A letter on a paper napkin.

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Don't Let It Go Away.

on't Let It Go Away. It’s something like 12:20 a.m. and there is no one to be seen in any direction. This isn’t the sort of place to be out in without backup or a quick method of get away. If where Katie lived was a rundown, crime infested eyesore then this was it’s bigger, meaner comtempory in short the Compton of this city. A smell of sewage pervades the thick, damp atmosphere making breathing difficult and unpleasant. Someone screams on the upper floors in one of the buildings, but it’s drowned out by a siren heading in the opposite direction. Not that it matters no one would have given a damn anyway. Even if they had no one would have come to the rescue. In one of the alleys a garbage can is knocked over by the actions of a starving black cat. It’s eyes turn toward us glowing as though possessed. Arching it’s back, it spits at us before running deeper into the ally. The sky is brown as opposed to it’s expected black or a moody purple; the constant light and layer of smog hide the stars to the edges of it the promise of stars still exists. However we’ll never see them because we’ll never go that far. It’s just easier to stay where you’re at most of the time.
As we progress down the wet sidewalk feeling the dirty vapors floating upward around us, we begin to notice the signs of human life. Maybe it’s a sound or maybe it’s a movement we see out the very corner of our eyes. However there are no conscious sounds only a faint pulse you feel more than hear. It resounds in the chest controlling the rise and fall of our breathing, the rhythm of our steps giving a new swing to them. It’s a driving beat that prevents the mind from focusing on anything, but it. In some quarters they call that a house party beat while others refer to the phenomenon as techno. I’m rather partial to techno myself, you can call it a quirk. The glance is suddenly drawn to the right towards a flash of motion. We whip around expecting some demented creature of the night to jump out and kill us. So we are more than a little um… embrasshed to see our fears materlize into a Coke can rolling across the ground before launching out into a deep puddle in the narrow street. The sound of it’s progression and demise is absurdly frightening after the sense of quiet we have become use to. But then again one can never be too careful in the dark. The can is merely the advance guard of a personage now stepping out of a particularly dense patch of darkness into a brief oasis of dim orange tinted light courtesy of a crooked streetlight. It’s our girl – Ms McPhreason - marching purposely toward the epicenter of the pulse. She walks like a well oiled machine - measured, collected, and aloof. The illusion of self-mastery is marred by the bemused smile on her ‘just this side of pretty’ face. The darkness takes her again, but she isn’t afraid it’s the light she’s not use to.
A traffic light sways in a breeze we can’t feel flickering to green as a sleek shadow runs under it. Why it doesn’t have it’s lights on is not a question we feel sure about answering. Sobbing can be heard echoing from somewhere in the concrete maze. There is nothing to be done so we do nothing choosing instead to follow the girl. We can hear the tapping of her heels on the concrete it follows a precise measure. The predictability of it comforts us nervous as we are in this neck of the woods. The breeze races by again this time closer and like a mischievous little boy it lifts her indecent skirt to give us a nice view of her firm, round butt cheeks. She giggles perhaps at how intimate it is against the hot, wet channel between her legs. The breeze lowers the hem again as though it’s been caught out. We pass by a particularly explict graffiti drawing of a curvaceous woman wearing nothing but smile with her hands in places not suitable for children. Feeling suddenly bold, perhaps embolden by the porno, the erstwhile wind moves like a lover’s hand to leisurely lift her skirt upward, revealing inch by inch the soft, smooth skin that glances shyly from underneath a pair of ripped fishnet stocking. It flutters the cloth higher and we see black lace lingerie.
An old poster flips head over heels past her feet. And now the lighting becomes more regular so that we see what a fantastic figure she really is. Her hairstyle remains one of a bird – a cockatoo perhaps. It is a comb like that of a rooster only dyed an irradiant blue lighter at the top and darker towards the bottom. It whispers compliments of it’s wearer to all onlookers expounding to them on the unclassical beauty of her flawless, pearl-like skin. Her greyhound figure appears tall in the militant way that she holds herself, but the five inch heeled platform shoes she wears are a great help in the height department. All the makeup she wears is in shades of blue, the eye shadow, the lipstick, even the scant blush on her fashioniably high cheek bones. Damn, if the girl doesn’t know a good color scheme when she imagines one. The cold-harden nipples of her b-cup sized breasts press against the fabric of her jacket-like leather top in quite a fetching manner. After a lot of thought she had decided to forgo the extra jewelry for a simple choker buckled around her slender, white throat. On her back she carries a black velvet backpack that fastens with a dragon shaped pewter clasp. She walks alone in her fantastic costume like someone who knows what she’s doing and where she’s going. She really is a better actor than she thinks.
We can hear the music now and Katie is rallying herself for the upcoming encounter with the bouncer. The tapping of her heels falls in line with the deep, throbbing beat emanating from a doorway to the left of us. A darkly handsome man leaning against the doorstil slides in front of her blocking the entrance. "ID?" For all of a moment she is tempted to crawl back home to the uncomplicated, uninspiring life she understands. But of course that was just a moment the kind we all have to deal with. Lightening struck (figurely) and she quickly opened her jacket to display two plumb, perky pink-nippled breasts to a, shall we say, pleased bouncer. His rough hands reach out to grope her and she is all for it, but then we see a loud group heading this way. More than likely they’re a bunch of prep school brats looking to have an ‘experience’. And who the hell wants that kind of trash in their establishment? The bouncer pulls her close to him and whispers in her ear, “I’ll see you in later tonight. We have unfinished business little girl.” Pressing a red button hidden in the frame of the door a buzzing sounds and then the door creaks open.
Smiling her newest tool at the amused doorman and buttoning her top she walks in like it's her birthright. It takes a few minutes for her eyes to adjust to the sudden decrease in light, beside which the music is so loud it seems to be coming from inside her. She coughs slightly unused to the quanity and varity of smoke present. Through the fog of it Katie sees the crowd dance floor gyrating like a living creature. Smirking she slinks toward it through the dense crowd. Cat whistles come from a group of shady figures at the bar. She flips them an off-handed bird drawing laughter and applauses. Holding her head higher she continues toward the center of the action. Someone jumps in front of her waving a bright, kool-aid pink glow stick. He is dressed like some lonely child’s idea of a futuristic court jester. In his left hand he holds a bag of what look like marshmallows or maybe those hearts they give out on Valentine’s Day. “Hey if you promise to check up on me every once in a while I’ll share these with you! In fact I’ll give you half of these and a couple of the joints I’ve got in my pocket!” Using unsoliciated drugs from some dude in a dark club on the first night out she’s had in…ever? Hell why not, she might as well die happy. “Sure… what was your name again?” “Sheldon. My name is Sheldon and my friend Bobby is suppose to come get me at about two.” He opens the bag and pours about half of the little pills into her hand. Reaching into his a side pocket he pulls out another plastic bag holding about ten skinny sticks of weed. “Okay so just check on me every once in a while and tell me when my friend gets here. Thanks!” He turned around and began to skip away into the crowd. Shaking her head she laughes at Sheldon’s silliness.
Looking at the small pile in her hand she wonders how many is too many of these magic little pills. She decides that two won’t kill her just fuck her up a good bit. Putting the rest of her wages into small pocket on the side of her red tinted leather skirt she heads toward the nearest table. Two men sit at it holding hands. One whispers into the other’s ear. It must be something good, because he smiles in a significant manner. She grabs a drink off the table hoping she isn’t about to do something incrediabily stupid. Popping the small star shaped pills into her mouth she knocks back the drink in one swallow. The couple at the table look aghast. She blows a kiss at them and precedes toward the floor. A frown crosses her face as she wonders exactly when these things kick in. Oh, well she really couldn’t complain she’d gotten them free anyway. The D.J. drops a new mix and a general reshuffing occurs. Bodies brush against her, but most seem intent on going somewhere else to her disappointment.
Inpending death must causes intense horniness either that or she was truly experiencing a new part of herself. A very demanding part of herself that just happened to be located no where near her normally intelligent brain. Literally pushing onward she encountered an especially difficult clash of bodies. Trying to keep all her limbs to her self she was just a little miffed to feel a hand cup her behind and squeeze. In the light of day or her ordinary life she would have gotten defensive, insulted, afraid tonight she leaned into it for a few seconds her eyes drifting closed. A minute later she distangled herself hoping that the eager hand was right, excuse the pun, behind her. She suddenly stumbles nearly tripping over nothing feeling kind of dizzy. But it’s not displeasing it actually feels sort of fun. Everything looks blurred around the edges- softer less intimateding and a warm glow suffuses it making everything somehow appear wonderful. She’s rocking to the beat with the rest of the crowd. It’s like she’s been connected to the wire. She feels someone holding her close from behind. Something doesn’t seem right about them. She couldn’t concentrate, the strobes were in her eyes and her head felt like it was going to split in half. Two calloused hands were working their way up her thighs. She broke away into the moshing crowd.
Someone pushed her and she landed into a pair of arms. There seemed to be hands everywhere, she laughed, she was flying. Opening her eyes, she didn’t remember closing them, she saw the ceiling and the lights. She was riding on top of the crowd their hands supporting her and frankly groping her. Suddenly she dipped toward the ground only to be launched back up. She flew a few feet to the left where she was caught and thrown again. Her heart was about to abandon ship, but then she saw other people receiving the same treatment and enjoying it. Feeling more secure she let herself relax into going so far as to turn a back flip during a turn earning cheers from the side lines. She was thrown up again and decided to try another acrobatic feat. Unfortunately she over-rotated and was about to crash to the ground. A pair of wiry arms caught her before she had a very intimate face-to-face encounter with the dirt encrusted floor. Somebody cheered, someone incrediabily loud and drunk, cheered. Who the fuck cheers when someone has damn near hit the ground really, really hard? She snarled balling her fist. If the world were a luckier place then people like that would cheerfully walk into oncoming traffic all on their very own. The arms in which she was cradled held her close to a chest that seemed rather familer as well as very uh…feminane.
