Bitchfight Part 2 of 3

Reading Time: 7 minutes


By Jenny K Brennan

Part 2 of 3
Part 1.

Includes violence and a shitload of bad words. Be warned.

Part 2

She leaned forward and met the hateful glare without blinking, spoke in a velvety smooth parody of concerned curiosity: “Did you like it?”

The hand came from nowhere and hit Denny in the chest, shoving her back, staggering. Kris shoved again before Denny could even raise her hands and she was forced back further. When Denny glanced around, knowing the platform edge was near but not where, Kris lunged and snaked a hand around Denny’s neck, grabbed a handful of hair and ripped it to the side, twisting her head. She pressed her lips to Denny’s ear and said in a singsong snarl, Liar liar, pants on fire.”

Denny cursed herself and tried to take hold of the hand pulling her forward. The back of her neck burned in pain as hairs came loose. She twisted her body to ease the pull, but she was powerless to do anything but follow. Kris had a good grip and wouldn’t release it, just kept pulling her along, grunting. Denny went where the steel grip led her, gasping for air, clawing at the hand around her hair, staring with unseeing watery eyes at tiles, shuffling feet, and finally a cement wall and the bottom of a filthy steel door.

They had rounded the corner of the utility building and stood between it and the stairs to the world several meters away. Two sets of tracks flanked them with deadly functionality.
Useless things flickered in Denny’s mind, a thousand flashes of faded imagery reborn in Technicolor abstraction, innumerable memories, in a useless search for an end to this. All in an instant everything came to her. Everything was clear now in the midst of pain in the moment that was now. Before could never come again, shouldn’t come again. It was too late. She didn’t understand how it could have taken so long. Everything past suddenly flowed forth, a torrent of what had been and what must be converged in a hard icy knot of understanding. The time for flight was over. So was the hiding.

Kris shoved her, pulled up on the hair she wouldn’t let go of and pressed her sister’s face against the door, caught the flailing arm and pulled it up behind her back.

Denny gasped but choked the cry of pain, she wouldn’t scream, she wouldn’t give her the satisfaction… Kris breathed hot gusts of old pub fair and stale tobacco across Denny’s face, the suffocating smell of marijuana and beer made her gag, revolted despite the pain lancing up her arm.

“Think. You’re. Fucking. Clever?” The beer stench spoke into her ear, one hot breath for each word.

Denny tried to collect her thoughts and grind them into something that could help her. She cursed, silently, as there was no room in her chest for speech. Groaning, she forced herself to stay still; she had put herself there; she would have to get herself out. She clawed uselessly at the hand holding her hair but she was pinned.

Denny was fit but Kris was obsessive, possessed by the power trip of control and the endless need to make someone hurt hurt bad.

Kris suddenly pulled Denny back, jerked her sideways, and pushed. Denny didn’t see the concrete wall rush at her before it hit. The thick layer of paint covering the rough surface did little to protect her. If anything, the uneven application of paint made an excellent scrubber. It shredded the skin on her brow, peeled strips of it away as her face slid sideways. Kris jerked her back, let go of Denny’s arm, and put both hands on the head she wanted to crush, the wall flaunted Denny with a brand new shiny red stain just before it hit again. Kris pushed, grinding her sister into the blood smeared cement using her body to hold her in place. Denny’s arms were free but for how long? She clawed at the hands tangled in her hair with her free one, but there was no time. Kris pulled, jerked her out of balance again and shoved.

She wouldn’t stop. would never stop.

Denny couldn’t see through the blood running into one eye, the flashes of sickly light, and the pain that suddenly registered in her head and shoulder.

She took a small step back, away from the wall, while letting her head stay still in Kris’s grip. She let her knees fold beneath her. She bent her head forward, ignoring the pain in the back of her neck. Kris played along nicely; she followed the sudden movement with a move of her own, reaching the conclusion Denny wanted her to.

“The fuck you do!” Kris screamed in disappointed rage. She let go of the hair and reached to pull the faltering body up. She wouldn’t get away that easy, the bitch, the fucking bitch. She had it coming. This was it.
She grabbed the back of Denny’s sweater with both hands and straightened up, caught for just a moment by the sight of blood, her blood.

One moment was all Denny needed and she pushed herself up as hard as she could, threw her head back toward the growling, panting thing behind her. So fitting, the image that came to mind in that instant: Snarling and foaming, like a bitch with rabies. Time seemed stuck in that moment of explosive movement. She had her; she should learn to shut up. The back of Denny’s skull met Kris’s face with a sickening crunch. Pain shot through her head but it was nothing; the satisfying howl of surprise and pain was all that mattered, and Denny was part of the game now. Distant voices from excited but passive spectators broke through the sudden not quite silence.

Kris’s grip fell away and Denny didn’t know what to do. She hadn’t been thinking, just acted. She nearly smiled at the sudden pleasure of payback but reality snapped back; it wasn’t over yet. She turned and the world tilted, wavered, and resisted being focused before grudgingly deciding to make sense once more. Her head throbbed, legs felt weak, blood flowed into her eye. She rubbed it clean with a sleeve but didn’t touch the rest of her face. The world tilted and she fought the fog. Was she okay? She felt strange. As if her brain figured out something wasn’t right. La dee da., she told herself, don’t fucking fail. Think! She stared at a hunched over and dizzyingly duplicated Kris who had both hands on her face while pushing and pulling air through blood and wreckage.

Kris opened her eyes and stared at her, vibrating and shimmering in Denny’s vision.
She closed one eye. Better. But hell, it’s not fucking funny. She shook her head and almost gagged at the feel of warm trickling down her face and a suffocating coppery smell. She didn’t have time for this. Kris slowly uncoiled, taking her hands away from her face. Her eyes didn’t leave Denny’s. For the first time, since she had been dragged off the bench, Denny was afraid. She pushed at it and made it feel more like anger, something she could use. If she knew how.

Kris couldn’t quite grasp the new twist of things; un-fucking-believable!? Hurt her? Nobody did that to Kris, nobody! Kris watched Denny reel backwards, off balance, and she started to take her hands off her face. The pain was nothing. The bitch would pay for every drop of blood. Every single drop, every single lie, every accusation, every insult. She would pay. She started to straighten. The bitch had no more fight in her. She could tell. She was a chicken. A snotty little preppy slut. She wouldn’t.

Denny threw her body forward. Kris would be fast, but Denny was faster, was on Kris again, caught her in the chest with both palms and landed with all her weight on top, tried to dig a knee in to her stomach, but as it slid away from its suddenly moving target and cracked down on the tile, Kris’s elbow came up and slammed into her face. She rolled away and into airless ringing pain. She lay on her side, heard Kris scramble to her feet cursing under her breath, wondering what was broken in her face, it felt so wrong, like something had moved. A splash on a tile caught her limited awareness and she focused on the red splatter while waiting for the pain to dull, but it didn’t. Waited for the kick she knew would come, but it didn’t. So much blood everywhere— smeared, streaked, —already mixing with dirt, and seeping into humanity-stained grout between tiles; splattered on the shoe that stepped through the mess and stopped before her. She looked up, passed the green with many pockets, the hands opening and closing— so like hers, so different.

All was still. Denny finally looked at the face. What she saw scared her more than the threat of violence had. Emotional void; There was nothing in those eyes, no sign of pain, just cold resolve. Their eyes locked. Denny blinked to clear her eye from blood. All the red.

Maintaining her stare, Kris adjusted her shirt, pulled the sticky fabric away from the skin and held it there for a moment before letting it fall back into place. She grimaced.
Then she dived for Denny. Before the other woman could move, Kris dropped down on top an threw one leg over, straddling the thrashing body before it could roll away, pushed Denny’s shoulders down. She drew back and slapped her, hitting at the waving arms that tried to find something to grab. Kris groped at Denny’s throat, found what she wanted and ripped it loose.

Denny stopped moving and stared at the small pendant and broken chain hanging from Kris’s hand. Kris sneered at her. As if commanded by the dis-coloured links moving back and forth, as from a hypnotist’s gruesome pendant, Denny made to take it back from her sister. She always did that. Kris always took things and broke them. Kris pulled it away, collected the chain in her palm, and slammed it against Denny’s mouth, pushing and grinding the chain down between her lips, trying to force it into her mouth. Denny turned her head from side to side and grabbed Kris’s wrist, but Kris had all the advantages and used her hand as a vice. A hard thumb pressing against something already broken forced Denny’s mouth open.

“Eat your shit!” Kris singsonged, absorbed by the sight of Denny who gagged as the chain slipped down her throat. “Eat up and I’ll feed you more.”, she sang again as she leaned back to watch.

