Skip to main content

Flash Fiction - Thin-Skinned


Getting out of her way wasn't hard, but it was difficult. What I mean is that she lived like a hurricane, big eyes and big hair, ready to smile that witch smile or cut you down. What I mean is that you saw her coming a mile away, a thousand miles away, you heard her name whispered in warning, carved in the fucking stones saying 'do not go there.' But all those warnings did little to convince me. When she came skipping down the street she looked like a girl, and nothing more.

So I got sucked in. It happens to the best of us, and the best of us prostrate ourselves to whatever she needed. The midnight screaming fights, those were for the best. The first knife she pulled, the one she swore up and down killed her mother and father and then pointed at my heart, that was a catharsis long needed. I lied to myself with born-again ferocity, ignored the strange brown stains under her fingernails and the watery glimmer in her eyes. Then she showed me the tattoos.

The truth was I enjoyed the murder. She said I shouldn't, that what she did, what I now did was sacred. We took the most valued and gave them to the grave so the grave would look past us. Her skin became paper thin and we could no longer make love without it tearing. It wasn't enough, she said, pointing the knife at me, close enough that I could read the letters the bloodstains made. I shivered in the corner, her arms red and corded, her lips drawn back over yellow teeth. I should be ashamed of myself. I pulled the blade from her hand and pushed it through her heart, sawed it as she howled and bucked.

I'm going through my things, packing them up and getting ready to vanish. I kept the knife, and even though I can't read what the bloodstains say, I can feel my skin getting thinner.


Popular posts from this blog

The Theory of Narrative Gestalt

Story happens.

The human animal is a storytelling machine. We never need to be taught the basics of narrative, because the basis for all story is simple causality. Events that follow one another are likely linked, our brains dictate, and we scour the environment for clues to the nature of that link. If nature does not provide an obvious answer, we confabulate and confuse, projecting our intuitive understanding of human motivations upon the world. It is this inborn need that is the core of narrative.

We understand stories on a primal level; they trick our limbic system and beguile our amygdala. True, on the higher levels of thought we understand this is an illusion, but one we are willing to indulge in for the sake of a thrill; we aren't such slaves to our passions as to allow them unchecked reign. The methods of this manipulation have been codified, expanded upon, and undercut since the Classical period, but the core of story -- causality with meaning-- is maintained. A grea…

Sculpting self-aggrandizement

I'm posting this here because, well, I like showing off. I've taken up sculpting for the past few months. Here's what I've done.
Funny story: I haven't sculpted since high school, and there I only ever sculpted a single thing: a mask that didn't work out, because I didn't know enough about casting to not screw it up.
Have you ever had one of those 'ah-ha' moments where you realize you have a skill that surprised you? I've never been a particularly good 2d artist: I can build something in 3d inside my head, but it gets warped in the translation to the flat plane. But working in clay makes sense to me. I'm not sure why it makes sense-- maybe some genetic memory of my Grandfather's lifetime as a carpenter-- but I haven't had this much of an connection to a medium since, well, a long damn time.

Societas Insomnia

After hunting around the internet for a few minutes, I found a few pictures from my time performing for the Portland performing arts troupe Societas Insomnia. It was a deeply disorganized group, with dozens of performers dropping out and being replaced, sound and lighting issues, and big egos getting stepped on constantly. But man oh man, do I enjoy performing.