But it was this incredible,
Blossoming, blinding thing! 

And because of that you failed to notice,

While you were seeking affection,

They were only seeking attention. 

Short Stories

Web of Yarn

I had a spark of inspiration and decided to write more than once piece for Blue Lips, Blue Veins so this is one of likely a handful of continuations from that original piece. Thank you!

I sweat ice. I sweat alcohol.

I roll over in bed and it’s empty. I don’t remember the girl from the corner, she was blonde – maybe brunette? I don’t feel terrible for forgetting her. I feel my neck to find a flat key and a wedding-band on a long leather cord. Thank god. I sit up slowly and inhale the dingy darkness of the bedroom, the air is stale and still sour from hours of bought sex. Grey boxers narrowly pulled up over my knees, I adjust the old material so that they are hiked up over my hipbones.

Eventually peeling myself off of the bed I stagger from the edge of the memory-foam mattress, my eyelids weigh as much as I do and I rub them with calloused palms. I wander down the blackened hall to the office, the door remains wondrously locked and I am thankful that my evening escapades, my shadow ladies, graciously do not invade my privacy. The key around my neck eases inside and clicks when I turn it to the left, the door swings wide welcoming me into the room dully lit by flickering lamplight.

This room smells fresh, familiar – of expensive bourbon, photo ink and musky newspapers. On the walls a network of red yarn scrambles chaotically from floor to ceiling, crisscrossing from left wall to right wall. It is a labyrinth of colour and horror. I go to look at my watch and am not completely surprised to find it missing – the impression of where it once folded over my skin itchy now that I notice it. My late night lovers, understanding of privacy although apparently not of personal property. I don’t mourn the watch as much as I should considering its 300 dollar price tag.

I pull a hand though my hair, somehow still mostly slicked back with wax, the loose blond strands crunch between my fingers. With my other hand I stretch out fingers and strum the yarn carefully. My head throbs from last night or, rather, this night’s binge and I think of the Captain – he was likely awake. With a glance at the phone it flickered bright green digits to indicate 4 missed messages and the early hour of 3:45am. My stomach aches with gut-rot and I am gripped with a chill, aware again that I am half naked in the room.

The Cap was notorious at the station for never sleeping, we’d been partners for nearly three years and the only time I ever caught him resting was when he was doped out on the concoction of prescription meds he gulped back hourly. The bottle was laced with anti-depressants, wake-me-ups, something for the probable severe antisocial disorder he managed to keep under the radar of the screening process. Cap called it his Russian-Roulette of Happy Pills. So I drank, I drank to lull into that deep void of slumber, heated my skin with the warmth of corner broads instead of blankets. Lieutenant Jacob Fitzgerald. It wasn’t smart of me but years on the job made loop holes you could plunge yourself through in the system. It was the system’s fault, or so I told myself. They didn’t hand out guns and badges to just anyone and when they did you needed something strong to polish yourself off every so often. I poured myself a tumbler from the half-empty stash in my desk, stroked the red yarn again.

This girl. The redhead from the river. I knew from the moment I saw him, the Captain, crouching over her waterlogged body that he was instantaneously obsessed. And so the yarn, so the tracking of the jumper girls throwing themselves off the bridges. There was something about her that entranced him. So he didn’t sleep. So I sipped again from my drink.

Short Stories

The Failure is High

A gentleman, here he is distinguished by the silk hanging from his throat. The grass is no longer green and has long since fallen from hanging lips. The Jazz, distorted, has abandoned the search for his ears.

So loud! I thought while peering around. I find the room ablaze, the ceiling and walls amiss. Blonde quirks her lips, her nails pluck at the floss around her hips. I stare at the razorblade marks on her wrists. I thought, the wedding had failed – left her at the altar. Fought myself so that I could not see her widened eyes, stricken with the realization that she’d never be my bride. For a moment I stare at the ring I put on my own hand – I’m a new level of crap. I clutch my fist so that I can’t see the guilt and notice that her heels have begun to click.

Song change.

Blonde blows a kiss, her sweat a curdled taste and I remember it’s smeared all about my lips. Those plucking nails pull at my face so that I gawk at her. Can’t tell if it is me, or the room that makes her hiss. I count the blade marks while her hands descend and discover my own narrow hips, tented black trousers that used to be my father’s. She sees my shame yet Blonde laps at her lips. I am terrified again for the second time today, in spite of her swiveling I squelch my eyes and try not to see some other father’s daughter. She asks me my name and I wrestle out “Cowardice.”

Song change.

He doesn’t think, there’s white lace and veils in his eyes as Suicide Blonde descends between his legs yet again.