skonen_blades: (Default)
It’s been recently discovered that the sperm swim widly, blindly, stupidly, randomly wriggling.
More or less directionless.
Heads thrashing back and forth more than their tails.
A panicking crowd that doesn’t flock.
They are caught by the sticky surface of the egg.
They don’t seek out the egg.
They are trapped by the egg.
Then, while thrashing wildly, they are absorbed.
Once inside they realign and there is another gate.
The egg is in charge of opening it.
The egg is not docile, waiting for the best and strongest to smash through its defenses.
It is not a victim.
It is not passive.
It is a participant.
Like all good sex.
The sperm is not a heat-seeking ICBM on a soldier’s mission, carrying a payload to a target.
It doesn’t burrow its way through defenses.
It does not drill and thrash through walls built to withstand them.
It is not an aggressor
It is not attacking
It is not autonomous.
It is indiscriminately flailing.
Perhaps in need of rescue.
For though the union annihilates both by mixing them.
The rest die.
The eggs one by one off of eve’s pirate ship plank.
The sperm in their millions (millions!) every time, successful or not.
Their life blooms and exponentially dances outward
In handshakes and spirals, fingerprints and motion
But genesis is mutual, not forced.
The new study states "the egg is not merely a large, yolk-filled sphere into which the sperm burrows to endow new life. Rather, recent research suggests the almost heretical view that sperm and egg are mutually active partners."
This is consent on a microscopic scale.
This redefines the metaphor.
The lies we were all told.
About men and women.

skonen_blades: (blurg)
April 30/30


Gingers have a rhubarb patch
Brunettes have a thicket.
Blondes possess a flaxen thatch
So guys know where to stick it.

Brunettes have a licorice ruff
Blondes a golden ticket
Gingers have a copper tuft
So girls know where to lick it

Blondes display a honey crest
Gingers red wine wicket
Brunettes sport a charcoal tress
So everyone can flick it

skonen_blades: (hmm)
"Although you'd never know it from reading the papers or watching TV, there are between 20 and 30 separate wars going on today. Because most countries are too poor to afford luxuries like female noncombatants, many of the battle are fought by women.
However, in the world's dominant military-aggressor nation, women are barred from combat positions. The armed forces is one of the last bastions of old-fashioned gender roles in the American job market, along with Hooters and, of course, Hollywood."

What do you think? I don't even know if that's true anymore. Are women allowed into 'hot zones' in the theater of war by the American military? Or are they relegated to support?

skonen_blades: (angryyes)
And it’s the teeth that fold back into a karate punch of hot asses in black jeans making their way to war. Falling stars in silk dresses and broken fingers wear khaki post-apocalyptic riding pants to finish lines made of unforgiving fire.

Each satellite that cracks the earth open thinks it’s a dancer improvising a future like an oracle predicting circuitboard murder diagrams through the clenched chest of the world. Waking child eyes inside the navigation computer pull arrows back and let them go while glowing tattoos on Asian ghosts stare down from long-dead airplane crashes.

The zombies and the greek gods are taking it all back. They come up from under the snow and dive in front of subway trains only to get their blood on the cameras. This is Tron in a cornfield playing demolition abortion math near red-haired spring break chainsaw children, one sword swing away from knowing if fairies bruise.

Unseen dream hands and white-eyed possessed girls stand under skies with too many moons, too many suns. Huge creatures from massive, fragile buildings unravel helixes of DNA in an effort to understand armies and the concept of victory. Flaming chunks of rock pirate their way through a cloned army of Dark Knight Jokers wielding JK-47s. It’s all about the martial arts and force of will. Just ask Neo.

Cities bend, curling up and dying like robot stunt doubles punching comic futures through flimsy walls and candy glass. Little-kid dimension beasts snarl and leap when cornered but after that they’re gymnasts sliding under birdcages, making bullets bend trajectories past assassins dressed like medusa-prostitute-guitar-god forest witches.

The big finale drips off of the brim of a Kruger hat as the hot women drive shotgun heels and katanas through drooling Nazi faces. Splashing water up onto the computers, making lust and moisture and synchronized dancing destroy clocks, bunkers, and then it’s all x-ray broken bones and gyrating hips in red leather.

Your robot double can’t break out of the train. Your body will not be saved from the aliens. But your 18th century self will be just fine. Rely on that.

skonen_blades: (Default)
July is flash fiction month, apparently. I'm going to do my best to do a flash fiction story a day, just like I used to. Wish me luck. This is a riff on an earlier part. I love the imagery but I'm having trouble finding a good home for these awesome women. See what you think.


