I made a mess of July

The birds chirp over my head, lounging on the branches of the magnolia tree I rest below. My head feels as if it floats with the clouds above the chirping birds, above the beautiful blossoming tree I chose amidst intoxication as my resting place. The moment of clarity, and appreciation of nature comes to a halt as I wish to tilt my head upwards, and feel deep in my cranium a splendorous pain, my souvenir of the night before. I rest my head back down on the ground, filled with scattered blossoms that now decorate my hair. I edge my eyes open and adjust them to the light, withstanding the pain that comes with it, and as I lurch myself up with the will of greyhound, my brain sends me spinning. It is only when I sit with my back leaning on thin wired trunk of the tree do I realise that my glasses are resting on my ears, nor my head. A simple sigh whispers from the inner chasm of my lungs, as I now wiggle my way up the tree, requiring solely on the force through my legs and the stability of its rooted base. I gaze around, my vision obscured due to biological reasons as well as external factors, and after 5-10 minutes of gazing I give up on my search and recline into my prior position. I sit there, completely thoughtless, and with the dull thud of my heartbeat exploding through my head I feel the concept of confusion edging towards my conscious. My mind, blank and pained, has barely any recollection of the night, and as to how I ended up in my current position. I am of course naturally inclined to accepting it, but still intrigued as to how I found myself under the likes of a magnolia tree on the 1st of July. I admire the scenery, the tree is rooted towards the far-left corner of what seems to be a park, large oak trees decorate the sides of all the pathways, which have oriental lamps placed appropriately in their wake, the park has a few joggers passing under its net of leaves, and the lack of any other activity suggests that I have awoken with the sun. The observation is enough for me to consider pulling my phone out of my pocket to try to make sense of the situation. But with the will of a greyhound lacking, I decide against it and rest my head in solace against the trunk again and fall into rest.

“Fucking hell he’s heavy.” I awake to two men on either side of me raising my arms with their own as they attempt heave me into the sky. I let out a disgruntled noise and begin to retract from their grasp, fully alert and vision barely functional.

“Leo fucking calm down.” The voice seems somewhat familiar to me and as I focus on his face I recognize the piercing brown eyes that adorn his fair complexion.

“Oscar. What’s going on.” I mumble, wishing an answer whilst yearning for more rest as my body feels as if it’s decaying by the moment.

“We’re getting you in the car you drunkard.” I hear the voice from my left mutter through the struggle of heaving me through the park.

My brain barely re consolidates the journey to the car, the next thing I know the car is winding its way through the streets of eastern Sydney. I doze off in the backseat, my body resisting to be woken, resisting the tempting bumps into consciousness. Before I know it the two friendly shapes are heaving me out of the car, and now into an apartment door. As they bring me towards the stairs I tear my left hand off the other man, and reach out for the railing. I of course misjudge the distance and throw my weight a good three inches too early and fall dramatically. The two men must lunge down to prevent me from knocking my own chin on the bottom steps and then proceed with the grueling task of dragging me up the stairs. One by one we make it up the flights and to what I assume is Oscar’s place, where I guess they will wish for me to sleep, a concept I quite dearly encourage. The hour as to when I stopped drinking is a question I would like to know, as I may be hung over but I am still indeed drunk.

“Get up.” The serenity of blank darkness is what I awake to, except it seems to be the back of my eyelids. The newness of the world is revealed to me as I decide upon opening my eyes, and it takes me more than a couple moments to realize exactly where I am. I awake to the man named Oscar hunched over my body, refraining from shaking me awake but on the verge of doing so. It seems to be his apartment that he allowed me to pass out in. His apartment is adorned with wicker furniture and many absurdist paintings littered on the walls, his living area seems somewhat of a conference zone as it all surrounds the low Japanese dining table in the middle, which lines perfectly with the flat screen mounted on the wall. My resting position has the perfect view of the whole apartment, as the bed couch is located in the far left corner of the place, next to the bedroom entrance doorway and a vase filled with fake bamboo. Oscars furniture says a lot about his lifestyle, almost more than his posture, voice and appearance. His distinctly gay features are only portrayed through his private life and the men he always keeps company. But hell, who cares about that, he’s a great pianist and PR work comes effortlessly naturally to him.


