Wednesday, 28 December 2011

We've all danced with death

Grab a train
Just any train
No, not those which lead to the end
But those which stay in the middle
Which feel as if you’re in an endless circle
As the lights are dim
And the soviet stations barely have any lights
Look at the people
Look at the faces

And feel
Not just the pain
But the desperation of the lack of dreams
Of unity of the souls
And you’ll wonder what are you doing there
As you’ll hear the train
And the stops won’t be noticeable
As the music gets louder

Look at the faces
Their long hair
As they shall all stand in a line
Of death
Waiting for trainers to choose them
Flick their wrists against the walls
As the lights will go off and linger closer
Tearing the soul apart
As the eyes shall remain sitting there right in front of you
Their corpses are chosen
All besides several which just sit waiting
Hunger and lust printed on the faces
They have nothing to say
But they believe in the love you have
In the mobile you hold

And you’ll ease knowing that you know the station
Where you just flee
And the light will be brighter
The skirts shorter
And the eyes will be shielded by the light
You’ve adjusted
But even if you change

You’ll see the trainers, the eyes, the dyed mops
The fingers will trail back and forth upon your body
You’ll forget the homophobia
As you shall become a man and a woman
As a crowd of feathers will fall upon you
The body of yours will be cut open
Turn on the music louder

Ligeti an anthem
It’s a requiem
It’s death
It’s behind you
You pull the hood
To kiss the hole
In the face

Open the eyes

You’re back

You’re in a wagon


Ease your pain
Hold your wounds
They shall bleed again
As the wagon just shakes and all the figures
Their skin turns into dresses
They dance around
And fall at your feet




You’ve heard that note before
The person holds
As a gun is withdrawn and pulled upon your temple
It’s a dystopia
You’re the figure, the statue which holds a hero
As the eyes go black
And breakfast seems far away
As you gazed out of the window to see
What was life, what you thought was life
With a golfer flung a golf club at your window
You’ve licked the shards
They’ve cut your tongue.

And you’ve screamed
Seeing that you’re blood is blue
As if you’re frozen
And in a fridge

It’s not just a nightmare
It’s the journey of death
As they bury you deep
All the people you’ve known
A kiss of the beloved as a last

And you’re flung in the coffin


Watch death go on top of you
Strip you’re clothes down

A knife inside you
A knife as big as your sin
Of choosing death instead of life
You’re desire to never struggle again

Well, pay


Wagon, wagon, wagon

It’s a dance


Lay down



Sing sing sing sing sing sing sing sing sing

Let the floor fall backwards
Feel scared
Let the beloved kiss
As you shall become a woman and a man

Let death soothe the hands you’ve touched life with
Let death soothe the voice you’ve spoken with
So let death kiss you, love

Lock fingers, hands and body as death steals your life
Your virginity
It’s gonna ache

It’s going to rip you from inside, the knife, your sin

You’ve drank tea

Death gave you tea from a thermos, to wake you up
So that your eyes would see the horror
Death had seen

Soothe, death
Hold death in your arms
The hood now back and now it’s hair
As it thrusts inside

Kiss death gently, with your lips, with all your might
You’d try to break the coffin which shall be death
But all shall flow and shatter as death’s hands would be a cross
For you to hang upon the neck
As the waltz shall be death pulling you by the cross

A sphere
You’re body shall make a sphere
To make death protect it’s fragile self

Look, you scared death,

Death closed it’s thirty eyes
With your fingers
And sucked them gently
As if they were a candy cane of Christmas

Death shall laugh upon you
Death shall watch you as you lay
As your fingers trail it’s jaw line upon which people have cut their shards of skin

You look down
All your skin formed into needles
It’s sharp and it glues onto death’s robe
Slowly building a puzzle of yourself
As your knee is now missing

And death slaps that knee

We’ve met before, you’d say at the wedding
With the pope and funeral
And you’ll kiss the bible for luck
Knowing that the bride behind the door
Which you call, screaming to come
Is death

So you close the door shut
Knowing that your wife shall fling her maternal pain upon you
You shall be the one with the child
As death is to fragile to hold a mortal

Death is so fragile
But then what shall kill death then?

You ask death that in a dance and death just nods
As death takes you
Your clothes in the coffin
The skin, the clothes are needles

As the wagon goes further and death laughs
The laugh sweet as if it was yours at fourty six

Death takes the needle of your lips
And death would dance, slowly, your needles her hands
Death would stick them further
As your ribs would be death’s
And death would become yourself


It all started off with the fact that I woke up in the night or I had been awake and I heard music from the street, horrible music which sounded like death (which inspired Musica) and while I had been writing 13 is an Utopia I had wanted to write something under the music I had heard and I went deeper trying to find something which resembled and I stumbled onto Ligeti's Requiem.

Now, it is a beautiful piece which you can find and hear now on the blog, as I hope my writing can match it's shattering beauty someday. This poem was written under the requiem as well.


Monday, 26 December 2011

Pearl Gathering

You get the ability to drift through rooms endless, peeking into the opened up soul to see how the person was.

I felt like the cleaner who takes the corpus as if to see if there is any trail left behind the works of death, nobody ever noticed but if death arrives at a house another happens as close following by a pattern as I glance into the other following chaotic patterns around the city, never stopping, never finding a trace of evidence that something inhuman surrounded the scene of the last grasp to have spit being thrown in the air but never hitting the floor but being grasped as another bead of pearls around the taker’s neck, like a sign of boasting to see how many were freed.

More and more, blue, green, blue, purple it was hideous how people admired colours drenching their lives in one after death, like a message left to picked up.

You can grab just one thing, though.

So with the hands shifted into the front pockets, the eyes searched for something to catch the eye. Nothing ever did, all which was found were photos of people’s faces corrupted by grief as their spirit yelled in the distance for an impossible return of the pearls.

I stopped on the pearl necklace, the beads waiting to be scattered.

I looked around for no hood to be seen.

I did something I never did, feeling a doubt in the back of the throat were the pearl was. It was screaming and denying them. I took them feeling a rush of adrenaline rising in my fingers, urging me to drop it.

But I didn’t, feeling the sweet stares of jealousy to my direction.

“Nobody let you grab anything.” Before I could protest I saw something I have only been giving the glimpse of. It followed the procedure I was told, both resembling bony hands trailing the neck before swallowing themselves into my mouth to grasp a bleak object to join the ones hidden in my palm, but scattering onto the floor due to my constant nagging.  


And here is, I guess one of my favorite works, if I can call that and I guess Jaidem shall be my favorite creation with his concept.

This is the prologue of Ladder To The Red Moon Gathering, which consists of many parts from different points of view and one-shots related to the story.

I hope you will enjoy it and it is a part of the Papercut universe or rather Papercut is a universe of this. It was written after Papercut and I needed a third female character and one from Papercut was taken and soon the story began forming.

My nano novel finishes the final gaps of the story, making the conclusion of this novel a second plot in the nano novel.

Basically if to look at my works carefully they always touch the subject and thoughts on the concept of Ladder To The Red Moon Gathering. The structure and how it's written is interesting and is a mixture of Papercut and the piano three shot.

Pear Gathering like another part of the story came to me in a dream as I slept in the afternoon and the idea was slightly inspired by Depeche Mode's Home video.

I'll try to shut up and please do enjoy it as much as I do and love it.

Degrading Haystack With Red Moons Printed Across Part 1

Thursday, 22 December 2011


Everyone has a thirteen year old kid inside, the one with the knife against both throats.
He takes several steps back, the knife cutting the flesh.
He is the one falling for people,
his passion based on countless rumors
blinding out the pure feelings,
as his blood pours down, like a stab in the stomach.
He is the reason for the sudden stop and turn,
as the question why is held, above the banality
and the thoughts lying in the pile of blood,
as the chest gets gripped and falls onto the floor, the inside exposed.
Am I pure banality?
And then you realise that you're alone
no one to fed the thirteen year old or the hanging upon the door you.


This is an old poem, written about a year ago, I guess. On the iPad, actually it has an oddly nice feel when you write and I remember I used to have the volume so that the noise of a typewriter would be there.

I have an obsession with keyboards, I love their feel.

We've all danced with death

Saturday, 17 December 2011


I followed him, because isn’t that what the female is supposed to do? Follow the male’s lead and shut up? Mason glanced at me and slowed down, opening his mouth several times in order to say something but nothing would come out and he’d curse at himself because of that. I realized where we were going as he took my hand and I could hear my drama teacher’s bald voice replacing or rather placing a new echo not in only against the walls but in my head as Mason took my hand, quickly glancing at me with a light embarrassed glance.

“I never age.” He chuckled, as I thought about his childlike nature, then. “Never ever.” Sad smile watering the tired, drifting with thoughts face as he pushed the door leading to a sandy snow storm as the drama teacher ignored us acting Hamlet to himself. Pretending it like it was a lollypop to the others while it a microphone clenched in his big hands which usually held scripts or pencil to poke people’s eyes out if they knew nothing too much to act, to act, to act, to act. Because life is a scene, a movie as you wait for your Romeo to poison himself so that you’d easily shoot yourself to fall on his body the blood flowing out with the feelings so that he’d be drenched in them, so that he’d wake up with its disease in the afterlife, as we’d believe in something eternal which we mistake to be love.

It felt different to feel snow hit my face in my soothing away as he inhaled, stretching himself, as if something shone in him. A new and fresh smile now intruded his usual tired and thoughtful expression. Mason jumped on the spot for a while as the snow seemed to go on faster and faster nearly forming a whirlwind for a second, that I expect him to lure me closer t him so that he could grab hold of me capturing my dark green with teal, but nothing happened it rose and died as I thought his hair was now a bad dyed red but just for a second. I brushed off the thought as we headed past the cartoon looking woods further into the town.