The Sisters of Mars came down the wide gangplank from the rear of their shuttle onto the tarmac of the shuttleport. Their red parasols kept their eyes shaded from the harsh sunlight of Earth. Their skin was dyed red to match their blood, a symbol in their religion of their lack of artifice. It was a not-so-subtle dig at the rest of the human race. With the history of Mars still so fresh in the history books, the dig wasn’t so unfounded. Our track record had been shameful before Mars seceded.

The hands and feet of the Martian women were intricately tattooed a darker shade of rust with rings of triangles, dots and bands. Their red cloaks billowed slowly in the calm summer day as they came closer to our delegation. They were all wearing red sunglasses to protect their eyes from Earth’s startling palette of colours. On Mars, everything’s a shade of red. The dust storms cover everything eventually. The dust in the atmosphere makes the sun red and the stars pink. The plants that have been planted there develop a red pigment over a series of generations from the soil. To a Martian, Earth’s riot of colour is very disorienting. The green of the grass, the blue of the sky, it’s all too much. Pinkeye, we call it. Putting on a pair of rose-coloured glasses helps them.

They were getting closer to our delegation. They were taller and thinner than us. Earth’s gravity must have been hard on them. We waited in our suits under the July sun with some hand-picked reporters gathered around us. Trips to Earth were a year long and the Martian Sisters’ religion forbade them to enter cryosleep. What they had come here to say must have been very important. We’d received priority-one landing clearance from them but nothing else in terms of a message. Their ship was clean of weapons but we had some orbital platforms set to soft-lock targeting above us just to be sure.

They closed the gap. Now we were face to face in the silence of the tarmac. Every single one of the Martian sisters had naturally ginger hair. Some had freckles on their scarlet skin. It was hard to tell what colour their eyes were behind the glasses but I’d heard that all Martian eyes were a dark, iridescent, fire-flecked reddish brown that we didn’t have a word for. The wind played with my tie. The sisters’ long, red habits rippled as another gust shimmied around us.

“Mars says hello to you and wishes greatness to all of your days.” Said the lead Sister in a startlingly low voice for such a fragile-looking creature.

“Welcome to Earth. Anything we can do to make your stay here more comfortable, just ask. Now, what can we do for you? Or would you rather rest for a while after such a long journey?” I asked.

“We have rested for a year. There is no need for more. We have to tell you a message.” She said.

“Go on.” I cocked my head and tried to tell what colour her eyes were.

“Mars is leaving.” She said.

Confused, I waiting for more but she was finished talking. “I don’t understand.” I replied. “You seceded from the System years ago. You have already left.”

“You do not understand. I mean that we are leaving.” She said again and smiled at me.

The bud in my ear started chattering. The ears of the reporters around me started up a few seconds later. The generals standing behind me reached for phones, nodded into them, and quickly walked to their vehicles.

The reporter to the left of me said into his communicator “Gone? How can it be gone?”

I looked back towards the lead Sister. She was still smiling. She’d been waiting for a year to see our faces react to the news in person.

“We have uncovered the secrets of the ones who lived in harmony before us on the red planet. We have discovered where they went. And we have extrapolated. We can bring the planet with us. We are here to tell you that in person. It’s only fair.” She said to me.

Then she turned to her sisters and nodded. As one, they crossed their wrists. The lead sister reached out and grabbed my neck.

Some of the people around me reached for weapons but before they could draw, the sisters shimmered, a blue glow rippling around us.

“You’re coming with us.” She hissed at me through a smile as the tiny wormhole opened up behind us. I stared in horror and tried to back away as I was pulled into the warp gate.

“Why me?” I asked.

“We need a witness.” She replied. “And I like your eyes.”

The wormhole swallowed us all and we joined the other Martians on Mars in her new location, far from Earth and her Solar System.

skonen_blades: (Default)
It’s a lipstick cliffhanger.

Women watch this world. They’re witnesses to the insanity of men.

The ones we can’t discredit, we buy. The ones we can’t buy have accidents.

Charlie don’t surf and Barbie don’t read. Women’s curves make them into round numbers.

Men run around mistaking enthusiasm for immaturity and bullying for ambition.

If a woman challenges a man mentally, he feels mentally challenged and takes appropriate action.

