Fiction Story

HEARTS IN THE SAND

by Bob Clark

If thirty-two year old Eugene Pavelik had known how to find the beach community of Port Aransas, he never would have stopped for the scruffy hitchhiker on Highway 59. Dusk was rapidly waning and in the coming dark, he knew he'd be totally lost in the jumble of unfamiliar roads that led to his holiday hideaway. He needed help.

In the rear view mirror of his five-year old Cadillac, he watched as the slightly built hitchhiker shuffled toward him. He was surprised at how much older the shabbily dressed man was than most guys who stick out their thumbs. The man was cradling a gray canvas gym bag in his arms and for a moment, the frightening thought of a possible weapon flitted through Eugene's mind. Before his hand made it to the door lock button, the older man tugged at the door handle and pulled it open. He slid onto the seat and unzipped the gym bag.

"Hope you don't mind," he croaked in a voice that sounded as though his morning routine included gargling with broken glass and sandpaper. He pulled out a disheveled lump of hair with legs and plopped it on his lap. It was a small Terrier mix with a red kerchief around its neck. The mutt licked his master's hand once, closed his eyes, and settled into a snooze. "That's Toby. Been my only friend for the last eight years." When Eugene slipped on a weak smile, the man continued. "Say amigo, you wouldn't by any chance have some lunch leftovers, would you? Toby really could use something to munch on."

Eugene looked at his new traveling companion. The man also sported a red kerchief around his neck and wore a black knit cap on his head. He appeared to need the leftovers as much as the dog. "Um, sorry. I ate at a Dairy Queen in Victoria a little while back. Cleaned my plate." The rider nodded and Eugene asked, "How far you going?"

"Toby and me, we're going to the place I was born, Port Aransas."

Eugene beamed. "What an amazing coincidence. That's where I'm headed. I have a week's vacation from my job in Houston and I have a reservation at Pirate's Cove Resort Condos. I'm sure glad I met you because I'm not sure how to get there."

"How 'bout that?" The old man flashed a gap toothed grin as his weathered hand smoothed out a tangle in the dog's hair. "A few miles up ahead in Refugio, you gotta get off Highway 77 and onto 2678. Tell you more later. Don't want to confuse you." The old man stared at the logo on the steering wheel and closed his eyes as if remembering something pleasant. "This a Caddy, huh? Reminds me of the time Elvis give me one."

Eugene's mouth dropped open and he took his eyes off the road for a second. "Elvis Presley? He gave you a Cadillac?"

"Yeah. Ugly color. Canary yellow as I remember. Sort of a goodbye present. One of his regular singers got deathly ill and I sang backup for him in Vegas for a few weeks. That was back when I sang and played harmonica for my supper. He wanted me to come to Nashville with him, but I turned him down."

"Well, uh... what was he like?"

"Good guy. One weakness though. Never met a fourteen or fifteen year old girl he didn't like. Went through a bunch of 'em on that trip."

"Wait a second. You say you sang with him?"

The older man nodded. "Yeah. Hard to believe, huh? I didn't always sound like this, you know. Sinatra changed that."

"You're pulling my leg aren't you?"

"I worked Vegas when I was young. Met a lot of the big names. When I got a pickup gig from Sinatra's bandleader, I guess I went nuts. Thought I had it made. Trouble was, I celebrated with a bottle of vodka before the show. Got so drunk, I embarrassed Frank onstage. After the show, he told Eddie, one of his boys to get rid of me. Frank told me later that he meant I should be fired, but Eddie misunderstood. Within minutes, I found my harmonica being forced down my throat. Frank's manager saw what was happening or I wouldn't be here now. Sinatra paid for the hospital and had a check for ten thousand dollars sent over to my room. Doctors said it was a busted larynx and ripped vocal cords."

Eugene didn't know if the man was letting him in on real secrets of show business or inventing stories, but it was an entertaining way to spend time. "How did you make a living after that?"

"I blew the ten thousand in no time and then I just started drifting like the sand on the beach where I was born." He paused for several seconds and when he spoke again, fatigue had crept into his voice. "I gotta go back there tonight before it's too late." After that, the man pulled his cap down and faced the window. Except for the necessary directions he gave to Eugene, he kept silent. They made it to Aransas Pass, went over a bridge that spanned the Intracoastal Waterway and continued on to the free ferry that would connect the mainland to Port Aransas on Mustang Island.

The old man drew in an audible breath and croaked, "I can smell it now." He looked down at the dog. "So can Toby."

Indeed, noted Eugene, Toby was stirring. "What? What do you smell?"

"It's the sea. The salt air of the Gulf of Mexico. It's good to be home."

In just five minutes, the ferry glided across the waters of the ship channel and Eugene said, "I guess we're finally here. Where to now?"

The older man nodded, chucked Toby under his hairy chin and said, "End of the line, little buddy." He looked ahead through the windshield and cleared his throat. "The place you want is up ahead a couple of blocks, but I'd really appreciate it if you could take me just a little further to where I'm going."

Eugene followed the man's simple directions and within minutes, the Caddy was on the Port Aransas city beach. Streetlights spaced out at two block intervals showed the hard packed sand that served as the road to where the old man wanted to go, the South Jetty. It was a line of jagged boulders that formed the building blocks of a quarter mile walkway into the waters of the Gulf. The car stopped only a few yards away from the jetty and the rider smiled.

"You done good boy. That's where I'll be staying for the night."

On the opposite side of the jetty was the cut between Mustang Island and San Jose Island where the ocean going vessels exited Corpus Christi Bay. Eugene saw no shelter for the man. "You're gonna stay there?" he asked.

In response, the other man took off his knit cap and placed it on the gym bag. He slipped off the tattered and filthy sneakers he wore and scooped up the dog. Pushing open the door, he got out of the car and stepped over to the jetty. He suddenly stopped and placed the dog on a boulder so that he could use his hands to undo the belt holding up his pants and pull off his shirt. In an instant, the older man was naked.

"Hey!" Eugene shouted over the sound of the surf and the wind. What's going on here?"

" This is it for me boy. Ain't going nowhere no more." He kissed the dog's forehead and held Toby out to the younger man. "Here, you hold him while I get down." Eugene took the dog as his rider eased himself down and took up a cross-legged position on the sand. "This here is the very spot where my mother gave birth to me. That night, my father was over there on the rocks fighting a fish for their meal. She suddenly went into labor and out I came no bigger than the fish he had on the line. They washed the sand off me with the sea water." He saw Eugene begin to gather up the discarded clothing and shook his head. "Don't bother, boy. I won't need them where I'm going. It's my ticker. Ain't got much power left. I'm going back where I came from dressed the way I was when I got here. You take Toby. He ain't fancy. Table scraps are OK with him."

Eugene held onto the old man's clothing and approached the dog. "I don't feel right leaving you like this. It's not humane. It's not..."

"Soon as you get to your resort hotel, you pick up the phone and call the cops. Let them take care of me." The older man coughed twice. His head slumped down and he took a shallow breath. After a pause, he brought his face up to look straight into Eugene's eyes. "Nothing you can do for me now. Just go. Feed Toby."

Eugene backed away, the dog cradled in his arms. He sensed that the naked man had very little time left and that it was senseless to argue. When he got to the car, he placed Toby on the man's cap. With a last look back, he drove away. As he left the sandy road for the paved streets, a thin, high-pitched noise from inside the car caught his attention. The warning lights on the dash were not lit. There was no visible indication of a malfunction so after two blocks, he pulled over and shut off the engine. The noise continued. As he opened the door to get out and check the engine, the dog stopped making the sound, took the knit cap into his teeth and jumped down from the seat onto the pavement.

"Toby! Come back here. Toby!" he shouted as he saw the dog run off. He knew where the dog was going and also knew that the dog would be picked up when they got his call about the man at the jetty. He would go to the pound in a day or two and pick up the dog as if it was his own. He would feed Toby as the man had requested.

Two days later, he found a small story about the hitchhiker on page two, section B of the local paper. It said that an unidentified nude man was found dead on the sand next to the South Jetty. The police found no indication of foul play and the authorities thought the man was a drifter who stripped because he wanted to cool off, but the effort was too much for his heart. One officer said that a small dog was found at the scene. He was also dead. The officer speculated, "Probably from malnutrition."

