Monday, July 16, 2012
Three words asked of me to write about.
This was a result of someone pushing me where my mind is concerned. I told her give me just three words and I will close my eyes and give you an area, smell and sounds and give you a nicer dream.
Laying with her naked in bed, she sitting up and smoking a cig, she told me three words: Rope, spaghetti and turtle.
I gave her a tiny story she seemed happy with. This grew from that:
Annie awoke late afternoon on a stiffling, humid Saturday. Head throbbing from far too many whiskey sours and singing Shanya Twains tunes in her husbands bar with friends that lay wasted across her tan livingroom floor and dining room.
Smelling bacon in the distance like a mirage to the parched, instinct guide her to the kitchen.
Has snoring ever seemed so loud, she thought, placing slender palms to sides of her head.
What in the name of god did i drink last night, greying longish brown locks falling over shoulders,
Seeing his woman before him, never failing to get aroused by her pressence in front of him regardless of the decade plus they'd shared. Seeing her screwed up eyes and twisted face, asking her: " you got something against bacon?"
Please, lower voice.... stupid, yes, but did you m-make coffee?
Sitting on stool, puke not far from her throat, she eyes nearest wastebasket and its proximity
Husband at counter, cutting veggies to make omlets, tosses carelesly from blades edge a shard of celery. It hits to floor softly.
Peering out from under molding counters home, Tamara, seeing food for her children, weighs the odds. Sharp claws useless against tiles floors, both tail and neck extending, waiting to make her move.
Man embraces woman cradling head.
Scurrying out to grasp the shard of celery, reaching and biting hard for purchase, tiny eyes darting in all angles, heading back to home.
Children fed as the only pond around here is in the basement of these humans.
Hours later, hangover lesser and lesser pounding at temples, Annie hangs laundry on this hot Iowa day over flimsy clotheslines . Wearing sunglasses, more to elevate direct sunlight but more to kill last nights booze grip on her.
Her husband, wearing tight sweat covered blue tank top sees her from a distance. Gazing fondly at Annies erect nipples, knowing them well, endlessly wishing to kiss them more and more, love and emotions undying, each day, week, month or year. He walks towards her with both fire in his eye as his groin engorged.
Approaching her, knowing what he wants, she shuts him down flatly: Don’t even think about it, bucko! We got your family coming over here for dinner in no time and I have to cook. Tossing him a glance of possible later events if he helps her, she cocks her average body in ways inviting.
Later, family arrives and children begin to play about.
Laughter of children and adults intertwine harmoniously over subjects obscured by age and experience. Embraces whole heartedly felt, smiles shared, eyes meeting.
Annie says loudly, proudly : I did say bring a dish. All I made was Spag and Meatballs. Hubby’s got the beer and booze ready. There are two changing tents CLEARLY marked Male and Female for changing for the pool.
Chuckling, Annie states, At least wait til the kids sleep in tents before you people go nude in the pool. Be kind before you need to rewind…
Her husband sister yells, not even having so much as a beer yet: “Where’s the music?!?!?!?!.
Knowing his sisters whiny voice, he ’s hit’s the PLAY button: Milliseconds later, V V Brown’s Shark in the Water blares from JBL’s enveloping the massive deck, huge Jacuzzi and pool.
“Can I do anything? “ Gwen, Annies sister, asked her. Opening plate glass patio doors, smells of garlic, butter and onions holding her nose.
Hugging her sister a second time. Emotions higher, warmth rising, feeling more homeward with each passing second. Annie said: Thanks. You can watch the kids in the yard. Watch them around the tire-swing. I told him I worry about the rope…
Sister nods, Men are assholes.
Sisters embrace again. Tender moments exchanged.
Albeit slightly so before fierce instability takes hold.
Afternoon brightness romping quickly to lesser shades as strong yellow sunlight, like western gunfighters so eagerly ride horses, heading east to darkness.
White skies, yellow sharp below, diving toward the terminator. Reaching reds, orange going into water off a lake as light blues grow to sharper/ darker to Royal blues finally ending in a black star filled night.
Splashings in the pool, fragrances of BBQ’d ribs, steak and chicken, adult laughter from bad jokes spread. T’Pua: Heart and Soul thumps from the JBL’s. Family dancing on the deck, on the grounds, nude in the pool and hot-tub.
This families children all accounted for, playing both video and board games in the AC’d family room.
Annie, seeing her Seiko hit 930 pm on this summer, staggered to close the gates to the grounds.
Bears and wolves were known to these lands.
‘Watch this, “ Annies husband said, tossing left-overs from the higher reaches of the deck to the left of the pool. Tossing head back, turning toward his heart of hearts, seeing his beautiful woman in full, though slightly in inebriated view: I love you, Annie!
Swaying hips, tilting head, slowly moving toward, wearing a filmy tight fitting shift, Annie smiling walks to her man.