“Do you feel like Christmas, Bo?” He grinned at me as I felt his hand go warmer and I just felt colder despite the fact that the wind was long gone. The lights seemed to lack the feeling of easiness they held and how they lured me and a distant sharp trace now held in Mason’s eyes. I hardened the grip on the red head’s fingers as my other arm hugged my body in a failing attempt to warm myself.

I didn’t feel like Christmas at all.

He went through the exit door with me, his fingers warming, the snow raising and failing with his mood changes. His fingers trailed circles onto my palm leaving a circulating print that iced my blood as if he was a walking icicle when he wasn’t.

“You s-said-“

The words were stuck on my throat as well as the snowflakes which never melted forming a snowman out of me, unlike Mason who was barely covered. He shook off the snowflakes off my hair, watching me closely. He raised his fingers and I felt a stone up in my throat. His teal eyes focused on the nude pink steak in my hair. He twirled it for a while, pulling my hat further onto my head, covering the stripe from his view. I couldn’t decide if he was embarrassed or proud that he caught a glimpse of a secret I held.

“Do you want the crowd to go away? Away? Forever and ever?” He whispered, taking my face in my palms, leaning closer to my shaking state. I couldn’t help but stare and wonder how come my mind was as creative when I usually lacked the creativity and I could only play by the guidelines pushing no further, but then it was the feelings I lacked but needed to feel that I showed.

The crowd was gone.

“Do you want the snow to stop?” Was this a trick as the words were stuck in my mouth?

He took them away with his tongue.

“Y-you kissed me.” He nodded and took the rest, incase I’d raise them.


And that's it for Exit.

New novel up next week.

Thank you hope you enjoyed it. Mason and Roberta are a strong couple in my heart.

The initial ending in mind was Roberta meeting Mason's ex, finding out he is dead and having a struggle between Leslie and Mason.

Then as I was posting I had the idea of Mason dying in the Exit, as they all vanish, leaving Roberta behind the door.

But I guess I wanted a happy ending for them, after all.

Friday, 9 December 2011


Wake up
To have your sex filled up

Your blood
Can be sperm
As an orgasm
Where you don’t come
But ends up in my mouth
Fucking up my health
Leukemia at four am.


Wednesday, 7 December 2011

Exit. Chapter 21


I’d wake up to see him there, curled besides me his eyes always opened. Marcie never said a word, never greeted him and neither did Mason. I wondered as I’d see Marcie look past him one point I swore I could see her hand going past the dyed red head and he looked at me horrified as if I’d seen it then he’d just sit down on the floor, looking up, but avoiding my gaze. He’d follow me around sometimes never saying anything but then I never asked him to say anything as his hand would feel lighter.

I never asked him anything because I knew he’d follow me, helping me cheat on tests as something heavy hung in the air reminding of some upcoming storm which seemed nowhere to be seen but just felt like Mason.

He fell asleep once just once his eyelids pressed shut, his body forming a ball, hands under chin, rather one and the other stretched out lazily or rather in fear as if it may make contact with me. I glanced at Marcie who slept peacefully, her lips mouthing a guy’s name and other things she’d call him or she’d get called.

“Mason?” I whispered wondering if he slept or was it a trick. He stirred lightly his fingers stretching touching my neck before pulling away.

“Mnn.” He opened one teal eye soon to shut it again, giving a nearly unnoticeable nod, as he gave out a yawn trying to force himself into a half sitting position but his body refused.

“What’s your room number?” I asked it all of a sudden and his eyes flustered open, as he sat up with his bed hair. I sprung up myself as I waited for his answer it didn’t take long but I had to repeat it several times in my head in order to remember it. 207. It seemed to be craved it my head as he pulled me down reminding how important sleep was. He never touched me while he lay beside me but he just watched me, feeling oddness himself. Mason would ask if I preferred him to sleep on the floor, I’d shake my head, pulling him by the sleeve as I’d feel drowsiness take over me.

He was gone one morning. It felt as if the daily things were gone as I’d desire them to come back and annoy me even if they never did. That was the thing how everything went music changed, life changed and so would the weather if to add something banal.

I found him room number to see a tall curly haired guy look at me amused for a while. He invited me in, but I declined. My urge to mute him down was impossible but I held myself.

“Is your roommate Mason?” I did not know Mason’s last name and what if it was a nickname? The curly haired just shook his head but tried his luck again. He said that further down the hall Mason Jones lived that I must’ve gotten the number wrong. I thanked him and declined once more.

Sometimes it really is soothing to walk the empty male corridors because guys are busy or occupied in the girl’s floor. I inhaled the scent but it reminded me nothing of Mason’s as he’d sometimes lay too close to me that I could feel him brushing myself through the distance contaminated by the air. I never dared to touch him then as we’d both nearly jump of the contact as he’d feel going lighter and so did I. After days he’d turn sleepier and fall into a daze quicker than I would then through my closed eyelids I’d see him sleep. There was no comical ‘close the window’ or ‘I need more blanket’.

“Um, hi. Is Mason here?” I asked a guy my height not so appealing, as he scratched his head in confusion, bursting out into a roll of laughter clutching his stomach. As he laughed he exposed his teeth and held his mouth in a rather disturbing open way that I could feel myself go inside that he wouldn’t choke as if he was a vacuum cleaner waiting to suck me in so that I’d never see Mason again so that I’d have no option besides from accepting.

“I’m Mason, love.” He said as he stopped laughing, leaning his body against the frame, shaking his hair out of his eyes. I hugged myself taking a step back with a nod and a quick apologize.


He glanced at the Mason impostor and walked off into the empty corridor which seemed to echo big mouth’s irritating laughs.


Next up we'll have the last chapter of Exit. Thing with Exit was, halfway I decided to actually read the whole thing and I ended up being a reader rather than a writer for Exit, so Exit remained as I thought unfinished.

Then over the months I started scrapping off things which I kept thinking could have been a continue and well, after some consideration, the initial stop is the end of it, so the next chapter will be the end.

I have a very on and off relation with Exit, as I got scared that I couldn't finnish something I like so much, but maybe it is how it should actually end.


Sunday, 4 December 2011

If I could I'd just make everyone a wanker, like Mark Renton predicted the world to be, but hey, love, we're getting there

I hate the definition of sex
I hate the definition of genders
It’s all because the action contains
A barrier
That the creation
Becomes so fucked
Becomes a hell to enter/consume


Anyone likes the new layout?


Thursday, 1 December 2011

Exit. Chapter 20






“Oh, shut up!” I say as I see the rest of the team stand near me. But nothing comes out. I stare. I open my mouth, but it remains shut.




I bend in two, trying to open my mouth to-

To breathe?

I look up. I feel my knees touch the grass. My left arm aching dragging me towards the ground. A burning flame in my throat, going down, down, down and reaching my heart as I see blurs, flashes of people hovering above me. One after another they flash their footwear digging into the ground, kicking mud into my face not on purpose.

Never on purpose.

Always on purpose.

I feel the scent of grass, but not the feeling of air.

My eyes stop on converse. At least I think they are.


I can’t breathe as I feel some curtain pulling up my body, my skin detaching from my skeleton as my eyes go dry.

“Don’t die.”

I’m dying.

It comes to me slowly as I stare into the four year old eye’s wondering from where she came from. It doesn’t stop me.

So what?

I have no memories to go in front of my eyes.

I never forgave my mother.

I never loved my stepfather despite all of his efforts and his love.

I never forgave my girlfriend for that fling she had.

I gave us both detentions pressing her back then.

I feel some sound appear around, muting everything. I sit up, not feeling my body but feeling a tingle of desire upon my lips. I stare at her in front of me, seeing another blurry image.

I’m dying. You’re dying, she says.

She looks older. I think she does. I see her hair black now-shoulder length, a tuque so low that it nearly covers her eyes. I blink. She’s four years old.

“I love you.” I exhale and lean myself forward, nearly dropping my face into the mud, but managing to press a faint kiss upon her lips.

They both, the image of the seventeen year old Roberta and the real four year old fade out, as the annoying screech takes over my body.

Then I collapse, as it goes inside, tearing me apart, lifting me up.


I apologize for the delays, I've been quite busy, since it's my last ever year of school.

Shocking. I guess the thought or the feel is.

It's the last part of Mason and then we'll have the coda. I'll explain everything later.

Chapter 21

Friday, 25 November 2011


Would a dream be death?
What would it be?
If you closed your eyes
And forgot
The question upon one’s lips
Which were once.
What is the point?
What would the breaking point be?
What urges a person to just bite a vein,
Instead of playing it?
Some horrifyingly sweet self-abuse,
As you’d take photos of it
To sell them in kiosks
Next to scandals
And ugly ladies
Who people masturbate to.

I’ve flicked through those papers
With a moon shaped wound
On my thumb
I had a chocolate cookie tied to it
Because my dog likes my blood.
Fuck all the dog food.
He never asks for it.
Pat sits in the corner,
Waiting for old wounds to open.
The dog would never soothe.
The dog would just go on.
Licking and scowling
Not touching the flesh.
I agree on the fact that it’s gross
That he’ll never take my meat in his mouth.
He’d just drink,
Perhaps of the example I’ve given.
But the liquid I drink,
Reminds him of the toilet
While blood reminds him
Of life
And the cookies.
The food he eternally misses
It’s disgusting
I’ve tried it
He’s tried it
So did he try from a lady?
Whom we’ve seen at the store yesterday,
Buying milk,
Some chocolate.
Wounds are too easy to see,
They’re just not there.
But the flesh sticks out,
Where there might be blood,
Where the dog would pull.
Exposing the sin,
And the bliss which surrounds it.
Trying to kill
The food we eat.
All of it
Makes us bigger
Lets us grow
In some diagonal direction,
Which doesn’t allow Pat to eat at all,
So I’ve asked him once
He was eating,
The eyes violet,
Like the colour he’d love blood to be
Because he’s read about blue blood,
When we were kids
And Pat had longer hair.
And he laid besides me.
He had been taller
And he stood on two.
He had worn suits
With a bell on his head
Which would sing with every nod.
He told me when I had asked him about death.
What was a dream?
That we resurrected after every single night,
So I asked
Was death a dream?
The dream was a fall
While death was a rise.
You’d become the sun
To sink in a year
And that year you’d dream,
If you’d have enough.
You’d dream
The last dream.
It would be your life.
So I asked Pat
So would life be our last dream?
He nodded, saying perhaps
Being older and taller
He knew the world to me
So I had never known what to do
With his age
He told me water could keep a person alive for days
And the person would need food.
So that day,
When he had laid,
Shirt unbuttoned,
Of some dream.

