Freewrite done in about an hour or so. Lengthy. I fucking hate the rich text editor.

WW3-
World War Three started before he was born, and the day he was pulled from the womb of a comatose woman screaming blue murder it still raged and ravaged the world. He grew up understanding two things, war and his future as another bit of meat for the monster war machine there was no question. In another time he might have grown to be a painter, his keen eye for texture and color nurtured and cultivated like roses. Instead he was taught the ways of war.

His distance vision prevented him from learning the gun, at least not any of the distance rifles used by the more elite snipers. Instead his speed and long rangy body was taught hand to hand, killing burned into his muscle memory until with eyes closed he could strike and kill, he was reared to be a machine. Some thought him to be slow, he spoke little, was prone to staring off at nothing. No one minded, as long as he learned his role and learnt it well.

Of course he did. He didn't understand his role, he didn't understand the war. He only knew that it had begun before him and would go .. him. Anything he did really mattered very little. Not that the knowledge of his tiny place in the grand scheme of the slow death of the world would keep him from doing his duty, of course he would he knew little else.

When he came of age he was sent to a place he had never seen before, he had been briefed naturally. He had an academic knowledge of the terrain and dangers there. What he hadn't been prepared for was the hurt of an urban ruin. The place had been a city once, not so long ago that the buildings and feel of the people was gone but long enough to still have the painful echo of emptiness. He was not afraid, he couldn't be afraid.

The battle was not as easy as he'd thought it would be. Many from his regiment died, others ran and he fought. He fought and fought until a man who when they came face to face in the middle of a dead square, they stood still. Both had long lost their side arms and knives and they stood face to face, him holding a found piece of rebar and the other a pipe. The face of the enemy is what finally awakened the fear in him, that face was so like his own.

From his earliest lessons he was taught that the enemy was not human, that the enemy was nothing more than a mongrel savage race and they were to be destroyed and removed from the world at all costs. His arrival in the destroyed city had tickled his fear, could truly savage and idiot people build beautiful things? Could they make art? Some few nights he had snuck out and wandered and found murals on crumbling walls. He could imagine how grand and imposingly beautiful they had been. And now this.

Silence settled around the adversaries, a deep profound and waiting silence that caused the fear to bloom in his chest and cut off his breathing. Neither spoke or moved, the carrion birds that feasted daily were even silent. The second before muscle memory revived itself to cut through the fear the enemy spoke.

"I don't want to kill you."
Each saw movement in the other and they struck, both felt and smelled the blood and parted. The pipe had been sharpened and stuck out of his belly, the rebar was bent and bloodied. The fear had them both and they ran in opposite directions.

As he escaped he knew he would die sooner rather than later but he didn't want to make the effort to find help. He wanted to die where he could see color and something that would make him feel and maybe forget. Senseless and bleeding he staggered, not knowing where he was going barely seeing anything. He fell a few times then simply lay where he had fallen, darkness had narrowed his vision to a small pinprick and he was too tired to go on and find the color he craved.

Sense and awareness returned at some point, dulled and fuzzy around the edges. Dimly first there were hands, small iron fingered hands gripping him at the armpits, a sense of jerky movement and a sound, a strange chugging grunt. For some reason it made him smile, he wanted to laugh and slid back into unconsciousness with the laughter on his lips.

Time when you're so close to death matters very little, though it marches on inexorably his sense of it passing faded to nothing. What did return before full wakefulness was his sense of smell. Mingled with the smell of his own blood was another smell, nothing he could name or place but he wanted to eat it.

Sweet, thick and something he couldn't name. It was that smell that forced him to finally open his eyes. When his eyes focused he held his breath, he could see the side of a face, a woman's face. It was the first time in years since he'd seen a woman who wasn't part of the military machine. A woman who's face hadn't been scarred invisibly by horrors and duty, he made a noise and she turned to face him fully.

"Oh thank God you're awake. Here open your mouth and drink a little water. Swish it around first and spit, you have dirt in your mouth."

The concern and apology in her voice confused him, like every other grunt in service confused him enough so he just did as she said. She leaned so close he could smell her and she was not the source of the other sweet smell, the water wasn't it either though it tasted sweet clean and cool. Better than the stale disgusting water all soldiers were given.

He spoke when he was able.

"Thank you ma'am. What-"

he felt his face blanche slightly, he looked away.

"It's okay don't be afraid. You're safe. I'm sorry I can't do more for you. You have a few more days."

The strangeness of the situation frightened him more than the idea that he was going to die. Death he could accept, her kindness when clearly by her accent and halting speech pattern she was an enemy and yet, yet there she was smiling kindly at him and giving him water.