Eugene folded the newspaper and put it down on the table poolside at the Pirate's Cove. The pretty girl who was serving him a cold drink was startled when he said, "They can call it malnutrition if they want. I know better. That dog died of a broken heart."

END

Horror Story

MISSIONARY

by Jon Brown

'Dear God...' the auctioneer screamed, as he crawled out from under his desk and pulled apart the gavel to reveal a steel dagger point, '...forgive me,' he cried as he charged at the yeti's stomach. His only spectator, a smartly dressed Indian who sat like a statue near the back of the hall, ever watchful of the progress, as the hideous beast knocked the weapon from his attacker's hand and leapt onto his back.

Though well built, the auctioneer's struggles were no match for the beast, and he soon crashed to the floor under the immense weight. 'I have a wife and a child,' He begged in vain for mercy as the snarling yeti rammed his face into the blood-greased floor, snapping his jaw clean in two.

'So did my father, sir.' The Indian reminded the dying man he was still there with a voice that boomed.

'But friend. Christian...' he begged help from the Indian one last time, though his plea sounded feeble through a mouthful of blood and broken teeth, as he stared at the severed head of a pretty young female, whose body still sat upright over in the line of chairs. Mirrored in her eyes he could see the aftermath of those slain all about him. She had been the first, and he the last. Then something punctured the side of his neck, and a drowning sensation enveloped him as his lungs filled with blood, and he was left to watch her face sink into blackness.

The Indian sat emotionless, his white suit unblemished despite the carnage which he had orchestrated. As he watched the beast play with the dead man like a rag doll, and listened to its mewls of cruel pleasure, he watched the ectoplasms of Christian souls hovering in the air above the dying man waiting for his to join them. Only when the beast ripped out the still-pumping heart did he allow a smile, and then a nod of command for the organ to be crushed to pulp. Then from his inside pocket, he pulled out an amulet, small red, and made of stone in the rough shape of the yeti beast himself, 'Anganas....Demby..' He began to chant in his ancient shaman tongue to pacify the beast, before he rose from his chair and picked his way through the bodies toward it, 'Tansa...Lasa...' his voice filled the hall as he worked the time-practiced magic with his tongue, holding the amulet in front of him, staring fearlessly up into the feral eyes of the beast who turned to walk toward him and the sound, towering head and shoulders above the Indian, unable to avoid his hypnotic stare.

The vicious snarl became a whine, and then a whimper as the stone blinded him with a sudden brilliance. He raised his hairy arms in front of his face in a futile defence, then slowly the yeti dropped onto its knuckles and began to walk on all fours back toward the wooden crate from where it had first sprung to life. 'Gandenya...Denby..' The shamen finished his spell, and watched the yeti grow as small as a terrier, circling round and round before lying down on its side inside the wooden box.

He sighed from the exertion of his powers, and knew he had to work fast to collect the souls of his victims, which hovered in the rafters above him like a fine cloud of blue dust, all but joined as one now, until the last soul curled out from the mouth of the auctioneer to join them. Left a moment longer, he knew the souls would permeate the roof material and escape him forever. The amulet already warm in his palm, soon grew uncomfortably hot as he summoned all his will to draw them in, delivering him closer to his departure from the village hall. Yet another place of cream teas, and cruel predjuices where his mark would be left. Retribution for his family who had been murdered by the hand of Christian missionaries less than half a century ago. So called men of God who had slain his family and left him to starve in the mountains. And had it not been for the female yeti who found and reared him as her own, he would surely have perished.

Later...

The auctioneer waited, noting the next number on the item list, as the labourer wheeled the small wooden crate into the crowded village hall. "Sleepy guard of the mountain." he introduced the item to the bidders as the porter opened the hinged crate to reveal the impressive carving within. 'A fine example of seventeenth century, shaman history.' He paused to squint at the scrawl of lines next to the item number, 'Hand carved from Himalayan Cedar.' He toyed with the hammer, an amused look grown on his face, 'I wouldn't want to wake him with insults, so we'll start the bidding at five hundred pounds. Do I see five hundred and ten?' he asked as he scanned the faces of the bidders, their attention still fixed on the carving. As he turned to see a pair of hairy hands appear over the top of the crate, his amusement turning to fear.

Meanwhile, at the back of the hall an Indian man in a white suit coolly finished his cigar, and then quietly closed the door behind him, his whispered chants going unnoticed as he began to rub at the amulet in his pocket...

Fiction Story

ALTERED LIVES

by Roy L. Pickering, Jr.

Richard took a look of appraisal at the decrepit motel before climbing its familiar stairwell. Most men walked this path to purchase illicit pleasures, provided either by drugs or sex. Richard sought neither, but was a regular visitor nonetheless. He hadn't planned for things to work out this way, but plenty in his life had worked out as it damn well pleased.

In the beginning he had come to satisfy his basest desires. But his conscience did not allow him to, despite the overwhelming urges of his flesh. That first time had been torture, infinite longing fighting helplessly against even more guilt. Torture turned out to be precisely what Richard needed. It was what brought him back over and over again.

"Hello, lover."

Richard smiled wryly in recognition of the irony laden nickname she had bestowed upon him. Linda's ordinarily placid green eyes danced to life. She touched Richard's cheek, a tender gesture other clients did not receive, no matter how much they paid. He held his head down to avoid the poignancy of her gaze.

Lowering his eyes brought into focus Linda's voluptuously proportioned torso. It was as if she had been constructed in the heavens to his exact specifications, a woman built for making love. Many had used her at their disposal. Richard was no exception, and yet he was, for they had never been intimate in the carnal sense. He had been visiting her once a week for two years, paying for her time yet not allowing her to earn the money in her usual fashion.

"How's everything with you?" Richard asked.

"Same old freaks wanting the same old things."

Richard wondered if he was included in the statement. Frustration occasionally made her cruel. He deserved it, so tried not to complain. After all, he had come here to serve his penance.

"Everything the same at home?" Linda asked.

"Of course."

The routine began. Richard sat on the edge of the bed while Linda undressed slowly, undulating torturously. Each time they went through this, Richard was sure he would finally break, draw her close and let his body indulge in the fantasies his fevered mind had concocted. Once again though, he remained perfectly still, completely powerless to her whims. If she stepped forward, he would be too weak to resist. But out of respect for the boundary he long ago set, she kept her distance. A single tear rolled down his cheek, as did a pair of hers.

"When will we stop this game?" Linda asked, already knowing the answer.

"Whenever you choose."

"That will be soon, you know."

"Yes, I know."

Eight months of forced abstinence is what first brought Richard into this then unfamiliar world. One night too many besides a woman who had grown cold to his touch. A woman half dead physically, fully deceased in her heart. Richard didn't blame her. How could he? He deserved every one of the poisoned darts shot from his wife's eyes, as well as the barbed wire fence protecting the region between her legs. Her feelings were more than warranted, for his crime was unpardonable.

He had known three drinks were his limit, but let a celebratory mood influence him to down five. Richard was nothing if not a practical man who pre-weighed the consequences of all actions. What a time for a lapse in standard procedure. To get behind the wheel in that state was unthinkable, but no thinking had been done. He still saw the oncoming headlights in his dreams, heard the screeching of tires, felt the impact of metal colliding and collapsing. The words of the doctor continued to echo in his head. Spinal injury; lower body paralyzed; never walk again.

There was something else he still saw regularly as well. The look of blame that masked his wife's face. Michelle did not need to say a word, and indeed never had. Her feelings weighed heavily and constantly in the air.

Sensation through lovemaking had not abandoned her, but Michelle declined him access nonetheless. His wife was no whore. She couldn't make love if she didn't mean it, and she simply didn't anymore. Her affection would remain on hold for as long as her legs were immobile. Forever.

"I'm starting to get old," Linda said. "This business is for the young. I still have my regulars, but the others tend to pass me by more and more. Crow's feet and cellulite are no match for those tight thirteen year olds."

"You're as stunning as ever."

"Not for long, lover. You better come and get some while it's still worth getting."

