I get back to the box over an hour after people were expected to begin arriving.
There is a porn room.
Luckily – not my room. There is a Tinkerbell making piercing orgasmic cries next to a woodland hippie/fairie and Alex from a Clockwork Orange. My type of people all over. The livingroom is mostly university students with a pilot and an accordian player for good measure. Robin is merely here.
Right now I’m drying off after cleaning off the sulpher and burnt powder from the explosives. Being flammable at a Hallowe’en party seems more foolish than even I am willing to risk. Not with My people here. *chuckles* Time to slip on the light up tutu and tie on the fishnets.
Trah-lah darlings, wish you were here.
So the Alastair laddie, he takes off for a bit, kindly running some errands for me. (Bastard also cleaned my bathtub, thereby slapping every single last joke about such in my face, but nevermind that). He returns with a paper bag with some pasteries in. Nothing terribly interesting. A muffin, some tasty crescent rolls. Then an hour or so later he creeps in on me, all unsuspecting of his nefarious catch of the day. A CTHULU COOKIE! A skellington of the Lovecraftian terror, no less.
We took a picture of his glorious prize, the likes of which I had never seen. It’s nefarious gingerbread scent wafting delectably upwards, he had mere moments to snap the evidence shot. I took off the elder gods leg, hamstringing him so that he may not escape my awesome bitey powers. There was great carnage. His head lays on my desk like the keepings of war.
This boy is a scrawny kitten creature of a man. Whipcord lean and alleycat sweet. I want to take him in to protect him from the cold. Take this saucer of milk darling, lap it up curled in my lap. Trust me lovely, I don’t want your skin to line my coat.
It’s the season for warm winds blowing rain into uplifted faces. Hide your eyes from the too kind sky. This morning there was a mad scurry dash of activity when the water began. We had to get the fireworks under the tarp as quickly as we could. When I had arrived earlier, I discovered that I was remembered from the course. Jay had told Elliot that he was bringing his friend in today, “She was in the course this week. She would have been the blond one.” “Blond and purple?” “Yeah, that’s Jhayne” “She was the one who took a nap during class”
the sound of keys in a clay cup
Sentences are running through my head like my love line. A broken jagged thing traveling across my hand, unreadable for it’s lack of coherency. Damned post modern relationships. Sweet mother terra needs to rewire my attraction board. Take the pegs out and re-arrange to fit my place and physical location into the program. It’s my fault somehow for falling for people, not flesh. I remember once I scraped off make-up with damp sand. It was course, gritty against my cheeks. I don’t know if I was dreaming. Where was I then? On my knees in a skirt, the surf in front of me? Not what I was looking at.
This is the important time for set-up. A few blocks away is the practical experience to wiring up explosives, the learning what I need to know. I can picture them perfectly, moving back and forth on the gravel field. Lisa Lee checking her set-up paper time and again. I’m jealous of their cold hands, their volunteer coffee in styrofoam cups. Instead I’m working with the kids, a small heap of ill-won candy my none too healthy breakfast.
I see you
Tonight at SinCity some idiot slapped my ass and I growled at him. I swept around faster than I could think about it and caught him by the throat. He was on his knees, unable to breathe in less than a second. Black PVC pants half a size too small hopefully scratching on the floor. Shamefully, I didn’t say I was sorry, but just tossed him away from me. Later he brought me a small bowl of candy without a word. Only handed it to me and nervously walked away.
For almost an hour I sat in a corner, feeling very much alone, sucking on horrid artificial flavoured chunks of mouth slicing sugar blocks. Before that I tried dancing, but the crowded dancefloor made it difficult. Drugged up dancing goths in rubber shorts are dangerous people to be close to. Too many spikes they aren’t paying attention to. It was a miserable night. Someone dropped a glass, smashing it not a metre from my bare feet. I left the house alone, I danced alone. My night a sad symphony of solo. I walked home kept company only by johns slowing down to pick me up and drive me home. Hardly cheerful. My thoughts are pathetic company when I want to cry to tear hearts out. Death incarnate inside my glass fingered hands.
The cherry was standing outside my apartment box unable to get inside. I stood for half an hour considering the different ways to climb my balcony in my fluffy black tutu and constricting trenchcoat. If it had started raining, I would have been off to wake up Marc or Jacques. Into the houses of my friends who’ve given me housekeys and slip into bed to let them wake at my cold feet and tensed fists. “Set the alarm for 8:30?” It would have been the easiest way. Borrow clothing and go straight to work in the morning, trailing my 12 yards of netting behind me on the field. Setting up mortars with my fishnets on.
Sometimes I’m glad I can’t hide my quirks, but more likely I’m glad I’m in no position where I need to. I don’t think I could. I have a secret now that is almost mine, yes, but I am still keeping it for them, not myself.