tending, mending, allowing me to breathe in her scent and live only in my memories, she posed a thought. “Davey,” I hate it when she calls me Davey. Hated it then and still fucking hate it. But I let her do it, cuz that’s what you do when someone is wiping curdled blood from your forehead, “would you consider being my date for the wedding? Maybe it’d be good for you. Shed some of that weight you’ve been carrying for years. And I could use the support. I hate those fucking people. Except for Bri. They look at me as the one and only home wrecker who has ever lived. They furrow their brows, mouthing the word ‘slut’ as I walk by.”

My black, fucking cursed ass heart actually went out to her. This beautiful, misunderstood creature. But still, no fucking way would I show up to that fiasco. I’d rather eat my own vomit. Come to think of it, there’s plenty in the backyard Miss Diane could spoon feed me. But she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Same ol’ Diane. She pleaded, she begged. I stood firm in my decision. She has to go, see? That’s the bum card life gave her. Angelic Michelle. Clean, pristine, skirts always way below the knee, sensible shoe wearing, blonde Angel forgave Diane her sins. And now Diane is indebted. For life. More peroxide being poured on gauze. She gently pats the wounds that are disfiguring my once handsome face. She tells me she likes the smell of my sickly, sour blood. That it reminds her we’re still alive. Funny, I tell her, maybe that’s the reason I allow myself to bleed.

I begin to think she likes me this way. She’s a little dirty herself, she doesn’t care for the boy scout type. Maybe she likes that I’m dangerous. That my head isn’t full of dreams and big things anymore. That I come home smelling like Skid Row and look even worse. She likes taking care of me. Feeling needed. Feeling wanted. I can see it in her eyes as they scan my face and torso for good, solid wounds. Each day I was married, each day I fucked up, there’s a wound for it. Or, by now, at least a scar. And she knows it. I can see it developing within her. Something deeper than those days back when. And it scares the hell out of me.

“Diane,” I cooed as she tenderly iced a bad bruise left by a monster fist full of brass knuckles, just under a cracked rib, “I can’t bring you into this madness. My madness. Why’d you come back? And why are you here, night after night?”

“Honestly,” she begins. And isn’t that usually how we begin our serious statements? As if we’re too jaded and afraid to realize the other person may think we’re not being completely honest. Again, it pulled at my fucking heart. Her simplicity. “I was curious. I’ve always been very curious. You know that. To a fault. I wanted to see. Hadn’t heard anything out there about you for awhile. Thought you might be going through something. And I guess I was right. Outside of my curiosity I thought you might need a shoulder. Cuz, Davey, sometimes we all have to share our weaknesses. As to why I’m here, every night, I worry about you. You don’t have anyone looking out for you. And you really need it.”

They were wrong about Diane. All of them. She’s not a home wrecker. She’s just a beautiful person in need, as we all are. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to have her. She read it in my eyes. Her head tilted up and she began to devour my mouth. It was hot, dirty. I could taste my own blood from her lips. That only fueled the desire burning inside more. I groped her. Ripped her dress from her body. Lifter her onto my lap and praised that beautiful chest of hers with my mouth. My fingers softly glided up her legs, to her thighs and even higher to that sweet spot. She was soaking, messy. I groaned as my fingers teased her from the outside of her matted thong. “Oh God,” she whispered. Her voice, full of lust, deep, low. Her hands found my stupid hard dick and she massaged it through my jeans.

“Diane, I think you should leave.” It stopped. Right there. That fucking stupid moment. She looked at me, incredulous.

“What?” She couldn’t think. The lust had taken control.

“Yes, it’s best. I’m a fucking mess.” I gently lifted her off my lap and placed her next to me on the couch. I stood up, trying to piece together her dress that I all but ruined seconds before.

“I like it that you are. Don’t you see that? I hate these clean cut, pencil pushing faggots sporting their SUV’s and Armani’s. That’s not what I want. I want someone fucked up. Someone with dimension. Depth. I like insanity. Cuz I’m equally as fucked up as you.”

“This is not how it’s gonna be, Diane. Get dressed.” I tossed the tattered dress to her. One time, when I was seven, I broke my mother’s favorite Swarovski vase. It crashed to a million different pieces on the tile floor. And I had done it again. This time to Diane. A million different pieces. She didn’t even say anything, but she didn’t have to. Those dark eyes, now burning with rage and confusion said it all. She got dressed and hurtled through the maze of my home to the driveway. To her car. And left. I was out in time to see her headlights turning on the main road. She was gone.

“FUCK!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. I walked to the nearest, shittiest bar (which are pretty hard to find in Anywhere, CA), a real dive, drank way too much and started a fight. I groped some dude’s skanky wife. That really pissed him off. He and some of his cronies took me outside for my second beating of the night. Fist making contact with head. Eye sockets popping. Ribs cracking, almost turning to dust. Knee caps blowing. Yeah. There was gonna be a hospital stay after this one. Bottles were breaking over my head. I pushed myself to retain consciousness. I needed the beating. Needed to feel every last bit of glass cut into my skull. I deserved this. I couldn’t pussy out and fall into nothingness. I fought to stay awake. But the baseball bat. That did me in. I saw it coming, swinging. I anticipated and longed for the pain, the crack, the sound of wood hitting skull. But all I got was floaty blackness.

