Tag: loathing

a christmas miracle

An erotic mirco-story for mature readers.

i walk around the wrapping paper trip mines that dot the path from the living room to the bathroom when i see the lights on the street from the basement window, pull up, then shut off. i knew who it was. my phone goes off in my pocket. just a sec, gimme a minute, will you? i offload the most eager of waste while my mind rattles-off a mile-a-minute, my erection throbbing against the inside of the toilet seat. i use a wet wipe then give my girlfriend a kiss. she sits on the couch in a half-baked eulogy to the evening, her phone in her hand while the last few tracks of the christmas cd play from the stereo. i’m going outside for a smoke, do you want to come? “no, i’m ok here.” that’s great, you stay here. you look very comfortable. i don’t. “you don’t. everything ok?” everything’s fine, i just need to go outside to smoke up, calm down. “what do you have to be uneasy about? it’s christmas!” she takes my hand from just inside the radius that allows her to reach from her seat without moving, and pulls me toward her. she kisses me. it’s sloppy, and i miss her lips and peck under her nose in the fervour. “are you sure everything’s ok? you just seem off.” i’m fine. my phone goes off again. “someone is really trying to get a hold of you.” i know, it’s probably Dad, you know i tried him earlier and he didn’t pick up. “well hurry back to me.” i will. she has said her peace, but she still knows that something is up. she isn’t stupid, and i’m easy to read. i kiss her once more for extra reassurance before robing myself up for the storm outside and venturing forth, around the side of the house from the basement suite entrance to the street out-front, where i can see the darkened silhouette of a figure in the car parked out-front. i can recognize that hair anywhere. and she put it up for me, with a little poinsettia scrunchy that enunciates her flawless smile and red lipstick. i kick the snow off my boots before getting in to the passenger side of the car. hi. “hi.” she starts the ignition and pulls away, waiting for the last minute to turn on the headlights.

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Jay’s Take: The Godfather Part III (Coda, whatever)

A revisionist & spoiler-heavy movie review and personal analysis.

A Roman, divorced from his wife, was blamed by friends for the separation. “Was she not beautiful?” they chorused. “Was she not chaste?” The Roman, holding out his shoe for them to see, asked if it were not good-looking and well made. “Yet,” he added, “none of you can tell where it pinches me.”

– Adapted from Plutarch by Reader’s Digest

When I was in Grade 9, a few friends and I got together one afternoon and shot a movie on my Dad’s ancient Hi-8 Panasonic camcorder. Grade 9, how old would we all have been… 15? In this riveting independent feature (that took hours to film and only yielded 10-minutes of useable footage), there is a gang war between humans and bottles. Anthropomorphic, Ebonic-spouting plastic Pepsi bottles with angry faces scribbled on them in black Sharpie. There were three scenes: the prologue, with the bottles encroaching on the humans’ turf; a “driving” scene where the humans go to the bottles’ hideout (where all us underage-teenagers pretended to drive around in my friend’s mother’s sedan, which was parked in the garage); and a final confrontation where the humans kicked the shit out of the bottles. We win, The End. It sounds ridiculous just writing it here, and it WAS ridiculous, and a good memory. But – being the fledging cineaste I was – it wasn’t good enough. It could have been better. So I tried to “improve” it by adding 90-minutes of stock footage stolen from both poorly-converted VHS tapes of Hollywood movies and the public domain database that came off the editing software CD I was using.

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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.

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the dress

A micro-story for mature readers.

where did it come from?
how did she get it?
was it a thrift shop find? a hand-me-down? new? at one time or another? he never asked her, and preferred to be led along by the mystery.

he assumed it was forged in the fires of some ancient volcano, by slaves to an oft-held tenet. bandana-clad, their sweaty muscles glistened against the reflected light of the red-hot lava, weaving each fabric by hand. real work, no chit-chat. all the while the ground was in a constant state of convulsion, no one standing evenly, the infernal lake spitting. hundreds of casualties. but an ever-rotating assembly line of devotees, worshippers to the cause, the fashioning of this edifice to one day adorn its true, rightful owner. in truth he had seen it in a shop window of his youth, on display to the world like Excalibur before King Arthur. this was twelve years prior, wandering around downtown in an adolescent slumber it graced a model far slimmer and gawkier than the reality was to be. but as the boy took the moment offered from that day to stare at the mannequin and bask in the implications of its teen-aged fantasy, he knew that this would be it. this was the dress that his love would wear, whether or not he had to be the one to buy it for her. he remembered the cross-street, the landmarks, the number on the curb, “come on, we’re going to miss the show!” and the dream retreated to folklore for the first time.

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the rules

A micro-story.

the birds chirped through the cracks of the storm shelter high in the old blue, the dying light in the sky that had been getting dimmer and dimmer these passing years how many had it been, the count on the wall was given up on long ago the cave paintings of line etched into the crumbling foaminess of earth around it the whole foundation was beginning to fall apart like this, in clumps of liquid soil that seemed to run like waterfalls around them. they were all hideously deformed, infested warts of incurable sizes sieged their naked bodies preventing free movement they lay all six of them in a mesh of diseased flesh on the floor keeping warm with what little energy they were permitted from, feasting on each other, gnawing like children to the binky to the point of piercing skin, their gummy mouths and underdeveloped teeth sucking and coddling to what little blood remained. the sun was dying this much was true, days were dark and nights were darker but they knew never to leave the safety of their shelter, that what the world was once is gone, that the tainted air through the slits in the shelter door were what caused their mutation. why would they ever leave now? what could the world offer but a curiosity before certain death? no, generations had been taught the rules.

//jf 11.11.2020

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