Summer Sojourn
As the shower handle turned, water began filling the space, running through the grooves of the aged emerald green tiles on the floor. "Damn, it's freezing!" Evan complained, feeling the cold water on his sweaty body.
“Don't complain. You need to wash off that pigsty smell, man,” replied Madden, who was showering right next to him in the communal showers of the capsule hotel in Japan where their group of friends was staying during their summer vacation.
Madden grabbed the plastic bottle of soap he had left on the wall shelf behind them, along with the towels, and pressed the dispenser to squirt soap onto his hands. His once curly, blonde hair now hung down his back, straightened by the water. Meanwhile, Evan's short black hair swirled around his forehead as he closed his eyes, trying not to focus on the cold water caressing his features.
"So, what's the plan for tonight?" Evan asked, shivering under the icy stream.
"I heard there's a karaoke bar nearby," Madden replied, lathering up his hair. "Could be fun."
Evan cracked an eye open, smirking at his friend. "Oh, yeah? Can't wait to hear you butcher some J-pop songs."
Suddenly, soap began oozing from the bottom of the bottle, making the floor slippery, like a sticky gel. Madden held the bottle as the soap flowed toward Evan, who still had his eyes closed and started to notice something slippery beneath his feet, causing him to lose his balance and nearly fall. Evan's eyes shot open, searching for something to grab onto to avoid falling, but there was nothing. A potentially dangerous slip seemed imminent. But at the last moment, he managed to shift his weight forward and regain his balance.
"Nice save! You looked like an ice skater there," Madden laughed.
"Very funny," Evan said, breathing a sigh of relief. "What were you trying to do, make me fall?"
"What are you talking about, man? The bottle was broken, I had no idea. Why would I do that?" Madden said in an exaggeratedly offended tone.
"Why? I don't know, maybe you're still upset that your girlfriend left you for me," Evan speculated.
"That's water under the bridge," Madden dismissed.
"It was just a week ago," Evan pointed out.
"Yeah, and what's your point? It's worse for you, you ended up with someone who can't be faithful," Madden argued, but Evan just laughed.
"Come on, if you go by this logic, nobody would change partners if we couldn't upgrade to a better partner when we see one," Evan reasoned.
"Are you implying you're better than me?" Madden said, now getting angry, as he grabbed both towels from the ledge and stormed out of the showers.
"I meant that I'm better for her... hey, you took my towel! Damn it!" Evan shouted, only to be met with the sound of the door slamming. Just then, a hand holding a grey towel appeared in front of him.
"Here, take this, and let's go. The girls are waiting for us," a voice said.
Evan took the towel, recognizing the slender silhouette of Jonah. His hair was tied in a not-so-neat ponytail. The geek rarely cared about his appearance, unlike Evan and Madden, who were always at the gym perfecting their bodies.
"Thanks, man. It's that idiot Madden's fault," Evan grumbled as he dried himself off.
"I figured as much," Jonah replied with a shrug. "You two are always bickering like an old married couple."
Evan couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, well, that's what friends are for, right?"
"I suppose so," Jonah said with a smile. "Now, hurry up. We don't want to keep the ladies waiting."
Jonah might not have been as outgoing or athletic as Evan and Madden, but he brought a sense of balance to their group. His intellect and calm demeanour often acted as a counterpoint to the more impulsive and competitive nature of Evan and Madden's friendship.
"Does this top look good on me? I don't want to overdo it either," Leah said, smoothing out the wrinkles on her newly purchased piece of clothing.
"What are you telling me? If you're trying to impress Madden with that, forget it. Ever since he and Mia broke up, he doesn't seem interested in relationships," Remi replied, not taking her eyes off the horizontal screen of her mobile, frantically moving her fingers.
"You haven't even looked at me! Can't you take your eyes off your Summer Hunting Event for a minute and tell me if this color suits me?" Leah insisted.
"Besides, I didn't say I came on this trip to try and hook up with Madden. I know it's still fresh, but he'll have to get over it eventually. We're too young to be suffering for love," Leah continued.
"Just because we're not 40 doesn't mean it doesn't hurt to be dumped. Besides, don't you think it's weird wanting to hook up with Madden? I mean, we've been friends since we were little, in that beach town where we used to vacation.
It's almost like hitting on your brother," Remi said, still focused on her favourite game's hunting event, "Run & Hunt."
Leah sighed. "Look, I'm not saying I want to jump his bones right away. I just think maybe there could be something there. We have a history together, and we get along well."
Remi paused her game and finally looked up at Leah. "I get it, but be careful, okay? You know how guys can be, and Madden's always been a bit of a wild card. I don't want to see you get hurt."
"I know, I know. Don't worry, I'll tread carefully. For now, let's just focus on having a good time on this trip. I'm sure there will be plenty of opportunities to test the waters with Madden," Leah said with a hopeful smile.
Remi nodded, returning her attention to her game. "Sounds good. Just promise me you won't let this whole thing with Madden ruin our vacation, alright?"
"Cross my heart," Leah promised, making a crossing gesture over her chest.
"Now tell me, doesn't my blonde hair perfectly match this pink tank top?" Leah insisted.
"Yeah, I suppose it does. I guess us brunettes can't pull off pink," Remi teased.
"If you ever let your hair down, I'd know whether you're actually a brunette, but you always keep it in that bun. Don't you want to attract someone?" Leah asked.
"I want to attract this zombie, kill it, and move on to the next stage in my game. That's all I want," Remi said, sticking her tongue out in concentration.
Just then, Leah's phone beeped with a message notification. "Where are you guys? I'm looking for you, and Remi's not replying to my messages," the message from Madden read.
"Remi, did Madden send you a message?" Leah asked.
"No idea, I have notifications turned off. I'm in an important event, you know? I can't exit the app to check chats," Remi explained.
Leah sighed. "So he only messaged me because you weren't answering him?" she thought out loud, glancing out the window of the beach clothing store they were in.
Leah typed a quick reply to Madden, letting him know they were almost done shopping and would meet up with him soon.
Just as Leah hit send on the message, a beach ball came flying through the open window at full speed. Leah managed to dodge it just in time, leaving Remi exposed on a sofa behind her, which would cause the ball to hit her directly on the head. Upon seeing this, Remi instinctively raised her hand holding her mobile phone and stopped the ball with the device.
"Damn ball, a zombie got away because of you," Remi grumbled.
Leah looked out the window at the Okinawa beach, which was bustling with tourists playing ball, volleyball, and swimming. "Someone must have lost their ball. Sorry for moving away, honey. It was just a reflex," Leah apologized.
But Remi didn't pay attention, she was too busy trying to fix her mistake and catch the escaped zombie on her game. "For the record, I would've caught that zombie if it weren't for the beach ball attack. Wait, someone stole the loot of cartridges I had while I was distracted for a moment?! Who the hell is this player Dolly?" Remi complained.
"That wouldn't happen if the game wasn't cooperative and you could pause whenever you want to continue later. This would keep you more grounded," Leah said, rolling her eyes.
"This character has come straight to steal from me. They had to know my ID, or else..." Remi trailed off when Madden walked in triumphantly, holding up his mobile and a bag of clothes, whistling.
"Dolly beat you, little one!" he said gleefully.
"It was you? Damn you, dude!" Remi complained.
"It was too easy," Madden chuckled, clearly pleased with himself.
"Ugh, I can't believe I fell for that," Remi grumbled.
"Where's Evan? Wasn't he with you in the showers?" Leah asked, closing the distance between them.
"Uh, yeah, he should be coming soon," Madden replied, eager to change the subject.
