Monthly Archives: December 2014

Day Three Hundred and Twenty-Nine.

26/11/14

Izzy circle

izzy

her stomach sank when she heard the news
right down through her pelvis and into her knees
her chest flipped open like a Jumping Jack box
and her legs pooled in puddles, wetting her socks

*

Sarah circle

sarah

The highlighters make her feel safe.
She uncaps the yellow one and glides it over the important things.
She considers the pink one but doesn’t like how it bleeds ink. The blue one is too dark. The green is ugly, but it comforts her, having them all laid out in perfect neon lines, near her hand if she needs them.
She highlights the word ‘love.’ She highlights the word ‘fast.’ She highlights the teeth of the author in the dust cover jacket photo. She feels a bit mean and highlights the whole face, and gives it a halo for good measure. She highlights the fridge magnet that says ‘Yeah!’ She highlights the best before date on the milk in the fridge. She highlights the white spot on the tail of the cat. She highlights the drool spot on her pillow. She highlights the toothpaste. She highlights the light bulb.
By the time she’s done, she’s living in perfect chemical sunshine.

*

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Day Three Hundred and Twenty-Eight.

25/11/14

Izzy circle

izzy

If I drew you, I would draw a mountaintop,
breathtaking and treacherous and fucking hard to reach

*

Sarah circle

sarah

everything seems a little less real than tomorrow, she thinks
as she irons her hair along with her shirt
flat out on the scorch-marked ironing board

there is nothing to prove that there was ever a yesterday, she thinks
scoring her sandwiches with the flat of the knife
but not quite cutting them all the way through

I am a hologram lost in a synapse, she thinks
and paints lipstick on her eyelids
and mascara on her teeth

*

Day Three Hundred and Twenty-Seven.

24/11/14

Izzy circle

izzy

watch as the rain slowly paints the road
from dusty grey to melting, slick and black
slide eyes along it like snakes like streams
like the underside of a soft palm,
hold the air to you like its breath
might be able to soothe your flailing chest
lick the gum leaves like a lover’s tongue
grip fistfuls of dirt like swollen sheets

*

Sarah circle

sarah

The fog doesn’t fuck around up here. Falls on the road like a heap of dirt, cuts out everything between here and here, so you drive at a crawl and watch ghostly trees and rubbish bins loom out of the mist. The birds all go quiet. The people crowd at the windows of the bakeries and bars and stare at the world all gone.

*

Day Three Hundred and Twenty-Six.

23/11/14

Izzy circle

izzy

When her body compacted into a neat little cube she knew she would always be safe from having to hold on to anything else. Six little armadillo panels, jutting out of her like bones. People flocked to look at her, and she gazed back benevolently, knowing they couldn’t hurt her.

*

Sarah circle

sarah

Dylan has brought home a girl called Candy and he can’t quite believe what is happening to him. He’s splayed stupidly on his bed with his sneakers not quite touching the floor and his mouth half open. He’s sitting on his hands so he doesn’t do anything stupid with them, and he’s trying to will his erection to tuck itself into the waistband of his jeans. Candy (how the fuck is that her real name?) is running her fingertips along the top of his bookshelf with her head tilted to the side so she can read the book spines. He is panicking about the books. He hopes she can’t tell that his copy of Infinite Jest has no cracking on the spine, and thus hasn’t been read at all. He also hopes she can’t tell that his copy of Seven Little Australians has a shitload of cracking on the spine, as well as a lot of warped pages from where he’s cried on them, which he does every time he reads it, which is more often than he’d be willing to admit to anyone. He reckons that some girls would find it sweet and pro-feminist of him that he cries over books about teenage girls in early outback Australia, but he doesn’t reckon that Candy is one of those girls. Candy is chewing her bottom lip in the most maddeningly attractive way. He didn’t think that girls outside of porn and Hollywood films even did that. He inhales nervously and gets a whiff of her perfume, which doesn’t smell like candy at all, but like some sort of festival of burning wood and greenery. Candy smells like a bushfire and it’s making his mouth dry. She gets to the end of the line of books and turns to him and smiles out of the left side of her lips. He tries to smile back but his mouth starts shaking so he does this sort of weird awkward chuckle and feels his ears get hot. He has never heard silence as complete as the one in his bedroom right now. He can hear his heart. He wonders whether she can hear it. He swallows even though there’s nothing to swallow, and she must be able to hear the weird air bubble gurgle that goes sliding down his throat. She locks eyes with him, doesn’t even blink, and slowly pushes her hand into the pocket of her jeans. His brain has totally stopped functioning now, except to roar blood into his ears and his cock. Especially his cock. She draws out her phone, slides her thumb across the screen, swirls it around a few times and then puts it on the bookshelf. As she pulls her hand away, it starts playing music, something he almost recognises – something that was daggy in the 90s but is cool now, all jangly guitar and singers who can’t really sing, and he’s furrowing his brow, trying to remember the band name when suddenly she’s all over him, straddling his hips with her arms round his shoulders and her nose against his, and the bushfire blazing and her lips soft and supple and for a second it’s just her eyes and his, dark diamond twinkles, and then he melts and he’s lost in her kisses.

