A strange diet..

Ash wakes up with a grimace and a cough. She winces even in the feeblest rays of sun. Her hand goes to cover her eyes while the other fishes blindly for the packet of Belmonts. Fingers probe out the sleep dust, the remains of a multi-course dinner of bourbon and codeine, piercing the sockets. The sudden image of prodding a fork into an electrical socket becomes the apt comparison. Sparks fly in her mind, tinfoil in the microwave.
"Ughhhh."
The kind of hangover that would cause any lesser person to wake up screaming, followed by screaming at the sound of screaming, and so forth. She clenches her teeth and scowls. Cigarette face on, she plants one between yielding jaws, and is half-way through sucking back before she realizes it hasn't been lit.
"Ughhhhhhh."
Tattoos on her forearm are mixed around enough that you might miss the lettering entirely- 'You're damn straight it is', reads her left; 'Deadline', reads her right. Her silver lighter reads 'Bitch'. These are the things that put her morning in perspective: Facts, function, and fuckin'-A attitude. She smiles whenever she has her little trinity.
The hair is gone again, victim of charity. A non-cigarette-duty hand brushes over the stubbly memory. It's a nice feeling, sign of the new cycle.
Same as the old cycle. Ash pulls her laptop up onto her stomach and whips up the screen.
The editor's paunchy emails dot her inbox. Ash's right arm flares up, 'Deadline'. Of course it would be this morning. Fuck. Irritation mixes with a sudden burst of hangover, and she almost bites clean through the filter. Cold coffee is gargled as an afterthought, shotgunned in pursuit of a caffeine rush to keep the pain at bay. The butt is tossed into the empty mug, and the Bitch lighter sparks the morning's second course of exhaust. Tasty, but not enough...
Her writing cap is slipped over her brow. Classic brown fedora, inexplicably spotless after years of ravenous nicotine abuse. She flexes her typing tendons, clearly in her element, Queen Bitch of the Broadcast. 6000 words need to be put together, and she's been given a cap as to the frequency use of the word 'fuck' and its derivatives. Narrative pulls at her fingertips impatiently, urging them to produce. Ash grins as she yields to it. Bourbon, codeine, nicotine, caffeine-- journalism. Dessert.
"You're damn straight it is. Goddamn straight."

Another night out

She wasn't so much lying on him, so much as giving the sense that she'd been poured out on top of the sofa, with him in between. The party raged on in the background, having razed the notion of peace and quiet within the neighbourhood; always the good sign of a killer night.
Craig looked at her murmering form, as she drooled a pool of lite-beer-strength saliva into his jeans. Thankfully, Trish wasn't one for puking. A lethargic drunk was the preferable kind of wingwoman, given the option. Other chicks at the party gave knowing smiles as they passed. He attempted to smile back, trying to mouth out-
"She's not my girlfriend!"
Nobody seemed to care, not really. It wasn't like he was loading her into a backseat or carting her off with furtive-looking lads for a taste of a one-sided pleasure of the most dishonest kind. That'd be a quick call to the police, and damned right of them to do so.
Of course, it wasn't fair. All the chicks here were just in varying states of reduced will, slavering from one set of pecs to the next, their eyes lingering hungrily on appropriately tight jeans. The nearest hookup was brought into being with the agreeance of eye contact: a passive nod, a teasing sideglance, a scowling half-lidded glare. An unspoken communication that transcended the constant noisy throb of the din. All other conversation was just a cover for the act, mere pretense.
This wasn't a sight better than the men, who baited their traps with the enthusiasm of pre-pubescents. Some winked and made faces, apparently having no knowledge of what the game was called, much less having read the rules. Too much prey without chase, and the huntresses would lose interest, eyes roving to the next available target.
Craig still sat helplessly, a deaf-mute anthropologist with only a comatose translator-turned-lap-moistener. Shit.
He fumbled for his drink. Oily vodka, hastily mixed in a Mason jar with a panopoly of nominally appropriate liquors assaulted his sobriety with blunt heat. The bitter-tasting concoction did knock him into an easier state, but was hell going down. Served him right for having mixed his own stuff, what with Jason being busy with his Tom Cruise thing with the cocktail shakers for some pair of tits with a girl hanging off of them. What a horny jerk. An amazed titter broke out as the man poured blue flame into the nearest Collins glass. Craig bit angrily into the cocktail onion, savouring the vague sweetness of it as he watched Jason loosen some of his admirers' inhibitions. Hunters had become the hunted.
"Having fun?"
Craig turned to see the wavering form of Trish's partner, Alexa. She picked at her nose ring, looking down at her mostly-conscious girlfriend.
"It's a blast. Help me get this sack of wet potatoes off of my crotch, please?"
Alexa nodded obligingly, grabbing Trish's underarms and shifting her top half onto the empty side of the couch.
"Bit of a light-weight, isn't she?"
"Yeah. She should be more like you," said Craig, "Superdyke."
"Behold, mortal, my resistance to your feeble alcohols!" Alexa thrust a fist in the air, as if taking off. They broke out into laughter, joined by a petite brunette who was walking by.
"What would be the point in that kind of superpower?" broke in the brunette, "It would take all the fun out it!"
Craig did his best to keep in his role, pushing his concentration above the sea of alcohol. Set the scene, be evasive. "What are you talking about? Half the fun's in the taste." He jiggled the empty Mason jar. "It's an experience into itself, combining the right ingredients and enjoying a finished product."
"And nobody's more knowledgeable than Craig--" started Jason, having appeared behind them with a fresh drink in hand. Craig widened his eyes with irritation, subtly baring territorial canines. A smooth wink from the bartender soothed the savage beast. "You left your cocktail at the counter. Wish I could mix like that."
Craig took the gift with silent thanks, cooly turning back to the brunette, who stared at the shifting contents of the glass.
"Woww. That looks amazing."
He passed her the cocktail, grinning to himself. Killer night, huh.