"Anyway, I need Jonah to tell me how to reprogram my bot. I can't leave the game unattended while we're diving. I'll lose all my loot," Remi said, still focused on her gaming dilemma.
"You know, sometimes I think your love for virtual reality outweighs your appreciation for the real world," Madden teased.
"Oh, please. The real world is just one big game with less-predictable rules. At least in a game, you can level up and have fun doing it," Remi quipped back.
Remi's expression turned somber, as if remembering something painful. "Well, we can go eat now. No need to wait for fools like Evan," Madden said. "Who's in?"
Leah smiled, secretly happy about the idea of having more of Madden's attention to herself. She had always found him attractive, but lately, with his regular gym workouts, his physique had become even more alluring in her eyes.
"I'm in. If Evan doesn't come, nobody will notice anyway," Remi said.
"Well, well, someone hasn't gotten over the incident," Madden said, emphasizing the word 'incident' in a dramatic tone.
"Still bothers you, huh?" Leah asked, looking at Remi's foot.
Remi glanced down at her foot. "Sometimes, but it's nothing," she said.
A few years ago, during a rugby game, Evan had made an illegal tackle from behind on Remi, applying excessive force on her foot and twisting it into an abnormal position. The physical contact resulted in a severe ligament injury, forcing Remi to quit rugby and other high-risk sports. Since then, she had turned to video games as her new hobby.
"He didn't do it on purpose, Remi. He didn't even realize it was you," Leah said, knowing that everyone was thinking about that incident.
"I know, I know," Remi sighed. "It's just hard not to think about it sometimes. But let's not dwell on the past. I'm starving.”
Madden put a hand on Remi's shoulder. "You're a champ, Remi. And Leah's right, it was an accident. I'm sorry it happened."
Remi gave him a faint smile.
The shop assistant at the souvenir store finally emerged from the back room and, in broken English, tried to tell them that this wasn't a bar and they either had to buy something or leave. The shopkeeper's continuous and nervous shuffling seemed to activate the creaking they heard above their heads, and a strip of flag ceiling gave way. Leah, who was holding onto the clothes rack she was trying on, stood right below. Leah didn't even see the sudden attack coming. When suddenly, a pair of arms pushed her away from danger. The wooden board fell loudly beside her, as if dividing the area between them. Leah found herself on the floor but safe and sound.
"You weigh a little too much for these things," Jonah complained from beneath her. Leah blushed slightly and quickly got up, helping Jonah to his feet.
"Thanks for the save," Leah said gratefully, brushing off her clothes. "Talk about a way to kick us out of his shop! Seems like he’s not fan of Americans."
Madden and Remi joined them, looking equally shocked and amused. "Let's find a proper bar where the ceiling doesn't try to attack us,” Madden laughed.
As if on cue, Evan burst through the door, slightly out of breath. "Sorry I'm late, guys. Madden and I got into a bit of a towel fight in the showers. Don't ask," he explained, chuckling sheepishly.
"Well, we're all here now," Madden said, giving Evan a slightly unfriendly look. Jonah was smiling at Leah, and she turned away, somewhat embarrassed, while Remi kicked the wooden board that the shopkeeper was now picking up.
"Let's get going to the karaoke bar then," Evan suggested, breaking the tension. "We don't want to miss out on a night of terrible singing and some repulsive uncooked food."
Everyone laughed, and they made their way down the bustling street.
"Hey, just wanted to make sure you're okay after that close call. Jonah's pretty quick on his feet, huh?" Madden approached Leah.
"Yeah, he saved me from a potential concussion. Thanks for checking in. You ready to show off your karaoke skills?"
"Born ready! Though I doubt I can compete with Jonah's heroics."
Leah smiled, though she felt it wasn't entirely genuine. She had thought that if Madden paid attention to her, she would be happy. But now, seeing him seemingly jealous of Jonah, for some reason, she didn't feel that way. Perhaps deep down she knew that Madden wouldn't have been the one to risk saving her, maybe he wasn't the strong and brave man she had romanticized. Maybe Remi was right and she should forget about Madden, perhaps focus on someone else? Her gaze shifted towards Jonah who was enthusiastically talking with Remi about programming a bot for gaming. Evan was walking on the other side of Remi, observing everything around them.
They entered a karaoke bar called "VocaPunk." Inside, the place was filled with panels simulating holographic robots, one for each table, that acted as servers. The panels could record orders and even give the private capsule number for singing on the floor above. The Japanese waiters were busy at the bar and attending to other tables.
Leah was immediately drawn to the futuristic ambiance and watched as a holographic robot greeted them in a mechanical voice, "Welcome to VocaPunk. May I take your drink orders?"
"This place is wild," Madden commented, glancing around in awe.
"Agreed," Remi chimed in. "I wonder if they have a gaming section. Imagine playing VR games while eating!"
Evan, who had been taking in the sights, nudged Jonah and gestured towards the stage where a group was singing a lively Japanese pop song. "Looks like the competition is fierce up there."
The group sat down at a small but cozy table, where the napkins were made of transparent plastic with a very cyberpunk style, and lit up when they were lifted. Together, they ordered several typical dishes, including tempura, prawn crackers, ramen, and yakisoba chicken.
"No soy sauce for me, please," Remi said in strained Japanese. "Shoyu nashi de onegai shimasu, allergy ga aru desukara."
"We've come to a great place for a summer vacation, considering someone with so many allergies," Madden teased. "You're easily poisoned."
"Shut up, I'll poison you with this knife," Remi said, raising her utensil while the waiter looked at her fearfully, but then smiled, pretending to catch on to the joke. The waiter, having regained his composure, took their orders and left the table.
The group that was singing on stage came down and approached their table, handing the microphone to Jonah. "Oh no, I can't sing," he protested.
"Come on, Jonah, don't be shy!" Madden exclaimed. "We all know you have a hidden talent."
"Yeah, Jonah, don't chicken out on us now," Remi added.
Leah watched as Jonah's face turned a bit red. He hesitated for a moment before sighing. "Alright, fine. But you all better sing with me."
They cheered as Jonah reluctantly made his way to the stage. The group huddled together, browsing through the song selection on the tablet provided by the bar.
"How about something classic?" Evan suggested. "Maybe 'Don't Stop Believing' by Journey?"
"Ooh, that's a good one!" Leah agreed, and the rest nodded in approval.
Jonah took a deep breath and started singing. Much to everyone's surprise, he had a great voice, hitting all the notes perfectly.
Leah's eyes sparkled. "He's an avid hacker. I'm sure he's activated the auto-tune on his phone,” Remi whispered to her. The group started eating while Jonah continued singing, as their food had already been served. Suddenly, Remi began to turn blue and her throat started to swell. Leah's eyes widened in horror, frozen and unsure of what to do.
Jonah, with his eyes closed and fully immersed in his singing, belted out the song at the top of his lungs, unknowingly performing a deathly symphony. Madden began to shake Remi as if trying to dislodge something stuck in her throat. "Remi, Remi! Don't leave us!"
"She's not choking, it's anaphylaxis. She must have eaten soy!" Evan exclaimed, rummaging through Remi's backpack until he found an epinephrine auto-injector and forcefully injected it into her thigh.
The bar fell silent as everyone's attention turned to Remi, who started to breathe more easily as the medication took effect.
Jonah opened his eyes, confused as to why the cheers and applause had ceased. He looked around, only to see the worried faces of his friends and the still-pale Remi in Leah's arms.
"What happened?" Jonah asked, rushing over to them.
