He should have stopped with the first droplet of blood. He took it from under her jaw. A loving slice, because he loved them all.
The white skin opened its mystery and gave him a ruby slipper in miniature. He balanced it on the tip of his index finger, waiting for it to collapse into liquid. It glittered on his calloused skin and refused to turn to blood.
Her eyes, emerald, drenched in onyx pupils, found fascination in the wooden beams of the ceiling.
He should have stopped with the first droplet of blood, but things like him don’t know how to stop. Things like him surge with indefinable hungry things that have no breaks.
He put the knife to her clavicle, trailed the skin to the bone. From the bone, tiny spikes, ivory thorns, pushed themselves
through, reaching for his hungry hand. He pulled back,
hypnotized, watching bone brambles give birth to blood
roses across her shoulders.
Her eyes, black like tar, ringed themselves with a corona of emerald. In eclipse, she was silent and immobile.
Fear does not dwell in the heart of the murderer. Uncertainty never enters the mind of a killing man.
Her wrists were tiny and pliable to the stroking edge of blades. Quick, lightning slashes brought tiny hands exploring the edges of torn veins, tiny hands attached to tiny pixies with sharp teeth and stitching needles. Over and under with mercurial thread they stitched her wounds together and slipped back under
into her skin, went back to making stories in her blood cells.
Rage began to percolate between his eyebrows where his personal monster wiggled, clawing at his frontal lobe, pushing images into him, exciting him.
Bottle of Vodka to his lips, suckling, filling the places where his soul should have stretched.
He put the knife between her floating ribs and cut upward to her throat. She was soft and tiny and easy to open, but she didn’t
bleed, and she didn’t flinch, her huge eyes shed not a single tear.
He moved back as her ribs unfolded outward. He moved back further when pages pushed themselves outward from her spine. Pages leafed with blinding speed. Old pages and new. Blurs of dark in stains, calligraphy pulling from and snapping back
into the pages.
He felt the wall against his back. He felt his monster silent. He felt fear for the first time in his life.
The porcelain girl, nude, and yet fully clothed with shadows, retracted her pupils into the emerald seas of her iris and stopped the leafing pages of her with a delicate touch of
“Here.” She smiled.
The book of bones lay open at the center. Dark hands with sharp claws pushed through the threaded spine, anchored in her hips.
Pressure touched the air. Pushed the man into the wooden wall, where he was held by sideways bent magnetism.
Dark hands with deadly claws, in fluted hips pushed, and from the book of her center emerged the Satyr, and he was not happy.
Pixies with sharp teeth and sharper stitching needles clung to the mahogany fur covering his legs, their eyes gleaming, anticipating.
The man’s monster vacated the space between his eyes and hid in his spinal cord trying to catch a wave of spinal fluid to the
base of his spine.
Satyr stepped out of the girl, one hoof, two hoof, echoes on wood. His index finger went back and forth and back and forth as he walked toward the man with no soul.
Satyr smiled and said, “Our story, she is OUR story.” And leapt.
Pixies with sharp teeth went to work, performing reverse acupuncture on the killer. Satyr tore his arms from their sockets and spilt his very human and very boring insides all over the
The porcelain girl closed the book back inside her ribcage. Picked the miniature red shoe up from the floor and swallowed it, thinking herself a darker version of Alice in UnderLand. She smiled, willed the brambles back into her clavicles, red rose petals falling into her naked lap, and looked at the quick work her creatures were making of the killer. There was a lot of screaming and a lot of wet sounds, but in the end, all that was left of the man was a red pool with brittle bones shredded like
She smiled and smiled some more as the pixies, done with the man, came to play in her hair and slipped back inside her many
pages through her little ears, tickling all the way through the rivers of her blood stream.
Satyr, drenched in blood, stood before the only girl who’d ever loved him.
She opened her arms.
One hoof, two hoof, in echoes, he went to kneel before his girl. Her hands, so tiny, combed organic matter from his hair, flung them into deep corners with deeper shadows.
Kneeling, Satyr was eye to eye with his girl, her hands, now cupping his sharp chin. She brushed her lips to his, opened her rose pink mouth, unhinged her jaw, unhinged the bones of her clavicles and breast bone and swallowed him back into the pages of her story, where true history hid itself between her clever words, stitching pieces of itself into the future.
The human struggle for equal quality of life will never end. The higher brain functions in us bipeds demands a continuous development of conceptual, and applied justice, and though justice may have, up until now, been just thinly applied concept across the globe people will continue to sacrifice individual lives for the body whole of the future humanity.
And do you think for one moment that cushy lazy cheetoh or caviar poppin’ m*****f******* reared on entitlement kickin’ back in recliners or high flyin’ in BMW's that go vroom!, who've never felt a pang of hunger, or a bullet through the thigh or the mind, do you think they will survive the most important revolution waiting for us all not too fardown the road ? Not likely.
But, I understand how there's a method to the seeming madness of this devolutionary, evolutionary strain.
One of the reasons I’m grateful for having been brought up predominantly in a communist country for the first nine years of this particular life strand, is that it gives me perspective and allows me to critically dissect information fed to me on other cultures by this specific culture I find myself inhabiting.
My memories skim over the stream. . . .
A young me in a military dress saluting the effigy of Lenin and singing along with well organized lines of children on May Day.
Russian soldiers at dinner in father’s house, laughing and cavorting like all men do when the uniforms are left behind in the barracks.
I adored the Russian soldiers, their meticulous and crisp dress, those long winter coats that flared out at the waist. They were like my father, and so it was easy to reconcile their extraordinary grace with their extraordinary violence.
Just another day, another year in Papa, for me.
Their was a central cemetery specifically for the Russian soldiers at the entrance of the town's cemetery.
Weeping willows embraced the graves, the walls.
I was at one of the funerals for a specific commander who was my father’s friend. Not too deep into it, we watched outside the walls, me on Horse with father next to me on his Arabian stallion.
“Why aren’t we going in?” I remember asking.
“Because they mourn death. We celebrate it as a new beginning.”
That night we raised a glass of sweet cognac in celebration of his next incarnation.
I’ve been in the world of Muslim, and the world of Taoist and Buddhist, Communism and Fascism, and Democracy, and so on and so forth, and what I can tell you is that within each body of belief you will have the infinitesimal fringe that will take the core belief and pervert it to their own means.
You can never judge an entire culture, or religion, or system of government by the few who pervert it.
I am so lucky, such a lucky girl still draped in a Russian soldier's coat reciting an ode to Lenin in front of a blazing fire place, while the men applaud, and the snow falls and falls through the winter nights.