Repost: On Non-Somnulence

I don't have insomnia. I just forget how to sleep every now and then, when niggling little thoughts distract my attention.

They catch up with you, those little niggling thoughts.
Sometimes, they're a welcome addition to the whole family of ideas that go racing around in your skull. Othertimes, well, they just tend to overstay their welcomes. Slavering little hyenas, yelping and fucking, persistently nipping at you no matter how you jam your eyelids shut.
But this is why you're so afraid of numbers-- it's not your taxes or your phone bill-- it's not that you were traumatized to find out that seven ate nine-- it's not that your father beat you with a switch every time you forgot a decimal place of pi-- it's that fucking clock of yours. It's liquid crystal dripping, like some kind of Chinese Water Torture, every agonizing drop a an aeon you've been kept awake.
It's in league with the hyenas, I swear. The two of them, mocking you, forcing you to turn and twist as your bedsheets contort around you. The ravenous fabric python constricts and envelops, choking you. Oh, but the python is a damned tease, and refuses to carry out the motions in full by delivering you into oblivion. It just half-kills you while the hyena-thoughts pick apart your thought-muscles. And the red glowing numbers, the king of your dysnumeria, tell you that it's barely been a minute since you last checked it.

But I have to be up tomorrow. I have things to do. I'm going to be dead tired, I'm going to be a zombie. Like that little horrid little jungle that was your bedroom gives a damn about you. Survival of the fittest, and you're barely fit for scraps. The fresh sweat beads impetuously across the whole of your body. Can't-bare-to-acknowledge-o'clock-in-the-m

orning, and you're busy knotted in a damp alien place that offers you no comfort. You start to curse the need for sleep, curse your body, curse your brain-stuff for keeping you occupied with repetitive trivia.

It's the worst kind of addiction, you know, and a deadly kind of withdrawal that few (if any) can kick. Get them hooked while they're young, and they're lifelong addicts, spending a third of their life in thrall to this most potent of hallucinogenic-paralytic restorative draughts. Every night, I'm left to wonder, how would I ever give up sleep?

A morning after

Mild rays of sunshine nudged him into waking. Try as he might, his eyes had already taken note of the night's passing, and his mind bubbled to attention. He sat up, the sheets tumbling down to his lap. A hand to the head, to the hair, and back again; the treacherous eyes were delt a good harsh rubbing.
Mmmh. Time? A look over his right shoulder gave in response a red-digit readout. Well, not too bad, right? A look over his left shoulder gave a response in dulcet ivory. No, not bad at all.
Of course, her beauty sleep was uninterrupted by mere solar insistence. Head stuffed firmly into a pullow, her shoulders rose and fell in gentle rhythm.
You couldn't help but feel stirred by the sight. He reached over to her, hand coming down on hers. His fingers worked their way around to the palm. He squeezed and smiled.
"MMmmuuuh."
She rolled over, narrowly pinning his arm. Her breasts poured out of the covers with pink flourish, and he couldn't help but smile again. Love be a lady....
He lay back down. Turned on his side to face her. Put his nose the merest of measurable distances away from hers. The freckled charmer sleep-sighed, and he mockingly wrinkled his nose (a gesture perhaps wasted on the resting). Oh, such lips. Such fair cheeks and coy lashes.
The hand came out on reflex, cradling her chin. Her response came just as automatically. A move down and into him. He wrenched out his hand. He skirted the backs of the thighs, pausing on the not-unkindly proportioned buttocks.
Mmmh.
An eye yawned at him, snapping open.
"Go back to sleep, creep." She murmured
He withdrew the hand.
"Uh. Put that back."
She wiggled defiantly at him, smiling in spite of herself.
"S'what I thought." she muttered. More digging into the pillow.
He eased back into the covers, and spread his fingers back around the soft butt that awaited. Nope, not too bad at all.