The doctors said I had taken quite a beating. Not bad enough, in my eyes, since I was only out for two days. I wanted to die, that night. I wanted to feel my organs get crushed under the weight of five, heavy, drunk players. Each more pissed than the next, taking their revenge on me for all the ills the world had caused them. I couldn’t remember much. Just that I had a fucking raging hard on as I walked to the bar and had forgotten everything by the time the second fist hit the side of my face. Getting my ass kicked, drinking myself into oblivion. These things had double meanings, and spending time with Diane showed that to me. One week with Diane made me understand more than in the four years I had with Doc. Definitely gonna tell him a thing or two at our next session. The fighting, or actually more along the lines of having my ass brutally beaten and drinking were the extremes of needing to be punished and needing to forget. Well let’s not forget the cocoon numbness I’ve had. The insane writer’s block. My own need for self destruction. All those combined create a highly combustible existence.

When I woke, the bright, sterile hospital lighting burned holes into my head. I must’ve been whacked pretty damn good because it felt like my brain was seeping out of my skull. But there was something else. Someone else. I could feel the presence, sense someone staring at me. Loathing my life, my stupidity but feeling sorry for me. I hated whoever it was, for that. I opened my eyes. Blurry, dried out, they burned but I had to have a look around. When I tried to sit up, to get a better view, an axe fell through my skull all the way down to my toes. I couldn’t help it. I fell back and groaned. Why am I not dead? That’s what I want. That’s what I look for every night. Someone to put me out of my misery, end this waste of a life. But I wasn’t dead. The pain made me wish I were, on top of my own self pity. Indeed, one more reason I should be dead. The pain. The fucking stabbing hot pain in my chest and abdomen from all the broken ribs. The legs, who knew how bad off they were? And the head. The pain behind my eyes splitting my brain in two. I suffered it to move my head a little around, just to see who my mysterious visitor was. I saw a blur of red hair and the rage inside reared it’s ugly fucking head, again. Why would Dustin Dickhead be here? Didn’t he have some schmoozing to do with his soon to be wife, my ex-wife, my fucking, goddamned wife? My tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth when I tried to speak. I could feel it peeling, falling little by little into its correct position. It was so thick it made me gag. The visitor stood up, quickly, and in a flash a straw was placed in my mouth and I drank the cold water like a man dying of thirst in the middle of the Sahara. Thank God for the good Samaritan. It couldn’t be Dustin Dickhead because I smelled it again. Roses. The scent hit me like a ton of bricks. Rosie Red. She was here. She was my guardian, my angel. My eyes still blurry, I tried to focus as best I could but instead, surrendered to the pain. It hurt too damn bad to open them. It hurt too damn bad to move. I tried to speak my thanks to her but fell into the pillows instead. Sleep. That’s all I need. More sleep. And again that painless, black hole enveloped me.

A few more days, wasted, lying in a fucking hospital bed. I wanted to get out. Wanted to see Diane. No, not see her. Feel her, touch her, smell her, taste her, fucking throw her down and fuck the shit out of her and tell her what I’ve been feeling since I first realized who she was. With the passing of seven odd years I still held a candle for her. But that would be unfair, dragging her through my mud soaked life. I can’t do that. I never could do that. Not for anything in the world. Hadn’t seen Rosie Red since the first day I awoke. I missed her, too. The strangeness of that woman confounded me and yet, incredibly, sparked my curiosity and my imagination. The doctors said I could be released today, only with the oath that I put the alcohol away and stay out of barroom brawls. There’s always a fucking catch, isn’t there? But I had meds, now, so maybe I wouldn’t need a drink that badly.

What a fucking dickhead asshole I had become. No one was there to take me home. The hospital called a cab. I was limping with a cane and my head and torso were bandaged. I entered my empty house. A big, fucking mansion of a house with no one there. Gerde, my cleaning lady, had done an enormously perfect job, even getting the blood out of the tan, leather sofas, but even she was nowhere to be found. Houses, when empty, even small homes, seem very big, scary and isolating. This house was no exception. I turned the TV on, just to have some background noise, voices, something, anything was better than that fucking silence. I gingerly took a seat on the sofa and realized that my hand was empty. I thirsted, badly, for a drink. Needed it. Who cares what a couple of doctors have to say? I wanted a drink and I wanted a smoke. The relief washed over me the moment I opened up the scotch. I caught a whiff of the liquid gold and craved it, desperately. I fumbled with the glass, nearly breaking it and sending ice all over my floor. I steadied myself, poured a stiff one, gathered my last reserves of energy and headed to the sofa, once again. Now that I had the drink, the smoke, I only had my thoughts to contend with. I pined for Diane. I replayed that stupid moment over and over again in my head. Her eyes, the fucking hurt I caused in her eyes. That was the worst of it. I wanted her, I wanted her more than I wanted the scotch in my hand. And I sent her away. Hurt her to the nth degree. I must be the biggest fucking loser in the world. To turn such a creature away. Naked, on my lap, wet with lust and love and need and desire as strong as mine. And to just stop it all. And send her packing. But I love her. Isn’t that the stupid conclusion I came to in the hospital? I love her. I fucking love every goddamned thing about her. Need her, crave her. I’d give it all up, for her. The drink, the fighting. My stupid life. I’d do anything I had to. Even throw her out, half naked, on her ass to save her from a life with a dead ended fuck. Ok, that’s my concession. I did it because I do really love the girl. I made the right decision.

