Here’s what you’ve got to understand: I’m not the type of cat who gets foiled by a dame. But this dame was something else – like a steam train running off its tracks and taking a whole damned town with it.
I met her at The Horse and Cart, an old dive downtown wedged between a meat warehouse and an empty shop the needle brigade took over to cook up their junk. By habit more than happenstance I was at the bar, caressing my usual whiskey, when she walked in.
I’m normally one for blondes, but every now and again a redhead like this knocked my proverbials off. She was slathered in an emerald dress which was wrapped in black mink, and she had two particular areas of curves I was interested in, along with the longest legs I’d seen since Tuesday.
I eyeballed her as she sauntered over to a corner booth and sat down, crossing one thigh over the other. Tom Brady, the proprietor of the establishment, leant forward over the bar.
“You see the gams on that?”
Every cat in the joint had seen them, but I said “I ain’t here to look at no gams.”
I stretched out my hand, mighty painful from the fight I’d had last week. I was getting gray, inside and out. Damnation.
Flicker. Eyes closed. Darkness.
Flicker. Open. The world is saturated red.
Diamonds drip off a threadbare tree, waving alone on the dead sandy plain. Liquid metal slithers up legs and wraps itself around bodies, covering skin. It finds the secret spots and hides inside. It knows what you are thinking, every dirty little thing. It sees the flick of your hair, the half smile, the cheap satin sheets marked with sweat.
For as long as he can remember, Parry has wanted to go over the fence. He sits on the seared grass, staring up at the railings. They are faded now, their once proud brightness turned to a sad kind of olive.
He remembers the painting day, when his father dragged the big tin outside, patting Parry’s head as he lifted the lid with an old screwdriver. His father spent all day painting the fence, taking care with each railing, filling in every gap. When he was done, he stood back, surveying his work.
“That’s a fine-looking fence right there, boy,” he said.
Parry had yipped in agreement.
That was back when his father was as young as the fence, before he’d faded to a sad kind of gray.
Parry had noticed the fence before, of course, since the first day his father and mother had brought him to live in the yard. But it wasn’t until the painting day that Parry had sat in front of it, tail wagging, wondering what was on the other side.
He sits there now, still wondering, though he has a far better idea than he did back then.
Sometimes—not every day, but sometimes—a screaming monster blares out from the other side. Parry thinks the monster eats the leaves that fall from the tree in the yard, because when the screaming starts, some of the leaves fly over the top of the fence and scatter around the grass. His father will come out, shake his head, and rake them into a pile.
“It’s just not neighborly,” he’ll mutter, as he works.
Parry never runs from the monster when it starts. He sits in front of the fence and stares up, imagining what the monster might look like, thinking of its giant fangs chomping through the dead leaves, spitting them out in great gusts of breath.
It’s one of the things he knows he’ll see the day he does it, the day he goes over the fence.
The other thing he knows will be there is the She.
Abbe May is cooler than me. She is the rock chick I always wanted to be – sexy, talented, intense, with guitar playing prowess. Her new album, Design Desire, is making all sorts of waves in the musical realm and I was hooked after the first four songs. It is a huge, 70s-vibed epic, and it is Abbe’s vocals that really stand out – alternating between ethereal, almost heavenly, and deep and growling. On the album, Abbe is an other-worldly creature of fierce strength and sexuality and it interests me to find out what is behind that persona.
Let me tell you a story.
When I was a child, I was obsessed with keys and magic doors. I had a set of plastic coloured keys and I would search around the outside of our house and our backyard, looking for the secret magic doors I was convinced existed. I was so CERTAIN. I knew that all I had to do was find the right one, put the plastic key in the lock and ta-da! I’d be in a different world. Give me talking animals, give me a world made of chocolate, give me wizards and witches, I didn’t care – I just ached to go through the damn door.
The point of this story is two-fold. Today, we’re talking about how to use stories from your own life to make your writing personal and hold people’s attention. If you’re still reading, it means my above story worked.
The second reason, is to show you how much of a crazy effect stories can have on people.
(read the rest at Profitalist)
Through the green mist comes the call.
I want you – but I could want you more. I could carry a desire hotter than any woman owes any man, vows or not. I could ache when I’m not around you, hurt to be next to you, die for your hands on my skin and your tongue on my lips.
All this, if you had one thing, something you could take so easily had you the courage. Are you a man? Blood can be washed from your hands but the stain of cowardice will stay with you long past your bones become dust kissing the earth.