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quickspinner · 4 years ago

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Lukanette petty 👀👀👀 you have so many ideas!! I'm so impressed!!

To be fair these have been accumulating for more than a year at this point. I do have a lot of random things pop into my head though so you can see why I have to set some aside (or infect others with them--nothing is sweeter to my eyes than someone in the discord going DAMMIT QUICK).

Anyway, I think I wrote this one while I was working on Killer Combo and thinking about Luka’s ex in the band. I also take great joy in the HC that Luka is secretly petty. Not one to really get upset over things, but that doesn’t mean he forgets, and if he has an opportunity to take revenge in a small way, he absolutely will.

Anyway, the idea is pretty fully encapsulated here, but I thought, if I wanted to publish it and get it to be something I was really happy with, I’d have to spend a lot more time on the buildup instead of just summarizing, so that we’re a bit more in the moment with the characters by the time we get to this place. I don’t really feel like it works all that well as it is, and I didn’t have enough motivation to go back and fix it with so many other things I was trying to work on, so I shelved it.

No one would ever accuse Marinette Dupain-Cheng of having good timing. She was always just a little bit off, and it had never stung more than in her relationship with Luka. The phrase ‘two ships passing in the night’ came to mind, except they were more like two drunken skippers doing erratic circles in a pond in the dark, and never quite managing to meet up. Just as she got over her crush, he found a new one, and broke up with her about a month after Marinette had started dating someone new. Somehow their friendship had survived it all, those buried feelings resurfacing for one or the other at all the wrong moments.

And now here they were, both single, and still not able to find the right time. Luka was coming off of a bad breakup with a girl who had left him for a bandmate—without bothering to tell him until she’d been sleeping with said bandmate for nearly a month.

Luka had been hurt badly, though he was oddly philosophical about the whole thing. He told Marinette once that it wasn’t losing her as a person that hurt, because clearly the person he thought she was was just a fantasy, or she’d never have done something like that. It was having his trust broken by both a friend and a lover that really hurt him.

Marinette, who’d been single for some time, after a string of boyfriends who weren’t bad but who just weren’t quite right either, had been quietly devastated when he said he was taking a break from dating for a while. A break which, he made subtly clear, included her. Despite knowing he was right, it took the added knowledge that Luka believed very strongly in honoring others’ choices to keep Marinete from throwing a very immature tantrum at her bad luck. She closed her mouth and smiled the best she could, doubting very much she was fooling him.

Finally they were joking around one day, slightly buzzed on beer and hot wings, being egged on by his sister and her friends, and things were said, and somehow it ended in an agreement, only half-joking, that Luka would forgo his relationship hiatus and date her if she could convince him to kiss her in the next week.

And despite the joking tone, Marinette had done her best.

Now the week was nearing its close, and Marinette found Luka sitting on the steps outside of a party, a nearly-full beer bottle dangling from his fingers.

“Hey,” she said, sitting next to him.

“Hi,” Luka said, setting the bottle on the step next to him.

“Sick of the party?” she asked sympathetically.

“Sick of a lot of things,” he sighed, running his fingers through his hair. Marinette pulled his hands away and smoothed his locks down with her own. “Marinette,” he sighed, as she was distracted by the sight of something behind him—or rather someone walking up the sidewalk in a tight dress, no cheating band member friend in sight. “Look, you know I usually don’t mind this whole game but I’m really not in the mood tonight.” Marinette refocused on him, and realized her hands were on his face, her thumb caressing his cheek absently, and let them slide away as an idea formed in her mind.

“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “If it doesn’t work this time, I’ll stop trying.” She slid closer to him on the step and looked up at him tilting her head to let her hair fall just so and fluttering her lashes teasingly. He raised his eyebrows slightly, but couldn’t help a grin at her silliness.

“Okay,” he sighed, “Give it your best shot.”

“Okay.” Marinette leaned up into his space. “Then I have just a couple things to say and if you still don’t want to kiss me, I’ll leave you alone.”

“I’m listening,” he murmured, and the softness in his eyes was encouraging.

“First, I really, really want to kiss you,” Marinette said, watching him swallow as his eyes drop to her mouth at the words. “And second,” she purred, leaning even closer to whisper, “Your ex is watching.”

His head twitched like he wanted to turn and look, but Marinette knew he wouldn’t. Luka was a chill, mature guy, but there was a lot about him that not many people knew. There was a lot about him that people seemed unwilling to believe because it didn’t fit into their idea of the person he was, no matter how much evidence they were presented with.

But Marinette had known Luka for a long time, had loved him for a long time, and this was something she knew with absolute certainty.

Luka Couffaine was petty.

Given her choice, Marinette wouldn’t have used that against him. She’d rather have had their first kiss untainted by any thought of that woman, but desperate times called for desperate measures and…let’s be honest, she was more than willing to dole out a little payback herself.

So when Luka tilted his head and kissed her, she didn’t quibble, just put her arms around his neck and buried her hands in his hair, parting her lips and letting him take his revenge in whatever way he saw fit.

Marinette certainly wasn’t complaining.

“Is she still there?” Luka panted against her lips.

“Yep,” Marinette giggled, rubbing her nose against his. “And the look on her face is priceless.”

Luka whined slightly. “God I wish I could see it.”

“Whatever makes you happy,” Marinette grinned, sliding into his lap and tugging his face to hers for a soft kiss. When she released him, he was looking right at his ex beyond her ear. Marinette tilted her head invitingly and Luka lowered his mouth to her neck, muffling his laugh against her skin.

“I think she’s turning purple,” he murmured, and then nipped her skin. “You don’t play fair, Marinette, but I can’t even be mad about it. How about dinner tomorrow?”

“Deal,” Marinette said breathlessly, gasping as he began to suck at her pulse. “It’s a date.”

“She’s coming,” Luka murmured, and nearly ruined everything by laughing as Marinette let out a loud, indecent moan while a pair of heels clomped loudly up the step next to them. “You’re the best,” Luka managed, lifting his face to kiss her on the mouth again.

“She’s gone,” Marinette reminded him.

“Does that mean I have to stop?” Luka asked, nibbling on her lower lip.

“Do you...want to stop?” Marinette asked, pulling back to look at him.

“No, not really,” he sighed. “I still don’t think this is the healthiest start for a relationship, but...I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long, I really don’t want to stop.”

“Okay,” Marinette said, a grin spreading across her face. “Then you don’t have to stop, as long as I don’t have to stop either.”

“Deal,” Luka agreed, and their mouths crashed together.

Scratchpad WIPs request list

#wip wednesday #reader request snippet #lukanette #luka couffaine #marinette dupain-cheng

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wild3flow3r · 6 years ago

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Chapter Fifteen

June 3rd

Lorelai is pleasantly drunk. After just downing her sixth drink, she finds herself wrapped up in Harry’s arms with her back pressed against his chest. They are swaying back and forth to some song neither of them know from the live band playing in the overly crowded pub. Lorelai never thought turning twenty-eight would feel this good.

Harry leans down to sing some of the lyrics into her ear, but because he doesn’t know the words it just comes out as a garble of nonsense with a couple words from the real lyrics shining through. The laugh that passes Lorelai’s lips can’t be helped. Harry himself drank past his usual limit tonight. It is a celebration after all, he kept on repeating.

Even when the band ends their set and exits off the stage and everyone else in the crowd disbands, Lorelai and Harry barely move an inch. The soft beating of Harry’s heart into Lorelai’s ear blankets her into a sense of security. Harry’s arms tighten around her, both the one around her shoulders and the other around her torso.

“Whaddya wanna do now, birthday girl?” Harry speaks after a small hiccup.

“Wanna go bowling,” Lorelai murmurs back, loud enough so that her words can just be heard.