"It's Remi," Leah replied, her voice trembling. "She had an allergic reaction. Evan just gave her an epinephrine shot."
Jonah's face drained of color as he realized the gravity of the situation. "I... I didn't know," he stammered, guilt and worry written all over his face.
"It's not your fault, Jonah," Evan reassured him. "You were focused on singing, and we didn't notice anything until it was too late. But she's going to be okay now."
Jonah nodded, approaching her with shaking hands. He knelt beside Remi, gently taking her other hand. "I'm sorry, Remi. I didn't mean for this to happen."
Remi managed a weak smile. "It's not your fault, Jonah. But hey, you were great up there. But be honest, did you use auto-tune?"
"Yes, yes, I activated it with my phone," Jonah admitted in a strained voice, as if it was forced out, with hypochondria taking over.
"Hey, waiter!" Madden exclaimed, banging his fist on the table. "Tell your boss we're going to sue! We told you no soy, and this girl almost died!"
A Japanese man in a suit emerged from a door and approached them with his hands clasped behind his back, bowing respectfully. "We not add soy, as asked. Probably girl eat plate not for her," he said, attempting to speak English.
Leah's face reddened with embarrassment. "Madden, stop it. It's not their fault. Remi could have accidentally eaten something from our plates with soy in them. We should just focus on getting her to the hospital."
The Japanese man nodded, relieved that Leah was calming the situation. "I call already. Ambulance on way. Please wait."
The group fell silent, anxiously waiting for the paramedics to arrive. Remi's breathing had stabilized, but her skin was still pale and clammy.
Jonah excused himself and headed to the bathroom. As he walked away, Leah watched him. She wondered if he was okay, knowing how shaken up he was about Remi's allergic reaction. Evan followed him with his gaze, then turned to Leah and Madden. "I think we should cut the night short. It's not right to continue partying when Remi's in this condition."
Madden sighed, running a hand through his curly hair. "Yeah, you're right. It wouldn't feel right without her."
Leah nodded in agreement, her mind still on Jonah. "Do you think we should check on him? He seemed pretty upset."
Evan stood up. "I'll go. He might need some space, but it can't hurt to make sure he's okay."
As Evan walked towards the bathroom, Leah hoped he would be able to provide some comfort to Jonah, who clearly needed it. Back at the table, Madden leaned over to Remi, whispering something that elicited a weak smile from her, while Leah watched them closely with a serious and scrutinizing expression.
Jonah locked himself in a stall in the men's restroom, trembling. He pulled out his mobile phone from his pocket and dialled a number, sweat trickling down the sides of his shaved face. The person on the other end answered promptly, though they didn't say anything initially.
"This has gone too far, I can't do this anymore," Jonah said, his voice shaky with nerves. "The stuff with the showers and beach ball was one thing, but this is too much."
The person finally spoke, their voice calm and collected. "Relax, Jonah. Only two have passed the test so far, the others don't qualify. You're doing well."
Pins and Screws and Eyes of Needles — Oh, My!
Under general anesthesia, the urologist pressed Peter Harper's testicles along his inguinal canals until they reached the final bottlenecks of swollen inguinal rings.
“It's easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter Heaven,” he said under his breath. Peter Harper was indeed very rich.
“What?” asked the anesthesiologist.
“Eye of the needle,” he repeated, pressing gloved thumbs on each bulge. He forced Harper's gonads, squeezing them forward until wringing them through, bruised, into their familiar resting places.
“Those are surely gonna be sore for a while,” the urologist said, transferring care to the orthopedic surgeon who prepared plaster of Paris to immobilize Harper's pelvic ring. He hoped the six separate fractures and disarticulated femur head would heal with the help of a dozen titanium pins and screws.
No one had informed them just how Harper had sustained these injuries, by now requiring six units of blood. Car accident vs being impaled by falling onto something were the leading guesses.
After the orthopedic surgeon shaped the plaster girdle, strategically windowed for bodily functions, ice packs were placed to reduce the swelling of his genitals protruding through the cutaway holes.
The urologist implanted the suprapubic catheter to rest his bladder until his penile urethra could pass anything more viscous than gas. Using the other access hole, the colon and rectal surgeon, having finished the colostomy, next identified the traumatic rectal-bladder fistula via proctoscope, sealing it with an endoscopic procto-ring.
After the suctioning saliva and other comatose secretions had been done, the nurse in the recovery room had time to wonder. Car accident?
Peter Harper attempted to speak.
“What?” his nurse asked. “You’re out of surgery and doing fine.” Harper spoke again. Once again she couldn’t understand. “Try again, Mr. Harper. Cough.” He coughed and groaned from the pain.
“Who was that woman?” he finally rasped.
“What woman?” the nurse asked. “Cough again.” He coughed again. He groaned again.
“That woman,” he repeated. “I have to find out who she is.” He coughed yet again. “She was fucking fantastic.”
"Easy there, lover-boy. You might unscrew your screws."
"That's really funny, he sputtered, then drifted off.
Reclaiming Me
I don't write fiction. Life too thick to break out from. Made up characters flat compared to those who have punched me in the gut in life. Punched so hard, so deep it knocked the creative wind out of me. So I can only spew, vent, rage. I hate this version of me.
There was another once. Joyful, loving. In love with you actually. Expansive, generous, giving. All for you. I loved even me then.
I know I say you took that soul away but is it true. Was it me instead of you?
Was it me instead of you who had the capacity to profoundly adore beauty, pleasure, breathing? Was it me who gave you to power to deflate, ravage, slaughter my soul? If so I renege on our broken contact of forever and ever and try to reclaim the I who is me without you.
I'll admit I don't recall the melody but I still have the words always swirling never stopping in my head. Perhaps if I listen to the earth, the beat of my still thumping heart, the never disappointing spring, I can twist my words to a different tune and regain myself in the process.
Shackles
The mascara shamelessly got in the way of her tears, gliding gracefully down her cheeks, seeking an entrance past her lips.
My gaze remain fixed to the bruises on her body, which she had carefully concealed– a testament to the pain she had suffered in the name of love.
“I love him", she whispered, her eyes sunken and her voice trembling.
Yet again, her body betrayed her. The weight of her fear reeling me in, a silent plea for help!
Her shoulders tighten, and her fists clenches,as if bracing herself for her next fight.
“I feel trapped, as though bound by chains, and I can't seem to break free. His presence hovers around me– his angry face, his cold gaze, and his disgust at the sight of me, a nightmare.
I close my eyes, and I see myself locked up, while he keeps screaming at me. Fear consumes me, as much as his abuse has consumed every inch of my soul".
I hear the shattering of my heart, for the millionth time today.
Her wounds may never truly heal, yet, I knew she was a warrior.
I dissuade the little voice in my head that screams:
Oh dear, if the shoes fit, you'd be a ravaging soul, desperately waiting for death to set you free.
Language Barrier
Bruna slapped the beverage out of Fernanda’s hand as she fought to keep her cloudy head clear. Music played at a deafening volume as Bruna yanked her girlfriend along while looking for an exit in the middle of a corridor as people danced. How do you say help in French? Where was the exit? People scantily dressed danced, smoked, and drank. The smell of booze and pot waffled through the air. No one cared she wanted out. Strobe lights degraded visibility as a group of people dressed in patient Johnny gowns bumped each other in a kind of mosh pit. Bodies pierced with IV drips and catheters shoved against each other aggressively.