Denny coughed, swallowed convulsively, and resisted wretching. Gasping in pain and cold nausea, she attached her teary glare to Kris. The black cap was gone but absurdly, the IPod still hung at her waist, illuminating its array of endless options . The ear buds were gone. She caught a moving hand and she knew what Kris was after, and what it meant, before the words came to her. Kris started to grin as she opened the flap on her side pocket. “Don’t…” Denny groaned and jerked violently and groped for Kris who leaned back further, grinning wider. The movement exposed her belly; pale and hard, centered by a bellybutton drilled and hung with a puter-black ring. Denny tried to sit up and push, but had no strenghth and Kris started laughing, swatting away her feeble attempts. . Denny’s vision edged with darkness and she shook her head, igniting pain that cleared it for a second. Kris dug her hand into the side pocket, Denny groped and clawed, Kris pulled the gun out, Denny clawed and caught the puter ring and pushed a finger through it. Kris fumbled for a second before the safety clicked off and started turning the gun, Denny bent her finger around the ring, made a fist, and pulled.

Ouch? 🙂 I guess we’ll know in the third and final part.

Don’t miss other nasty stories and whacked posts at Studio Chaotic!


Bitchfight Part 1 of 3

Reading Time: 8 minutes


By Jenny K Brennan
Part 1 of 3

Includes violence and a shitload of bad words. Be warned.

Part 1

Denny waited and kept her head down. She listened and shrank in the sudden unease that made her skin crawl, thoughts roil, and fingers flutter uselessly when attempting to turn a page in the book she tried to read. There was nowhere she could go. She was trapped, caught in the open, unprepared. The only protection she knew was within. Feigning superiority, pulling that blanket of numbing arrogance over her and cower below its brittle protection.

Maybe she would go away, the woman approaching. Hope flared, faded. Because Denny couldn’t lie to herself. But she wouldn’t show weakness, because no one could ever be allowed to se the trembling echo of the her that could have been. Never.

Maybe she could run. Maybe she could avoid the confrontation. It would mean revealing her fear. By standing up, closing the book, and walk to the stairs that would take her out of the sub way platform, through the upper level, out into the night. She could catch another train. But she would have to use the stairs to go that route, and that’s where she was, on her way down.

Footsteps, a metallic hollow echo. Denny knew. She shouldn’t have known. They were just steps coming closer. But the vague recollection instantly turned to knowledge. She shouldn’t be surprised. It had always been that way. She should after all know herself.

Even after dying, the sound of boots on stone whispered of fear of its own echo. Kris stood at the bottom of the stairs, lingered for a moment, then stepped on to the tiles. A thin squeak as damp rubber scuffed glazed ceramics cut through the air, intrusive, sharp. There was something about those strides, and then the pause. Something Denny had always hated. A deliberate slowness, the way they seemed to have a goal, yet never hurried.

The lower level of the Stockholm central station kept its peace, chilly, reeking of indifferent infrastructure, rushed humanity in uneasy rest. Stairs descended and dipped down between two parallel train tracks which framed a mosaic tiled floor in grays browns and misty blues. They continued into darkness and destinations determined, scheduled, and mapped. Straight ahead, in the centre of the big floor, a square cube of painted concrete, a utility shack of today, took pride of place. A metal door, dotted with subway art halfheartedly scrubbed and scraped at by unenthusiastic cleaning crews, faced the stairs. A single bench, bolted to shack and floor, faced the south tracks.

A solitary woman and a homeless man, each in their own destitute universe, shared the bench in silence. Denny waited for the next ride home and the old man, seeking a moments haven away from the world above, would be escorted out soon enough, along with his bottle of forgetfulness. Further along the man made cave, a triad of teens stood mumbling, smoking, waiting for their own coach to come and bring them to wherever.

Denny kept her eyes on the tale of horror opened in her lap; but words became Senseless scribbles. What was fiction when existence was fear, gloom, and riddled with “what if”?

She listened, inwardly recoiling from the stride she knew so well.
A low rumble became audible, matured into racket as it approached. Denny trained her eyes on darkness turning bright, watched as the tunnel spewed out its metallic traveler. It wasn’t hers; the next ride to Haninge was still twenty minutes away. It never crossed her mind to get on the train and go somewhere other than there, anywhere. Maybe that was her train. She would get on it and…
The train slowed, stopped, opened all doors with a release of pressure and tension of springs and coughed up its load.

An old woman stepped out and stood still for a moment, adjusting a purse strap. A pinched face permanently etched with apprehension, tightened further in disdain when she noticed the old man, turned to fearful when the triad of young men broke out in laughter.

Denny assessed the gathering of kids for a moment and deemed them harmless. Loud didn’t mean dangerous. If you come across a silent person where thoughts are hidden, intent impossible to extract, then by all means beware. Those kids had a mouth, no brain, no harm. She dismissed them.

She turned to the plump old lady making her way along the platform as the train pulled away.

Annette Larsson glanced at the young woman and the sleeping bum as she passed, meeting Denny’s eyes for a split second before looking away, hurrying past. Click clock, scurrying heels sang, click clock, square hard surfaces replied.

Denny watched her as she approached the bottom of the stairs, the only way out, besides endless dark tunnels of rail, rats and who knows what else. Denny didn’t like it. Kris wouldn’t bother an old woman would she? Oh yeah, she would. Click clock, click clock. As Denny turned to observe, she saw Kris. How long had it been? Not long enough.

Kris couldn’t give a shit. No matter what the subject was, she just simply didn’t give a fuck. A generous portion of skin and a metal studded navel showed between camouflage pant lining and sleeveless top. From one belt loop dangled an I-Pod, one front pocket bulged. Either a cell phone or a huge chunk of pot. No, Denny thought, thinking of all the times Kris had been picked up, questioned by frustrated police, and been set free. They never got her, because she never carried.

She stood with her head bent to the IPod, adjusted a set of ear buds, nodding in sync with what she heard. A wide silver band on the thumb scraped against the plastic. Her lips moved in silent sing along. She let go of the player, straightened up, and noticed the old woman coming toward her. She grinned. Denny froze, wished she could fade back into the pretend world that lay open in her lap.
Kris was the same, just worse. Black T, frayed edges, black cap turned backwards over a short tangle of purple hair. She used to be beautiful. Like Denny, actually exactly like Denny, but Kris had hated the constant comparisons. And now she had done it again. Found something else that would make Kris Kris, and not just Denny’s twin sister.

Her face was clean, from make-up if not from embellishment, Denny noticed, surprised. Kris never appeared in public without layers of protective paint, until now. Denny found it impossible to look away. No makeup could enhance, or restore, Kris’s face. Permanently etched in skin, a blue dragon stretched out lazily on one cheek with its tail trailing down and across her neck in a possessive strangle-hold. The resting dragons head lay high up on the brow while the only visible limb, the front left leg and paw, dug its sharp claws into the edge of Kris’s left eyebrow.

Kris stood still, blue eyes assessing, calculating. Watched the approaching figure. She stood where the old lady needed to pass. She waited, baring her teeth in a predatory grin.

Annette kept walking, deliberately not looking anywhere but at the stairs. She was almost there, almost home free, almost… Hurrying, passing.

Kris liked what she saw. White knuckles on a chubby hand gripping a floral embroidered purse. As if Kris would bother with that crone’s petty cash.
She moved, pushed head and shoulders forward, and shoved her face up close to Annette’s.
“What sup girlfriend?” Loud and mocking it achieved just the reaction she wanted. The little old lady jerked back and gasped, stumbled, nearly crumbling to the floor.
Laughter erupted from the idling teenagers.

Annette released a pitiful shriek as she absorbed the girls beautiful, horrible, face in a split second. She had never seen anything like it. Why would anyone paint something so terrible on one’s face? She stumbled on, cared not for dignity, and hurried up the steps. Up and out, home. Oh dear, oh dear, A hand flew to her chest; calm little heart, Oh dear, calm yourself. It’s only a girl.
Kris chuckled and shook her head, watching the old fraidy-cat disappear from sight. She liked the look of fear, the scent of power, and some bitches were easier than others. Granny was no challenge, but still a quick fix for boredom. Oh, Granny, hope you sleep well tonight.

She sighed and looked around the station, grew still. Just sitting there with her sticky fingers in a book. Why read words on fucking paper when there was music? Movies? Parties? Well, that one did. She went to college to prove she was smart.
Kris stood still for a long moment, frowning. She tilted her head and reclaimed her mislaid grin as she watched Denny pretend she didn’t see her. The bitch sat as far away from the sleeping old drunk as she could. Kris let her eyes glide over the closer figure, ignoring the old man. Denny, fashionable and proper as always, leaned back. Leather pants covered legs that stretched out, crossing at the ankles. Dark brown boots in brushed leather with modestly high heels. Oh, isn’t’ that precious. Little sister learned to dress finally. Kris raised her eyebrows in reluctant admiration that she would never admit to, a feeling shredded and disbursed almost immediately by disgust and a hot flash of contempt. Denny wore a black v-necked sweater, and long mahogany hair fell over her shoulders, placing half her face in shadow.

Denny, you bitch. Surprise at seeing her sister after years of chosen distance, sputtered and disappeared among old feelings. That face, so like hers it was atrocious. It stirred up Sparks from sores of inflamed memories buried deep, but forever smoldering. She checked the blaze with a pinpoint of control beneath a rockslide of resentment. She exhaled, hissed through her teeth, reshaped her features into cold diffidence, and started toward the unavoidable.

