Friday, 26 November 2010

Papercut. Chapter 16


What the fuck is wrong with everybody? It's as if they are part of some cult, their hands held up, waving frantically, doing some tree dance with pop music in the background. White, white, pearly sick, frightening white. I had an urge to stain it even with my own blood. They're the ones laughing at me.

“Architecture. Yeah, I kind of like it and my parents gave me approval.” Melvin says with a light chuckle. Giggle. Wait, who the hell's dad, he looks like a talking to fish druggie.

Is that what it is about? Being a fucking good son to have your parents’ approval? How miserable. I eye him, feeling disgusted. How annoying, how foolish, how na├»ve. His blood would make a proper red instead of the white.

It was the white I was threatened with.

The white pajamas with my hands tied at the back.

The fucking white walls.

The fucking bed with white covers.

The washed to holes white floor.

It was so sick.

That's what the definition of sick is, not some dreams and pictures of fears and back thoughts.

“Yeah, only. I’m not that really into it. Architecture, I mean. I want to be an artist and that’s risky. I agree with my parents on that.” She smiled back at him, not even glancing in my direction. I tilted my head watching her insignificant corpse standing there.

Parents’ approval?

What the fuck was good in that?

They'll die anyway and there's nothing we'll ever be able to do, but then we die as well with no one to look after the grave and maybe our ashes won't ever be scattered even if asked, as then everything we ever had will be burned or thrown away, as the thoughts will be stashed away to the last moments, as someone would wish they knew what death is like and maybe then they'd summon the pile of ashes stuck to a crab or a rotten skeleton taken out of the grave with one rotten eye in the mouth.

Life is short, without any risk there is no champagne. Who wants to spend their life being stuck in middle class just because of that plain denial that your parents gave you with a pat on the head, just to never get ill of winning something, that you started breaking everything anyone has ever achieved, your name sparkling in your head and you'd say it's enough, smile and keep going.

But then, wasn’t that when I broke loose, to actually give something to burn for the flames to try and get someone who shall be sitting in the front row, our names never exchanged. When I had tears streaming down my cheeks?

When I shoved my paintings towards them? When I screwed school, my girlfriend, who I did not love, I kept breaking loose, like an overdose of drugs, drawing maniacally, sending everything ever possible to universities and contests, which I wanted and what did I get?

“That’s weak. That’s what it means? I am not dating until I’m thirty because my parents think that is unacceptable for a lady? Screw it.” I snap, flopping myself onto the desk, bringing my legs with me, my gaze piercing her essence, trying to at least, never failing, life rule. C'mon. Melvin’s head quickly turns to look at me. His eyes look at me in shock, trying to cope with what I said, no mate, I don't care about you or your attempt. Hah.

“What’s the point in sacrificing your existence, the lonely years of sanity into something your parents approve? What is the point of that, love? If you'll turn into a parent someday, a misunderstanding towards the new generation, which might actually try to do something.” I stand up and lean towards her, her breath on my own. I glance towards her lips then back to her piercing blue eyes.

“Coward.” I say and turn towards her future boyfriend, maybe even husband despite on how much they were zombiefied. Melvin stands frozen, I think that's his name I wonder if Roman stood up from his coma with a megaphone and fell back down, stay there, whispering my name before losing all belief. Oh, he is so wrong. I so am not the kid. I'm not as foolish as he is. “And you? An architect? What art is that? Sleeping with a freaking ruler drawing plain lines screaming about your dullness which creeps in your soul? Let it out to let people live in it? Useless. Let it devour you, let it eat you, if you even have it in the first place there's enough to feast on!" I throw my arms, exaggerating, but I feel it inside me, so I let it out. "Of course, why risk? Why let my parents down? No freaking guts to tell them what you feel! Let them live in what their son created!"

I raise my voice at the end of the sentence, smirking at them. Fools.

Then I look at them again.

Those two insignificant corpuses, standing there dumbly, despite their animal attraction, try to be my friends. I used to grab the first skirt I see and barely talked to any geeks, whoch Roman spent his time with, closing his eyes and describing Lola. I glance at them feeling myself ease. This is new. Should I play with it?

Maybe there was a point in tying me up. To make me relax, to look at the numb white which people reach out for, trying to lose, only to gain in a while, when they can or maybe to lose once more.

Maybe there was a point in letting me die, letting myself die, as my last moments consisted of staring into that numb white. I feel my eyes dry out and then something wet moisturizes them, not going deep inside but screaming to get out.

Those two, stare at me, their heads tilted towards each other, their eyes looking through me, as if reading me.

Maybe I should let him go.

Maybe I should let him live.

“I’m sorry.”

“You want to be an artist? Devote your whole life into an endless risk? That’s…” She seems to ignore my curses, accuses, as her eyes sparkle in pride for me, not pity is it, love and I trace no sarcasm. Ok, I am tired if I do not see it. “…brilliant!”

Melvin nods, wrapping his arm stronger around me, he is the wrapper now, I feel like Roman the need to lean my head against someone else's to feel the blinding echo, the smile not holding a flirting characteristic in it. Instead it is warm, soft, welcoming, just like Jill’s piercing blue eyes.

Maybe I am the fool.

“I think you’re amazing, mate. Not anybody can take that risk.” Melvin says it, means it, ruffling my dyed blonde hair, pulling me closer to him. Jill throws her own arms around me, blushing at the light contact with Melvin through my body between them. Orgy?

Maybe I really am.

Maybe that’s why I let myself cry, just in front of them, letting the white classroom walls swallow me. Or maybe it's all in my head, a dream and I'm still stuck with no popcorn left and the books read or maybe there never was any popcorn.

But I'm between them, both of them, holding me unlike those pajamas with love bursting from both of them, protecting me, from the sick white. Or did I want to go back or did I want a numb corner to lay on the lukewarm water resembling floor with cut dyed blonde hair? From the white which could be my death. Which was my death. I lean my chin against their shoulders brushing against each other. I bite my lip, feeling Melvin’s hoodie go wet as well as Jill shirt’s white fabric go wet as well with my thoughts.