*

Day Three Hundred and Twenty-Five.

22/11/14

Izzy circle

izzy

Siri says:
Stuart Little helps long-lost hung Gary and painting come home

*

Sarah circle

sarah

The doctor presses a camera down her throat and shows her a video of her vocal folds rippling. She watches, transfixed, as the soft wet vaginal tissue slaps back and forth. She feels herself getting wet and feels dirty, ashamed. She hums when he says to and those membranous slivers of pink shudder with pleasure and her cheeks get flushed. Say ah, he says, and she’s guttural and heady and sliding a little down the seat. Say oh, he says, and her breath catches and she’s shaking all over, gripping the chair legs and watching the glistening slow-waving meat in her mouth. Now cough, he says, and she comes instead.

*

Day Three Hundred and Twenty-Three.

20/11/14

Izzy circle

izzy

Siri says:
Light smashing through the trees and breaking up the ground like Meraz
Incentive have minglewith us

*

Sarah circle

sarah

She first heard about the sound when she was drunk, and boy did it stick. She was sprawled across the opening of a tent, wine-wasted and spinning, and trying to follow a conversation about the shit in the universe that scares you. A friend nursed a beer and hunched over and told in tones so flat they were reverent about this big fucking noise, you know, big and deep and long and loud. So loud that navy boats heard it everywhere, big underwater measuring stations went haywire and men in labcoats and thick glasses started sweating. It was from the deepest part of the ocean, the oldest, cruelest, strangest part, and it was still happening. It might even be happening now. Falling silent for months and then bellowing out again. ‘What is it?’ she asked, with her eyes going crosseyed with drink and with horror. He said they didn’t know. Said it could be an ice sheet cracking or could be an underwater earthquake or it could be, could be something down there, big and ancient and alive. There was a cold flat silence that followed that and they all looked up at the stars and shivered and held their drinks like they were trying to warm them up. Then someone laughed, and it caught on the wind until they were all belly-aching belching out laughs into the high dark gum trees. The next day she sat by the river with her head acting out and watched the water. Watched it topple from rock to rock, from there to the far-off sea, and after that, into the icy deeps, the trenches, the dead places, the fear places where fish like Bosch paintings roamed away from the light. She dropped a stone into the creek and her brain amplified the plop until it was deafening, vast, swallowing her up in the sound and turning her thoughts to unset jelly.

*

Day Three Hundred and Twenty-Two.

19/11/14

Izzy circle

izzy

Siri says:
Once there was a mountain who lived on top of the man
He made it feel like ass, like it could me more than just a bunch of igneous rock

*

Sarah circle

sarah

I cower in the pews as the priest lifts his arms. I can smell his body odour from here. Thick, sharp, fetid. I wonder if he sleeps in his soutane, sloughs it through the sins in his dreaming, an armour against the lusts of the untamed dark underside of the mind. He bellows air and I watch as it pours out of his throat. He has dark smears on his molars, tar-coloured, and I wonder whether his teeth are stained with the heavy words that he preaches, with the dark stories that he drags from the page into his sermons, drenched with horror and evil. The ceiling fan circles overhead, racing itself around like a sugar-drunk fly. The congregation rises around me and I lurch to my feet, follow the dirge leadenly, half a note behind. I think about Latin. I think about Caesar writing ‘veni, vidi, vici’ and pronouncing it with soft w sounds, sucking the power from the words, turning them fey. The priest whips his arms to the heavens and a flood of stench oozes over the murmuring devoted. The woman next to me, seventy-six and tottering on four inch heels, sways as it reaches her, shakes herself, paints on a new face of stubborn piety. The grey-suited man in front of me retches, just for a second, and turns ashen like his suit. I let my eyes go liquid, and they slide up a stained glass image of the risen Christ, golden and bleeding, his heart fiery red and leaping from his chest. As I stare, a bird comes searing through the sky and slams – SHLUNK – into the glowing glass heart and slides down with nauseating slowness, leaving a bloody smear down the stomach of the Lord. The priest’s jaw tightens. A muscle pulses in his cheek. The organ roars to life and dust settles from the ceiling as Frescobaldi’s old dead notes come flooding back upright like a steam-powered zombie.

*

Day Three Hundred and Twenty-One.

18/11/14

Izzy circle

izzy

Siri says:
Chris cricket helmets have made batsman feel too safe

*

Sarah circle

sarah

Chastity clicks her bedroom door shut, pulls down her pleated skirt and knickers in one movement, kicks them aside. She takes a second to appreciate the new strangeness of being fully dressed from the waist up and naked from the waist down. She pulls the mirror from her dressing room table, presses it into the carpet and squats over the top, one T-bar sandal on either side. She ducks her head, scrutinizes for a second, then reaches down with both hands and pulls out the sides of her labia. She holds them deftly, clinically, like a lepidopterist of the flesh. She presses them back together, watches the skin cling to skin, then slowly peel away. She uses two fingers of her left hand to spread the wrinkled pink lips and with her right hand presses her index finger inside to the first knuckle and frowns at the ribbed wet mystery inside.

Chastity has just found out what her name means, and she’s pissed off.

*