Lorelai feels Harry’s chuckles before she hears them. “Too late for that. We can go this weekend though.”

She whines but doesn’t argue with him. “Birthday present?”

Harry grins as he presses a kiss to her shoulder. “We gotta go home for that.”

Lorelai perks up and nods her head instantly. “Home we go then.” She untangles herself from him and makes her way over to her seat at the bar, picking up her purse.

“It’s only ten, we can stay a bit longer,” Harry says, leaning against the bar next to her seat. His eyes stare at her teasingly, but she only glares back.

“No,” Lorelai drags out the ‘o’ for a few syllables. “I want to go home to get my present.”

“But-”

Lorelai presses a finger against Harry’s lips, literally blocking his next words from coming out. “Call a cab.”

He nods his head mockingly before pulling his phone out and ordering a cab like he was told to. By the time he’s done he places a hand on the small of Lorelai’s back and leads her out of the pub for the night. He wraps his arm around her shoulders as they wait for the cab on the sidewalk.

“Can you give me a hint?” Lorelai eventually asks, breaking their short silence.

“Hmm?” Harry replies, looking down at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Can you give me a hint for my present?” she repeats.

Harry scoffs and shakes his head. “No way.”

Lorelai pouts. “Why not?”

“Because we’ll be home in twenty minutes and you’ll see it then.”

“Where have you been hiding it in my flat without me knowing?”

“I just put it somewhere you don’t often go.”

Lorelai frowns while thinking over his words in her head. Finally, she gasps. “You put it in the linen closet?”

Harry bites his bottom lip to hold back a smile and nods.

“How long have you had it there?”

“Put it there about four nights ago.”

“But what if I had to go in there for something!”

“You don’t.”

“But what if I did?”

“Well it’s pretty well hidden in there, just in case you had to go in there, although I was correct in assuming you wouldn’t. That closet is just for show, all the linen’s you usually use are in boxes underneath your bed.”

“I use that closet pretty often, thank you very much. I can’t believe you, hiding my present in my own house. You’re very cheeky.”

Harry gives an over exaggerated bow just as the cab pulls up to the curb. “Let’s go, shall we?”

Lorelai nods and wraps her arm around Harry’s. “Yes, let’s see how well you’ve hid the present in my moderately-”

“Never.”

“-used linen closet.”

***

“You can’t be serious.”

Lorelai’s sat on her bed, now changed into her pajamas after Harry threatened her or else she wouldn’t get the present. He’s since stripped out of his shirt, but still had his trousers on. He’s standing on the other side of the bed, watching her carefully.

“I’m being very serious.”

Lorelai stares at the small velvet box in one of her palms. Inside lay two things. One, a key to Harry’s apartment, and two, a necklace with a small teapot charm attached. Lorelai didn’t know which one to freak out over more. She picks up the key first.

Harry kneels down on the mattress in front of her. “I have to start working later nights now that I’m picking up some business. I won’t always be able to come around everyday anymore, but you could come around mine whenever you feel like it so even when I come home at two in the morning we’ll still be able to spend some time together, even if it’s just sleeping in the same bed.”

The tears well up in Lorelai’s eyes, her lips turning into a pout. “I could come over whenever I want?”

Harry nods enthusiastically. “Every day, if you want to. I’ll clear a drawer out for you in my dresser and everything.”

Lorelai leaps up, wrapping her arms around Harry’s neck and tackling him down so he’s lying on the mattress. She presses kiss after kiss all around his face, Harry breaking down into laughter at her.

“I’ve got to get a key made for you then.” Lorelai brushes her nose against Harry’s.

“I’d ask for a drawer as well, but I already take up a quarter of your closet with some of my suits.”

Lorelai looks up to see Harry’s recent addition to her room in the last couple of weeks. Every time he stayed the night he’d leave a suit behind, and it has started to take up some space recently. Lorelai sits up, but her legs are still straddling Harry’s waist. He remains on his back, staring up at her with hooded eyes. She picks up the box again and takes out the necklace.

It’s a simple necklace at first glance, but as Lorelai takes a closer look she realizes the elegance to it. It’s a round, silver teapot tipped over just slightly, a gold drop of tea falling out of the spout. Lorelai marvels at it, carefully tracing it with her index finger. She pushes her hair to the side and wraps the chain around her neck, securing the jewelry in place with the clasp. She lets it fall to her chest.

“Perfect,” Harry murmurs, reaching up to play with the necklace himself.

Lorelai blushes, because although he’d been playing with the necklace he was staring directly into her eyes. She leans down again to kiss him, but just before she presses her lips to his, Harry flips them around. He holds both of her hands with his, pushing them back into the mattress on either side of Lorelai’s head.

Slowly, softly, Harry trails kisses along Lorelai’s collarbone, his tongue pressing wet spots as he goes along. Once in a while he’ll put some pressure on her skin with his teeth, leaving small bite marks in his wake. Lorelai can never help the small whimper that leaves her lips whenever he does that. Eventually, he makes his way back up so he can press another kiss to her lips.

“You’re the best thing to have ever happened to me, Lorelai Sterling.”

June 27th

Lorelai got to work early today, all thanks to Harry of course. He wanted to get breakfast with her before he had to go in, and he dropped her off in front of the building a full twenty-five minutes before she was supposed to arrive.

“So you’ll come around mine tonight then? Won’t be home until ten, maybe eleven, but we could get breakfast again tomorrow morning together.”

“Sure thing,” Lorelai leaned over the console to place a quick kiss against Harry’s lips. “See you later.”

“Have a good day, Skipper.”

And Lorelai was sure it was going to be a good one, until she stepped off the elevator. Usually when she enters the office, Xavier’s door is slightly ajar and she can spot him leaning over his desk doing some kind of work. Today, it is shut tight, although she knows he’s in there by the small amount of light that falls out through the crack at the bottom of the door. And then there’s a moan, one that makes Lorelai instantly step back in embarrassment from overhearing her boss in such an intimate moment.

Lorelai isn’t sure what to do. She’s started to backtrack from the office, back to the elevator, but suddenly the office door opens and a woman steps out. Both of them freeze. Xavier steps out of his office to see the problem, stopping behind the woman. Their clothes are rumpled and hair a mess, signaling to Lorelai that they had probably been in there for quite some time.

“Lorelai-” Xavier starts, but she’s barely listening to him, because the woman standing in front of Xavier isn’t the woman Harry’s shown her pictures of as his aunt. And that’s not even the worse part.

“Listen, we can explain,” Xavier tries again, but Lorelai’s eyes won’t leave the woman.

“Why?” Lorelai whispers.

“What?” Xavier responds, a furrow to his eyebrows.

“Why?” she repeats, her voice much harsher now than before.

“You can’t tell Harry,” the woman whispers. Laura. Laura Styles. Harry’s mum.

“What?” Lorelai spits out, following quickly with an incredulous laugh.

“He doesn’t know. He can’t know.”

“Why would he care? I mean, he loves you, he wants the best for you, but I’m sure he wouldn’t give a flying fuck that you’re cheating on the father he hates with his Uncle. I mean, it’d be a great fuck you to Zachary-”

“Lorelai,” Xavier cuts her off.

And then it hits her. Lorelai’s never understood the expression ‘like a ton of bricks’ before, but now she does. But instead of all at once, it’s one brick being thrown at her at a time. Each new truth and revelation, all of the clues, hitting her one after another.

“How long?” Lorelai isn’t even sure if they can hear her.

“You have to understand-” Xavier starts.

“How long?” Lorelai yells, her hands balling into fists at her sides.

“Please, don’t tell Harry.” Tears begin to fall down Laura’s cheeks.