Denny heard her approach but refused to look up. She stubbornly kept her eyes on the words in a story she failed to remember. Deliberate steps slowed and stopped. Ear buds produced a tinny beat that Denny recognized as Kris’s own; from an early album. She dug through memories and found the title— Bitch fight —among the cacophony of Kris’s music. Fast, hard and violent. What else was there? It was not only dark and violent; it was a message, a promise. She sighed as she remembered the lyrics, “I heard you’re playing tonight, let’s have some fun, I’ll bring my gun.”

A song about hatred, a song about Denny. She pushed the disturbing thought away.

The tinny beat faded and for a moment, breathing played solo. She tensed. She wished it wouldn’t bother her. Kris stood over her, polluting the air between them with all things untold. She couldn’t pretend to read so she lowered the book and raised her head, focused on the middle distance, avoiding her sister’s eyes, and waited. Denny could wait, Kris didn’t have that ability.

The wall beyond the track, on billboards impossible to avoid, products delivered their sales pitches with beautiful faces, well thought out camera angles, and calculated sticky phrases. Only colors, shapes and useless information.

Kris stared down at the stubborn head. Up close, she noticed a thin gold chain hanging from Denny’s neck, holding a pendant “S”. She stared at the gothic script for a long moment. She put a finger on the gold letter. Denny didn’t twitch. Kris smiled; the tension in Denny was palpable, fake cool nothing but fear. She pinched the little pendant between thumb and index finger, turning and twisting it, felt an urge to dull the mocking shine, scrape polish into ugliness, and break that disgusting glare of perfection. She licked her lips.
“So you’re fucking the word-fag are you?” Denny said nothing. Kris started grinning.

Denny sighed and looked up at her other self. Their eyes locked in communication that needed no words; it was all there, sharp as a knife, but distorted and muddled by time, newer edges, different shapes impossible to unravel. History twisted and disjointed, but after so many years established as fact.

Denny jerked her head up and smiled. “At least I’m getting something real. Not like you.” She let a slow gaze travel along Kris’s appearance and crinkled her face in distaste. Then she closed the book, shrugged and displayed her palms, spreading fingers in exasperation, as if it was self evident and she couldn’t believe it had to be explained, “You know, like someone with a real job? Someone that won’t fuck you just to get that shit you sell.”

Kris sighed. She had heard it all before. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re trying to piss me off.” Shrugging. “My shit is the best.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Denny said, straightening up. “I’m not a junkie.” Nice face-paint. Who did you have to blow to get that done?” Kris nodded and grinned, dropped the necklace and pulled on Denny’s bra strap, let it snap back. Denny grimaced. “Is that the best you can do?” She clenched her teeth and forced a smile, keeping her eyes leveled on Kris.
“Maybe…” she said in a low even voice.”Maybe you shouldn’t touch girl’s bras. It might give people the wrong impression.” Kris face darkened. A weak point in that façade had collapsed, an exposed nerve ignited. She rocked back on her heels, scraped the back of her neck with ragged nails, considering. Her eyes fell on the old drunk. “Is that your new daddy?” she asked with quiet menace.

“Yeah, he doesn’t fuck little kids as far as I know.” Denny pushed on, “Speaking of kiddy fuckers, seen daddy lately?” Kris said nothing, but had turned a shade more flammable. Denny moved the thriller from her lap, dropped it on the bench, stood up and faced her identical twin. She knew what not to say and What she said next ranked high on the top ten list of No-no’s.

Don’t miss Bitchfight Part 2.


A Gal Eerie of Desire – Part 5 of 5 — Private Exhibit

Reading Time: 13 minutes

A Gal Eerie of Desire

Jenny K Brennan

Part 5 of 5
Read Part 4 – Saturday exhibit here.

Mild Explicit warning. This is for adult readers and don’t say I didn’t warn you. Enjoy.

5. Private exhibit

I felt, as from far away, my body being pulled back, the door slammed shut in my face, and the nightmare scene vanished from sight, if not from my mind. My world turned end over end as I fought confusion and an urgent need to throw up. I didn’t just see…. That? What?
I stood facing the closed door, absolutely still, staring at dark wood, but seeing beyond the door. I would never forget. My own heart was loud in my head, pounding frantically as if it would leap out of my chest along with the lunch I would surely lose any moment. Digging my fingernails into my palms, I tried to control my ragged breathing, calm down. I had to think.
I had to get away; I needed to leave this place, where one second I had everything I all of a sudden wanted more than anything, and the next all was madness. I was dreaming; must be seeing things.
There had to be an explanation. Some trick of the light, some elaborate joke, smoke and mirrors. Oh hell, holograms. , Just a sick joke. I didn’t believe it. Drugged, yeah, fuck this! If this was what it was like to suck acid, I didn’t want any part of it. What did I say back there? Oh, yeah now I remember; I said run! I said, go home. I said…
It was time to end this, get a grip. Anger finally caught up with me, at the helplessness. I couldn’t let her dig her claws in my brain anymore. I turned to her, raising my hands in defense, protection against a threat I didn’t understand. Her eyes…
Don’t look.

I looked. And I lost myself in wells of pitch and shattered glass, treacherous and sharp, unforgiving and endless. I opened my mouth, but what I had thought I might say stuck in my throat.
They bore into me, those eyes. Stripped me naked, scraped me raw, those misty blue, beautiful eyes. They smoothed my nerves, soothed my mind, and calmed my fear.

“Ash?” I breathed. Thoughts dissolved in a sudden bliss, leaving a gentle curiosity. “Ash, who are you?” I whispered. Who am I?

“You are mine.” Ash said. “And I am she.” she continued, placed her hands don’t touch me on my face, held it so I couldn’t look away. As before, her stare burned into me, probed me, and the gruesome collection on the other side of the door mellowed into normality. A party of brass sculptures, nothing more. What was so strange about that?
Living shadows? Statues that change? No, not strange at all. I didn’t know and didn’t care.
If eyes were windows to the soul, her soul was eternal, infinite, demanding, but oh so sweet. Bits and pieces of rational thought, snippets of memory, and fragments of unease floated around my mind, but they were all so disjointed and vague, could hardly matter.

All was well. I brought my hands up and placed them on top of hers. I thought I heard a brittle sound of glass breaking. It didn’t seem important. A tiny flicker of annoyance flashed across her face; did it? If it did, it vanished just as fast. So beautiful, so lovely.

Slowly, she touched her lips to mine, quick and light like a breath, a breath I craved, sucked greedily from. She stood still for a moment and I breathed her air. She would be mine, I knew it.
What is it really that you know? I ignored the nagging voice of reason.
She drew back, liberated her hands from under mine, and smiled. I came to think of my drink. I held a glass of something sweet and alcoholic. I raised it to my lips and stared blankly at a hand, supposedly my own. It was empty. My mouth was parched, my tongue felt swollen and sticky. In my head, where thoughts usually took form, there was soggy sponge. I couldn’t speak with a mouth full of sawdust and sand.
But that was all right, and so I smiled, because I found the glass —in a pretty hand, supposedly hers. She held it for me and I placed my hand around it, tightened my fingers. Slowly, not too hard, carefully. Then I waited for her to release the treasure. It was ok. I liked having my hand so close to hers.
She frowned and oh such a perfect frown she had. So pretty. She released the glass and I drank, blinked.
I looked at my feet, wondering where those feet had been just a moment ago. I noticed another pair of feet. Naked feet attached to ankles, pretty pretty feet. I had to admire those feet for a little while. So very pretty feet.
Comfortably numb, I slowly raised my oh so heavy head and met her eyes. The perfect frown deepened into a scowl. She snapped her fingers.

I looked her up and down, thinking about leather mini skirts and her perfect tits and sweet sweet ass. I noticed the glass in my hand and drank. Good stuff. Didn’t recognize the taste but it was excellent horse-piss if that’s what it was.
She gestured for me to follow. I glanced back at the closed door, feeling something slither and slip from my mind; not important. I shook my head and drank, emptied my glass. I looked around to find a flat surface to set the glass on but found nothing.

I stood in a hall, not unlike the one where I had entered Ash’s place, but narrower, darker, and not yet completely filled with art. Individual light fixtures above each of the four large paintings along the left wall provided the only light, leaving the rest of the space in shadow. From where I stood I couldn’t see them and I glanced at Ash who raised her glass in a toast and smiled.
“My private little show.” She sipped her drink, watching me intently.
I raised mine and it brimmed with sparkling amber. Nice. Curious, but nice. She must have filled it. But when? She hadn’t move. Had she? Did it matter? Watching her smile, nothing mattered.