People dancing on the deck, lit by Tikki’s flittering light, moving.
Annie grabs her husband by the his hips, yanking him to hers.
Smiling, firmly kissing him on the lips, sucking him into her.
As he does her. Loving her more and more with each and every tightened muscle she spends on him.
A childs cry shrieks killing all silence, cutting peace of this night like a chainsaw to a living rabbit.
Audible SNAP! Is heard followed by a THUD as Akron tire whitewall and tiny child hit hard, sundried Earth.
Dark hollow, no longer sleeping not protecting hers, Tamara awakens abruptly.
Crying? Is this crying? I know this!
She glances towards hers, sleeping deeply, soundly unbothered.
Safe. Mine are.
Leaving safe lands known, Tamara walks.
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” broken child cries as night walkers, eaters cover the areas behind Annies house.
Twin lights strolling cautiously across the dark landscape , the eyes of night flesh eaters cornering, closing, homing in.
“Fuck IT! IT All TASTES LIKE CHICKEN!” a wasted guy named Felix says, tossing all the Spag and meatballs out away to the far right.
Slowly, painfully, watching wolves and bear go to the side, she grabs at the tired that gave up a child.
Child sobbing, broken bones, tangled in mesh twinning’s.
Tamara’s sharp teeth clamp on unpleasing flavored nylon rope.
Pulling toward her lair, eyes looking at fierce creatures that would take them both out. Holding purpose, staying the course.
Much effort spent, close enough for humans to take from her.
Annie reaches and take the child in her arms.
Tamara cocks head, meets Annies eyes showing amazement.
Drawing backward, ascending deck stairs, reaching her husbands desired embrace. Let’s leave the Snappers alone. Okay?
Amazed, tears running down strong cheeks, : Anything you say, darling….
The End: MWD07162012
Like a song mentioned in this tale: VV Brown’s Shark in the Water.
This is my first total writing with nothing but three words to create from and complete in over twenty years.
This is total fiction on my part and am thankful for the challenge.
Thank you, Gretchen!
Mark William Darus 07162012
Tommy: Game of Hangman. Part Two.
Leaving part one:
….Frustrated and failing with a Texas accent : Just give me a beer!
“What beer would you like to have, Imported, Russian or elsewhere?’
Tagging him, suspiciously, he is brought down….
“Sir, you must be more specific in your requests here. Pardon, sir, but you must.” Elegant, dark haired, handsome man of height spoke eloquently on.
I asked for absinthe, didn’t I? Did I fucker stutter? More nervous with each syllable, voice growing louder, the birth of sweat touching face. Just give me a Goddamned absinthe!
Bartenders smile growing broader, knowing far too well the road Tommy was going to travel. “Absolutely, sir! Your wish is my command!”
Tuxedoed man slowly turns 180 degrees, tanned left hand taps on mahogany paneling in Morse code: D-D-D. d-d-d, D-D-D! Message of SOS releases magnetic hold and small door opens slowly, creaking over hinged release. Right hand grasping bottle of Tommy’s desire, a scantily clad redhead with sagging breasts and sunken nipples asks where the Ale Smith ales are. Motioning to his left toward neon vibrantly in greenish hues: ALE SMITH ALES.
Gracefully pirouetting toward Tommy, free hand snagging an overly tall shot glass, he begins to pour bluish liquid into it, deftly mixing other watery substance into it . Rising tall as the drink reaches safe crest, starring at Tommy, he lights it.
WHOOSH! Igniting proudly, flame changing colours as the arenas ever-changing lights touch it briefly.
“Here you go, Sir!. Absinthe, as you asked for. Enjoy!”
Hand taking flaming drink from evil-eyed Bond from Hell, eyes meeting firmly. Sincerest of handshakes thru glass from the giver of Guyana Grape punch to the soon poisoned.
Off to other concerns, Mr Tux leaves Tommy, exit stage left in quick fashion.
Do we do this, or don’t we? The drinks flame, as his body shadows it from back lit illumination, goes from blue to green to orange.
FOoooooooooooF! Flame blown out, three quarters of liquid left in tall, slender glass, lazily smoky vapor dissipating.
Let’s go to Hell!
Closed eyes, standing tall, shoulders broad, catches one last glimpse of himself in the massive mirror layered in its forefront with every type of alcoholic beverage known to mankind. He places glass to pink lips, mouth opening slowly to greet flavours not known. Body tightening, legs tensing firmly, back nearly arching in expectation.
Bottoms up! Slamming the glass down in exclamation. Holding in mouth closely.
Letting go and swallowing.
Tommy’s eyes open sharply as fluid takes over tongue. Eyes, pupils rapidly cart wheeling madly about, taking in a millisecond at a time as the drink courses down his lessening throat, final eye-to-eye with himself.
Let’s go to Hell.