“Zachary doesn’t hate Harry for no reason, does he?”

“We messed up one time, but that’s all it took,” Xavier murmurs back. “And my brother knew it wasn’t his because the time frame didn’t add up. But our parents made us hide the secret, they didn’t want a scandal.”

“You have to tell him.”

Laura chokes back a sob. Finally, she says, “We can’t. It would ruin him.”

“Fuck what other people think, he deserves to know!”

“I don’t mean that,” Laura starts again, tears staining her face and her breaths coming out in short pants. “He wouldn’t be able to handle the truth. It would break him. After everything he’s gone through already, he can’t go through something like this.”

“I can’t keep this from him. How would you expect me to keep this from him?”

Laura takes a step towards Lorelai, but she backs away from her. “You love him, don’t you?”

“I-” Lorelai stops herself. They haven’t said it to each other yet, Lorelai didn’t think they would for a while longer, but she knew she did. She did love him. “Yes.”

“You know this will hurt him. If you love him, then you won’t tell him.”

“If I loved him then I would. I wouldn’t hide something like this from him. He deserves to know. He deserves to know that Xavier is his father.”

Both Laura and Xavier flinch at the words. The two of them probably have never spoken the words themselves, and if they have then the last time they did was probably well over three decades ago now.

“You shouldn’t be the one to tell him,” Xavier fights back.

“Then you guys do it!”

“He’s going through so much right now. With his new job and Zachary harassing him almost daily, trying to figure out his relationship with you, this is too much right now.” Laura tries to defend herself, but it just sounds like excuses. She’s probably been making them his entire life, new reasons on why he shouldn’t know.

“I can’t sleep in his bed with him, eat dinner with him, spend any time with him while knowing this. I can’t do that to him. I can’t lie to him.”

“You won’t be lying,” Xavier tries.

“Hiding the truth is lying.”

“Lorelai, you just don’t understand-”

“I understand that I love him, and because of that I understand that he should know this. I know I shouldn’t be the one to tell him, I know doing that might even make him hate me by default, but if you guys loved him, if you care about him just as you claim you do, then you should have told him a long time ago.”

With that, Lorelai finally turns around and leaves the office, leaves the building, and leaves to figure out how to tell Harry.

***

It was nearly noon when Lorelai meets up with Harry. She feels sick to her stomach, but she can’t be with Harry knowing this. Who could?

They meet at a small park, Harry instantly agreeing to meet her after he heard the tremble of her voice over the phone. Lorelai stands up to greet him, lifts her arms up for a hug, but Harry stops a few feet away from her, holding a hand up to ward her off.

“Harry-”

“My mother already told me,” he grits out. “She told me everything.”

Lorelai lets out a breath of relief. She’s thankful that he’d heard it from his mum rather than him. But still, why was he holding her back.

“I’m sorry-”

“Don’t waste your time.”

Lorelai takes a step back, the words physically having pushed her back.

“What?”

“She showed me the emails.”

Lorelai frowns, her eyes hardening. “What emails?”

“The ones to your family.”

“What are you talking about? What did your mother tell you?”

“You put up a really good act these last few months. Pretending you cared about me when all you wanted was my money. My family's money.”

Like a punch to the chest, Lorelai is breathless. It makes sense, really, it does. Xavier has access to Lorelai’s email account, he could’ve created some fake emails as soon as she left the office.

“No, Harry. That’s not what’s happening-”

“And my mother and uncle tried to confront you about it this morning. I can’t believe you, Lorelai!”

“You have to listen to me-”

“What? Why would I want to listen to any more of your bullshit lies. I trusted you!”

“No, Harry, no, they’re lying. They’re lying to you, that’s not what happened.” Her chest heaves, barely being able to breathe. There aren’t any tears yet, but she knows they’ll be here soon.

“They have proof, Lorelai! They’ve sent my proof! You’ve been planning this for months, ever since I fired you from Clemens & Son.”

“No-”

“Don’t bother going back to Xavier’s office anymore, you’re done there. And I want my key back,” Harry holds out his hand.

“You have to listen to me.”

“You can stop pretending now. Just give me the key.”

“Harry-”

“The key, Lorelai!”

For a second, only a second, Harry lets the anger disappear from his face to show the pain. To show the absolute heartbreak he’s feeling in that moment, the same heartbreak Lorelai is suffering. But then, it’s back to anger, ten times worse than he was before.

Lorelai hands over the key, unsure of what else to do. He wasn’t listening to her, he wasn’t giving her the chance to speak. He isn’t going to find out the truth, and Laura made sure of that.

“Goodbye, Lorelai.” Harry steps away, turning around, and walks away with finality. The end of their relationship.

#1dff #cmiyc #cmiyc15 #hahahah this is a big one!!#let me know what you think :)))#can't wait to hear lolol

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the-record-newspaper · 6 years ago

Text

Americana Day draws much talent to The Record Park

Record photos by Larry Griffin

By JERRY LANKFORD

Record Editor

Heidi Holloway made it just in time.

The 17-year-old West Wilkes High School senior, parked her car on Fourth Street and ran to the backstage area of The Record Park.

She had just left her job serving shaved ice from a mobile refreshment stand.

“Barely made it,” she said almost out of breath. She laid her fiddle case on a table, checked the tuning of her instrument, and joined music teacher Larry Skipper on The Sammy Lankford Stage.

And, as always, Heidi played beautifully, closing out the 13th annual Americana Day, which was held Saturday, Sept. 1.

The event, which is hosted by The Record, is held every Labor Day Weekend at The Record Park at the corner of Fourth and E streets in North Wilkesboro. The free-to-the-public festival showcases our region’s youth musicians, 18 years old and under, and also pays tribute to North Wilkesboro’s Blue Ridge Mountain Post 1142 of Veterans of Foreign Wars, and its Honor Guard. The Honor Guard has presided over more than 1,300 veteran funerals.

Kids blew bubbles, drew and wrote with sidewalk chalk and had water fights in the Children’s Play Area. Others dined on hot dogs, hamburgers and chicken sandwiches served by Rogers Café of North Wilkesboro.

Devin Huie, 17, is also a senior at West Wilkes. He was on stage a little earlier in the afternoon. The veteran mandolin player, like Heidi, has won numerous ribbons and awards for his talents at various fiddles conventions and other venue.

Skipper, who help co-organize the event, pointed out that Devin has played at every Americana Day since the first one in 2005. From 2006 onward, the festival has been exclusively for youth musicians.

Sadly, Devin and Heidi will soon age out of Americana Day.

There was musical magic throughout the day.

Fiddler Mallie York’s vocals on “You Ain’t Woman Enough to Take My Man,” as she was backed on guitar by brother, Brody. The York family came from Mount Airy to play.

Another out of town act, One Fret Over, wowed the crowd with the tight bluegrass stylings.

Wilkes County’s Ralston Family – father Rich, mother, Cindy; and children Corin; Adelynn; Grace; and Elisha returned to Americana Day for the third year. This year, there was an additional Ralston – 8-month-old Everlee. She rested in a baby backpack-type apparatus on her father’s back during the family’s performance.

Yes another band, Wyld Fern – which included singer/fiddler Lake Carver, brother, guitarist Brant Wimmer, and bassist Owen Combs, lit up the stage Saturday afternoon, particularly Lake’s vocals on the Osborne Brothers’ classic “Ruby.”

Libby Harbour played The Star Spangled Banner beautifully on her fiddle during the noon-time flag raising ceremony officiated by VFW Post 1142’s Honor Guard, which included member Ward Eller who participated in the service despite being ill for the past several months. Post Chaplain and Honor Guard member Larry Reavis gave the invocation and led the Pledge of Allegiance.

“We were all glad to see Ward today,” said Post Commander Foyst Blackburn.

