Fighter jets ran out of fuel
She dreams in clips.
A music video; she’s walking beside a stranger she loves terribly, they’re in an amusement park and laughing, on a rollercoaster and gasping.
Reaching up to the swirling sludge-puppy sky.
The sharp jabbing beeps of her alarm shock her into the deep end of her room.
Left with nothing but a headache and time running out before her boss calls to swoon into her ear his concerns and constructive bullshit, she quickly and inadequately washes up, bites into a piece of last nights pie and has her instant coffee on the go, almost spilling the black liquid down the stairs.
The sun’s too bright, the streets too loud, the walk way too hard, her clothes too close, what she wouldn’t do for a nap right now.
The blur of faces at work remind her of that rollercoaster, that stranger with a red tongue, and the foreign smile on her own face.
She pokes and prods her cheeks – hollow tombs for the flies.
Maybe it all becomes a type of drug, the lies and the ridicule of the world, and you take it all in. It does its job and you piss it out, shit it out.
The Virus of life.
You know what’s fun and easy?
Creating book titles and cover art. ‘Tis A joyous activity which enthrals me for hours.
Writing a book for that cover art and title, on the other hand, is not only hard but downright boring (yeah I said it) writing goddamn novels/a short story collection is godawfully tedious.
Why bother you ask? Well, I don’t know, I have this itch to produce a novel, a novella, and a short story collection. After that… Nah, I’ll still want to make more! Deep down I am a storyteller, I think.
I have well over ten beautiful titles and cover art (no doubt aided by the visual bias my pretty aspergers affords me)
I have three alter-egos; “perhaps you are stretching yourself too thin?” You say
But I tried doing the single author thing and I damn near gave up writing altogether.
Who wants to be themselves, ALL THE TIME? Urgh so gross!
I figured fuck it why not display some of my cover art work?
I wasn’t going to (and won’t) sell my books anyhow. Just copyright that baby.
Oh The life of a working-class aspie.
One of my dreams is for some of my works to be adapted to film (be it tv, or anime, heck even comics!)
Once again, the visual medium really drives a lot of the things I do creatively (maybe this is why I struggle with literature??¿)
Alas may the aspirations never cease cuddling my impatient brain. Hopefully some of my dreams will be realised before I turn to dust.
They Kiss Quiet
He kisses quiet and she kisses quiet
Nobody knows when they kiss except them
Any passion in their kiss is shared in private;
They haven’t done the French kiss;
He isn’t a prude, it’s the saliva, and besides – how do you coordinate such a thing?
She isn’t a prude either, it’s that foreign warmth, the texture of a tongue (her own tongue gives her the shivers at the best of times), what more a strangers’?
They watch porn together;
they’re fucking like maniacs, she says
He nods, adding: and so loud,
All of that sweat she concludes
They haven’t had sex, they would like to, theoretically. The idea of losing yourself in the moment, in another person, they both agree that this would be an exciting occasion. Although that’s very Hollywood, that «losing yourselves in the other», what does it actually mean, she wonders
He blunts out a theory, maybe like when a really deep song is playing you close your eyes and for those minutes you’re gone, on a another planet
She adds: In another dimension
They smile, if sex is like that then maybe it won’t be too bad, a few seconds of contemplative facial expressions, wistful even, quickly turn to frowns and furrowed brows
But the smell! And the noises! They both blurt out, laughter rings out in front of the muted TV.
Endless fucking; even in movies without sex, they manage to squeeze in something, be it a pointless relationship or love interest (or brothel, she intercepts). His words hover for a second.
The whole world is a Sex of Noise, she declares,
He smiles, nodding, but frowns immediately.
The porn flick concludes with an “Over the Moon” money shot and fades to black.
She says: I wonder what the rest of her day will be like. Wouldn’t it be funny if she went to visit the family back home and she’s kissing grandma and sister’s daughters.
They laugh and watch Classic Tom & Jerry cartoons into the mid-night and beyond.
All day my middle finger does a job
Keep a hole open while my colleague extracts valuables
When the job is done and I remove my middle finger I know the next six months will be stained by a stench which sticks with me tirelessly
The job pays me three months worth of labour and I come back every time because I have to
The doctor said I run the risk of passing this horrendous smell onto my unborn child
I haven’t told my partner
We already have a two year old daughter and she’s developed an allergy to my middle finger; so has my grandmother — who looks after my daughter during the dreaded months
I’ve been saving up and hopefully sooner than later I’ll be able to find a way to use all of this money to stop the smell
The hospital had to be cleared after the arrival of my first son
My partner and I haven’t stopped shedding tears
We sit on the other side of the plastic room
His little body oozing that all too familiar odour
But, ten times stronger, an entire ward is Under quarantine
I’ll need to work more shifts
Something I’ve never done before having feared what it would do to my middle finger but for my child I’ll do anything
So stressed my sense of smell has gone anyway
Maybe they’ll find a cure
Or is it remedy
I don’t know
Got to keep on. What other alternative is there any way?
You want me to be superhuman
-i never said
The way you look at me, the way your face turns when I do something human
-you’re imagining things
I blow my nose and you tense up, you see the contents of my drawer and you act like some juvenile from the movies. This is real life and I’m a human being same as you
Don’t ‘never mind’ me. Are we two grown-ups in this relationship or is this a movie with cameras and no end to your imagined action?
-i don’t think I can do this
And most things too. Enjoy your starring role.
A coin dropped in The packed Kraft Café and everybody continued where they left off when he walked out the door.
She swiped her newspaper and put on her reading glasses, sipping on some coco-Kaffeesahne
You know I find greetings insufferable, so I shall pass the convention gleefully.
I have been eating rather sparsely of late. Not out of any illness, but rather I find food has lost its magic; my tongue cannot discern between two lavish dishes. As you can imagine,with my intimate history with food, this affects me deeply.
I must insist; it is neither a form of depression nor existential malaise (the two are brother and sister); I do hope this news shan’t affect you adversely.
A final note of whining: my uncle has been a tragedy of late! He came from the shadows to plague us with his mysterious illness which no doctor can find and he cannot describe!
In the night he moans like a dying kitten and in the day he sits rather pompously before the television holding onto the remote as if it were a miracle cure. He is robbing the family of a peaceful winter and mother is too kind to see him off.
I digress. I wish terribly that you were here.
Talking about the recipient of this letter; how has the operation gone?
How guilty I feel for not being able to tag along with you.
To be whole, to look in the mirror and finally see yourself staring back! What wonders this century has; alongside tragedies that fog all progress. I add reluctantly.
O! How insufferable I can be; forgive me for my cynical inclinations. I am a terrible cross breed between masochist and pessimist.
I must be off; The uncle summons me. I beg you to respond as soon as possible. I will be dreaming of you my dearest friend.
Yours fatally; Anya.