Richard didn't answer. No surprise there. He was quite dedicated to the self-inflicted torture payment plan he had devised for himself. Linda knew now that her best chance had been the first. When he threw himself down and cried out "I can't", she could have easily shown him that he could. But at the time it hadn't mattered. She had already been paid, so this man could fuck her, talk to her, or spill tears into the cracks on the floor. She had seen plenty of men cry before, and this one moved her no more than the others. She was a long way from being in love with him then.

He went on to tell her about the accident, Michelle's detachment, his isolation. Linda managed not to laugh at his theory that if he paid for it, if he kept emotions out of the picture, then it really wouldn't be cheating. Not in the true sense of the word. He hadn't been able to convince himself any more than he had her. Being intimate with another woman, hooker or not, would be one more crime against his undeserving wife, one more brick of guilt added to an already over-stacked load.

Richard learned something that day he would not soon forget. Denying himself pleasure which was right at hand amounted to inflicting punishment upon himself. Punishment was exactly what he felt he deserved, for what else could make the guilt tolerable? By not allowing himself what he most longed for, tender, sensual human contact, he was paying back what he owed. Michelle was his wife. He had made vows in a house of God to always be there for her. If because of his actions all she could be was miserable and tortured, then Richard would be so as well.

Thus it became a routine. Once a week Richard would allow Linda to give him a glimpse of what he desperately wanted, but no more. Since Michelle's body could no longer do what she wished it to, Richard would not allow his the release it craved. A simple plan which enabled him to maintain sanity.

The plan was not flawless, however. As the amount of his appointments with Linda increased, so did their knowledge of each other, and their degree of emotional attachment. When she finally confessed her feelings, Richard realized what a mess he had created. He could have simply ceased the visits. Instead he examined his own heart and realized that he felt the same. He continued to see her, once a week on the same day at the same time, because love added to his lust made the act of refraining from her touch even more difficult. The worse he could make himself feel, the more demons he would be able to exorcise.

As for Linda's take, it would simply have to not matter. She was a professional, one used to being emotionally uninvolved with what was taking place. She should have been able to handle it, and after her initial declarations went unrequited, she did just that. Richard would one day make it up to her for the trouble he had brought into her previously uncomplicated life. But when it came to making amends, Michelle was first in line.

"Is your daughter still having problems with her husband?" Linda asked.

"Last I heard she was planning to get legally separated from him. Of course, next week they'll probably be going on a second honeymoon. It's so day to day with them. I want to tell her to dump him for good, but I think it's best if I stay out of it. I prefer not to be seen as the bad guy every time he convinces Susan that he's her hero."

"You should let me have a talk with her. I'd explain it to her real good how guys are scum. Not one of them is worth the hassle."

"You really believe there are no decent guys out there?"

"Those are the worst ones."

He wouldn't be surprised if Michelle knew where he went every Tuesday evening. His less than iron clad alibi was that his department's weekly meeting needed to be held after five, due to conflicting schedules. A single phone call would have exposed his lie. There were times when Richard sensed he was being followed, though it may have merely been paranoia. If she did know, but was keeping her knowledge a secret, Richard could only guess at his wife's motivation. He was an expert at hurting women who loved him, not understanding them.

Even if she was aware of his itinerary, Michelle would certainly not suspect that the affair was one of the heart rather than body. She considered Richard, as herself, to be a person of refined tastes. A woman of the streets, particularly these sordid ones, could be seen as nothing more than a workhorse, a soulless body to be used at will. Exactly what he originally sought. But Richard had found that even more than his wife's touch, it was her company he yearned for. Their conversation had been reduced to hollow pleasantries, words treated like fragile china to be used sparingly, when necessary. Most of her communication was transmitted soundlessly, leaving Richard to translate the silence any way he saw fit. By not making love to Linda, there was no other way to spend the time but by getting to know her, and letting her know him. She had become a substitute for his wife in a way far more cementing than lover.

Richard may have originally saw Linda as beneath him, but by not allowing her to be so literally, she had risen to higher ranks in his sights. Maybe he was not as discriminating about the company he kept as he supposed. Maybe Linda was different from the other members of her profession. Perhaps people, regardless of their stations in life, were not as disparate as they believed themselves to be. Or maybe loneliness was the virus that the body fought against hardest, causing folks to cling to anyone within reach.

"Did you finish the book I loaned you?" Richard asked.

"Yes."

"And?"

"And you were right as usual, lover. Vonnegut is a genius. What do you have for me this week?"

"Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I think you'll like him very much."

"I like everybody, lover. It's in my job description."

"Cut it out, Linda."

"Whatever you want. I've been paid already. The customer is always right."

"You know I hate it when you talk like that. You know that's not how I see you."

"And you know that I love you, but you don't care."

"I do care," Richard asserted.

"Not enough."

"Let's not do this again."

"Whatever you say, lover."

Linda was in one of her moods. From time to time the lunacy of their relationship would cause her to come out swinging. Because it was so unlike her dealings with the other men she came in contact with, she sometimes had difficulty comprehending that it was just as strictly defined. Only once had things gotten out of hand. Richard often thought of that day, for it brought out a side of him he hadn't known existed, and added to his growing list of regrets.

"Why don't you confront her?" Linda had asked. "Maybe she's waiting for you to initiate things. If she really doesn't love you anymore, then she'll want a divorce."

"That's the last thing I would do. If Michelle wants out, she'll let me know. And I'll give her everything she wants and more. But if she doesn't ask, I would never bring it up."

"You'd prefer to torment each other."

"It's her call. I owe it to her to do things as she wishes."

"You have no idea what she wishes," Linda said.

"That's her call as well."

"You lied to me, Richard."

"How's that?"

"You said you loved me, but you can't if you still love her."

"The heart's capacity for love and hate is infinite," explained Richard as best he could. "You know that as well as I. I love my wife and I love you. If you're asking me to leave her for you, I can't do that."

"Because of what I am."

"Because of who I am, Linda. A man trying to make up for the pain he's caused, not trying to cause more."

"You are causing more, lover. You're hurting me."

"That's your call."

"Suppose she dies or something? Would we be together then?"

That was when he smacked her across the face and told her not to say such a thing again. She didn't lose her composure. Linda had endured far more physical abuse in her line of work than Richard had it in him to dish out. She just put her hand to her reddened cheek and clarified the question, explaining that she only wanted to know if she would be part of his life if his wife was out of it. Linda claimed to have no expectations, just idle curiosity. Richard expressed remorse over his behavior, then left their session early and her question unanswered. The next week he was back as usual. As requested, she never brought the topic up again.

Their meetings were not a secret to the entire world. Three months earlier, feeling an overwhelming need to confess, Richard confided in the person he trusted most, his brother. Burt had been sympathetic, saddened that Richard was in such tremendous pain and yet seeking even more. Richard told him to save his pity for Michelle and Linda, for they deserved much and he none. His recklessness had rendered his wife an invalid. His selfishness had given false hope to a woman who needed nothing less.

Burt then asked if he continued his visits in order to inflict a steady diet of punishment upon himself, or because bringing the sessions with Linda to an end would be even more painful than seeing her under the rules he had applied. Burt had always had a knack for posing questions that went straight to the heart.

"Your time is up, lover."

"I know. I know." Time was such a fickle thing, so often available in abundance when a person wanted no more of it, yet swiftly dissipating when one longed for it to remain.

An hour later, Richard entered his home. He chatted briefly with Nora, the woman hired to cater to his wife's needs, then entered the den where Michelle awaited him. On her lap was a prettily wrapped gift box.

"Happy anniversary, Richard."

She had learned to be so cruel. Or perhaps her malice had always been there, waiting for the right opportunity to present itself. You learn a lot about a person in twenty-five years of marriage. But there was always room for surprises. Everyone was a stranger in certain ways, leading their own secret lives.

Three years ago to the day, the event that would permanently alter the shape of their lives had taken place. Michelle lost the use of her legs, Richard lost her love. But she wouldn't leave him. She would stay, taking no more pleasure from life, except for moments like these. Richard would play the part of human voodoo doll for however long his wife saw fit.

"Were we happy before all of this?" he asked. Since she had finally broached the subject, perhaps they could now address it and move past. She could choose to forgive, or to officially condemn him. Anything was preferable to the silence.

"Would we be happy if things somehow went back to the way they used to be? Can we ever be happy again knowing that they won't?"