It took a moment but he accepted it, whatever her reasoning might have been he was beyond being able to do anything about it. After another few drinks of water he spoke slowly.

"Don't tell me your name. It's dangerous."

She nodded and knelt, watching his face. Her expression hovering between concern and fascination. It was not the first time she'd been so close to the enemy but it was the first time one had spoken to her human being to human being, the first time one had not tried to lash out when she'd offered or given help.

There was a naked wonder in the mans eyes, despite the effort it took for him to speak he persisted.

"What is that smell?"

He looked so honestly puzzled and earnest she had to look around, she'd dragged him into a small copse of tattered birch trees with roots wreathed in now feral flowers.

"It's a um, thicket with birch trees and flowers. This used to be a park."

The man was silent for a long moment, his rattling breath slowed and she watched his nostrils flare, then slowly his head lifted and turned. Eyes wide he stared. The bright green of foliage unleashed took his breath and any thought he might have had. In the green lurked violently yellow flowers that looked like pictures of tea cups and saucers turned sideways he'd seen once.

Flowers, he knew dimly what a birch tree should look like, though the ones that surrounded them were tired, half shredded by gun fire and scorched by flames. But flowers, these were not the flowers he knew. The only flowers he knew had been the ones that appeared at night with muzzle flash, these were so lovely. The woman plucked a rose from a nearby bush and showed it to him.

It wasn't beautiful exactly, the petals were pocked with brown spots and slightly wilted but the smell, the heat of the sun had coaxed the rose into releasing a smell so good it brought tears to his eyes. She held it to his face, his eyes closed and his lips pursed instinctively to lightly kiss the flower before he took in the smell.

"That's a rose."

He nodded, eyes still closed his lips on the petals.
"I've never seen flowers. Or roses."

He murmured the word roses over and over again, his low thick voice full of an ecstatic joy that made her smile through tears.

He wished when night fell and he stared up at stars through a veil of leaves that he had more time. He had seen, touched and even tasted beauty when the woman had fed him bits of the edible flowers sprinkled in their hiding place. But he knew, his training had done him the service of knowing when his body was failing.

What it had not done for him however was teach him or even give him a glimmer of humanity at it's finest. He decided on the third night, or at least what he thought was the third night that it was a good time and way to die. Not the hero's death but the death of a content human being.

"Flowers?"

He had taken to calling her flowers because it pleased her, he'd called her that for lack of her name and she'd smiled so brightly, her cheeks flushed.

"Yes? Is the pain bad? Do you want water?"

He smiled, smiling too was a newfound and beloved pleasure. Clumsy with blood loss and death he groped for her small strong hands and held them.

"No Flowers, I am going to die."

He gave her that big open smile again and settled. She had known that but to hear him say it with such peace made her weep. She was gone from him for a few moments then stood above him dropping flower petals on his empty numb body. As his vision grayed, then faded the smile lit up the clearing with light. His filmed eyes reflected joy back at the stars, his breath became ragged with excitement then with labor.

When a deep pink rose thudded against his forehead he let out a small chuckle then inhaled sharply, eyelids fluttering. The woman held his hands to her wet cheeks, he laughed once more then exhaled and breathed no more.

The woman who would weep every time she heard the word Flowers for the rest of her days, sat with his hands against her cheeks until his fingers grew cold and stiff. She was too starved and weak to bury him but she piled wild flowers and garden flowers gone feral upon his body, she tucked a single furled rosebud under his tongue.

World War Three dragged on. More boys like him were born into service, a few of them died the good kind of death as he had more simply died, eaten by the monster military machine. Nothing in the world changed really, except that a man became a human and a woman, became a flower.

Sometimes I think I am the only person I know who could really give less of a good goddamn about the Oscars.

In other news I am finally just about finished with the poetry book.  I have to do one last painful type edit, finish the cover, and finish the starting essay.  Expect lots of pimping here and I might even make a graphic or two so my homies can pimp it to.

Pimping ain't easy.

In yet other news my fucking joints are not excited about me at all and just this morning I distinctly heard my knees say, Fuck you, you motherfucker you.  Seriously.

I'm tired per usual.  Pressing my fantastically matte nose to the proverbial grindstone.  I say fantastically matte because my make up is flawless today.  M.A.C MSF in Shimpagne FTW. 

Um.

Yeah.  Subscribe to my regular blog it's way more interesting and yanno, uses werds.