I sucked the last few drops of scotch from the last ice cube in my glass and contemplated a second, third, fourth, fifth.. as many as I needed to get through this first night, this first real night without Diane. Instead, I called Doc.

There’s a time when we need our crutches. We need to be propped. Obviously, I need them more than most people, but everyone has their own. Doc has never been one of mine but I needed a voice of reason to confer with my aching head. I needed to hear a rational voice stating the obvious.. that I was making the right choice. But he didn’t. He told me to breathe. I told him to fuck off, this time, for fucking good.

I fell asleep, that night, an alcohol and medication induced sleep, on the sofa. I woke up the next morning to a bright sunlight streaming, hurting my eyes, hurting my hung over, cracked open head. But there was also a sound. A voice? I couldn’t tell. My head was pounding and the vomit was sneaking up on me. I grabbed the bucket I put out for myself the night before, knowing I could never hobble to the bathroom in time, and out it came, in violent waves. Each involuntary spasm more painful than the next. My chest squeezed in a vice of broken ribs. But that was good, that pain. It brought me to my senses and I could hear the voice quite clearly. Someone calling my name. Someone outside. Sounding worried. I stood up, wobbled when my head swam with the threat of passing out, caught my breath and managed to make it to the front door. Diane and Brian stood there. On my porch. My fucking front porch. Relief and fear washed over me at the same time. Again my head swam. I fought it, fought the urge to faint and tried, weakly, to be enamored at their presence. Brian caught me under my arm, told me to take it easy, Diane looked on the verge of tears. They helped me into the living room and we all sat, in silence for some time.

Diane, God bless her, was the first to cut into the thick, awkward air surrounding us. “Jenna, she visited you in the hospital. She knew I cou….well, I think she was pretty worried about you. And she hadn’t seen you since our first night here, in the bar. She was thrilled but she said you looked bad. Like the last few years you had been put through the grinder.”

I searched her face for her eyes, but they were downcast. It wasn’t making sense what she was talking about. And I couldn’t read her. She wasn’t going to let me drown in her dark pools, anymore. And it stung. It stung me from the inside out.

“She loved you from the time she first met you,” Diane continued, “at Dustin’s and her parent’s house when you were sixteen. She was twelve. She hated Michelle for the longest time, and came to hate me, too.”

“Jenna, my God. Dustin’s little sister?” Finally her words struck, made contact, bull’s-eye, “I can’t believe it. I would never have recognized her.” I felt like a fucking stupid prat. Of course it was Jenna. I should’ve known. I should’ve known it was Jenna from the get go, should’ve known it was Diane. Sitting on the sofa, my voice weak from pain, too many cigarettes, too much alcohol, a broken, barren lump of shit, it came to me. I had fallen hard over the past years. Fallen so hard I only cared about my self loathing. I forgot about the people who loved me, who were always in my corner, from the beginning. I forgot there were people in the world who worried about me and wanted to know if I was ok. Who wanted nothing more than to hear my voice. Through my own weakness I pushed them all away. Yet they were still here. They were always here. I just had to simply reach out. My head swelled. My eyes burned as they filled up with salty, hot water. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I was done. Finished. Empty. Voided out. I dropped my swollen face in my hands and bawled. Bawled like a fucking baby.

Brian only spoke a few words, during the visit. I pulled myself together long enough to hear a bit about the wedding coming up in four days but the details were lost the moment they hit my ear. I couldn’t stop staring at her. Couldn’t stop wanting her. She avoided my gaze at all costs, more proof of the pain I inflicted. Finally, they decided anything they had to say would be futile. Small talk, amongst my friends, was always considered in bad taste. The conversation had gotten to that point long before it should have.

I bid them farewell. Brian hugged me, gingerly, and Diane, well she stood at the car, waiting. Why did Michelle have to get re-married? Why did she have to get re-married, here, in our hometown bringing with her ghosts from our past back to haunt us? Why couldn’t she have run to Vegas and be done with it? I hated her. I wanted her to feel the agony. I wanted her to drown in Diane’s tears.

Chap. 4

Friday afternoon. The sun was shining, the day was cool and refreshing. Children were basking in the sun and when I walked by they’d scream for their parents out of fright from my monster appearance. At least that’s what I thought they should do. Everyone should run from me. I carry the Devil’s signature in my eyes. But self loathing will only get you so far and today, today I have to buy a fucking suit. I have a wedding to attend tomorrow.