Other performers at Americana Day included: Adelyn Walker, Conner Blevins, Luke Bumgarner, Lilly McNeil, Ethan Winebarger, Cali Johnson, Cooper Morris, Payton McManus, Haley Ball, Carolina Robertson, Carrie Lowe, Emma Lowe, Evelyn Day, Jasmine Rosario, Andrew Barlow, Akayla Webb, Sarah Rose Norris, Ryan Church, Janaya Collins, Sophia and Ava Hoeh, Laney and Lyla Moffitt, Kyley Mathis, Luke and Laura Macemore, Maddie Gambill, Ty and Zoey Parker, Chance Mastin, Brenna Myers, Jake and Robert Myers, Austin Blackburn, and Kayla and Caleb Rhodes.

Skipper and Adam Younce managed the sound system.

The weather was warm and occasionally overcast with thunder looming along the Yadkin River near the end of the day, but nary a drop of rain fell during the event.

After Heidi left the stage, she hugged friends, then, before darting off to her car, she was overheard saying, “I love playing here. It’s one of my favorite places.”

The next Americana Day will be held on Saturday, Aug. 31, 2019. ChickenFest will be held Memorial Day Weekend 2019. For more information about events at The Record Park, call The Record at 336-667-0134.

The Record extends a special thank you to Larry Griffin, a regular feature contributor to the paper, who recorded the festival in photographs.

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allofbeercom · 7 years ago

Text

Trump says he is ‘kicking ass’ in Florida – but will his crowds vanish at the polls?

Polls have shown that the Republican frontrunner is leading the pack, but many attending a rally for him this week said they were just there for the show

Donald Trump looked across a crowd of 12,000 screaming people on Wednesday night and, for just a moment, he seemed shocked by his own success.

Trump is kicking ass in Florida, he said. Can you believe it?

If Trump is splitting the Republican party, the fault line runs across Floridas geographic corner. People here say of the southern peninsula, the farther south you go, the more north you get its a land of snowbirds and retirees and New Yorkers. But the states panhandle, to the west, identifies more closely with neighbors Alabama and Georgia, and with hunters and military veterans.

Trump knows how to find an audience. He made his first Florida campaign stop at the Pensacola Bay Center, in the far west of the state, surrounded by numerous naval and air force bases. His strategy became clear as a series of introductory speakers took the stage. They included retired naval captain Allen Brady, who spent six years as a prisoner in Vietnams infamous Hanoi Hilton, and retired army ranger Gary ONeal, who claims that he once decapitated a man with his bare hands, then threw the head at another enemy. He told the crowd how he bled on seven continents, which quieted the room for a moment while people did the math to include Antarctica.

The clearest outline of Trumps appeal came from Kathryn Gates-Skipper, the first female marine to fight in combat. She talked about her veteran husbands struggle to claim benefits after a duty-related injury, and then leaned into the microphone. Donald J Trump is gonna fight for his veterans, right? The crowd exploded.

After the introductions, the Bay Centers speaker system pumped out Eye of the Tiger, and Trump emerged to the sort of screaming welcome usually reserved for boy bands. He worked his way slowly toward the podium, arriving halfway through the second verse.

Amazing! Amazing! he said.

His speech lasted about 70 minutes and he did not use a teleprompter. Instead he roamed across subjects in what has become his trademark campaign style, offering broad declarations:

Really dishonest people. Bad people, he said, gesturing to the press area.

Later: The Persians are great negotiators.

And: So we have a president whos African American. Great. I love that.

And: Theyre great people, the evangelicals.

And of Mexico: One way or another, mark my words, theyre gonna pay for the wall.

The declarations came in packets, in call-and-response form, so the crowd could respond with boos (Persians) and cheers (the wall). The talk didnt arrive at any destination or offer any solutions, but the general theme was of toughness and winning, about leveraging Americas might against China, Mexico, Iraq, Iran, Europe in general, Syrian refugees, and the audio engineer who installed Trumps microphone.

I dont like this mic, he said midway through the speech. Whoever the hell brought this mic system, dont pay the son of a bitch that put it in Dont pay em. Dont pay em. You know, I believe in paying, but when somebody does a bad job like this stupid mic you shouldnt pay the bastard. Terrible. Terrible. Its true. And youve gotta be tough with your people So, were not going to pay. I guarantee, Im not paying for this mic.

The crowd cheered wildly: hes tough on audio issues.

There was one brief scuffle with protesters, who chanted Fuck Trump and waved a poster bearing his name and a giant middle finger. But Trumps security force, which was pervasive, hustled them from the auditorium in seconds. Most people didnt seem to realize anything had happened.

What remains unclear is whether any of it the crowds, the declarations, the cheers will mean anything in voting booths. In November, a Florida Atlantic University poll found Trump leading the Republican pack at 36%, far ahead of Senator Marco Rubio of Florida at 18% and the states former governor Jeb Bush, at just 8.9%. But many in the Pensacola crowd said they just came to the rally for a show.

Casey Geloneck, a young pilot from the Pensacola area, said he didnt plan to vote for Trump, but came for the spectacle, mostly, and to hear what he has to say.

Is there anything Trump could say to win his vote?

Yeah. Gimme some details. Any kind of plan, Geloneck said. Hes all about the platitudes. Thats asking me to trust someone without knowing what hes going to do.

In the end, he said, he expects hell vote for Rubio.

That was common, among even the supporters waving Trump placards; they wanted to vote for someone else but came to see the show, especially considering Trumps commanding lead in polls over other Republican candidates. I planned to vote for Ben Carson, said Marcello Caridi, who runs a ministry in Pensacola and said Carsons spiritual side appealed to him. But its just not happening.

The day before Trumps appearance in Florida, Barack Obama made an oblique but clear reference to Trump in his final State of the Union address, saying: Thats not telling it like it is. Its just wrong. It diminishes us in the eyes of the world, which may not be surprising from an outgoing president.

But then South Carolinas governor, Nikki Haley, a rising Republican star, delivered the mainstream GOP response and stiff-armed Trump just as firmly. Some people think that you have to be the loudest voice in the room to make a difference, she said. Thats just not true.

Her speech signaled a shift in the party, and it didnt escape the attendees at Trumps rally. The establishment seems to be saying, We dont want any part of that, Geloneck said.

After the rally, a small group of protesters assembled on a sidewalk outside the Bay Center. They decried Trumps plan to temporarily ban all Muslims from entering the country. A Trump supporter emerged from the building and immediately clashed with the knot of protesters: A buddy of mine died two months ago, courtesy of who? The hajis, he shouted, using battlefield slang for Muslims. His name was Andy Kermpy, and he wore a military haircut and camouflage jacket Trumps targeted demographic for the night.

What if I told you I was Muslim? the protester shouted back.

Id say Im sorry, you want to go out and get some bacon?

Kermpy walked away, yelling toward the sky, Bikinis! Bacon! And beer!

But a few minutes later, asked whether he plans to vote for Trump, Kermpy dialed back his bravado. Ill say, I love the guy to death, he said.

So hell vote for Trump?

I wanted Ben Carson, he said, almost whispering. He was a childhood hero of mine, as a brain surgeon. But he doesnt have the funding and the connections.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/trump-says-he-is-kicking-ass-in-florida-but-will-his-crowds-vanish-at-the-polls/

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lashofer · 8 years ago

Text

Damselfly

April

The black vinyl smells like Windex and rubbing alcohol. Through the thin sterile paper, my hollow stomach is cold. The doctor sets down his clipboard and retrieves a pair of latex gloves from a nearby cupboard. They’re not a trendy black like at the shop, but white, turned peach with the skin underneath. Snap. Powder in the air.