Now for a little smutty fiction.  I've been going back to basics and doing a lot of timed writing exercises of the type that don't make me roll my eyes.  This one was all about using some words that have been stuck in my vocabularly but are rarely used.  Enjoy.
~
Sharp fingernails pressed against rough stubbled skin, two bodies pressing trying to leave their impression in the brick wall, desperation, sweat, the smells hover in the alley but give way to one, fuck. Their fuck permeated every surface, the wet hiss of breath fogged around the orange light of single lone post at the end of the alley.

Everything around in the drunk sleepy city stilled, heaved around them with the rhythm of meat slapping meat, traffic moved in molasses strung along with the length of a thrust, the twist of a hip. Street noise muted, everything straining to hear the choked whimpering. Whimpering giving way to feral snarling epithets as only lovers can hurl.

Yes, yes, yes even the trash blowing along a sidewalk blocks away seems to whisper that word, yes, yes, yes. Bodies in rooms in cheap flops surrounding the epicenter of fuck, not just fuck, fucking, the apotheosis of fuck. Le petit mort? Fuck that, le mal mort, the apocalypse of orgasm.

Destroying language, this fuck demolishes civilizations, speech time and place. A return to the Cunctipotent, elemental. Yes, yes yes.

Hear it, feel it. That throb between your shifting legs, the city is heaving, pulsating flesh ready, ready for the destruction of the Universe. The Big Bang that will create worlds within the flashes of incandescent light shattering the inside of their eyelids. These lovers.

These lovers who wail finally, bodies and souls thrown into the muzzy light of the sleaze they have managed to push back with the exhalation of joy. The ascendancy of all that is holy, wet and full.

Soft lips trembling against soft lips, laughter as the world swells and returns, tries to triumph over these concupiscent lovers. Time has had no triumph over this, the Earth wet that seeps between their thighs. The stink that rises from febrile, blasphemous skin. Time and civilization gives way to the lovers, until again they meet.

Violent enough to beget a universe created in love.
~Fin

Some previously published stuff. This story (slightly edited) was published in Quantum Muse Zine.
Also this is probably formatted horribly, Myspace fucked my code without lube.
Warren Finds God




Safety, that was the word that floated through his slow mind that night. Ensconced in a haze of thick pungent smoke and laying next to another warm body he was safe. It was summer so the windows were open and the air warm. The room itself was dark save for a few candles here and there and the blue flicker of a TV on mute in the corner.

For awhile his thoughts wandered into dark places. The places where his fears lived and breathed. He remembered someone telling him once that most people had a secret fear. Not the kind that makes you jumpy in the dark or, scream in the movie theatre. But the kind that is so terrifying that you could never let it see the light of day. Couldn't even really admit it to yourself. He had agreed, he knew his fear. Knew it like the back of his hand.


He forced himself away from those thoughts. For now everything was ok. He had the two best people to get stoned with right there in his living room, good weed and good music. What more did he need really? Well maybe a couple of lines of coke later. A bath. Clean up the kitchen. He yawned and settled more comfortably on the floor his head lolling to lay on his buddies shoulder.


He didn't join the conversation, only silently and inwardly happily passed the joint back and forth. His friends were talking about some new song on the radio but he didn't care. Inane or not it was company. And company meant he wasn't dreaming. No nightmares of Her. No screaming, sweating or puking. That meant for the moment his life was good.

Tuning back into the conversation he snickered.


'Dude, she could kick your ass man.'


'And that kinky motherfucker would probably like it.'


The three boys cackled. Rolling around wrestling as young men are wont to do. For another few hours they smoked, talked and laughed together. A portrait of male camaraderie. As the hours waned however the host knew it was nearing that time. Time to sleep and then dream of Her.


When his friends left instead of heading to bed he did a small line of coke. Just enough to perk him up a bit after smoking so much weed. It worked and he puttered around his house. Picking up, putting away his skull bong and several others. Deciding that the next day he'd put the big one in the dish washer as it was starting to look and smell rather skanky. He'd always been a bit fastidious that way.



As he was scrubbing out the tub for a bath he smiled to himself. Remembering how his Mom had always teased him for being a 'baby fussbudget'. That'd always made him laugh. He could remember finally after she'd said it a million times asking her what a fussbudget was and if it was catching. That'd made her laugh. He'd loved his Mom's laugh. So wide and open. That had been what had made her beautiful in his eyes.


Settling into a tub full of steaming scented water. Another habit he'd inherited from his Mom, his baths were always scented. His friends had laughed but it was his thing and he let it slide. He let his coked up happy mind wander. Buzzing around plans, ideas, random thoughts. Half floating in the water he dreamed. Day dreams really. Plans to paint the front door bright red. Or maybe purple. He'd done so little coke it was wearing off too fast and he was getting sleepy. The marijuana winning out in his brain.