I hate shopping. I hate having to drive Downtown and deal with the bustle of narrow sighted business people intent on one thing: money, money, money. They walk in droves, those fucking drones. Lifeless eyes hiding behind designer sunglasses, toned bodies covered in Armani. Women in dress suits capped off with lovely sneakers so their feet won’t hurt from the constant moving. Moving. That’s what moves them. All of them. If they were to ever stop, look around and bask in life itself they’d all shrivel up and die. But who am I to talk? What gives me the right to be so goddamned judgmental?

I pull up to one of those classy men’s wear joints. It’s fashioned with luxurious, leather clad armchairs and the hottest sales women you’ve ever seen. Guess that helps. The prices are ridiculous but I gotta get something nice. Gotta look my best for ol’ ex-wifey-pooh. I choose something in the light gray, silk. Go with a white shirt, silken blue and gray tie. It works, whatever. It’s fucking men’s wear. It’s a suit. I walk out of the store satisfied I got something and can endure the traffic drive home. I should stop for a drink before I hit the road. And I do. This bar is posh. It’s not a dive. Powerful men are observing their kingdoms from high backed, brown, leather chairs smoking pipes and cigars, swilling their brandy in deep snifters. Toasting each other over their riches, their sharp business sense, their owning of the universe. Women are dressed to the nines and surveying the Masters of the Universe for maybe one decent, rich fucker to take home and screw his brains out. None of them looked at me. I was a fly on the wall. A mere blip on their vast radar maps. I order scotch, on the rocks, double. What else? This magician has a nice smile and seems intent on customer satisfaction. Different bar, different attitude. Same reason. To take the edge off. I down it in seconds. The magician eyes me carefully, and fills up another glass. Without asking. Maybe he could see it in my raw, ground beef face, or maybe he’s in tune with the eyes and can read me from a mile away. Whatever the case, he doesn’t question, he pours more. He even offers me a light for my cigarette. Well they’re smoking cigars, why not? I ask the magician his name. “Tom,” he says with a quick sideways glance. I’m the only one sitting there, at the bar. He’s got time.

“Hi Tom, David.” I extend my hand to meet his.

“If you don’t mind me saying so, David, looks like you had a pretty rough week.” I like Tom. He’s to the point. And he pours a hefty, damn good drink.

“Yeah, Tom. You’re right. It’s been one hell of a fucking week.”

Between drinks and smokes Tom asks why I’m hitting the bottle pretty fucking hard.

“Well, Tom, it’s common place, for me. Something quite normal. But also because I have to go to a fucking wedding tomorrow.” He nods, he understands. I like Tom even more. You don’t have to say too much for him to get it. And he pours a hefty, good goddamned drink.

I drank as much as Tom poured. I sat at that bar until they closed, at a quarter till two. I still had a long drive home. There’s a lot I’ll do while drunk. I like hurting myself. I’m a fucking irresponsible prick, but to get on the road that sloshed and run the risk of hurting some innocent is never something I allow. I checked into a hotel around the corner from Tom’s.

Saturday morning arrives. Same shit different day. Typical San Diego weather. Bright, beautiful, cloudless and warm but with a cool ocean breeze to make it comfortable. I hate it. I want it to rain, to fucking hurricane over that stupid wedding. I want Michelle’s virginal, pristine dress to get tainted with mud and the blood shed she’s fucking caused. Yeah, that’s it, Boy-o, blame it on her and her stupid, fucking happiness.

What is it about weddings? Why do they destroy us, turn us into blubbering fools or hateful, spiteful fucks? So many stories end or begin with weddings. Weddings, they are rooted in our psyche from very small to be extreme emotional wreckers. We’ve come to accept this as a society. And we drink. We drink, a lot, at weddings. Maybe that’s part of the problem. And even though we all know how much we hate weddings, we suffer through them. Two hundred + in one lifetime alone. And they’re all the same. Dude meets chick, wants to bone chick, sometimes dude and chick have already boned. Dude waits at altar, chick walks down some stupid aisle and they fucking kiss. Happily fucking ever after. Or happily for a few months, a few years. The lucky few get the ever after. And it’s rare. And we all know this. Yet, we suffer the motions every fucking Saturday. Cuz, it’s posh, to get married on a Saturday.

Michelle’s day is well on it’s way in bliss. I’m still in the car. Finding that goddamned church is gonna be a nightmare. I drive around, pull over, ask a gas station attendant, and he looks at me cockeyed. He’s probably never spent a fucking single Sunday learning the good book. Neither have I, for that matter. We’re in the same boat. He tells me he knows where the street is, and the fucking thing should be there, somewhere. I’ve lived in this town for most of my life. I could tell you where every single bar is, I’m like a GPS system that way, when it comes to bars. But a church? Fuck. That’s part of an unknown lifestyle. I thank the greasy attendant and head south. There, along the street. Valets. Lots of fucking cars. Shiny, new, hell, gleaming in the Anywhere, CA sun. I pull up. Suit, looks good. Face looks like shit. I’m still hobbling, too, with my cane. But I’ve come to love that cane. It makes me feel dapper, rich, foreboding, even. Like underneath this ground beef face I actually have a little bit of class. It’s bull shit, but sometimes bull shit feels good.