Then in that perfect relaxed feeling, I feel a small tingle in my right arm, go up and upper. My body is going numb, I am losing balance, I feel my eyes blur out and fall out. The images in front of me out, the white taking over.

Is this it?

No, then, there, it is her.


I whisper, but it doesn’t go loud, my lips move, before my face goes numb.

I don’t die.

I don’t faint.

I just let him take over.

For a while.

No longer.

For I have something to fight for.

Chapter 17

Wednesday, 24 November 2010


I'd like to thank everyone who supported me, who believed in me, who coped with my questions concering their own experiences at thirteen and simply those who believed.

13 is an Utopia is my novel, which I shall publish and the link will be up, when the book shall be available.

Once again, thank you all.


I keep digging my hands into my pockets, because there just there I feel my eyes digging deeper and deeper until it seems vulgar.
But not as much, until he opens his mouth.
“You’re talented.”

And it gets more vulgar with sloppy kisses upon the tongue.
But the thing is that you never realize it or maybe realization comes mixing, adding a numb taste a ‘get the fuck away’ hint, like thought, ripping as you keep counting wondering where had the numbness gone.

It’s like taking another mouth all at once, not sure how and you keep thinking that it shall repeat, the bizarreness, the uneasiness. But it gets bold. As the demands get higher, like in a contest when it should be more and more.

Carved. Only when it’s carved inside you with stitches leaking out mixed with liquid you get the wound kissed by another wound, a big black gasping wound with the tips of it shot upwards that its found someone else.


(2014) Until now I pretty much just hid it as a regular short story, but it was written with the Thom/Michael pairing really.

Request more Thom Yorke/Michael Stipe fanfiction below in the comments section.

Friday, 19 November 2010

Papercut. Chapter 15.

The bus ride doesn't seem anything special, seems usual, as if I had seen these houses sleep all my life, as people crawl out and for a second a feel as if there is something pressing against my back.

Nothing, but I see him eating an apple.

So I'm I, sleeping.

You're home, call down, Roman.

How can I?

It felt as if memories from three days ago were something I saw in a life or my past life, as if there were a nightmare I had woken up and somebody had been feeding me grapes the past three years. I'd say some Goddess, but the only one I've seen I have lost.

I could feel the music try to blur out my thoughts and I obey, pressing my head against the window feeling the morning cold get divided from me by the thick glass.

The morning was set on replay, as I was looking at my split-personalities lost album which he had written above the faces who was whom or rather why was Kayleen close and why was she holding a knife. She seemed frequent in his memories. Was I the split-personality as well? Did I have something for her as well? She keeps asking me as I look at my Converse. She takes my face in her hands, trying to open my eyes, as my split-personality stands or rather sits on the seat in front, chewing something, I hope not my
liver or something. The talks between them seem to end quickly, as if she suspects something strange and soon enough the door clicks in a sad way. Door? I press my head against the cupboards.

Was I home?

I could feel another hair ruffle and a smirk.

I wasn’t gasping at everything and in every way my symptom described. I was sane, my body was simply a vessel for the both of us, really, as we'd take turns and have a poker night to choose who was going next
and how much.

But despite the fact that I could spill my heart out again, I saw no possibility to get rid of it. The pills had an amazingly funny effect, which I didn’t bother to describe now.

It was either living with it or she could leave.

Yeah, that would do.

I looked ahead trying to see a glimpse of dark hair and a black haired girl, in other words Frankie and his girlfriend. I saw nothing that resembled them and proceeded back to my window gazing. Everything was
passing by, trees, buildings, people with coffee in their hands. I even felt a sudden urge for coffee, as the bus made a stop.

I walked outside watching students whizz by in the grounds. Some lay on the grass, not bothering with the start in five minutes, others hesitating, some clearly running with pencils behinds their ears falling down as they nearly tripped on me. Oh, my damned height. I walked on, not getting bothered by anybody. I should be the one who should bother.

I raise my chin, wondering where did I find self-obsession, stepping aside giving way to those who run inside as if it was the way to salvation. Maybe it was the light side after twelve years of boredom now left for others to swallow. Let them, huff and puff the first five minutes. They'll do the same for the next generation. Let them lay forgotten by the teachers, who sharp their teeth with chalk and markers, in the grass. But I walk inside at a normal pace, ignoring the world, the teachers in my head, as I saw farewell, as I embrace my
first full university day. Simple, just like that. No more bites on the neck as parents tend to believe that I screwed girls when it was mere school.

I walk on as a familiar voice makes me stop. I get a hold of the ending a mere ‘..kie’ floating in the air by a few familiar notes building a simple voice. Now it gets louder with heavy breathing coming closer to me, is this an intimate moment in my nineteenth year and how everyone describes uni as being a rather kinky place but then I see no cool naked dudes? I seem or at least try to concentrate and I do not feel like seeing them as I have heard that voice before.

Indeed, I have. I see a familiar guy run nearly past me in a green hoodie, with a white drawstring and a black one on the left both hanging. He doesn't stabilize his breath, he doesn't bother and it's more than audible even with people talking and the crowd stuck in their chalk drawn circles of friendship.

Hair stuck to his forehead, sweat dripping, eyes covered by light chestnut glue threaded in rows, eyelashes pierced together resembling a small pitch black line, a thin nose sticking out somewhere underneath the waterfall of sweat and sticky hoddie stuck to his back or is the nose supposed to be above it all, resembling a trophy allowing the possibility to breath in the discarded thoughts of others?

He raises his head, his eyes freed from the prison as blood leaks out, I blink, it's gone but I hear a knife cutting softly with a numb moan from behind his bangs as a big grin forms, not pausing his huffing for one bit. Melvin, pushes his hands from his a while ago stitched knees as the needle and the thread is there. He straightens up, pulling his arms, showing the hands underneath the oversized hoodie, closes his eyes, grins at some thought, looks around, blushes, laughs and comes back to me, looking brand new apart from the remaining eternity held in a thought inside a balloon.

