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 (nobody)...and 152 guests Last 5 registered Oplandisks nothingstar N_loop yipe foxtrotromeo Browse members... |
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Members 8025Messages 2614069 Today 13 Topics 127541 |
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...he didn’t know whether he wanted more space or less space, but he knew that the heart shreds blocking his throat needed to be coughed up. He tore across the street while blaring car horns hounded his steps and he threw himself at a shop, staining its window with saliva. “Any wall, anything to hold, something solid to grip, to lean on, anything….” He clunked at the glass, his hands fixed to each side of his head, and he stared through the droplets of spit into the hairdressers. He had stopped coughing. Two people sat reading a newspaper; three were getting their hair cut; one hairdresser was sauntering about, doing nothing in particular. She turned and jumped at the sight of the wild eyes peering through the window. Shocked into awareness by her gaze, he stopped leaning on the glass and threw himself back onto the pavement. He stormed drunkenly towards a bench, hitting shoulders as he went. Each jolt sucked his heart further into his mouth and he feared biting it; he saw it struggling for life in-between sharp teeth and felt his lungs wheeze as his mouth clenched it more tightly. He tasted its blood in his mouth and stopped for three dry, raspy coughs. The bench was the only object he could comprehend through distorted throbs of panic, and the occasional shouts of “Oi mate, what’s your problem?” simply dissolved into the whirlpool of noise that crucified his mind. He went to sit on the bench and wept. |
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then he threw up the tequila and felt much better. he had a full english breakfast in the morning with a tall glass of orange juice and soon forgot the whole thing. the end. |
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going out or coming out? |
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he's a closet heterosexual |
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crucified his mind. |
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In the French Quarter the liquor flows like milk and strings of bright cheap beads hang from wrought iron balconies, adorn sweaty necks, scatter in the street, the royalty of gutter trash, gaudy among the cigarette butts and cans and plastic Hurricane glasses. The sky is purple, the flare of a match behind a cupped hand is yellow, the liquor is green, bright green, made from a thousand herbs, made from altars. Those who know well enough to drink Chartreuse at Mardi Gras are lucky, because the distilled essence of the town burns in their bellies. Chartreuse glows in the dark, and if you drink enough of it, your eyes will turn bright green. |
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In the IDM Quarter, the liquid beats flow like milk and bright strings hang from wrought iron reverb. |
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He'd shot his stepfather first, once in the back of the head with his own Army service pistol, just to see the surprise on his mother's face as brain and bone exploded across the glass top of her brand-new dinner table, as her husband's blood dripped into the mashed potatoes and the meat loaf, rained into her sweating glass of iced tea. He though briefly that this surprise was the strongest emotion he had ever seen there. The sweetest, too. Then he'd pointed the gun at it and watched it blossom into chaos. Justin remembered clearing the table, noticing that one of his mother's eyes had landed in her plate, afloat on a thin patina of blood and grease. He tilted the plate a little and the glistening orb rolled onto the floor. It made a small satisfying squelch beneath the heel of his shoe, a sound he felt more than heard. No one ever knew he had been out of California. He drove their gas-guzzling luxury sedan into the desert, dumped them and the gun. He returned to L.A. by night, by Greyhound bus, drinking bitter coffee and reading a rest stops,watching the country unspool past his window,the starlit desert and highway and small sleeping towns, the whole wide-open landscape folding around him like an envelope or a concealing hand. He was safe among other human flotsam. No one ever remembered his face. No one considered him capable of anything at all, let alone murder. After that he worked and read and drank compulsively, did little else for a whole year. He never forgot that he was capable of murder, but he thought he had buried the urge. Then one morning he woke up with a boy strewn across his bed, face and chest battered in, abdomen torn wide open. Justin's hands were still tangled in the glistening purple stew of intestines. From the stains on his skin he could see that he had rubbed them all over his body, maybe rolled in them. |
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He didn't remember meeting the boy, didn't know how he had killed him or opened his body like a big wet Christmas present, or why. But he kept the body until it started to smell, and then cut off the head, boiled it until the flesh was gone and kept the skull. After that it never stopped again. They had all been boys, all young, thin, and pretty: everything the way Justin liked it. Weapons were too easy, too impersonal, so he drugged them and strangled them. Like Willy Wonka in the technicolor bowels of his chocolate factory, he was the music maker, and he was the dreamer of dreams. It was a dark and lonely revelry, to be sure. But so was writing; so was painting or learning music. So, he supposed, was all art when you penetrated to its molten core. He didn't know if killing was art, but it was the only creative thing he had ever done. He got up, slid Dandelion Wine back into its place on his crowded bookshelf, and left the bedroom. He put his favorite CD on shuffle and crossed his small apartment to the kitchenette. A window beside the refrigerator looked out on a brick wall. Frank Sinatra was singing "I've Got You Under My Skin." Justin opened the refrigerator and took out a package wrapped in foil. Inside was a ragged cut of meat as large as a dinner plate, deep red, tough and fibrous. He selected a knife from the jumble of filthy dishes in the sink and sliced off a piece of meat the size of his palm. He wasn't very hungry, but he needed something in his stomach to soak up the liquor he'd be drinking soon. Justin heated oil in a skillet, sprinkled the meat with salt, laid it in the sizzling fat and cooked it until both sides were brown and the bottom of the pan was awash with fragrant juices. He slid the meat onto a saucer, found a clean fork in the silverware drawer, and began to eat his dinner standing at the counter. |
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Alright Alright, Tragedy - let's not go overboard now, girl (: |
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sorry i just love poppy so much. i'll stop.... |
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I appreciate your understanding ways young Padawan. |
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Just a small town girl, livin in a lonely world She took the midnight train goin anywhere Just a city boy, born and raised in south detroit He took the midnight train goin anywhere A singer in a smokey room A smell of wine and cheap perfume For a smile they can share the night It goes on and on and on and on Strangers waiting, up and down the boulevard Their shadows searching in the night Streetlight people, living just to find emotion Hiding, somewhere in the night Working hard to get my fill, Everybody wants a thrill Payin anything to roll the dice, Just one more time Some will win, some will lose Some were born to sing the blues Oh, the movie never ends It goes on and on and on and on Dont stop believin Hold on to the feelin Streetlight people |
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Can I be the Anakin Skywalker to your Obi-Wan Kenobi? |
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I ain't going out like that |
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That's a big 10-4. |
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