Katie pushed away from her unlikely savior and potential stalker who still holding her set her down carefully. She turned to go, but her wrist was caught in the graspe of her persitant suitor. Whirling around she encounters the hard form of a somewhat boyish woman. She froze in shock. A woman, the person who has been following her all night is a woman? Ten years worth of intense religious training kicks in causing her to make a run for it. Homosexuality was a major no-no on the morality scale. If she did it and then she committed sucide she’d gain a double whammy of deadly sin and surely go straight to hell. Fuck they’d put her beneath hell at the rate she was going. A carefully placed arm halts her hasty retreat. The beat drops down to be replaced by her heartbeat and a roaring in the ears as a pair of slightly chapped lips draws ever closer. Funny but she stopped struggling the instant their lips met. The ideal it seems was scarier than the reality. The mouth kissing her has soft, full lips and a warm interior that is sweet with a spicy undertone. Does she naturally taste like that or has she been drinking something in particular? She smells like something familiar, a perfume she had smelled before. But what was it, who wore it? It kept bugging her she knew there was a important bit of information just out of her reach.
Her new lover drew back abruptly grabbing her hand and leading Katie through the turmulous scene toward a more secluded area. Opening a side door Katie found herself in the red misma of an emergency stairwell. From the sounds coming further up the stairs in the sheltering darkness this wasn’t exactly a closely guarded secret. The climb up the stairs grounded the moment in reality, especially as she was not the most atletic people in the world. They reached a new landing where Katie was slammed into the wall. She was being kissed fiercely unable to focus due to the clever workings of a quick, hard tongue exploring her mouth throughly. She wish she could be more interactive in this,but it was all she could do not to fall. She lifts her legs to straddle a pair of sweetly curving hips. A chuckle rides upon the crest of whiskey scented breathe entering her own throat. The sounds of the club and the interactions of the others on this landing are a misty background in the very back of her mind along with all her inhibitions; the only thing that matters right now are a pair of strong, sure hands and an eager, quick-silver tongue. Those hands follow their own ideals running over her curves and traveling into the sweet spaces hidden about her.
The fingers of one hand slides up her thigh and under her elastic into her waiting vagina. A now beloved mouth moves from her mouth to trace the line of her long, slender throat fastening onto the junction of shoulder and throat. She’ll have major hickey there in the morning. The flesh vibrates under a pair of red lips, Katie is moaning from the minstrations of the coarse fingers inside her. The jacket we know so well is unzipped and pulled off to be tossed on the floor with the rest of the refudge. Katies is pushed into the wall harder and adjusted to be supported by her partner’s lower body. Secured for the time being the hand not currently occupied moves up to toy with the breast presented to it. Our unconventual hero seizes the opportunity and clams it’s mouth onto her right breast sucking on it in a manner that remains one of a vaccum cleaner on high. But apparently that’s a good thing because we get a full blast yell out of our heroine.
Somebody decides to join in somewhere down the hall. Her yelling becomes screaming as she obviously comes to very satisfying conclusion to her erotic roller coaster. (Please let me have picked that up somewhere. I really don’t want something so stupid to have come out of my own head. I mean erotic roller coaster?) Ms. McPhreason is now riding on a building crest of pleasure the fingers stretching her joined by a long, energetic tongue. The gluttious mouth devouring her cunt purses it’s lips together and then sucks hard on the young brunette’s nub while rubbing that friendly hand roughly rubs it’s thick knuckles to and fro inside the slick passage. Katie is bucking fiercely trying to get as much sensation as she can into her aching twat. (Note: This author is determined to get 50,000 words onto this stupid thing, before the end of the month which is three days from now. So if the writing gets monotonous, stupid, and/or just plain distasteful to you. Get the fuck over it. Because I most certainly have you bloody arses! We now return you to the story as in progress.) The fingers opened and spread far apart before folding in such a way that only the index and middle finger were extended outward. Pushing the two fingers in just a little deeper the girl begins to deep fuck her. Every time Katie inhaled the fingers moved out and every time she inhaled the fingers went in just the slightest bit deeper. Gently she nibbled at the soft, salty tissue while her tongue liked first fast, than slow against the walls, the lips, the clit. She played around down there like she was a whore and the rent was due tomorrow. She smiled when she heard the tell-tale tempo of ragged breathes. It meant her wood dove was getting that much closer to coming.
Katie was finally going to relieve the aching weight she’d been carrying between her legs for the last 5,000 words. Her cunt was being expertly sucked as one index finger lubed with her own vaginal secretions was gently, but firmly introduced into her ‘virginal’ anus. She bit down on her lip hard nearly breaking the delicate skin. The counter balance of the painful insertion somehow heightened the pleasure she was getting from being eaten out. Her breath began coming in gasps (there is a hell of a lot of gasping in this novel isn’t there? Maybe I have a deep seated asthma problem or something.) as she finally reaches orgasm. A camera flashes and horny little boys with no one to play with annoy their betters as she jerks fitfully her hips held still in a strong grip. She lies her weary head back basking in the afterglow of the experience. It’d been good, but not really worth eternal damnation. Oh, well who actually gave a damn about anything eternal or not. She hears laughter from the black haired seducer kneeling in front of her.
“And what exactly is so funny? I’m experiencing an entirely different life style here and you decide to get a case of the frigging giggles?!” She opens her mouth to continue her stupid little tyrade but instead ends up in another throat deep kiss. Girls are just as salty as boys it seems. At least she is, the taste of herself is kind of intoxicating on the spiciness of this girl’s lips. Some party pooper has turn on the lights in the hallway startling everyone, but it is helpful since now is the chance to see who her new lover is. Opening her eyes she sees... Allison. "Allison!" Allison her best friend of over ten years who she lived with for five and has gone through some of the worst transitions of her life has just tongue and finger fucked her to an orgasm! Well, what a lovely surprise! No I’m not being sarcastic I’m really serious! Allison seems ashamed and backs away toward the stairs. “Allison where are you going? You are not living me after what we’ve just done, at least not without letting me return the favor.” That last part gave Ally pause, as she rotated on her heel to look at Katie. Walking up to her she shoved her back against the wall forcing her into a brutal kiss. A quick hand jams a small folded piece of paper in to Katie’s skirt pocket. Pulling away she turns slipping into a loping run back to the club, to the crowd where she can lose herself.
Katie rushes to follow grabbing her top off the floor and slipping it on not bothering to zip it back up. "Allison!?" Bursting through the rusted door she tried to find her friend. She thought she saw the raven head of the Amazonian girl, but it turned into someone else on closer examination. Feeling herself coming down from her high, perhaps aided by the evaporation of her marshmallow drugs. 'No Regrets’, she reminded herself as she stood there surrounded by people caught in their own little worlds. Shrugging her shoulders she stopped herself from calling out again. Another mix set began and she decided to make the best of events, besides she was still feeling horny. Walking up to the nearest reasonably nice looking boy she took his drink and knocking it back dropping the glass on the floor. Grabbing his hand she led him onto the floor grinding into his pelvis like she wanted a baby. Returning the favor he grips her ass pulling her rocking hips closer to his own. He said something she wasn’t bothering to listen to. But she laughed anyway asking for a light. Pulling out one of her matchstick blunts she lights it and begin smoking it. Her partner is getting rather friendly with her person. His hand moves up to His name was something like Gary, Larry, or maybe Terry. It didn’t really matter she was just using him for her own peace of mind.
She danced with him for a while just enough to give the impression that it wasn’t just about sex. One must always keep up with appearances, because that’s all the world is founded on. Exiting the floor they headed right toward the darker corners where some garage sale furniture sat. Assuming the role of ‘mistress’ she pushed Barry (?) unto a sunken couch. Straddling his narrow hips she unfastened his pants pulling out the uncircumcised penis within it. He wasn’t much to play with being just this side of average, but it was enough to entertain her for a bit and it was thick. She hiked her skirt up over her hips the underwear she had worn long gone somewhere maybe riding in the pocket of a friend. Sitting on the semi-hard member she tightens around it, trying to mold into something just a little harder before rising up a little. She implies a rhythm he should have no trouble keeping up with. Gripping his shoulders she gets down to it. He grips her hips slamming her down on him again and again. People can just barely see them and some are trying to get closer to watch. A close flash of light lets her know that someone has just memorialize this moment for future black mailing. “Yeah, baby work it! Come on, show me your inner tigeress! Yes, yes, no, no, no! And I’m spent.” As much as Katie loved Austin Powers she couldn’t help throwing a nearby beer bottle at the idiot. Just as she was getting close he pulled all the way out and bend her over the nearest table. Spreading her ass checks he tongued her hole smacking his lips. She really hoped he wasn’t hoping on a post-cotital kiss. Wasn’t it a shame that she couldn’t get her mind in the game even when whriteding against his mouth moaning like any white trash slut. Finally he stopped and placed the head of his cock to her rectum. Drawing a deep breath he slammed into it without warning or further preparation. Pulling out a little he slammed back in over and over again until he came jizum running out her ass and down her thighs. Standing up she reached a pile of napkins sitting on a nearby table. Wiping herself off she throws the dirty napkins into her partner’s face. “Thanks for the screw my dear, I must be off I have better things to do.”
The D.J. adds an old song into the mix at twice it’s normal speed. Gwen Staffani’s somewhat whiny voice echos through the warehouse like building. "Don't let it go away this feeling has got to stay. And I can't believe..." The song grinds her already raw nerves. She had to clear up the mess with Ally before she could move on to anything else. She wanted no regrets, no baseless guilt weighing her down. Katie left before the second verse ended. Wading through the molasses like mass of people she looks for Sheldon to tell him she’s leaving so he needs to find another babysitter. Glancing at her watch she wonders if she should just leave him to his own devices it was nearly two anyway. Nodding her head at what she considers a good idea she heads for the door. Passing by the bar she again flips off the tenacious drunks trying to holler at her. Opportunity knocks in the form of an old trash can sits near the door partilly filled with piss. It looked like the one you often see on the campuses of high schools. People were such asses sometimes the bathroom wasn’t that far away. As she passed it she pulled out the note she still held and let the white square slowly floated down into the yellow waste leaving it to dissolve into meaningless waste.