“Hey, Rome.” His gray blue eyes greet me in a friendly way, as he takes several bangs out of his other eye. Then his lips form a perfect ‘o’, as he takes my hand and yanks it forward with him. As realization comes with world corruption, as something goes wrong above it all. What is it, Melvin? “Frankie? Frankie? Where are you?”

The world needs Frank. That's it the gift to eternal salvation, Frank.

He doesn't feel embarrassed, he never does apparently, the child within in destroying the lego houses demanding for naive attention, but he never asks it over the top, I think, I guess but then a child
is an egoistic creature. He raises his voice and pouts, running to the left with my arm in his grip, as if he were a cheerleader and I were his pom-pom, sounded weird, Mel, I don't want to be your pom-pom. Is that what we and Frankie were? Is that it can a mere thought gone wrong spoil the impression? Without any choice left I follow, I am the pom-pom and as banal as the thing and as sparkly, I guess. I manage to greet him back, as we run and he answers with an excited smirk on his tired face.

In the end we find Frankie, who wishes that he could hide from the red pom-pom and his sidekick the culprit of disaster. See? That's how school corrupts you, even after several months of graduation the flames of an unholy place are there with screeches and numbers cutting the throat trying to bite your sanity.

They do.

They find none.

He can only smash his own head against the wall, call it suicide but in other violent cases, but then he shall always be the culprit of aggression, as we'd lay there cracked, nothing leaking out and no aggression shown or yeah, no aggression just maybe a few question held and thrown diagonally, never reaching the core of his thoughts, destroyed with the folder where are names are written, a golden medal given out for killing someone, as Roman who can harm the society with his misbalance. Melvin presses his back against the wall, feeling himself slide down with a thud, his legs clearly in the way of other students. He raises his head, the bangs still glued, he seems to ignore the compliments about his long legs dividing the hallway. Maybe he is a nineteen year old kid, I just hope their is something than that there inside, as I realize how harsh I judge people, Frankie already with an anger management in my head, Melvin sucking on a lollypop. Mel even ignores somebody’s kick until he kicks them back as softly as he could unlike them, his head not moving, eyes closed, eyelids shut and sometimes he open them, quickly glancing at the man himself.

Frank smiles at him, Melvin forces out a smile, sighs and gives out as real as he can actually make it.

It's impossible to argue against people you like, there is simply too much distraction, so you just smile dumbly even if the argument is small and mute.

I watched them both amused, wondering if I can buy popcorn nearby, as he stretches out his arms once more above his head making a circular motion against the wall, his breath steadying, the circle catching his hair and his light eyes in the center, looking down, catching lost thoughts.

“Hey, Frank…” I hold myself from adding the ‘ie’ to the end, as I am no Melvin. But still when Melvin calls him Frankie face to face, sometimes a tense answer would escape from his mouth, but usually he never bothers and goes on despite Frank's glare and Melvin wins. As I figure, he always was trying to show coldness in his voice, his eyes sometimes reflecting second thoughts, hiding emotions unlike Melvin who has the naivety I lost ages ago.

“Frankie, did they really divide us?” Melvin moans closing his eyes, not knowing his own reaction, not feeling the urge to watch as Frank approves the staff’s decision. Is he afraid of meeting new people or he likes clinging onto the square jawed handsome in girl's eyes guy? Frankie nods, but then sees Melvin’s shut eyes and says it aloud, a small frown forming on his as some would describe Greek Godlike face. To me he's not attractive, not my type of guy sorry, I'm all for my split-personality, of course my soulmate in the same body and pure narcism all the way, baby!

“Aw, that sucks, Frank. Hey, Rome, what lesson do you have now?” Curiosity printed with red ink of his face along with a trail of blue hope. But he was so open to me yesterday, why was he so worried about going alone into a class full of students? The idea alone made the brown haired male spring to the life literally as he jumps up, grabbing my arms and waving them hysterically, a grin forming instead of the tired pout.

“History… of art?” I pronounce it more like a question than a statement when I know what my first class is but nothing else which follows, between pauses, praying that I had some luck left to make Mel
my classmate. Then Melvin jumps up high, pulling me into a tight hug, throwing a fist in the air, kicking his leg in the process, as I jump with him as I have no other choice. I am expecting and get quite a handful of weird glances and possible notes of insanity but I doubt any mental illnesses now in my now not so clean white reputation.

Is it easy to figure that I have a split personality? Is it easy to see that I am not myself sometimes, that I flirt or is it because the desire to cheat inside is that bug that I cannot hold it and I manage to do it via another person.


I am calling my other self a person?

But he is really a part of me complicating the puzzle which is Roman?

“Yes, take that Frankie! You’ll be alone without us! You'll come running! You’ll come begging on your knees, did I say, beg? Well, yeah! And with cookies! Bring the double chocolate ones, please.” Melvin says with a wide grin, mockery included, but a tint of regret often showing itself, threading itself through the fingers closing the gap. Then the bell rings, a silence bomb, grabbing speech and giving a wave of speed for people to run or does it slow them down the feeling of panic tying their eyes and paranoia given as a pill, sweat is water, drink it, student or lay quietly in the grass smoking weed.

“Sure-o, Melvin. I’ll miss you.” Frank says with a quick eye roll, muttering that he'll sees us soon much to his dismay, how shall it be Frank to know that you'll see a lost guy and your hyper best friend in an hour or so? With a rather quick pace he walks towards the classroom which is opposite ours labeled with a fancy card with 106 printed on it, it's not that far I can send him my thoughts and gossip. He glances at us and walks inside, straightening his back, closing his eyes and grasping the fact that he had made it, he's a student, he
keeps the door open to other students which follow or run behind him, he waits a few seconds, looking at the running five people in bright clothes, he ignores the teacher and waits, never glancing at me or Melvin. He needs to breathe in the last glimpses of the left over summer remaining in the autumn air and after the bright spot reaches the gray mass, a big blob of colours, Frank glances at us, smiles, grins, laughs and closes the door with a wave. Melvin pouts, but smiles to himself, as we both head inside after sharing a Frankie stalk together.

