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2 posts categorized "Kiss"

November 09, 2007

Incantation - fiction

Incantation is longer short story. It's a mix: crime, sci-fi, erotica, and other things. I hope that readers enjoy it, as I enjoyed writing it.

Incantation

And he showed me all the secrets of the ends of heaven and all the storehouses of all the stars and the lights, from where they come out before the holy ones.” The Book of Enoch 71,3-4

Prologue:

Rosemary was one of the fortunate few who entered the sector that her society had affectionately baptized the Humanity Zone. She remembered her first day, being scanned from head to toe, entering the zone for her first job as a consultant (they may have eradicated deformities, and other psychological disturbances, but crime is something they’ve never managed to eradicate) or, profiler. She rushed home the next day to tell her group or The Final Frontier, as they preferred to call themselves; they’d never reproduce.

“A nuclear family?” Katie, the youngest of their group, shook her head, “a complete unit?”

“Some of them have a small army of children,” she said, feeling their eyes peel her away piece by piece; she hadn’t seen a child for years. The new arrivals were settled a few districts away, and each district was guarded around the clock.

“How many?”

“As many as four,” Rosemary nodded.

“Four?” piped Raul.

“Oh yeah, four…I saw a family with four, all walking to some leisure center.”

Her stories exhausted them. She was never allowed to approach any children in the perfect sector, and the children she’d approach would smile initially, then their parents would intercede, pulling them away the moment they saw the mark on her hand; she wasn’t permitted to wear gloves. She tried that once, to be cautioned by a random inspector. Status Concealment.

Her work enabled her to keep her chin up; they may be perfect on the outside, but they’re far from perfect from within. Up to her eyeballs tracking a rapist, and working on a deadline, Rosemary followed each crime scene, interviewing the women, who in normal circumstances would find her repulsive; others created interesting diversions…

“She left the door unlocked?” she walked through the front door, noticing the security grids.

“She stepped out for a moment…”

A moment in time, she thought.

“Where is she?”

“Not here, I’m afraid.”

“The scene?”

“Bedroom.”

“Traditional…”

“Hmm…just do your job.”

He introduced himself as Jake, and had little time for small talk. She noted a wedding band on his finger: a traditionalist. His phone rang. His wife. He spoke in whispers, frowning in places before telling the voice on the other end that he’d be home soon. “It will be all right honey, call your mother if it gets worse. I have some loose ends to tie up.”

A first time father, which was strange considering he was a clone. She didn’t want to explore it further. Law enforcing officers were all cloned to enable behavior modification.

Rosemary gazed at the disheveled bedroom. Half stripped bed, a couple of drops of blood, nothing dramatic to indicate any severe injury; a cut lip perhaps, a small cut nonetheless, and something caught her eye. A glint of metal; she bent down, and fished the object out from under the bed, incredulous at her luck or the victim’s stupidity; all doors were opened willingly and all relied on optical scans. This case was the anomaly. All other victims were taken from behind, on the way home.

“Is her husband in law enforcement?”

“Accountant.”

“Hmm…”

It is possible that the object is his, but if so, there’d be no reason to hide it under the bed. They’d know…. they’d return it to its rightful drawer.

“Where is he?”

“In Singapore. He’s at a conference.”

“I think you need to interrogate her before she puts an innocent man away.”

“Excuse me?”

“She’s having an affair.”

“How preposterous.”

“They played a few games, sadomasochistic. She probably has a cut lip or a minor cut around her breasts. Knife play…” she pulled out the shiny handcuffs and tossed them to the coffee table.

“Enough!”

“Shit Sherlock, only a 20th Century rapist would leave enough sperm to paint a house. Did you look at that bed?”

She almost heaved at the sight of the encrusted loads.

Continue reading "Incantation - fiction" »

August 17, 2007

Kiss, Kiss

“Kiss me out of desire, but not consolation…” - Jeff Buckley (The Last Goodbye)

I began my romantic life, or thoughts, with one ideal. It focused on the first kiss, how it would be the cornerstone of my adult life, and how I’d forever remember it; right down to the finest drop of saliva, or lingual caress, and I do remember elements. It’s just that the entire moment wasn’t what I imagined it to be years down the track. I was one to think that I’d always remember the first kiss, that it would somehow invigorate my soul and carry me through; lust briefly quells the weary soul?