The young American women looked in disbelief at the foreign scene while being bumped, grinded, and felt up. Bruna prayed for a way out. An adrenaline rush propelled her forward while clutching Fernanda. Pushing through the crowd they made it to a door with a red neon sign. Bruna recognized the word ‘Sortie’ to mean ‘Exit’ from a language learning app. The metal door remained shut after repeated kicks but easily opened after Bruna gently pushed down on the exit handle. They ran down 3 flights of stairs before reaching a door leading them outside. Their screams rivaled the loud music playing as they ran from the building without looking back.
***
‘48 Hours Earlier’
As she hurried through the airport, Fernanda’s travel case hit her ankle every step of the way, causing more discomfort than the heeled shoes she wore. “Ai!” she yelled then cursed in Portuguese for the fourth time, stopping briefly to rub the bruised spot on her leg that was turning red against her pale white skin.
“Apresse –se Fernanda! You have to move faster if we are going to make our flight! Bruna chastised in their native Portuguese language. She was fluent in English and Portuguese. Fernanda, comfortable living on Ferry Street in a Lusophone community, spoke substandard English. Surrounded by people of her culture most of the time, she had no desire to improve a second language and spoke in Portuguese often.
“Pull the case at your side, not behind you, like I’m doing. It will roll easier and not bump your feet. We have to check in and get on the fly list as soon as possible, Bruna emphasized. Fernanda’s brother Alberto, worked for French-E Airline. He provided them with two complimentary stand-by boarding passes to Paris. Alberto advised his sister to arrive at New York’s LaGuardia airport three hours early to pass through TSA, the Transportation Security Administration checkpoint. After passing security, they had to get on the waiting list for seats left over after paying passengers bordered. French-E flight number 1175 LGA to CDG, LaGuardia to Roissy Airport, Paris France, was leaving in forty-five minutes.
“We're not going to make it,” Bruna worried, walking at a fast pace. Before they left home, she reminded Fernanda to dress for comfort as she. White walking shoes, black jogger pants, white and tan tee top with a tan blazer on top of the tucked-in tee. Bruna picked up the pace. Fernanda, not heeding the advice, wore green five-inch heels, dark green pleated ankle pants accenting a peridot ruby bracelet, and an avocado off-the-shoulder body suit that allowed her breasts to move freely under the leafy color garments as she tried to keep pace with Bruna.
“Oh my god, stop rushing Bruna,” Fernanda said as they approached the security check-in line. “All we have to do is ask for a wheelchair. You tell them that I have trouble walking and need to express through check-in so we don’t miss our flight.” Bruna stopped walking and stared at her best friend. They hadn’t left the States yet and she already had a crazy idea that could get them in trouble. She shook her head in disbelief.
“That is a burro idea. Security is not stupid. They will see right through that ruse,” Bruna advised. “I saw a lady do it on YouTube,” Fernanda said. “She asked security for a wheelchair because she had trouble walking. They rolled her to the front of the line. We can do the same.” Without waiting for Bruna’s response, Fernanda limped over to a black security officer. She asked for a wheelchair in Portuguese. "Eu poderia por favor ter uma cadeira de rodas?"
“Excuse me?” he responded, a little too harshly. After working 13 hours of a double shift, all airport pleasantries were cut from his voice as he eyed the young woman. Fernanda assumed he spoke Portuguese like everyone on Ferry Street. As he stared her down, she communicated in her version of English.
“A, um…I nee da, ahh,” Fernanda thought about how to say wheelchair in English. It came out “Carriage for sit,” she said to the TSA officer. “You know, chair on the wheel,” she continued.
“You need a wheelchair miss?” The officer asked sternly.
“Yeah, that one,” Fernanda replied. “My leg… can’t go, need a wheelchair,” she said.
The TSA officer eyed her with suspicion. He saw a twenty-something brunette wearing tights and stilettos asking for a wheelchair with no obvious illness. “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded, as he observed a bewildered Fernanda. “What medical condition do you have that requires a wheelchair?” He asked as clearly as possible, hackles up along with his voice. Before she could mutilate the English language further Bruna stepped closer to them, hoping to come up with a convincing lie to get them out of a situation her girlfriend was creating. Could they be arrested? Then she remembered something she watched on a crime drama series. Add truth to a lie to make it believable. An idea formed as she read the name on the uniform above the officer’s badge.
“Officer Thompson, this is my girlfriend Fernanda. We are traveling together. She injured her ankle rushing to the airport. Her English is not fluent as you can tell, but the reason she is asking for a wheelchair is to take the weight off the injury and prevent swelling,” Bruna said in a voice she hoped sounded truthful.
The officer looked down at the high heel pumps and then at the two women, unconvinced. “Let me see your boarding passes,” he requested. Bruna promptly gave Officer Thompson her pass. Fernanda looked through her carry-on bag for what felt like hours.
“Use your phone,” Bruna insisted. I put the pass on your phone in case you misplaced the printed one,” she said in Portuguese. Officer Thompson eyed Bruna suspiciously as she switched languages.
“Okay ladies, these buddy passes won’t be honored on this flight,” the officer eventually said after viewing their documents. Bruna thought how would he know they wouldn’t be honored? He was in charge of security, not boarding. She fumed internally but kept her thoughts to herself. It was Fernanda that got them into this situation, not the TSA officer. She wondered why Fernanda was her best friend for the third time today.
The observant officer read Bruna’s facial expressions so he provided more details. “If I allowed you to move up to the front of the line, which I’m not, you still wouldn’t get on with buddy passes. It will be fully booked because of the Paris Summer Festivals which are popular this time of year. I suggest you go through the checkpoints like everybody else,” he emphasized “like-everybody-else” by enunciating each word and looking at Fernanda. Was he making fun of Fernanda’s English?
“You can walk over to the check-in line on the right, without a carriage for sit,” he said coldly. “Once they tell you what I already know, you can wait for the next flight out,” he advised sending them on their way. Bruna decided he was making fun of Fernanda’s English while treating them both like children.
The screening line moved faster than expected. Bruna and Fernanda were able to make it to the boarding gate in time for the flight with five minutes to spare. However, the TSA officer was correct. The plane was filled with paying passengers. They were put on standby for the next flight, leaving in seven hours.
***
Bruna sat on the small air pillow she pulled from her carry-on bag. The versatile use of the blowup cushion made the hard floor in the secure check-in area bearable. Fernanda sat on her over stuffed carryon after removing a brown bag from one of the compartments. “What are we going to do for the next six and a half hours?” Bruna said as she looked around the isle at other people waiting. Some played games on phones or slept in chairs. Others cuddled in light embraces.
Fernanda said cheerfully, “I know what to do. Let’s go to the French-E Clubhouse. It’s in the secure area so we don’t have to go through a checkpoint again,” she reasoned. The Clubhouse has free food and drink. We can watch TV and sit on comfortable lounge chairs.” She assured.
“The Clubhouse amenities are for ticketed passengers, which we are not. That’s the price we paid for standby. The price paid for standby,” Bruna repeated. She chuckled to herself at the conundrum they were in. “Standby doesn’t include the freebies paying passengers have. Next time we get discounted tickets from your brother and a guaranteed seat,” Bruna concluded as she watched Fernanda take a mini shot bottle from the brown bag she was holding. She swallowed half and offered the rest to Bruna.
“How, how did you get alcohol pass security?” Bruna asked while taking the little bottle and finishing the remaining liquor left inside.
“It was easy. I saw it on YouTube,” Fernanda said proudly while taking two more bottles from her stash bag. Bruna took another sip and smiled, happy that they were best friends.