I had fed him the humanity I’d have inside me
He’d ask me what would it be
I’d tell him it would be
And he’d suck gently
To ask for cookies a day later
So that he would lay
Looking so young
A shaver lost
As I had been the one to use it
I’d watch him grow weaker every day
Telling him that this had been the dream
And not the stands with women he’d seen


I also wrote this on the course.

If I could I'd just make everyone a wander, like Mark Renton predicted the world to be, but hey, love, we're getting there

Wednesday, 23 November 2011

Exit. Chapter 19

It’s a rather odd feeling when you walk away and you realize that the moment is over. I tugged on my tie releasing it from its tight knot, fighting its choking grip on my neck as I walked the hallways trying to think anything at all asides from my mother and her boyfriend. I still remembered how dumb-struck I was when it announced everything. It seemed too surreal for its own good as I could imagine him shoving his tongue down mum’s throat which made me gag.




Was it a cheap technique to lure middle aged widows?

I was doing it for mum nobody else, actually. But then I wasn’t even sure. Soon enough my thoughts invaded my brain erasing off my previous encounter with Bonnie, as I felt myself nervous. Wasn’t it why I was here? I was escaping, wasn’t I? But then what was I escaping life? Technically I wasn’t just escaping my mother’s affair, her marriage, her will to have more children, to have grandchildren, to have another ideal son, since I was even close to perfect. I was being so pathetic dying my hair colours that would have made her mad, pretending to inhale, but spitting it out in seconds due to its bitter taste and the possibility of drugs was simply crossed out. Maybe that was the only thing I was thankful for. I could bring girls in, but that never stopped her and I never was much of a player.

She thought I looked cute in ties.

I sighted, trying to relax. It was just a light argument, I really shouldn’t have gotten us into detention. We could have gotten expelled, but I shrugged it off, realizing that I could do something unacceptable in my last teenage years. Like a small kid I believed that poof, at the age of eighteen I’ll be drinking booze like water, dragging weed or something less harmful and my arms on girl’s skinny shoulders. But as soon as the age grew nearer it seemed less possible. But then did I want to be some sort of womanizer? I guess, it’s just something a feeling that I should be loved, adored by many pretty and never aging women along with myself. It was like an immortal desire of every man, as I had questioned my friends, family members carefully. Everybody seemed to have the fear of death, aging. Was that why so many took younger partners, like an accessory to make themselves younger. Like a bright banner which seemed to yell out ‘look at me, I can still have sex despite my age’.

Was that it? Was that the meaning of life?

“Can we meet again?”

“Sure, why not?”

“I can be late, mum could suspect something. She says older guys are perverted.”

“I’ll wait for you then.”

I couldn’t object as I saw her in the hallway a few minutes after her big dark green eyes looking at me with interest. The dialog was short, as I tried to convince myself to call her annoying but I simply could not. I just stared at her, at how she tucked the black hair behind her ears, revealing really small hoops which would get bigger with her age.

“Is it a date?” She asked her eyes shining proudly. Had she over watched Hollywood chick flicks? Was this the scenario where I end up with a four year old girl? I sighted, realizing that I could practically adopt her, but the image of my ‘parents’ behind the door gave me a rather bitter taste that I could even tell her to get lost, as she only was a child.

I rubbed my temples.

Was my mother pregnant?

She waited patiently, blinking quickly as if afraid to miss a sudden move of mine.

What were they doing right now?

I glanced at her, the question finally getting to my mind as I began to shake afraid of meeting them. Just a door seemed to divide us and I could feel their intense gaze on me hungrily, eating, devouring me as they hadn’t seen me for months.

“Sure. Whatever.” I snapped, shoving her aside and opening the door, closing it behind me.

My parents saw her.


Was she?

I raised a hand in the air and opened the door excusing myself.

She had gone.

I rested my back against the door feeling myself slide. Then I began to shake, as I felt tears trail down my cheeks. She was pregnant. Of course she was. That bastard touched her, but then why shouldn’t he? My mother wasn’t bad looking and what had I expected? Did I think that they played twister, monopoly or video games all the time?

What was I, a fool?

A sob emitted from my lips, as my body tensed, shaking heavier with each breath. I heard them fiddling with the doorknob but I had no power to stand up, tell them to fuck off, yell what the hell are they thinking. But then I told them my intentions to leave them forever. But for what? What did I want out of life? What was I going to live on? I considered football, as my coach bragged about me being magnificent.


I stood up, my body breaking in sobs as I walked onto the back staircase my parents getting lost in the hallways as I walked fast.

Was everybody gone?

Was everybody going to cheer, draw their faces with cheep face paint and snog whenever we’d score or lose?

“Mason, you alright?”

Fuck you.

“Yes.” I rubbed the remains of wet trails upon my cheeks as my coach patted me on the shoulder talking about how I should talk to him about everything and all the shit adults talk about. Is that what the adult life is about? Betraying, marrying, having asshole kids and giving shit advice?

“Mason, Mason!” My mother and the womb. I stare at her as she rubs her hand across my cheek in a according to her motherly instincts soothing touch. She tells me stuff about the stars, about the birds and the bees but I just stare at her feeling the tears come back up to my eyes as I try to keep them inside by sending pulses of pain to my brain by biting my bottom lip. I fail and I break in sobs as my mother hugs me, talking more.

Stars, bees, suns, birds, love, kids, nappies, gag.

She kisses my forehead as my cheeks are too salty and what stepdad wants to taste his own step kid’s tears while kissing his beloved?


Fuck you.

“Good luck, son.” I stare as she goes away and I pull on my shirt, removing the tie, hopefully for the last time.

Chapter 20

Thursday, 17 November 2011


I remember the first time I touched my boyfriend’s cock, he wasn’t even my boyfriend back then. I think we were thirteen. There was no alcohol, at least it seemed like a stupid idea until we turned fourteen and actually shared a bottle. Cigarettes were out of question along with drugs as we still believed them to be wrong even if it was rumored that someone from our friends had tried it.

Then we’d see people touch each other, but we were the first ones among ourselves.

You had brushed me too, softly, sticking your finger where the wetness came from.

I have no idea how we hadn’t kissed then, my hand brushing the tip of your cock, we had both been wet and thirteen.

Afterwards, as we had been playing some game on the Playstation, maybe it was Lego Star Wars, maybe Soul Calibur, maybe something else. I don’t know, I don’t remember and I told you that I had touched a cock before my first kiss, you had high-fived me.

I still wonder how we held then.

How our parents would still let us stay over at each other’s, maybe because we had acted as we still believed guys and girls to have rabies, maybe that’s why our lips didn’t touch and for some reason your cock or my clit didn’t seem as disgusting as it had been yours, but I still feel amazed as we had undressed and just stared at each other’s bodies.

I still wonder how you dragged that condom around.

You shrugged, saying that we agreed on doing condom balloons one day and we had forgotten, maybe that’s why they had a weird rainbow colouring.

Maybe that’s why we both laughed, as we tried putting it on, kissing.

Then the world was fake, we still talked the same, we still bought the rainbow condoms, scared to mention anything and then we’d blow a balloon out of it, I would, since you freaked on your come, even if we kissed afterwards.

I remember I wondered if I’d get pregnant, I didn’t, we just shrugged, eating cooked rice with chopsticks for the fuck of it.

You had tried your come anyway, I did as well. It mixes with your spit and it doesn’t matter how it tastes like really.

The point would be that it’s you really, and not the rainbow condoms you’d hang on my birthday even after I got the pill years later and kids would ask why the fuck were the balloons oily unlike the ones in the rooms we’d hang when we’d be bored, but then were we bored, as we’d share the same tea mug?

More like we always felt like doing something up to the point that we painted clothes on our naked bodies on Halloween and sat like that watching television.


The thing is, that above would be considered boring, because there is no struggle.

When in reality, that’s if we could stash our honor, we’d read and create forever.

Joined the taken army a long while ago, thank you.

Dance, Dance, Dance, We Will Not Be Moved By It

Wednesday, 9 November 2011

Exit. Chapter 18


I adjusted the black tie, so that the knot looked ideal. I looked… weird with the fact that I actually had a match in what? Twenty minutes?

But no, I had to dress properly because according to my stepdad a man looked his best in a tie. I bit my finger staring at my reflection. My other hand was the pocket of my trousers, as the other freed from my nervous bite ran through my unrealistic hair. Why in the name of humanity did I choose a deep red? Because as childish as it may actually seem, I was going against the rules.

I was already wearing a fucking tie anyway.

And a black button-up shirt.




I tilted my head sideways staring at the small girl in front of me. How old was she? Two? Four? I tapped several fingers against my bottom lip, as she watched me wash my face. Then I glanced at her smiling at me. She looked cute enough, that I wondered why I didn’t have a younger sister.

Because the thought of my mother and my step doing anything made me gag, even if I knew the real cruelty behind life and all that crap about flying storks, cabbages or flying peas. Whatever.

“Hi.” What are you doing in the boy’s bathroom, sweetie? I wanted to ask but held myself as she nodded. I raised an eyebrow, was it her reply?

