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Fall (mf)
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Author: [email protected] (byron elbows / Brian Tung)
Keywords: mf
Archive-name: fall
==> Haley walks out the door, a second story apartment on the west
side. The autumn morning fog seems out of place (and not the
other way around) beside the bright green railing and the metal
balustrade that limns her window. She is flying high, on wings
she has dreamt before now (opiates working overtime, perhaps),
but they always vanish like shadows before the big dawning sun,
so she's waited for the clouds to cover for her. They will: she
is the lady of skies. Never mind the poet and his rosy-fingered
dawn; this, ladies and gentlemen, is the genuine article. In
the blink of an eye---maybe more, things don't appear quite as
clear >now<, in the haze, at six in the morning (to repeat)---
she leaps...
==> At one time, she had fears of becoming a bag (receptacle,
handkerchief, jar, wineskin, toilet bowl, cuspidor, what's your gravy),
but those are gone now, dashed to pieces against her experience,
that alleged vice. It's not that >hard< being green, either,
she has discovered, although occasionally, it does get a little
messy. But knowing the right bloody blind streets is a blanket
of security.
==> The last one was John. By that time, of course, the whole
routine was customary. Once, she caught him trying to feed her
grapes, in the red-lit afterglow of a warm July evening (no fog,
just sweet sticky fingers roamin' in the gloamin').
``Don't try that, you naughty Jack!'' she cried.
``O, don't get all ripped up about it,'' he said. But he
had no idea.
==> A slight flight: she will never fall (in love) again.
==> John died later that week, the first person in the United States
to be struck by a lightning bolt while being stung by a swarm of
Africanized killer bees. Haley discovered the body next to an
elm with a detective friend of hers who called the local police.
They all found the scene singularly emetic, except Haley, who
thought he looked peaceful. That comment naturally made her a
suspect in the case, in which her friend was all ready to defend
her, present evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. She was
never charged, however: lack of motive.
==> Now, she is singing. A solitary note, devoid of emotion, not
even loneliness. Four hundred forty hertz have known none other
in the world, no backdrop to feel the keen isolation (yes, it
>is< there). Her brain lies open for us and any other flies to
pick at. They will: she is the lady of lies.
© 10 August 1993 byron elbows
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