***
‘Paris France’
Bruna measured the distance to the exit stairs from their hotel room by walking heel to toe. “185 feet,” she calculated. Then she took a picture of the red door sign with the French word ‘Sortie.’ The travel app on her phone translated it as ‘Exit.’ Bruna was about to time how many seconds it took to run from the hotel room to the fire exit when she noticed Fernanda watching incredulously.
“What are you looking at?” Bruna asked defensively.
“I’m looking at a worry wart. Nothing’s going to happen to us. We're safe as can be,” Fernanda responded in Portuguese.
“It can’t hurt to know where the exits are and the quickest way outside,” Bruna shot back in English.
***
First Night Out
Fernanda looked at one of the flyers she found scattered in the hotel lobby. It had black text in the background of a shattered mirror with nurses dancing around a disco ball. On the ball written in French was Le Derniere Danse. A housekeeper at the hotel told Fernanda the words on the disco ball meant last dance, displaying the address location under that. For their first night out on the town, Fernanda wanted to go to this last dance. It had to be a French rave dance party.
The event started at 10:00 pm.
“I asked the front desk to call a taxi to pick us up,” Fernanda said. We’ll have a good time. I want to compare a French rave to an American rave,” she pointed out. And of course show off my dance moves,” she bragged.
“I’d like to ask the housekeeper you spoke to what she knows about this place before we go,” Bruna cautioned. “We need more information before we go,” Bruna insisted. A car pulled into the parking lot. The driver started honking the horn in a pattern of 3 bursts.
“That’s our ride,” Fernanda said gesturing to Bruna to follow her lead to the taxi. Bruna let out a sigh but trailed behind. A fifty-ish driver with black and gray hair stepped out of the car and then opened the door for the approaching women.
"Ah, Mesdames," he said smiling. His voice was gravelly but warm. "My name is Guillaume. Where would you like to be swept away on this fine Parisian evening?"
“Go here,” Fernanda said, handing him the flyer from the lobby.
Guillaume looked at the address. After a few minutes, he turned to the women. “This is not a tourist location,” he said. “Where you suggest Mesdames is a desolate side of town. You are tourists, no? How about I give you the Paris tour? France is best savored slowly, like fine wine.” He gestured around him. “The Louvre is a treasure trove of history. The Eiffel Tower is magnificent, yes?” he smiled. “We finish with a walk along the Champs-Élysées; watch the Parisians stroll, and sip coffee at a sidewalk café.
Bruna looked at the man, then Fernanda. She wanted a personal guided tour of the city of love, but she promised Fernanda she had dibs planning their first night out on the town. Fernanda shot Bruna a look that read this night is non-negotiable.
“I thank you very much for the offer but I promised my girlfriend she could choose the itinerary on our first night out. How about giving us the Parisian tour tomorrow? I’d be grateful for someone to show us around.”Bruna admitted. The driver thought a moment, then smiled again.
“I’d be happy to do so,” he said. “Here is my business card. Give me a call when you want the best tour guide ever.” Bruna took the fancy card with his name, number, and slogan: Guillaume Globetrotter, see the world one day at a time. “For now I’ll take you where you requested,” he said.
***
Le Derniere Danse
The taxi driver stopped on a dirt access road leading to a 3 story neglected brick building. “Wait one second please,” Bruna asked the driver as she got out of the car and surveyed the area. Weeds and overgrown grass surrounded a recessed brick building with cracked windows on each floor. The second and third-floor windows were covered with black paint. A glimmer of light slipped through the dark windows for a second confirming some sort of activity. The first-floor windows were clear enough to reveal an artist painting a portrait of a woman in a wheel chair while other people watched. Bruna heard music playing in the decrepit building as Fernanda got of the car. She waved the driver to go.
“Hey! I’m still checking our surroundings,” she yelled as the driver sped off. Bruna dialed the number on the business card the driver left but their location had no cell phone coverage. “Great, just great. I don’t have any signal bars on my phone. Try yours,” she fretted. Fernanda sheepishly looked at Bruna.
“I can’t try my phone. I forgot to swap out my USA SIM card for an international one,” she confessed. Fernanda watched Bruna’s upper lip tighten revealing her teeth. This was a tell that Bruna was getting angry.
“I’ll still check it,” Fernanda said quickly turning on her phone. “My phone still works,” she insisted. I’ll have an expensive bill but it will work,” she stated matter of fact.
“Do you have a signal?” Bruna asked again.
“No.”
“Then it doesn’t matter about the sim card. Maybe there’s a line phone inside we can use,” Bruna suggested. “We may as well join the party,” she acquiesced.
***
Bruna surveyed the building again before walking up to the front door. A rusty metal door had a recently oiled door knocker below a cracked view window. Bruna tapped the knocker twice. The door opened slowly. A man dressed in a baseball uniform stared at them. His face was covered in tattoos. Bruna hoped they were painted on temporarily for the rave.
“Mot De Passe,” he said in French, looking at Fernanda.
“What?” Fernanda said in English. “Is the rave party, here?” she switched up to Portuguese.
“Mot De Passe!” he asked again sternly, in French.
“I think he wants a password to come in,” Fernanda quivered.
Bruna looked at the flyer from the hotel. She remembered what the housekeeper said the words meant. Le Derniere Danse was the name or theme of the rave. Bruna looked at the tattooed man.
“Last Dance?” she guessed. “Derniere Danse,” she said in her best possible French translation.
The tattooed man bowed. “Tres Serre,” he said waving them in.
“That was the password?” Fernanda asked.
“Probably close enough,” Bruna said.
***
The women tried to get inside the room where the artist was painting another portrait. This one of a man holding himself upright on crutches as the artist sketched. Baseball uniform man blocked their way, directing them to a staircase leading to the upper levels. Reaching the 2nd floor, Bruna opened the door. Inside were lighted candles and several people in wheelchairs. Some were on hospital beds. All of them had IV’s attached to their bodies. The room, smelling of raspberry and citrus failed to overpower the sterile scent of disinfectant. The surreal sight triggered Bruna’s memory of her grandmother’s final hospital days.
“What is this place?” Fernanda gasped.
“I don’t know but we are out of here!” shrieked Bruna. They ran down the stairs only to be stopped by the man in the baseball uniform holding a bat. He held it in a menacing way as he took steps towards them.
“Up, up, up! Back up the stairs!” Bruna yelled. Fernanda screamed as she ran back to the 2nd-floor door. “Keep going to the 3rd floor,” Bruna instructed, pushing Fernanda forward. The women looked down the stars but did not see the man with the bat following.
“Since it’s not safe to go back we go forward and hopefully out,” Bruna reasoned as they opened the door on the 3rd floor. Inside, bodies pulsed in a kaleidoscope of colors under a strobing light. Fog machines churned out a swirling vortex that hid disabilities for a moment but revealed others. Bruna and Fernanda saw people with arm and leg amputations. Some had yellowish skin that wasn’t from makeup. Others had bloody head bandages. A strong smell of weed filled the air where Bruna and Fernanda were standing. These people didn’t care about their injuries. They were having fun, maybe for the last time.
“I think I know what this is,” Bruna said, feeling lightheaded from the strong pot.
“What?” Fernanda yelled back. Someone had turned up the music making conversation difficult. On the side of the wall were two young girls dressed in dark Goth pouring drinks in plastic cups. A line formed as people drank a purplish punch. Fernanda smiled at the girls and grabbed one as well.
“The flyer is for chronically ill people. They are partying one last time before dying. That’s why it’s called last dance,” Bruna told Fernanda. This is a suicide assist party. We got to get out of here!”
