untitled demo, 5

written all by diascia

It's a gross, wet string of spit that catches on his teeth when he coughs. White beads of saliva hang from the roof of mouth to the surface of dry tongue. The hacking starts again, slowly, and then violently; regurgitating blows of loud struggle cause him to shake and stand from the bare mattress, each one causing more pain than the last. The sounds grow into a desperate whine that seems to shrink; he searches through a blurry film in hopes of finding some holy liquid he could swallow to coat his throat and ease his pain. Knees fall to the floor, elbow and arm raised to cover the mouth, palm of the other hand glued to the cement. He gasps for air in between hacks and struggles to breathe; heavy drops of stomach acid splat onto the floor after being forced from the depths of his esophagus. It's a green and foul-smelling liquid, he detests the odor-- much too familiar. One of his thin hands reaches for his chest and hits its surface hard, creating some discomfort at the forefront of the ribcage, but succeeding in his goal. He coughs once more, this one with an expression of finality about it, and he spits out a blood clot with the color of dried figs and coal.

After the coughing fit, he stands: as always, this new sense of common enlightenment, or perhaps gratefulness (neither of these words serving the right definition, of course) comes about him, head tilted up and shaky eyes fixated on that spot of water damage on the rubbled ceiling. His fists clench when he thinks about the state of his living space. It's a somewhat well preserved room in his late mother's home, a home that has been abandoned for seven years. Her belongings lay scattered throughout the dirtied hallways of the house-- half-used bottles of lipgloss in all sorts of bold colors, discarded sequin-covered tops whose whole goal must've been to show off the cleavage of the wearer. He begins to criticize more about the room, from the unevenness of the hardwoods to the fist-sized hole in the teal-colored wall. When he realizes the expression made upon his face and the intensity of his nails digging into his palm, he looks away from the room's ceiling and fixes his gaze onto his hands. Work, work, work. He forces himself to walk, right leg limping while the other hits the concrete hard, body mass weighing all on his left. His body: a frail thing, submerged corpse left out to dry. He's not the slightest bit sightly, but perhaps once was, when his face was full and a healthy amount of flesh covered his bones. Eyes the color of the sea. It's always been the subject of uneasy thought, his eyes. He's inspected his irises, his pupils, the color of his cornea, searching for something, something, something. But all tries turn to failure and he sinks back into this endless and infinite rut of guilt-- guilt for a crime of which he is innocent.

His lover awaits him in the corner of which she sleeps. Porcelain-white skin, enunciated joints, blank face. She lies with her back propped up against the wall, a thin quilt covering her loosely, head resting on shoulder. He looks at her face. What a beautiful thing! Eyeshadow colors her eyelids so softly, a lovely rose pink with shine that gleams in the sun. And on her lips is a smile unbroken, one with a gentle red that is inviting and warm. Her cheeks have color, too-- the hue of dawn. Her face couldn't possibly be any prettier. To him, she is as beautiful as the Mona Lisa is to tourists who visit the L'ouvre. Deep black eyes always find his, wherever he may be; in this case, about five feet away, standing at the length of the room.

He stares, too. And as if a wave of consciousness came about him, the man furrows his brows and brings his hands to his cheeks.

"Oh my, Virginia! Your blanket is falling off. Has it been like this all night?"

He stumbles to the corner where she lie, her expression never faltering. Lifting the covers over her shoulders and patting down her sides as to tuck her in, he stands back, pleased for a moment, until he starts again.

"Darling, we're scheduled to go to the grocer's today," he stops, glances out the window, and leans down to kiss his lover's forehead. "it's 15 til 8 o'clock. My, we slept in!"

He paces from wall to wall, looking at his bare feet, blisters covering their surface. Loud mutters come from his mouth as his head turns this way and that, almost as if it wasn't screwed on all the way; loose.

Then he turns suddenly to his woman, whole body facing hers, and he kneels and gathers her up. The blanket falls to the floor and her limbs are held up by his hands-- he positions her arms around his, in the fashion of an embrace. As if she said something pleasant, his face breaks out into a crooked smile. "Of course, of course. Good morning to you too." He initiates a waltz and they dance together, bodies illuminated by sunlight coming through the only window in the room, shadows cast and moving with them on the walls. The man hums a little tune and spins her body around, startled when she trips over her left foot. He stands upright once more, frown emerging on his lips. Walking to the side opposite of the room, he lays her down atop the mattress with such gentleness you'd imagine a scientist does with his prized project. "Poor girl," a drawing sigh slips from his mouth, "always getting hurt. Wait here, darling."