The church is cool on the inside. With a thick aroma from the large baskets of expensive arrangements at every fucking pew. It makes my head swim. Gives me a headache. It’s too much stink. The altar is covered in those fucking flowers. It looks like a goddamned garden and yet, it’s beautiful. Dustin Dickhead has a goofy fucking smile splitting his face at the head of the aisle. He’s got some best men in tow. Brian’s one of them. He looks great. Scrubbed, clean, shiny. The complete antithesis of everything I am. Dirty with a foul, sour stench of alcohol and piss rising from my pores, beat up, face put through a meat grinder. I park my stench ass in the back, in the corner. Still don’t know why I’m actually here, why I’ve come.

I search the growing crowd for her. Too many ugly ass hats in the way. Why do rich women insist on wearing god awful, huge pieces of shit on their heads? Hasn’t anyone told them how perfectly ridiculous they look? I scan, again, the sea of ugly hats and my eyes catch un-ugly-ass-hatted raven hair. Three pews up, on the left side. She’s not sitting in the very back like me. She has no reason to hide. But she’s also far enough back to prove she doesn’t really belong here. She’s looking down, at her hands. And I can see they’re trembling. The last few guests arrive. Take their seats. An older lady with a horrid blue hat complete with fake bird and nest, sits next to me. She scowls at my appearance. I flash a swollen, gummy smile at her. She turns her head in disgust. Well, at least I’ve ruined her day.

The music starts and the procession of yellow clad bridesmaids begin. Oh, Michelle, you are perfect in so many ways but you never did have much taste. Everybody rises. I lean on my cane for support. My hands are shaking. My blood is boiling. Every time I look up to the nervous red-headed dickhead my rage swells. This is a fucking nightmare. And here she comes. The moment we’ve all been waiting for. The blushing Angel Bride in virginal white. Arm locked with Mr. Proud-Face Dad’s. I’m sweating, bad. Wish I had filled a flask this morning. Wish I had the foresight to do that. I need a drink. Bird lady standing next to me catches a whiff of my stench. She frowns, she can’t accept this cretin next to her. Whatever. Deal.

They stop, a foot from the altar. Mr. Proud-Face lifts the veil from Angel Bride and kisses her on the cheek. There’s a collective sigh from the observers. I feel like vomiting. Diane looks lost in her own world, still staring at her shaking hands. The proud couple take each other’s hand, turn to the altar and listen intently as the priest begins their new life.

Michelle. We were really good together. I loved her something fierce. I lived for her. Then the nagging started in. I was writing, all the fucking time. And drinking, a lot. That’s when it started. I treated her like shit. Wasn’t there for her. And looked for release in Diane. Diane accepted me, completely. She didn’t nag. Didn’t want me to be anyone but who I was. I felt free with Diane. But I couldn’t leave my wife. I was torn. And stupid. Couldn’t make a decision. And I ended up hurting them both and destroying myself. That’s when I realized I liked pain. I wrote, too. Feverishly. I was creating worlds beyond imagination. I got contracts, movie deals, won awards. I was the golden boy, with or without Michelle. Without Diane. I was lonely, but still had dreams and the pain gave way to creativity. I immersed myself in my created worlds. It was so much easier that way. To live in my own head, my written sanctuaries. Don’t really know when the passion stopped. Maybe I woke up one day and realized how utterly alone I really was. I pushed everyone I loved away for my career. And the drink consumed me. And my sorrow consumed me. And I wanted to destroy everything I had because inevitably, that’s what took everything away. That’s why I hate my fucking typewriter. Why it makes me want to vomit every time I stare at the blank pages and lettered keys. That’s why the fucker is still in the corner. Collecting dust and cobwebs. It took everything away. It drove me to insanity. Created this drunken, shriveled fuck.

The happy Angel Bride and red-headed dickhead lean in for a kiss. The only fucking signal the stupid wedding is over. The deal is done, signed, sealed and delivered with that kiss. The end. The finality of it depresses me. Everyone stands up and claps. Everyone except for me…and Diane. We waiver in and out of semi-consciousness. She looks tired, sweaty, faint. She mirrors me.

I sit cautiously while the whole congregation moves outside to say their congratulations to the happy couple. The crowd is moving too slowly. My stomach is churning. I can feel the runs creeping up on me. It’s murder, sitting here, waiting for the well dressed fucks to leave, finally, so I can slink out unnoticed. I’m going to the reception, but I can be invisible, there, too. I can feel eyes on me. Not surprised, considering the way I look, but I bring my eyes up, anyway. Diane. In a blood red dress, her best color. Standing in front of me. Shaking from head to toe. Her eyes are filling up, dotted and shining red.

“You’re here,” she mutters.

“Yeah.”

“Why?” It’s a rhetorical why. She doesn’t care why. She’s pissed about the why. I try to look deeply into her eyes, pleading with my own, to convey the reasons I’m here. Because I love her. I want to make amends. I want things to be better for me and for her. And I can’t live another stupid day without her. She won’t let me penetrate her eyes, though. And I’m at a loss. She’s really gone. I’ve lost her. Twice now. Such a fucking loser. Can never hold onto a good thing when I’ve got it. What is it with self degradation? How did I ever become such a piece of mucous filth?