She has no tick

She has no tick. No nervous tick. She stands there, above the crowd, speaking as if they were not there. Her head gazing in between the audience, avoiding their eyes but making them feel watched. Everyone has a nervous tick, but with her, I cannot find one. She stands high, head standing straight and her hands comfortably hold each other, crossed over her stomach. Maybe behind her eyes, her mind is rushing to and fro, ticking back in nervous convulsions. But to my eye, there is no fear. I wish to catch her, to perhaps break this focus that is so contempt. It seems as if all eyes are fixated on her in the same fashion as my own, a certain whisper of the room sets everyone on edge. But as she’s finished, her so well educated speech, time seems to have stopped, flown in fact, so quickly that we all must shake off the certain trance we have fallen into. She leaves her stage, and all our eyes that shined so wholly like a spotlight on a dancer seemed to wither off. But my eyes never leave their gaze, following her so fervently through the room. My focus now leaves the subject of her eyes, and instead grace her sun-dried pink lips, her neck so softly carved and her free flowing sunflower blonde hair. My mind begins to endow her with improbable virtues and imaginary sentiments, blissfully gracing my imagination and banging down the door to my heart. There is now another, up there on the stage, stealing the attention that was sufficed for her. The rest of the room has seemed to erase the enchanting act that had graced us all, but not me. My eyes have not wavered from her body, from her subject, and my ears have gone silent as they buzz with an oddly eerie screech. Everything to my right seems to fade away from existence, as if carved away. And only as my fingers start to begin incessantly tingling do I realize the calamity of the situation. The incessant tingling seems to spread through the tip of my finger down to the base and to yet another finger. I stand up, shooting up in fact and stealing the spotlight of everybody’s eyes, and I walk out. I walk as fast as I can, I reach for my phone and feel the tingling turn into a sharp jolt. Forcing myself through such discomfort I type away. Except I cannot spell, nor speak and the tingling has moved from my hands to my legs. My thigh unexpectedly cramps and I find myself up against a wall in agony. The incessant tingling that so haunts my conscious spreads from my limbs to now my face, moving through my mouth and forcing me to avoid swallowing. As time flows on I sit, with my leg stretched out and hand elevated away from any touch. There I wait, allowing this ceaseless annoyance of pain to swarm over my body, restricting all my functions.

The Overpass

The overpass.

An ambient shade of orange illuminates the alley I rest in. I lie there shivering in the cold, as my resting place is the only section that isn’t covered in a blanket of snow. My eyes roll back as I shake into reality, slugging my back up the wall. I slide my hand down to my arm, removing the cold metal pinching at my skin, a violent headache shakes my head as I now feel my ears picking up on footsteps and the grunting of lowered speech. I press my hands to the wall, attempted to stand, and after my third attempt of exerting pressure through my legs, they finally work. I still lean against the wall, stumbling forth and edging my way to the clearing of the alley. My eyes only flicker open for seconds, staying closed for most of the journey allowing my perception to slowly become clear. By the time I can keep my eyes open, I’m already out of the alley. Except I can’t stand, and the lack of the wall leads to me tripping forward and falling onto a car. Offffffttttmy body releases a sound as I hit the cars’ front window. I hear the sound of footsteps increasing, sending rattles through my skin. I look around, spinning, to try to locate where the sound is coming from, and before I know it I’m being pinned against the car. A man, dark of skin, tall, a face clean shaven and weak of features, has his elbow against my collar pressing me into the car. Behind him trails a girl, the girl is what stops my eyes from wandering out of their sockets. Wearing heels she is still not above the height of the man, her brown hair stops at her shoulders but gently brushes against her collarbones which are exposed by her low cut strapless dress. I know what she is. The man looks into my eyes, and I can tell he’s analysing me. After a few seconds, he looks down towards my arm and immediately smirks. I don’t pay much attention to it all, my eyes captivated by the woman standing close behind him. I notice him reach into his jacket, and now my eyes shift back to him. He pulls out a vial and places it in my hand, his smile still present and whispers into my ear to take her to the end of the line, and set her out into the night and the dark northern cold. He then removes his forearm from my collar, and steps away and continues to step away until his out of sight, and all my white and red eyes can look at is the girl in front of me. She blankly stares at me before beginning to walk, not looking back to see whether I follow. So we walk. For hundreds of metres we walk in the cold. I can feel the underlying emotion within the woman, the cold itching into her skin and scratching her emotions to the surface, easy for us all to read in the frozen breeze. She shakes, but I don’t have a coat, and I know that this journey will take up the whole night. And we don’t have a car, so this trip may as well be her death sentence. The houses seem to fly by, majority of so boarded up, blocking out all hope of sound. The only noise being a subtle hum escaping the streetlights above us. A noise so quiet yet to violently loud. I seem to be tagging along behind her at this point, and notice a streak of dye in her hair, a vibrant red line in the mellow mahogany, a lightning bolt against a door. Her and I never speak, but she has that visible breathing. I find my eyes, wanderers as they are, resting too comfortably on her figure. After dozens of almost replicated boarded houses, we reach a battered and long deceased mansion could have almost been basking a beam of pure gold. The complex is fenced off, with boxed buxus lining the fence. The girl stops at the gate, the mansion resting in our wake illuminated from the inside by lighting so fierce the shadows of movement send vibrant lights to shake my eyes. The girl seems entranced by the building, her eyes slowing gazing over the structure. We stand there for minutes on end, the woman admiring the mansion with the sounds of heavy music protruding, and I admiring her. But when the shadows no longer dance spots of pain across my visions and instead temporarily blind me, my heart rushes and I start towards her hand. Her freezing fingers attempt release from my grip but I lurch her towards me and begin to run with her dragging by my side. Her heels click along the pavement, and I can hear the music from the mansion fading away into the nightlife. After we’ve run past many more mansions like theone before I release her hand from my grip. That is when I see her hands have turned blue, and then I can tell they’ve gone numb and she stops to look up at me, her eyes a startling blue. I reach out my hand to her, mine still filled with colour and warmth. There we stand, simply looking in each others eyes. She lets go and begins to walk straight, and only after she’s left do my eyes allow my mind to describe the sight.  We have reached the line. Dozens of cars line the road, hollow and broken down and the girl is walking out, but above her cars rumble, and around her shrouds darkness. The only light is that of the cars headlights that creep through the cracks of the road above. After minutes pass I can no longer see her figure, as now she has been consumed by the overpass. I look down to the vial in my hand and back at the consuming pit. But am I not at fault? This is the arrangement and what I’ve been sold.