"I know that's a kisser baby."

"I know that's a kisser baby."
“The chemicals between us.The walls that lie between us.Lying in this bed.The chemicals displaced.There is no lonelier place.Than lying in this bed.”
She lies sprawled across the bed eyes shut tight trying to think, her mind a jumble of confused, disjointed thoughts. They spin around and around each other in an endless waltz of argument. A siren wails outside cutting through the night, it sounds like it may be another ambulance they’re quite common around this part of town, not to say this was a bad part of town or anything sarcasm intended. The ambulance or maybe a battered police car rolls down the street to vanish around a curb toward the infamous Brenna Vista a hazardous road notorious for it’s almost daily accidents. Footsteps are heard outside as people meet to speculate on the possible reason for the siren. If you concentrate hard enough they sounded like the insect they are. Such little people, known for their love of violence others’ misfortune- greedy little vulturish bastards. Why couldn’t they do something more worthwhile with their time? Cocooned in the darkness of her little sanctuary she could say and think such things without feeling a hypocrite. The large stereo’s dynamic display is the only light in the room making the place seem even darker then it might have been without the single light. The computer, which had formerly served as, another source of light sits in the far corner after today’s events. All the wires had been disconnected then tossed into an old, brown Piggly-Wiggly bag and the larger pieces like the monitor wrapped and heaped on top of each other before being shrouded with an old blue cover. Her eyes are careful not stray in that direction even through she tells herself she isn’t afraid. The music of Bush is pumped into her ears through the large, black earphones on her head adding persuasion to drive to determination. Rolling upon her side she stuffs her head beneath a pillow flat from long and frequent use. The girl sighs explosively wondering why she continues to replay that stupid dare in her mind. It’s obviously a stupid idea the ramblings of a mad man, so why is she even considering it? She isn’t an idealist nor is she too enamored of death’s cold clasp. Who would be? Who even remotely in their right mind would do what he had and do it all with a breath-taking smile? And why did she even care? She had a life to live and things to do, dreams to fulfill… But really who was she kidding? She was afraid to step out the door. The cold, cruel world lies behind it and she had all she could stand of it.
“I want you to remember.Everything you said.Every driven word.Like a hammer, hell, to my head.”
And of course, there is the fact that she knows he's right. The good moments and the bad they all pass away into no where. In the end only the memories remain and they’re really pathetic substitutes – booby prizes to clutch as a talismans when lacking the real thing. Or when you’re just too damn afraid to actually to go out looking for the real thing. Time moves on slowing down for no one and bringing happiness to few. She knew this, everyone did and there was nothing to do about it, but move on in one fashion or another. Even so, few ever really did instead sitting on their duffs twiddling their thumbs and saying next time, next time, always next time. But that was a dangerous subject, she herself being guilty of that particular fault, so she quickly moved onto another point less close to home. Snuggling deeper into the soft covers she thought of the messenger himself. He hadn’t seemed spectular or awe-inspiring perhaps that’s why she couldn’t get him out her head. Afterall greater movements had been based on lesser figures and a hell of a lot of bullshit. Besides there was just something about the way he had said his rhetoric, something about the faith he'd held in such a concept. Funny when he’d been so vehement about the absurdity of ideals. Still it was a great strength of the kind Katie hadn't seen in years since before her father got sick and died from testicular cancer. She balled her porcelain hand into a fist and punched it into the wall. She didn’t feel the pain she’d done it too many times before. What could she say; it was a nervous reaction. Her lip curled in disgust at the memory still so fresh in her mind after so many years. Funny how betrayal sticks so well in the mind. Her father who had been so brave and strong, who had been her hero, her superman died a coward; sniveling in his sleep, pissing his bed, whining and crying to anyone who would listen about all his regrets. Henry was more than right on that regard; it was better to meet death without fear and with as few regrets as possible. But what was better was seldom what was done. It was a quirk of human nature to always speak of doing what was only ever seen in hindsight.
The chemicals between us. There is no lonelier place. Then lying in this bed.The chemicals displaced. There is no lonelier place. Than lying in this bed.The chemicals between us. The chemicals between us. Lying in this bed.
Lying on her belly she drags her hand along the wooden floor, which always stayed so warm in the winter. Her hand bumped into the something cold and damp, the glass of water she’d gotten an hour ago. She drunk from it now licking her lips like a cat. Turning to lie upon her back with her hand behind her head she performs an impromptu breast exam slowly massaging the soft mound then circling one hard pink nipple with a finely manicured fingernail. She repeats the process on her other breast this time sucking her fingers first before touching herself. The air traces the cooling saliva upon the firm flesh raising goose bumps and heightening the sensation of touch. She shivers imagining a voice she’d only heard once breathing into her ear tickling it with the heat it holds. “Will you?” The phantom invoked by the auditory memory holds her hand in it’s and leads it playfully down a soft mound, a taut stomach and under the elastic of her panties. It led her fingers in the only path they’d ever known into her self. She saw that smile, his bright, bright smile as a long, slender white finger tickles her clit while others massaged her inner walls. She moaning loudly she arches into a lover that is nothing more than her own hand made strange through obsession masquring as the emotion of love. The violence of her reaction startled her causing her guilty hand to recoil as though from a firebrand. The old mattresses sagged under her shifting weight as she quickly turned onto her side. The darkness hid her deep blush and bright eyes, but she could feel the heat in her cheeks and between her legs. Her thighs clamped together trying to hold onto the sensation just a little longer. The thought came to just go with it, but she refused to use anyone like that, she wasn’t her mother’s girl. She squeezed her eyes closed trying to concentrate on stilling her breathing enough to calm down and go to sleep. In the morning everything would make more sense. She’d forget about this shit and laugh with her friends at the weirdness of it. Eventually she’d put the computer back up and plug in all the stupid little pieces including that damn internet connection. " So will you do it? Can you? Will you accept my dare and live the next day as your last?" The voice continued to assault her drilling into her head. And the more she heard it the less it seemed crazy. Live her next day as the last... Live like there would never be another chance, another opportunity. “Whoever heard of something so absurd?” She’d spoken aloud her voice shattering the artificial calm she’d worked so hard to create. A roach frightened by the noise raced into the waiting arms of an old daddy long legs. They struggled unseen behind a stack of overdue library books, and coming to an impasse died nestled in each other’s arms. The cd spun within the mechanical comforter replaying the past efforts of a man who’d made good by most people’s standards.
“We're of the hollow men.We are the naked ones.We never meant you harm.Never meant you wrong.I'd like to thank.All of my lovers, lovers, lovers”.
She twisted the small, golden ring on her left index finger letting the motion focus her mind on the past and maybe happier times when she was younger. She let the skin warmed metal draw pictures of sunny days at the park, in the backyard flying safely in the strong arms of her personal superman. The face she sees is handsome in the way a home made furniture set could be handsome. His hair is the golden blond she had never obtained instead inheriting the more demure brown of her mother. Once they had gone to the park for her birthday and it had been so fun, but then all of a sudden a storm brewed up above them before unleashing a ton of water on them. She hadn’t even been able to eat her cake soggy with the cold, relentless rain and the presents had all nearly been ruined the bright wrapping paper soaked through. That day her daddy got a cold that never seemed to go away. The ring had grown cold in the moment she absently laid it on the bed and the feel of it now dredges up snapshots of decay and rainy days spent in a small white room. A song plays created by the beeps, wheezes, and clicks of the various machines that worked to prolong the wasted shell of a man they surrounded. His bony fingers fiddle with the stark white sheets searching for loose threads it seems. His searching grows now more desperate, now calmer. Maybe he doesn’t want to know after all, it is a rather morbid exercise for a dying man. The clock on the wall above his head ticks off the seconds and sees nothing of the struggle that juggles victory from one to another between the man and the disease. Each tick is one more missed opportunity and one more step closer to inevitable destination. A quiet, little girl sits upon a hard, green plastic chair beside the bed. She lays her heavy head upon her knees and watches tears slide from shadowed eyelids over gray stubble. She’d never seen a single gray hair upon his head or body until the chemo. He’d aged a century it seemed and it’d only been three years since that pretty day in the park. The intercom in the hallway cackled a message to some unimportant person in a green suit. She rocked silently hoping he’d stay asleep and not wake up like last time. That time he’d held her with his cold, damp hand and breathed endless regrets and worries into her face. His breath had been hot and smelled rancid like the meat mommy threw in the trash. Mommy had finally rescued her from him by bringing a lunch he refused to eat. Daddy didn’t eat with his mouth anymore he ate through a straw in his arm. Whenever he ate anything he threw it up on himself or one time on her. It had been humiliating have to walk through that big clean hospital smelling like her father’s vomit. She hadn’t come back to the hospital for a long time. The skeleton in the bed moved and whimpered. A dark spot grew above his naughty place the place mommy loved so much on Danny the little man of the family. Daddy had wet the bed again, more tears crawled carefully down his face unto his dirty pillow as she went to get a nurse. Biting her lip she realizes she herself is crying tears of shame now just as her father did then. She wouldn’t be like him she’d promised herself that on the day of his burial standing on that human lawn surrounded by people who couldn’t have really said what they were there for. Her mother had collapsed into Danny’s arms all of twelve years old. She’d slept in his bed that night and never left it. Danny ran away to the army where he was shot in the head by a commie. Sitting up she clicked a large, green switch nailed to the wall above her bed. It turns on the strings of white snowflake christmas lights nailed up on the black painted ceiling. They twinkle in pairs and singles and groups. If you look closely you’ll see a name spelled out or maybe a face. It wasn’t something Katie advertised since it was her own, private little memorial to yet another hero who had abdicated his role. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed she sits there rubbing her arms the headphones still perched, albeit precariously, upon her head. Grabbing the cord that plugs it into the stereo she recklessly yanks it out. The music reaches it’s finale in the background. Inside the machine the revolving changer puts another cd on. Hoobastank they were slowly growing as pretentious as Incubus no wonder people always confused them. However she did like this cd, but she preferred Billy Corgan’s whining to anyone else’s.
“And all the things I could have done, could it be that far away. Staring at the sky above, I’ve found a chance I’m finally going to take!I hope it’s not to late!Wake up you worm!”
Standing up she begins kicking through the inch thick mess around her bed. This is the collected crap of a life spent in hidden under the covers waiting for a knight in shinning armor complete with deus ex machina. Hitting her toe upon a hard object she snarls a curse made more vehement from nervousness. Looking down her frown turns suddenly into a bright smile as she reaches down to grab a slender leather-bounded book. It’s a product obviously of good quality, the leather a soft, smooth, mottled red with her name embossed upon the cover in silver script. She always felt silver to be the most visually appeasing of the precious metals. Opening it she sees the engraved inscription her former boyfriend had put there. It’d been a special day that she’d been given this. Everything had seemed so perfect the park with the sunset in the background and there were candles and flowers everywhere. They had talked about marriage giggling from too much white champagne. He kissed her tenderly and pushed her back on the blanket right there in the park. They spent the whole weekend like that. Then he went to work on Monday like everyday before and two weeks later his body was finally fished from the dirty brown river cold and half eatened. Maybe he meant the weekend as a kind of goodbye. If he hadn’t wanted to be with her he could have just said so. She hadn’t bother to go to his funeral he was gone and rituals wouldn’t bring healing to either of them. “I wonder why the hell I keep going to parks they only ever bring me bad luck. Everything I touch dies!” She laughed morbid jokes seems to be her forte. Just as well her joke of a life was about to take a very morbid turn. Glancing over the journal’s first page she saw the writing of a naïve child who only thought of flowers and sunshine. She wondered briefly where that child had gone or if it was just dead. Shrugging it off she re-read the words on the silky page it was all a lie and she could see that now, that then she’d only been trying to protect herself. Just like she’d been trying to protect herself by hiding in this room, this building, this neighborhood. There was no use for continuing on this path and the first step off it was ripping up this garbage so she ripped the page out. Standing there topless in her powder blue panties she looked almost frightened by her action letting the page slip out of her fingers and drift softly to the cluttered floor. Snapping out of it she gingerly grasped the next page and also ripped it out, she repeated the process tearing out the banal story of a past life. At the first clean page she paused searching around for a perfect pen and then dated it for the next day. Writing in a graceful if hurried script she wrote something like a whole paragraph before closing it. Dropping it and the pen on her bed she stood aimless in the one clear space in the room. Shrugging her shoulders she began to search for her most decent book bag and her working digital watch. She really ought to get rid of some of these books; I mean when was the last time she’d read any of them? Lifting an old flannel shirt from her grunge period she found her alarm clock. It's red digital read-out read 11:00 p.m. One hour left until tomorrow officially arrived. She placed it carefully, far too carefully on the bed next to her journal- no her memoirs. Yes that’s what the slim volume would become a record of the only significant events in her otherwise empty life. But then maybe she was just looking too far into things that couldn’t be said to actually matter. Dropping to her hunches she began rummaging through the pig stye inhabiting her room nearly shouting eureka when she finally found her other supplies. Setting her watch to match the clock she strapped it to her wrist. It wasn’t the most becoming thing she could wear besides which it’d more than likely clash with anything she wore, but it was functional and it was durable so it’d have to do. Sitting down a minute she twisted a strand of hair around a tapered finger as she bit her lip in thought. She was really rather cute whenever she bit her lip like that and she did it quite often. Rolling her eyes upward she drew in and "Oh, fuck it already!" Jumping up she decides to forget about reasons and judgment and what abouts. She stomps to her modest closet and throws it open. Grabbing the cord of the naked light bulb inside she pulls it twice. Damn thing it doesn’t work any better then anything else in this ratty neighborhood. Out of the corner of her eye a scattering of motion signal the departure of several rather large roaches, proberly of the same family as the one in the corner with the brown spider. An idle thought emerges: are these the flying kind and if they are why didn’t they just fly out of danger? She pushes the more conservative attire she possesses to the side reaching for her more ah… risqué pieces. Throwing them on the bed she spends the next hour getting ready for her last day. She gets out the blue dye and the matching hair gel to give herself a more dramatic look. The color scheme complete with make-up complements the shallow color of her fresh milk skin making her a beautiful fairy-like creature. Quite an accomplishment considering that most people would look like a frigging cockatoo with that shit on their head. The fact that she has a hell of a body might be the deciding factor in her favor. Packing her book bag with the journal- ah memoirs, her favorite blue fountain pen, another set of clothes, and a few surprises. She fell back onto the bed listening to it creak maybe- no definitely for the last time. She smiles staring at the ceiling tracing out the dreams she’d woven into it over the years. Everything seemed so unreal yet it was real as pain and happening at the speed of light, of thought. At exactly twelve a.m. eastern time, the little, black alarm clock beside her decided to go off began buzzing in her ear at the top of it’s speaker range disturbing the erotic half dream she was in the middle of. Sitting up she pulled her hand out her panties wiping the damp fingers on the cover before adjusting the black, leather skirt she wore that was two sizes too small and far too tight over her juicy, round ass bending down to grab her things. Before she left her room for the last time she turned around and surveyed it. This had been her sanctuary for a long time and she would miss it, but she didn’t believe in sloppy good-byes only enjoying the moment. Yeah that was her philosophy from now on. Smiling in bemusement she closed the door and walked through the rest of the tiny apartment one last time. Walking through the door she looks at it and laughs locking the door and walking away. The hallway is dim barely visible in the smolder of the ancient lights that flicker as they swing upon their rusty chains. Dishes are being thrown behind one of the eight doors on the landing. “You fuckin’ bastard cheatin’ on me wit som’ friggin’ titless, bubble-headed grade school twit! I oughta chop ya’ fuckin’ dick off and shove it down ya’ friggin’ throat! Git out, git out you lack ball, dickless, pussy-ass trailerpark white trash bitch!” Laughter erupts from the half open door of another apartment well that and a bellow of smoke. Three guesses what they were doing in there. From just below on the bottom floor the sounds of one of the many whores and her erstwhile client echoed up the stairs only to be met and drowned out by the hysterical laughter of one thoroughly pleased with her self Katie McPhreason. Heading toward the stairs she could smell the nasty smell that always seemed to come from the landlady’s place. Indulging a long-held desire she kicked the landlady’s door and screamed bitch at the top of her lungs. You could hear the old bat scrambling to get to the door. Way too slow to catch the young woman as she danced down the creaking stairs. She passed the eager coupling on the ground floor up against the stairs only half hidden in the shadows cast. The country-bred whore pressed the obese man up against the staircase in a rather uncomfortable looking position. From what she could observe at her comfortable distance the whore deserved an award for her acting ability. She rode the tiny pony screaming herself hoarse, through how she found the little thing in all those rolls of fat was mind boggling, bucking on it like it was the wildest stallion in history. Mama was right she would never have made a good ho; she didn’t have the acting skills. Reality porn was not a trend that would ever catch on if this were any indication of what it would look like. Tossing them a dollar each and a spare magnum condom to boot she exited the dreary establishment. Slamming the heavy, stained door of the building behind her and tossing the small silver coloured key to her apartment into the nearest storm drain she lets the fresh air kiss her feverish brow and placing it’s gentle hand upon her back usher her on her way. The streetlights lit the way flickering in and out of existence while the yellow windows in each building was extinguished by a moving shadow at the sound of her passing.