Michelle dropped the gift box into a wastebasket. "Sorry, Richard. I didn't mean to be cruel. I just have too much time on my hands. Why don't you wash up for dinner."

Linda rolled her wheelchair out of the room, leaving Richard's questions unanswered. He promised himself never to bring them up again.

Fantasy Story

PADDY'S NEW GIRL FRIEND

by Joe Vadalma

Blarneys Bar and Grill was a favorite hangout frequented by people of mostly Irish decent. Next to its long bar was a juke box. A pool table was located to one side of it. Toward the back were five tables and a postage stamp sized dance area. Most mornings, the regulars came in for their pick-me-up. On Friday and Saturday nights, a local band played. On those nights the place was mobbed. The smoke was so thick you could cut it with a knife, and the volume of noise made conversation a shouting match. It was on such a Friday evening that Patrick O'Brien, a divorced man in his thirties and a regular, swaggered in and sat at the bar.

"What'll it be, Paddy?" asked O'Shaunnessy, the six-foot-five hulk of a bartender.

"The usual, fire and brimstone." Fire and brimstone was Paddy's name for a shot of whiskey and a pint of Guinness.

O'Shaunnessy poured out a shot of rye, drew a pint of Guinness and set them in front of Paddy. Paddy picked up the whiskey, held it up, cried, "Satan get behind me," and downed it in one swallow.

"Speak o' the devil," said O'Shaunnessy. "If it ain't Miss Anysbryd. Ain't seen you in a month of Sundays."

Paddy glanced over his shoulder, and his mouth dropped open. Standing behind him, preparing to take the empty stool next to his was the most knockout gorgeous woman he had ever seen. Her low cut cocktail dress revealed cleavage so deep it was like staring into the bottomless pit. Her waist was narrow; her hip flaring. Her ivory sculptured face was capped by flaming hair. Her full lips were a devilish carmine, and the mascara on her green catlike eyes seemed to make them glow mysteriously.

"Oh O'Shaunnessy, don't be so formal. I thought we were old friends. Call me Scarlet."

The bartender grinned and said, "So, what'll be tonight, Scarlet?"

"A brandy, I think."

Paddy, after recovering from shock at having such a lovely woman take a seat next to him, although his heart still thumped wildly, asked, "May I pay for that, Scarlet?"

Scarlet turned and stared into his eyes. A Mona Lisa smile played on her lips. He gazed back, mesmerized. Her smile widened. "I never refuse a drink from a gentleman." She turned back to the bartender. "Please introduce me to this fine man."

O'Shaunnessy winked and introduced Paddy. Scarlet held out her hand. As Paddy brought it to his lips, he noticed that her fiery red fingernails were extremely long and pointed, like small daggers. "It's always a pleasure to meet a lovely woman such as I find you to be, Scarlet."

"Charmed."

They clinked glasses and made small talk. "How is it that I haven't seen you in here before?" asked Paddy. "O'Shaunnessy seems to know you well enough."

"I've been away. Far away."

The Irish band began a waltz, and several couples moved on to the dance floor.

"How about a bit of terpsichore?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

Paddy led Scarlet to the dance floor, grasped her firmly and whirled her around in three-quarter time. When the music slowed as the band played a plaintiff love song, Scarlet laid her head against his chest, and they moved as one. After that they danced almost every set, stopping only to refresh themselves with O'Shaunnessy's fine whisky and beer. Paddy was quite adept at all the different figures. He even did an Irish jig for Scarlet's admiring eyes. Although the band play many Irish tunes, it also had a repertoire that included rock-and-roll, tangos, salsa, rumba, polkas and fox trots.

Paddy was delighted that this beauty seemed to enjoy his company. Since he divorced Mary, he had not been having much luck with the ladies. And her name, Scarlet, was unique in this neighborhood of Marys, Bridgets, Colleens and Kathleens. In Paddy's eyes this enhanced her image as an exotic, mysterious sort of woman.

At the end of the evening, sweating, exhausted and a bit tipsy, Paddy offered to take Scarlet home.

"It's aways," she replied as they exited Blarney's arm in arm.

"I'll call a cab."

"It's easier to reach by subway."

"Sure. Why not?" Paddy was agreeable, figuring he'd saved himself the cost of taxi.

They rode the subway downtown.

***

"We can enter my hotel right down here," Scarlet said, taking Paddy's hand to show him the way.

Strangely enough, instead riding an escalator up to the station entrance, they rode down. This confused Paddy, but he'd had enough Guinness in his system for him not to worry. At the bottom of the escalator was a doorway with a sign above it that said, "Welcome to Hotel Hades. Lowest rates in the city. Always a vacancy."

The lobby was dark except for the light of roaring fireplace and a few well-placed stanchions with scented oil burning in cups on their tops. The place reminded Paddy of pictures that he'd seen in National Geographic of the inside of Egyptian pyramids. There was also a slight odor of rotten eggs. Paddy shuddered. There was something evil about the place that gave him a strong desire to leave. But Scarlet's soft body next to his, as her arm encircled his waist, drove such thoughts from his mind. Nonetheless, Paddy was glad to enter the elevator to escape the ominous suffocating lobby atmosphere.

"What floor, Darlin'?"

"Thirteen."

But when Paddy gazed at the controls, all the buttons were marked "Thirteen." He pressed one a random and was surprised when the elevator descended, very fast and a long way. He scratched his head. Paddy, you may be drunk, he thought, but something ain't right here. First the escalator goes down from the station and now this elevator is going down. I've never heard of no hotel what's mostly underground.

Nonetheless, when it stopped, he and Scarlet exited, and she led him to her room. They stopped in front of her door, and Paddy stole a kiss. It was returned quite ardently, so he moved his hand over parts of her body. Her breathing became heavy, and her tongue, which was sort of strange, since it was forked, entered his mouth. Another thing Paddy noticed as his hands tangled in her hair, she had a pointed knob on each side, like tiny horns. When they came up for air after heavy petting, she asked, "Would you like to come in for a nightcap, Paddy?"

"Love to."

After they entered, Paddy was a bit taken back by the decor. Everything was in shades of red and black and very plush. Since the hotel was billed as cheap, he figured that the rooms would be tiny and stark. He gazed around at the paintings on the wall, which were of nudes being chased by satyrs.

Scarlet went to the bar and mixed a purple concoction that steamed and boiled. Paddy sipped his slowly. It was bitter and strongly intoxicating. The room began to spin. It also had the same effect on a part of his anatomy as Viagra. Scarlet pushed him onto the sofa and said, "Be right back, Sweetie. I want to change into something more comfortable."

After a few moments, she returned, stark naked. Although Paddy was well pleased by her gorgeous figure, he was a bit surprised to notice that she had a short tail with a barb at the end that wagged as she sashayed toward him. Moments later, she swept him up in her arms and carried him to her bedroom. On red velvet sheets, they had hellishly wild sex. So wild sometimes that they seemed to be floating around the room at times. Something happened that Paddy had never experienced before, multiple orgasms. He had always thought that such a thing was impossible for men. The entire experience made him fall head over heels in love with Scarlet.

When they were both exhausted, Paddy fell asleep. Sometime during the night, he awoke to the sound of chanting outside his door. He tiptoed to the door and glanced out. A dozen or so monks in ankle-length robes and cowls that hid their faces slowly paraded down the hall, holding candles and chanting in Latin. The word Diablo was prevalent in their chant. A faint stench of musty decay came from them that reminded Paddy of ancient corpses. Paddy shuddered and wondered, What kind of damned hotel is this, anyway?

He slipped back under the sheets and put his arm around Scarlet for comfort. Still exhausted from his earlier exercise with her, he fell back to sleep quickly. A few minutes later, however, he was awakened by a great thumping and growling in the room next door. He shook Scarlet awake. "What's that?"

Scarlet patted him on the cheek and said sleepily, "It's nothing. Just The Beast. It's keepers will calm it down soon. They'll feed it the sacrifice"

The Beast? Paddy thought and felt like running out that room and keep on running, but he was too frightened to move. Scarlet kissed him and soothed him until he finally returned to slumber land.