“Good thing, we’re both here.” He says aloud, ruffling his light brown hair, grinning at me, patting my back, jumping up again, not glancing if the teacher is there or not, the teacher isn't. A set of curious eyes take notice of our rather fancy entrance and introduction in the hallway or make out session with Mel's legs. Melvin just tilts his head up, standing on his tiptoes, his hands in his pockets, bangs flying backwards, revealing his light eyes as he looks for two seats, empty, I might add. Then he looks down, never admitting his confusion
as he snaps back to sense with a goofy look to see two empty spaces on the first row right in front of the teacher’s nose. I shrug, realizing that I don't really mind and we are kind of late might as well take them or leave and I didn't study hard to leave it because I'll be staring at the teacher too intense and it will be mutual. And above all history of art wasn’t as boring as it actually can be or the first thoughts when you think of it. I’m serious. But then it is boring to quite a bit amount of people, but then so do a lot of things sound boring for myself.

“You’re… Melvin, right?” A voice asks the man himself, as she stands up, a grin flashing. Her face lights up as she sees two familiar faces, both lost for a mere second as we go through the lit faces from yesterday in our minds. Her hair is still gelled back with that flashy hot pink stripe, black frames now to her contrast and a big smile. She tilts her head, moving her gaze onto me, trying to remember my name.

“Thomas?” She asks, unsure and playing with her nails in the process a quick look down and up, smile at Roman, biting her tongue afraid that by the looks of it she gets it wrong and loses a point. Melvin watches
her silently, a smile creeping onto his face again, as I notice that a while ago he had a rather concentrated face. Now an easy smile replaces it.

“Naw, that is good ol’ Rome.” He says swinging an arm across my shoulders, as if I were Frankie, I'm I going to make out in a bus soon then as well? A clear, open, friendly gesture of his. The girl smiles wider, somehow still showing the embarrassment in her voice. Melvin, apparently, the pimp or schoolboy never tears his eyes off her and it seems mutual, I would say romantic, but they don't look canon with Melvin's hoodie unless it was high school, but then uni is an idea way to spend your last teenage year. “And yeah, I’m Melvin.”

“Jill. Sorry, Roman. Nice to meet you both, again.” Jill grins wider, fixing her frames, pushing them up her nose with two fingers, never distracting her, of course there's a potential future boyfriend-to-be maybe even more if she believes in everything which follows. She hears Melvin’s answer, corrects herself, apologizes, smiles and nods pleased with herself for remembering at least one name and guess why and who's. We both stand for a while analyzing each other’s appearance, chewing on the first impression, near to ready to spit it out to analyze each other's inner self and question ourselves if we want it, well, mostly I did. I just stand, watching Melvin open his mouth thinking of a question.

“You have anything in mind you want to do, Jill?” He asks, looking up as if the next question of his was written in graffiti style on the white ceiling. What does he listen to anyway, never got round to ask him really. Why is that always the question of the day when you want to hit on a girl but try to look smart or is it just me with Lola? Sadly, I tend to believe that it's just me considering the fact that I've only dated Lola seriously, a few one-timers don't count and they just kind of fade out. He brings his gaze back to her, the smile still seen in his eyes. I'm not a fool, I do believe that, I am the third one out but I still stand, wondering if I should screw them and sketch something, practice makes perfect, I know that, so I glance from while to while at my class, wondering if I can flirt as well. Sadly, I do not recognize anybody and I'm loyal to my thoughts and my reflection so I just desperately kept glancing as Jill struggles.

“Well, just an artist is risky. I was thinking something with history of art, well, since I enjoy it quite a lot.” She grins wider, tilting her head in the process. I guess I do not have Melvin’s charms, not that I’m jealous. Maybe it's time to get my mind of Lola. No, it isn't.

I'm just being stupid.

Never ever-ever will that be.

I say in my mind, shaking off the dreadful thought of replacing her.


What about her?

Screw you, kid.

Great, I believe I have schizophrenia. I hear that same voice swear at me in a harsh way, maybe he says it aloud, that Jill glances at me suspiciously, but drops it, I'm not the potential boyfriend, after all. She had her mind and thoughts, questions as well flooded with hoodie guy. Always the Melvin type, always.

But that’s about to change, baby.

Chapter 16

Wednesday, 17 November 2010

Today I Would Rather Fall In Love With A Washing Machine Than A Woman

Today I would rather fall in love with a washing machine than a woman.
©Richey Edwards

I just sat there watching my jeans whirl in the washing machine, slowly going into the lull, my eyes going lightly with them with every single gulp.

I leaned against the tub, the bottle near me, as I hummed something neutral trying to buzz out the machine’s sweet talking.

I opened my eyes.

It still spun, even if talked, moved lightly, shook heavily, but continued talking about her day.

I never kissed those whom I had loved.

I wonder what eyes would the washing girl have had?


Like the water she drenches my detachable parts into?

What would she feel like?


Afraid of germs, screeching an ‘ick’ when she’d see one?

Would she stuff my jeans into her mouth and chew, her mouth stretching, gulping the fabric until she’d turn into a huge cube, her mouth falling onto the tiles of the bathroom with a thump and use two fingers as a plug, screeching as the high voltage would take over her.

I wouldn’t be the one giving her pleasure.

I’d be watching.


Giving myself pleasure to deal with it, as it foals my body, immersing myself into her fluids as she breaks down
and my jeans are stuck inside with the second pair drenched.

I’d break the bottle cursing.

Cut my finger.

Get yelled at my new scar on my index finger.

Which shall be in the shape of a moon and she’d get thrown away with the feelings of today immersing.


Friday, 12 November 2010

Papercut. Chapter 14.