“Hi.” She replied, as I smirked at how high her voice was, reminding all those kiddy shows or whatever you could catch on TV whenever you’d stay home sick. Before you got into boarding school or when I’d be so sick that I was sent home like some sort of we can’t deal with your son’s illness, so if he’ll die we won’t go to court for not stuffing him with paracetamol until he’d choke.

To death as well.

“What your name, honey?” I leaned closer to her, leaning my palms against my knees as I lowered myself to reach the girl’s eye level. 

“Bonnie. My parents call me that. I told them that Bonnie dies in Gone with the Wind, though. But they won’t listen to me.” Pout. I laughed, but then I pressed a palm against my lips muffling my sudden reaction, as her gaze saddened.

“Um. Well, let’s see what I can come up with, sweetheart. Shortened you can be, be, be Bo. Rob. Roberta? No? Jeez, I’m giving you a female version of Smith’s name, since your hair looks like bird’s nest.” I failed the talking to children test. Seriously. No sisters, daughters and sons, brothers. I scratched the back of my head, closing my eyes as I waited for her reaction.

Soon enough I felt small arms throw themselves around me, as I smelt baby powder, daisies and other baby-girly smells which would usually make me gag. Should I put that in my ideal girlfriend list? Smell like daisies? I closed my eyes for a second forgetting about my worries just for a second.

“Bonnie, that’s where you are! I told you not run off. Where’s Ed? Jeremy, not now.” A tall man came inside catching me, in his eyes molesting or harassing his daughter. Great. Apparently, Ed ran past in the corridor, causing Bo’s father to stir and run outside after his son, apparently.

I pulled away from Roberta, rubbing the back of my neck in uneasiness.

“You should go now. Your dad won’t like you hugging older blokes at your age.” What the fuck did I do at four? Press my head against girl’s chests? No. I think I stuck cars in my mouth trying to swallow them hungerly, thinking that they were candy due to their glossy colour.

“Why not?” She stares at me in surprise.

She’ll break quite a number of hearts. I swear. I could sigh for effect, but I have no answer. Then Bonnie turns her head as her name is called out.

“Bye-bye!” She waves.

I wave back at her. Then she stops in her tracks. She hesitates and turns around, as I give out a surprised ‘hm?’

“I like you.”

I am a child molester.

I scratch my head. Nice. I got a confession from a four year old.

“Yeah, me too.” What could I say in such an awkward situation?

With that with a pleased smile, Roberta, grinning, well, I thought that back then, opened the door.


Mason's p.o.v. Explains Exit basically. I wanted to write a long explanation, but then, let's keep it this way.

Exit was inspired by this chapter really. If anyone noticed a similarity to Radiohead's High and Dry US version? Yes, that video created a bit of Exit, really.

Chapter 19

Wednesday, 2 November 2011


It’s more like selling kisses, when you see that a person can take one.

I just lean in, as they make their groceries, it’s like an offer I’ve been doing, with people barely recalling my face and each one just getting one, no matter whom they’d be.

Old, young, tall, strong, male,


And her tongue rubs gently into mine and I shiver, as I open my eyes to see hers closed and the black hair like a shower, washing away her eyes, keeping her mouth glued to my own, as I just stare, as I’ve seen Sylvie burn magazines, even Doctor Who ones and then sell them as candles, as she’d sit on the pavement in front of Tesco and do it.

Sometimes I’d look at her and Sylvie would smile, her eyes blue.

Mine she’d call as a needle, the liquid, as if she’d seen green drugs, maybe, I’ve never seen drugs.

Then it is Sylvie’s turn, as she grabs me, I stop feeling chubby for a second, before her tongue clicks with mine and she moans.

I wonder if Sylvie is a lesbian, as I kiss back, thinking who is the girl after all.

I just look as her hands cup my breasts, which would be what, two sizes bigger? And then her tongue rushes, as people drop and pick up Tesco sandwiches.

I am not a whore, I just get paid with God’s clouds for each kiss.

After the kiss Sylvie just pulls back, my hands apart and hers, but both locked, so I just stare at the black shower and her skinny clothes and I know that I can count each blood cell, as her skin is peach and I feel that I could dig into it, as she’d lay on the covers, pulling my head closer, screaming my name, to lick lick lick harder and faster.

She screams, her clit a mix of my saliva and her cum, it feels good and I keep doing it, as she arches her back and her nipples are the stars for the scene and I shift my own to hers and Sylvie just pulls us closer, kisses my face, adores it and thrusts.

I moan.

Sylvie breaks the kiss and grins at me.

Maybe I am a kissing whore.

Every person is like lime, you need to like lime.

Then Sylvie just walks back onto the pavement and burns a few newspapers, as I watch her, silent, really, nervous.

As I watch the smoke go up and it reminds me of death.

“D’you want to burn one?” I don’t and not just because it has Tennant, but because fire always looked like the devil for me and I just shake my head to which Sylvie, her lips pressed against the letters and lights them, as I sit on the pavement.

“Are you a whore?” Sylvie asks me and I just shrug, saying that I just feel like doing it sometimes.

She doesn’t recall the kiss, but she sees me in my flannel dresses as I wobble from aisle to aisle and I wonder if she actually notices me selling kisses for free, as I glance at her and she just whistles and I look at her nipples, seeing that she has no bra on really.

I wonder where should my conversation with her end, because at least a movie has credits, but then I just get one kiss, so I just stare at Sylvie, kissing one man in the process as she sells one candle-like thing and I just keep on staring, wondering if I could ever kiss her once more.

It’s not the fact that I can’t kiss again, it’s more like a metaphor if people would take my face in their hands and lick my chest without me interfering with my clothes, I’d take it off and I’d wait, as Sylvie would lick down.

I wonder if she ever would, so I just looked at her blowing at her own smoke, as she blows the candles, eyes locked with the air, as I keep watching people walk past, people I’ve kissed, people I still have to kiss.

I remember Sylvie under a smoothie, me, her and a few other girls who talked about girls on girls, how would it feel if you’d have the guts to put your hands up and scream that you’ve touched yourself in another body.

And then Sylvie ranted that lesbians were an attraction, that they were seduction, a thing to touch yourself to, but never something to drown your heterosexuality with and I had thought about it in front of a window at four a.m. I could be classified as kissing girls and boys and old men, women and some would just grope me in all places and I’d just end the kiss and they would forget.

The attraction is always there behind the closed eye lids, then there is a click from the bodies and they dissolve, like me and Sylvie, who makes more and more smoke, as if we both burned as I see her thrusting against me




On top

Oh God


On top

Her breasts

So small and I bite, pulling my fingers on her butt and I pull

Sylvie screams

And I come

On the pavement, screaming

I’ve touched myself and I just look up at the smoke and the few people who glanced and close my eyes, watching Sylvie blow. Her hair and she stands up for food and I just follow her into the aisles, wondering when would snow flow out of the cemetery gates.

I’ve went there at night once and sat on a grave, wondering if I could kiss the dead. In the end I took my own nails and dug deep deep deep deep deep.

So after Tesco, when the star lights are dim and the sky is gray and people prank everyone, I invite Sylvie to go along with me, I just do.

I strip myself.

People call me a prostitute.

The thing is people pay money for sex.

I offer it.

I am not a whore.

I do not want anything.

Neither am I a sex addict.

I am a virgin.

With a knife, a shock to the stars and a crooked reflection in the mirror, I’d give the world all my love if Sylvie would rub clits, as we’d lock hands and shout, but she won’t.

So I grab the women.

A lot of them, all so identical to Sylvie, so I just look as she sits between near tombstones, a knife at her throat and stares as I underdress the rotten women, their mouths open.

The girl breaths, as I thrust against the body, as another rotten hand goes up my ankle and I make out with a corpse, it’s all a dream to Sylvie as she touches herself to the corpse parade, to my big breasts and her wet clit as she rubs harder, never never never a lesbian.

So I choose the one who is Sylvie and we all kiss



She’s in


Never a lesbian

But I take the corpse of the dead Sylvie out, once she rots and I light the smoke for her. She has to hint that she’s dead.


Sunday, 30 October 2011

Exit. Chapter 17

Ed was probably sitting in his room, not thinking about school, dropping off the dreadful subject out of his head, drinking something warm and surfing the internet about his latest hobby, maybe talking online. But then it didn’t seem like Ed was a social person. My parents would call us loners and even try to make us befriend each other that Ed thought it was some stupid plan to marry their kids.

I’d chew on my nail, as his friend would shrug at me and let his fringe cover his eyes as Ed would ignore us both. I was too embarrassed to do something in front of them and apparently they did too. Brian, Ed’s friend would ask Ed questions from while to while more likely inside jokes, until my parents would let me out of Eddie’s room, calling that hour ‘brother-sister time’ which also included Brian from while to while, but I could see them calling it ‘loner time’ behind out backs.

I think Brian was the only friend who actually came to our house, since I never had close and I always was afraid of letting people near me, Jeremy had girlfriends and Ed just had Brian from while to while. I couldn’t understand how come they were close until once they drifted apart then back again like on and off relationship.

Brian was ok, but nothing special. He was a bit more social than Ed, but still was labeled as a loner. He had looks, which attracted girls who didn’t know him, but aside from that nothing special he held. He drew well, but he dropped it like a reflection of Ed. He was good at everything Ed wasn’t but eventually he’d get bored of it. Eddie was irritated at that trying to show that he was better, but Brian never actually minded. He just shrugged it off, calmly, switching the topic.

Mum started disliking Brian asking me weird questions, but I just tilted my head in confusion. I had my brother’s future in my head and I didn’t want to mix it with her own image, no matter if reality shatters hers.

I told her that once, receiving a slap.

I stared at her.

Had I imagined it?

Had I imagined the yells blaming my inner closure, the fear of reality, my obsession with different musicians, even if I had loved Jonny for quite a while now, they still thought I had others, as if I was a slut who did it through her own dreams.

