1955: Secret Delilah

poemsfallfrommycursedlips:

The awkwardness had evaporated like summer rain and she was transformed. Inexplicably she’d become the most beautiful woman in the city. I hadn’t known it of course. If I had, I’d have lived a much different life. She wasn’t beautiful in the way that movie actresses were, under layers of make-up. She was beautiful in a classical way. Like the face that launched a thousand ships her visage radiated undeniably into your thoughts. Her jawline was carved from marble, and whenever she looked up, the strong lines of her jaw pointed toward her lips as if it were some sort of natural signal to every man. A signal that every man should know to kiss lips which were perfectly sized for the job. Lips the colour of bougainvillea flowers covered in blood after you’ve been pricked by their thorns. They transpierced you in the same way when you kissed them, at least that’s what they promised by looking at them.

 

But, uh, those were things I noticed later. At this point she was just diligently preparing food and arranging things on the table outside which she was ferrying from inside the house. It didn’t seem as if she was doing anything out of the ordinary, so I scrutinised her a bit more closely, as the Wolf’s comment had intrigued me. I needed to know why she was such a bitch.  I observed her deftly folding napkins and smiling, chatting with the other women. I watched her bring plates of food and bottles of beer out. As I stared at her I didn’t notice any sort of bitchiness, although I must admit that I wasn’t privy to the Wolf’s thoughts, for which I am extremely thankful. So I decided that I didn’t know what he knew and that I would give him the benefit of the doubt. I had no way of knowing if something had happened earlier that day or if there was some general pattern of her acting like a bitch so I just decided to move on from the matter entirely.

 

I did note one thing which became extremely important later. After she had talked to someone and cordially moved on, smiling all the while, when no one was looking, the smile faded. Her entire candor changed when she was no longer faced with another person. It was as if her true self was something that no one else was supposed to see. But I had seen it. Well, not IT, but I knew that there were two of her, one person that was seen my most who encountered her and one that was seen by a significantly fewer number people, if any at all. This dual nature made me wonder what this somber Delilah was like behind the smiling mask she wore around town. Who was this real Delilah and why was there a fake one? What had made her hide from the world? 

What The Kid Knows That The Man Forgot

too-fly-to-recognize:

Subway station in Manhattan. A crumpled newspaper tumbled by on an artificial city wind. A thirty-year-old man stood on the platform, dressed in a tan trench coat and a blue suit. He clutched his hat and tie in his right hand. His briefcase in his left. His shoulders sagged from exhaustion. The bags under his eyes made him look like he’d lost hope.

For the record, he had.

He stood on the platform alone, supposedly waiting for a train when a baseball bounced down the stairs and came to rest by his foot. A young boy jumped the gate but the ticket clerk didn’t seem to notice. The man reached down and picked up the ball. The kid stopped and held up his hands to catch it, but the man didn’t throw it right away. He waited because swore he had seen the kid somewhere before. He just couldn’t remember. Then he realized that it was Manhattan and he had been to this train station every weekday for as long as he could remember. Odds were he had seen the kid, so he blew it off.

“You should be more careful, kid.” The man said, still holding onto the ball.

“Why’s that, mister?” The kid said, his voice muffled by his chewing gum.

The man stared for a moment and considered keeping the ball because the kid annoyed him. “Because playing ball around here is dangerous. It could roll onto the tracks and then where would you be?”

The kid shrugged. “I dunno, mister. I guess I’d have to go get my ball off the tracks.”

“You can’t do that. You’d risk getting hit by a train.”

“I don’t see no train.” He said, indicating the empty station with outstretched arms. “Besides, I could dodge a train if I had to.”

The man sat on the bench, twirling the ball in his hand. “Attitude like that will get you killed.”

The boy sat on the other side and put his feet up to take up two-thirds of the bench. “Or it’ll be a good time. A rush. An adventure.”

The man chuckled. “Fat chance, kid. Adventure is overrated.”

“I’d like to think I could do anything, mister. If I put my mind to it.”

“Yeah, well, Dodging trains doesn’t prove anything except that you’re stupid.”

“Stupid or brave.”

“Maybe both.” The long silence that followed accentuated the tension in the last exchange. And how neither the boy nor the man could really tell the difference between the two qualities.