I wake up feeling my head blank, that one second when you feel as if you have amnesia or inner bliss, you won the lottery until there is actually a two and the ticket is old and torn. Disqualification. Your life. When you cannot, speak, when you’re pure and resemble something you were until the first thought came, you just stare into nothingness through the closed eye lids. The feeling of breathing is gone, the body numb, light. Then that second of pureness ends and the dreams fall down from the skies in their shiny rockets, like some old forgotten unwrapped memory in the back of the mind. Images, pictures, photos, videos of the dream mixed with a quick, brief description of explaining who the hell are you and what have you done. Then with the next breath I am me once again.

I blink, adjusting my eyes to the morning light, it’s not so pure and milky anymore and the alarm going off in defeat. Even an alarm clock unlike me has a life. I want to be an alarm clock for Christmas. I ruffle my memories of tomorrow, opening every single one with greasy fingers letting them get in my way later. I sit up, feeling my scarf fall on my knee falling off, revealing my sleepy left leg, as the other half of it ends on my chest, brushing it in a familiar way.

Then I take it off just to pull my t-shirt over and as soon as I finish I wrap it again. Comfy. I walk out of the room quickly zipping my jeans and see nobody outside. Success? I struggle for a while but head to the bathroom to see how messy and usual my hair looks for the day. I ruffle it to make it look messier, brush my teeth and everything that follows before leaving home.

I do not bother with counting the steps as I even take some two at a time, I’ll have time when I’ll be chewing my hair out of boredom making a turn at bottom towards the kitchen. I don’t see my roommate and stare at the table, recalling blur images in my head. Oh, great. I open the fridge door and grab the milk carton without thinking and taking a big gulp of

it in thought.

I swear out loud, realizing that I did two bad things in a row. I bite my lip, taking a glass, pouring the white water in it.

I see her storming through the door, pinning me against the cupboards.

A pain shoots through my head, piercing my insides as I choke on my next sip. Then I really do see her, her scarlet hair gelled, a new long sleeved button up shirt with a dark skirt and heels instead of Converse. I stare at her footwear the glass against my lips, breaking my teeth with the cold, I shiver, not making any mouth movement to let the milk make my organism healthier. She greets me with a confused stare and looks at her own footwear. I make an eye movement to my dark Converse and she gets the point.

Oh, telepathy.

“G’morning. Yeah, I’ve got this test crap thing. They said look fancy. Pfft, what’s wrong with Converse? I mean, yeah, sure I look more ‘ladylike’ with heels.” She said a hand gesture with both hands bending two fingers with an eye roll as she heads towards the fridge. “But look, once some posh celebrity appears in a posh evening with very un-posh no-noes Converse, they make it posh and go all ‘oooh’ and voila it’s the trend! Who could have imagined that a cocktail dress with Converse look so good?”

And then Kayleen starts ranting that when she’ll be a celebrity, she’ll wear Converse 24/7 and tell everyone else that they suck. I asked her why not now. She replied with a brief because no one will listen.


I just nod, as she continues ranting, running a hand through her hair as she takes out some strawberry yoghurt. Kayleen grabs a spoon, her mouth not closing, as she rambles on. The red head seems to be average for a teenage girl, bragging about absolutely everything, as if nothing happened yesterday. Well, nothing actually did. She resembles my sister. I remember movies where guys tend to talk about their mums. Well, I’m different, I talk about my sister.

“Oh, toast.” She says as she notices me chewing my own, with marmalade on the top. With a quick movement her chin is on her palms, as she glares at the timer. She takes the toast with her hand, her fingers digging into the toast.

I watch her take a bite.


The voice echoes in my head, slowly blurring my mind as he dances to some Oasis song.




I grin at her, my head tilting to one side as she looks at me confused. A typical what the fuck look. I feel a sudden rush of adrenaline take over me, as I watch her. I think I’m even able to waltz. Kitchen. People eat, people choke, people drink. Endless possibilities run through my head as I imagine her pressed against the table like yesterday, my hand in her hair, the lips pressed together. How passionate was the kiss. Oh, wait, there was none. Damn. I watch her eat, waiting for her to start a topic. I even gesture, as she raises an eyebrow. She takes a knife and takes some butter for another toast.

I watch the tip of the knife, cut, cut, cut, as she says something aloud. I nod, not digging into her topic.

I think about the tip of the knife, wondering what it likes.

“You look magnificent.” I lean closer, as the knife is in her hand, in the air waiting for the contact with the piece of toasted bread chop, chop, chop. I take it from her hand and the toast, feeling what can happen in a few seconds as I lay my eyes on her. I feel a sharp pain in my right arm, my head and my eyes dry as if I was lying.

“Um, thank you.” She takes the knife back and leans back, a soft glare in her open gaze. Kayleen fixes her skirt as an unrequited move. Instead she opens her mouth to refuse my hinted offer. “Look-“

“Yeah, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean it. I really didn’t.” I look like that kid now, like ‘oh my God, me snogging a girl who is not my dear beloved Lola, oh, I am such a womanizer! Shoot me someone fast I need to die before someone finds out and I shall be considered as an asshole, enemy of women.’ I hold my hands in the air like a sign of defeat, ruffling my hair afterwards. If it is kid she likes then let it be. I’ll be Romie. I tilt my head, watching her take a new bite.

“So, how’s uni?” Red haired asks faking causality, the notes in her voice still there, leaning against the table, as I hold myself from doing something passionate. I have hormones, ok? I look up for a while thinking or rather remembering kid’s memories and his dumb thinking face. God, I hate being blonde. But then if she doesn’t want now, I can take a while longer. Seems fun. But then maybe I was afraid to spoil everything? The best thing in kissing is not kissing. Or making out, well, whatever.

I’m I scared?

I tilt my head, looking down, moving my toes through my Converses, realizing how weird my action must really be. I’m I killing aliens like this? Take that for not letting me kiss Kayleen.