He pats her shoulder and walks not-so-silently to the door, a trail of murmurs following him out. Almost as if it's second-nature, he blindly locates the bathroom, aided by dim sunlight that peeks at him through the cracks of a crumbling roof. The floorboards whine as he navigates, begging to be left alone as they've been for years. He dismisses their pleads; in fact, he seems not to notice at all when insects crush underfoot, their remains splattered across ripped-out pages of Vogue magazines from the eighties.

Finally, he entered the tiled bathroom whose door sits propped against the wall, its hinges long since broken. It's a very enclosed room: the toilet is in one corner, and facing it is an uncomfortably small shower, without shower-head. The blue ceramic sink is in two large pieces that are lying on the floor, traces of black liquid covering most of its surface. The walls aren't much to look at, either. Cheap floral wallpaper curls far above where baseboard meets wall, large patches of it being ripped away entirely. It's no difference to him.

untitled demo, 4

written all by diascia

When I first met Vani, he was a girl.

Yvonne S. Alperin was his name. I never did find out what that dreaded S stood for.

Unlike me, he wasn’t timid—no, quite the contrary. His black, oily curls grazed the edge of a slender jawline, and dewy brown skin shone like the slick leather coat of a mare. Angled eyebrows arched above green eyes, green as the little rosemary plants I keep on my windowsill. His nose was defined and beautiful. Even after everything, I couldn’t say for certain how his appearance struck me. His looks did suit him; cunning, sure, but there was something else—a magnetic pull,, drawing my iron heart toward his polar ends.

It’s a question that has long since lingered, swimming around through the seas of my mind: how did we come to be?

Yvonne, as he was called, never appreciated the beauty of my snow-white daylilies. He loved the rain but despised the dark thunderclouds that loomed overhead. Confusing; that’s one way to describe him. Vani—Yvonne—was an enigma. His words were sharp, capable of slicing into your skin like a silver-white scalpel, each one picking away at a fresh wound. His voice, though—it didn’t match the things it carried; not at all.

His voice. Oh, his voice.

I’ve always been drawn to voices, you know. Maybe it’s because I’ve never quite had one of my own. Dwelling on that sweet molasses-syrup of a voice will only make my heart saddened, so I will refrain.

Yvonne didn’t resemble any girl I knew. Then again, I’d never really known many girls. The ones i imagined came from old propaganda films—young women with long, blonde hair, lace corsets cinching their waists, and faint tints of rouge highlighting delicate features. Nothing about Yvonne’s character was remotelyt feminine. His attire: a heavy leather belt with a rusted golden clasp and long, acid-washed jeans whose frayed ends were often crushed beneath the heels of his shoes. Even then, when we first met, I couldn’t picture him in the dresses I’d seen in those old images.

He had me fooled from the start.

The wind is high today. I’m doubtful that Metsi will visit me at his usual hour; we’re all imprisoned in these sad, sad cells—typical for days such as these—and it would be far too dangerous for him to be seen. It’s the beginning of Winter; you know i loved autumn. It doesn’t really make much of a difference, of course, as there do not exist but a few sparsely planted trees in my sector. I do wish for snow this year. Last year, we were struck by some unpredicted wave of immense heat and sweltering temperatures. It didn’t suit me one bit. Oh, how the time has gone by. It seems just yesterday was I young, playing in those small weeds that had found their way, growing through cracks in the pavement.

untitled demo, 3

written all by diascia

The engine sputtered, jostled by the movement of the unfamiliar blue car upon rough, gravel terrain. The driver, his face contorted into an expression of disgust, remained focused on the road ahead: eyes clouded with uncertainty and discontent. At minute intervals, his long fingers tightened their grasp on the steering wheel, rewrapping themselves and gripping hard.

To his right sat Iffy, forever the passenger. Her eyes were fixed on the trees of the countryside, squinting in hopes of spotting deer far off in the field, their bodies hidden by the dark forest and setting sun. It was nearing dusk, with a few pink streaks atop an otherwise orangeish canvas that grew darker by the minute, the change so gradual that it could never be noticed in its process.

While the driver maintained the posture not unlike that of any good driver, Iffy sat sprawled—one leg tucked behind the other, foot resting where the dashboard met the car door. She suddenly became aware of how clammy she'd gotten throughout the journey, strands of black hair clinging visibly to the underside of her jawline, adhered by her own sweat.

Iffy located the window control button, frowning when it failed to function, her window remaining shut. She tried again, and again, until the loud and forceful clicking diverted the driver's eyes for just a moment.