She moved to the first large canvas in a massive frame. I joined her, for the first time aware of her perfume, a fresh sweet blend of wild flowers and berries, of dark earth and musk. Decay. I inhaled the scent of her. She motioned to the wall and I pulled my eyes from her, reluctantly turning my head, and that’s when I saw her. A few drops of the drink were lost to the carpet.
My breathing caught; she stood right there. It was her; the sight of her naked shimmering flesh assaulted my nerves, blood, burned its way to my cock, bypassing my brain. I gulped air, felt that I should be embarrassed, but I wasn’t. It’s only a painting, just a fucking picture. You can get worse in any corner store.
No. This was something different. What was depicted in the scene, perfectly captured in oils, was utter desire. The essence of need. In the picture she stood on a small hill, naked feet rooted in a carpet of pine needles scattered with scavenged pine combs. She stood with one arm reaching for a tall, fair-haired man who stood just beyond her reach. He was naked as well and he had his feet firmly placed in dark soil below the hill with arms crossed in front of his face. He stood half turned away, seemed to look at something beyond her, in the distance. Ash’s head was tilted slightly back,with soft nearly translucent lips partly open. A desperate need in her face, her lips, grabbed me, as if I was the target for her grasping hand and not the man in the painting. I’ve seen him before. She pleaded with eyes and body; her nipples, red and hard, begged to be touched. A hand placed below her navel spread fingers in a trembling want to touch. They didn’t quite reach, and never would. Shadow fingers reached further and in defiance, they performed a shadowy caress at the center of her need.
As a loose border around the small hill, yellow tulips grew. Further into the landscape, beyond the humans, millions of daisies surrounded two small piles of soil. Tiny Details too small to be palpable, gradually became unmistakable; they were two very small, haphazardly assembled wooden crosses. A chill ran down my spine and I shuddered. Two small graves. In a sea of daisies. Something tugged at recent memories but dots refused to join. There was something undeniably disturbing about the scene within the scene.

A feathery touch on the top of my hand brought me out, shattered the unease in me and I smiled. “Amazing.” My voice sounded all wrong and I swallowed further comments.
She softly hushed me and ushered me to the next painting. A different man, darker in skin and hair, wiry and lean. Ash was there, still the image of want. The man stood close to her on a different hill. Grass, fragile and fresh, fought for room to grow among thistles and an assortment of rocks and pebbles. He touched her face, gently caressing. His thumb stroked the bottom of her lower lip, fingers spread across the side of her face and tangled in flaming hair. She leaned into his embrace with gaze fixed and intent on what she saw, and lips parted to reveal a tongue tip tasting the air.
A bed of green grey foliage with thousands of small white flowers surrounded the hill. A soft breeze seemed to move through the hall, bringing a whiff of something. I couldn’t quite place it; it faded and disappeared just as it came to me— lavender.
I glanced at Ash; her expression was something between smug and impatient as she observed the art. She frowned, reached out a manicured nail, and scratched lightly on the painting; the nail traced the man’s spine, the dark line splitting a clenched ass, scrotum, and tightly defined thigh. A shiver ran down my spine and I cringed as the nail scraped a thin line of paint off the tip of his semi-erect penis.
“What…”, I managed before I was pulled from the image, wondered what in the hell that was supposed to mean. It suddenly struck me that these were her creations; she was the artist. How did I not see that before? And if she needed to scrape paint off a dick, I shuddered at the thought, then why shouldn’t she be allowed to?
Still, I felt uneasy, and something nagged, something was wrong. My body didn’t ache with desire, in fact, I was cold and clammy. Ill. I wondered if I should take a rain check. I really wasn’t feeling so good.
Ash moved in front of me, searched my eyes, and I was lost once more.

“Just two more, Roger, and then you will know.“ She glanced around. “Yes, these are all mine.” Her voice took on an edge, a sliver of disapproval, “It is hard work, and every piece must be perfect, Roger, don’t you see? I choose with care. But I didn’t choose you. You chose me. I may have made a mistake.” Her face hardened as did her voice. “Did I make a mistake Roger?”

Dazed, I shook my head, turned to the painting.
A woman with skin like smooth chocolate joined her this time. The Ash of oil smiled, soft moist lips opened a fraction. She had her back to me but looked over her shoulder, hands held in front of her chest, out of sight. Hair like a waterfall of ember, fire, and coal, fell free down a slightly arched back. As in defiance, the posture was tense; breasts pushed forward, shoulder blades pulled back. She offered her body to the woman kneeling in front of her.
A dark slender hand gripped Ash’s hip, the other, the soft pale flesh of her inner thigh. A swell of black hair sparkled in cloud-shredded moonlight.
Behind the kneeling woman, a Belladonna towered over a cowering patch of forget me nots, poisonous purple blooms nodded at their subjects.
My eyes lingered at the perfect curve of her spine, where it ended in the dark crack, leading to the dark warm moisture, the place that my imagination couldn’t do justice. Where the woman had her face, her mouth, lips and tongue.
The dark beauty sucked, licked, tasted Ash’s endless desire. Black shiny hair, No, not shiny, not totally smooth, It was tangled, rough and frayed. Those slender fingers… Sliding along a vest lining.

A sticky strip of sandpaper aggravated my tongue and I gulped the rest of my drink.
I swallowed. I sucked air, felt dizzy. I Mellowed, forgot.
Ash moved to stand before me and touch my face. Heat surged, and I closed my eyes. Her lips touched mine, softly, gently, before pulling away. I opened my eyes, found her looking at me, inspecting her specimen. What do you want?
She took my hand and pulled me toward the last picture.
Alone on the hill, a matt of blooming rhododendron her bed; Flowers in every color From pure white to deep red surrounded her body, caressing it, turning their petals toward her. Contrasting oddly, a single Krokus at the bottom of the hill wilted, leaning into a sad looking snapdragon bush surrounded by dead petals.
She lay on her belly, staring at me. Alive, they were alive. Her head rested on her arms with hands concealed in the foliage. A smile played on pursed lips. I could kiss those lips. She wants me too. And I could almost taste it. She has teeth. She would bite my Tongue off.
And the lips parted just a little bit. Did they? No. Yes, she wants you to see her
teeth. I shook my head but the buzzing persisted. Marvelous soft lips glistened with moisture and the tip of her tongue pressed against the bottom of her front teeth. Had it looked like that the whole time? Of course it had. Fuck no!
My eyes moved to the previous paintings. Look at them, just fucking look. I didn’t want to look. But there they were, and suddenly I knew them; Tall blond and handsome, Viking, shorter, dark and fit, Squib, hot coco with her dreadlocks and pierced tongue. The jewelry was gone, she was stripped naked, and the hair…. What did she do to your hair?
Something flickered just beyond my peripheral vision and I turned to Ash. She pulled her hand behind her back, too quickly for me to see what, if anything, she had there. I glanced up, felt the strain more than saw it; a tightening of lines, a hardening of curves in her face, a narrowing of eyes. Just a flicker, only a stray shadow.
She is not what she seems. Then it all smoothed, softened, brightened and her smile was back. My hand trembled, moved without me asking it to. No, she can’t do this… The glass was at my lips. Stop it for fucks sake, stop…

I drank. Everything softened, nothing prickled, dark was light, pain was bliss. All was well.
“It must be, Roger, do you not see?”
I nodded. It had to be. No, a feeble remnant of sanity whined. No. It shattered when she spoke.

“You may touch me now Roger.”
At those words, every restraint lifted, and I pulled her toward me, lowered my head and kissed her. She took over. With poorly restrained hurry she took possession of my mouth, teasing, touching, murmuring, and pulling back when I came closer. Arms crept up and around my neck, sharp fingernails raking, scraping my scalp, gripping hair and collar indiscriminately. Probing my mouth with her tongue, drawing back, pressing, and biting, something slicing my lower lip. Biting into me. I knew there should be pain. Her breasts pressed flat against my chest and there was no air. But I had no need for oxygen. She tasted me, nibbling gently on my lower lip to suddenly suck on it, pull pain from deep in my flesh, making it rush through my body, turning to heat. It focused and shoved me hard to the point of orgasm, and I pushed hard, pulled hard, to feel her closer. Pull her into me.
It was so close, but impossible. I would happily let my load go, in my pants, I wanted to, but It wouldn’t. Sucking my blood. My lip numbed although I knew it was shredded, torn open. I gasped and pulled back to breathe and smelled copper mixed with sweat. Warmth dribbled down my chin.
I stared into her eyes, her shining, hungry dark eyes. I pushed forward. Pressed my lips hard against hers, probing her mouth, sucking her tongue, tasting blood. My blood. Drew her breath, her heat, into me. The dress was in the way, the stupid silk refused to be torn. When I pulled the skirt to lift it, it slipped out of my hands. Damn that dress.
Damn her to hell.
She pulled back from me and I gasped for air, struggling to regain some shred of control. The silk in her bodice was like a second skin on her heaving chest. I just looked at her, sucking up the scent of her. It was stronger now, metallic and heavy, intoxicating. Rotting. Closing her eyes, opening her mouth, she stopped breathing for a spell, licking her lips. She stepped back. I tried to follow but my limbs wouldn’t obey.
She opened her eyes, suddenly calm, with a rosy flush on her cheeks, and lips a deeper shade of red. She pursed them and nodded at the painting again.