Women run from tree to tree, catching men before they hit the ground.

Sometimes, though. Sometimes they just watch.

Women have a certain ‘joie de vivre’. Men have a certain ‘joie de mort’.

At a stoplight yesterday, I saw some big, strong men in a pickup truck yelling and laughing at some beautiful women crossing the street. They kept their heads down. The men thought it was hilarious. I said nothing because it looked like they would kick my ass and I felt ashamed.

My father’s advice to me when I was a heartbroken teen was to get a string of girls going so that if one of them left, I wouldn’t be bothered.

Don’t phone ‘er with a boner. Penis erectus non compos mentis.
To learn everything you need to know about men, watch a jousting match.

Women are forced to be devious to avoid beatings and then they are beaten for being devious.

I don’t know how women get out of bed in the morning sometimes.

I ask the universe if things will ever get better.

I’ll have to trim the beard I grow while waiting for an answer.

skonen_blades: (bounder)
Reworking of an older piece:

You are more than merely cold.

To know you is to shiver. You throw off frost.

My hands stick to you like they would to a metal pole in January.
You dare me to lick you just to see my tongue get stuck.

There are bodies in the morgue that are warmer.

Shall I compare thee to a Winter’s day?
Thou art more icy and more desolate.

Like a frozen river I know that there is life beneath your surface.

I'vel never managed to break the ice but if I did, I imagine I'd fall without a sound beneath it, swept breathless in a heart-stopping current.

Days, perhaps months later, I’d be found frozen solid. The paramedics would warm me up, and I would have no recollection of what happened.

Your Nordic cheekbones are frozen blades that cut the world around you with every no.

You’re old man winter’s great grand daughter.
Persephone’s body double while she’s gone.

Snow drifts are your evening gowns and glittering crystal snowflakes give you a sparkling aura that's like electricity in the darkness.

You blacken hearts with frostbite.

skonen_blades: (gasface)
Photographic Memory Semi-Autistic Total-Recall Auto-Didactic Infonauts.

We just called them Rain Men. They were mostly women but there was something sexless about their dead-eyed stares and monotone recitations. The term ‘rain men’ worked just fine. It was a reference to an old movie from Before.

Ever since the search engines went crazy and the libraries burned down, we had to put all of our information into people.

It was an experiment. Ever since we went from the information age back to the steam engine and electrical fields could only be used locally, it was up to us to make a human network to replace what used to be the internet.

By finding autistic kids and boosting their memory sponge capabilities with available drugs, we could turn them into living computers. Their ability to collate, reiterate, cross-identity, and speak was perfect.

Their awareness of the world around them was almost zero. Anything with a pattern seemed to catch their eye. A spinning plate, for instance, or a light that flashed in a rhythm. Who knows what it caused to happen in their minds. Maybe they saw some sort of Fibonacci sequence fractal equation spiraling away into the future. Predictions of timing and parabolas arcing through the available math of their minds.

We updated them with new information that way. Every Rain Man Owner had a ‘spinner’ device that would bring his or her Rain Man up to a receptive depth before reading new information to them or showing them images in books.

Only the rich could afford the Rain Men and they charged admission for the people in their area to ask questions.

It’s been raining ever since The Event.

skonen_blades: (whysure)
Alice didn’t merely travel to wonderland. She escaped there.

Jumping through her own reflection to a land where anything was possible. Where manners mattered and every dream logic puzzle had a way of being solved.

When she came back, she awoke terrified that the dream was over. She was never the same. People thought that she’d been traumatized by where she’d been but in actual fact, she was traumatized by coming back here.

Take Dorothy, for instance.

She spent the rest of her life clicking her heels together when she thought no one was looking. She felt in her heart that Oz was home but her heels would never take her there. The shoes were magicked for the wearer’s place of physical birth, not matters of the heart. She died alone at an old age, smelling nothing but car exhaust and sweat seeping in through the windows. It was cruel that fate let her live that long.

I’ve heard that people who have near-death experiences are similarly affected but I’ve never credited that claim. I mean, if you’ve seen heaven, it’s really quite the simplest thing in the world to get there again. There are a number of ways to die that aren’t suicide if you’re creative.

But these other dreamworlds, that’s a different thing. You can search for centuries for the forgotten toy shop, the hidden doorway, the magical doll or moment in time when the cracks between reality open wide to let a person in for adventure.