“Good.” Basically she talked about it yesterday, but then I know her just for several days. I scratch my arm, stop aching, I close my eyes counting to them, as if I it want to freeze in sleep and fall off, in thought of what should I ask. I never really talked much to girls basically I just snogged and further on, dot, dot, dot (Rome you watch stupid movies) because I didn’t have much time to enjoy myself. “So poetry, why poetry?”

“Oh. I don’t know myself. I’m going on an interview actually. I want a transfer. My parents stuck me in as a gift. Ideal Christmas, wasn’t it? Getting told that I shouldn’t be shy, that I have a talent which I shouldn’t lose. That their daughter is silly and immature, like a true poet. They don’t want me to meddle with…” She made a pause eyeing me suspiciously, her lips mouthing mute words. Then she makes a sudden shake of her head, denying some sort of possibility. I raise an eyebrow but she drops the subject. “Psychology. I couldn’t really study it much, basically I just made what I could on my own. Well, happens.”

She smiles and I smile back. Haven’t smiled after somebody opening up. Usually I snog the life out of them.

Does she know? She looks like a beginner or maybe she’s on the field as well instead of cheering with pom-poms. Oh, Kayleen in a mini-skirt. Jumping.


“Art?” I add the ending of her sentence and she nods, with a light smirk, fiddling with the bead glass necklace around her neck, hanging nearly to her waistline. “I think I began drawing before I learnt to crawl and chew on a girl’s braids or knock a few Barbies into space. Well, I just do that and I guess that makes me… happy? Oh, fuck, that sounded sappy, like I love summer because I laze my ass off.”

I think I went too far. I’m certainly not PG-13. Parents, shoot your kids, now. Instead she nods and expects a happy ending.

“I just got influenced more and more. My parents were thrilled to have an artist in their family. My mum and dad adore art, but they never really went into it. Their lives perfect, a son and a daughter until well…” I stop, nearly releasing the existence of Roman’s or my own existence.

“It’s an unwanted perfection really. They said that they have no talent at all. Well, hell, they don’t. My sister wants to be designer. God, our house is flooded in fabrics, canvases, pencils and all artsy crap. I swear I hate Vogue.” I say smirking several times as she watches me amused.

Clap, baby, clap.

If she was into psychology she could figure it out, right?

Is she taking me then to the science fair, as I project?

Children, meet Roman.

Many girls came up shocked that the kid didn’t remember them or anybody who could resemble them in his foggy memory. Then they just called him an asshole after a descriptive and controversial retelling of the previous night which came with a parent’s stare and pat on the head with a talk to be careful and use stuff correctly. Oh, naivety of parents. They all were distant from the human mind, all different some smart, some stupid, some cute, some pathetic. It felt like tasting them all. Like chewing gum. Blow a bubble, it pops and it’s tasteless. Throw it away, take another and make an orgy.

“Cool. I wish I was good at art instead of forcing myself to write some dumb poem for my assignment.” She smiles, putting her hands in her pockets.

Maybe it wasn’t a bad thing if she would.

Chapter 15

Wednesday, 10 November 2010


I heard death.

I heard how the voices, screeching mixed in one, blood pouring, as I could barely move, my muscles tensing.

My mouth dry.

The silence wrecking, but the notes coming, more death as the sound became more vivid.

We feared birth.

We feared to be awaken in something that was heaven.

Darkness, eternal fucking darkness, full of what was bliss was torture how the eyes would be glued and we would stare into the true essence of life itself, that the logic was thrown away.

I was nine and I heard its screech, how it came, lulling me into an abyss. How I had feared it as it drew near.
It paralyzed me as I had seen it then.

What was awaiting the eternal kiss of death, the depth of its sleeve which we’d see going longer and longer as our head would way awaiting the final cut to pour our love out, the illusion of self-disgust showing us naked in front of the mirror, laughing at us, invisible.

I cried when I heard it.

I heard the dead sing, resembling violins, faking an orchestra with its beauty as the clock would stop, the breathing would cease and death would hunger.

Its starvation drown over me as a cloud as the screeches would leak, draining the floor, laughing, laughing, 




Friday, 5 November 2010

Papercut. Chapter 13.





Everything’s yet so bright, as I strode along as if I held fucking candy canes in my mouth.

I fiddle with the lock not as long so that it doesn’t break. With one more push the insides are revealed to me. I look through the memories, as I walk around, watching everything through a sane mind until I hear footsteps. I stop in my track, hold my breath as I am caught red handed by my grandmother while taking more sweets than I should have or by running around with a knife, screaming, as I’d force people to wonder as I cut my arm vertically, the bone peeking out, the skin a wrapper. Other examples fly through my head as I watch a pair of chocolate Converse head inside with its owner, its shoelaces a washed or brand new white. I strode them with my eyes, soon enough reaching a blue pair.

I capture her jeans with a belt and a colourful t-shirt. A towel is around her hair, a wet red steak on her forehead giving out where the rest could be. As I want to tear it down, water flicking down. My eyes travel back to her oval face, her pale cheeks, clearly hinting the lack of sleep and caffeine, with small dark circles under her eyes. Her light eyes hint nothing of the sort, looking optimistic and curious.

I hold my tongue from muttering some cheesy trademark phrase with baby at the end. I’d use to say in high school, while that dreadful Lola wasn’t around or even to mock the girl herself. I feel a bit uncomfortable in my head, as I call her dreadful maybe there is a connection, maybe not direct, but as if we were brothers or sisters? Roman would be the slutty one of course, packed with a whip. Maybe blondie stirred in his sleep, muttering how bad I am.

“Hola.” She says holding a phone with her shoulder as I want to take it from her and wrap her arms around my neck, as her hands are occupied with the chips she is eating. Her eyes a chamber of curiosity as she laughs her eyes fixed. I smile at Kayleen, as I wait for a one-sided dialogue, her eyes now closed, a blush creeping up. My hands in my pockets, as I want to hear her talk, endlessly of dreams she holds, of the banality she sees and grasps blowing it onto bubbles which I’d love to pop for her, as she’d sit on the throne laughing.