He sits down on a stool and hovers over my back. I haven’t eaten in two days. Ever since Alex, I haven’t been able keep much down. Ten months ago – that’s when I met him. Almost six months since I’ve had this thing etched on my back.

“Quite the work you've got, here,” the doctor says. I knew his name when he introduced himself, but it’s gone now.

“Can you get rid of it?” I ask.

“Black pigment is the easiest to remove. In four to six sessions, it should be gone; this looks like amateur work.”

Alex wasn’t an amateur. He was rushed. Distracted.

This clinic isn’t anything like Alex’s shop. There aren’t any sugar skulls and pin-ups, graffiti art or display cases full of gauges and tapers for stretching. It’s more sterile, cold. White, blue and fluorescent.

It’s not soon enough. If it wouldn’t leave behind a terrible scar, I would have cut it out of my skin months ago.

The doctor presses an ice pack over my side and readies the laser like a paintbrush. He glides it over the dips between my ribs. It blinks in sporadic jolts. Every blink is a hot rubber band against my skin. Every blink fades the black into moldy green.

My father was an artist. An insect taxidermist before the osteoporosis became debilitating. He arranged butterflies in patterns on white backgrounds, shiny blue and green beetles in pinwheels, and framed them as gifts. He worked at the town hall’s insect gallery. As a kid, I used to go out with him into uncultivated fields, searching for Tumbling Flower Beetles and Snakeflies. We’d store them in Tupperware and mason jars until we got home, and then would throw them in the freezer to avoid damaging their fragile bodies. Sometimes we fumigated them using sawdust soaked in ethanol. Nail polish remover worked in a pinch.

I visited the gallery a couple of months ago. Gazed at the Melissa Blue butterflies suspended with thin wire, Carpenter Ants pinned down through their thoraxes into white foam. I tried to remember which ones I collected with Dad, but all I could see were the pins. Drawers and drawers of display cases, clear glass meant for gazing. Flower Flies and Milkweed Bugs. Paper wasps, dragonflies and Arctic Skippers. Wings spread out and stabbed.

I resist the urge to rub my wrists in concentric circles. They feel tight, squeezed, held down. The bruises are still there, even if my wrists are healed.

The blinking stops, and so does the pain. “Alright,” the doctor says. The tattoo is faded, but still there. I can still see the angry word, with its rough edges and incomplete blocks. He puts a bandage over the wound, and I bring my t-shirt back down over my stomach.

I walk up to the receptionist and pay. Two hundred dollars. Sixteen hours outfitting mannequins, cleaning out change rooms and cashing out.

I zip up my hoodie and walk into the 7-Eleven next door. I don’t have any Ativan with me, and I’ve heard that smoking helps. Maybe the shaking will stop. I walk up to the counter and buy a plastic Bic lighter and a pack of strawberry-flavoured cigars that Montana used to smoke in our high school smoke pit.

Outside, I fumble with the lighter’s metal wheel, careful to not pull in too much smoke. It goes straight to my head, and my stomach flips. The smoke burns in my nostrils, and I push it out like a fidgeting dragon. It’s still cold outside, and my kneecaps rattle.

My phone buzzes.

“Sam?” The text is from a number not listed in my contacts. It doesn’t matter; I’ve memorized it anyway. I thought he would have given up by now.

Last June

I stood outside of K-Town Liquor, sweating in my sneakers. It was warm, and I felt stupid holding the multicolored horse piñata we had just bought from the dollar store.

Montana was inside, flirting with the guy doing retail. I could see her through the window, foot cocked behind her as she leaned on the counter. She tossed her blonde hair to the side. Three bottles of tequila and a pile of miniatures were on the counter – little bottles of Jäger, Triple Sec and Baileys. Maybe for the piñata, I thought. Montana didn’t tell me what it was for. She just told me to hold it until the party.

Montana had just gotten back from visiting her sister in Vancouver. She stole her sister’s driver’s license off her desk. Spent an entire afternoon alongside her and her husband, looking behind couch cushions and air vents in the floor. Montana said that a workable fake I.D. was worth an afternoon of labour.

We were both sixteen when she moved out last year. Her dad was ex-military. Once he found out that she was sneaking her boyfriend, Chris, into her room every night, she had to choose whether to move out or move to Calgary with her aunt. She convinced a landlord that she was eighteen – that was easy, almost everyone else assumed she was – and she got a job at Earl’s wearing black minis.

I met her on the first day of honours math. She wasn’t good at it, but she wanted to impress Chris. I let her copy down all my answers during quizzes – she wouldn’t have ever talked to me otherwise. I was shy, fifty pounds overweight, and couldn’t hold a conversation. Being the Bug-Man’s daughter didn’t help. But she needed a math tutor to pass, so I started to come over on weeknights. She got a kick out of getting me to identify the species of spiders that were in her apartment. Thought it was cool that I could pick them up with my bare hands to take them outside.

I squinted through the window. She gave the cashier a wad of twenties, took the change and stuffed it into her mini-shorts, and carried the white bag outside, bottles clanging.

She smiled and held up the bag.

“I can’t believe you just did that.”

Her smile widened. “I know.”

A black pickup pulled up in front of the store, Chris in the passenger seat. Montana ran over to his side and yanked the door open. Kissed him on the mouth.

I stood on the sidewalk, held onto the piñata, and since I was staring anyway, waved to the guy driving.

Chris had his tongue in Montana’s ear. The driver barked something to them, and they got in the backseat. He rolled his window down.

“If you’re not too grossed out to sit in the passenger seat, it’s free now.”

“Thanks.” I sat down and shoved the horse between my feet. The driver had dark wavy hair that came to the nape of his neck, and was wearing a grey collared shirt rolled up his forearms. He had a sleeve of traditional tattoos. Sparrows, bannered hearts and nautical stars. Pin-ups.

He put the truck in reverse and turned onto the highway. Turned on the radio to drown out the smacking sounds from the backseat. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Sam.”

“She’s my math tutor,” Montana yelled. I heard a seal break from behind me. The smell of tequila wafted forward.

“I prefer Sam,” I said.

He laughed. It was warm. Comforting. “That has a nicer ring to it.”

“Who’re you?” I asked. Felt my cheeks go hot.

“I’m Alex. Chris’ older brother.” He pulled up the turning signal.

I nodded and fiddled with the vent on the dashboard.

He followed my gesture. “I like your bracelet.”

Surprised, I took my hand away from the vent. It was hemp, interwoven with beads, feathers, and a jackalope charm. “Thanks. It was my mom’s. She used to have a shop downtown.”

“Oh yeah? Which one?”

“It had lots of artisanal stuff. Jewelry, paintings from local artists. Wolves with hooves, geese with Pomeranian tails, that kind of thing.”

My dad was a weird mixture between an artist and a scientist. Maybe that’s why she liked him.

“Was it on Leon?”

I looked up sharply. He had dark eyes; his pupils were almost the same colour as his irises. “Did you know it?” I asked. “It was called Gilligan’s.”

“Like the island, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I remember it. The walls were painted with fish and bubbles.”

“Yeah, she had a thing for the ocean.”

He looked at my bracelet again. “And jackalopes.”

I smiled. “Right, jackalopes.”

“My shop is right next to it,” he continued, eyes back on the road. “It’s a sushi place now.”

I went down Leon sometimes, even though Dad didn’t like it. There were a lot of shopping carts, sleeping mats, and panhandlers. But I felt closer to her, even if the sign wasn’t there anymore. There was still a shadow of a large capital “G” underneath the logo of a maki roll. I ate there, sometimes. Pretended that she was still there, wearing a full-length skirt and hair extensions. She would take my hand and tell me about Kelowna’s emerging artistic talent. Show me which pieces weren’t for profit. Try to convince me to work the register while she beaded glass onto hemp string.