The realization that he had to sleep soon wore him down until he drug himself out of the tub and went to smoke one last cigarette before laying in bed. As he sat on the front porch in his robe and smoked the thought again occurred to him that maybe he should get therapy as his friend had suggested months ago. Maybe the dreams were just a manifestation of depression he didn't usually feel because of all the drugs.



Maybe he should. Go through rehab, get a psychiatrist. The whole God thing had to be delusions. Just had to be. He was crazy. God would not waste time with him. He wasn't Joan of Arc or something. God had better things to do than to fuck around with his brain. Didn't she?



After carefully stubbing out his smoke he went inside and started his nightly ritual. He opened the window a few inches, checked the door locks, chose a CD and fiddled with the volume until it was just above a murmur. That done he lit a stick of incense and laid down. For once rather peaceful, practicing lucid dreaming, having decided that tomorrow he'd commit himself to rehab. And then hopefully be medicated so he wouldn't have the dreams anymore.


The dream started as was typical of his dreams. He was standing in a field, looking up at a bright blue sky that hurt his eyes. The sun warm at his back and on it's way to setting. Though not quite dimmed by the hour. The air smelled nice. Like clean and a hint of pine beneath it. As if somewhere behind him there were a sun warmed forest.



He wasn't scared yet. But his palms itched and his eyes rolled in his skull. Searching for any sign of Her. Then he saw her. Walking towards him, that same small Mona Lisa like smile on her face.


'Hello again Warren. I've been waiting for you.'



His head started to shake in negation and he pointed at her.



'Look. I understand the game ok. You're just some subconscious depression type thing. I'm gonna get it fixed. Tomorrow I'm turning myself into rehab and then lots of therapy. I swear I'm not joking. I'll get fixed up and you're gonna have to go. So save the bullshit spiel about me being chosen. I'm not chosen. I'm just a fucked up kid.'


He crossed his arms and his chin jutted out like it had when he was a little kid. His lips set in a thin tight line



She just kept smiling. That same look. He'd only ever been able to think of the word serene when he saw her face. As if she had forever and didn't care what he said or did.

'Rehab and therapy is very ambitious Warren. I'm proud of you. Perhaps when the poisons are out of your system and you start dealing with your mother's death then we can move on as planned. I have great things planned for you Warren. You have much work to do and we are already behind schedule.'


His chin quivered and he clenched his fists to hide the shaking of his hands. Now he was scared. Somewhere deep inside he felt the truth of the matter in her words. He turned tail and ran.



As in most dreams he couldn't seem to run fast enough. His lungs burned and his sobs made him hiccup. Then he was screaming.



'You are not God! You are not God!'


He woke screaming. Gagging on words stuck in his throat. Stumbling into the bathroom he dry heaved a few times and curled up sweaty and shivering on the floor. Shit scared. Hyperventilating. Tomorrow he'd go for sure. Rehab, therapy. Mental hospital if need be. He felt crazy. And was tired of it.



It took everything he had to get into the cab that day. With his sad little backpack and instructions for a trusted non-using friend to come over and water his plants. But he went. Chewing his nails and smoking his brains out before he got there. He was so nervous. There'd been a constant stream of narcotics in his body since he had been sixteen and handed a joint at a party. Now what?



During his check into the rehab facility he consoled himself with the thought of the anti-anxiety and anti-depression drugs he'd likely be on. Those would help. They had to. Far as he could see they would be his only chance to be rid of the dreams and of Her.


He figured out that rehab was a bad idea when his counselor informed him (after a strip search and his book being confiscated) that in their facility there would be no drugs of any kind in his system. No Tylenol, no Paxil, no Prozac. Fuck him, no nothing. He started babbling to the burly man. The man just smiled and shook his head.



'Don't worry about it kid. You'll be fine. Why don't you just chill here for awhile then I'll come and get you for chow time.'


With that the man turned and stepped out of the little room. Warren sat on his hard narrow bed and rocked a little. His teeth chattering fingers clenching and unclenching rhythmically. In the time before dinner that he was left alone his brain and turned manic. Thoughts racing. Panic mode.



Dinner was terrible. His counselor prodding at him to find out what he'd taken. Endless questions. The fucked up part was that he hadn't taken anything. In fact when he'd woken up that morning he'd graciously given away his whole stash.