“Diane, I…I am so sorry. I have this thing, you know? This fucking sickness. It’s like anything good that comes my way I have to destroy. I don’t understand it. I don’t know why. But that’s how it is.” I can feel it now. My emotion. It’s getting the better of me. My eyes burn with hot tears. This is not how I wanted it to be. But they let loose. Rolling, in succession, down my swollen, bruised cheeks. I gently wipe them away. I take control. I stop the water works. She’s in tears, now. Silent, streaming. Black lines, from her make-up, streaking her face. I grasp the cane and lean on it for support as I stand up. I grab her. I hold her close. She cries into my shoulder. I can’t bring myself to part from her. I can never let go. I stroke her silky hair, inhale the fresh scent. Tighter, I pull her into me. Closer. She’s shuddering. There’s no turning back now. I’ll never release her. I don’t have to, because, just like in the bar that first night, she does it. She forces my arms apart and quickly darts out of the church. I’m left alone. Surrounded by stinky, expensive arrangements. In a church. With nothing to drink.

I end up at the reception, late, parched, sweating and emotionally drained. The happy couple are being toasted by Brian when I make my appearance. It’s a beautiful speech. One telling of the time that’s passed, how these two were destined from the very first moment they met. Yeah, Bri, thanks for that one. Guess I was just a stupid stepping stone in Michelle’s life and she’s finally found her mountain. It was at one of those expensive, coastal palaces. White linen, more flowers and an open bar. Thank God. That’s where I had to go. Straight to the fucking bar.

I see Diane. She’s sitting alone at the bar. Her back to the reception, to the sounds of happy people. She gets up, drink in hand and heads to an outside terrace. She didn’t see me and I want to follow her, but first the drink. Somehow it always comes first. I order the usual and take it for a walk, outside the terrace. There’s an ocean out there. The terrace juts out over the beach and all you can see is glistening water. There’s a breeze blowing, it’s moving her long, raven hair behind her and gently flapping the fabric of her dress. She’s silhouetted by gleaming sunlight and water as smooth as glass. I can barely breathe. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She gently places her drink on the rail of the terrace and fishes in her purse. She pulls out a cigarette and fumbles with the lighter. She looks exasperated. I approach. I have to approach. I have to be near her. It’s consuming me, this need. I reach into my pocket for my own lighter and spark it up for her. She thanks me without looking up to see the face attached to the lighter and looks back over the ocean. I light my own cigarette, draw the smoke in deeply. I love that feeling. Lungs expanding, then filling up and then the exhale. It’s a ritual all smokers know and love. I put my drink on the terrace rail as well and ever so gently lean in to run a finger down her soft, bared shoulder. She jumps, startled. She turns to me and catches her breath. Her eyes are very red now but her make-up has been fixed. She doesn’t say a word as she turns back to her drink, downs it and walks away, leaving me and her empty glass behind.

I’m hobbling. I can’t move very fast but I go after her nonetheless. I know I should let her go. I should go home and be done with this mess and go back to my pitiful life, but I can’t. I can’t talk sense into myself. I’m relying only on my instincts, which are never very good. I see her, very far ahead, through the wedding crowd. She turns and heads straight out the exit. I know I’ll never catch her but I’m gonna die trying. And I feel like I’m gonna die. My abdomen is exploding, the broken ribs are pissed at all the movement and my head is swimming. I hope the pain can keep me conscious cuz I have to tell her. Tell her something. Tell her anything to make her stay.

She’s walking faster through the parking lot, now. She’s looking for her car. She looks lost. She puts the key in the air and pushes the button. No sound. She turns in the other direction, does it again, still no sound. She drops her head in her hands, all the while I’m gaining on her. Gimpy as I am, I’m getting closer. She walks a few more feet, hits the button again and an alarm sounds, not too far away. Two rows behind her, three in front of me. She gets to her car in a flash. I call out to her. She turns the key in the door. I call out again, this time the desperation flanking my voice. She stops. Drops the keys and turns slowly towards me. Her bloodshot eyes narrow as they fix on my form. Her arms are crossed over her chest, but she’s waiting. She’s not getting in the car.

“Diane…” I exhale. It’s all I can say. I’m breathless but finally in front of her. I put my hand on top of the car parked next to hers. I have to catch my breath. My chest is exploding under the weight of my rapidly beating heart. My legs wobble beneath me and my pounding head makes my vision blur. But it’s worth it. Every minute of weakening pain is worth it. Just the attempt to get her to stay is worth all the pain in the world. I see something flash across her eyes. Concern. Yes. She’s concerned for me. She reaches out and touches my head. Draws her fingers back. There’s blood on their tips. Something on my face has opened up with all the exertion. She’s looking directly into me now. Sadness and confusion filling her pools. I can’t speak. I’m transfixed by those eyes. Drowning, once again, in their limitless darkness. Her face softens, a little, and she reaches out to me, one more time. I all but fall into her arms. She’s holding me up. Holding us both up. I sob into her hair. Breathing her scent. The memories, all that we’ve suffered together is there in that scent. She pulls me close and holds me for what seems like forever.