“I’d dodge a train even if there were nobody around,” the kid went on. “I wouldn’t brag about it or nothing.”

“Why would you do that? Then you really gain nothing. Not even any glory.”

“Sure I do. I prove to myself I’m not a chicken.”

The man scoffed. “Why do you need to prove that?”

“Because then I’d know that I really could do anything. No matter how scary it was, I could do it. Otherwise I’d chicken out when it really mattered, wouldn’t I?”

The man looked at the kid. The boy had a good point, but the man’s pride forced him to formulate a rebuttal. “Not necessarily. That bravery would be inside you all along.”

“Unless I lose it somewhere along the way, mister. Because life happens and fills me with doubts. And those doubts overcome my guts. Like they did to you. To us.” 

The man suddenly remembered where he had seen the kid before: in the mirror. “Wait!”

A train roared past and the man jumped from the sudden explosion of sound. He took his eyes away from the kid for a split-second and when he turned back the kid was gone. Vanished into thin air like a ghost.

Or a memory.  

He looked down in his hand and saw the ball was still there; he twirled it over in his hand. The man never saw the kid again, but the ball never left his side, reminding him of why every man needs to dodge a train in his life.

So he doesn’t chicken out when it really counts.

resurrection

goodmorning-spider:

our minds had us planning resurrection before death ever hit with swinging fists and bloodied lips.  i waited and waited with an impatient twitch in my head, so sure you would be the first to let go and i’d drop again. but, through gritted teeth i smiled and watched us wither like drying sweet potatoes.  our skin was becoming stretched, trapping hollow heartbeats within our chests. resurrection loomed on the horizon like a sad excuse for heaven, a reason to go out fighting with a crooked smile on cracking lips. 

i watch us wither like drying sweet potato skin and i wonder if the resurrection is a way to escape, rather than a way to get back in.

Redemption Song

jayarrarr:

I’m somebody’s redemption song. I’m the freedom what can’t be unleashed in a few words of wandering wonder. All I’ve ever done is save other people and somewhere along the way I’ve forgotten I’m worth saving, myself. Perhaps it’s not in my power to do so, but I hesitate to lean on others. Society offers conflicting views and in lieu of confusion I simply lean on me. Does it take a village or do you do it for yourself? Do you get by with a little help from your friends or are you INDEPENDENT?

I’m somebody’s amazing grace. You’ll hear it in moans backed by percussive thrusts. I’ll harmonize on the chorus and if I’m drunk enough I’ll write it. You’ll wonder why I’m telling you this shit and I’ll wonder why you care. I’ll wonder why I’m telling you this shit and you’ll wonder why I care. At the end of the song there’s nothing to do but sing.

I’m somebody’s redemption song. And I want to be yours.

(via jayarrarr)

Infatuation.

thewritersaddress:

I guess if I had to choose, my favourite retreat would be the experience of Infatuation. Stuck with no money and no passport, I’ve travelled miles into these strange lands, falling for the particular quaintness embodied here. We’ve all been there – sometimes without even realizing it, we’ve all lavished in the simple happiness of naivety.

Infatuation is a difficult emotion to describe. It is subjective, it is idiosyncratic, moulded to each vacationer. Infatuation is the uninvited butterflies, that waver in a flurry inside a glass lift creeping too rapidly through corporate buildings. It is the warmness of a shot of whiskey, as it swims laps, devours and licks the inside of your throat; before finding slumber in a cushiony stomach. It is that delicious anxiety that comes with returning home. That childlike wonder of how much has changed over the years in your absence, when you realise just how much of the person you were is left in old ruins and smiles.

It can come at you at any time, but fear not, it is light and airy, like sinks saturated with frothy bubbles, or the buoyancy of candyfloss and equally as sweet. It is the feel of his soft lips upon mine, the crushing feeling as he pins me to his frame. It is the indulgence in innocence blushed in puffed cheeks, the laughter of late night conversations.

Infatuation, to me, is you.

Excerpt from my novel (untitled as of yet)

pedanticpersiflage:

So this is an excerpt from the novel I’m working on.  I’m not sure what I’m doing with it yet.  Possibly the prologue but also for possible use later in the novel, but I’d like some real constructive criticism from anyone who would be willing to give it.   I’d appreciate it.