***

About noon Paddy awoke with a horrible hangover. He opened one eye to realize that he was back in his own bedroom. He ran to the bathroom and vomited. After he emptied his stomach, he took Alka-Seltzer and four aspirin. He sat on the edge of his bed and went over his mind the events of the night. Some things that happened were too weird to have been real. He wondered whether that lovely woman, Scarlet, had slipped him a mickey, perhaps a hallucinogenic drug. But why did she bring him back to his own room, he wondered. In fact, how did she know where he lived. His head still hurt. Nothing made sense about the entire evening.

He checked his wallet. Most of the money he'd started the evening out was still there, and none of his credit cards were missing. He concluded that Scarlet was not a thieving prostitute.

He showered, shaved and slipped into his old jeans and a tee shirt. By that time, his hangover abated, and he went down to the diner, where he had a breakfast of pancakes and eggs. After a second cup of coffee, he actually felt good. His thoughts turned to Scarlet, and the night that they'd had together. But what was real and what was dream? he wondered.

He wandered over to Blarneys. The bar was empty except for usual morning sots. O'Shaunnessy was leaning against the bar, waiting for the day man to count the register so that he could leave. "Say O'Shaunnessy, me memory's a bit hazy about last night. Can you fill me in on what I was up to?"

The bartender chuckled. "You did have a few, especially after you picked up that woman, Scarlet Anysbryd. You two sure danced up a storm. I didn't know you had it in you. You left with about two in the mornin'" He winked. "Can't say what you did after that. Maybe you want to tell me all about it."

Paddy winked back. "A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell. But O'Shaunnessy, old pal, you and the lady seemed to be old friends. What can you tell me about her?"

"We ain't really friends, or anything else if that's what you're thinkin'. A couple of years ago, she was a regular. She flirted with a lots of guys. I think she went home with some that struck her fancy. I take her for a man eater."

"Man eater? What do you mean?"

"Y'know. The kind of woman what takes up with a gent for a while and drops him like a hot potato when she tires of him. If I were you, I'd forget her. She'll tear your heart out." He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "To tell the truth, I'm not sure she's human. There's something fae about her that make me think she's a witch or somethin' the way she bewitches men."

Paddy nodded. But he knew it was too late; she'd already cast her spell on him. He couldn't get her out his mind.

***

As Paddy strolled home, he wondered whether to come back to the bar that evening to see whether Scarlet would show up. When he went to the night stand to fetch his cigarettes, he noticed a business card. In blood colored script was Scarlet's name and phone number. Scribbled below it were the words, "I'd like to see you again, Paddy Dear."

Paddy's heart leaped for joy. He almost picked up the phone immediately, but thought the better of it. After the night they'd had, she might still be sleeping. Jumpy as a cat, he wandered about the apartment, watched TV for a few minutes, went to kitchen and made a sandwich, paced back and forth and so forth, unable to settle on any one thing to keep busy. When the kitchen clock said one, he felt that was late enough. He dialed her number, six-six-six thirteen-thirteen.

"Hello," she answered in a husky contralto that sent shivers up Paddy's spine.

"Hi. It's me. Paddy."

She sounded genuinely pleased, which gave Paddy a warm glow. "Oh, I'm so glad you called, you little imp. I had a wonderful time last night."

"Me too. I was wondering whether I could take you out to dinner."

"I'd love to go out with you. What time can you pick me up?"

Paddy hesitated. The thought of returning to that weird hotel was daunting. "Perhaps we could meet somewhere."

"Better yet. Let me pick you up. I've got a car."

"Okay. Let me give you the address of my building."

"No need. I know where it is."

Of course. She's brought me home somehow and left that card. Again, he wondered whether there wasn't something supernatural about the whole business. Maybe she was a witch like O'Shaunnessy had said. Or worse.

When he didn't reply immediately, she said, "Sevenish?"

"Yeah. Great. Ring the bell under my mailbox."

***

The next several hours were agony for Paddy. His desire to be with Scarlet again was like an unscratchable itch. By six, he was dressed in his best suit, tie tight against his Adam's apple, pants pressed to a perfect crease. He even cleaned the apartment and bought an expensive bottle of wine.

The ringing of the bell made him leap out of his seat like a man whose pants were on fire. He buzzed her in and waited by the open hall door. When she appeared, she was more luscious than he'd remembered. They kissed, sending him into a tailspin.

"Would you like a glass of wine before we head out to the restaurant?" he asked.

"Sure." While he poured two glasses, she plopped down on his worn sofa and crossed her legs. They toasted each other and made small talk.

After a few minutes he said, "I made reservations at the Amor for eight. We'd better leave now." A friend had told Paddy that The Amor was very fancy French restaurant.

When they went down to where she had parked her car, Paddy was taken aback. Her fire engine red Porsche convertible was sleek with white leather seats. By golly, the lady's rich as well as beautiful, he thought.

As soon as he clicked the seat belt, Scarlet put the pedal to the medal. They screeched away from her parking spot, leaving a cloud of smoke and debris flying out behind them. The speed limit on the city streets was twenty-five. She had the machine up to seventy in minutes. They careened like crazy, in and out of traffic, going through stop signs and red lights like they didn't exist. At one point, Paddy swore that they were flying. Before he could catch his breath to tell her to slow down a little, the sirens and flashing of a police car was behind them.

Scarlet turned to Paddy and winked. "Should we have some fun. This machine can easily outrun that cop. I've had it up to one seventy five."

"No!! Please. Just pull over."

She curled her lip into a pout, but pulled over to the curb. The cop stuck his head in the window. "Hey lady. Not only were you doing fifty miles over the speed limit, but you completely ignored every traffic signal. Are you nuts or what?"

She turned to him and smiled sweetly. "Oh dear, did I do something wrong?" She stared into the cop's eyes for a few moments. Slowly, as though he were in a trance, he put away his book, tipped his hat, said, "Try to be a little more careful next time," and walked back to his patrol car.

Paddy watched in wonder. He said, "Uh, no need to rush. We're almost at the restaurant."

She drove the rest of the way at a reasonable rate of speed, obeying all traffic rules.

***

They had a pleasant evening at the Amor, stretching out the meal for a couple of hours. The place was expensive, taking most of a week's pay for Paddy. The food wasn't terribly good nor were the portions large, but the waiter had the proper amount of haughtiness, and the atmosphere was dark and romantic. Paddy didn't care. It was enough that he was with Scarlet. He enjoyed simply staring at her lovely face and bare shoulders as she talked.

After dinner and coffee, Scarlet asked, "Should we go back to my place?" She arched her eyebrows enticingly.

Recalling the previous night, Paddy said, "How about if we go to my apartment tonight? We could finish that bottle of wine we started."

"If you like."

Scarlet drove like a maniac through the almost empty streets and had them home in ten minutes. They began to neck and pet in the hallway. Shortly afterwards, they had torn each others clothes off. They didn't bother with the bed, but did it right on the living room carpet.

Afterwards, Paddy stared into her eyes and said, "Y'know Scarlet, sometimes you scare me. Some very odd things happen when you're around. O'Shaunnessy said that he thought you were a witch. And the way that cop left you off without giving you a ticket was strange. Tell me the truth. Are you human?"

She looked down. "I may as well tell you the truth. I'm not."

"What are you?"

"An angel. Do you want to see my wings?"

This wasn't what Paddy expected her to say. An angel? Really? "Yes. Show them to me."

She stood up, and two enormous bat-like wings unfolded from her back.

"I thought angel's wings were white and feathery."

"They used to be like that. But I'm a dark angel; one of the rebels. When we were thrown out of heaven into the void, they turned black and leathery. I guess it was part of our punishment."

"You're a demon then, one of Satan's minions."

She looked downcast. "Yes. But some of us are not as bad as you've been told. Oh Paddy, I really like you an awful lot. But, I suppose as a good Catholic, you couldn't have a girl friend who's damned."

Paddy's heart thumped in his chest. She wants to be my girl friend. He felt like he'd found a four-leaf-clover, kissed the Blarney Stone and met a leprechaun all in the same day. "Well, I ain't exactly a saint, meself. I even missed Easter mass this year. And a demoness ain't so bad. It ain't like you were a Protestant."

They kissed and did the other thing. Paddy asked her to move in with him. She agreed. "I never did like that hellhole of a hotel anyway."