Epilogue

The typewriter. My mistress, my first true love, my downfall and my enemy stared at me from it’s little table in the corner. It wasn’t dusty anymore. It had new ribbon. It was being used. A large pitcher of iced tea sat next to it and a big, comfy leather chair in front of it. There were papers laying on its other side. Manuscripts. About a thousand typed pages. And when I sat down, my face didn’t throb with the endless barrage of nightly beatings. I was still hung over, some things are harder to kick, than others.

I was starting a new book. The first sentence read: There are places for people like me. I smiled to myself. A burgundy painted nail pointed to the typed sentence and a husky voice whispered in my ear, “you’ve mispelled 'people', dear.”



© 2006 J.K. Hatzioannou

Steve 'Crikey!' Irwin, Farewell

Everyone knows the news already. Haven't had the time to post, until now, unfortunately. The man my generation watched in amazement at his humane and sometimes reckless antics towards some of the deadliest creatures on earth, has passed away. I won't go into detail of the 'how' here. It's just about everywhere in the news and online. It's not necessary. But it is necessary to say he died long before his time, too young, too full of vitality, too loved and sometimes feared.

He was a nut, but loved every creature, no matter how fierce and worked tirelessly for the good of his beloved animals and the environment. The mold was definitely broken when Steve was made. We will probably never see another human being quite like him again.

My heart goes out to his family. At least his children have much to remember him by. Keep Steve alive in your hearts, Bob and Bindi, keep his ideals close and his desires and dreams ever closer.

Goodbye, Mate, this world will miss you something terrible.

Randomness In a Nut Shell

Do you ever have days where you wondered about the sheer randomness of it all?

Like today for instance. I had to sneeze. It came up quick.. no early warning. I had a cigarette lit, hanging off my lower lip and the sneeze particles covered the thing. My hand was not quick enough to save it. A random sneeze messing with a random smoke.

Random, that's our word of the day, boys and girls. Because life is so incredibly random. Everyday when you get out of bed you unwittingly spin that roulette wheel and whatever color, whatever number it happens to land on defines the random occurences throughout your day.

Randomness really keeps us moving. The random stranger who actually decides to give you a small smile while crossing the street or the person who actually has an umbrella and offers it to cover your wet head in a torrential downpour, those little things (insert any random example :here: you'd like) that make you go 'Yeah, the randomness of basic life is good, sometimes'.

Life really is pretty basic. You go to the bathroom, you eat, you move around...you love. It's those random moments, though, that add spice and energy.

So Dear Readers (all two of you, and you KNOW who you are) while you are out today, give a random smile, hold a random door open, help some random person with their groceries or across the street. Create your own randomness and maybe some of it will come back to you.

The Birdsect

This freak of nature is a frequent visitor to our backyard. Anyone have any ideas as to what it is??



















UPDATE: The birdsect actually has a name. It's called the Hummingbird Hawk Moth. A moth. That likes to come out in the daytime. Eats nectar. Doesn't eat clothes. And has feathers. A MOTH?! Somehow that just taints the whole mystery behind it.

Syd Barrett, gone on the steel breeze

Sad News. Everyone grab your 'Wish You Were Here' album and crank up Shine On You Crazy Diamond I-IX in loving tribute to the founder and early forerunner of one of the greatest bands to EVER grace our stages. Syd Barrett passed away this week, complications from diabetes seems to be the cause.

I know David Gilmour is touring Europe, now. Wonder if he and Waters can bridge the gap long enough to grace Syd's funeral? Anyone smell a Pink Floyd reunion in the air? No? Well, neither do I but one can ALWAYS hope!

My best to his family and friends. Shine on you crazy diamond, indeed! Syd was 60 years old.

Great tribute site: http://www.sydbarrett.net/

Netscape ISP

If you're interested in going back to the old Netscape home page, they have something similar up at http://isp.netscape.com/. So, the inconvenience of having to change your homepage after the inconvenience of waking up to an unexpected site change sounds like a bad day for Netscape. Here's the screenshot:



Netscape, not really the same but better than the alternative

Star Jones jonsin' for work

Star's gone. We can all do a happy jig and eat tons of cheescake! We'll all get SJ fat and then have elective gastric bypass surgery...oops, I mean, do a lot of pilates and change our eating habits! Yeah right, Star, and your hubby's totally het!

But seriously, folks. I was never a fan of the 'View'. Don't think I even ever watched a full show. But still, it touches my heart to see a woman who so outwardly and unforgivably used her 'fame' to gain freebies.. 30+ vendors, to be exact, for a free Bridezilla freak wedding where she threw guests out because they weren't dressed appropriately or had their own cameras..finally get a taste of her own medicine. She's been erased from the 'View' website as well as the show and, hopefully, from all of humanity.

Ding Dong the Bitch is Gone! Doesn't that just make you wanna rejoice?!

More JK Rowling

JK Rowling has propelled the publicity of her immensely successful Harry Potter novels once again by divulging to her billions of avid fans that no less than TWO main characters will be killed off in book seven, supposedly the 'last' of the series. Start guessing, fans of the 'Boy Who Lived'! All guesses will be published here under comments. My guess? Hermione and Harry... or at least that's what I hope! Ron would do well to be killed off as well, but since we can only guess two, I'll go with the most obnoxious.