The Dare Ohhhh Scary

What's scarier than a stalker, a burglar, and that creepy old guy at the back of the concert who drives a black van? That’s an easy enough answer; a person obsessed with the Internet particularly the chat rooms, rpgs, and email accounts. Fear them, fear them well... Anyway I am, was, uh... anyway I'm just that kind of person so it only made sense that I would stumble onto the... “Dare”. I was on one of my favorite message boards reading through the subjects - not the popular ones that aren't worth anyone's time, but the small ones that have all the cool stuff in them. Of course there is a reason why the commonplace messages are the most popular.

Tuesday 5:00 p.m. August the Second

The neighborhood we see is one of those which people make a point of not speaking of must less living in. A tactful person would say the buildings were of an older style, an honest person would say they were ancient, dilapidated and needed to be torn down ASAP to say the least. Graffiti graces every wall and piece of structure the colors bold and rude. The graffiti speaks of common subjects and uncommon things of the imagination. They are awesome in the depth of being they represent. However their power is limited and unable to brighten the local populous as they do the surroundings. The people are gray and they sit about like broken statues on the steps of buildings, on the sidewalks, and on the hoods of cars. They have given up hope of anything better so they stay where they are eating sunflower seeds. All the people who still have dreams or aspirations are never to be seen around the block in the daytime instead they stagger home in the darkness sometimes drunk, always dog-tired from running a losing race.

The sun shines downward the light it sheds broken and refracted by the glowing overhead smog. The windows shine from within and without with the crumbs of sunlight and the lifeless glow of electronic companionship excepting those where the curtains are drawn, the people aren’t there, or the world has been shut out purposely. One of the last sort is on the second floor of the one of the better looking buildings. The window has been painted with a thick latex-like black paint to shut out the ugly surroundings. The small room is located at the back of a slightly bigger apartment and is currently lit only by the glow of a profoundly complicated black computer at which sits an unremarkable young woman wearing a flimsy blue tee shirt three sizes too small and a ratty pair of boy's Levi shorts.

From within the room seems of interminable size- an unmade bed may be seen lying beside the door composed of three mattresses set on stacks of books- the rest is hidden behind a screen of darkness. The girl, because she appears so young, is somewhat pretty even with her face painted deadly shade of blue in the blue light of her monitor. It turns the brown of her eyes a glossy black surrounded by whites tinted baby blue. Her butt-length hair is tied up in a heavy whip-like braid rolled into a tight bob at the back of her neck. The coloring of her thick hair is brown, the kind of brown known as chestnut with honey highlights, and obviously from the luster and thickness of it very healthy.