My first short story

Lights flash before my eyes, as I walk through the not so spacious hallway. With no regrets weighing my shoulders down, I stride in chest high and jaw clenched. Greeted by numerous acquaintances, a couple of “friends”, my somewhat ex, my little too close friend, and introduced to the people I have never seen before and hope to never again. I seek refuge in the two people at this gathering event that is called a party, that I know rather well. One of which, is completely beautiful but a little too narcissistic, and the other is her friend. Oh I wish for such nights where I have no need to seek refuge within the people who do not know me in the dark, but those who wish to seek out the dark with me. The night proves uneventful, uninteresting, wearing my patience and capability of normality thin. With the ear thumping rhymes vibrating in the air, and girls with daddy issues grinding, my eyes catch a glimpse of beauty through the shoddy field. The smoke from the dance floor cannot block my view from such a sight. A girl, with her two insignificant friends, dancing in time to the songs she wishes not to know. My night, proving still uneventful but my patience is enduring, as I lock eyes with this sight, her wistful brown eyes staring into my own blackened grey, I feel the butterflies rise and fall in my chest, the smoke and bodies cannot prevent this connection of eyes and heart. I move with the beat, up the stairs in a ¾ motion, sliding my way through the dancers, I wish to provide a better look, for her and I. Her dance becomes more of a shuffle, her moving away from her friends, my chance to pounce and drug her becomes more clear. Love is but a drug. Our eyes still locked in one another’s, I decide to examine her beauty. Her mahogany brown hair lusciously cascading over her shoulders and down to cover her breasts, wearing a white tank top, with only her bra straps covering her shoulders, her beige skirt cutting off at her knees. She smiles at me and I feel my heart begin to thud, to the beat of the music but louder. In that one single moment, I feel everything drop away, the music, the assholes and daddy issue girls around us, and I look directly into her eyes, as she leans in and kisses me. That one single moment, felt like enough to last a life time, a sweet relief, a distinct distraction, but as I feel her hand move from the small of my back, and into her skirt, I think things are getting too out of hand. Maybe she’s drugged, or out of It I think to myself, but when her hand returns to my neck this time icy cold like metal, I question my actions within the moment. Then it happens, I hear a click, as the chamber behind my neck is released, my throat becoming hollow and her head becoming see through. The gun in her hand drops, but she drops into me as I slowly lower to the ground, choking on my own blood.