Newer is Definitely not Better

The Netscape home page has changed. Much to the chagrin of it's many users. I liked the old way, too. I don't quite understand what they've done or why. I suppose they are trying to compete or promote digg.com. Let Digg do the community user news.. Netscape should stay true to the top stories/headlines. I've created a screenshot for you all to view. Unfortunately I do not have a shot of the old one. I could not forsee this horrible change so I never thought it would be necessary. NETSCAPE go back to the way things were or at least give your users the CHOICE!

Fall

I stood there

On the fall of a day so chilled-

Millions of leaves

Encircling halos,

Starlight patterns

On brick and granite.

Gently tousling my hair

Stealth and silent

Each one fell

A vibrant gold parade.

Fiery star,

Hung her head in shame

For her beauty could not surpass

Such a bright flurry.

This timeless dance

Surrounded by Man’s greatest marvels,

Ghosts and wounded sky

For the beholder-

Quite an awesome spectacle

For the beheld-

A turning of the season.

jkg 12-4-01

Blank

BLANK


I hate everything blank--
Black and white
There's another shade of gray
That refuses to let its head up,
But time is coming
For everything to emerge
Changes on the wings
Of red tipped blue jays
Call in the middle of the night.
Light shines on darkened paths
And the moon opens up the land.
Isn't it gray? Isn't it silver yet?
Boredom and isolation
If gone unnoticed
Can create discord
Among stars and winters.
Telephones, sometimes
Are the only things that talk--
And no matter how strong
The green lines
Create themselves,
I can attest
That they are not always correct.

jkg 2-21-03

Lake

Together quickly they rode
The open night
Spreading before them
Fear building with each step..
What had happened?
How had it been allowed?
Pace quickening now
Breath falling harder, faster
Cool night air
Tearing at this sweat stained brow
Though, Malevolent and looming
Oily and still
It stood next to him.
As the hours passed
Rounded fingers
Spreading from heart to shore
And back again.
Over and over, a cycle
Mockery and mimicry
The soft gentle lapping
Immediately gave way
To Sinister voices
Echoing throughout the ripples
Contorting his sanity
To do their will and bidding.
Ah again the silence became too loud
This time he saw the clouds
Felt his heart floating
All the while not realizing--
From his hands her blood,
From it's hands his blood.

Dwindle II

Dwindling on a bit, as usual. Time floats by and whiling away the hours behind flashing monitors and blinking lights is my trademark.

Who's to say what's right or wrong?

Whilst you ponder the question, Dear Readers (all two of you), I ask you to gaze longingly into a mirrored version of my old lava lamp and, maybe, the answers will be found in the floating globs.

J.K. Rowling

How else do you title such a post? I'll use the author's name. It's such a massive push for her little industry.. J.K. Rowling.. the name speaks volumes.

So, what do I have for J.K. Rowling? Why is such a post entitled with only a name?

I've read the Harry Potter books, and am a BIG fan. She's a brilliant writer, to any such standards. Her characterization is about the best I've ever seen. She can spin many a tale.. if only the yarn were her's.

She's such an industry, hundreds of sites have been devoted to FanFic... the writing of a deeply devoted fan with the characters Joanne has created.

But, plagiarism is as plagiarism does and I gotta say.. even though I am the BIGGEST HP fan out there she has... there are too many instances of sounding like other authors..

Like the term MUGGLE. Muggle came from a book called: 'The Legend of RAH and the Muggles' by Nancy Stouffer. It details the antics of a hero named Larry Potter. Coincidence? I think not!

First hand plagiarism I've noticed: The name Aragorn from Lord of the Rings.. she named a big, dark spider (very much like Shelob) Aragog. The wise wizard with long gray hair (could very well be Merlin. [most likely or similar to Gandalf] Both Dumbledore and Gandalf are variations from the fabled Merlin) reminds me too much of Tolkien's Gandalf. Ringwraiths, again from Tolkien.. otherwise known as 'Dementors'. The exact description (physical, be it, but black tattered robes, fearsome no faces, destroying peace and happiness at every turn). Sure, it can be argued due to the way such characters are construed that these are solely from her imagination but the similarities are too great not to be explored.

Does she actually plagiarize? As Stephen King once said (paraprhasing here) 'Every author has been accused of plagiarism. Even (and he mentions only one name) J.K. Rowling.' Why, with so many authors to choose from, do you think Stephen King would name only her? He's even been accused of the treacherous act, wouldn't he name himself? No. Because the argument against him was unfounded, unlike Joanne.

Again, to make my dear readers (all two of you) understand, in NO WAY do I doubt J.K. Rowling's gift of storytelling so much so that I actually have to believe the fact she wrote the entire Harry Potter series on a train home one day (that the idea just popped into her head). Guess a good storyteller is only as good as her acting. I'd have to go on the hopes that Harry Potter actually does exsist in Rowling's own mind but in a different time Ringwraiths and a giant spider named Shelob would attack her hero.