Telling a story, The world outside is burning, One passing dusk, and He came with her.

So, he’s sitting there, it’s 3:00 AM, dull moonlight pours in through a large skylight. He likes this room because of that skylight, sipping hot coffee in the morning sun, sitting here right now, under a clear night sky. He likes feeling outside, yet not.  He looks toward his vodkacet, knows he’s about to feel so good, so warm. It’ll feel cold in his mouth, burn as he swallows. He’ll be wrapped in a cozy blanket of false contentment. That feeling will be the off-brand version of a lover’s touch, or kiss, or the decadent oblivion found inside the right woman, lying on tousled silk sheets. The off-brand version of how it feels to wake in the morning and see her face. He sighs and takes a sip, decides not to stop until the glass is empty. It feels just like he imagined it would, maybe better. Just now, Goddamn fuckin’ zombies could shamble into the room to keep his company piece by piece, he wouldn’t care. He’s floating around, and hanging out on clouds.

With that warm feeling washing over him, floating on clouds, he takes the carving knife, runs it down both wrists, left and right, slow and vertical. It doesn’t hurt, the vodkacet makes a whisper of all the pain he’s ever felt. His arms feel warm and wet, life pooling all around him, telling a story. He’s bleeding letters, letters forming words, forming sentences, forming paragraphs. It’s a story of loneliness, and tedium, frustration, and loss, and failure. A story spreading out all over that shitty linoleum floor, for anyone to read. A story that goes and then, and then, and then, falling toward resolution.

He closes his eyes, begins to feel sleepy. He thinks about this story that’s spilling out around him, slow and quiet-like, wonders how exactly it will end. He’s writing a stream of consciousness, and he doesn’t know where it might stop.

First, I plan to devote more of my time toward writing unicorn, and turtle focused erotica.  I figure, erotica is very erotic, and unicorns are astonishingly beautiful, so putting the two together, well, I don’t think people will be able to sleep at night. At least, not without going heels to Jesus. As for the turtles, just think about it.

The second something involves a woman, but that’s between me, and her, and the lamppost. Maybe one day this blog will know, but not today.

A fellow can only fuck up so many times before he realizes that he should take a different road. For me, that road leads straight to the Catholic Church, and the life of a cloistered nun.

She’s crying now, hot tears running down her face, onto his. He says her name, this name he loves so much, a name attached to soft brown eyes, long curly brown hair against soft pale skin, but she doesn’t answer. Again and again he says it, but she’s no words, just tears. He’d give anything to hear her voice, something beautiful amidst the screaming, and the sirens, and the dying, but her voice isn’t there. There’s a flash bright as day, the room gets very hot, the air very thin, she turns to flame and ash, right fuckin’ there, right in his arms. Their bed, covered in tears, and sweat, and ash, and she’s gone. She’s so totally fucking gone. His skin, burned where he held her.

He tells himself it’s all a bad dream, that he just has to wake up and she’ll be lying next to him. He’ll kiss her softly, run the tips of his long fingers down her cheek. It’ll be cold outside, exactly like it was when he fell asleep with her in his arms. She’ll feel so good, so warm, she’ll feel like a shot of heroin. He’ll hold her close, tell her how much he loves her. He’ll take off her clothes, sink into her until all the fear that covers him falls away.

He hears a song in his head, soft and melancholy. One day she’ll go, I told you so…

He can’t wake up, and the world outside just keeps burning.

This just seems right to post.

I feel like this Nirvana song, like a stain.

The song goes…

Well, he never bleeds, and he never fucks, and he never leaves ’cause he’s got bad luck.

Well, he never reads, and he never draws, and he never sleeps ’cause he’s got bad luck, yeah…

I’m a stain…

I’m in that sort of rut, but I don’t blame luck, I just blame myself. The really fucked up part is that I can’t write about any of it, which goes against my entire philosophy of transparency. I can’t even write it as thinly veiled fiction, as I do so often. I have these things going on that I absolutely cannot put to words, but since they’re all that’s in my head, I can’t seem to write anything else. I’m frustrated, and exhausted, and I just want to feel something good again. I don’t want to feel like I’m a stain…

So, if I don’t have any writing ideas just now, maybe you folks do. What would you like to see me write? Give me ideas, ask for anything. Give me suggestions, crazy topics, don’t be shy. I’ve asked this before, and it definitely helped then.

Just leave your ideas in my blog comments, please don’t leave Facebook comments or tweets.

The thing is though, I’m not brave. I’m just not. I’m full of fear, and flaws, and damage. I fuck up all the time. I’m scared of being lonely, and scared that anyone I get close to will leave me because they might not like what I am, so I often push them away first. I’ve been known to enjoy liquor way too much when I get too uneasy. Two summers ago, I was doing fuckin’ vodka shots for brunch. I don’t do that stuff now, but I did, and it wasn’t brave. I have to get a fresh tube in my throat every five weeks, and the way I handle it is knowing that I’ll get amazing drugs for the procedure. Drugs to make me sleep through the hard part, and drugs to kill the pain and the nervous when I wake up. That’s definitely not brave. Nothing about this paragraph is brave.

I don’t see myself as brave, I’m just as fucked up and screwed up as anybody.

So, last night I went to open mic at a cafe in Tampa, Sacred Grounds. I met someone there on Saturday, Danielle, and we’ve been talking since. She really likes my writing for some reason, and asked if she could be my reader at open mic. So, we went and she read three of my flash pieces, Waking up someone who isn’t me, Driving in the dark, and Asleep soon.