It took me a long dizzying moment to gather scattered bodily functions, and order my neck and head to follow her lead.
She indicated a tiny brass plaque in the corner of the heavy frame. It said: “Unfinished.”

She brightened the room and the rest of my life with a brilliant smile— one of expectation. She glowed like a child on Christmas morning, too eager to wake up to be able to sleep. And she wanted to show me something. Something amazing, something of hers. There was no question in my mind what that special thing would be, so I took her hand and smiled. A flicker of shadow in the painting caught my eye, and faded from my mind. A sense of a shadow of a shade, twitching, didn’t seem important as I looked into endless depths of deep blue shadow that were her eyes. I heard her speak. For the last time I listened to her voice and knew finally who, what, that voice belonged to. It was too late though. It was so much easier to hear something different, something beautiful.
Something human.
“We must finish it.” she said.
6. Final installment
As Ash led Roger Kyle to a door that he hadn’t noticed, approaching the place where he had known he would end up since the first time he saw her, her smile widened and distorted into wire hard tendency and bone; blackened flesh and skin torn and rotting around a hungry grin. He saw only the woman he wanted to see, the illusion he had embraced.

The dress finally fell away from her body in brittle pieces of cracked skin; rags drenched in perfumes, oils, a variety of beverages, and rubbed with pieces of food. Parts sown together with a braid of hair here, or a slip of stained sheet or clothing there, fell apart. A scrap of tarnished silver and a misshapen gold earring were the last items to fall on the floor. A trail of debris containing all mediums necessary to create the image, to provide the picture with all the elements of illusion, lead from the unfinished painting to a door marked “Studio”.
The figure grew taller, thinner, formed sores and oozing crevices, spots of course black hair and limbs and digits no human would ever get a chance to count.

As the door opened and Roger entered his final nightmare, the woman in the unfinished picture came to life. She turned on her side. Her chest filled once and she parted her lips. What came out of her grotesquely changing mouth was a multitude of voices mixing into a pained choir. It morphed into a shriek of glee that shattered the silence. Shadows shifted and twitched in distress. The sound coughed and gurgled before condensing into shrill staccato laughter, scratchy and hoarse. A sorrowful answer came; a soaring elegy for the one joining the gallery of desire.
Ashtoreth, the painting that was Ash, created by ash, shifted and raised her hands, revealing the tools she had kept hidden. She began her task. Ambient music and echoes from the underworld mixed with sounds of stone on metal, honing it, perfecting the edge, preparing the final scene.
In the gallery, shadows quivered and shrank back into themselves. Frightened whispers echoed through the room, spread to the next gallery of statues, and the next, and the next.
The unearthly chorus of agony swelled and tore at the fragile shell of humanity still lingering in the rest of the building. Restless stirrings, jittery irritation and paranoia touched all of those present.
The tortured howl from captured souls didn’t fade until much later. Not until the ripping and slashing had stopped. Not until the begging and pleading had proven futile and a man’s screams of horror and pain became weak wet keening, then faded.

Silence didn’t fall until the artist at long last completed the preparation of the motif; the still-life that would finish painting number four.
In the studio, among brushes and paints, canvas and unused frames, rags and solutions, in the middle of a pile of clothes recently belonging to a man owning a Toyota, the she fisted her hand at her lips as she let out a delicate little burp. Then she yawned and stretched out, her naked skin shimmering softly in light from a single flickering candle.

She let herself relax and soften, sleepy, satisfied. She yawned again, pinched out the candle with two fingers, and started drifting toward sleep. It had been a tiresome four days after all. And tomorrow she would paint.

***End ***

Hope you like this little creation of mine. Please leave a comment. Good or bad. Tell me what you think.
Thank you for reading and do come back soon. 🙂

JennyK Brennan
Jasper Ontario Canada 2014

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A Gal Eerie of Desire – Part 4 of 5 — Saturday Exhibit

Reading Time: 14 minutes

A Gal Eerie of Desire

Jenny K Brennan

Part 4 of 5

Part 3.
Part 5.

No real explicit warning this time. Enjoy.

Part 4 — Saturday exhibit

Twenty-four hours later, at a quarter to five; I pulled in to a deserted parking lot in front of Thomas Plaza, and just sat for a while. I looked at myself in the rear view mirror, wondered for the thousands time what I was doing there. I combed through my not too shabby looking sandy blond hair, pulled my lips back; teeth ok. Nice shave. I had checked all of it, and passed inspection on several trips to the hall mirror in my nervous pacing around the flat before leaving home.

I bent my head to sniff my armpits again, when an elderly woman walked past, peering suspiciously through the car window. I smiled and waited until she finally shuffled out of sight. Yeah, I know, but don’t worry; I’m just a perfectly ordinary pervert sitting in a car waiting for old ladies to molest. Nothing to worry about, Granny. I should have known better though. I wondered how the story would go later, in the knitting circle.

I opened the door and stepped out on hot asphalt, hesitated and looked around. I knew it was the place, the street was right; the building was numbered, even named. The apartment building was the only residential building along Thomas Avenue and stood several stories taller than the abandoned warehouse half a block away.
A sad looking strip of forest surrounded the complex. Brush and weed crept along abandoned pathways and invited by cracking pavement, it would not stop at the edge of the parking lot for much longer. Branches, leaves, and miscellaneous trash invaded the empty lot and the small cement playground where a tire swing hung from rusty chains, and painted metal bars in strange configurations had stood in silence for many years.
The street was quiet, and despite the proximity to the city center, I heard nothing. I stood still and strained my ears; I heard traffic, but it sounded far away.

I glanced around. In the distance above low industrial blocks of ugliness, was the tip of the water tower, over the other way, beyond straggly elms poking up behind the warehouse; I saw the top floor of the Radio Tower with its unmistakable crowded roof, where satellite discs and other metal monstrosities chattered ceaselessly in their airwave lingo. I was in the middle of the city, but far from it.
I sighed and headed toward the front door. Although the impression it gave was of neglect and outdated architecture, Plaza, my ass, it didn’t seem abandoned. A fluttering curtain caught my eye, indistinct laughter drifted out from an open window, cut short, leaving the silence more deafening than before.
I pulled open the massive front door and as I stopped to stare, it hit me in the back where I had stopped dead. You’ve gotta be kidding me.

What I had just entered was not, could not, be in the same dimension as the one I had just left. I jerked around and pushed the door wide, glared at the outside. Stilll there, the real world. Filthy concrete slab acting as a front step, a pile of rotting leaves, an empty coke bottle, and a trashed plastic bag. Over there, the Toyota. I turned to the lobby again and stepped all the way through and allowed the door to close behind me.
Before me was Mirror polished granite floors, brass handrails and polished mahogany with details in something that looked like cast iron. Not a speck of dust, not a stain, no trash. The only smell in there was the stink of filthy rich, vague but unmistakable.
“Might I be of assistance, Sir?” a reedy old voice croaked from behind a tray of glasses.

“Refreshment, Sir?”

I almost laughed, but couldn’t quite get it out. The thin little man waited patiently for me to do something.

Ok, if this was the game, I could play too. I grinned, took a glass from the tray and waved him off in my best imitation of eighteenth century upper class snobbery. “I am here to meet with Lady Ash.” I snorted through my chuckle.

The servant didn’t move a muscle. “Of course Mr. Kyle, the lady will be expecting you.” he said and faded into servitude invisibility.

Oh my god. What is this place?
I sipped my drink. Maybe I shouldn’t, it could be anything, but what the hell, and this was just too much.
I searched for hints about who lived in the building, but found nothing. It was nothing if not a mansion, a magnificent staircase ascended to upper levels that lay in darkness. Next to the base of the staircase, esthetically and technically out of place, was the elevator. With its dull metal door, small safety glass window and worn rubber and steel fittings, it stood out like a sore thumb among the elegant luxury. Old mansions didn’t have elevators, but what the hell. I brought out the note, to check the apartment number again. I fingered the paper but found it hard to focus on the words. My eyes kept darting away from them, up and around, sucking up the shine. A chandelier with a million glittering phasets, a gilded frame glowing in the light from a single candle on a small marble table placed below the painting. The motif alluded me. I didn’t want to look. There was something about that picture. I raised the paper again and forced my eyes to move to it. The whispery voice snuck up on me from behind.

“That would be on the fourteenth floor, Sir.”, the old man said and faded again.

“Thanks, I think.” I muttered, not just a little unnerved by the butler guy. I turned to the lift, drained my drink, and got my legs moving. Elevator… Ok, up I go, even if I was a card short of a full deck. Or perhaps all cards were missing but the joker. I sighed, so be it.