So what did he do about it? Did he let it out that he was afraid to go to sleep? Afraid God in all Her glory would come acalling again? Hell no. He lied. Told his counselor he'd popped some speed in pill form on the way over and it was just hitting him. His counselor congratulated him on telling the 'truth', and patting him on the back forced about a quart of water into his gullet and sent him off to bed to sweat it out.

And sweat he did. But not for the reasons they thought. No he wasn't a junkie. Unfortunately to his mind he'd been unable to get suffieciently hooked on anything. Not even heroin though he'd done it a number of times. He'd tried crack but all it'd really done was give him a splitting headache.

The first night there he sweated shook and cried like a junkie. Curled up in the fetal position in his bed. Watched over by his counselor. The mountain of a man gently rubbing his back or wiping his brow with a damp cloth. Every time he felt himself entering that rocky state of near sleep he'd jerk upright and yell. Anything to keep the sleep at bay.


Suffice it to say that the rest of his stay there was nearly as bad. Culminating in him after three days of forcing wakefulness on himself and passing out in group, he woke screaming. Tearing at his face with his short fingernails, anything to bring himself around and away from her.


Rehab did not last long.


After a short week he thanked the staff profusely and had gone home. Though first he'd made several stops along the way. A couple of dime bags of good coke, an ounce of weed, and then at the grocery store one bottle of good Merlot and a half rack of Corona. His cab driver chuckled and said something about the party and Warren just nodded.


When he got home he checked his plants, made some calls to tell the friends that needed to know that he was back and wasn't gonna be answering the phone for a couple of days. Then he turned off the ringer and put his pajamas on. For some reason something probably picked up from his father, relaxing never felt right unless he had his pajamas on.



He cut his coke on the coffee table and popped in a DVD, 'Bladerunner'. He loved that movie. And knew it'd keep his brain good and occupied. Coke snorted, he poured himself a glass of wine and settled in to watch the movie.



Hours passed. He did more coke. Finished off the wine. Rolled himself several tight little joints to stave the latent violence the coke woke in him. He felt ok for the most part. Getting up only to pee or change movies. The beers he drank warm. It was the beers that were his undoing.


Pleasantly drunk his mind sparking nicely from the coke he turned off the TV to read. He was well into Harry Potter when something caught in his peripheral vision.


He blinked and turned his head slowly. He knew that form. Knew it as if it were his own reflection. It was Her.


She nodded when he turned to face her and walked to the couch. Sat down, crossed her legs and helped herself to a warm beer.



'Your Father drank his beer warm as well. Such an odd habit.'


He stared. Was he asleep? Frantic he dug his nails into his palms, kicked the coffee table, yelped and shook his head. His voice quivery, little boy scared sounding.



'I-I'm asleep. Look whatever fucked up shit was cut into my coke I'm dreaming. I'm dreaming. It's a bad dream. You hear me bitch! A bad fucking dream.'

She just sipped her beer. Belched behind her hand and shook her head.


'I'm afraid not Warren. Look. I'm really getting tired of appearing in your dreams. It's just not working you know? So look we need to talk. It's about time you got started in your duties.'



All he could do was shake his head. His hands shook so bad he knocked over his beer. Feeling nothing but fear he stood and walked stiffly into the kitchen to get a dishrag. He came back and started wiping up the spill. Absently muttering,



'dreaming. I'm dreaming. Hallucinating. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.'


She sat through his muttering and watched when he just stood there, beer soaked rag in one hand, empty beer bottle in the other. His face waxy, eyes wide. Whatever buzz he'd had going was gone now.


Slowly she stood up and got in his face, whispering. That serene expression belying the venom of her words,



'listen you selfish little piece of shit. I'm getting tired of this got it. No more drugs. Stop ignoring me. Or I'm going to get pissed off and I don't think you want to see that do you. Warren.'



Something about the way she said his name made his blood freeze like ice in his veins and his balls try to crawl up into his abdomen. What could he do? He did what any real man would do and promptly fainted.



He woke with his head pounding with the smell of beer in his face. He sat up slowly. Shaking his head. Muttering.


'Fucking bad coke or something. Gonna kick that guys a-'



The words died in his throat when he looked on the table and saw it. A note. A note held to the table by an empty beer bottle with a swipe of pink lip gloss on the rim. Written in a flowing feminine hand.



'Warren, we have work to do. So get your shit together I'm coming for you in two days. G'


That was it. That was e-fucking-nough. He'd had it. He guessed it'd finally happened the way the D.A.R.E officers had always warned. He'd done so many drugs his brain was permanently scrambled. He'd lost it. He'd gotten so high he'd written himself the note. Yeah. That was the problem.