I have seen him here and there; he lives in my neighbourhood, and although I question the larger meaning of everything, each time I see him, I am surprised by my numbed state. Half expecting to be awed by the memory, I find myself clutching at straws. It wasn’t as though it was a dull kiss. It contained all the elements of an erotic kiss. I was a few months shy of turning eighteen, and he was once the dishy waiter at a small taverna. We ended up kissing in a car after he finished imbibing a fragrant joint. A girlfriend of mine was asleep in the back seat, and so he turned to me. My teenage mind was eons away from the jaded sophistication one gains through experience; I took what I could get, and somewhat thought that it would do. It served well for the time, but he was a fly by night; fast flings, and car fucks were more his style, despite his lingering tongue, deft hands, tunneling fingers and their capacity to knock the wind out of me.

With the rosy stardust gone, and my vision back to normal, I noticed the delicate band of pale skin around his ring finger; it disgusted me, and I felt disgusted in myself for being so blind. Sure, we didn’t date, but it was the first baby step to a jaded beginning where attached men are concerned. It kick started my incessant questioning of relationships, knocking my faith around a little. I remember the moment where he grabbed my hand and pulled it toward his crotch; it didn’t inspire me or fill me with additional desire. Too… boorish? I can see the bulge, I don't need to be directed to it. That sort of direction switches me off.

The first kiss danced in my memory for quite some time; it lingered like a stale perfume, following me for many months. I didn’t file it in the unique drawer, as I assumed I would. A quest developed; the goal to reach the highest peak in oral interactions became my objective. Is a kiss unique to the person, or to the union of two people, dependent on a certain personal vibe or resonance? It’s what I would ask myself, and I’m more inclined to believe in the latter.

Tonight, as we were heading back from the video shop, I caught sight of the First Kiss in the liquor store. He was alone, scoping out the shelves. His pooch waited outside; loyal, patient and quite unnerved by the passersby.

He isn’t anything much. The memory of that first kiss, one that took place later on in my teen life, faded to the background. He paid for his liquor, untied his dog and walked home. I checked him out, while attempting to awaken the memory of car-kiss, but each attenuated image contained little emotion; the kiss may contain many techniques, like dance steps, but there is no meaning if emotions lack and emotion doesn’t have to be draped with love, eternal or otherwise; passion, belief and genuine ardor, emboss a kiss to preserve it through the annals of time.

I stopped at the gourmet pizzeria to pick up tonight’s dinner (it’s been a long week, and I can’t be arsed standing in the kitchen for a long period of time chopping, stirring and observing saucepans and things), as he crossed the road with his loyal pooch, and felt that I had traversed an eon between the then and now; each atom, or each electron within each atom, making enough quantum leaps to please Bohr.

Where is the romantic in me? The hopeful teenager of then is gone; I’m glad to be rid of her, as she had difficulty differentiating genuine like from want. Needs and wants; there is a difference. It was as I watched his solo passage manifest through his hunched shoulders and blank face, that I thought of needs and wants; he’s at the stage where need haunts his thoughts. Sure he wants and craves, but the passage of time may mean that one may be eclipsed by others; he is no longer a spring chicken, and judging by his attire and posture, he hasn’t hit the big time. Dope and alcohol can eat a hole in the back pocket, while providing a short term hit, but they fail to satisfy the deeper longings within. A few years ago I learned that he did get divorced; his wife most likely divorced him. It didn’t surprise, and now that he’s cropped up in my locale, I view him with scientific distance; he is still the landmark of then or reminder of what it was to be me then, thus he serves as a reminder of the future, or the importance of never looking back and insofar as former lovers are concerned, I never look back. I may entertain hypotheticals from time to time, with those that I can count on one hand only, but I’d never physically return to past moments; the past is the past, and there’s a reason why it is relegated to the past. If everything, from each atom to the personal communication, synchronized to present a favorable outcome, then it would contain the potential for longevity.

There are many forms of kisses; a primitive form of communication. The sensuality can make for an eternal moment or intricate canvass filled with elaborate, soulful brush strokes whereas a perfunctory encounter can mean little years down the track.

I didn't feel anything at all as I watched him fade into the darkness; he turned a corner, and I continued walking home, thinking and turning over moments in my head. Desire (or that which is categorized as desire in the sexually commerical world that is) can be fickle, based on external stimuli that reflects social or peer related ideals, something that may not genuinely reflect one's internal cravings; procedural, and a form of consolation or performance to validate something, a something that I can't define with one word or phrase. Mammalian...devoid of passion. Perfunctory.

Empty.

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