For each second riding the elevator, the image of the lobby seemed to dim, dissipate. Could that even exist in the same universe as mine? I looked around the cramped space as it moved laboriously up past gloomy floors. Glimpses caught through the square of glass in the elevator door told me of poorly maintained halls and neglect. I had lived in a building just like it, where broken bottles and discarded syringes were the norm. Where loneliness and desperation lay like a dull layer over everything, even the people. Where were the people? The lobby, the servant, the drink, and then this? I wasn’t sure anymore.

I looked away from the glass, didn’t want to see. I watched my shoes for one breath and without looking at the door again, I turned away from it. I wanted distraction from the disturbing doubts that crawled around in the back of my mind.
The elevator was small and shabby, stank of stale cigarette smoke and piss. A used condom lay crumbled in a corner and various important announcements were available on the walls, scratched, scrawled with marker, scribbled with what was at hand at the moment of inspiration: “Kilroy wasn’t fucking here!”, “All who go up this elevator abandon all hope.. and beer too.”, “Fags need to pack their shit! Oh yeah, they already did”.
Toilet poetry failed to distract me. I felt my stomach sink for every jolt and unidentified noise from the outdated machinery. “Abandon all hope…” I let my fingers glide over the folded note in my pocket but the touch only agitated the insecurity.
She knew my name, and that charade in the lobby. She was apparently a high class stinking rich broad with peculiar habits and a fetish for playing with peoples minds. Or why the elaborate setup? Expensive role playing? I wondered if I had gotten it all wrong. I knew I was being taken for a ride, but couldn’t even begin to understand why. Why me? I wished I could dig my brain out with my fingernails and beat it to a pulp for not working properly.

As the door slid open to reveal a plush carpet, snob elegance and muted footfalls that would be made only by me, everything was back to impeccable and luxurious. Turn back Roger, turn back. Turn around and run. When the elevator groaned shut, took off and left me alone before the door, her door, my heart raced.
“Ash.” I breathed her name. Dizzy. Confused. What the hell was wrong with me?

Roger, you idiot, Get a grip.
Something moved, a flicker of shadow, and I turned my head. Nothing. But all of a sudden it seemed darker, as if the light wasn’t quite able to stay real. What lay beyond, crept forward, and saturated the air without actually gaining enough existence to equal shadows. Just, draining strength out of space. I couldn’t breathe. I had to go. Just go.
I stepped back, blinked, and heard the whirring of machinery. The elevator, moving from floor to floor. It had abandoned me, and now it made another meaningless journey between empty dwellings. Why would they be empty? But I knew they were.
I listened to the strangely comforting hum until I heard a distant clank, and then came nothing but silence beyond the boundaries of my own body. What was I thinking about? Something had moved around up here. Rats? Considering the state of the elevator, I wasn’t too surprised. I whistled a tuneless melody as I walked to the door.
There was nothing to it. I had an invitation from a woman who found me interesting and although that was a first in my life, it still was something that could happen. In an alternate reality maybe, the annoying inner voice said from the gutter. I knew though that I didn’t have much choice. I just had to know. Being in this place, right now, was the only way I could ever learn anything about her— State your full name and sexual preferences if you please Ma’am. All I needed to do now was to knock on that door.

Or, as the case was, push the button. The door revealed nothing useful. Against dark wood, a polished brass plaque gleamed: “Ash Ltd”. Ok, so Ash was not a name? A business? Both? I sighed, tiring of my own internal monologue. The insecurity returned and I wiped damp hands on my pants, before reaching for the doorbell.

My finger never touched the shiny button; the door opened with a silent click. It didn’t swing all the way open so I pushed on it and stepped through. With one hand on the door I looked around. I found myself in a short hallway. Straight ahead, a vaulted opening revealed soft light and shadows of things I couldn’t see from where I stood.
Dark red carpeting connected the hallway with the room beyond. The hall was empty and I took a step forward. The door closed behind me and some little part of me, remembering superstitions I’ve never believed, prevented me from turning around. Just a self closing door, I told myself. Yeah, right you are.
Music, too soft to identify, drifted out from somewhere ahead. I started toward the opening; it was the only way I could go as there were no doors, no windows and nothing else in the entrance hall besides a number of oil paintings.
The art could, on a different day and in a different place, have captured my curiosity but I passed them by in a distracted path toward the next room. All I noticed on the way by was expensive frames and warm vivid colors. Eyes seemed to glide over the motifs without registering the subject matter. They were emotion and vibrant life. If there were people portrayed I didn’t know. They could all be abstracts or finger paintings as far as I knew. They meant nothing to me.

I drifted toward the unknown. It called to me. She beckoned me and I wanted… no, I needed to go to her. The back of my mind piped up again.
Delusional losers never do make second base, so how about you just run along home now, chop chop, on the double, run.

As I listened to the soft music without hearing it, something cracked under my shoe. I had broken something, very nice start for a visit. I raised my foot but saw nothing in the carpet, but under my shoe, stuck to the rubber was a bright red, now cracked, sticky something. A candy. Cute. I used my car key to flick it off my shoe. It hit the wall, dropped and vanished. I stood for a second, but suppressed the part of me that always scanned for garbage pales for any little piece of trash in need of disposal.

I moved on toward the shadows, through the portal, ready to call out a greeting to her, or whoever waited for me. Someone had to be in there. The sight of the room beyond shut me up though.
Past the vaulted opening stretched a living room, just not any kind of room I had ever stepped into before. Paintings filled every wall. These were insistent, called my attention. The instant impression was of life. Vibrant colors, stunning landscapes and stories told. Earth tones and fire, shimmering pale bodies, Secrets and passions hinted at in expressive faces and intriguing shapes. It would take days to see them all if I would ever get a chance. The paintings were not what truly brought me to a standstill though.
Besides a huge comfortable white leather sofa and a glass table, placed dead center in the room, there were no indications of anyone actually living there. I had just stepped into the oddest gallery I had ever seen. I did not often frequent museums, but what I had seen in dusty heritage displays and modern installations around the city had nothing on this obviously private collection. There were no windows, perhaps normal for places with light sensitive pieces, but nor was there any information desk, no exit signs, no “Do not touch the exhibits or we will stare at you with severe disapproval until you crumble to bits.” posters, and no coffee shop.

Concealed light fixtures showed off a flawless carpet with light that seemed to caress shadows into smooth shapes.
Several life-sized statues— seemingly placed at random — stood around the room. Eerily lifelike in postures and facial expressions, they seemed to mingle and chat with each other, a woman of brass held a glass to her mouth, resting a delicate hand on the attentive man next to her. A short man peering at a pocket watch leaned against one of four marble pillars. A party frozen in cast metal. I looked from face to face, from dress to suit to finely detailed jewelry and footwear solidly placed on plinths.
They all appeared to belong there, in companionable chatter or observant silence. They all felt right in the context of luxury and riches but not at all with each other.
The lady with the drink wore hair in a tight bob and knee length straight cut dress with no sleeves. A man laughing at something long since forgotten wore uniform with tails and a saber hanging at his side. A curvy woman in office suit tailored to her build stood bent over to adjust a high healed shoe which I was sure must be a Gucci if I had ever seen one. The twenties, eighties, back as far as the civil war. They all depicted different time periods in an anachronistic gathering of party goers. They looked so alive, trapped in their personal worlds, doomed to display their isolated moments forever, to whom? Who went there? Nobody.

Even a novice, eye recognized them as masterpieces. They should be viewed, not be kept hidden. I fingered the paper in my pocket. What did I know about rich people, really?
I stepped deeper into the room and walked around a happy bride who couldn’t have been more than fifteen. She presented a shy smile, a waist like an hour glass, and way too much fabric, ribbons and lace. Looking away from the poor girl, I came face to face with the only breathing creature in the room.

I just stared; it was her, truly her. Ash. The sight…. I didn’t know what to think, what to say. It didn’t seem to bother her that I had gone mute. The dress was black silk, sleeves in intricate lace reaching her wrists, ankle length skirt, no shoes, no jewelry.
She held two glasses filled with a sparkling amber liquid and offered one to me. I wondered where I had lost the first one. I didn’t remember leaving it anywhere. She threw a quick glance around the room and raised an eye-brow. I opened my mouth but before I could speak she placed a finger over my lips. The touch made my heart quiver, skin burn, and unable to breathe, I nodded.
Ash smiled and lowered her hand, turning toward an open door at the far wall. Guarding the opening was a Second World War lieutenant. She stopped next to the sculpture and waited for me to join her.

“Come Roger, I wish to show you something.”
Numb and exhilarated, afraid of making her wait for a second too long, I started toward her.

Silence broke by a fragile sharp clink somewhere to my left. I turned to the sound but found nothing. Glass breaking I thought, but there was nothing there that could have made it. Perhaps the glass in one of the frames had given in to pressure from the framing. But I saw nothing.

As I scanned the room, Ash made a sound – tap, tap, tap like fingernails on a hard surface, and I turned to face her. The warm smile, tight now, faded completely. Tap, tap, tap; her fingers rapped the soldier’s face.
There was something obscene in the way her fingers traveled across the features— sharp nails probing brow, temple, and the exposed sphere of a wide open eye.