***

So Scarlet moved into Paddy's bachelor pad. He found that having a demon for a girl friend had several advantages. For one thing, their sex life was unimaginable. In addition, she was a great cook, although most of what she made was on the spicy side. Best of all, she could do magic. She'd snap her fingers, and the apartment was clean. She entertained their friends by performing what the friend thought were sleight-of-hand, but was real magic. She was always giving Paddy expensive presents that she produced out of thin air.

The couple were deeply in love. Their life was idyllic ... until the day his mother called.

"Patrick, you're breaking your poor mother's heart. You haven't called or visited in months. And now I hear that you're living in sin with some floozy."

Paddy flushed with the awful guilt that only a Catholic boy who'd neglected his mother could feel. "I'm sorry, Mom. But I'm very busy lately. And Scarlet is no floozy. I'd like you to meet her."

"Scarlet? What kind of name is that? She's not one of those Hungarians, is she? Why can't you meet another Irish girl? You know you've sinned by divorcing that nice Mary O'Dary."

Mary nice? She was as a big mouthed shrewish woman as I'd ever met. Nonetheless, he kept this thought to himself. "Scarlet is Irish," he said weakly.

"Oh. Very well, bring her to dinner tomorrow night. We're having your favorite, corned beef and cabbage." Paddy hated corned beef and cabbage.

After he hung up, he said to Scarlet, "Uh, I'm bringing you to meet my parents tomorrow evening. We're invited for dinner."

"How lovely. We're like a real human couple now."

Paddy dreaded the encounter, but didn't see anyway out it. His family would need to meet Scarlet sooner or later. "Uh Scarlet. I ... uh ... told them that you were of Irish decent."

"That's okay. I've always felt Gaelic. Back in the old days, the druids used to worship me."

Paddy smiled weakly. He didn't want to think of all the centuries that she'd been in existence. It made him feel like a teenager with a crush on an older woman.

***

Paddy had awful premonitions of absolute disaster as he rang the doorbell that faithful evening. His fifteen-year-old brother, Michael, answered the door. Mike took one look at Scarlet, cried, "Wow. What a hotty!" and licked his chops like a dog who'd just been given a sirloin. Paddy ruffled his hair and said, "And she's all my mine, Mikey."

Scarlet followed his lead and ruffled Mikey's hair too, which made the teenager grin from ear to ear. "Hi Mikey. You're almost as handsome as your big brother."

Paddy's father had been sitting in an easy chair, reading the newspaper. He peered over the edge, got a silly grin on his face and stood up.

"Pop, I'd like you to meet my friend, Scarlet Anysbyrd."

His father took Scarlet's hand. "It's a great pleasure to meet such a fair lass. I never in my born days would've thought Paddy would've hooked such a beauty."

"Thank you, Mister O'Brien. Now I know where Paddy gets his blarney."

His mother came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Mom, this Scarlet, Scarlet Anysbyrd."

His mother's eyes went wide. She cried, "Anysbyrd is it." She crossed herself. "Jesus, Joseph and Mary, Heaven save us."

"What's the matter, Mom?"

"Don't you know that Anysbyrd means evil spirit in Gaelic? How did you come by such an awful name?"

Paddy and Scarlet looked at each other guiltily for several seconds. Finally, Scarlet spoke up. "I was orphaned at earlier age. The nuns at the orphanage called me that. I suppose because I was a mischievous child."

"Oh you poor dear." Paddy's mother came over and hugged Scarlet.

During dinner, things went well. Among Scarlet's many assets was that she was a good conversationalist. She knew several jokes about priests, the devil, the saints, the Catholic faith in general and the Irish, which the family enjoyed enormously. Afterwards, Paddy's mother took him to the side and said, "She's seem like a very nice Irish girl. You must make an honest woman of her."

"I'll ask her soon."

"Why not tonight?"

"I need to buy a ring."

***

True to his word, Paddy bought a diamond ring the very next day. A week later he got up the courage to ask Scarlet for her hand. After a candle lit dinner, he got down on one knee and proposed.

"You want to marry me, a demon, a succubus? Oh darling, ...." She began to weep.

"What you are doesn't matter to me. I love you." His eyes filled too. He was afraid that she was going to turn him down.

"I love you too. I know such beings as I am aren't supposed to be able to feel love. But you've been so good to me, I couldn't help myself." She paused for several moments. "Yes Paddy, My Darling. I'll marry you."

They both started bawling and crying and hugging. Paddy was delirious with happiness.

Of course, Paddy's mom insisted that the couple have a grandiose wedding within The Church. She met with Scarlet many times to plan the wedding. She picked out her wedding gown, her bridesmaids and their gowns, rented the hall for the reception, hired a band, ordered flowers, made out invitations and did everything else that needed to be done to make the wedding perfect. Scarlet merely had to nod her agreement with Paddy's mother's choices. Paddy rented a tux and hired a limousine. His best man planned a bachelor party at a strip club.

Two nights before the wedding, Scarlet came to Paddy with a worried expression. "Y'know Paddy, I've never been in a church in all of my long existence, unless you want to call Stonehenge a church. I don't know whether I'll know how to act."

Paddy placed an arm around her. "Don't worry. Simply walk slowly up the aisle. When you come up to the priest, just follow my lead. Do what I do or what the priest tells you. There's nothing to worry about."

***

Finally the great day came. First Paddy and the best man arrived and took their places by the altar. Next the church filled with Paddy's relatives, friends and neighbors. The bride and her entourage arrived. As the great organ played The Wedding March, the flower girl sprinkled petals as she made her up the aisle,. Next came the ring bearer, followed by the bridesmaids. In pure white gown, her coiffured hair partially covered by her veil, Scarlet solemnly paraded up the aisle.

But something happened as she passed the last pew at the back of the church. A rumbling sound came from below, like the start of an earthquake. Next Scarlet's pure white dress turned black. Smoke curled out of Scarlet's ears. Before she reached the center of the church, she burst into flames and disappeared in a horrendous cloud of sulfurous smoke. A thunderous evil voice said, "She's one of mine. Thou shalt not have her."

Everyone in the church started screaming and running about. The scene turned to chaos.

Nobody was more stunned than poor Paddy. His lady love had gone all to Hell. And they hadn't even gotten married.

The End

Short Story

Candle

One night in my apartment when the lights out, something on my mind almost changed because of this stuff.

I fumbled around for candle or something to lighten up the room. Then I found a white aromatherapy candle on my drawer. I lit it up, and then lavender aroma engulfed the room.

Leaned my back against the bed, I took a glance to the table where I put the candle. There’s a picture of him and me. He hugged me from behind and rests his chin on my shoulder.

I knew the picture is only our past since I watched him kiss Reita in empty studio. Jealous and pain are what I feel about on that time. I try to be tough, I pretend like nothing happen, I let him touch me by the same hands he use to touch him. I do my best to keep him by my side. Now I knew he didn’t care to me as much as I cared to him. And I knew exactly that I wanted him back, no matter what the way it would be. Because I am not a kind of person who gives up easily. There must be a way to get him back, to make him stay by my side any longer. There must be…

Candle… oh you candle...
Willing to shatter for light sake. Well, I am not willing to lose Aoi for Reita, even though its for Aoi own happiness. Aoi is mine. I am not a candle. I am a human who has feelings and heart. I need to love and be loved. And candle is only a candle. Its need..... Nothing.

I hate you, candle. I really hate you to made me feel like a selfish bitch.

I threw the candle to the wall before it change my mind. The glimmered room becomes totally dark and just the moonlight illuminates the room.

Silence fills the dark room till I heard a ringing phone. I wonder who call me at this late, it’s almost 11pm!

“Moshi moshi?”

“Uru, it’s me.”

Ah that voice.... I had just think about you a second ago and now you call me, what a coincidence isn't it?. Is this called as a hunch? Because if it is, I have a bad one.

"Yes, Aoi??" I’m aware of what will he say tonight, because I know I’m not ready to let him go for my child hood friend, for my best friend, for my band mate, for the bassist of the band, Reita. Oh how I hate that name now...

"I need to talk about something to you" i can hear him take a deep breathe out there "can we talk at Mink Wink cafe nearby your apartment?"