Not so bad. Losing sense of self, failing at control, he quips as he does a 90 degree from the bar. Eyes taking in shades of keener darkness senses like that of a feline predator, seeking out with only instinctive hunger guiding him.
Bumping into a 80’s dressed male with spiky hair, Tommy embraces him and plants a kiss. Responding in kind, Flock of Seagulls dude reacts in kind, taking tongue in and giving same. Holding each other firmly, 80’s guy asks Tommy to pull back from him and gut-punch him.
Tommy, going with freeing mind and streaming illegal booze, grants him his wish.
Sort of, that is.
Staggering man of small embrace backs away, eyes locking to Tommy’s. He drops to his knees.
Dropping back, Tommy’s mind calculating best situation possible. He steps forward moments later and draws his right leg behind him.
90 decibel riffs, killer bass tones with spiraling light show arrays mating with dank smell of growing urgent, sexual sweat, pit odor and those direly in need of a douche.
Blood shoots abundantly as speeding foot meets face as the 80’s guy nose explodes as cartilage barely misses brain with impact. “th-tha-thanx, man. G-god! That wu-w-was fucKING AWESOME!”
Tommy, no reaction, no emotion, without raise in either heart rate or blood pressure, tests his luck on the dance floor.
Flashing lights in a myriad of colours and intensities, not holding grayish cheaply made plastic handrails, descending 40 steps to fiercely under-lit colored floor with writhing humanity over it, casting eerie images to the ceiling above.
Reaching bottom, but only on this floor, he with head held high meets wasted males and females head-on. He grabs a brunette by the back of the head and pulls her into him. Left hand gripping on right, though anorectic tit. Forehead to hers, drugged exaggerated eyes and minds melded, searching, bruising her as she takes hold of soft groin hiding behind cotton fabric.
Shayla pulls up on Tommy’s balls like one might a Bic from a table wanting to light a smoke.
Eyes meeting in the truest of mutual agonies only never to be known by those without drugs. Knowledge crossing unspoken wavelengths between them. She lifts his shirt up with her right hand, exposing flat and bare chest.
Never leaving her eyes. Her eyes growing in intensity.
Music pounding, imaging’s flooding colored.
Blood Red acrylic nails of her left hand slash his chest deeply, furrowing it, carrying flesh under them.
I love you! Gasping in ecstasy, Tommy looks at her. Body feeling looser than it has felt in ages. He reaches for Shayla.
Shayla drops to her knees quickly, avoiding his arms extended toward her. No embrace, no, don’t want that at all, fucker!
Looking down, eyes glazed, mind wanting more absinthe…
Shayla pulls Tommy toward her.
She licks his stomach where his blood rolled down to. Taking it, sucking it in, tasting iron, moving toward his chest, elation, resurgence, hotter, more alive.
Cleaning him, rising to meet face to face, eye to eye. “Beat me, hurt me, lick my blood! Take me as I did you!.” Shayla’s look of ferocity shrouded with bloodstained white hair back lit morphing humanity behind her.
Tommy, obliging, leans toward her, pearly whites abase in colour, lowering himself toward her chest, wanting to take a bite from her chest, rebounds suddenly and gives her a right hand to the jaw, breaking it, giving her a moment of pure pleasure followed by months of pain.
Threading his way through undulating throngs of semi nude flesh in various stages of connections, Tommy seeks greater shades of pain through tainted pale hues.
Strong right hand connecting with an S&M garbed brunette, asking her, panting loudly.
What else is here?
The brunette, balancing a 24 inch circular tray of drinks, never losing balance. “Let me deliver these, Sir and I will step you further. One moment, please.” Passing him, passing no other words, knowing this man will grant bigger tip-age if she drags and gives dire warnings to what lay beyond this area.
Granted, Shayla’s warnings should be heeded, but men are stupid. She knows this and the greater she spins, placing her now nude body against them in some fucked sign of purity, will make them tip her further. She tells them what is beyond and its horrors.
They never listen.
Shayla reaches for him as she takes him to the doorway that only goes down.
Dying refrains of Creed’s Higher and purple to blue colours reaching this place he asked for, diving deeper, seeking what others feared to embrace.
Heart beating faster, second absinthe downed in a blink, confident, going down swinging.
“Just open that door, “ she said, going for the 1-0-0 tip Tommy held to her. ‘Have a nice stay.”
Reaching for doorknob, feeling life course his veins in ways unknown to him, wasted, yet feeling more alive than ever.
Taking hold, hearing Kiss Alive’s Detroit Rock City echoing…
He opens another door…
Authors Note: End of Part II.
Personal note: Damn, even I did not know when I started this where it would go to this area. Knowing where this is going, grant me time to finish this.
Christ this is so falling to areas that take much in ability and strength on my part.
Like the Creed song: Can you take me higher?
Mark William Darus 07162012.