She is staring intently at the screen as she scrolls slowly down the web page. Words glide across the cornea of her eye holding no apparent interest in her mind. The pupil expands in first one and then the other eye. It has been said that pupil expansion in the eyes denotes a sign of interest. An impulse zips down the spine and through the arm to her right hand. The long-fingered hand stops, resting spider-like with a slight tremble on the paralyzed off-white mouse; the arrow on the screen mimics the hand’s quivering.
A soft smile rests upon her sweet cupid-bow mouth; the upper lip curls gently in derision allowing a breath to escape bearing a small contempious laugh. "The Dare huh?" She opens it expecting to find another stupid ‘flash your boobs on the subway’ thing or some drinking game accompanied by a vulgar picture or two. Instead she is presented with a single line of text dyed hyperlink blue. Click here for the Dare. Having come this far she decides to continue hitting the pretensive little link. She is redirected to the black entry page of what looks like a website. "Man, if this is another porn site looking to infect my browser, favorites, and hard drive I am going to track down the little evil bastard and feed him his frigging ass!" Blowing a stray piece of hair out of her face in disgust she waits for the intro to present it’s self and then go away so could get to the actual site. Instead the black background remains as a video player opens and begins to play back a video on the screen.

It's a grainy shot of the quality you’d expect from the average non-digital home video camera. All we can see is a small room dusty with nothing in it except the sun shines through windows covered in oilpaper and nailed shut. "It's porn isn't it?" Her finger drifts toward the right mouse click to close the window. The action is preempted by the appearance of a young man clothed in thread worn clothing whose under-eye bags gave him a strong resemblance to a hound dog. He is unshaven with a seven o’clock shadow that somehow adds to his dignity rather than detracting from it. Dirt stands obviously upon his deeply tanned skin conspiring with the stained rags upon his emancipated form to advertise his lack of bathing. Shaggy unwashed hair hangs into his eyes making him appear somewhat rough and shiftless yet sweet in the way a little boy might be. Weariness is a moth-eaten mantle resting lying on shoulders as a handsome cape upon the shoulders of a king. And then he smiles and the action transforms his face to make him almost handsome. It is as through the light of his smile was an inner switch turning on his charisma, his inner beauty. Strange that in his obvious state of dishevel his teeth should be so white and even. She saw all of this within seconds and could recall it in a moment’s time yet if asked to Katie could not have described the cast of his eyes, the length of his form or his general coloring.

His lips begin to move and she nearly falls over trying to turn on the computer’s speakers. The voice she hears is mesmerizing so deep and cool like being in the shade of a great tree watching the wind stir the leaves. "My name is Henry Post. I am exactly twenty-three at this moment in time. I will never be twenty-three again. Already that moment has past and it will not come again.” His dictation is mechanical like what you might expect from an android or a computer. This something vibrates beneath that holds one’s attention like an iron vise. “For the last ten years I have lived on my own and have learned many things, many lessons. The first and greatest is that all moments must be seized. All opportunities must be used and not wasted. All ideals are merely constructs and as such are useless outside the confines of narrow experience." He opens his mouth to precede with his speech one he seems to have been practicing for a long time. Instead the microphone cleverly hidden somewhere upon his person catches a faint hiccup-like sound. He pauses placing a hand in front of his mouth. He turns away from the camera and seems to reach out for something to stabilize himself. He misses anything and nearly falls barely catching himself. Coughing he pants rapidly trying to catch his breath whilst sweat beads upon his prominent forehead. A bluish tint lies under the rapidly fading tan. His lips are becoming blue in the corners, while the lips grow purple. His breathing has become audible and it’s harshness is a reason for concern even as is the tremble snaking through his frame. Katie adjusts the contrast and brightness of her screen. Something is now dimming the picture as it becomes cloudy with something like blue smoke. Post doesn’t seem too concerned at the rapidly declining series of events. The bottom of the video player counts down several minutes while Post stands quietly eyes closed with his hand upon his heart. It looks kind of like he is saying the pledge or the national anthem while milky vapors twain around his form. A stray ray of light illuminates the tendrils above his head giving him a halo. For a moment everything he might have said or done would have been right. The moment passes and become something like ordinary.

There is a whirring sound running beneath the soundtrack of his breathing. Perhaps it is the sound of his camera as it counts down the wasted seconds it immortalizes. He opens his eyes finally and turns back to the camera and the audience beyond it. Tears glisten in his soulful eyes, but it’s doubtful that they’re emotionally based. The voice that speaks now is a hoarse echo of what it was before and is more gripping because of that fact. Something in his face, the way he stands makes him seem to be somewhat younger then before as through even ragged breath he barely takes is the lightening of a terrible load. "All ideals are useless because they mean nothing without artificial boundaries which taint the life experience. And so because all ideals are useless the ideas of life after death and second chances are worth nothing. They give people the excuses they need to be nothing and to do nothing. They give people the excuse not to live as they were meant to. That is why I dare you to live, I dare you to prove to yourself that you do not fear death, I dare you to live like it's you're last day on earth. As have I."

He smiled again in that way that placed him on the boundary of a sinner’s beauty and a saint’s repulsiveness. The smile becomes distorted as he goes into a coughing fit his thin frame spasming with the force of his attack. The violence bends him double his hand covering his mouth while his knees are forced to bend. It becomes harder to see him as the room fills with the thick bluish haze. A thump resounds through the room the blue cloud rolling back for a moment as he falls to his knees a stream of bloody vomit spurting from his mouth. It hits the grimy linoleum floor splattering back to speckle his clothes. Tears race from his red eyes to join with the mucous that profusely courses from the nostrils of his swollen nose. He stops - gasping upon his hands and knees drops of vomit dripping down his chin to fall preternaturally slow to the ground. Dry heaves hit him rocking his body with the hacking noises he makes and the echoes of it filling the room. His face becomes cherry tomato red striking against the bluish purple of his wet lips.

Finally he stopped sitting back on his legs his shaggy head bowed drawing his wrist across his mouth. A long sticky thread of saliva forms a tenuous bridge between the wrist and his pursed lips. He holds it in front of him the dim light showing it to be a mere stick nearly devoid of flesh. A dry chuckle escapes him as he shakes his head ruefully. The shirt he wears sticks to him outlining ribs and a figure like that of a greyhound. Glancing up at the camera he smiles with teeth stained scarlet like that of a wolf or the monster under a child’s bed. The smile we’ve come to idolize has changed into something sinister, something memorable; he looks like Mesolino’s portrait of Death crouching in wait of unwary prey the light in his eyes like the dying flames of a once bright fire. A single laugh staggers drunkenly from his bleeding lips the embers in his eyes flickering before going out. He woodenly falls to his side going into an enervated seizure emanating a sound somewhere between a gurgle and a rattle, which crawls from his battered throat like some dark slinking creature. The camera falls over it’s stand proberly kicked over by the corpse lying next to it. The camera lies on the ground filming the sprawled legs of the corpse in front of it. He wears black Nikes caked in dried mud and worn down to the sole there don’t appear to be any socks on his feet. His pants have been raised from the violent activity and you can see needle tracks along the right leg’s exposed calf. It appears ghastly in the rolling fog of bluish smoke. Thirty minutes still remain on the video, but watching anymore of it required a far more morbid appetite than Katie.

She moved to exit the window fumbling in her rush she drops the device. It clicks opening an annoying blue dialogue box. Picking up the mouse she exits out of that window just as squeaking accompanied by the sound of scurrying. She just catches the movement of a leg and more squeaking before the window closes. Drawing her knees up to her chest she rocks silently for a few minutes, before she begins to push it away. Withdrawing from her Tandral account she decides to check her e-mail. Maybe if she pretends everything is normal than she’ll be able to forget about that video. Of course, as everyone knows when you have to fake normalcy it’s already too damn late. Opening her mailbox she checked her inbox only to find it completely filled with copies of the same message: Will you, won’t you? Will you? It was rather like that line from Alice in Wonderland. Could she, would she, can she join the game? Would she take the red or the blue pill? Now she was being a prat, really she needed to stop watching the Matrix late at night. A smile similar to the one Post’s trademark smile graced her face momentarily. A slight shoulder shrugged under the thin cloth it wore. The arrow on the screen meandered over the emails as though trying to pick the best one. Ceasing to procrastinate she finally just picked one double-clicking the bold lettering. Inside it was nothing but a single link the same blue as the links she’d picked before. Clicking on it opened a small media window.
The scratching sound of a tape playing slide through the speakers. A click sounded and heavy breathing could be heard digitally changed into something aloof and creepy. Time stretched on before another click sounded. The scraping of a chair against the floor precedes someone chuckling it sounds like a man. Another metallic click echoes through the speakers it sounds familiar. Then a slightly nasal voice began to speak, "You’ve seen the video and heard the challenge… now what will it be? Will you ignore it, forget it, or just laugh it off? Or will you, could you do it? What will it be? Do you have the balls to do the thing every man fears? Will you accept the dare and live the next day as your last?" The voice breaks at the end in the way of an adolescent. It’s the voice of a teenager -immature and somewhat unsure, but valiantly attempting to believe in it’s self. The same click occurred only now a metallic scraping is heard. Katie’s nails dig deeper into her tender hands joining the ones from earlier. Somehow she knew that each click brought them closer to a prolonged silence. The heavy breathing grows louder and somewhat quicker as the click is heard again. That makes the fifth click in a row. Hysterical laughter blasts through the speakers causing Katie to recoil nearly falling over. She hadn’t realized how in-depth she’d been. “Shit.” It was a whisper almost inaudible after his recent outburst. There was a bang and then the chair scraped horribly before falling over. Some large object banged against something that sounded wooden. It must have been the table he was seated at because the one more crash was recorded on the tape before abruptly cutting off.