God was not a woman who said shit, drank beer or visited him in the middle of the fucking night. No way. No way no how. That was the last straw. Maybe the experience in rehab had finally made him snap. He didn't know and didn't care.

He was going to end it.


He showered and dressed hurriedly. Went out to just long enough to get what he needed. Fuck this he thought. Fuck this and it's mother. He did not need that shit. Dead was way better than crazy. Crazy people did things like murder innocent people, crazy people begged for money on the streets. Fuck that. He would not go out like that.


Instead he would decide. Yeah. He was in charge right? It was his life and if he wanted to end the shit he would end it.


He went to one of his suppliers and bought seven hundred dollars worth of various sedatives. Said he was going to go peddle them to college kids over the weekend. Then he went to a liquor store and bought a magnum of Cristal and one of Dom. If he was gonna go out he'd do it in style. He also bought a small bit of heroin. If he was going to OD he was going to make sure he did it right. Might as well give a nod to all the rock stars he'd idolized since childhood.


At home he cleaned up. After doing the last of his coke. He wrote a long detailed will, knowing it wouldn't be legal but he'd be dead and someone else would have to deal with it. All the money from the insurance from his parents death went to his favorite charity, his books to his friend Wizard, his bong collection to his two stoner friends, stereo and CD collection to his ex girlfriend.


He went over the list taking care to have not missed anything important. Then set about writing his suicide note. Explaining about the hallucinations and not wanting to spend life as just another babbling lunatic. All the while sipping from his prized bottle of twenty year old scotch. He wrote a separate letter to each of his close friends. And one to his lawyer. One to the man who'd been his guardian for a half a year after his parents had been killed. And one final one to the police which he put a stamp on and set by the front door, figuring when he was good and trashed he'd put it in the mailbox.


All that done, he felt prepared. Although somewhere in the back of his mind it felt fake. Unreal as if he knew it wasn't going to happen. He pushed it away and headed into the bathroom. Figuring that'd be easiest and he wouldn't make too much of a mess. He drew enough water to cover him to the belly button and popped the bottle of Cristal.


In all he probably swallowed fifty pills before he passed out. Drunk a bottle of scotch, half the Cristal and one joint. His lips turned blue, his body seized violently enough for his head to bang against the porcelain of the tub. Bloody spittle frothed from his mouth and his eyes rolled up into his head. His heart labored, lungs burned and he died.


At least he thought he died.


It was ugly. His head seeped blood into the cold bath water, his face was covered with spit and snot.



Then his dark world exploded. His stomach heaved in a Herculean attempt to rid itself of the poisons, his head snapped forward and he vomited violently into the tub between his legs. Choking on it and gasping. It was terrible. Like being born. The bright cheery light of the bathroom and breaking dawn burned his squinted eyes. His whole body felt tight as a bow string. His chest felt as if it were going to explode all over the walls.



Head spinning he got his eyes open enough to see the mess he'd made of himself and started vomiting again. When he was finished and dry heaving over the filthy water he crawled out of the tub. Stinking of shit and puke.


He curled up on the bathroom floor. Shivering realizing that he wasn't dead. Though by all rights he should have been. Unable to do anything else he started to cry.


Warren lay there crying like he had when he'd realized Mom and Dad were gone. Cried like the time he'd gotten hit in the balls with a carelessly thrown bat in little league, cried like when he was 5 and had to get stitches.


She watched as Warren cried. Then she did as was her nature to do. Cradled the mess of a manchild to her breast and soothed away his tears. Saying nothing. When he'd calmed she cleaned out the bathtub and bathed him. Love shining in her eyes, tears and sadness shining in his.



When he was clean and she'd given him a cigarette she lighted he looked up at her and whispered,



'When do I start?'

Actually you're probably not.

However I am.  So BOOO!

Anyhow I was just today digging through my archives and found this old story.  It's unedited older short horrorish. 

For Fuck SAKE my formatting got all buggered.  Ignore that part.

Enjoy.

Damn Americans

Two-faced Tony sat alone in the dark of the tavern, idly picking his ugly crooked yellow teeth with a toothpick. Half watching the tall hot chick in leather across the room as she appeared to be cleaning her fingernails with a long shining stiletto of some sort. The woman was strikingly beautiful. Darker skinned, long black hair and kind of wild looking. Just his type with mile long legs and high firm tits. As he watched her out of the corner of his eye his hand wandered to his crotch for a squeeze. Clearing his throat he turned to her, smiling around the cigar clamped snuggle in his teeth, "hey pretty. You ain't from round here are ya?"  