Had I imagined my father’s blind accuses at Brian, who was innocent, at Ed who just stared?

Had I imagined Jeremy’s girlfriends, two of them running into the corridor as if it was a real fight?

Had I imagined Jeremy shrug and swears at each of us before going into the kitchen to take his afternoon milk?

Had I imagined Mason, leaning against the wall, his eyes pleading me, drenched in curiosity for me to go on?


This chapter is short because combining two small relevant chapters together would be quite stupid, as the next part is a completely different part of Exit. I'll stop here before I say anything else.

It's quite weird how when your stories just age and you end up closing your eyes in embarrassment at some thoughts like, seriously, I wrote that?

Chapter 18

Thursday, 27 October 2011

Country Cast

Drink the pill
All the sluts will dissappear
The garden gnomes will eat the grass
Balloons will become your ass
The dicks will just fly off
The dildos now stuck in the windows
Are christmas lights
Hooray! Hooray!
We have a jolly holiday
Those folks upon these streets
With stuck out dicks

Tuesday, 25 October 2011

Exit. Chapter 16


I could shred the ideal image.

I hadn’t seen him.

He didn’t grab toast from my mouth yanking it in a mocking playing way to release my lips. He didn’t lie on my bed, one leg crossed as he’d stare at the ceiling feeling his eyelids go heavy and shut down with a mute bang. Then he’d sleep on my bed, as his legs would fall slowly, his head tilt to one side and his breath steady. Would he flinch if I brushed a steak out of his eyes? Was it dyed?

I didn’t see any roots, but maybe it was newly dyed.

It always was.

Maybe he was so keen on hiding his hair roots like I did with my scribbles.

I rolled my sleeves up revealing the birds, girlies, stars, quotes to run outside and deep the breathable air. I tugged on my tuque as the pink steaks fell on my shoulders. Had I grown them out that much?

Then I felt naked, that I rubbed the back of my neck in embarrassment, just like Mason did, copying his gesture.



Imagination. I look back, then I turn around to expect to see him in the mirror, spreading his arms on the glass on the other way, a new hungry sparkle in his eyes, as his shirt would be unbuttoned several more buttons than usual, sleeves pulled up, hair messed up, several steaks clinging to the forehead by a natural glue called sweat. Teal eyes would watch me, unreadable, as I’d think of rolling my sleeves down. To myself I was naked, I was revealing myself and he was watching me. Mason would attempt to stretch out his arm, but fail due to the glass.

I’d roll my sleeve down, then he’d unbutton his shirt causing me to stop. I wasn’t the only one feeling naked now. I gulped as I watched him untie his tie, his eyes focusing on the neat knot. Then teal would look up, as he’d catch me staring at his exposed neck.

“Bo? I forgot my keeeys.”

“Just a second.” I yelled, looking down, rolling the sleeves down, pulling on my tuque. I didn’t look at the mirror, but as I zipped my hoodie, trying to get rid of the feeling, printing the feeling inside, so that it wouldn’t jump into the real world, I felt a hand cross my cheek in a gentle way.

Then it was gone.

Just like that. Like always. I get torn as I feel my hands shake as I open the door, realizing that I had locked it unless it had been locked by itself. Marcie jumps inside, her tongue producing billions words in a second, as I cannot concentrate in her speech, rubbing my arms, wondering how come I was so cold. I looked at her pretending to understand what the topic was. She kept going, going, going until I understood that I didn’t get about who she was talking about. I could have asked, but I shrugged off that idea, catching the ends of phrases, trying to glue them with my bare hands.

Then Marcie picked up her year books, clutching them against her chest as I stood up, afraid that they might go. I had mine at my parent’s house, so the possibility of asking them was useless. I could have asked Ed, but I didn’t bother and asking Jeremy was no use as I wasn’t the same sex, earning no possible respect.

“Bo? Are you alright? I said Evan lost his and he wants to stare at his girlfriend’s past lurvers. But I mean, look, he is too cute but I mean, there’s his girlfriend, the ex and the ex-ex, who he keeps in contact with and is a bitch. Actually, she’s not as much as the ex. The girlfriend and the ex-ex are best friend but due to the girlfriend’s status she hates her making her-“

Then I dazed off, as she ended the story and headed out with a bang, promising to return soon and drown myself in further discussions, despite my interest and possibility of answering even a yes instead of my usual mechanic nods.

I lie there in my bed, keeping my eyes closed, hoping that Marcie would take long. She’d meet that Martin guy, who she was dating, despite the other girlfriend’s he held. Was it prestigious? Was it cool to hold so many girlfriends as if they had strings tied to their throats which he could pull and voila there they were, ready to do anything for the ‘dying desperate Martin’?

I didn’t want to stand up and look into the mirror.

Martin was probably stroking Marcie’s hair holding her in a hypnotic wave, ready to pounce on her. Does he remind me my brother? But then my brother never held a museum, it was like take out, use, throw away thing.

I didn’t want to head out into the exit.

How was Jeremy? Was he coming? Of course he was. How could he miss the opportunity to screw up some high school girls, who in his head were made for everything, but then in his eyes everybody was made for everything. As if everybody had to risk, take everything from life. Is that a good thing? Open up to everybody exposing yourself, corrupting the ideal image and repeating it so many times that it became daily, boring and dull.

I wanted him to come. I didn’t want to over stress myself.

I wanted him to barge in like Evan would usually, grab the book near my bed, scan its contents, raise eyebrows and chat about some new pin-up model he dreamt about aside from his girlfriend or all two at once. Why not?

Did I want him to come?


The mirror scene, actually all the romance scenes were actually reread for pure amusement before.

Chapter 17

Wednesday, 19 October 2011


I poured water on my fingers
I saw blood
Such a beautiful hallucination
Of the past
I’ve seen as a child
As I’ve tasted air
And exhaled
For the rest
To consume
As they’d take
The fucking same
They do not deserve

Country Cast

Monday, 17 October 2011

Exit. Chapter 15

I had one flowery cross, given by that wannabe aunt of mine. I fiddled with the chain as I was given, wondering what should I do with it. It was pretty, but it didn’t catch my eye as a wearable thing. But then my closets were stuffed with things I would buy from while to while, something like a corpse would build. Marcie seemed to ask me if she could wear them.

I couldn’t say no, but in the end I said it.

She shrugged and stopped.

It was like the nail varnish.

I had a drawer where all my nail varnish was stuffed in, the drawer heavier than an airplane with rows and rows of colourful chemicals. I had a thing, I loved the colours, but not even once in my life I dyed my nails. I didn’t even know how to, I liked to take them out and stare at their intense unreal colour as I’d shake the bottle, as a smile crept up into my face. But as soon as I’d hear the door’s lock fiddle I’d throw the bottle into the drawer, panic and push the drawer back with a thud. I wasn’t just closing the drawer, I was closing people out of myself, out of the drawer of my imagination.

Out of my life.

Earning the teacher’s thought on that I might be suicidal. Just because I wasn’t as girly and closed-up, like a raincoat on a winter’s storm. Life was such a horrible storm. Maybe I should dye my nails, let them choke under the bright colours and up to my shoulders. But then the colours would drain as life would stare at them, eating them, scrapping them off in mean way. Just like she does it to us, leading us up to death.

But then what is it? What’s death? Is it the end of the slow motion walk of life? Poetic. What was there behind the eternal closed eyes, no matter if we closed them on our own or not? I’d flinch in scenes where the eyes gets closed as much as they are left open. It feels unreal, like when you kill an annoying fly and then it’s lying there as if was supposed to be. Then a plunge of guilt takes over you, did it really deserve to be swapped until whatever happened the shock, broken bones, overflow of blood that lead it to death.

Was I afraid of death?

How can I be afraid of something I don’t know?

But then maybe it’s the unknown fabric slowly falling over the eyes that drives people insane? It’s like a taboo, like drawing the devil until you get so attracted, too accustomed to the thought that you go insane, insane for the rest. Twitching? Screaming? Life-threatening? What did the person do? Mumble prayers, shake, clutching the hands to the chest, count its pulse, eat pill after pill, drag cig after cig, bite nail after nail, cut after each cut?

What was held in that he turned insane?

Maybe he tried to avoid death that way or lure it closer, feeling the cold weapon against the neck feeling it trace a cut, go deeper, cutting the life wires like paper with scissors with bonus effects as the life would crawl out of the cut, exposing the flesh, the eyes hinting the wound, maybe a groan fading out into nothing until the sensation would flow all over the body devouring it, leaving it in there as a sign of glory.

What was it like to die?




What would happen later on?

I believed that it was eternal dreaming, never believing in heaven despite the kids' whispers behind my back, as they would know my reaction to that. Children with wings. White. Fluffy. Clouds. Kingdom. Eternal.

Then I found out that there was no eternal dreaming.

I don’t remember how I was explained about that, but the fact that there was no dream, it shocked me. There was no place to dream even death. Death would just tear it out, like the person essence, pulling the scalp in a painful way but giving a good, expensive painkiller at the beginning and maybe some anaesthesia to draw the person in a lull, to drive the life’s scars away and you’d just float without and with nothing.

What was death like?

A girl?

A boy?

No one at all?

The chill hiding behind cemetery graves, greeting the newly dead to sink in the ground? What is it? Did I want to meet it?

I covered my ears when I was told about clinical death, afraid to find out what was it like to see nothing, to think nothing and to be nothing. I waited, I waited for my uncle to go insane but he never did, he kept going as if nothing happened. And then he died and there was no connection and I’d never find out, if I could, I would, he’d be dead anyway. Maybe he never dreamed? The numbers going in his head, as he’d count the tables, chairs, walls, everything, words, pauses, breaths, pulses, heartbeats until he died in the end. It shocked me that he still got dragged into that nothingness, no way to be pulled out, only sucked it.