A long, white hand reaches out to catch one of the slender white cords trailing from the computer. Treading it through her fingers she tightens her grasps and pulls back yanking the cord from the wall. The screen goes blue citing error of action, requesting the user check all connections. Katie’s eyes are wide, her nostrils flared, as through preparing for a fight or struggle but there is no one to fight except the shadows of dead men in her head. She is unbecomingly pale skin clammy with a cold sweat, drops of it coasting down the curves of her cheek and breast leading chills behind it. She is panting as her hand slowly reaches outward again to grasp the thick, black power cord and savagely rips it out of the wall. The screen goes black immediately while the speakers give one last crackle before the light of their power signal ceases to glow. There is no sound except the disquiet of her breathes which sound suspiciously like sobs. We can hear her moving blindly into an instinctive position of comfort. She lies on her side alone in the darkness legs crossed at the ankles with knees held to her chest. Her head rests on her arms with the hands covering her ears and eyes. Cradled in the softness of the sightless shadows she cries herself to sleep.

After the prologue

The city steams with the whirlwind activity of daily life- a visual blur of people and light in motion backed by a bombardment of chaotic sound against the ears. There is an energy that pervades the entire scene making one feel as through the breath is being squeezed from within. Perhaps it is the effect of having so many bodies around, something like what it must feel like to be buried underground. The ground acts as a reflective mirror bouncing heat upward into the crowd. Steam rises from a sewer cover lending a distinctly rancid smell to the already ‘colorful’ scent of the city’s air. Color bursts forward in leaps and bounds stark against the monotonous concrete jungle theme. It grabs the wandering attention like blood against snow; a sign of life among what seems dead. A modest spot of such color sits quietly in the outside section of a trendy café among a group of the bourgeois offspring of the yuppie generation. She – Katie – sits beside a steaming cup of what amounted to flavor milk in the guise of coffee her head upon her hand. Honey stained chestnut hair falls into her face cast a slight shadow over her face. Her eyes are closed against the glare of the anthill that is the City.

Nervous energy asserts it’s through the tapping of her engraved fountain pen against the heavy, glazed plate glass of the tabletop. Her posture is stiff while trying to appear relaxed, she sits eyes boring into the middle distant thinking of nothing, at times her eyes roll downward and a heavy sigh escapes her. The blank page below stares up at her with contempt; it’s immaculate countenance questions her commitment to her course of action: can she at this point continue to stain it with clichés and meaningless dribble? She turns her head toward the crowd streaming slowly pass. The people move alone within their own zones even within the safety of their faceless groups, no pair of eyes meets any one else’s instead all seem to be looking inside. Their passing is barely noticeable; they all look the same in their apathy – their weariness. There is a slight breeze, which blows from the east it is cool and broken intermittingly by the plogging figures of humanity. People speak incessantly but they say nothing of any import while the girl at the table continues to debate herself.

A clic walks pass laughing about boys and the less fashionable girls. There is nothing about them to hold any interest. A plump girl walks hurriedly head bowed and shoulders hunched. Her shadow passes over the soft, white pages a inconspicuous reminder to continue. A drop of condensed water rolls down the side of her waiting coffee. It costs something like three dollars and fifty-two cents. Out of that the poor farmers that try so hard to be honest in their work will receive one cent. Is good coffee worth so much or rather so little? Katie gently shakes the fountain pen she holds in her left hand. Uncapping it she places it’s tip to the page. A car speeds by barely missing a pedestrian jaywalking across the street. He stumbles unto the sidewalk cursing at the top of his voice. Nobody pays attention it is an everyday occurrence and besides no one was harmed. It’s only entertaining when someone lies bleeding and there is a chance for someone to play hero. Katie resigning herself to following in the same worn paths of literary style taught to every little school aged drone begins to write in a graceful, cursive the blue ink bleeding slightly.

People kill themselves everyday and whenever they do everyone wonders why or else they write it off as the action of a loser or some goth kid or a loony. Maybe it’s because no one wants to believe that there is anyone who would or could welcome death. Therefore it is simpler to ignore or create an explanation. I only write this because I wonder what people will think about me. Will they push the thought of me away or will they obsess over my possible intentions? The news will properly try to pass me off as a depressed loser who couldn’t deal with the real world. But I'm not that kind of person I have issues everyone does. However I know that everything occurs in a cycle and it involves the good and the bad in turn. So that’s not why I’m doing it. Wait I’m getting ahead of myself, I'm not trying to sell you some long-winded theology like the nuts at the airport or tell you a long, boring story about why I did what I did or why I was the way I was. Instead I'm just going to write about the last day of my life and maybe you’ll see beyond the run-on sentences and the crappy dialogue to see what I’m trying to say…

A paper napkin blew along the dusty ground tossed about fitful puffs of trepid air. It’s ragged form caught itself against the chair leg by her leg. It’s edge tickles her skin drawing her view downward toward it. She plucked it up bringing it closer to her face for examination. Not too long ago she’d written a series of letters on paper napkins and tied them to mailboxes, doorknobs, and car antenna. Those paper napkins had been from a bar she’d been going to since she was underage her breasts had always gotten her through the door. Any casual looker could see that she was attractive enough with flawless skin and more than enough curves. She’d been told she had lips like Angelina Jolie and she had a sweet way of chewing on them when deep in thought. She couldn’t remember what she’d written in those letters something idiotic more than likely. Maybe it was funny in a witty way? She’d also written a will on two of them and slide them under the door of old teachers. Maybe they’d know what to do maybe not. She couldn’t say she really cared in fact it wasn’t like she had too many things of worth in her miniscule apartment. The breeze picked up tossing tendrils of her back-length hair into the air. It began teasingly to reach for the paper she held and she smiling she let it snatch the trash away. A car backfired somewhere down the street, the sound like the backfiring of an ancient gun.

She rubbed her fingers together attempting to rid them of any grim she might have picked up from the paper. Sipping her cooling coffee she checked her watch- nearly six o’clock with only six hours left to go. She guessed it wouldn’t hurt to end the exercise short. Besides she’d had a good time and really she wasn’t too interested in dragging on her lifespan. It seemed a singularly pointless exercise to worry so much about how long you live that you forget to just live. Actually it was kind of funny almost as funny as buying spray-on deodorant which erodes the ozone layer making you sweat more so that you have to buy more spray-on deodorant. People chose to ignore the somewhat hysterical laughter of the young woman sitting to the side. She held her stomach with tears in her eyes. It hadn’t really been that funny, but you had to take your laughs where you could get them, you know?

I'm sure you've had this assignment before: "If you only had one day to live how would live it?" Or you've heard the old adage "live like it's you're last day on earth". Which begs the question: Are you dying or just going to another planet? However I have to ask have you actually ever really thought about it? I mean like have you thought about the ramifications? If you haven’t don’t worry neither have I. At least I hadn’t until I was forced to see something I’d rather not have. Anyway I thought it'd be an easy task: live the day like it was my last and that'd be it. I'd see all my friends one more time kiss mom goodbye and of course get in a hell of a lot of trouble... Kind of like Freddy Broudler's Day Off only more intelligent and with more long-term consequences. Yeah, it’s amazing the kind of crap runs through your head at the end.