"You're going to break my car.”

Startled by the sudden break in silence, she muttered under her breath, "I'm not trying to break it." Despite his admonition, or perhaps because of it, she only pressed harder.

A long, exasperated sigh escaped the driver's lips. His eyes remained fixed on the road. "Don't you have something to say?" he frowned, his tone one of unbreaking tension.

Iffy ceased her insistent button-pressing and redirected her attention to the seatbelt buckle hanging loosely over her right shoulder. "Not particularly, no," she replied, biting her lip—a bad habit she’s always had, her teeth finding comfort in its soft surface.

The two remained in silence, tension submerging the atmosphere. Iffy, naturally, seemed unbotherred. To her, it was merely silence. Despite her usual love for conversation, she found it unnecessary in this moment, in his car. It would be pointless.

"You're just not talking, yeah? Are you really that hollow?" The driver clicked his tongue, angered but unsurprised at the truth of his statement.

She froze, something clicked, and Fiemme whipped her mass of dyed hair around, eyes glaring and unwavering. "Hollow? Really? You think I'm hollow?" Everything within her recoiled at the accusation.

He accelerated, his eyebrows furrowing deeper, jaw clenching visibly. "Yeah. **** me, here I am—giving you a ride—when I could've left you on the side of the street miles back."

"You'd never," Iffy laughed. "I'd be the one kicking your ass out off your own ******* car."

His anger peaked, and in a sudden, jerking movement, he swerved the car onto the roadside. The situation had clearly escalated.

"I could do it right now. I should've. I should've when I met you," he breathed, his voice taking on a deceptively calm tone—a desperate attempt to defuse the fire before the Fiemme-bomb went off.

i laughed bitterly, her eyes flitting around the car's small interior. "Yeah, okay. Okay! That's really great, you know? Just throw it in my face, all those times you said you loved me. You’d have rather thrown me on the curb from the ******* start. That's really great. God, you're a good liar, Jaice. Almost had me fooled."

Jaice, his name now revealed, bit down hard and tried to breathe. He turned to face her, eyes furious but demeanor, of course, composed. "Hey, look, I did mean it. I haven't lied to you."

He knew better than to act as her superior. Despite the fact, his hand left the wheel and slowly found hers, holding it for a split second until Iffy let out shriek that pierced his ears.

"Oh my God, you're harassing me!" she screamed, reaching into her pocket to retrieve her red Motorola. "I'm going to call the ******* police on you." She began dialing when, without warning, Jaice lunged at her, his strong arms wrestling the phone from her grip. He held it up in his left hand above his head.

Heavy breathing filled the car, and for a moment, neither spoke.

"*****," Jaice seethed, baring his teeth at Fimme, who felt small—an unfamiliar emotion for her. She kept her eyes locked on his, her hand fumbling behind her in an attempt to find the car door. She no longer felt safe.

The scene changes, just for a second, and only for Fimme. Back was she in her childhood home, cornered into the back wall of the den, clutching tightly an offensively orange-colored pillow as to protect herself. Her wide eyes bore into the shoes of her father’s shadow.

“Did you hear me? You ******* *****!” His voice is raised more than it’s ever been. She glares at his face, his disgusting and rat-like face. Bile coats the inside of her mouth as she thinks of how his tongue has been in there. Absolutely filthy; that’s what she feels.

And reflecting that feeling is her demeanor, a rediscovered sense of disgust that really snaps her out of the whole being-small thing.

Her focus stays fixed on his face; she looks at the unevenness of his dark brows, the thinness of cracked lips that were always such a pain to kiss. She sees Jaice, now, in a whole different light: the subtle but uncovering light of an emerging dusk.

The man was overcome with a sense of uneasiness, realizing now that his power over her had diminished, and the little fire of masculinity that’d been welling inside of him for their entire car ride flickered until nothing but the smallest ember remained.

“****,” he repeats, almost sheepishly, as if reduced to a teenage boy cursing for the first time; uncertain, shaky, fearful.

Without averting her gaze, Fimme swings her fist to punch the right side of his face, cheek caving in and spit hitting the driver’s headrest. He gasped, taken aback, and she punched his nose, then once more for good measure.

Drops of blood were dripping from both nostrils. He couldn’t say anything to her. Neither would she. Other than an enunciated “**** you,” of course, complete with a hard stab at his forehead with her middle finger. The poor guy whimpered.

She turned away, grabbed hold of the door handle, and immediately jumped out of the car. A thing about Fimme, as you will soon know, is that she is quicker and far more spontaneous than any person who has ever lived.