Was I afraid?

I was.

I deadly was.

Up to the point that I never reminded myself and once I would I would clasp my ears, my eyes like the no evil seeing monkey, begging for the thought to go away.

I was afraid of even clasping death’s hand let alone someone who lost the battle or survived once. I locked myself in a room, hoping that I could avoid my uncle, somebody who had seen death, seen it under its mask, hood and endless conclusions of the alive.

I was deathly afraid of seeing my parents as I could see them pulling the drawers open, nail varnish bottles scattering, clothes ruffling in search of something that could tell them about me, but they never bothered asking me straight, knowing that I’d be silent. I’d just stare at one spot, feeling Jonny rub my shoulder, saying that his parents were the same.

But they weren’t. His dad died, he had a brother while I had two. One, I had said, thought enough about them, despite the occasional flood of thoughts I noticed the year books piled on Marcie’s desk, maybe she ruffled them through.

Chapter 16

Wednesday, 12 October 2011


I cut off my nose with scissors
I had been in a face mask
The thought of suicide tender
But then there’d be people
To scrap me off
As I had enjoyed
A poem about my death
And they’d do it on my honor
With the hard kicks
Because I’d never reply
And they’d bury
To end


A classic, really.


Tuesday, 11 October 2011

Exit. Chapter 14

My other brother was quiet, having a few friends, giving me a feeling that they even talked in silence. He watched the world through thick specs trying himself out in something creative, but failing and moving on later with a quick shrug of the shoulders.

A shrug.

Is the world, reality a fade, a shrug or done shrug?

And there was me. Somebody who was closed up as possible hiding her arms behind long sleeves, a tuque always upon her forehead and headphone cords sticking out of her ears.

My brother ignored it and kept bringing boyfriends, my second brother kept failing and I kept closing up.

Only there was the problem of no more space to dream. I was getting desperate, nearly hysterical, shouting at myself for being useless at dragging my parents and family out of my space. I wanted a grab a piece of chalk, yell at them for stop molesting me with their useless suggestions and use chalk on their faces. I wouldn’t stand their melancholic eyes.

Get a fashionable haircut, Roberta.

Dress more famine.

Get a nice boyfriend.

Bring him to us.

Marry him.

Become a housewife and close your eyes on his cheats.

Deal with asshole children.

Rot in peace.

Screw you.

That’s why I shoved the idea in their fat faces, my mind yelling at me, grabbing me by my face leaving noticeable scars of misery. How poetic, was written on their faces.

My brother shrugged, knowing, praying that I’ll still end up as a housewife as he believed I like all other females I was a chewing gum, I’d be proof, as the taste disappeared I was no longer approvable and the next would come, only I was made for other guys to use.

The other shrugged, asking me several polite questions but more with his eyes studying me in such a heartbreaking gaze that I wanted to punch him, but I never was violent.

I never was poetic.

And here I was doing something, something to escape.

In a poetic way.

It didn’t matter all that did was the speech that I might find the ideal guy and follow the damned plan written by men throughout centuries, with no other way to survive.

It was like a play.

Only I was no longer part in the fucking play.

I escaped. I had room to dream.

I even had that cupboard or whatever it was, where my dreams folded into one big dusty, cozy dream with a teal touch to it leaving a gooey fuzzy feeling inside. Was it really a cupboard, a closet with those dreams crumbled up inside, falling, colouring the room in milliseconds as I’d blink and everything would take place, as if it was always there.

But then, had I chosen that door before?

Had I felt that chill creep up to me, had I ever seen Mason before?

Had I?

Was it a déjà vu? But there was no feeling, it was just a thought with no background, just like a sudden choke during breathing.

Like that choke during breakfast.

Parent’s week.


I choked on it as I imagined my parents walk around elbowing me as some guy would greet me or the other way round and the same applied if a girl did, only then the questions followed, two one after another ‘Eddie, Eddie, do you like her? No, stop it, Jeremy, enough, enough. She’s not yours.’ Then a humiliating action of my parents covering my older brother’s eyes. Eddie would shrug, fixing his glasses, as my parents would pray that he wasn’t gay.

He had a girlfriend, apparently, well, I believed he had. I saw him with a girl and the story flowed in my head. But then I saw him with the same guy and another scenario drew itself up in my mind.

Jeremy would pout but would end up with the girl on his lap by the end of the damned day. Usually my parents would drag him out of there and start talking some long chat about respecting women and crap which I could tell him myself in a more reasonable way, but my brother never listened. He just fucked.

So it was the three of us, all corrupted, one anti-feministic player, who was too open for any girl possible and two one of them clearing trying to desperately find everything about him, like a journey into the self and that left me.

Oh, and moronic parents.

Right, and more moronic family members.

I guess I could say I was ok with seeing Ed, as he’d just strode into the small village near our boarding school or stick his nose into a book somewhere quiet and parents off-limits. Jeremy? Hell, no, I had enough watching of the back of his head with some girl, which would change tomorrow.

My parents thought it fun, as we’d reunite to find out what classes I was failing or how come I was closing up and if I wasn’t suicidal. Of course I was! Who remembers March’s jumping of the cliff attempt? Fun!

I hated the fact that people loved digging their noses into my business, even Spear’s business. I mean, come on, that’s just mean… even if she’s losing Barbie in IQ. I flipped my fingers throughout one, but then I felt so guilty that I actually helped those photographers which have no lives and jump on celeb cars, get hit by canned beans that I spent the rest of my money on charity for no real reason.

I even headed to church, thinking if it actually was a sin.

It was, in my eyes.

I walked outside, wondering if I even had a cross, as I realized that I was an atheist. So was it a double-sin, to pray and not believe?


Exit is nearing it's end really. I always had an on and off relation, maybe now just because it's written and Exit needs no editing, I miss doing that like with Papercut for instance.

Most likely the next novel will be Toby Sketches.

Chapter 15

Thursday, 6 October 2011

Baby Says

The most stupid songs can become love songs
Because there’s tension
Behind the vocals, notes
And the cold naked air


I was listening to "Baby Says" by The Kills.


Wednesday, 5 October 2011

Exit. Chapter 13

I could see him on the outside, right? This was real enough, the burnt tip of my tongue was real, the wooden floor covered in several carpets aiming for some sort of messed up vintage look and comfort as a back stroke of the head. I could fling myself forwards how much I wanted, I could kiss him to my heart’s desire, but I held still, my body straight, as I tried to figure out my next move.


It was different.

Mason smirked at my attempt to put usual, regular money but put down a banknote with some writer whom I wouldn’t remember from the shocked curiosity. I thanked him, as he shrugged with a smile upon his lips. Maybe if he was some over two-hundred year old gramps he’d say something about my young age and how much I had to learn.

How much did I have to learn?

But according to grown-ups, friends, mates, everybody you’re just not mature enough. Then there’s the long monologue, because I hate to argue aloud, even when I know what to say, about how I know nothing and yet they know all.

Do they?

It’s like those chats no matter between what genders as you talk about crushes. There’s always the ‘I know what love is and yes my 47437547464364367 choice is the love of my life’ and then the next will follow with more shining, denying the rest, the ones who walked the same moonlight, the same street as the talker was desperate to find the idol.

But even the ideal breaks as they get bored and hold another ideal image.

It’s so easy to shatter the ideal image.

Then why should I struggle with one?

I just had like my perfect, fine, ideal but despite everything I wouldn’t ever-ever come up to them and repeat absolutely everything I hold in my head. That’s the beauty. The one-sided relationship. A relationship which never dies, a relationship into yourself as you discover your weak sides, how immature you may be or how rough through the planned out one-sided loves.

Did you ever love, Mason?

Would he nod, in a banal way and whisper my name?

Then maybe the image would shatter.

But it doesn’t.


1) Mason isn’t like that

2) I didn’t/never asked him

But then never say never. Maybe one day the poetic question will flow out of my lips and I’ll cover my lips too late, my cheeks giving out, a pink steak falling from my tuque, as Mason would smirk in a friendly, curious way, look at the ceiling in a thoughtful manner, tapping his fingers against the nearest wooden object or any other object, his teal eyes looking into the distance, maybe for effect maybe not. But then he’d pull me close, maybe not and not answer anything, knowing how much I regretted the dreadful question which escaped from my foolish mouth for no exact reason, which could be found on the surface but could be blamed to my female nature. Because despite everything, somewhere in a deep corner we count how many kids we want, the house, the job, the loyal friends, the friendly smiling hair stylist, manicurist and whatever I’ll need to make myself gorgeous as far as I’ll be able to be at the age which I’ll be at those visits following a hundred others in desperation to change the appearance knowing that either way the reaction will be the same.

1) A positive shrug

2) A whatever shrug

Either way it’s a shrug, it takes a professional, not really to understand the secret behind the shrug.

Like the ‘see you’.

We both shrug, not knowing when the next bumping will take place and worrying over the other’s emotion, afraid to shatter the dream in our heads.

I walked back, ignoring, thinking that the rehearsal was over. I thanked the teacher, not knowing from what knowing that I had the script in my hand, not bothering wherever I was with it through the door or not. It didn’t matter.

The floors.

The stairs.

They irritated me with a passion. I wanted to walk them with my eyes closed imagining that there was dust mixed with snow, like an error, dust with snow, as if the snow wall wool. I pulled on my headphones tighter, making the music louder, opening my eyes in order to reduce the possibility of stumbling into someone or my own faithful death. Like a usual one in one offer, my eyes were opened to the weird glances, annoyed, but hiding it with a sugar coating mouthing at my music choice. What was wrong with Planet Telex?


Unless you are immature enough to listen whatever hits the top 100 or whatever other stupid banal reason.

They were all so colourless, so dreadful, so irritating.