She will gouge out his eye. And when she pressed her nails harder against the sightless metal, brass would give, fluids would spurt, blood, not brass, would be the cause of the coppery smell. Something snapped, a thought released from its bonds, and my own passive behavior came into focus, disturbing in its clarity. I had never been shy, never intimidated by women. But this one, Ash or whatever the hell her name was, made me into a moron mute. Suddenly, the absurdity of the whole thing struck me and I took a half step back.

The woman who’s name may or may not have been Ash, stood at the door she wanted me to enter. What the hell for? She just stood there, expecting me to obey her every command. Why? Suddenly I didn’t know why I was there. “Ash….” I said, trailing off when she tensed.
Then she frowned, relaxed a bit, and stared at me with lips tightly pressed together. How did I ever think you were beautiful? But she was… she… Vipers of indecision crawled around and between the things I had to say. No, hell no. I had to get out of there. I took a deep breath; why was it so hard to breathe?

“I need to go Ash, I’m really… ”

The woman raised her hand in a quick jerky move that splashed red liquid from the glass. Red? “Drink!” She said. Harsh, sharp and definite.

Cool liquid was at my lips before the sound of the voice registered. The glass trembled and tipped, filling my mouth. “Aaag…” Her name turned into choked gurgling as I swallowed… swallowed. I drained the glass and gasped. I hadn’t known I was so…


Ash smiled. She was so beautiful. And she was waiting for me. I continued toward her. Finally, she would answer my questions. She would tell me all about her.
Giddy with expectation, I felt great. I tried to add just a slight bit of flirt in my smile, just the right amount of testosterone confidence in my stride. I could do anything. Charismatic male magnetism permeated my being. I would seduce the dress off her before the night ended. I smartly saluted the smiling soldier as I came to a stop in front of him, and froze.
My blood ran cold, numb fingers fumbled and splashed drink on my hand. When had it been filled? The soldier didn’t smile. An expression infinitely far from joy marked his face where Lips parted in a pained grimace, revealing teeth pressed together. I almost thought I could see muscles strain and quiver beneath cast skin. A hand held up, not in greeting, but in defense.
It was the image of terror. It was… it wasn’t art; it was a thing. I shivered in a chill that could have come from within me, but it didn’t. It radiated from freezing metal. The temperature in the room dropped fast and I shuddered as my sweat cooled. A film of condensation appeared on the statue. Drops took form and froze, thawed and evaporated in an endless second. I stared at the monstrous work of art. I recoiled from it.

Someone, Ash, touched my arm. Very gently, she gripped my wrist and started to turn me from the lieutenant. For one more moment, frozen in the doorway, I tried to comprehend what I was seeing.
Pooling shadows, once just a deficiency of light below each statue, had turned to something living. They trembled. They darkened and flailed, like wildly gesticulating tentacles of night stretching, contracting. The statues remained still, they were all there, but they were not the same. The shades tried to rip themselves from their source. They could not break free, and however violently they pulled and jerked they couldn’t reach me.
Paralyzed, I watched as they groped and clawed around, struggling to touch… me. My… something. Life? Warmth? A heartbeat? Release.
The grip around my wrist tightened. For one more moment I stood frozen. One by one, each more shocking, more terrifying, the appearance of the statues burned into my mind.

“Roger. Come now.” Ash pulled my arm, pain from nails digging into my flesh seemed distant, just as the sound of her voice seemed far away. Unreal. She pulled and I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist. Unreal. I had to see. I let my eyes glide over them all, and they had all changed.
The laughing soldier with the saber screamed, pleading to the heavens for mercy perhaps. His eyes tore wide open and a leisurely step had become a recoiling from something, or someone. The woman with the drink did not hold it to take a sip as it was tilted and gripped so hard that the slender stem had broken off and lay on the floor, part of the plinth now. The hand that had softly rested on her companions shoulder gripped it hard. Fingers desperately clawing, ripping the seam. The young bride cried brass tears, hunched over as if protecting her thin chest where her arms crossed and hands fisted. The man with the watch no longer checked the time. The timepiece hung frozen from its chain, as limp and lifeless as his arms and head. He was on his way down to the floor in a slide that would never end.
A nightmare. My legs wouldn’t obey. I realized that there was one more shadow, and I was standing on it. I looked down. The darkness cast by the desperate soldier trembled, shivered and stretched. But the tentative movements were sluggish, didn’t reach me. Stunted shades, crippled. They pulled back and faded as they neared the person standing between me and them, recoiling the moment they came too close. Too close…. To her.

Don’t miss Part 5 😀


A Gal Eerie of Desire – Part 3 of 5 — Friday Exhibit

Reading Time: 4 minutes

A Gal Eerie of Desire

Jenny K Brennan

Part 3 of 5
Part 2.
Part 4.

Mild explicit warning. This is for adult readers and don’t say I didn’t warn you. Enjoy.

Part 3 — Friday exhibit

Again, she had company. A woman with skin the color of hot coco, stood close to her. Coco turned to me as I approached the pair on my way to the car. She was stunning. Any other day, I would have stopped to gawk. She was tall, with miles of legs squeezed into black leather pants, High-heeled black boots, and a leather vest covering little. Silver chains wrapped around wrists as well as neck. Dark brown eyes and full dark red lips. More silver adorned an impressive set of dreadlocks.
I barely glanced at her, but stopped, hypnotized by the scene, unsure. Coco grinned and looked me up and down, analyzing my potential. She approved. She chewed on her lower lip and dragged a slender finger along the lining of the vest, opening it a millimeter or two.
I ignored her. Coco wasn’t one to be discouraged. Her grin widened and more of her body met the air, a soft swell of brown skin, the edge of a dark nipple, and the shadow below her breast failed to phase me. I don’t want those. .
I fabricated a smile and turned to my obsession, the only one I wanted. She smiled while shaking her head, but she didn’t take her eyes off me.
Once again I had the sense of being a specimen under a bright light. A specimen who was of specific interest to her but nonetheless only a thing. One that should not speak. Not yet, her eyes seemed to say. I will examine you later, they promised.
Her looks had once more transformed. Today she was in a dark green mini skirt and a minimal top. Her hair had been braided in perhaps a hundred smooth braids and for the first time she wore jewelry, in style matching her friend’s but all in gold. She didn’t need it.
The thought struck me that it could be fun to take them off and play with them on parts of her body that normally didn’t facilitate jewelry.
Coco laughed softly and I turned to her, annoyed at her invasion of my fantasy. She seemed to read my mind. She opened her mouth and extruded a pierced tongue between brilliant teeth. She started playing with the small ball attached to it. Dragging it back and forth on the outside of her front teeth.

I quickly turned back to the other woman and looked into eyes that were still focused on me. She seemed thoughtful. Frowning, she glanced at her friend. She shrugged as if to say, Hay, she’s a friend, what do you do? Turning to Coco, she shook her head. The pierced tongue vanished.
The leather Amazon smiled a bit crookedly, reached for my when had she become my anything? lady, pulled her in and they kissed; soft lips met, bodies moved closer. I caught a glimpse of tongues meeting, a glint of silver.
That’s when I averted my eyes, turned and fled to the car, mentally pounding the bulge in my pants without noticeable result.
No big deal. So she had a girlfriend as well as a boyfriend, and little kids to boot. What the hell was she? Yet somehow I had the fuzzy sensation that she was putting on an act. Creating a scene to entice me. But why me. I was just making things up. Never in my life had a woman affected me in that way. It was more than just being horny, more than just wanting her body. It was something bigger. The only big thing around here is your dick. But I didn’t know what. I couldn’t think straight.
Her teasing woke a beast in me, an ugly part of me I didn’t like. So what? I wanted to know her. Love her. Screw her.

I wondered as I climbed in behind the steering wheel if she teased everyone with her cruel air of sexual mystery or if it was just me. Yeah Roger, you are so special. Aggravated and frustrated, I started the car and watched the two walk away, disappearing around a corner far too quickly. I moved restlessly on the seat and heard a slight crackle. I pulled out a peace of paper from under my ass, stared at it, and my mind went blank as I inhaled. It was a single sheet of white legal paper, folded in half and crumpled after the encounter with my backside. I glanced around and found all windows closed. And the Toyota had been locked hadn’t it? Yes, for sure. Right?
I glanced around; there was no one there, no one on the parking lot. The ice-cream shop seemed abandoned, the street unusually free from both vehicles and people. I looked at the paper again; it wasn’t mine, I knew that much. How did it get in the car? It fluttered as cool conditioned air pushed on it. I unfolded it and found another silent command.
Typed, on an old type-writer judging by the faintly irregular font. Were three lines of text. They told me only what I needed to know and little of what I wanted to learn.

“6262 Thomas Avenue, apt 73
This time tomorrow.

Ash? Ashley? Ashton? I murmured under my breath; “Ash, who the hell are you?” I stared at the letters for a long while. I didn’t know the place, only the street, but it wasn’t far, just across downtown. I still didn’t know who she was. I knew one thing though— I would be there.