***
Bruna slapped the beverage out of Fernanda’s hand as she fought to keep her cloudy head clear. Music played at a deafening volume as Bruna yanked her girlfriend along while looking for an exit in the middle of a corridor as people danced. How do you say help in French? Where was the exit? People scantily dressed danced, smoked, and drank. The smell of booze and pot waffled through the air. No one cared she wanted out. Strobe lights degraded visibility as a group of people dressed in patient Johnny gowns bumped each other in a kind of mosh pit. Bodies pierced with IV drips and catheters shoved against each other aggressively.
The young American women looked in disbelief at the foreign scene while being bumped, grinded, and felt up. Bruna prayed for a way out. An adrenaline rush propelled her forward while clutching Fernanda. Pushing through the crowd they made it to a door with a red neon sign. Bruna recognized the word ‘Sortie’ to mean ‘Exit’ from a language learning app. The metal door remained shut after repeated kicks but easily opened after Bruna gently pushed down on the exit handle. They ran down 3 flights of stairs before reaching a door leading them outside. Their screams rivaled the loud music playing as they ran from the building without looking back.
***
Bruna and Fernanda walked on a narrow roadway about half a mile before service was restored to their mobile phones. Bruna dialed Guillaume’s number, but the line went straight to voicemail.
“He’s not picking up,” Bruna said. I’ll try getting an Uber. My account is linked for international transactions.” Bruna pressed the app button and waited for a driver to pick up the ride. After 3 minutes a driver accepted the ride location. Bruna confirmed the pickup.
“I almost drank the Kool-Aid,” Fernanda wept. “Thanks to you we got out of there in one piece,” she said drying her tears.
“That guy dressed as a Warrior gang member with the bat was the scariest,” said Bruna.
“Warrior gang member?” Fernanda repeated.
“I mean he looked like a character in a movie from 1979. Add painting sick people portraits, the weed, the Kool-Aid and you got one hell of a story to tell when we get home.” Bruna said.
A car coming towards them matched the description of the car Bruna requested. As it stopped next to them, Bruna checked the license plate number to the one on her phone.
“He checks out,” Bruna said.
“We can get in.” The driver spoke to the women in French. They smiled but didn’t add to his conversation. The app provided the hotel location so Bruna sat back and enjoyed the ride with Fernanda.
“I’m never going to complain when you check stuff out for us on the rest of this trip,” Fernanda said sniffling.
“We’ll see,” Bruna said as she smiled at her best friend. “We’ll see.”
***
Copyright © 2024 DarnellCureton.Com – All rights reserved
Rock Bottom Has Palm Trees
Chapter 1
I haul my two fifty-pound suitcases out of the trunk and onto the sidewalk. Do Lyft drivers not help with your suitcases in Los Angeles? Perfect. I get off on bad manners – they remind me of the constant lack of care that defines New York City. So I tip the guy twenty percent for doing absolutely nothing, and I feel fucking great about it.
Honey, I’m home.
I want to make it clear: I didn’t outgrow New York City. I outgrew its men. Perhaps literally, because many of the eligible men of Manhattan have their dating app range set strictly from twenty-two at the youngest to twenty-five at the oldest. I’m twenty-nine, how elderly, I know.
Now, I’m ready to find my husband.
New York City is crawling with successful, attractive, well-educated, interesting, outgoing men who are ready and willing to take the next pretty girl they meet out on a date. They know all the best restaurants and bars and all the best movies once it’s time to Netflix and chill.
But since I’m a realist, let’s just go ahead and call it Netflix and fuck instead.
And here lies the problem. Once these men have gotten what they want out of you – the fucking, not the Netflix – they’re already thinking about who’s next. People say it’s animalistic, that men are hardwired to “spread their seed” or whatever, and maybe that’s true. Either way, New York City men are always prepared to turn you down once you catch feelings. And though I don’t like to admit it…I’m sensitive. Turns out sensitive girls tend to catch feelings more often than not.
Always fun, always easy, always predictable, always shallow, always nothing.
I’m over nothing. I’m ready to make something of a relationship – which is why I’m here in Los Angeles, testing things out for a few months in a Venice Beach Airbnb.
The Airbnb host, Parker, gave me very thorough instructions on how to get into the backhouse, where I’ll be staying. I just have to follow a few quick steps before I’m finally inside my new apartment. My dream apartment. The Los Angeles oasis on Walnut Avenue that’ll kickstart a new, more grown-up chapter where I do things like bring my Hinge date back for a nightcap after a sexy third date in Santa Monica. Or practice meditation and yoga because I hear that’s what they do in California. Or put all of my shoes – yes, every single one – away in my closet instead of scattering them around my apartment as if they’re coasters. Which, yes, I was forced to do back in my closet-sized spot in NYC.
I didn’t realize I’d have to walk through Parker’s front lawn to get to the Airbnb, which throws me off. It’s dark, which you can expect when it’s midnight. What you might not expect, though, is a walkway of cobblestones that makes it nearly impossible to roll your heavy suitcases through. I’ve probably woken up the whole neighborhood with the clunk, clunk, clunk of my luggage over each stone.
I finally get to the backhouse. The hard part is over. In just a few seconds, I’ll officially begin my new and improved West Coast life.
Marina Hoffman Version 3.0, now loading.
I open up the door and step inside. I take one look and…
I’m shocked. So shocked that I’m worried my stomach might’ve dropped through my ass and onto the floor.
The “dream” Airbnb I just stepped into, that I’ve put down the deposit for, that I flew across the country to live in for three months is…a garage.
Well, a garage that’s been converted into a studio apartment. Admittedly, it’s huge. Huge in a creepy, long-term-storage-unit kind of way. But I guess all garages may appear this huge if you take all of the cars out. Not that I’ve ever tried that, because I. WOULD. NEVER. CHOOSE. TO. LIVE. IN. A. GARAGE.
I feel suspended in time as I second-guess everything. What will I tell my future husband when he asks to grab a nightcap at my place? This Airbnb is not wifey material! Maybe I should’ve moved back home to Boston, MA like my sweet, overly concerned Grandma is always suggesting. “It’s way easier to meet if you live in a smaller community!” she loves telling me.
I can’t let Grandma be right.
I close the door behind me and do a sweep of the apartment.
First, I need to warm up. It’s absurdly freezing in here, which is annoying because I thought this would be the one thing I didn’t have to worry about in LA. I find the clicker for the heater on the coffee table. I press the ON button. But the heater is very much staying OFF.
I click, click, click, click, click on the button until…
Ugh! Nothing. Fine. I’ll take a hot shower instead. I head into the bathroom, where there are two daddy-long legs in the top left corner. Sick. I turn around and catch a reflection of myself in the mirror. Let’s just say I’m giving the same amount of glamor that this garage is.
Not a whole lot.
Whoever put this mirror up must’ve been a man. A tall man. Because I’m only able to see my head, even at my five foot three stature. I realize I’m short enough to be considered petite, but I’m certainly tall enough to not need a step stool to see past my chin.
Or so I thought.
My light brown hair looks black on account of how greasy it is. I did a slicked-back ponytail look for the plane inspired by Kendall Jenner. Turns out it just made me look tired, sweaty, and like I’m definitely trying to imitate Kendall Jenner. And failing.
I can’t wait to wash this day off of me. I strip off my clothes and hop into the shower.
I turn the temperature all the way up. But it does not warm up.
I’m sensing a pattern here.
I wait and wait and wait for the water to get hot until I decide that a cold shower is better than standing naked in the cold, waiting for the shower to get hot when that possibility is feeling less and less probable by the second.