She drops her gaze on her chocolate Converse and pierces the silence. “Yeah, yeah, it is my roommate.”

She says that rather easy going. She stretches out the bag of chips. Offering a product made of potato, but not of flesh. I shrug but take one anyway. My mind seems slow, as I drop my messenger bag to take off my Converse. Wait is she going somewhere? Panic! Maybe she smokes? But then we have a balcony, don’t we?

My room. Yes, baby, my room, now!

“I didn’t use the cleaner, so not suggested. Yes, Pam, I’m talking to my roommate. So what did he say?” A grin captures her features, as she laughs out loud, biting a finger, I make a quick reference, I smirk. I do not bother and tie my shoelaces again, feeling my eyes glued. Oh, I think I tied one to the door. Oh, Romie, you’re a moron going for some blonde wannabe while…



As I could feel myself threading my hair, if I’d close my eyes I’d see myself sitting besides a pale, gasping for air Roman. Where we killing each other? Or we were killing ourselves? Nice and slowly, as we’d watch each other’s blood pour and be released in the abyss, as both eyes would be locked, nothing exposed, everything drenched in a foul smell.

Were we while holding each other’s thoughts destroying our own, both of us floating on air, as he’d wonder aloud, why the moments of closure were brief.

As if there were none.

But then why were we fighting over Roman’s beaten up by Lola thoughts body? Why were we fighting over an unused sinful body? Maybe because there was no other?

Were his fluttering eyelids the culprit to my dull pain, as the hand would sting, as he’d open his mouth and chew on my pinkie, his eyes focused on an imaginary escape of reality, of his consciousness?

While what?

“Yeah, see you, Pam. Yup, you’re next. No, I’m not telling him that, gees, no! Fine y-” She pauses for a while as she catches my gaze and stares as I feel her move her lips. I can’t help but watch, mesmerized. I shut my eyes. It’s still there. Kayleen gulped nervously, but continued. “Cruel. Yeah, see you.”

Pam’s out. Fail, Pam, fail.

She stares back at me in pure confusion trying to avoid my next move. She should scream, but she doesn’t, she remains there in the headlights, held up in the air above the empty audience seats filled with laughter. Maybe my arm stretched out pressed against the wall, above her head was awkward, but I didn’t care. She opens her mouth to actually say something, her mind filled with endless possibilities both on earning a point for me and for her. I’d suggest, I’d guess if I could press my ear against her lips and she’d whisper.

I couldn’t realize for one moment in all those flicks I had what I was doing.

The thoughts seemed to be mixed, as he sat opposite as if I’d be Roman but I wasn’t.

Don’t you want to suck the life out of it, as it screams for mercy? And you see it pulse, yes, he’s dying, but some shite is holding him, so he lives. Y’know why? ‘Cause someone’s an idiot, taking the young ones, their souls young, as they see others rot or maybe because they realize it? They’d die at seventy, but they’re not immortal, like the rotten ones thrown against the wall and hung.

Maybe he was calming me down, my blood pressure, maybe because I am breaking out several times now, holding him by his hands so that he can’t break free grabbing the given a few minutes ago book and destroying the pages against lover boy’s head.

Take control, fuck everything up.

Maybe now he is screaming now in my head, as my eyes are open with the pain.

“How was your day?” I ask sounding as casual as always, well, with the fact that we have known each other for a single day. Kayleen blinks and takes a step sideways, the day clearly not enough, making the distance longer and pressing one side of her body against the wall, still lost in thought, but the gaze kept.

“Good, good. Yours?” Was this some sort of game? Was I playing the red or getting the red? She tilted her head sideways, as she heads towards the kitchen dropping off her finished bag of chips in the bin, never a glance back. Grasping everything, are we? With a quick head nod towards the bottle of coke she asks me, after pouring herself a glass. I shake my head.

Although I’m thirty and not for blood.

“Yeah, it was ok. The art university is filled with freaks of course. Tons of bastards thinking that they are worth a bloody million, probably doing voo doo rituals to harm others, see the blood spill in front of their eyes but it’s ketchup, but there’s a faint anyway from the audience. I hope they choke on it, enough mouths to be fed already, don’t you think? Why should an insignificant Narcissus live?

Fascinated by the sight that they have less competition. I am sure that half of them are bloody insane.” I hold my tongue from swearing but too many words run to play around in the kitchen come out of my mouth. She makes no reaction or she fakes it. What stops Kayleen is my mention of blood.

She flinches and closes her eyes, biting her bottom lip. To blood, sweetie?

Blood. Red. Darker close to black as it comes down among chins, resembling some sick black. I could see them holding dolls, Melvin, Frank, Jill, Derek, Brenda, Amelia, Agnes, James. All their names taken, as I want to forget and hold only one name in my head. Not me. Not even my own. But I go by Roman’s name. Although who wants to hold the exact name of someone who closes your eyes to shield the light? Should I hail him alone, as I’d leave being the priest, as he says I do? All of their faces twist in a not so friendly way in front of me, their eyes going mad, their hands synchronal reveal the small doll hidden in their palm pinned to their skin, the doll’s fabric soaking in their blood, the screams the soundtrack of her eternity.

One doll resembles me, another resembles Brenda, Frankie and so on as a last one has a mop of scarlet red hair, as the two coloured girl grins.

Then I turn towards Kayleen, each breath seeming heavier despite trying to relax myself. She seems to be talking again, as she takes off her towel and her hair falls down, touching her cheeks, water drops travelling down her chin, neck and onto the rough white fabric. I gulp.

I’m a guy ok?

I watch her answer, her voice change into a hearty laugh, her hands ruffling her hair as her cheeks give out a pink tone. They are probably talking about her boyfriend then my eyes flick to her lips pressed together not waiting to give out the information she had been holding so long inside from gossiping about her chosen one. Or maybe it’s because I’m here.

I have no idea, I just do what I feel like.

But then isn’t that what I had been doing all this time?

I grasp my insanity,

Let Roman grasp his and give me a one-way ticket to his body. That sounded weird.