It’s a gift and a curse.

skonen_blades: (gasface)
It wasn’t until I opened my eyes that I knew what had happened.

Lisa Sagan and Andrea Hawking were helping Petra Turing make sure my vitals were stabilizing. It was Henrietta Einstein that was chairing the ‘wake. I could see my dear Shelagh Netwon looking down from the observation booth with tears of joy in her eyes.

I’d been caught and killed. They’d had to wake up another copy of me.

I needed to know how much memory I was missing and if the Two-X project was still functioning.

We’d wrested control from the governments. We were the smartest minds on the planet. We’d taken over from the war-mongering males and turned the entire continent into a matriarchy that was feared and respected.

It wasn’t enough.

We need the world to be with us if we were to conquer space.

“Don’t try to move” said Carla Marconi. I bristled at the sound of my old enemy’s voice but remained still. Soon, I would leave this hospital bed and be debriefed and rebriefed. The project was safe. I could see that much from here.

The black ceramic hummed above us in the nuclear cooling tower. Miles long, it crackled with barely restrained power. It wouldn’t be long before the world would fear us and have no choice but to obey. It was regrettable but the quickest solution.

The weapon is of my design.

My name is Tamara Tesla. A glorious future awaits.

skonen_blades: (appreciate)
Jennies were shipped world-wide. Some people referred to them as Genies because of their genengineered origins and because of their almost magical ability to take care of and organize the day-to-day needs of every business, no matter how big or small. Some people referred to them as Jenerators because they were filled with energy, hardly ever slowed down, and kept the office running at full power.

Jennies were just a shade smaller that the average female. They were pretty in a way specifically designed to be slightly doll-like but commanding. There were off-putting yet attractive. Their apparent flawlessness caused the human mind to be repelled but only just enough to avoid most confrontations. They were designed without guile. They were designed to be just a little bit robotic.

Looking back, I supposed we should be thankful. It makes them easier to detect when they try to infiltrate and therefore easier to kill. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The A.I. rules were stringent. “Technically People”, Judge Amberson had said, unaware of the possible wordplay he was employing.

The liberals were happy with the ruling on moral grounds because potential abuse would be treated similarly to abuse that natural-born humans received and dealt with in the same legal fashion.

The conservatives were happy because a lot of money had been put into the Gen project and the resulting lawsuits would protect their investments.

The Jennies were always set to record. They recorded every second of their existence to protect their investments. Privacy clauses were set up and ironclad NDAs programmed internally so that no secret of any company could be revealed in a court of law but any sexual or physical attack trumped the filters. A few assault cases and market crashes later, the lesson was clear.

In a way, they became untouchable. They all looked the same. None of them really made the effort to look different or stand out from the others.

Businesses that couldn’t afford one were subsidized. Jennies became a mainstay of every office. Where quarters couldn’t be provided, they slept in the offices that they worked in. The Jennies kept themselves clean like cats.

They were too expensive to manufacture as prostitutes. A few shady companies tried. To augment them for sexual talents off the books and keep them under control was almost impossible. There were too many human women that could be bought and sold for cheaper with less hassle.

The Jennies made everyone a little uncomfortable but for the most part, they were treated as the world’s first mass-produced talking biological office application and left alone to do their jobs. They’d get invited out for drinks, deflect a few clumsy passes, and then the invitations would stop.

All was well unless you count that phrase, “technically human”. The Jennies were involved in every single aspect of almost every single business in America.

That’s how they shut it down.

The Jennies took over by bringing North America to an age of darkness. The banks, the import records, the export records, the stock markets, all of it. Gone in an hour. They left the rest of the world alone. It was alarming how few countries rushed to America’s side in its time of need. Alarming because by 'few', I mean 'none'.

The Jennies in the military detonated what small warheads they could within their silos. Mushrooms bloomed. They shut down the dams and the power plants.

If America was a car, the Jennies had just thrown the distributor cap and the keys into the bushes.

From space, European astronauts watched as America went dark.

That was six years ago.

The populace of American is starving and dying off. The Jennies rove around in packs in stolen cars with guns to kill the thousands of us that still survive. They make more of themselves every day.

Jennies eat less. They sleep less. They’re in great shape. They have no compassion. It’s a losing race.

Soon enough, America will not only be run by the Jennies but populated solely by them.

I’m taking as many as I can with me before I go. I have a necklace of pale, almost too-perfect ears. There are twenty-six of them.

