This Corner Full of Piss & Fear
A Writing Challenge Contest submission by C. Tattiana H-H
They pluck her like a feather.
They drink, they above, they call. They're—
...drinking, drinking, drinking, drinking, type, type O, brother.
Oh, brother, if only you knew.
The worms. They're eating my eyes.
Ants scuttle along my skin. Worms crawl, they creep.
They dine on visions with new eyes.
Creep, creep, creep, creep.
Pull, pull up, brother.
I want to go up.
The ground is stifling. I can't be.
The dirt... it clogs. It stumbles down passages leaving trails of filth.
And when I died, brother, when I died...
Our existence begins with humiliation. We shit ourselves.
The shit and piss is pungent in this cramped place. It shrivels the bosom, brother.
Fucking traditionalists. It's not necessary to bury us.
They just like the idea of it. They hang on to it like their former lives, former times, former ties.
Oh, brother. Type, type A, type, hey, type—
There's a, uh, hmm.
No more breathing.
You don't need it. It doesn't interest you.
But there's a hunger so deep and a thirst so dry it feels as though I'm cracking.
Left foot, right foot, stand up. Crack.
The dirt shifts and I shuffle and the bugs scuttle and it's muddled.
And, brother, oh, brother, if only—if only, brother.
You need something to fill those cracks.
They were calling me. So I spun.
And I was on fire.
Climbing up the walls.
I choked on straight water.
Well you're gonna have to try the real thing.
Those cracks, brother. You need to do something about them.
Time trips along and I climb.
Nails crack, they chip, nails bleed, they burn.
I dig the worms out of my eyes and, ah.
Brother, I ah...
I slant, I tilt, I'm brought outside on the corner.
The house pulsates. It throbs. It's alive, brother!
I hear them.
The shit, brother.
Caked and crusted and crunch-crunching, and.
This corner full of piss and shit and fear, I slant.
Type, type B, type O, type—Oh! the rain, brother.
It washes it all away, brother.
But I'm so hungry, brother! So hungry.
So I slant. I spin. I spun.
Cross the street, stumble in, crack-cracking.
Shoes clip-clipping on the hardwood, I stumble in.
Water and mud trail. Throat on fire and I choke.
Their hearts pump dust.
Type, type O, brother!
"Oh, what a night, what a night, what a night." She's on repeat. She's skipping. She's stuck.
I hear her breathing; smell the sex on her thigh.
Come brother, come, type O.
Oh, you know. You know me, brother.
Clip-clipping, crack, clip-clip.
She smells of yesterday.
Of old magic in new skin and when she breathes she breathes fire and glances ice.
"Chilly out, isn't it?"
She's spoken first and her voice is liquid.
I can almost taste the desperation in her vapid breath.
She's already drunk.
Does it matter?
Doesn't matter, brother.
The cracks, brother. I need to do something about them.
Leather couch. Avoid silver necklace tucked in... out of thought.
Time trips along.
We're drinking, drinkin', drinking, drinkin', type, type A, hey!
I can't, brother... I can't, I'm so hungry.
Type, type O, bro!
Oh, I'm so hungry.
She spills. Says, something.
Oh, brother, if only she knew.
I could laugh. But I'm hungry. And, ah—
Her vein throbs to the beat.
Type, type O, oh!
Oh, brother, oh!
I can't, I can't—but I'm hungry.
So I drink.
I tilt a little and I can feel it rolling right on down.
Drinkin', drinkin', drinkin', drinkin'.
Right down my throat.
And she glances fire.
Type, type, drink, O, drink, O, oh!
O right. Down.
Oh, brother! You know, oh!
And you know what, brother?
Oh, I plucked her like a feather.
I pull back, I above, I fill.
I, brother. I she.
She filled those cracks.
To give credit where it is due as five lines in this piece are not my own, thanks Modest Mouse, Radiohead and The Misfits. Points to those of you who spot those lines.