A child laughs with the careless abandon of it’s kind. The little tow-headed boy skips behind his a weary-looking woman we assume to be his mother. He watches the shiny red globe above him dance in step to his playful leaps and bounds. Meanwhile the woman he follows looks and moves forward with a single-minded determination, a frown marring the tired lines of her face. She frequently glances at her watch brushing her frizzled brown hair out of her face and then looking behind her at the boy. Apparently he toddles along too slowly. She walks faster balled fists stuffed into her jacket pockets. Still he lingers and stalks happy in a world that consists of him and his toy. His mother’s patience snaps and she snatches the little boy by his fragile, little wrist. He stumbles forward his hands flying open to ease his supposed fall allowing the red balloon he held to float away into the ether. He turns back giving a little leap to catch it. However he fails to and thus dissolves into tears beginning to wail. Instantly the woman appears remorseful, perhaps it wasn’t so important to rush afterall. She tries to comfort him cooing to him in a hoarse voice, but he continues to cry in gulping shrieks while the mourned possession becomes a red dot gradually swallowed by the blue vault above.

As I'm writing this entry a small child is walking pass me trailing behind his mother' like a duckling on a string and giggling like children often do. He holds a bright red balloon the sun glancing off it ‘s glossy sides to flash upon his downy fluff of blond hair and into my eyes. He jumps suddenly, his balloon has slipped from his hand due to an abrupt launch of his small frame and his mother tries to comfort him with promises of another balloon, many balloons if only he’ll stop crying. He disregards her and continues to cry staring off after his lost treasure as it floats away to become a red point in a sea of blue. You properly think me strange for writing about so random an event, but think about it. That child was actually upset about losing something as simple as a balloon. How many people actually give a damn about their families much less their freaking balloons? That's something you lose as you drift through life; the ability to bond to something so completely that you can't be comfort with promises of another chance or of replacements. So what if you can get another balloon it isn't that balloon so it just won't do. But that’s not the way the world works. Instead as you grow older you stop caring as much. You begin to excuse every failure and every lost as with the ideal of second chances. That’s why so many people are so terrified to die thinking they’ll never make their lives worthwhile when in fact they should have been trying to do that in the first place rather than waiting. That’s what the balloon incident means to me. That living of everything to the fullest not bothering to think about tomorrow or what might or could be. I miss that quality of life; hell I miss being able to get off on spinning around in circles 'til I fall over. It's just something you lose because of all the fears put upon you from the time you're a freaking two year old. But now I'm just being pensive and an ass. Okay to start off this story I’ll have to rewind the existential stopwatch back to 5:00 p.m. yesterday. Damn if my mother wasn't right when she told me that all the time I spent on the computer wasting my life on the internet would send me to an early grave.

The Opening Scene

A marquee of soft, incandescent clouds breezes slowly across a background of bright blue. Their shadows move like weighty thought, ghosting over the crowd with the blessing of shelter from the brightness of the sun. The latter peeks out coyly from behind them; it’s rays flash dizzily like chaotic thoughts hammering in your head. Beneath that juxtaposition is a city maybe New York, maybe anywhere. The gleam of steel and the shine of glass makes everything seem new as through nothing but prosperity has ever touched this place. Obviously it’s all marketing. People rush about like ants only lacking the sense of purpose. There actions seem like the nonsense of video clips in fast-forward. Their noise rushes to meet the buzzing of the electric wires overhead. Metallic blurs rush down the streets as the traffic lights blink now sleepily and now in seizures.

An oasis of peace lies outside a cafe. At the edge of the outdoor eating area there sits a girl with brown hair. Her face is not exactly lovely, but it presents a singular attractiveness. The eyes perhaps are too large, but they hold brightness – a spirit that makes them breathtaking. An expression of thoughtful bemusement sits upon her brow. She taps her pen against the glazed glass of her table. Biting her full, bottom lip she writes something in her book the pen scratching harshly across the pages. She smiles at what she has done and reaches for the steaming caramel swirl mocha chocolate latte beside her. A horn sounds to the right of her drawing her attention. Glancing up she turns her attention to the immediate right. Traffic surges past like blood slamming through the veins. A can rolls out into traffic and is run flat under the tire of a car it’s contents squirting out into the open air. The droplets of cherry-cola fizzle as they hit the ground to glisten in the strong sunlight. Entranced by the scene she doesn’t notice the broken doll dropped at her feet by a small raven-haired child. Instead she nibbles on a soft pink cuticle while tugging absent-mindly on a strand of honey-tinted hair. Nodding in decision she stands closing her book and proceeds to walk away leaving it upon the table.

The waiter an easily startled boy named Chadwick stumbles over to clear her vacant table. Tripping over his own feet he barely checks his fall with the table. Sprawling against the tabletop he looks around to see if anyone’s laughing. Noticing her book he grasps it gingerly in his large-knuckled hands glancing around nervously. He hopes to see the back of an exiting customer. Having no such luck he clears his throat to call. "Excuse me, whose book is this?! You forgot it!" Only a few turn around to see what the fuss is about, but no one stepped forward so he tires again. An irritated customer points toward where the girl stands near ongoing traffic apparently in pray. For a reason he couldn’t explain later he didn’t call out to her; he only stood there watching. Watching as she blithely stepped out into oncoming traffic right into the path of a speeding truck.

She turns slowly watching her impending death with the calm detachment of a child crushing an ant. The world slowed down to moving at the slow, throbbing pace of his heartbeat. Sound bleeds out of the picture as it narrows down into her and the rapid progress of the truck. It slammed into her and she met it smiling with open arms. It was almost beautiful the way she lifted off the ground her hair flying, back arched and head thrown back. Her eyes were open, but light seemed to be absent from them. Blood spurted from her open mouth, but she didn’t seem to be screaming. Her body spun slowly through the air surrounded by drops of scarlet. Drifting downward toward the earth she was hit by another vehicle- a cherry red convertible. Slamming into the windshield her weight dents it startling it’s driver to a stop. She lies upon the car eyes open and unbruised face turned toward the sky - the rest a mess of white, pink, and red - like a carnation after the rain.

Chad kneels on the cold concrete his long fingers gripping the book in his arms with spastic force. Involuntary tears stream slowly like cold rain down his pale face as people scream and rush to gawk at the accident like spiritual vultures feeding off the karmic carnage of another. Time slips by like sand through an hourglass as people flow around him rushing to meaningless tasks or standing to watch the mechanics of a modern death’s cleanup. Like dominos the streetlights come on in sequence while lips whisper, shout, demand answers he is not ready to give - does not have to give. The sun sinks into obscurity raking tangerine claws across the landscape. The departure of heat shakes the twenty-something back into reality. He is sitting at one of the tables, it's late afternoon and everyone has moved on. His arms are stiff, but still they hold the slender book. A presence stands beside him their hand upon his shoulder. He looks up to see a pair of lips moving. Surely they are saying something, but he hears nothing… Why did it have to happen here? His first day on the job and this happens, why?

Obviously the boy was in shock, but there was no time to waste. The department wasn’t known for it’s patient with apparent suicide. "One more time kid... What did you see? This is important did she just walk out there? Was it deliberate or an accident? Do you have any information?" His lips quivered gently as his hands tightened around the book he held. Why wouldn’t they just leave him alone? He lifts up the book he has held all this time and holds it out to the officer. Tears glisten in his pale green eyes. "I just wanted to give her back her book. I'm new... I didn't know she..." He breaks down while the officer examines the book. It’s slender and bound in red leather. She notices that it's cover is embossed with a name: Katie McPhreason. It's a diary. Opening it she see that pages have been carefully ripped out. Looking at the first whole page she sees only one paragraph written in a graceful hurried script.

You know how ever movie and every book is about the same thing?
Girl meets Boy; Boy meets Girl, Conflict Internal, External, Whatever?
You know how if you've read or seen one you might as well have experienced all the rest?
Well this is not that kind of thing...