Don’t miss the next part.:D


A gal eerie of desire Part 2 of 5 – Thursday exhibit.

Reading Time: 7 minutes

A Gal Eerie of Desire

Jenny K Brennan
Part 2 of 5

Part 1.
Part 3.

Reader discretion is advised. This is for adult readers and don’t say I didn’t warn you. Enjoy.

Part 2 — Thursday exhibit

Fucking hot again, when would this damn summer end? I groaned as the muggy heat enveloped me. I stood still for a second, listened to the door close behind me. My head hurt, either from the heat or from lack of sleep. Or the half bottle of crown Royal I had almost managed to finish last night, that did it. Either way, I felt like shit. And that fucking dyke of a manager had been on my case all day.
Calm down, breathe. I breathed. It’s over, go home.

Go home and do what? Sit and pine for some woman I hadn’t even had the guts to talk to? Dig up one of two porn flicks I had hidden and jerk my poor limb to exhaustion and my brain to oblivion? Hell, if alcohol hadn’t done the trick, why would shooting a load in my hand do it?
I didn’t want to see her. I needed to see her. It was all wrong.
And there she was.

On the same spot, she was real. It hadn’t been a dream. The sight of her was like ice water in a steam cooker. A short lived relief, then the return of pressure building. The restless contents of my stomach tossed and turned, but calmed as I took a few deep breaths. I walked toward my car. The closer I came, my discomfort seemed to ease. The throbbing in my head faded into dull ache, gut rot settled and things looked brighter for every step. I let my shoulders sink and the city-spiced air fill my lungs as I glanced up at the cloudless sky. A fine day. A very fine day. So what if I was delusional and sick in the head? I just needed to look. Just for a moment. Just a little bit. Then it would all be cool.

I stopped at the curb and rummaged through pockets for something that wasn’t there as I took in the apparition. Burned it into my memory, stored it for later exploiting. I spared a split second to glare at the guy next to her. Was that the same one? No, this one was dark. The first one had been a Viking brute, blond and insultingly handsome. Yeah, I remembered now, taller than this little squib.
The squib had his arm around her shoulder, laughing, speaking into her ear. I felt my upper lip twitch. Funny guy eh? I glanced at her. She wasn’t smiling.
He shouldn’t be allowed to trail his fingers along her collarbone, aught to have his nose broken for touching his lips to her ear as he kept talking, smiling, spreading it on thick. Was she falling for the greasepot? Was he gonna get some?

Not until I quit glaring at the squib did I notice that something was missing. No sign of kids anywhere. And then I finally let my greedy eyes absorb her. The dress had transformed into a pair of blue jeans and a white tank top. I stayed at a safe distance and waited for a little while longer before reluctantly heading to the car. The jeans were a perfect fit, the top tight. Still no shoes. What was it with her and shoes?
I wanted to ignore her, but I was getting excited, annoyed by my inability to control my thoughts, my body. Burning, nagging pressure. A swelling needy cock made me self-conscious. A completely uncalled for feeling of shame over my evident need, made me irritated, at myself, and at her.
The way she looked should be illegal. That’s fucking soliciting. I stared as I made my way past. Her skin glowed beneath the white tank top. A red scrunchie, some old girlfriend had taught me that word, as if it was important, held her hair in a pony tail.
My fingers twitched.
I wanted to stroke her neck, trail the curve of her shoulder with my fingertips. Feel the warmth of skin where fabric covered it, just waiting to be removed, by me. I wanted to grab that hair like a leash, pull her close, push her down to kneel in front of me, and I’d push that need in my pants between her lips. Right there on the pavement, in front of her boyfriend.

Yeah, suicidal are you now?
I took a deep breath and almost laughed. Almost. The sudden violent streak in my thoughts surprised me, the aggression that snuck into the fantasy, where my want turned to need to possess. Possess? No, that was not like me. Couldn’t be my thoughts.
But hell, she was totally begging me to open my pants in her face and pull her head hard to show her exactly what she had done to me. Wasn’t she? It was so easy to imagine holding her head, having her look up into my eyes as she wrapped her lips around me, moaning, gripping my shaft with small hands, working that tongue. She wanted it, or why would she look at me that way. Why would she part her lips and give me that wordless invitation to take her, to force her to suck…
Damn right; the slut is asking for it! What are you waiting for? I shoved the inner voice down in the gutter at the back of my mind where it belonged.

The thought disgusted me. Women disgusted me. No, not true. Women simply didn’t stir emotion in me, nor did men. I was just… Asexual, a long faded voice of another forgotten girlfriend echoed in my memory. I didn’t know if that was true. I didn’t care, I didn’t want this…
Then why are your pants so very uncomfortable if…. I nearly choked on a groan and squeezed my eyes shut tight.

After fumbling with the key and viciously jabbing at the air-conditioning knob, I got the Toyota running, let it idle. The air in the vehicle cooled but the heat in my body wouldn’t be persuaded to let up that easily. She was still there, not ten paces away. I refused to look at her.
What the hell is going on?
I gripped the steering wheel and stubbornly kept my head down. Slowly, forced breathing became less strained, almost effortless. Thinking clicked into a frictionless gear, my irritation kicked up a notch as I evaluated the situation.
I didn’t know her. For sure, she was with someone that was not me, would never be me, and I was wasting energy and nurtured frustration for nothing. Nothing. And she knew it. She was teasing me, making me the fool with all the childish fantasies and silly ideas.
But the images wouldn’t leave me alone. Her mouth, red full lips parting. The body, the way she moved. The things I wanted. All the ways I wanted to fuck her. Fuck? Roger, when did you start using that word? I was losing it.,
When I opened my eyes and looked up, she was gone. Disappointment and relief fought an uneven battle within me, but after only a few more seconds I made my way home, trying not to think. Failing miserably.
How would her skin feel under that top, how would it feel to slide my fingers under the lining of those jeans, finding her hip bone, the stretched skin. Did she wear underwear? Would I find lace? Or nothing but smooth skin.
I shook my head. Damn you, who ever you are.

After failing to get anything done at home, finding myself in a distracted daze, I gave up. I turned on the TV, not bothering to find something to watch. I ate a lukewarm microwave dinner from a tray. Neither mindless reality-TV nor empathy numbing newscasts could do anything to sway my mind from the insistent daydream. It rolled, frame by frame, scene after scene, with only one star. As the TV droned on, I closed my eyes, unbuttoned my jeans and immersed myself in the fantasies.
So vivid, so clear were the images of her perfect shapes and the feeling of smooth yielding yet firm skin under my fingers. She undressed for me, eager and oh so horny, and offered me her body. All the time looking into my eyes, urging me to please her, take her, taste her, possess her.
Slowly stroking myself, leaning back on the couch, my greedy hands grabbed her imaginary hips, turned her around, and pushed her upper body down until she stood bent over the coffee table. Naked, sweaty, shivering in anticipation she stood with palms flat against the table top, exposed. Head down, turned so she could still look at me, she watched me, biting her lower lip, as I grabbed her hips. I stroked her back, circled her waist, gripped her and pulled her closer.

As in any perfect fantasy, I waited, didn’t want to hurry, and when I couldn’t wait any longer I slammed into her slippery warm depth. I pulled her hard, easing off and pulling out, as she protested and squeezed tight to keep me inside her. I slid into her again, deeper and harder for each thrust. Desperately taking possession as she tightened around me, urged on by the pimp/porn flick-producer voice residing in the back of my mind.
Oh yeah, looking good. Fuck that slut. So warm, so wet, so eager.
I heard nothing but her shallow breathing, whimpers of pleasure, and frantic begging. She begged me to fuck her, to hold her closer, harder, to take her. She was mine. All of her, I could do what I wanted to her. Anything. I did as she bid, dug my fingers into her hot damp skin and took her body for mine.

It was over too fast, a blast of exhaled tension and sweet release. Throughout my body, nerves flared in climax that turned into shimmering warmth, fading after each twitching aftershock, leaving me liberated of thought as the images faded. I squeezed my softening cock gently as I caught my breath. A moment passed and I felt free from the spell. One moment of bliss before I realized that she would never totally leave my mind. It was a curse. The fucking witch had put a spell on me. Trapped my mind, made me abuse my body, without even buying me a drink first. I laughed. Stingy bitch.
The laughter cut short when I bit down around it, suddenly scared of its desperate tone. I always thought I was better than that. I thought I had control, thought my life was perfect, but I had been so wrong. I was no better than any guy out there who thought their dick was a compass. I was just like them; I was easy prey; a weak male specimen with brains permeated with sex, sex and more sex. Any kind, any position, any place, just not any one. Damn her. She had gotten to me, chained me to my damn desire. She didn’t even know what she had done. Or did she?

I needed to see her again, just wanted to look. Just once more.

To be continued.

Will he? Can he handle it? What does she want? Or is it only in his mind?

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