Is tonight your time to say good bye to me? to leave me alone and hurt?
I’m not ready for losing you yet...
I need time to be a candle, Aoi.

".....I’m sorry. I can't"

Owari

Short Story

This is me with the worst

For hundredth times I heard others praising your brilliant idea of Gazette music characteristic. ‘This is our style’ they claim. ‘You’re doing good’ they say.

Four pairs of eyes –a pair of red envious eyes of mine- was fixed on your skilled fingers, four pair of ears -a pair of denial ears of mine- was listen carefully in every sound of resonance your black guitar made.

They all were impressed by your music sense.

You walk with your smile displaying perfectly sweet toward my direction -to cut out my already dry throat- as I predicted it at first. I knew it is your routine after your litte-show-off performance. Afterward, ‘How is it?’ will be the first sentence you ask after you reach a spot where I sit; envying you.

“I like the part where the last refrain changes into shrill tone” I fake an attraction mimic. Hell if I failed with it. I will thank god if you did notice it instead.

“Really? I think that part is pointless”
damnit! Even a great part you said ‘pointless’?! What is your head made of, Uruha?

You sat beside me; black guitar on lap, eyes staring to mine, calm and gracious manner yet I hate it. I’m watching you babble bout the song you made. The focus on my head is not where it should. The focus is all about this envious-resentment stuck on my head. About you lent me guitar strap when mine was broke, about you bought me lunch when I’m busy composing song, about you offered me companion to night club as Ruki couldn’t make it, about you treat me kindly as if I’m a worthy friend while I keep this envious growing -dangerously- worse and worsen toward you. Don’t you know that is making me feel like a back-stabbed bitch??!

Give me envy, give me malice, give me a-a-attention
Give me envy, give me malice, baby, give me a break!
When I say "Shotgun", you say "Wedding"
"Shotgun", "Wedding", "Shotgun", "Wedding"

Two glass of Smirnoff placed on the table. An ashtray placed on the right of my cigarette box. And you placed exactly beside me, on my right side.

Look at you, Uruha…
Blond hair framing your smooth face neatly, lips pout naturally, long legs and lean body to catching people’s attention of your dazzle figure.
Look at your surrounding, Uruha…
They all are looking at you, adoring you like what they always do; enjoying beautiful creature like you

You and your thing of everything I envy of…

Will you give me a space where I don’t have this sick feeling of your thing?

You’re talking in a high volume –in order to making me hear what you say in a room full of chatting people and throbbing music- close to my ear. I’m only inhaling Marlboro menthol -blowing the smoke to contaminating the air more- as a respond of your babbling which I’m not pay attention to.

I’m hearing you’re talking. I’m glancing over the crowd; you’re sipping Smirnoff. I’m watching swaying bodies; you’re sipping Smirnoff. I’m ordering a glass of Smirnoff; you’re ordering a pitcher of Smirnoff.

From watching a pitcher of Smirnoff you pour to my glass and yours -then watching you gulped that alcohol in no mercy- to watching you lost consciousness slowly was worrying me.

Don’t get drunk… don’t lean on me… don’t make me supporting your boneless body…
Don’t force me to make body-contact with you, Uruha.
It’s hard to help you whole-heartedly while I wish you to fade away of my sight or to turn back time where I never know you, it’s hard… it’s so fuckin hard!!

“NO! Don’t you ever dare to touch that glass again, Uru” I’m moving those glass of Smirnoff to the edge of the table so he can’t reach it “you’re goddamn drunk!”

“I’m not drunk, Aoi”

“Yeah, whatever. Now we’re going home!”

Holding your body to steadying your walk was never been my deal, but I end up doing it instead. Your breath smelled like Smirnoff, your golden hair smelled like smoke, your unconscious state smelled like… envious.

Why Ruki have to finish those lyrics?; Why Reita have to visit a friend?; Why Kai have to go to hospital and leave me alone with you, Uruha? Leave me alone with this uncomfortable feeling, a disgust to my self of act like good friend outside and want to break you down so badly in the worst way inside.

*****

Aoi slipping his free hand to Uruha’s pocket to find the blond apartment key while the unconscious guitarist still giggly as alcohol effect.

Uruha wrapped his both hands to Aoi’s waist then rest his head on the crook of raven neck while Aoi’s left hand supporting Uruha’s unbalance weight and the other hand unlocking the door in hurry.

The raven head lead the blond to his bedroom and laying him there.

Aoi didn’t bother to take off Uruha’s shoes and jacket; he only turned on the night lamp and air conditioner then ready to leave.

Instead of leaving, Aoi is stopping his step and turning around to look at unconscious Uruha as the blond mumbling his name.

“Aoi…” Uruha turning his body and pulling a bolster on his side “…Daisuki da yo”

Have some composure
Where is your posture?
Oh, no, no
You're pulling the trigger
Pulling the trigger
All wrong

Short Story

Forever

Lately a boy has been haunting my thoughts. Seventeen years old, at the peak of youth. Dark brown hair sticking out carelessly, laughing till tears peeked out of his mischievous eyes. He is bathed in sunlight and summer wind, drenched in happiness and soaked in joy. His name escapes my now clouded mind, but I remember the slight wrinkles around his eyes as he grabs my hand and throws me into the ocean, the salty spray hurting my eyes, the laughter still ringing in my ears like fairy bells.

Then when I sleep, he looks at me with tears streaming down. Eyes accusing and sad, I try to soothe away the frowns to no avail as he shakes his head in sorrow and turns away. His warm figure nestled hesitatingly in my arms, shaking faintly. Words long whispered pour out of my dry lips, comforting a shadow that resides in my dreams and my memories. A silhouette of a person long gone.

I search for his name through the tunnels of my memory, but every time I am about to say the syllables, he slips away yet again. It's frustrating to say the least but still he smiles at me and nods patiently, telling me he'll wait. I ask him to just tell me, my memory failing me so miserably. He whispers in my ears that he is patient and he believes that I will remember.

In the mirror I see my aged face, but beyond it there's a smiling young girl, as a boy wraps his arms around her waist and he kisses her neck gently. He tells her of the Alps and of forever. I remember that word so clearly as if he is whispering it now. Forever. The word echoes absurdly in my mind and I start to cry without knowing why.

Faintly I hear echoes of conversations, fights and promises, and once again I wonder who he is. My frustration builds as I remember more.

An awful combination of colours looking like heaven on him as he pulls me along to places unknown. Butterfly kisses under the shelter of a barely waterproof jacket in the rain. Steaming anger that cools instantly as he holds me. Waking up next to a warm body, his face inches from mine. The taste of onions and spaghetti sauce on his lips. A hand faintly touching mine as we cross paths.

The memories now surface with the speed of a swimmer trying to get to the air that they so need. Pushing each other to get there first. My senses are bombarded as I remember details of an affair long gone. I laugh and I cry in turn, not knowing whether to be glad or upset that he is here once more.

A long gone lover, an affair buried deep within my heart and memories. A season that we spent in each other's hold, a season in which everything seemed to have been perfect. Unsoiled by the awful reality that surrounded us.

Slowly he smiles at me, showing me those loving eyes I knew so well. His youthful hand reaches out to my wrinkled ones, caressing each finger with affection smoothing out the years that passed me by.

Minutes roll off me like water on plastic, each breath comes easier till my auburn hair regains its past glory. The long tresses touching my shoulders once more, and I feel the restlessness of youth resonating in my bones.

I look to him with recognition and I open my lips to say a name that has so long wanted to escape my lips, yet he stills my opened mouth with a finger.

He tells me that he is sorry. Sorry that we had to spend our life apart. He is sorry that it took him so long to come by. And he tells me he is sorry for picking me up, and pulling me away from my family. Sad eyes searches mine and finally he points to a spot behind me and I turn to look.

A lady sits in her rocking chair, a slight smile lighting her tired face. Thinning white hair cropped close to her head, enhancing her fading elfin features. Her soft hands folded neatly on her lap.

I turn and question him. Is it my time? He nods sadly and I walk towards my body, watching my still chest curiously. I touch my hands to my face and stroke my cheeks for one last time, the skin soft and loose under my fingers.

He asks me to come with him and I nod, my eyes still at my body, looking back at the world that I'll be leaving.