--> --> --> -->She looked up, noticing her eyes being an odd shade of amber. "No. I am here visiting for a little while. You are local, correct?" As she answered he thought he could hear a touch of some sort of accent, like those people who travel a lot. The corner of her glossy lips twitched and she nodded. Her tone when she spoke wasn't quite mean but wasn't really a come-hither type tone either. Giving her his best good ole boy grin he nodded. "Sure am sweetness. Why don't you let a fella buy you a drink. Pretty thing like you sitting there all alone is a damn cryin' shame. "  

--> --> --> -->Her lips pursed and her nostrils seemed to flare the slightest bit. He watched her contemplate him, those full soft looking lips moving.. Now this, he thought to himself, was some quality poon. He wondered in the back of his mind if maybe he could get her drunk enough to take some Polaroid's of her naked, just so he'd have proof. It wasn't everyday after all that "Two Faced Tony" got himself a piece of anything in her league

--> --> --> -->Deciding against asking her if she was a model, he just grinned at her while she made up her mind. Finally she slipped the stiletto neatly between her breasts, something which made Tony instantly and seriously hard. "There is something much too sexy about seeing a woman do something like that.", he thought as she rose and began moving slowly towards him. And God did she ever move. All, well shit, she had to be six feet if she was an inch. Legs for days, yards of black hair and something about her that made the hair on his balls stand on end. "Oh yeah", he thought, he just knew he was going to get the ride of his life with this one. He could tell. She had that certain something that lets you know in her every move that she is, the lay of a lifetime.   

--> --> --> -->He stood when she got close and offered her the chair next to his. Took her hand and kissed it, drooling a bit in his excitement at the prospect of having this woman's company. "I'm Tony. And you are the most beautiful thing I do believe I've ever seen in my life miss?" She stared at him for a moment before answering in a low slightly raspy voice, "Zen." The exotic name excited him, as did her voice. It made him think of whiskey, cigarettes and sex. When she sat he caught the scent of night blooming jasmine in her hair. Settling next to her he began his spiel. Trying to exude the smooth effortless charm that he'd seen the Bellini boys exhibit. Suffice it to say, he tried but unbeknownst to him she could smell his desperate want of her.

And she was just biding her time. Thinking that the taste of the scotch she kept pouring down his gullet would sweeten his otherwise bland and common blood.   Working it for all he was worth he gave her his best smiles and anecdotes as he attempted to supercharge his charisma for the woman. After chit chatting for a few minutes, he saw a moment of perceived intimacy approaching, and taking note of it, he leaned close to her, his breath hot on her ear as he whispered, "Actually, I'm not a salesman. I'm a gangster."

She gave a full-throated laugh and swatted his arm. That was it, he wasn't just going to fuck her brains out, shit he just might marry the darkie bitch. Never in his life had he wanted anyone more. The conversation lulled for a moment and she leaned close to him. Her exotic perfume wrapping him up, her long slim hand resting on his thigh as she murmured to him. "Look Tony, I'm a busy woman. I don't have time for bullshit. Why don't you take me up to one of those rooms upstairs and show me a good time. Hmmm?"

Tony, who to this point had been doing a fair job trying for suave just stared at her, mouth agape as he sputtered something in the positive. "Before we go upstairs though, how about you give me one little kiss? Hmmm daddy?"

The last thing he remembered before the pain was her flirty little smile. Pink tongue flicking out at her lower lip, her wet mouth coming towards his own. Then it was all confusion and pain. Like something out of some fancy vampire movie she moved like his worst nightmare. Grabbing a handful of his greasy receding hair and yanking his head to the side, her cold tongue lapped at the place where his artery beat frantically against his skin. Had he actually believed in God, he would have sworn he heard her growl like some kind of possessed bear. Next thing he knew those luscious breasts pressed to his chest and he was captive in her arms as fangs like little scimitars tore into his throat, his frantic infidel heart pumping his life into her sweet mouth.

As the darkness began to creep around the edges of his vision, he thought, "And my dick is still hard. This fucking cunt is killing me and my dick is hard!" Soon enough, it was nothing more than a demure little thing curled up against his retreating testicles. Moaning with the rush of the scotch laden blood, she thrust the body away from her. Snapping the neck decisively she looked down at the body twitching at her feet. Cracking her neck, her fingers working as heat flooded her, she gave the slightest smile. Murmuring as she hefted the corpse upon her left shoulder to carry it to the swamp, "Fucking Americans."  

I know stop the presses I never update this.

However I am in a mood today.  And I will repost an audiopost from my LJ.