I play a mental game with myself where I try and pretend that the cold water is refreshing.
Deep down I am certain it is not.
Once I’m done with the quickest shower known to man, I dry off and claw through my suitcase to find my green Pangaia sweat set. Then I brush my teeth and hair and get under the covers.
I text Parker letting him know that there are a few things I’d like to discuss with him when he gets the chance. Hopefully, I sound intimidating. He needs to know I mean business.
I pass out before I can overthink any of my life decisions any further.
#
I’m woken by the sun in the morning. It’s shining through the window above my bed, which is a lot warmer of a welcome than I experienced last night. I peek outside the window and realize I have a clear view of Parker’s actual house through his floor-to-ceiling windows; where I can see a kitchen, a living room, some colorful, abstract paintings hung up throughout, and a few toys on the ground.
He better text me back soon.
No one appears to be home – the stillness reminds me of some kind of movie set, where I imagine the family is picture-perfect in that chaotic but totally down-to-earth, easy, breezy, LA way. They probably have breakfast every morning. Chocolate chip pancakes on Sundays, of course. And playdates with other families on the weekends. The grown-ups talk about their upcoming summer plans while the kids squeal on the playground. And don’t forget the enlarged, custom calendars where the parents keep track of their kids’ schedules and chore assignments. When it’s finally time for them to put their children to bed, they sneak away to the Master bedroom – which is complete with a king-sized Tempurpedic, Brooklinen sheets, plants for their “mind and body benefits” (but mostly for decoration), and a gorgeous view of the California sky – and have intense, mind-numbing sex because they’re still undoubtedly attracted and madly in love.
I want all of that.
I turn over in bed, grab my phone, and switch my location from the Lower East Side to Venice Beach on my favorite dating app, Hinge. Luckily, it’s Saturday, so I have nowhere to be. Well, I technically never have anywhere to be anymore, since my new Copywriter job is remote; but today, I can spend as much time on the dating apps as I want without judging myself for not working, or being afraid that other people are noticing me not working and therefore judging me. Which has happened one or two or more times, but whatever. I’ve always loved my job, and, of course, loved what it can afford me, but I’m not really interested in climbing the corporate ladder. I’m a good writer but not exactly enthusiastic enough to win the “Awesome Person of the Month” award, which, yes, is a literal award the agency I work for gives out once a month.
I open up my profile to make sure I’m appealing to the new, West Coast pool of daters.
Name: Marina Hoffman
Age: 29
Height: 5’3”
Drinker: Yes
Smoker: No
Drugs: No
Children: Want someday
Looking for: Long-term relationship
We’ll get along if: You’re a foodie
Lazy days
I look up and a smile spreads across my face. ‘Hey’. With that, my smile gets a little bit wider. I can’t help it, I can feel that desire brewing inside of me. Some days, it’s just up to you to make the most of it.
He’s busy, but that’s okay. I don’t mind. I walk barefoot across the room. The sounds of his computer keys muffling any other sound. I lean down and lightly kiss his neck, I move a little lower, and press my lips to his throat. I can feel him swallow. He tries to give me that look. Not today. I move around to the other side of his neck and leave a trail of kisses as I then take his ear, lightly, teasingly in between my teeth. I tug ever so gently. I flick my tongue over his ear lobe. I look down at his lap and can tell by the results there that my attention is not entirely unwelcome.
I slide down to the floor and climb under his desk. I push his chair that slightest bit away and nudge my head up between his legs. I raise my eyes and smile again. I rub my face against the growing lump of his cock under his trousers. I close my eyes and I remember just how nice that cock feels sliding into my mouth. I can feel myself start to salivate.
I reach my arms up and run my hands up his chest, feeling him just underneath the material of his shirt causes my heart speed up. I start with the top button, and undo it deftly. Then the next button. Oops, did my hand accidentally glide over your crotch. I can feel my hunger start to grow. I shake my head and refocus my thoughts. My hands are a little less certain as I undo the next button. Slowly, so slowly, I undo each one in turn. I push his chair a little further away from his desk. I can still hear his typing, but I imagine that it has slowed a bit.
I rest my elbows on his thighs and slide my hands up his chest and push His shirt down his shoulders. His arms are slightly restricted, but I don’t doubt that if he wanted to stop me, he would. I start at the base of his throat and slowly leave a trail of light kisses down his chest. My mouth moves to the side, seeking out his nipple. I hold it in place tenderly between my teeth as I start to flick my tongue back and forth and I am rewarded by the hardening I can feel in my mouth. I can’t help myself. I bite down hard and I start lashing his nipple with my tongue, then biting down that little bit more and sucking it into my mouth. I smile as I pull back. His typing is most assuredly going more slowly than before. I rain a small shower of kisses across his chest as I make my way to his other nipple. This time, I’m not so kind. I grab his nipple tightly between my teeth and twist. I feel his body jerk momentarily, before the clacking of the keys begins again. I run my tongue around and around his nipple. Flicking first hard then light. I chuckle while I still hold it there. I bite down again and then release as I begin to move down his chest moving lower and lower.
As I reach his waistband, I glide my tongue just along the top of his trousers. I lower my head. First, I run my right cheek up the length of him and then run my left cheek down the other side. I can’t help myself. I run my tongue over His trousers, feeling his cock jump at the feel of my mouth.
I reach up and undo the button on his trousers. Then I grip the zipper and take all the time in the world to slowly pull it down tooth by tooth. I can see his cock there, peeking out of the top of his pants. I feel my hunger kick into overdrive. I slide my hands down his hips, trying to get access. I glance up. He’s watching me, Almost challenging me. I rise up just slightly and take the knob, just barely visible, and take it in my mouth. My nose nudges away the waistband. I increase the suction as I pull and tug at him. Wanting more. I lap at him. Tongue slathering what little I can see. Tasting him is always so damn good. I reach between his legs and start to massage his balls between my fingers. A catch a small sound coming from his mouth. Was that a groan? A curse? I can’t be certain, but his feet plant down hard as he lifts his hips from the chair. Without missing a beat, I grab the waistbands and shuck them down his legs.
I dip my head and take his balls into my mouth. I pull back gently, feeling them stretch and then relieving the pressure as I massage his balls around my mouth. With my mouth full, I pause for the slightest of moments as I take a deep breath. Smelling him, his arousal, his sexuality. It makes my head hum. I reach up with my hand and grasp the shaft of his cock, letting my hand increase its pressure along the back of his cock. Regretfull, I remove my mouth from his balls and finally get to take the full length of his rock hard cock into my mouth. This time, I’m pretty sure the sound came from my lips, not his.
I slide my head all the way down, feeling it hit the back of my throat. Painstakingly slowly, I pull my mouth up and down on him all the while keeping his balls in my hand, manipulating and Massaging them almost absently. As my head slides up his cock again, I scrape my teeth along the back of his cock. I hear a hand slam down on the table and can’t help but smile, but I don’t let my suction decrease. Faster and faster, my head bobs up and down over his lap. I feel a hand grab my hair and force his cock deeper than I thought I could take it. That’s right. Use your fuckhole, please, Sir. I wrap my tongue around the shaft as my head pulls its way back up, only to feel you slam your cock hard into my throat. I can’t help it. A frenzy takes me over. I clamp down and use all the suction I can muster as my tongue flies all over your cock. It so thick and solid and tastes so good. Oh the taste of your pre-cum, just sets me flying. Up and down at breakneck speed. I suck you in. Lash you with my tongue and then pull almost completely back, only to dodge back down again. Hungry for more. The taste, the smell, the pleasure mounting in me as well as in you. My actions become frenzied. I can feel my own wetness soaking through my pants but all I can really focus on is just how much I love having your cock in my mouth. I bob down on one side to then only pull back against the other side. I feel your muscles start to tense. I hear that mutter under your breath. i can tell you’re close and all that does it ratchet my desire up. move my mouth all around your cock, my mouth going one while while my tongue wraps and latches and releases. Not long now. I slow down to try to savour you, but you’re having none of it. You put both hands in my hair and starting mercilessly fucking my mouth. I try my best to keep up but am not always successful. Before I realise, your cum shoots down the back of my throat and I swallow as quickly as I can. I feel your legs unclench and slowly let your spent cock slide back out of my mouth.
