A Short Safe-for-Work Art Film for Mature Viewers
“A demoralized person languishes on their circumstances.”
Management would like to acknowledge & thank the participation of the involved, for their assistance in producing the above feature.
Tag: abuse
hold
A short story for mature readers.
“A Filipino student overthinks taking her life back from her borderline-abusive boyfriend.”
“Put it down, put it DOWN!”
Samuel screamed, and Camilla dropped her corner of the set onto the soft, damp grass. It didn’t even make a sound, immediately sinking more than an inch into the front lawn. The look he gave her was homicidal, “I said PUT it down, not DROP it!”
“I DID put it down, fucker!”
“Look at what you did! You probably damaged it!”
“It was FREE, Sam! Why are you making such a big deal about this?” She wiped her sticky, chest-length black hair with faded pink tips away from the sweaty, exposed skin of her neck & bosom, “I just don’t GET it.”
“You don’t have to GET it. It’s not FOR you.”
“Yes, but it’s in OUR space. THAT’S what you don’t get.” She pulled a crushed, almost-empty pack of cheap cigarettes out of her jacket pocket with a lighter, and sparked up. Between her & her boyfriend, the laminate wood-paneled television sat wedged in the ground like a cheap student sculpture.
“Give me one of those.” She reluctantly handed him the pack & lighter, and he pocketed them himself in the back of his pants after he lit one, “You know I love you, but fuck.”
“At least it’s not raining anymore.”
He rasped at her.
He thought his behavior was completely justifiable. He wanted to point out all the furniture Camilla had been buying lately from strangers off social, and exactly how many of his items graced each: none. Not a single one of his possessions lined the shelves of what she so adamantly insisted were their recent acquisitions. He never expected them to – since the sum total of her things compared to his was astronomically larger – but with all her talk of “them” & “ours'”, he guessed he thought he wouldn’t have to fight so hard to bring anything he wanted into the house anymore. That’s how he thought he was justified, as Camilla understood him. And she understood him well.
She couldn’t hear him now from the front yard, but she was sure the couple who owned the house could hear him from upstairs: whimpering from behind his duct-taped mouth, slamming each corner of the bedframe against the ground over-and-over. What did he think? No, what did he really think of her? The clear, full moon beamed bright as she opened the damaged, brittle cigarette packaging: there were only three smokes left, and two were mangled from being in Samuel’s back pocket. Those could be his later.
While she smoked, she thought. She couldn’t help herself. She thought about Samuel & her. She thought about what was going to happen when she went back inside. Would she torture him a bit more? Probably not: the thrill was gone now. The tingling she felt was just an aftershock – she’d probably just untie him and put up with his hostile stoicism. She thought about class on Monday – but only for a moment. She really didn’t have to put up with Samuel anymore if she didn’t want to, did she? She felt the onus was on her this time. She took a nice, big drag, that filled her bare, goose-pimpled chest with the chemical relief she so desperately believed she needed, to help her take the next step.
She was inhaling filter. She coughed, and flicked the butt to the curb. She was prepared to light one of the broken ones too, when a light came on in the upstairs curtain wall. She was cold anyway. Of that, she could decide on.
graveyard shift
A poem.
i look at you
and then i look at your daughter
and i see a man who will do anything.
a man too self-consumed
putting prosperity on the table, not food,
that he can’t make any productive difference in her life.
only fifteen, already too late
with shorts that leave nothing to hide,
a glare through deep holes entwined
so you can’t see the fear they leave behind.
susanna
A short story for mature readers.
“Despite nature working against him, a stepfather learns to take responsibility for his new daughter.”
the stepfather didnt assume anything the day his girlfriend told him that she had a two year old daughter. that was fifteen years ago. things were different. he wasnt bombarded by calls to shelter youth the way he is now, by the government and other parents. people are scared. and in many ways the stepfather agrees with them. modern life is a breeding ground for deviants. he wonders if he would have the same opinion if he had walked away, during the date at the restaurant where she told him. he liked lucille. the night of the fifth date they finally had sex after fooling around as far as a young couple could without performing the act itself. he couldnt wait to see her the next night, but sitting down at the table with her already waiting for him felt eagerly pessimistic. she told him about her daughter. who was the father? she told him that too. he could tell she was nervous, the way she held him tight with one hand and collected herself with the napkin she held in the other. when the dinner was over they hugged it out and went to a movie. it was too early to go home. what if he said no? then he would still be in his forties now, still trying to reconcile the missing pieces of his own adolescence. but he would be single. and he wouldnt have susanna. by all accounts he is her stepfather. and try as he may to do the best that he can, she is seventeen now and it is almost too late. evenings spent just the two of them kindling their bond were only embers. he is okay with that. she isnt his kid, as much as he feels like she is. there is still a beacon that goes off inside him any time he wants to question that blossoming independence. maybe he should have been harder on her? more of a disciplinarian? lucy couldnt handle that. no, he decided to leave most of the parenting to her. he just had to. lucy had problems of her own. has. she has to be his primary responsibility, and susanna hers.
Continue readingolivia
A micro-story for mature readers.
coffee weed and fucking the perfect day. the dream. my dream not everyones we all have different dreams. i dont dream much anymore but when i do its the same dreams ive always had. im somewhere remote, somewhere beautiful, and im driving. i know where im going and i can never get there fast enough. then i find out im not going anywhere, that im running. and i dont see who im running from but its someone in another car and they are always one step behind me. but i dont see them. so do i really know who im running from? maybe im running from myself. it always felt like a doppelganger, knowing my every move like that even on some of the lower roads ive driven on, still drive on twenty years later while my body sleeps. one time i dreamt that my father left me. that he disappeared in to thin air and i had to go looking for him. i travelled the world in a gyrocopter with two bumbling midget sidekicks like a live action disney movie from the eighties and it was all to find him. but he left me. just like i got used to everyone leaving me. running from everybody. sheltered. but i knew what i needed. if i could just have another joint another cup of coffee, with the special creamer, get my dick sucked while i played video games it would all be okay. but i never had enough not even when it should have been enough i needed more, no weed id have a pot of coffee no coffee no weed i would lock myself in my room and masturbate all day, watching the same videos id seen a million times before. had to stay in my comfort zone even when watching porn. i love watching porn but i dont watch it anymore or else im not sharp for olivia.
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theory of a daskeman 