Back there I could make them all listen what I wished, I could make them do whatever I wanted, I could pull the strings or press several buttons. It felt… nice, as if I could taste their blood, making some sort of sick connection, like, feeling a beat, if talking in a poetic way.

I loved it.

I loved the fact that I could also erase it, rub, rub, rub, gone.

Why had I chosen boarding school?

Why not anything else?

Because I was sick of the constant nagging of my family at my immature older brother’s changing girlfriends, one after another, all of them wrapped up as presents, as seductive as they could for a guy, to grab my brother’s arm and strode around. Womanizer. That’s what he was called, one after another, like the cigarettes I saw him smoke one after another as the need would come, as women he created would become boring.

All in ugly heels, I remember I had flicked a few Marcie’s Vogues. They had nice heels. Marcie had nice heels. While my brother’s ‘girlfriends’ were slutty, they seemed very fuckable and a laugh for guys to tell and compare how they fucked that girl, they seemed to be easily removed as a condom. I wondered if any of them were on the pill, if they’d have the guts to ask the parents with a brief ‘I get fucked by guys and they want their cum to fill my body and maybe one of those who will fuck me until I bleed and his friend making me gag with his erect dick in my throat will marry me and we’ll live and divorce’. It seemed disgusting.


Exit is nearing it's end.

The thing with Exit was, it was never finished, it just dropped half-way and as time grew, that's how it should end really with a brief explication and that's it.

Maybe a poll will be up again or maybe I'll just choose something at complete random.

Thank you

About Roberta, the more I read Exit deeper, the more I realize that I cannot edit it. Roberta has the single mindset and yes, I believe that it's not about age or something else which changes the mentality. It's either you're alone or you have someone.

That's the struggle and the fear many express or choose art over some love feeling.

Thing is, it just makes you more complete and gives you another border to break. Now you can describe what complete is and describe relations without the sugar coating and their depth.

Chapter 14

Thursday, 29 September 2011

A Window Cleaner

A window cleaner

Just to trigger the dust in the windows
As they cover the corpses
Look down, to see
How dead would the dead be
Until they move with the wind
With the dresses of dust
I was supposed to wear
When I’d be asked to leave
With the chalk red door
Carved notes
As I’d see the smell of pine
On my shirt, denial of birth,
Which I’ve really
Really washed away


This was done on a character development class. I miss the course a lot. I miss all courses really.

Baby Says

Tuesday, 27 September 2011

Exit. Chapter 12

Was this even a date? The word hummed in the air as I took another gulp. That’s why I hated myself sometimes by my thoughts in reality. It felt as if everyone hated everyone. In my head they were harmless, but once they would collide with the real world, as real as I could call this anyway, they seemed stupid. They reeked of cheap soft covered novels which were easy to find and caused a gagging reaction when reading. I mean, anybody could think of cheap crap like that.

Yet not all made millions by it.

Or not all had the guts to write that shit down.

That was the only difference.

And now I was earning nothing.

Asides from colouring up my love life, experiences and further thinking before falling asleep, into another web of gooey dreams, soon to forgotten or hidden by the surrounding reality, which I desperately wished to escape. All my life, I added bitterly, drinking it off the hot chocolate taste on my tongue fading out the depressing thoughts.

But then why were they depressing?

Why was it a depressing thing to literally sleep with dreams? To shed the stabbing life and hide behind or in a soft mattress, cover, sweater of dreams. We pull it anyway no matter how much we like what is around us. We desperately pull it on, trying to find something else. Something we can only find in dreams. Love. Because in reality sooner or later the bond brakes no matter whose fault I it. The male’s or female’s. I could go all feminist, since I am a female and all, but I don’t. Because in real life it’s never enough, we can never be full, because then we spill it, grabbing another cup.

Just like that.

We do it to ourselves.

I should stop quoting stuff. Or rather songs, something I do in my head. Something Mason approves in my mind for the past days and in reality I have to find out with the risk of getting the opposite wherever I want to or not. Without getting questioned of the result I may get a shrug or an eye roll or maybe something exactly the same like in my dream.

It felt as it was a moment which would slip away but was heavily held by a finger pressed against pause. So I took the moment holding it as much as I could, being that finger or holding by the end of his raincoat which wasn’t present at the current moment. Did he really have one? A dark blue raincoat which made a heavy contrast to his red hair, white shirts or light gray, which was his choice for today and played with his eyes giving them a nice, soft, warming, known sparkle.


Did Graham have a girlfriend?

The thought got caught in my head as reality was mixing with my own creations. Did I fake it? What would I do now? I could close up on him, but no. But then I saw him holding hands with that girl, or did he actually make out?

Had I seen Mason make out with anybody?

Had I ever seen him before?

I swore I had seen that mop of red hair before, but I still couldn’t make out an ideal image in my head, as I thought. Had I seen him throw a ball in the air scoring in the final seconds? Had I seen him in the school’s yellow pages that he had an affair with a young teacher? Had I even seen him before?

I stopped seeing him on the outside, no teal gazing from the end of the school yard, no toast stealing and no whispers in the ears only to be muted out.

“Here, you asked for it.” Leslie. A blank CD or was it not blank? I couldn’t look at the cover as hazel with red looked at me intensively. Will I ever stop getting such dreams? Get pinned to the side, get my hair stroked and the guy’s attempt.

I expected Mason to run up and push him in the other direction.


Mason. Like some spell the moment is gone leaving Mason sitting on my desk, ruffling his hair, his hands holding open a book rather openly, as if hinting at me to read it. I walk up to him, as his gaze never leaves me as I take the book, the CD no longer with me. I flip it through, words burning in my head. I feel the paper brush against my fingers, I feel the words print into my head and its title burn turning into dust the rest of the dream, leaving recognizable ashes in the end as lyrics.

Mason leans back, closing his eyes for a second, giving me a wink before.


“You daze out here at first. Ignore it. Tries to corrupt your dreams.” Is it a whisper? Is it a shout? Is it telepathy? Why corrupt? Was I making all this up on the way, was my imagination making everything up on the way? Was this because I was dazing out because now it was normal for my body to mute out the world and by the looks of it black it out as well?

Saying that he was the light at the end of the tunnel would be poetic, useless and simply epic.

Why would I use that when I blacked out, not realizing where I was what time was it and once more what was happening and what was surrounding me. Maybe I just crossed it out fearing that my first encounter with Mason was personal and what if I could talk in my sleep, what if I would say it out, what if I’d write it down not able to hold?

I held out for several years.

Why not now?

Maybe because the stupid emotion was overwhelming creating a block for all further actions, as if I had this ideal play in my head, where I despite my principles I was the main character with the red head beside me, no other characters in it. Just hot chocolate in this scene, people in the background people I could erase with a swing of the hand, without any magic wand, without a click just a light swing even in the head. People I could make a fool out of myself knowing that I did not know them and likewise. I stood up as I finished my chocolate.

Chapter 13

Wednesday, 21 September 2011

Stage Scene

It would happen on stage
For the crowd
To capture
A defeat
A victory upon the other’s lips
In the flash
Of music
It would be a betrayal
From the devoted
With water in strings
Not to say

We had met on the date
On my wrist
A 14 of a 2
I had never seen your date
On her body
She had stashed it
Taking my shirt
Thinking that it’d be her 14
Or those who had tried to steal the 2
In the parlor
Giving tattoos to themselves,

That one kiss
You gave me
I shrugged it off
Because of age
You give none
Because of age
We lost

The microphone in blood
You had bit me


Inspired strongly by The Kill's Mosshart and Hince. I love their relation and how everything is build on the tension and all the additions to it.

By the way Moss' dress was hideous.

Inspired by The Kill's Satellite and Black Balloon.

A Window Cleaner

Monday, 19 September 2011

Exit. Chapter 11

I want to turn back to the door, look out, see the rushing students and stare trying to dig into reality.
This couldn’t be possible.
I feel no excited emotion overwhelm me.
I turn around quickly to see a bright red door fade out to white then a gray to match the trees to fade into the distance. I press my hand against the so-called distance. It’s quite real. I feel my eyes devour everything around me in a natural way.
I don’t go around hugging trees.
I just stare. I kick the ground making snowflakes rise along with dust. They don’t feel cold. There’s no winter chill in the air. There’s just… air hanging, as if everything’s still. As if somebody flipped the sand clock sideways.

It feels like a warm autumn, what should autumn be but never is, a stroke.

I tried to ignore the brown boxes far off in front of me. They open up and make houses, they’re gifts, treasures, sacrifices.They couldn’t be houses. The small stage wasn’t as big. That’s it! Realistic decorations, nothing else.

This was real. I began to shiver despite the hot air and crumbling snowflakes under my docs. I walked on, not daring to touch as if it would bend in two or fall or my fear would fall or I would.

I was afraid of something else behind there, something I did not want. Did I want… this? No.

I walked on, seeing smoke rise from the houses, the boxes now in detail, snow surrounding my footsteps and the feeling of my feet in there. I zipped my hoodie, as if it was cold. It was simply a need to believe. I walked on, keeping my hands in my pockets to reach a straight street with houses on both sides. They seemed lonely, until I saw several people pop onto the streets, as if I clicked on a button and they all ran out.


So many unknown faces.

They ran around me, closing all gaps between the houses. So many.

So many laughs. So many conversations. All so friendly.

All ignored me, until I sat down, looking down, trying to understand was it snow or dust under my feet. They stopped. They formed a circle, maybe waiting for the leader to acclaim what a great feast had come. Were they cannibals? I looked up to see them gone. Back. Gone.

Everything was clouded by my fear.

I didn’t want to go back.

I didn’t want to stay.

I wanted to find my own ideal world. My… exit?

“Are you my exit?”

I said that aloud, returning people, letting them scatter, let snow fall more, let the dust disappear, the decorations attack the houses like a virus. I stood up as I watched the city turn into Christmas even if it was long gone. But there was no big fat Santa, there were just the cozy decorations, which I couldn’t admire due to my relative’s constant nagging about how I should build my life, as if I were a Lego person waiting for somebody to build me out of the ruins around me a home, a friend, a lover.