I feel like yelling, I yell, I feel like painting, I paint, I feel like talking about blood, I feel like pressing my own lips against someone’s, I do that.

And that’s what I want to do. Kayleen still talks on the phone, as I place both my arms on both sides of the table leaning closer, I am literally above the table, I’m a porn star! Then her gaze travels up and meets mine. She stops for a second, but talks and watches me like nothing is happening. She even leans, as I smirk, the gaze mutual and I take a steak off her cheek, but it falls back. Then it hits her, she leaves her friend to yell into the phone.

I lean closer.

I close my eyes, but he’s there with a bucket of water.

And then the tingle in my right arm appears.

He dumps it on me.


Blink, blink, blink.

Wakey wakey, rise and shine, uni’s awai-

I see a something blurry in front of me there are no mice neither do I have a pet or a one-night stand, so close that my vision cannot capture it or take a shot. My hands feel wood, the floor underneath me and someone’s breath upon my lips.




I gasp and instantly pull away, my hands upon my lips to find any trace of a kiss. I in a panic wave even shove a finger into my mouth, as if I got some chewing gum from Kayleen. Orally. I shake my head, trying to take that word away from my head. My tongue explores my mouth trying to trace some unknown taste to me. Nothing, nothing. My own sexy insides. Hah. I press my palm against my head, exhaling happily. I did not cheat on Lola. All I did was break up with her.

That would stick to my mind, but now I have Kayleen in front of me. Isn’t that the current problem? I was expecting her to stand there with her mouth opened yelling at me. That’s what Lola would have done. But she didn’t. Her blue eyes look at me, trying to understand my sudden change of plans, the redness in her cheeks gone along with the sudden trace of near claps and medals with ‘hey, you nearly kissed Roman, think again!’ Annoyance? Not a trace of it. Confusion and misunderstand was plastered on her face. Before she can ask anything I open my mouth at the speed of light.

I don’t not launch myself at her, pressing her against that table, my lips crashing against hers as my imagination goes on with my split-personality cheering and telling me to go on, as if he never undressed her in his mind. But soon I killed that thought and just made a rebirth to Kayleen’s confusion.

“I didn’t mean it. Sorry, I don’t know what came over me. You have a boyfriend, I just broke up. I guess it’s due to the lack of sleep and overdose of (manliness – my split-personality whispers, laughing). It’s not like I ditched you on the last moment. Actually, I did. Oh my God, look, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean it. I guess it’s my harmones. Or just got caught up in the moment. You have the full rights to tell me to snap out of it in a rude form next time.” I could have blabbered on, but instead Kayleen shrugged and took her phone and answered it, hitting Pam about it, in my presence.


Soon enough the old smiles, eye rolls and gossip was back. I couldn’t help but sigh happily.

And punch my split-personality.


I’d lie, saying that I slept as a cute kitten dreaming about puppies, because it’s forbidden. I’d lie, I did not sleep and stir from while to while the blurry image glued to my head. On my forehead, as if I’d loom in the mirror and see it staring at me. But none of that happened. I stirred a while, opening my eyes and feeling darkness become a hoodie gray as if I was colour blind feeling my eyes scan some object to rest on until the sane gray appears, a child to two contrasts. The room not mine, asides several canvases lying on the floor forgotten and several pencils scattered and bitten. I could see several erasers laying next to the farthest left pencil. They all seem so forgotten that I feel lonely for them for a second. I struggle holding myself from grabbing them, whisper stuff to them as I’d draw.

I’d draw the sky, the clouds, the horses and a muse with a wand. Whoosh. Give me the feeling, inspire me, baby.

I bite my lip closing my eyes with force as they beg to stay open. I was trying to load my mind with thoughts. Usually I lull myself to sleep by thinking about Lola, but now I just feel guilty as if she were holy, she is. I spot my scarf by the chair hanging there useless. I gulp feeling the nakedness of my neck. The exposure, the exhibitionist now me, as I attack.

My torso doesn’t bother me, as my neck does.

I stand up feeling the sleep hold my feet together and mouth wide, as if it were holding a scream for eternity, due to my sudden move. I walk over to the chair and pull my mossy green scarf, one end of it falling as if it were light on the floor. I pick it up and wrap my neck around it, feeling its soft fabric. I bet I look idiotic in my boxers, barefoot, standing in the middle of the night with my scarf around my neck.


Is this the last feeling before you grasp your insignificance?

Then I fall into bed, the dreams coming back.

Then my thoughts blend, making some sort of weird dream or nightmare dragging me slowly, as I feel the warmth from my scarf telling that it’s alright. I see myself running, laughing, confused. I am in the university, I got there, didn’t I? I am babysitting Romeo, I am dancing with Lola, she’s there in my class with no Melvin or Frankie, I press myself against Kayleen…

I stir as I see Kayleen in my dream staring with a flower, a more dominant role in the relationship, as I stand in a plaid skirt. Kilt? I move my lips, feeling my body heal, the lips numb from the preparations. I watch her more, but the kiss not happening, instead I waltz with Lola. Her laughing filling the empty room with no music a hidden, mosaic hanging there hidden in the white, just her laugh, but her lips firmly pressed against each other. I lean closer, feeling that I may not have another chance once more.

Chapter 14

Wednesday, 3 November 2010


If you actually had the time to choose, would you, looking back choose the same thing? I asked Sidney that once, leaning down, the grass between my toes, as my Converse were thrown down the hill, the remaining sun shining into the back of my head.

I remember I leaned back, grinning madly, as I was twelve and thirteen tomorrow but I already felt like a teenager, as my blonde friend smirked all of a sudden ruffling my short hair and my sudden outburst and my black eye as a proof of denial.

Or was it simply because I had managed to accept myself finally?


Hey, I am doing nanowrimo this year and this is not a fragment of the story, but a scene told from Zane's point of view.

I don't really write any notes, but since I just did, here it is.

Happy Wednesday!

13 is an Utopia is now available on Amazon

and Create Space