It’s the void gentlemen.  The void.  It’s why we do what we do.  It’s everywhere.  You know it.  Perhaps, it hasn’t been referred to in this way before, but it’s what we do.  We create a need, or we recognize a need and grasp hold.  The pitch.  It’s an answer to the void.  Come on.  We’re all salesmen here.  And I’m not going to try and bullshit a bullshitter.  No sir.  But why do you think we’re here?  You are feeling the feeling that comes from experiencing the void.  Pain.  True pain.  The longing kind.  The kind that has you up at night questioning every life decision you’ve made up until this point.  The kind that makes you once a month want to run away to Mexico or Central America somewhere and live on the beach.  The kind that makes you wonder where all this business stuff leads anyways.  And I get it.  Business has been slow, the economy’s struggling.  Sales are down.  I aim to fix this problem in numbers for you, and you’d like to know how I propose to do that.  And we’ll get to that, but first, let me make one thing clear.  It’s not going to take the pain away.  Maybe it will relieve it for a while, but it isn’t going anywhere.  And why’s that, you might ask yourself.  Well, I’ll tell you why.  Because the void, the reason we’re doing what we’re doing is ever present.  It is as much a part of this universe as all the tangible shit we fill our day to day lives with.  The stuff we try to use to make the void go away, but it’s here.  Gentlemen, do you know that if you blew up an atom to the size of a basketball, it’s nearest electron would be roughly twenty-five miles away and would be the size of roughly a baseball?  Have you ever considered how much empty space exists that we can’t see?  It’s the void.  We are quite literally mostly empty, and I propose that is just why we feel so empty all the time.  Now, my competitors, they’re going to try and tell you that their service versus mine will fill that empty feeling you feel now.  Business will be great, and it will stay that way forever, and you’ll have no more worries because their service can quite literally work miracles.  I’m not going to do that.  I have no desire to try and pull the wool over your eyes.  And besides, you know, whether you temporarily give into this delusion or not, that it’s all bullshit.  You know it in your heart of hearts.  You’ve always known it.  That’s why all these deals always feel so tense up until that moment the ink is dry.  It’s the sinking feeling that with the rejoice of each money making venture, you’re going to go home to your house, to your wife, to your kids, to your television, and computer, and surround sound system, and it will still be there.  That feeling that there’s something more out there.  And gentlemen, if I may tell you, that feeling will always be there.  Satisfaction isn’t attainable in the void.  And so, I propose rather than trying to sell you on this idea that I will help kill your anxieties, I’m going to tell you something different.  I’m going to tell you that together we’re going to harness the void and make it work for us.  But first, you must accept that the emptiness will never go away.  You must free yourself from this delusion.  It’s all pointless gentlemen.  If I may, I’d like to tell you a little story about myself.  Why do you think I invited you out for coffee this morning, and not say, cocktails this afternoon?  Well, I used to be a real bad alcoholic and drug addict, that’s why, and believe me, I’m long past it.  I could sit in a bar with you while you drink, but how’s that going to build any trust if you’re sipping on a martini, and I’m having a soda water with a twist of lime?  Not very well.  So I invite my prospects out for coffee instead.  Been doing this ten years.  Been clean for twelve, but I was awful. In the end, it was like a gallon of vodka daily and however much cocaine I could get my hands on.  Real ugly.  I was thirty years old, living in a garage apartment behind my parents house, and just righteously fucked up out of my mind all the time.  And do you know what my problem was?  The void.  I couldn’t accept that this was all there was.  I thought that life was supposed to have some great purpose or meaning, and that I was supposed to just figure out what that was and then everything would be ok.  Quite the opposite, I’ve come to find out.   It wasn’t until I accepted that nothing mattered that I was able to quit the booze and the dope and the art as well, a big problem too, but well, that’s another story.  Anyways, when I figured out that I was always going to be unsatisfied, it finally made sense that it didn’t matter what I did.  Now, when I figured out that everyone feels like this, that’s when I was able to become a success.  And that’s what I’m talking about.  So, back to the idea of more.  We’re programmed to always want more.  I’m pretty sure it’s the biological condition.  The fight for resources.  It happens in nature all the time.  Why do you think predatory animals fight each other when the prey runs scarce?  Supply and demand.  Humans are just able to exercise this condition on a grander scale.  And we’ve also developed a symbolic representation of the answer to our void.  Money.  Think about it.  How do people try and fill the void, drugs, food, sex, women, cars, clothes, sports.  All these things can be bought and sold.  Hell, you’re salesmen, people can be bought and sold too.  We do it all the time.  And let me let you in on another sales tactic that I use frequently and desire to use on you today.  I said earlier, I would propose to tell you how I plan to offer my services to help restore your business to its rightful place in the pantheon.  Look, you know what I do.  You’ve done the research, and you contacted me.  I’m not going to be able to tell you anything now that will give you a better idea of how my service works until you see it for yourself in action within your own business.  But I can tell you plenty today as to why you’d rather be in business with me, as a man, than my competitors.   How do you think a drug addict thousands upon thousands of dollars in debt takes himself from the absolute bottom to owning a multi-million dollar consulting agency?  By hard work, and playing the game cutthroat.  I’m not here to promise you greener grass or a better quality of life or happiness or any of that other bullshit that people relate to business.  I’m here to play the game as hard as I can because I like to win.  I was a loser for so long, and that will never happen again.  Sign your contract with me, and we’ll make a fuckload of money.  We’ll harness the void, and for what?  Power.  That’s what.  The true antidote to the void.  Watching people crumble at your feet.  It doesn’t make that empty feeling go away, but goddamn is it the best rush available out there, and believe me when I say I’ve experienced some crazy rushes in my life with all the drugs and what not.  Look, getting your business won’t make me and it certainly won’t break me.  I drive a fucking Ferrari.  I live in a goddamn twelve-thousand square foot house in the richest neighborhood in town.  I’ve got gizmos galore.  But together, we can turn some fucking heads.  We can climb that mountain up farther.  I don’t know about you, but I want everyone looking at my heels from below, and I think our practices would work quite nicely together in that aspect.  So gentlemen, I guess all there is left to ask is, when would you like me to start?