I crawl out from under the desk. I look in your direction, walk across the room the residual taste of you dominating all of my thoughts.
I sit up on the sofa, pick up my book and proceed to read. I like lazy days.
Chapter Thirty – Apprentice no more
The young apprentice kept being tormented by his dreams. He had basically the same dream every night. When he was asleep, it haunted his dreams and when he was awake, it haunted his thoughts. He became consumed with the idea of defeating this army that threatened to consume the world.
The great one became increasingly concerned over his apprentice’s mental state. He had made several attempts to change the direction his apprentice was heading in but each time his efforts were met with failure.
“We have to find the woman” His apprentice kept begging his master, “I will go look for her myself. She must be ready when this army appears.”
“No,” the great one argued, “We must be ready to defend our land. The woman will appear when she is needed, you have seen it in your dreams.”
“Very well” The apprentice conceded. He didn’t agree with the great one’s logic, but he wasn’t strong enough to oppose him, at least not yet.
When the apprentice went out on errands, he would notice the spark in different people. It wasn’t common but it wasn’t rare either. Most people never recognized the spark. It took someone who was already able to manipulate it, to point it out and train a person. The apprentice learned of a way to take someone’s spark without them realizing it. The apprentice rationalized this theft but concluded that the person was not harmed by the taking and would probably never realize they had the power in the first place, so they would never miss it. He did this sparingly at first, but as his power grew, he did it more often. The great one started noticing.
“You’ve been taking other people’s spark.” The great one confronted his apprentice one day, “One person isn’t meant to have that much power, you need to let it go.”
“I need all the power I can get. With enough power, I could oppose this coming army. Besides, those people weren’t going to use it anyway.” The apprentice explained.
“That still doesn’t make it right” the great one replied. “If you don’t give it up, I will be forced to oppose you.” The great one said, “I don’t want to fight you, but if you won’t listen to reason.”
The apprentice decided it was now or never. He tried taking the Great One’s spark, but it wasn’t working. “You are going to have to try harder than that.” The great one said. The apprentice found himself restrained before he could even think another thought. His mouth was gagged so he couldn’t cast a spell. The fight seemed all but over.
“I’m going to take your power away.” The great one said, “If you can do it, I can do it.” The apprentice saw his life passing before his eyes. Even if the great one didn’t kill him, he couldn’t continue living without the spark. He couldn’t fulfill his destiny of finding the woman and helping to stop the spread of evil. He dug deep down inside him and used every ounce of his strength to oppose his mentor.
The great one concentrated. He could feel the spark starting to come out of his apprentice. His apprentice could feel it too. With the last of his strength, which had almost been depleted at this point. He got the gag that kept him from speaking to disappear. He uttered some words which seemed like nonsense to anyone that heard them, and the struggle was over. The great one collapsed on the floor. The apprentice was the apprentice no longer. The great one was the great one no longer. The apprentice had taken his spark from him. Now, he was just ordinary. When the great one came to his senses, he realized what had happened. He had failed to defeat his apprentice. His apprentice would try and find the woman and there was nothing he could do about it.
The apprentice disappeared for months. Even though the great one could no longer wield magic, he was still respected and kept his advisory position. He thought that his apprentice had left in search of the woman from his dreams and that he would never see him again. He thought wrong.
One day the apprentice, who was not an apprentice anymore, returned. He entered the castle and interrupted a meeting that the King was having with his advisors. There had been a revolt in a localized section of the Kingdom and while it was under control now, the King and his advisors were taking precautions so the civil unrest would not spread to the rest of the kingdom.
When the King saw him, he tried to have the apprentice arrested. This attempt failed. Several other attempts also failed. When the apprentice had everyone’s undivided attention, he addressed them.
“You are no longer in charge.” The apprentice takes out a document. “The rules stated in this document, will now decide how the Kingdom is run. If you refuse, I will kill you all.” Without waiting for an answer from the council of advisors, the apprentice disappears in a puff of smoke.
The former great one walks over to where the document falls and picks it up. He starts reading it quietly to himself. “Well, what does it say?” One of the advisors asks.
“There are a lot of changes to be made.” The former great one declares.
“If we refuse, can he carry out his threat?” Another advisor asks.
“Yes,” The former great one answers, “He is more than capable of carrying out his threat.”
“What are we going to do?” Another advisor chimes in.
“If you don’t want to die, I suggest you follow the rules of this document.” The former great one replies.
One Star Review
I started writing a novel. I write roughly 800 words a day. It's slow going, and I have to wonder if the burn is too slow - if when we recount stories, ones we'd like to tell others, the candle actually burns in the other direction.
I have to wonder if my novel will get a one star review. If at the end of the day, the novel is for the audience, and not for the author themselves - but is surviving - writing prose that feeds some internal flame, living to see another day - for ourselves, or is it for others?
What if my novel never fills the void? Where does candle smoke go when there's no oxygen to even feed the flame; if a writer writes a novel and no one reads it, did it exist? Where does it go to make itself known?
This is already too abstract, and short, because I'm shot. I'm glad I'm embarking on this journey, but at what emotional cost? In the words of poet and writer Ocean Vuong, in his second-to-last Instagram post (because I'm not stalking him or anything), he says that he has completed his second novel - and that it took something from him that he may never get back.
Here's to leaving it all behind, to never getting back the pain, and the trauma, and instead making our stories of survival ones of hope, of our inner turmoil's flames going in one direction: skyward, where we can see the smoke spell out our dreams.
Errant Thoughts
I spend a lot of time thinking about worlds beyond my own. Places that may not even exist. I know it’s normal for someone like us, but actually going there, unfortunately, is not.
An ant seeing the side of a building has no comprehension of the colossal construct in front of it. It can’t comprehend the way it scrapes the sky like a steel claw, it can’t understand that contained within it are a million things that dwarf it in every possible way.
It certainly doesn’t find itself wishing to be a part of it. And yet, I find myself in the curious position of being an ant who does. I long to glimpse beyond into something clearly not meant for me, something well beyond me in every way.
I want that, more than anything. And the worst part is…I think I want that for everyone else too. Whether they want it or not.
Is that wrong? Does that make me a bad person? To want to forcibly rip the wool from the eyes of an entire world, even if they’re not ready, even if I’m not ready. Even if I had the power to do so, I don’t know if I should.
And yet, I find myself thinking, “When will we ever consider ourselves ready?”. We won’t. We never will. And so, why not.
In the immortal words of Bilbo Baggins, “Why shouldn’t I?”.
Hopefully, should it ever come to pass, should we ever draw back the cosmic curtain and find ourselves faced with the next great step in the celestial plan (if any exists), it goes better for us than it did for him.
Perhaps, just like him, it will simply take some time, muddling through chaos and hellfire, to reach an amazing destination.
Thanks for taking the time to read the egotistical ramblings of a Selfish Neurotic.