Then I’d finish my veggie tempura, pay, and leave. Remember the clumps of hair on the bathroom sink, the lingering smell of bile.

“Your shop. It just says ‘Tattoo’ above the door, right?” I asked. It was nondescript. Black lettering stencilled straight onto the stucco.

“Yeah. Hey!” he yelled at the Jeep in front of us. Jammed his fist onto the horn.

I pressed into the back of the seat.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” he continued. “I thought about calling it ‘No Ragrets,’ but it felt too cliché.”

“You could always add a subtitle.”

He laughed.

Montana stuck her head through the partition. “I forgot to show you.” She shoved her wrist in front of my face. It was inflamed, but a new tattoo was there. A tiny pink heart, outlined in black. “Isn’t it cute? Alex did it for me yesterday. It only took like ten minutes.”

“Cute,” I echoed, not knowing what else to say. I imagined it stretched, wrinkled and old.

Alex looked at me again. “If you ever want to get any work done, I’ll give you a great discount.”

I looked at his tattooed arm again. Felt like a child.

Montana’s apartment was terracotta and brick, with seventies wood panelling. She had a lumpy brown couch and a TV with only half of its screen working. An old Friends rerun was on, but only half of Chandler’s face was showing. Uncomfortable with the number of people who had shown up already in her small apartment, I went to the kitchen on the pretense of getting some water.

“Sam,” Montana called through the bar window. “Can you start the margaritas?” She was filling the piñata with Lindor chocolate truffles and the booze miniatures.

“Sure,” I said. I had no idea what was in a margarita, except that they were pink, and sometimes green. I plugged in the blender.

Alex came in behind me as I inspected the bottle of margarita mix. “Need any help?”

“Uh, sure.” I wasn’t sure why he would want to. There were prettier, shorter, drunker girls in the next room.

He went to the freezer and brought out a bag of ice. I hadn’t noticed before, but his fists were lacerated and bruised.

“What happened to your –”

Through the bar window, Montana screamed, “I forgot! We have nothing to whack this thing with!”

“Don’t worry,” Alex said, and left to get a baseball bat from the trunk of his car.

May

I’m at the gallery again, looking at a half-moulted damselfly that Dad and I caught seven years ago. It was clutched to a cattail stalk, and just starting to uncurl its abdomen from its old exoskeleton. Now it’s brown and shrivelled, but when it first emerged, the new form was green as a plant shoot.

My ribs ache from my last tattoo-removal session. There’s still a faint outline of a “W,” but the doctor said that my white blood cells will do the rest. They’ll carry the smaller ink particles to my liver.

“Sam?”

I look up from the display case. It’s Marianne, one of the gallery’s curators. She and Dad dated for a while – she used to come over for Sunday brunch and late-night Scrabble. I fiddle with my bracelet’s charm.

“God, I didn’t even recognize you.” Her face is wrinkled now, curly brown hair streaked with grey. She looks concerned, excited.

“Oh,” I laugh. “Pilates.” I leave out the hours I’ve spent leaning over porcelain.

“That would do it!” she exclaims. Her hair bounces, and her horn-rimmed glasses slide down her nose. “Which studio do you go to?”

I laugh again. “It was really nice to see you, Marianne, but I’ve got to get going.” I squeeze her arm. “I’ll come by sometime soon. Maybe we can do coffee.” The words are involuntary. I have no intention of following through; I’ve already bought my plane ticket, and my bags are almost packed. I found a decent apartment in downtown Vancouver, and there’s a coffee shop nearby that has agreed to do an interview whenever I arrive.

“Sure, honey. Tell your dad that the gallery isn’t the same without him.”

I straighten the strap of my purse over my shoulder and walk out the big glass doors. Dodge the hornets’ nest and the suspended black and yellow insects. The old angry words.

Last July

Alex was tattooing a wasp on someone when I first visited him at the shop. He hovered over the man’s neck, pushing the tattoo machine back and forth in short lines. His dark wavy hair hovered over the work. He wiped ink and blood away once every few strokes. His black gloves looked painted on.

The walls were covered in holographic images, spray-painted canvases and penciled portraits. I turned around to go back outside the moment I heard the buzz of tattoo machines. Montana needed help studying trig more than I needed to talk to a guy I had a crush on.

The receptionist called me before I made it to the doors. “Do you have an appointment?”

Alex looked up. Wiped his hair away from his forehead with a tattooed forearm. “Oh hey, Sam! Give me a minute – I’m almost done.” Push, push, wipe.

The receptionist gave me an anxious look.

I browsed the different display cases filled with metal bars and colourful plastic tapers, spiral wooden earrings and navel barbells. I pictured my unpierced earlobes stretched and droopy, pinned to the foam underneath the glass.

“Hey.” Alex was next to me, eyes on the Hello Kitty-stamped barbell I was looking at. He smelled like metallic ink and cologne. “What are you doing here?” His dark eyes were playful.

“I’m not really sure,” I admitted.

He laughed. “That was my last client.” He looked me up and down. “Hungry?”

“Sure.”

He opened the door for me and grabbed my hand.

Last September

Alex’s apartment was white. Sterile, purposeful, full of angles and sharp edges. His charcoal sketches were hung on the walls in neat rows behind identical black frames and museum-grade glass. Three inches apart on each side. He had a leather couch, hardwood floors, chrome appliances, and a large television. A queen-sized bed, bedside table, shaded lamp, and dresser in the other room.

I had been there for two weeks, and hadn’t been home in four. Dad was frustrated that he couldn’t be out in the field; he could hardly get out of bed and make it to the gallery with his bones grinding. Stacks of used clothing, mounting paper, embalming fluid and medication towered over him from every side. Half-empty bottles of bourbon and calcium. He hardly noticed when I left or came back anymore, and the food in the fridge was rotten. I was sick for three days after I ate a ham and cheese sandwich. I lost five pounds and figured I was onto something.

I stayed with Montana for the first two weeks until I couldn’t handle the loud sex or the smell of old vomit and beer anymore. She gave up trying to graduate on time, and she and Chris wanted the place to themselves.

I came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my head, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. The leftover water droplets on my face were cold in the air conditioning. Alex liked the chill.

He was on the couch, sketching a pinup with long wavy hair and face painted to look like a sugar skull. She was wearing a tight corset with Frangipani flowers decorating her hips and hair.

“She’s pretty.”

He smirked. “I’ve been inspired lately.”

“Cute, but she looks nothing like me.” Add another forty pounds and a face of freckles. Then we could start comparing.

He put the sketchbook down. Grabbed me around my hips and lowered me onto the couch. The towel came undone, damp strands of hair unravelling onto the leather.

“Does too.” His chest was reassuring against mine. His fingers entwined through my hair. He bit my lower lip, pulled away and let go. “Staying home?”

I was already going to be late for English. Wasn’t planning on going for History. “I was thinking that I might go see my dad.” I doubted he had eaten anything all day; I could stop at McDonalds.

He sat up and looked at me. “Don’t you want to spend time with me?” His eyebrows were creased.

“Of course I do.”

“No, you don’t. You just said you want to leave.”

I sat up, brushed the damp strands out of my face. “Why are you getting so upset?”

“I thought you only needed me.”

“I –I do. But he needs me. He's all alone in that crowded townhouse, surrounded by dead insects and broken picture frames.”

“There must be something you need that I'm not giving you. Tell me what you want, Sam. I can't read your mind.”

I didn’t know what to say. Alex still had that pained look on his face. I didn't want to abandon him.

