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Family Business Seamus Aston sits behind the main building of St. Basil's, not quite drunk yet but getting there. It's ten o'clock in the morning, but it's been a hard morning and he needs to kill the pounding headache he's had since he woke up. He finishes off his second can of cheap beer and tosses it away as he notices Demos trudging around the corner of the building towards him. He drops his bag next to Seamus, follows it down, leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. He looks dead.
"Didn't see you in class this morning," Seamus comments, cracking open his first pack of cigarettes of the day.
"Family business," Demos replies curtly.
Seamus lights his cigarette, hands the pack to Demos and shuts up. Don't ask questions, don't expect answers. This is the morning routine.
"I shot someone last night."
This is not part of the morning routine.
Seamus coughs in alarm and looks at Demos. His hands are shaking as he lights his cigaret
Ode to Summer BoysYou, you speed past
Sleek, fast, and greyhound thin
Lazily loping up the beach
And chasing a ball in the grass
While sun runs down sunburned necks,
And freckled noses,
Everything I love in life
Gathered in lithe limbs
I invite a glance
which you'll give,
and with a flutter and a sigh,
I, I walk by.
Que Mafi-esque...draft?Jim stood under the shredded awning in front of the hotel. The rain poured down on his head, big fat drops that hurt as they pelted his shoulders. He pulled his coat tighter around him and shivered, trying to ignore the warm light inside. It seemed to be cruelly taunting him. But he had promised that he would meet Ty outside, and he never broke a promise.
He looked up as a cab approached. It pulled up to the curb and the door opened, letting a young man into the street. He shuffled over to stand next to Jim.
"You're late, Ty."
"Traffic. This sucks," he growled.
"Shut up," Jim snapped. "I've been standing out here for a fucking hour. Don't whine." He turned. "Come on."
Ty stayed where he was.
"I said, come on."
Crooked Smile, Thick AccentWas it my crooked smile, or your thick accent that gave it away? It might have been something else entirely. Your hands, my hair. It doesn't really matter now, what suddenly hit us like a gold brick inscribed with a song. "And maybe, we were made, we were made for each other. Is it possible, for the world to look this way forever?"
Maybe it was because the accent was fake, a joke to make me laugh. Or that the smile was to seem coy and flirtatious, only to impress you. While inside, I had been screaming to run far away where I couldn't screw this one up. Maybe you saw that in the smile. And maybe I heard it in the accent, who knows. it was too long ago. Though "long" itself translates into something else entirely when every day starts out with the dread that this day will be the last. That you'll have realized that it was for nothing, and you don't really like my smile all that much anyway.
Next TimeThe music drifts out of the stereo, soft and sinuous and slow, like smoke. It wraps around this world that we've created, here and now for this small moment where we're separate from everything. Separate from the pub down the street, from the next-door neighbors, from the coffee we drank this morning. The music shelters us from it all, and for a few moments I forget my life. For a few moments, there are only us. There is nothing else.
And there is him.
He seems so quiet, asleep like this. Quiet compared to the shouting, panting whirlwind he was only minutes ago, caught up in the confusion of sex, sweat dripping from every inch of his body. The same sweat is now drying on his forehead, very real evidence that my docile little puppy can be so much more.
I suddenly feel an urge to surround myself with him, so I curl closer, pressing my forehead against his warm chest. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, filling myself with the heavy scent of him, mingled with the so
Burning the Midnight OilIt's still quite early, and I've run out of ideas. The screen of the laptop glows sadistically in my face, the few lines of type mocking me and my inability to find inspiration. They call it burning the midnight oil, staying up late to work that is. Though it's somewhere around midnight, I can't really say that it's exactly oil that I'm burning. So I think the more appropriate phrase here would be burning the midnight lavender scented candle.
I lay back and cross my arms behind my head, watching the shadows on the walls. They dance across the room, flirting and playing with the dim light from the flame. The smoke curls up and dissolves, releasing its quiet scent to fill the room. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, letting the smell of smoke and fire and lavender fill my lungs. It suffocates the part of my brain that's screaming about the deadline I have to make this week and the shopping that has to be done. About all those meaning
SmokeThe first thing I notice is the silence. It settles like snow once the rustlings stop, and the breathing levels. Then comes the burn of alcohol in my throat and stomach, and that deep, unsettling empty that always appears after the sex is over. I turn and feel around on the floor for my forgotten pants. I always try not to throw them too far, so they're within arms reach in the morning. I like to get out fast.
I find them, and reach into the pocket for a cigarette. My lighter jumps in the darkness for a second, and then it's gone, the comforting warmth reduced to a glowing point of nicotine and tar. I lie back and fold my arms behind my head, the cigarette dangling from my lips. The smoke lazily floats into the empty void above my head, fading out to black. I tend to feel like the smoke. Like I'm dissolving, floating helplessly away to be swallowed by a black nothing.
BuddyYour brother's brains and love
Sprayed on a hotel floor
Like your cigarettes after you dropped them
On the floor of your green cabin
Where you sat waiting
For second or third hand news of death
You inserted yourself into this world of your creation
Then removed yourself
Too scared to die
You claim to be working
But your art lies
And I know the truth behind you
You gave me F. and Z. as a parting gift
But they were too young, too cold, too late
So I took your parenthesis out of the vase
And let them die.
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More