Crossfade [Featured in BoyOBoy]

The beat rose, the night's synthetic pulse quickening to a frenetic exertion. DJ Mars (known by Marshall only to friends) stood tall over the writhing neon horde, dictating terms of motion, phase shift after phase shift. Sweat laced with ecstasy and alcohol burst from every gyrating pore, building a mist of heedless hedonism. Above every concern of not being pretty enough, lithe enough, smart enough- all the people on the floor filled their heads with the one ever-present command, constantly delivered from the DJ on high--

Feed the night, it roared.

Brett stared into the haze, barely able to discern his friend's steady form on the pulpit of amplifiers. Yes, the DJ he knew by name was there, doing what he did best. Squinting, Brett could make out the sweat-slick sinews ministering to the turntables; the hair matted onto a calm and concentrated forehead, interrupted only by the obligatory headphones; the cool eyes half-lidded in intractable concentration. The mere sight of it all sent chills up Brett's spine, and he flushed an unnoticeable hue in the flashing lights.

Yeah, there was no getting around it.

"Definitely gay," he muttered, as if cursing himself.

Hot and hard (to say nothing of heavy) were the occupying whispers in Brett's ear. As Marshall spun out a retro-Dixie throwback remixed with synthetic opera, Brett could only hear the resounding dictates of roaring hunger. Feed it, sate it, and gorge on it. The hunger gnawed ruthlessly at Brett's quivering self, screaming at him to go on in spite of the abject fear. What room was there for a newly minted faggot?

I can't. He wouldn't-- came Brett's hoarse whisper, hitting only empty air. He wouldn't ever; not with a guy, never with me. But the words, as if meeting their polar opposites, were annihilated by the phase pulse of the bass rain.

Tempo sparked to attention, picking up with it the arms and hands of its adherents. Rise, rise, rise, and build the hunger. Ravenous and grasping fingers were all that could be seen under the tides of light. The message coursed through the warehouse--

Feed the night, it moaned.

Mars, on the mountain top, on the stage, and illuminated by a halo of laptop plasma, again turned his eyes to the crowd. The hard and savage heat filled Brett's form as the two suddenly locked stares. Even through the waves of bodies, there was an instant and raw focus. What was it? What did he want? A knowing smirk played on the beat-priest's face, its unfamiliarity almost pushing Brett to the floor.

What the hell was that?

The pictures blasted unnervingly into his mind, spurred by the sudden anxiety. All of them, laughing, taunting- Goddamn fairy, look at the little queer! And Mars, never again to be Marshall, laughing at the pathetic little faggot. A horrid sickness rushed into Brett's stomach, and he burst from the crowd in frantic search of the washrooms.

Minutes trickled drip by drip into the sink as Brett stared wearily into the mirror. He pressed his head against it, letting the reverberations pour through the crap and misery. Crunching his eyes tight in their sockets, he grasped blindly at the sounds that trickled through the tiling.

Marshall burst in, of course.

"Brett! You okay? I saw you rush into the johns... "

Concern, Brett looked at his friend and saw just concern.

The pounding of the beat came louder now, Mars automatic set list churning out rhythm.

" Mars, I mean, Marshall... I'm gay, man. "

A beat passed, but was drawn and stretched to forever.

"So?"

"So what?" The knowing smirk was back.

"So, I dont know."

"So lets get back, boyo," said Marshall, throwing an arm over Brett's shoulder, pulling him close. "Haven't you been listening?" The DJs spare arm threw open the door, urging a return. "All you have to do, all that's important..."

I know.

Marshall pulled closer, harder, almost to the point of touching. Hot breath burned sweetly on Brett's neck. Mars, always Marshall, stared with evident craving, and his friend stiffened in the now-hungry embrace. The words pulsed, resonating throughout the darkness, and all assembled understood--

Feed the night, it whispered.

