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The Stream of Consciousness

Old entries are no longer public.  If you'd like to keep up with me, you can find me on Twitter (for frequent brevity) or at my website (for infrequent but hella fucking long posts).  I'm usually on Facebook but it's a trollfest and I keep getting temporary bans, so that might not be super reliable.

You won't find me on other social media sites, because honestly, I just can't be fucked to keep up with all this new shit coming out.  It takes too long.

Edit:  I'm NOT disappearing off the internet.  I will still crosspost here from my site like I have been for the last forever.  I just privatized old entries that I hadn't realized were public and this is the only public post henceforth, to let people know where I'm at.  Sorry if you all thought I was quitting the internet.  when pigs fly lulz

8 people stalked / Stalk me.

I wrote this in about a half an hour during a meeting at work today that I was obviously not involved in.  I had no idea in my head, just a scene, so I made something up to pass the time.  What really happened here, or what it means, you can decide.  This has not been edited.

A man sits in a bar alone.  A woman enter; she can smell his emptiness as he sits staring into his empty shot glass, trails of smoke drifting up from the cigarette forgotten between his hard fingers, adding it’s grime to the hazy, dim light.  His eyes are hard and grey, his face scarred and grim and beautiful in the way of leather with a thousand miles of road behind it.  Every line is an inscription, a line to a story that’s just one more shot, one more filthy bar away from becoming a legacy.  A beautiful man, broken into a hundred shards of carbon whose  razor edges now point only at himself.

She smiles.  Exactly the kind of man she likes.

Although the bar is empty, and half a dozen split and stained stools stand free at the  quiet bar, she slides in beside him, flashing him a smile that barely cuts through the fog of his mind.  He barely notices her, doesn’t at all wonder why she sat next to him when she could have sat anywhere, or why a woman like her would even be here right now.Doesn’t dawn on him to give her so much as a slight smile and a nod, that gesture that often passes for conversation in places like this.  The other kinds -the kinds with words – always brings tears or violence, or rarely, a story about a past event that nobody cares to remember.  This is a bar where dreams come to fade and the walls get more than  their fair share of silent staring.  Not the kind of place where a beautiful woman comes to initiate contact with an empty veteran of wars both real and imagined.

None of this dawns on him until she slides a full shot glass in front of him without a word.  He looks at her for the first time, then, wondering vaguely how she knew what he was drinking.  Must be the smell of the stuff; it’s practically his blood by now.  It never occurs to him that he never heard her order anything, and that he hasn’t seen the bartender since she came in.  He shrugs to himself, and downs the shot.  Then he wonders if that was rude.  Perhaps he should say something?  He can’t seem to remember how to speak, or what words to speak if he could.  He looks over at her, really looks, and notices her for the first time.

Her eyes are grey as his, but lustrous as jewels where his are cracked concrete.  A wide smile lifts her face as she leans in towards him, casually pushing aside his reeking forgotten cigarette.  Frozen, he lets it drop from between his fingertips.  Something in his chest pulls outwards, towards her, and she reels him in.  A lifetime’s worth of dust falls from his eyes when he looks at her.  She seems painfully clear, reality in diamond clarity.  Her hand touches his face – how long has it been since anyone has touched him this way? – and he breaks.  His hand grabs hers, presses it to his cheek, eyes closing for a moment to concentrate on the feel of her skin, so smooth and soft pressed against his scars.  His eyes open in time to see her leaning in towards him; those jewel grey eyes closing behind a forest of thick lashes as she presses her lips to his.

It’s an electric shock; a thunderstorm.  A fire rages through him, red and shrieking, then white-blue and pure as he tastes her mouth, one hand sliding around her waist.  Their tongues meet, and he crushes her to him, a pain growing in his chest, blinding him with his need.  Nothing exists but her mouth, her firm waist, her breasts pressed against his chest.  His rough fingers tangle gently in her scented hair.  His voice is thick as he tries to tell her everything…no sound escapes him.  She presses a perfect finger to his lips for silence, then kisses him again, deeper this time.  He lifts her onto his lap and her arms encircle his neck as they melt together,

The man silently begins to cry, every shattered piece of him grinding together trying to become one, every edge ground down and reconnected, nerves and emotions long dead flaring back to heated life in her embrace.  Dirty tears slip down his cheeks and he kisses her, kisses her, kisses her…

Later that evening, the bartender told the police that the man had been the only customer that part of the night.  Sitting there with his head on his arms, he figured hes passed out again.  Happened all the time, you see.  Didn’t think about checking to see if the man was still breathing.  Weren’t no other customers around, figured he’d just let the man have his time to his self.  Man had been alone the whole night, always was, matter of fact.  Hadn’t seen a soul with him.

Beside the body are two shot glasses, one grimy with use, but the other clear as crystal…

Originally published at BeautyDestroyed. Please leave any comments there.


So the guy messaged me again under a different screenname.  This is long, so consider yourself forewarned!

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50 people stalked / Stalk me.