He asks me to take his hands.

And this time I go.

He holds my face and kisses my lips tenderly. The butterfly kiss I have missed for an eternity. I smile as he whispers in my ears.

Forever.

This is me standing in the arch (a sequel of This is me with the worst)

Three boxes of Marlboro menthol and a bottle of vodka were ornamenting the coffee table where I put my legs above it carelessly. I don’t give a damn if I kick out one of that stuff and I don’t even care what the TV displaying of. I have something more important to settle up than worrying what my legs will cause.

Never once I have this goddamn confusing complication on my head. Not until forty seven minutes ago when I stood to hear you mumbling my name. Your unconscious state was capable to glue my legs then froze me like a shocking statue. I was speechless.

Aoi…. Daisuki da yo.
Those words were echoing over and over again through my ear like unstoppable bullet. It lodged on my sense. My brain is numb and I act like a dumb; inhaling Marlboro and sipping vodka, inhaling envious and sipping confuse. Inhaling and sipping, inhaling and sipping, again and again till I wander when this will stop.

What a bullet you use to shoot me, Uruha?

I’m dying. I’m dying for an answer of whether I decide to be an angel or a devil; To be an angel to forget this envious toward you and smile as I offer you a hand to hold, or become a devil to pretend like I love you and slice your heart into pieces then laugh in victory as you cry a red tear.

Oh Uruha.. Adorable Uruha, poor you!
After a sickness of your skilled fingers, your music ability, your beauty appearance, your nice attitude; it’s a great time to have a tasteful revenge, I may choose the second choice. Become a devil; where I give you pseudo kiss and fake lovey-dovey action then –when you fly high to seven heaven because my heart on your hand which is only your wish- I will paint you a bluish pain on your heart and tore it apart mercilessly.

Maybe I could be an angel. But that’s hard to do after this whole indescribable feeling on me. I can’t be an angel, I’m incapable to be an angel, and I never am an angel. The white circle above head is yours, not mine.

Yes, you are an angel.

…..And I don’t have a heart to rip your cotton like wings.

Maybe we could let every thing where it should; let’s stay the same.
Let’s dying each other with what we have. You with your love, and I with my envious. Let’s fight this torturing sense and let’s see who the great defender is. Afterward, if you’re still keep your love for me until this envious is dead and perished, until a desire to try is crawling, until there is nothing left but a wish to understand you, definitely;

I will come to you, Uruha.

*****

Eight months after Uruha’s indirect confession incident, The Gazette was trapped in a tight tour schedule. During those times, Aoi kept on wandering and observing the blond guitarist. Sometimes Aoi will find Uruha staring at him, sometimes he will notice Uruha’s sweet smile when he play his guitar either on backstage or at Hotel room, sometimes he will have Uruha walking on his side, sometimes he will get Uruha sitting next to him in bus, sometimes he will play guitar with Uruha willingly, sometimes he will enjoy the companion of Uruha to coffee shop unconsciously, sometimes Aoi wanderings if Uruha had ever aware of his envious toward him. And Aoi should've known better, he should, really. What with all those people say about there's only a thin line between love and hate. Or in his case, perhaps, it's more close to lust and hate.

Until it comes to this day, this fateful day, that, god, he couldn't tell if this is just saying more about his fucked up mind or how hierarchy of the universe just seem to categorize its occupants based on their worthiness all too well, but Aoi found himself hesitantly crack a single smile as an answer to the fleeting one Uruha threw across the stage during ‘Taion’(*).

...And it all ended too well. Entirely too elaborate like some sort of cosmic power has arranged it to fall perfectly into place just like that. When at the end of the show Uruha came up to him. Still with that innocent gentle smile, still with that open shy gesture, still with the childlike merriment dancing within his eyes; kissed Aoi softly right next to his ear shell …. Whisper in a delicate manner. All pronunciation clear and unhesitant...

“Thanks for the envy. It brighten my days”

~*~OWARI~*~

The Ballad of Cornelia and James

"The letter started with a Dearest James, and ended with a Love, Cornelia."

James was not sitting down when he read that letter.

It was a pity for him, because all the words in that two and a half pages of paper revealed nothing but heartache for him. And oh, it was the worst kind. It was the sort of heartache that pokes you in your sleep, stings you in the eye and wakes you up in a heap of sweaty mess… Then after a few minutes of blurry vision and heavy breathing, you come down to a clear conclusion that everything was indeedly, and very much, your fault.

Yes, your fault.

Your own sodding fault, James.

Cornelia was a blooming young virgin when he first met her. Not pretty, but attractive. She was smart, artistic and a little boyish, with that rare sense of humour that only most men would buy. But that was the exact package that drew him to her. Her essence was different. Unique. Like a perfume from a foreign country that makes you turn around and think ‘I’ve never smelled anything quite like it’. This was her. But when the time came for James to make his grand entrance, he slipped. Embarassed himself. Cornelia giggled, and went the other way.

A year passed quickly before Cornelia and James crossed paths again. She passed him in the same notion as she did a year before, turning his head around with a familiar ‘I’ve never known anyone quite like you’. So as the second chance was given, James grabbed it. “May I be delighted with your number?” he had asked at the party that night. Cornelia took her napkin and wrote down on it. Then she went the other way, but this time with a small smile playing on her face.

After a quick exchange of messages and phone calls, they were together like any other couple in campus. They were raucous and kissed each other at every break they had. They left messages on the building walls, within the corners that only they would know. I was here at one o’clock, said one writing. I skipped class today – meet you at two, said another. They displayed their affection very publicly and candidly, and any stranger who saw them together would think how lucky they were to be so young and so in love... only thing, they weren’t.

Sex wasn’t included until the second month they dated. The first few tries were painful and forgettable. Yet it wasn’t long until it escalated into a hot and steamy passion, and they proved it by making love every single day. Make-up sex became the highlight of their affair; the unhealthy type of sex that kept problems unspoken and forgotten between orgasms, driving all that anger into a rage of sexual tension. After the deed, she would always thank him, and he’d grin widely with the feeling of a grown man. He never thanked her back, but he’d kiss her forehead and let her cuddle up to him, thinking it was enough. She never said anything. She was very loyal to him.

Six months into the relationship and Cornelia fell in love. And oh, it was the strongest kind. It was the sort of love that keeps you awake at night, pulling the strings in your chest, inside and out until you sit up on your bed and sigh… Then after a few minutes of turning scarlet, you come down to a clear conclusion that you’re a fool.

Yes, a fool.

You’re a righteous young fool, Cornelia.

Because James was not in love with her. When she braved herself to say those three little words, he repeated them for her, but he never meant it. He was afraid of breaking her heart. Cornelia was fun, generous, helped him with college work and desperately in love in him, and he was afraid of breaking her heart.

But he did care for her, deeply. He cared for her enough to whisper sweet words in her ear, unknowingly kiss her while she slept and promise a future of her dreams. “I’ll always be there for you, Cornelia,” he had said. So Cornelia poured her heart out to him, and he had listened. In the tenth month, Cornelia poured her heart out to him again, but he had walked out the door. He was not there for her when she cried.

One year was more than enough for them to get to know each other. Especially for James, who discovered just how painstakingly fast an ‘I’ve never known anyone quite like you’ could turn into ‘Just another girl’. He was a little bored, but not at all sick of her yet. She remained as his oxygen; someone he yearns for, but is taken for granted.

Poor Cornelia never said anything. By now she was beaten as ever on the inside, and questioned him, and doubted him, but still craving so badly to love him always… God knows how much she tried to keep him at her side. God knows how much she had stayed silent all this while…

And so the letter started with a Dearest James.

It ended with a Love, Cornelia.

And in between the lines, there was a question of ‘Were you ever worthy of my time?’.

James was not sitting down when he read that letter.

It was a pity for him, because her handwriting will be the last thing he will ever see of her. The two and a half pages of paper he held was a concrete material, something he could burn afterwards and never lay his eyes upon again. The words he read and the guilty burden he felt, however, would never be erased from his memory. And in between the lines, he felt a question bursting from inside his head, a question far too late to ever ask…

‘Could I have loved her?’

With the crumpled letter in his hand, James staggered to sit down.