June

The gallery isn’t the same without him. Marianne’s voice rings in my head to the tune of the bus’s high-pitched whine. The skyscrapers of downtown Vancouver flicker past in muted colours, metal and glass. I haven’t seen anyone since I moved. Didn’t even speak to Alex before I left. Freed from isolation, I have new skin, lasered and thin. Moulted.

A small, strange green insect steps across the window in front of my vision. At first, it seems like an apparition. It’s too bright. No native vegetation would be able to disguise it.

I reach for my phone and dial.

“Hello?”

“Dad, it’s Sam.”

“Sam?” he asks. “Where are you?” He sounds slurred, but not incoherent.

“I’m on the bus. I’m looking at a really weird insect. It kind of looks like a stink bug, with a shielded body. But it’s green. Bright green, like an apple. And it has pink petal designs around its abdomen. And small. Almost like a ladybug.”

“Hmm.”

“Dad?”

“Mm?”

“Do you know what it is?”

“It sounds like a nymph. Maybe a southern green stink bug. But that can’t be right.”

“Southern as in South American?”

“Mm. I don’t know what it’s doing way out there.”

I pause. “Me either.”

“Come home, Sam.”

The stink bug continues to walk across the glass. A middle-aged man spots it, and his thumb starts to move toward the glass.

“Stop!” I yell, and reach in my bag for my leftover Tupperware container. It still smells like thousand island dressing. I nearly feel the lettuce coming up again. I wipe it out with the bottom of my blouse.

The man looks at me like I’m out of my mind. I don’t care. I tap the insect into the container, close the lid, and place it at the bottom of my bag. I hope it will be okay until I get home.

I lift the phone back up to my ear, but nobody is there.

The bus stops, kneels, and a woman with a stroller gets on. It’s Montana, blonde hair dyed greasy brown. She’s in a faded pull-over hoodie, face covered in acne. I didn’t even know she lived here. Maybe she moved out here to be with her sister.

“Transfer, please.” Her baby shrieks.

Before she notices me, I collect my bag and stand up. She probably wouldn’t recognize me, but I don’t want to take the chance. I blend into the crowd by the door, and get off the bus.

I’m on Robson. Tall buildings filled with boutiques and cafes are on either side of the street. The sun is bright, and reflects off the windows like mirrors. I decide to catch the next bus at a stop a few blocks down. I wish I wasn’t wearing heels.

As I pass a Starbucks, a woman in jeans and a white leather jacket approaches. Her large sunglasses make her look like a praying mantis.

“Hi there,” she says through a tight, bleached smile. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

I hesitate a second too long.

“Have you ever considered modelling?”

I can’t help but laugh. “No.”

“You’re really beautiful, you know that?” She rifles through her bag.

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Here. Take my card.” She hands it to me, simple text on a white background: Margot Sheffield. Prima Model Management.

“Call me if you’re interested.” Margot walks away, stilettos clicking on the pavement.

Last October

Alex had been in bed for fifteen hours. He and Chris were at the shop last night tattooing drunken messages on each other. Chris dropped him off this morning and shoved him onto the bed. Showed me a new rabbit tattoo on the sole of Alex’s foot. It was warbled, with broken lines and incomplete shading.

I shook my head. “At least nobody will see it.”

“It was for practice,” he said, adjusting his baseball cap. “If I get good enough, he said I’ve got a job.”

“That’s great.” I’d never known him to have a steady job. Nor did he have artistic promise.

“Yeah. Well, see ya.” He gave me a sour, stubbly kiss on the cheek and left.

I spent the day watching TLC and going through one of Alex’s sketchbooks. A row on the bookshelf was full of them, identical with black covers.

Bored, I got a glass out of the cupboard and filled it with cold tap water. Drank half, filled it again, and walked into the bedroom. Alex grunted. I put the glass on the bedside table and snuggled up behind him. Breathed in his hair and tucked my nose behind his earlobe. His shirt was damp despite the chill.

“Alex,” I whispered.

Nothing.

“Alex. Wake up.”

“Mm.” He grunted and rolled over.

I left the bedroom and went to the kitchen again. Grabbed a leftover box of pizza from the fridge and ate three cold slices at the kitchen table. Still empty, I went to the cupboard and grabbed a box of double-stuffed Oreos. Went back to the kitchen table and ate two rows. Peeled each one apart, grated the icing away with my teeth, and crunched through the rest.

I went into the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror. Adjusted my top and pinched my sides. I lifted the toilet seat and kneeled. I didn’t even need to use my fingers anymore.

Something in the garbage can caught my attention. A dark-coloured cotton ball, and underneath, the black numbers of a syringe.

Last November

Alex was sketching on the couch again. I slipped out of my heels and manoeuvered behind him, wedging myself between him and the black leather. I put my arms around his neck and peered over his shoulder to get a better view.

He stiffened and shrugged me off, taking the charcoal sketch to a different cushion. The white paper was indented with harsh, black lines.

He didn’t look up. “It took you a while to get back.”

“Yeah,” I said, trying to keep my tone even. “I was at my dad’s.”

His fingers were black, and the charcoal crumbled under the force of his strokes.

“Look, Alex. I don’t need to justify seeing my dad. If I didn’t go over there once in a while, he would survive on potato chips and booze.” I was frustrated. Feeling bold.

He looked up, eyes blazing. They were dilated. A layer of sweat covered his skin. “I don’t think you went over there today.”

The accusation took me off guard. “But I was.”

His eyes glazed over, and stared too hard at a spot on the couch.

I leaned over to look into his face. “Are you okay?”

“Why would you lie to me? Don’t you care about me?”

“Of course I do.”

“Do you think I don’t know where you go? I’ve seen the way you look at other guys, wearing your new slutty clothes.”

“Excuse me?” I had to buy new clothes; the old ones were too big for me now.

“I think I feel more alone now than I ever did.”

I should have left right then, but I thought I could talk him down.

“I’m here with you,” I insisted. “I don’t want anybody else.”

He whipped around, and I felt his hand slam into my jaw.

Face first on the opposite end of the couch, I was too stunned to say anything.

“I thought you were different,” he was saying. “You’re the same.”

He had been explosive before, but never violent. I had never felt like I was in danger.

I stood up and started for the door.

He jumped in front of it. “They should know how much of a whore you are.”

“Who? What are you talking about?” I wiped one of my cheeks. My hand came away black with mascara.

He grabbed my wrist. Dragged me into the bedroom. I tried to grab onto the doorframe. Slipped. “They should know,” he repeated, voice broken. Over and over again. He threw me on the bed and ruffled through a nearby duffel bag. Came out with a pot of ink and his tattoo machine.

He forced my face into a pillow. I couldn’t breathe. I screamed and thrashed, tried to get a hold of the bed frame, but he was strong. Heavy.

I was dizzy. The cotton pillowcase was wet and salty. My lungs screamed for oxygen. Blackness was closing in on my vision. I tried to pry his hands away. And then nothing.

When I woke up, my ribs felt like they had been ripped into by a dull box cutter. The back of my head ached like I had been hit again. Maybe I had been. The tangy smell of him was all over the bed sheets. The shower was running, and the tattoo machine was still plugged in, thrown to the floor.

I felt my breath coming in short gasps, and put a hand over my mouth to stop. I needed to get out without him noticing.

My shirt was on the floor in a heap, torn at the neckline. I slipped it on, winced as I stretched. My pants were still on.

I tiptoed past the bathroom. The steam underneath the bathroom door met my bare feet. I grabbed my heels and purse in one hand, and glided the door latch open with the other. Pulled on the knob. The door creaked, and the shower curtain skirted open.

“Sam?”

I ran down the hallway, gasping before I was out of breath. Took the staircase, the concrete cold on my pounding feet.

I reached the bus stop just as the bus pulled in. Dropped some coins in the slot and sat in a seat next to the window. Curled into a ball and buried my face in my hands.

Fifteen minutes later, I looked up and pulled on the yellow cord. Got out at the next stop.

I was in front of Dad’s townhouse. The grass was un-mowed, and metal legs of the pink flamingo lawn ornaments were bent, their beaks hidden in the foliage. His rundown SUV was parked in the driveway.

As I walked in, I smelled booze and something rotten. I heard the Gilligan’s Island theme song in the next room, Dad humming along. Picture frames filled with mounted butterflies and moths were crooked on the walls, piled with weeks of dust. An insect graveyard. Piles of boxes were everywhere. Broken lamps, books and clothing.

My wrist throbbed where Alex had dragged me.

I snuck past the room and went upstairs to my old bathroom. My shirt was stuck to the wound, plasma and blood staining the yellow fabric brown. In the mirror, bruises on my jaw and neck were forming, pink circular splotches. There were ten of them, but I could only see the thumbs.

I took my clothes off, wincing as the fabric separated from my skin. The word was encrusted with blood and unwiped ink.

After showering, I padded down the carpeted hallway to my bedroom. My bed was covered in newly acquired thrift store items. I found a set of pajamas, locked the door, cleared a space to lie down, and slept for two days.

Dad didn’t know I was there. I stepped out for groceries once I woke up, using a twenty I found on my dresser. Milk, eggs, cereal, antibacterial liquid soap, gauze and medical tape. I’d seen Alex do aftercare on new tattoos before. It wouldn’t be hard to replicate. I made sure to wear a long sleeved shirt and a scarf.

Dad walked into the kitchen, confused at the smell of fried eggs and buttered toast. “Morning,” he said. It was four in the afternoon.

“Hi. I cleared out the fridge. Half of it was expired.”

“Oh. Thanks, kiddo.” His blue eyes crinkled through his round spectacles.

“And I figured out why it smells weird in here. When was the last time you took out the trash?”

“I thought I just did it.” He laughed. “Your mother used to do it, you know.”

“Yeah.”

We sat at the kitchen table in silence. Crunched toast and scraped metal on porcelain.

I knew that I should do this more often. Make meals, dump out booze. But I couldn’t stay here for long, nor did I want to. His E.I. would only cover so much, and the thought of being in the same town as Alex was stifling.

August

Prima Modelling Management is in an office that looks over Robson square. I stand against a cold, white wall, shoulder to shoulder with twenty other bikini-clad models. We’re all about the same age, eighteen, nineteen. Two scouts pace in front of us, pointing now and again. They jot notes on a clipboard like scientists.

“Uh,” Margot, the scout who gave me her card, gestures to me. “Samantha Cowen?”

I straighten and nod.

“Turn for me?”

I turn to the side.

Margot looks to the other scout. “Isn’t she editorial?”

He agrees. “Very distinctive. Kate Moss, almost.”

I feel the other girls stiffen beside me.

“Not quite as waifish, though.”

“I’m sure she can work on that. Can’t you, Samantha?”

November

I’m at Dad’s, sweeping rat feces into a dustbin.

“How you doin’ in there, Sam?” Marianne calls from outside.

“Fine,” I answer, but it’s muffled through my mask.

We’ve been hauling boxes and bags out of the house for two days. Dad is outside on a lawn chair, Marianne beside him, sorting through bins and trying to figure out what is most valuable to him. He can’t keep it all, but he wants to. He keeps finding Mom’s old stuff. Clothes, photos, old medication. Marianne is on edge, but doesn’t say anything. She keeps sorting, every few minutes taking off her mitts and wiping her hands with Wet Ones. There’s no snow yet, but everyone is in parkas.

I pour the contents of the dustbin into a full garbage bag. Haul it over my shoulder and set it by the entrance. The kitchen is cleared out, and no longer smells like rotten food. That’s good, because my weak stomach has already been put to the limit today. Above the table, my green stink bug nymph hangs in a tiny picture frame. It only lasted a couple of weeks before I had to mail it. I thought it would make Dad happy, but it’s hard to look at.

My throat constricts, and I make a beeline for the door. Zip up my sweater and tear off my mask. I grab the garbage bag and throw it all into the dump truck. Stare over the side until my stomach settles.

Dad and Marianne wave me over.

“Hey, kiddo,” Dad says.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you all day!” chimes Marianne, glad for the distraction. “I was looking through Vogue this morning, and guess what I found?”

“Oh,” I say. Try to muster up some laughter. “Did you see it?”

“You bet I did!” She leans over and retrieves the magazine. Kate Winslet is on the cover. “Go to twenty-four.”

I take the magazine and flip to the page. It’s a Givenchy ad, three models posed with their mouths parted and delicate hands splayed. I’m the one on the left, head back and body turned to the side. I’m in a white dress, backless with slits going up my bare ribs.

“Now this,” Dad says, “is a good scarf. I have to have this.”

“No you don’t, Ron. We already have a box of them over there.”

“Where’s my drink?” He stands up and hobbles back inside.

“This is one for the scrapbook,” Marianne says, pointing to the magazine.

Or maybe it’ll be one for the wall, next to the stinkbug nymph and damselflies. I’m tired. Tired of being someone’s voodoo doll, stuck with needles and pins. I wish I could break the glass and free all the insects in the hall. That they’d flutter out, tap away on their hairy legs and skinny feet.

There’s a chunk of broken concrete at my feet. I pick it up. It’s heavy. The edges leave chalk smears on my hands.

I hold on to it, grab the magazine, and follow Dad into the kitchen. Take his keys from the kitchen table. Dad’s SUV is reversed into the driveway. I’m in the driver’s seat before anyone notices. The magazine and chunk of concrete are on the passenger seat.

The engine rumbles as I turn the key. I’ve never been behind the wheel, but it can’t be that hard. I rev the engine. Try both pedals. Nothing happens. I look over to the shifter handle. It’s resting in the “P” position.

“Where’re you going?” Marianne calls.

“Stupid.” I ram it back into drive and press a pedal at random. My chest hits the steering wheel, and the horn blares.

I try the other one, and the car takes off out of the driveway and onto the street. I know the rules of the road, sort of. I stop and look both ways. Try not to speed.

My heart pounds, and adrenaline pulses in my ears. The jackalope charm on my bracelet twinkles in the sun. If she were still here, she’d be in the passenger seat.

Dad and Marianne are waving from the driveway. They didn’t make it very far trying to stop me.

I take the back roads, get accustomed to the sensitivity of the pedals. Look over my shoulder every few minutes for cops.

Downtown, I stop the car in the middle of Leon. I’m next to the sushi place, can still see mom’s faded “G.” All the shops on the street are closed, lights out.

There’s a permanent marker in the back seat. One of the thick, wedge-tipped ones. “24,” I squeak on the magazine’s cover. Try to think of a simple phrase to go with it, but put the cap back on. There aren’t enough words.

I wish I had some kind of scandalous note with allegations, offensive photos of some kind. All I have is the magazine. Proof that I’m here, almost thriving. Maybe he’ll relive it, even for a moment, like I have been for the last twelve months.

After ruffling through the glove box, I find one of Mom’s old hair elastics. I curl the magazine around the chunk of concrete and fit the elastic around both.

I get out of the car and hear a cacophony of beeps and horns. I slam the door shut and plant my feet like I’m in middle school track, wielding a discus. With all my weight behind me, I fling the package through Alex’s shop window. The glass shatters, and the concrete block skids over the hardwood floor, bringing November air in with it.

A pedestrian screams, and I hear a siren in the distance. I wipe the leftover chalk on my jeans and get in the car.

#short story #fiction #short fiction #entomology #damselfly #ya

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