Flying

He couldn’t help but grit his teeth at the sight of the thing, much less the thought of it. Why on earth would anyone honestly prefer that flinging themselves through space at hundreds of miles per hour in a tube filled with volatile chemicals was a safe way to fly? It was a big fucking white suppository, waiting to be the next Icarus.
Kelly’s spirits were not, however, dampened in the least. Nose pressed with naked impunity against the terminal’s windows, she ogled the propellers, the cabin, the wings.
“Oh, to slip the surly bonds of earth! To touch the face of God!” She chirped. Her backwards glance was met with a withering stare. Undefused, she continued with unbridled passion.
“You’re not even a Christian.”
“Hush! I’m Polish, and that’s damn close enough!” The pronouncement was made with unsurprising gusto. “Kelly Wiak, empress of the skiiiies!” She swooped gracefully with her hands, sounding out the rushes of air off fingery wings.
Children goggled at the grown-up’s silliness. Parents, of course, smiled in kind, and no small number of single-seat flyers sighed brief relief: smaller chance of some little puke screaming his head off the entire way there.
“S’a matter, Jim-bo,” she fluttered, grasping Jim’s shoulders playfully, nibbling exposed earlobe, “’Fraid’a flyin’?”
“Hate it.” The unapologetic reply.
“WELL.” Kelly whirled him on his heels, bringing them face-to-face. She began counting on her fingers. “You can hate the delays, the rudeness, the overpriced drinks, the misplaced luggage, the shameless overbooking, the groping guards, and the general lack of a good duty-free—But Jim! Why on earth,” she grinned, at once irrepressibly perplexed and playful, “would you hate to fly?”
“The same reason I hate to fall.”
She blew a raspberry, and collected their luggage. “You only fall in your nightmares Slim-Jim, and even then, you always wake up after.”

“Relax. People start flying the way you do, and they’ll start cramming more rows of seats back in the planes. Don’t sit so rigidly.” She swatted his wrists playfully.
Bolt-upright, his fingers digging into the armrests, Jim’s discomfort was remarkable even in an unmoving plane. His iPod sat on his lap, filled with mind-numbing distraction for the duration of the flight. The jolt of the platform disengagement flexed every muscle in his body. Jim was dimly aware that he was praying.
“C’mon. We’re going to the heavens!”
“Not---- helping.”
“I’m sure St. Peter doesn’t mind lookie-loos. It’s not like we’re staying.”
“Kelly. Please. Shut up.”
Another jolt, the end of taxiing had come. Even sitting, Jim stood on edge, every nerve attuned to the sheer terror of being catapulted into the clouds on a mechanical whim.
“Don’t take off.” He whispered fruitlessly.
“Don’t be a pussy.” She whispered back.
Even through the strains of The Killers, he could hear the roaring of the engines. Eyelids crammed into the smallest of balls, he felt the great beast leap into action. The thrust hit him suddenly, and he writhed in his seat.
“Our father who art in heaven—Fuck, not heaven—hallowed be thy—“
The warmth of Kelly’s hand on his brought him back to the unwanted reality. She had leaned over, close enough to kiss, and looked at him with the deepest of calm. She smiled at him, not unkindly.
“Serene.” She whispered, hot breath caressing his face. “That’s what it really is up there. There’s the hard few moments where we’re thrown into space,” he winced at this, “but then there’s nothing but the purest and calmest blue. Check it out.”
Jim still had his eyes screwed tight.
“Jim.”
He turned to face her, reflexively opening his eyes.
Her, and behind her, the skies. No, no, no.
“Nothing but white fluffy clouds, Jim. Nothing but the softest air.”
Jim’s breathing slowed. He slackened his grip on the seat. He opened his eyes.
Nothing but white as far as the eye could see; an infinite blanket in the empty void.
“Where not even birds dare,” began Kelly, “we have it all to ourselves.” She held his hand tight, and even when the plane rocked, he could feel the calming effect. Breathe. He could even find the room to smile. Perhaps a little more than a smile--
“Want me to drive from the airport?”
“We’re –driving--? I thought we were taking the train!” Kelly’s turned pale.
“It’s only a few hours.”
“Don’t even joke.”
“But you love driving!”
“I HATE driving,” she moaned, “I get soooo car-sick.”
Jim grinned. “Psh-- pussy.”

Sandals and Sartre...

A woman, to me,
Fair or as dark as can be,
Strong as she is, as she is
Is not her attachment, neither ‘missus’ nor ‘miz’--
She smells of the dustiest books
She gives the sweetest of looks
And I cannot resist
For she cannot be missed
That woman, to me, to be…
That she might exist!

White wine and a sundress,
Smiling in undress
Satisfaction as her perfume
She knows, and does not assume.
Temptation, she hides in a flourish,
As there is only her mind to nourish
Slender figure that invites me,
Wilful wit that excites me,
That woman, oh woman,
A woman, precisely.

And fondling her leg,
She grins as I beg--
Half-joking, for her thought…
As my words come to naught
And I’m left on the ground
My voice, without sound,
That she’d lift me with mere gaze
Penetrate me with phrase
Transfixed, by that woman-
You ender of days.