(via pedanticpersiflage)

clint

contemporarylovestories:

seeing the used condoms in my trash can is a painful reminder of the hooker i paid entirely too much to fuck last night. then i have to ask myself when the last time i took my trash out. i examine my room, a clusterfuck of clothing, shoes, belts, trash, beer bottles, books, most of which are coveredd in dust. the urge to masturbate is a fleeting glimpse of the libido that once was. once you turn forty five, jerking off just starts to lose its appeal. the last time i started i actually ended up crying during. the decision that i was pathetic more overwhelming than my horniness. “fuck it” i say out loud, and reach for the beer bottle without any cigarette butts in it. i stand up, wearing nothing but tighty whiteys and scratch my ass through the hole above the left cheek and take a swig of the beer with the other hand. i can smell some sort of strange ethnic food being prepared by Ms. Han downstairs and wonder what she would say if i just entered her apartment and asked for some. i havent had real food since megan left, yet my stomach continues to grow outward. i feel sad about her being gone for about two seconds, and then remind myself that she doesn’t ever think about me. this thought causes me to make a noise that i didn’t even know my body was capable of making. i find a pair of shorts in the rubble and toss them on, and an old t-shirt that is incredibly wrinkled. i need more beer, and cigarettes. the indian guy behind the counter looks disgusted to see me, a look that i’ve grown accustomed to. only when i see myself in the security camera, the one that changes images every few seconds, do i realize just how terrible i look right now. i try to smooth my hair down as he reaches for my change, and rub my chin, which is surprisingly not just stubbly, but nearly a full beard. my car doesn’t start on the first try and i cuss and hit the steering wheel and look over at some lady’s dog that she left in the car. it barks at me and i try to start my car again, this time it works. there is a gun somewhere in my apartment, and when i get home i intend to find it.

De profundis

profane-tmesis:

‘Natalia Skugareva. Ukranian prostitute. Do you know her?’
Hartman slides the photograph into Zaydan’s line of sight.

‘I’ve never seen her before.’
Hartman carefully lays out three photographs of Natalia’s decomposed body.
‘Inspector, need I remind you that my client is here of his own volition. Our cooperation will cease if you continue to treat him like a suspect.’

Gorter and Evers are watching the monitors.
‘Why is he cooperating?’
‘I think it’s Witteveen testing the waters. He wants to see what we’ve got on him. He’s sending Zaydan out as a canary.’

---

A story.