I looked around desperately, trying to find anybody who was in my head, no matter when, even when I liked Robbie Williams several years ago, as I found him attractive. It didn’t matter.

Maybe I didn’t want a lover? A real one.

Maybe this… exit was, like some sort of real reflection of how I wanted everything to be? No annoying classmates coming up, everyone unknown and the faces would change every day so that I’d have no one trying to find out everything possible to gossip about but now they’d clearly fail. No one was stopping me.

No one knew me.

I knew nobody.

I could make them go away with a clap.



Maybe it knew what I wanted. Maybe I couldn’t control it, maybe it was built out of my life, every desire, every eternal desire. I shrugged wondering why of all ideal places my exit would be a small town with the population of Mexico. Either way, despite the word on the tongue, gripping onto the tip, afraid to get out, it seemed fun. It seemed fun to travel in your own dream reality, knowing what exactly you cherished and desired, making it impossibly unreal in a realistic way.

I kept looking around wondering if I actually was searching for somebody or not. Was I? Did I want to see somebody storm the doors and grab me by my waist kissing me passionately?

A box would be a cafe.

I’d seen that in Toy Story, I’d make Toy Story my Exit. It is in a way.

I got my thoughts interrupted by a waitress who asked me what I wanted to order after giving me the menu. The thought of food never hit my head as I entered the place a few seconds ago in a zombie-like way past the doors, past the noisy crowd plunging myself into the couch beside the window.

Was it even possible to earn a place as cozy as this in real life? Usually you’d get kicked out in a polite way or not. Instead I sat looking at the scattered names forming known food. I couldn’t call myself hungry, but I started to hesitate and ordered hot chocolate expelling the possibility of actually ordering beer, which people seemed to order. I glanced across the whole café or whatever it was, making sure that I saw no familiar looking faces which desperately hinted the fact that I should hide under the table in order so that I won’t be found.

“Your hot chocolate, miss.” I flinched. He smirked.

I looked up.

He shot a wave to the waitress, hinting that he took my order. Ruffling his hair as he put both the cups down with a pleased smile, he glanced at me. The owner of the teal eyes looked down, spacing out on his thoughts, maybe regrets. Did he regret meeting me? Did he? I wondered if I should stand up, if I should take the cup and spill it at him, burning his face. The teenager, I think, leaned back into the other couch, crossing his legs, as a smile in the end as he watched my rather easy to read face.

What did I feel?

I played with my hair in slow motion trying to consume the fact that he was here. Maybe he was there when I walked in glancing from the stall in the bar, waiting for this ordinary day to come to an end, shaking the liquid in his cup, his teal eyes looking through items, behind, over, inside, splitting them open.

Who are you?

I wanted to say that but I held myself, ruffling not only my hair but the questions, answers, possibilities and further actions. What was he doing here?

Are you the love of my life?

“Thank you.” Hesitation. Fear. Unknown. Invade. “What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?”

He smirks, bringing the cup up to his lips, taking a gulp as I watch the upper lip show a hint of the brown colour liquid. Hot chocolate. He licks it off, as I take a gulp. I expect him to stand up, but he doesn’t. Instead he looks down, then back at me, as I suppose that it may be a regular habit of his.

“Mason.” He rubs the back of his neck, trying to accept the next step. Then I realize that he has a name, it prints slowly into my brain, not ruining the image. Mason takes another gulp, looking into the liquid before taking a gulp. “Yours?”

“Roberta. Bo. Call me anything, actually.” My voice hints the fact that I’m nervous. His smile spreads, as if he knew it, but tries to hide it. He presses himself into the couch more in a sign of easiness rather than discomfort, as his facial expression hints that.

“Nice to meet you, Bo.” He sits like that, the smile spreading on his lips as he watches me, the earlier regrets long gone.

“Same here.” I say that, ignoring how cheesy it is, because love is a cheesy thing to those who do not know it. Not that I’m saying that this is not love which I have in my head further planned for years to come no matter what in reality, in my head… or here. Maybe.


Mason and Roberta would truly be the most closest couple I've written like maybe until my current novel couple, but then the new novel has a different topic which I've never touched before, maybe that's why it's taking too long xD

I always liked the Exit. Maybe it would even be mine.

Chapter 12

Wednesday, 14 September 2011


I hope there is someone who gives you secrets to life

a mosquito bit my forehead

you paint your tongue because it’s fun

I wonder if you’d even bleed

we don’t know these people, but we know their graves


This was a bunch of random sentences which came to me through out the day.

Stage Scene

Monday, 12 September 2011

Exit. Chapter 10

It happens. It just does. Sometimes by a brief conversation, sometimes by an embarrassed I love you and hidden face in knitwear, sometimes it just happens and it hits you like lightning or sometimes you hesitate to remember how it did.

It just happened, that’s it.

Like when you see a flash, something unreal and then you find it most common. Like when you realize how devoted you are to that feeling, to love, that it becomes natural, like a gasp of air, like an exhale of smoke, like a gulp of water, like an awkward first kiss.

I counted that as a first kiss. Just like that.

I felt confident.

I didn’t care about anything. I knew what I felt. I felt real.

I didn’t know his name, never gave him one, none matched him.

I didn’t see him, even if I flinched every time I saw somebody similar.

In reality I never searched. I knew he was there, stroking the back of my neck, as we’d watch ‘Control’, flinch at Debbie’s scream. It’s stupid, isn’t it, how you find similar addictions.

“Do you like Control?”

“Love it.”

Even if it’s planned out, I love it. I hated school, as usual, but he’d be there, holding my hand, stroking my cheek, as the teacher would turn. He’d roll his eyes at Leslie, shoo Jonny, avoid Graham. I knew what hair dye colour he used. I knew everything. Absolutely everything. He knew everything.



“We have practice, Bo. You coming?” Leslie asked, rubbing the back of his neck. He had a girlfriend, did he not? I saw them making out yesterday. It was not in my head. I spied on him and so did my red head. Just like that, we spied from behind the corner. Teal eyes snickering, singing childish songs, before he lost his attention. I was better looking, at least according to him.

I nodded. Knowing that nothing would be bad. I had been acting all my life. I took the third to the last small role, usually. Something small, not much to learn, something I could put my soul into, but certainly not get the spotlight. Why would I want that? That’s right. Usually the main heroine needed to have her head exposed and arms something I’d never do. Except once when Juliet got ill, a role bigger than my own I got dragged in by the teacher. I washed my pink steaks off, rubbed my scribbles. I ran away from the party, escaping all congratulations, rubbing ink onto my skin, making my steaks bright. I skipped a week, ignoring all flashing faces with a grin with congratulations on my part. It wasn’t easy, but I hated the fake smiles admitting how brilliant I was. I don’t want to know that.

I’m not brilliant. I just play how I feel. Sometimes I feel so into those phrases up to the point that I forget everything. I feel Martha’s slipper hitting my cheek due to the constant repeating, but she never throws it. She sleeps like a log, not hearing or answering anything. I talked to her once, aloud, feeling depressed over a mark I believe. Maybe it was due to the global warming project or some other crappy assignment. I don’t remember. Jonny couldn’t hold it. I didn’t have the red head then, laying beside me in the bed, something Jonny never did.

Where was Jonny?

He still was on my wallpaper, holding his guitar, his lips looking all kissable, but not now.

I was loyal.

I had a boyfriend.

I tried to search for red heads which would actually resemble him, but nothing. He was unique with that smile, loosed ties, sometimes which I loosened. I just pull and that was it, an intense, no dumb gaze, no embarrassment, just is. I had no one who could replace.

It felt not right.

But I never told myself that, I never realized, I just went on, feeling a sense of curiosity as the auditions would come. He walked behind me the hands in the pockets, kick the door open, then shrug at his sudden movement. Just like that. He’d smile.

“Roberta! Finally, I’ve got-“

Role. I looked at it, knowing how late I was. I still had a main role. So many phrases and the dress requirements were the same. No tuque. No scribbles. I scanned it through, looking at the teacher.

Weird how the roles either of Juliet or Romeo change lives. Then you’re Juliet not only on stage, but in real life, fearing that everybody is expecting a dagger or a gun, in other words suicide at the age of fourteen, which I had passed. Why did suicide attract so many people? Just the thought of the gun, dagger, poison or quick path to the unknown or rather end. Just end. Blackness. No one to hold. No one holds you back.

Bald. Black framed glasses. Velvet light brown suit. Piercing furious looking eyes. I looked at him. Had everybody else left? No. They were there, some in their costumes looking at the loner holding the second main female role in a play I had not yet read. I looked at the first pages the words scattering, pilling into ants who ran around. Just like that. Ants. Nothing else. Insignificant ants which I could press my docs into and crush.

“Roberta?” I looked up, as the ants ran back into their holes forming known words. I nodded, as I knew that I couldn’t decline, no matter how much I’d despite that role.

“Can I-" Rehearse. Can I see the stage? The backstage?

“Sure.” I went backstage into the changing rooms. I walked past the spare curtains into the dusty, crumbled hall, clutching the script in my hand, knowing that a new student was waiting to get me dressed, some sort of addiction. Always rehearse in costumes. Well, everybody’s weird. I stopped in front of the costumes door, it’s bleached out white wrinkling in places. The thought were Leslie was appeared in my head. I looked around wondering if I made a sudden turn or if the costumes were now moved. Nothing. I shrugged and opened the door, feeling a light cold coming from the doorknob.

I made a sudden pull ignoring the gust of wind.

So epic.

Like the trees around me.


Yes, trees.


Yes, snow.

Costume room?

Not really.

And there certainly was no bright red exit sign printed on the other side of the door.

Chapter 11