In other news I am still plugging away on my poetry book.  It's slow going because of my serial killer on PCP handwriting and the fact that I am just slow.  Hopefully it will be out before my birthday.

Note I said hopefully.  I'm not promising anything.

Life in general has been insanely up and down.  Not quite a love rollercoaster but I am making it through thankfully. 

I think that's it.  I'm returning to my regular blog.  Go back to my profile and subscrube.  You can get my insanity in your email as daily as I update.  It's good stuff.

And here is the audio post.  Right click, save as and enjoy.

Because this one sucks and Myspace and I hate each other. 

And...boobs.

Earlier I managed to spill water in a shoe I am wearing.  While wearing it.  That ladies and gents makes me a special snowflake.

What's perhaps more amusing is that I got water nowhere else except there.

You probably don't know but I didn't sleep much last night.  I know I don't sleep that much ever but it's got me today and my ass is dragging the floor behind me.

What else?

I wanted to share this, I think it's kind of funny. 

Yesterday I gave myself a coconut milk/other stuff hair treatment then a deep condition and as I was squishing conditioner through my hair I realized that anytime I givw myself any sort of hair treatment, dye etc I do it topless.  I have been doing that since the first time I dyed my hair.

The hair dye for the first ever hair experiment was Pizazz hair color (does anybody else remember that shit from back in the day?) in black plum.  That started a long lasting love affair with all shades of burgundy and purple in my hair.

Oh how I mourn thee bright purple hair.

But it's too much upkeep and my hair hates being bleached so often.

However I do have some Punky Color in purple that is just screaming to be used.

Maybe.

Although if I remember correctly Punky Color rubs off on fucking everything like hell. 

I know I'm set on random today I can't help it.

Can't brain have the dumb.

No muttering voiceposts though.  Not today I'm not in the mood.  I'd rather sit and listen to Flogging Molly and contemplate my banana.

So yeah that's about it. 

Go read my regular blog to read about my fetishes and whatnot.  It's all very entertaining and a little gay.

So if this shit works right you should be able to hear me talk.

Thrilling I know.

So rightclick here, download it, listen to it.  Put it on Kazaa if you want to.  I think it should work.

If not I will fucking pee on it.

You scored as Akasha. You are the ultimate in ambition. You don't just want to own the world you want to make crawl to you on its hands and knees begging for mercy or at the least a taste! Akasha 100% Dracula 100% Blade 92% Marius 83% Deacon Frost 83% Lestat 67% Spike 67% Armand 42% Angel 25% Louis 25% Whose your Vampire personality? (images) created with QuizFarm.com

Well yeah, I could see that.

You scored as Bondage. Your turn on is bondage... all out. You don't have a specific part of kinky sex that turns you on more than any other... everything working together turns you on. And why shouldn't it? Sex isn't sex without all the trimmings. Bondage 100% Biting 100% Whips 75% Chains/Handcuffs 67% Blood 58% Blind Folds 42% What's Your Kinky Turn On? created with QuizFarm.com

Uh duh.

You scored as Hannibal Lecter. You are Hannibal Lecter. You dont need to eat human flesh to live, but do so because it just taste good. You are very intelligent, and enjoy using it to your advantage to keep people guessing. You arent a killing machine, but when you do decide to let loose, watch out! Dinner is served, with some fava beans, and a nice chianti! Hannibal Lecter 90% Pinhead 75% Buffalo Bill 70% Jigsaw 50% Candyman 50% Freddy Krueger 45% Leatherface 45% Michael Myers 35% Captain Spaulding 30% Jason Voorhees 30% Which Horror Killer are You? created with QuizFarm.com

I will eat your fucking liver.

You scored as Wrath. Wrath 100% Lust 94% Gluttony 63% Pride 63% Sloth 56% Envy 50% Greed 50% Seven deadly sins created with QuizFarm.com

Again, duh.

Actual content right-o.

I've been doing a lot of writing. I submitted an essay to an anthology about Femme visibility, working on a little gay smut and a story that I'm not sure what it's going to be.

All told yesterday and today I've gotten about 3,000 words out.  I'm going to take a break, drink some strong French Roast coffee and quite possibly trim my pubes.

I'm an exciting girl no?  Yeah I know I party like a motherfucker.  Mother fuckers.

    So I'm in about the final stages of putting together my poetry book and it's actually very tiring.  I hate this part.  Editing is tedious.

The good news is while I was aiming for about 35 pages I'm going to hit about 60 not including the new material I have yet to transcribe.

Good stuff.

My back is better finally. 

Fucksake I think I'm done.  I need some coffee and theme music for editing.