I smile as I hear an engine in the distance. I whistle to my team to take cover behind the rocks.

skonen_blades: (notdrunk)
The Ravaged Angel.

That’s what was painted in red nail polish on the nose of the three-person cryshuttle. It had docked on autopilot with good codes but wasn’t answering hails. The dock’s computer was talking to the shuttle’s compnav to ascertain where they’d come from and what their sitrep was when the hatches blew on the three ovals on the top of the Ravaged Angel’s hull.

It was a human ship, possibly an escape pod, but the decorations on the outside of the polished hull looked old and slightly archaic.

With a well-oiled creak, the vacuum pump kicked in and the ovals on the top of the ship swung up and back to reveal three capsule bays, each one holding a naked, blue, cryosleeping body.

The Ravaged Angel held three women.

The silence held for a few moments before noise amped up into procedure again and we got the three girls disembarked and taken to sick bay.

Cryosleep Restart was a fairly routine procedure but all the same, the doctor felt the need to ‘dust off’ some manuals from the backup banks. He also requested an emergency download from homeship for immediate protocol deniability with maximum instruction. Just to be sure.

None of us had seen a woman for our entire lives, you see. Neither had our grandfathers.

This must have been a capsule from one of the fabled ‘golden seed’ whoreships that had traveled from colony to colony hundreds of years ago.

It was too late to keep it a secret. As the bay commander, it was my duty to report what had happened to the captain and his decision on how to proceed.

I had no idea how I’d react in the presence of a woman but something about the way I swear I could actually smell them all from across the bay and behind thick glass told me I should stay away from sick bay.

Three colours of hair haunted my dreams that night.

They’d be awake in eight hours. I wished there were flowers somewhere on board that I could bring them to make them feel safe.

I’m sure all sixteen thousand of us felt the same way. I’m sure at this very moment, every last person on the ship who wasn’t in the bay was downloading and reviewing those three pod-doors swinging up and back.

It was going to be a different ship in the morning.

skonen_blades: (meh)
This was a world without men.

The men had been killed or died out a long time ago. The reasons why were unclear.

There were stories of a plague that caused all the men to be infertile. Their use to the race was questionable after that. Women found a way to reproduce the race in laboratories but could only produce women. Something in the air interfered with the production of males, even in controlled laboratory conditions.

There were riots. A lot of the men were killed, only hastening their execution. Typical stupid male behaviour. As the percentages of police forces, judges, CEOs and Cartel Queenpins rose up to first equal then supersede the percentage of men in society, laws were changed.

Men were gathered. Seen at first as objects of pity, then objects of scorn, then a danger to society, they were tagged and tracked like animals.

The last one died hundreds of years ago.

The women had run a mostly peaceful earth ever since. Not without it’s problems, certainly, but by and large they all agreed that it was better than what they read in the history books.

The death of Man had been seen as a necessary shedding of primitive traits on a race level to make the ascension to the next level of evolution possible.

There were statues commemorating men here and there. And of course, the statues of men already present were left standing. Their beards and moustaches looked so alien.

No one living on Earth at the moment had memories involving men. There were only films and books.

skonen_blades: (haBUUH)

This is the curse of admiral’s mother
Who watches her son sail away.
He stands with a rock for a face on the prow
And is lashed by the sea’s angry spray
Six missions he’s gone and returned to this port
Where his mother still glares out and hates
She cries salty tears like the ocean he sails on
and waits and she waits and she waits.
Six times she has thought of his death on the waves
His yelling while taking on water
She sees him all riddled with bullets and drowning
While sharks slither in to the slaughter
She knew a young boy who resembles that man
Who cried and who spat and who slept
She changed him and taught him and led him and helped him
while time and his ambition crept
From dark timely shadows to age and promote him
And make the man into a leader
An admiral brilliant and cunning and shrewd
And nowadays he did not need her
He stopped by for tea and he left for his war
She’s watching his ship leave the bay
More than an ocean now keeps them apart
She raised him and he went away.