Inside of her pocket— which seemed to house everything of hers, by the way— was a hot pink pocket knife that she used to slash his back left tire with such effort that caused the whole car to sink immediately. Then she went, on her way, and ran.

Behind her did she hear the slamming of a car door and the throwing of her Motorola on the ground. “**** you! Holy ******* ****, I’m going to kill you!”

Iffy didn’t look back. She didn’t care enough for that. She felt as the cold wind blowed on her face and her legs carried her farther, farther, farther along the gravel road.

Jaice’s shouts grew quieter although increasingly more desperate, until Iffy was out of earshot and surrounded only by the sounds of whipping air and racing footsteps coming from her beat-up Timberlands.

Iffy; she was a runner. Once she gets on her feet, she never slows down.

*** “Come on,” the acne-ridden face of a girl whines, flopping face-first onto the poorly made sea foam green bed. Her voice is muffled, almost intelligible, and her legs hang dangling off of the mattress. “You know I’m not patient.”

At the far corner of the room sits another girl, a beautiful girl named Lynn. She is sat in front of a small vanity whose surface lay cluttered with various Teen Vogue magazines, open eyeshadow palettes, and a few beaded kandi bracelets that looked as if they were hand-made by an inexperienced toddler. Without even so much as a glance, Lynn kept on applying makeup to her lips, making sure everything was just right.

“Lynn! I know you can hear me!” Young Iffy sits up on the bed quickly and snatches the nearest pillow, throwing it forcefully at her target.

The lipstick fell out of Lynn’s soft fingers and onto the floor, making a concerningly loud shattering noise. Now without anything in her grasp and a bright pink smear of pigment oddly painted across her cheek, she immediately jumped up from the chair.

She looked in the mirror, then at the broken pieces of pink glass on the floor, then at Iffy. “Did you seriously just throw a pillow at me?” Her tone was stern, even for a twelve-year-old who stood just about four and a half feet tall. Iffy glared at her, not caring about the bottle on the ground, and let out a sharp sniff in return. She huffed out her reply. “Why are you mad at me?” She averted her gaze to the wall, feeling now some guilt, and leaned her chin upon the face of her shoulder.

Lynn just let out a sigh and, without words, navigated through the cramped room, playing a silent game of hopscotch with the scattered mountains of clothes taking up the floor. “I’m going to get a towel, okay?”

Her friend didn’t look at her as she left, and only blinked when she heard the soft closing of her bedroom door following the footsteps out of it. Noticing an itch on her jawline, she elongated her neck, stretching her face as high as she could. Her fingers found the spot. Nails began scratching, peeling teal nails atop olive skin. Iffy didn’t stop when all the itching satisfied the spot. She kept on, digging her nails deeper and deeper into her neck, surface of her jugular feeling hot and dry. With a wincing expression painted on her face, she continued rubbing it raw, biting her tongue as not to make a sound. She had to learn.

With a quiet twisting of the brass knob, Lynn entered the room again, this time with a damp rag hanging over her forearm. Her eyes found the mess of a girl sitting in the middle of the bed, somehow expecting, eyebrows frowning a bit when she noticed the bright red spot on her neck. She climbed onto the seafoam bed and sat next to Iffy. She took the busy hand in her own, looking into the vacant eyes of Iffy, concerned but unsurprised expression written all over her face.

Iffy put her head down; guilt submerging her in waves, tide rising in her eyes.

Silently, Lynn retrieved the small dish towel from her arm, pressing it gently onto the red area and with her other hand touching Iffy’s shoulder after she takes a sharp inhale.

“Does that feel good?” Hearing the words, young Iffy froze. As much as she wanted to fire some heated response, she gave in and swallowed hard.

“Yeah, thanks.”

fine me in the smell of winter snow

written all by diascia

On the top of a polished desk lies a note; a withered thing, smudged with inked fingerprints and small tears throughout. The desk itself is a masterpiece of craftsmanship—rectangular with rounded corners, its mahogany wood smiles wearily under a thick coat of lacquer and varnish, age being shown through lightened patches of the wooden board. The note sits indifferent yet unyielding at the center of the desk, begging for attention from any who pass.

To the right, a battered French-to-English dictionary sits atop a neat stack of navy blue journals, their spines creased with frequent use and care. On the left, a yellow legal pad rests beside a small wooden container, housing a handful of expensive pens, their orderly positions suggesting not to have been used in quite some time.

Everything seems in place, and a small, shaded lamp made of brass sits at the back of the desk, its bulb dim— aged and forgotten. Behind it, an enormous case of books; a Regal that stretches the length of the back wall, spines of various novels covered in yellowed dust and small gathers of lint. A singular pane of textured glass is the only view to the outside world, but the cobwebs stick to velvet curtains that mask the outside world. However, beyond the window exists the bare winter trees whose branches sway gently and dead leaves who stay glued to the slick ground with an adhesive of frost. The air in the room carries a faint, musty scent of old books and mahogany wood. Have I painted enough of a picture yet?

untitled demo, 2

written all by diascia

Patches of white ceiling, small drawings that lined the walls, an empty arched entryway. Plaques of reflective blue caught the glimmer of strategically placed lamps overhead as gentle footsteps echoed on the ceramic floor—tiles painted with intricate swirls and dots of rich navy atop a pure white base, mirroring the design found on beautiful porcelain vases. Bismarck led, his left hand grasping his lover's right, unconsciously guiding the woman behind him. To Bismarck, his gestures were gentle, not at all meant to be forceful. He was aware of his firm actions only when made to be, only when alone with her. Malaise trailed behind, their connected arms resembling a leash pulling along a tired dog.

Her eyes flitted from wall to wall, from tile to tile, from Bismarck to her shoes—a pair of second-hand heavyweight Timberlands that had grown too small for her over the years. She started thinking on the matter and how she’d been meaning to buy another pair, her thoughts beginning to mock her again and again, as they’ve always done, while her face contorted into an expression of slight anger and weariness. Bismarck clicked his tongue twice. It brought her back; seeing that his eyes were fixated on hers gave way to a small pang in her stomach, a dryness in her throat that seemed as if all the saliva had hidden away at the very bottom of her esophagus. “Keep up, darling. We’re close.”

untitled demo, 1

written all by diascia

In a risked attempt to catch a fair glimpse of the mountainside quickly passing me by, I crane my neck, only to find that the older man sitting next to me—by the window, naturally—diverts his reading of the most recent Times of the City edition and catches my eye, almost as if confronting me directly. With his crooked glance weighing suddenly on my shoulders, I become conscious again and lean back into my chair, head sitting just uncomfortably so onto the headrest, the breathtaking landscape having been cut short of my view.

There, in the snow-white cirrus clouds up way high in the crisp air, I saw you: beautiful and fleeting, and the swirls seemed to write out your name. The letters will dissapate soon enough, I know.

As an irritating twitch in my right calf compeled me to stretch and inspect the spot, my eyes fell upon the ground beneath my feet, where an aged carpet, decorated in an unfortunate design lay spread out before me; its pattern, rather tained, brought to mind the cherry-stained fabric of your grandmother’s favorite tablecloth. The memory began to bring turmoil to my thoughts in the form of a fallen tree's dead branches soaking up the winter snow. I tried not to think of the season. I tried not to think of you.

You know how awfully I fare with people, a fact made more so apparent when the train attendant, in her attempt to create small-talk, waited patiently as I stumbled through Tasche to retrieve my ticket, tripping over sentences that trailed on forever. In her politeness, she gave me a nice smile and wished me luck on my voyage—a moment that made me miss you, Miphie, my girl, for you always knew how to help me find my words.

Truly, I surprise myself in that the harsh beating of mens' voices and the sporadic turning of the train's engine didn't seem to bother me all too much; in fact, it fueled some of the small thrill that sat in my chest—a feeling that sank so low it felt as if I was out of breath, suffocating in an endless sea devoid of air.

Person 1:

“They draw me to you, you know— all of your strange fascinations. And the collection of botched taxidermy that lines the shelves of your red walls. You’re intriguing. I like the curve of your lips, the bottom one’s surface resembling the cracks in aged marble from many years of biting, I’m sure. Your skin has a pattern not unlike a beautiful marbled stone. Really, I want to know you better. I want to know why your knuckles are always rubbed raw and why you always wear that pretty brooch of a cardinal right above your heart. All of it, all of you; you make me want to learn more.”

Person 2:

“I think of you when I find the fragile corpse of a newly killed bird, when I touch its wings and look at their bloodied feathers. Do you know why that is? You don’t strike me as the gentle type, and I say this without malintentions or making an attempt to deal offense. You have that expression about you, this distinct demeanor of someone with a strengthened heart. It’s always been a puzzle: the things I feel, the words I say. I’m a careful person, and I try to be so. The idea, as much as I’d like it to, hasn’t much support when I trip over my sentences when with you.