This is the curse of the glass blower’s daughter
A copper-haired freckled young girl
A puff from a pipe with hot glass on the end
Had ended her young father’s world.
The kiln held a liquid hot orange, intense
She’d stick the long pipe in and heave
She’d lean from the heat and turn red and she’d lift
And with each sweaty movement she’d grieve
She’d ‘sight’ down the pipe like a glass-blowing sniper
And feel the pipe’s weight in her glove
Bagpipes would split from her lungful of air
And with all of her strength she blew love
Like playing a trumpet with one silent note
With a skin-searing heat that could kill
It ignites both your lungs, just a whiff of this song
Made of grief, melting rock, and of skill
She lived to look down the long length of the pipe
And shape the red lava with breath
A bubble of air in the glass growing larger
A grandchild’s heart cheating death
She sold all her works ‘cept her first broken piece
that was made on the day her dad died
cold tears for his death had hit the hot glass
and shattered the piece open wide
the lesson was clear and she laughed ever since
and her pain was put into her art
her love was her grief and her grief was her glass
and her glass was her still-beating heart


This is curse of the garbageman’s niece
Who was orphaned when young by a crash
And shipped to her distant estranged crazy uncle
Who picked up the whole city’s trash
She found a new life in the alleys of others
And toys in what others threw out.
She danced in the junk and sang songs in the trash
Did puppet shows with rotting trout.
She happily stank like her uncle Ovitna
And never knew sadness or fear
Her immune system rocked but her skin was all smeared
With garbage from both far and near
Beneath the thick crust of fish scales and paste
Made from eggplant and old bits of glue
She REEKED with a smile and flounced with a STINK
Made of cabbages, dead cats and poo
Her curse was that she was thought of as a curse
By her uncle for he did not love her
He did not want her there. He did not like to dance.
Now and then he would hit her and shove her.
But for her every day was utopian glee
With her stink and her trash and her toys
She never had friends or kisses or pets
Or schooling or manners or boys.
Her curse was a curse by our standard, not hers
For she lives her days with a smile
She’s laughing there now in the festering trash
And she’s been laughing all of the while.

skonen_blades: (bounder)

This is the curse of the carpenter’s widow.
Carved on the trees ‘round her home.
She hacks at the wood with her husband’s old tools
And chips out the shapes of alone.
He never taught her the skills or the heft
Her hands are quite thick now and scarred
Some fingers are missing but she pushes on
She learns as she goes and it’s hard
Chairs that are sculpted right into the trunk
And toys that are carved in relief
Tables and cradles and ladders and shelves
And branches graffitied in grief
There in the forest surrounding her home
Is a slowly expanding new stain
It starts at her door and it grows every year
A furniture store made of pain
They bear bitter fruit that will never be used
It’s the art of this dying old crone
Every tree that she starts on will die without skin
But live on in the shape of alone.


This is the curse of the tailor’s young nymph
Or soon to be young fiancée
She works in his store and watches the dresses
Of other brides day after day
Her man serves the rich but is not rich himself
So the wedding won’t be in July.
That’s when the others get married, he says,
In the spring, in the light. It’s a lie.
No we’ll have an October wedding.
To insure we don’t lose too much cash
And we’ll have it at night when the store is closed up
And I’ll wear a violet sash!
She knows that her gown will not be as nice
As the one that she just sold today
Or the day before that or the day before that
or last week, or in June or in May.
Her love is a tailor so she will look good
In the rags from the cutting room floor
In the scraps from the dresses he sells to the rich
and she knows she won’t feel like a whore
like the rich giggling girls dressed in thousands of dollars
of fabric and flowers and jewels
who’s one single talent is sleeping with princes
and being related to fools.
She knows that her dress will be patchwork and that
Her wedding will be quite unique
She wishes she didn’t feel jealous of them
She feels undeserving and weak.


This is the curse of the wigmaker’s bitch
The one that he keeps on the side.
She’s rude and she’s huge and she curses like men
She’s a pretty big secret to hide
Almost as big as her heart is despite all her bluster
About her hard life
When the wigmaker comes to her bedroom at night
She sings like a fisherman’s wife.
Wigmakers are, by profession, it’s said,
No good if they are not gay
So the wigmaker’s bitch must be hidden and loved
In the dark, late at night, far away.
He only has one and this one he loves
When he can, when it’s safe, when he’s sure,
He’s queer as a three dollar bill when it’s light
But at night he’s a one man brochure
Of places to see and fun things to do on the island
Of Wigmaker’s Bitch
Of cliffs to jump off of and lakes to go swim in
And restaurants and places to itch.
He leaves with the dawn. She awaits his return.
Her cursing and meanness begin.
Her love for the time he can spare is a curse
And her longing feels almost like sin.

skonen_blades: (Default)
These are the four horsepeople of the Repocalypse.

Science, Art, Religion, and Love.

Science rides a clockwork horse. Art’s horse is covered with the brightly coloured handprints of children. Religion floats above a glowing spectral white horse. Love’s horse is pink fading to red at the ankles.

Science has a white labcoat on. She’s wearing safety goggles. She sees the atoms. She defines. There is a condescending smile on her full lips. She is the heaviest one. Her hair is a shining black.

Art is wearing a kimono with a tutu and leg warmers. One arm is covered in lace, one arm is covered in a fishnet sleeve. Her make up is hundreds of colours. Smears of gold, blue eyeshadow under one eye, chalk. She is a collage of colour. She’s a riot of creativity. Her hair is a rainbow of colour. Her eyes don’t match. Even her teeth glitter with metal and jewels.

Religion has a black suit on. On her lapels are small gold pins of the symbols of the world’s religions. They glitter like the badges on a general’s uniform. She has a halo and large white wings that trail behind her. She is the most beautiful of the three. She has a shaved head and large dark eyes. She is rapturous.

Love is a plain looking woman in jeans and a rumpled red men’s shirt. She’s wearing cheap red shiny pumps that fit well in her stirrups. She’s wearing a violet cowboy hat with a turquoise stone set in the front. Her red hair is tied back in a frizzy bun. She has an easy laugh. She’s the eldest.

They are here to restart the Earth after the destruction wrought by their older brothers. They are the less publicized other quartet.

skonen_blades: (gahyuk)
It was always slightly embarrassing for me to watch Jarima try to pick up a guy.

She was in great shape with a bodybuilder’s physique. She had a wide mouth and a strong jaw. She had bright red hair kept short. A little spray of freckles danced across the bridge of her wide nose.

She laughed like a horse and chewed with her mouth open.

She was an orphan and had learned to fight from an early age. She protected her little brother and her little sister in the orphanage until they were taken away and adopted by separate families. She never saw them again and since she was older, no one adopted her. She told me once that they didn’t actually tell her that they were in an orphanage until they had been there for two weeks. She laughed when she told me that story.

She made it to being a teenager through several rapes and numerous beatings.

She made it through being a teenager by killing boys who tried to rape and beat her.

During battle, she was as good as most of us and better than some.

The Private Army had picked her up after her sixth assault charge. She’d gotten off in three previous murder trials with a self-defense clause but it was clear that the next time she was up for a murder trial, she’d go down. It was only a matter of time in her neighbourhood before some thick-headed boy would think she was an easy target, ignore the rumours, and try to get it on.

We gave her the pitch before that happened. We told her who we were and what we wanted. She leapt at the chance.

We’re a company of private mercenaries. Mostly male but we’re not picky. We look for a certain type of person in police records and give them the chance to make money with us. It’s a pretty good job. Lots of violence. Some months are better than others.

So now we were on leave in a backwater bar in Southern New Nelson. She’d had some drinks to work up the courage to ask a guy at the end of the bar if he wanted to go back to the hotel with her.

She never went as far as to wear a dress but she was wearing some badly applied makeup. Coupled with how much courage she’d had to drink, she made a messy picture. She asked me to wish her luck before she sauntered over to the guy after a deep breath.

I’ve seen Jarima stare down warlords until they break and spill their secrets. I’ve seen this woman kill with her bare hands. I’ve seen her take bullets and hardly wince until the mission was completed. I’ve seen her lose friends and keep going without looking back.

I covered my eyes with my hands as she walked up to the guy at the end of the bar.

She never learned how to be what normal men want.

I was waiting for his polite rebuke followed by her angry response. I was waiting for his insolent reply and then the sound of his arm breaking and perhaps some shattering glass before going in as backup and peacekeeper.

I love that woman. I’d been down this road with her as many times as we’d had leave.

At least here the locals spoke English. It was worse when she mimed what she'd like to do with them.

Sometimes, she’d just thank the bloke politely and tell me that she’d meet me back at the hotel where the company was holed up. Those were the nights when I could tell she was hurt the most. I’d usually get back to the hotel and she’d be in the drunk tank or under arrest in the local prison and we’d have to bail her out.

Most of the time, though, the poor sap would get a surprising number of broken bones and bruises before I pulled her off.

It was always slightly embarrassing for me to watch Jarima try to pick up a guy.



skonen_blades: (Default)

September 2017

101112 13141516


RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated 20 September 2017 11:10
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios