Dip your feet in the water,

That cold, cold water’

A stagnant reminder of the ripples of change,

Rearrange your needs,

Become a new you; Like the weeds that grasp what they believe,

Live through the concrete, Make it home, that familiar unknown.

I dance on my own, a sunflower left a-strewn

No cares needed, just be your own

This City will make you yearn,

For things that are never known

Cure the itch or let it grow

Dip your finger in a bag of insanity

Realise it makes sense

Respect the other, or not bother

Nothing really matters,

Slit my throat with a feather,

flit your wings with a jack hammer

Show me what we already know

We are the seeds that are left to sow

We are the ones they don’t want to know

The hand that just won’t fold

Weeds that refuse to grow old

Freedom that only we know

So dip your feet in the stale water below

Take comfort in the sincerity of the chaos

We will live, and we will die

My life is mine

Bloody and screaming, a knife held above our head

From the day we were born

Until the day we say goodbye

when I make a choice, there is no divine

Redefine your lines, or blame the silence that won’t die

I dance on my own, a sunflower left to strewn

No cares needed, just be your own

This City will make you yearn,

For things that are never known

Cure the itch or let it grow

You’re only as old as you know

Let it shape you or dip your feather in the ink

Let it rip away the world of numbers and spreadsheets

Slit my throat with ideas, make me anew

Open, never vacant

An empty space without a shrink

No cue to be told when to think

Never censored, always on the brink

An accountant without a financial need

An addict without their weed

 

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The Romans would benefit from watching Wayne’s World. You see, to get from x to y is not just about how efficiently you do so; it’s how the journey transcends. Straight roads may be the quickest route to prosperity but what do we learn from our achievements if all we base them on are tangible results? Surely there’s something more.

After a considerable hiatus of eight years, you would expect a band to be a bit rusty around the edges. Not with Yndi Halda. These guys rocked the Oslo in true post rock style with a new EP, “Under Summer”.

Borrowing from heavyweights such as Sigor Ros and Mogwai, Yndi Halda have crafted their own form of musical expedition. The frantic violins of Daniel Neal hang in the air as if emotion were a sound and serve to set this band apart from those that mimic the post rock genre. At times, I had to pinch myself and consider how one man could play an instrument that was designed in an era when Beethoven was alive as though he were possessed.

Yndi Hald Mid Flow / 1.4.16 @ Oslo

Above: Yndi Halda Mid Flow / 1.4.16 @ Oslo

Tracks such as “Helena” and “This Very Flight” underline a very rare ability to merge the brutal with the serene without a jar to the listener.  There are times when I was worried the amps might explode with disillusioned angst but there were also occasions when I felt at peace with the world all in the space of ten minutes, however the beauty of my experience was that the transition was seamless.

Yndi Halda translates from Old Norse into English as “Enjoy Eternal Bliss”. After seeing this band live, I have decided that the road to eternal bliss is anything but straight forward.

Take a listen to Yndi Halda: https://soundcloud.com/yndihalda

20160401_205133

Above: Yndi Halda Before Set / 1.4.16 @ Oslo

The door bursts open. I feel around the frame for any evidence that a wall has been deconstructed in the last ten minutes. My eyes dart about for signs of dust or mortar left behind by a busybody with a sledge hammer and find nothing but neat joins and a clinically clean floor.

“Wake up Icarus,” he says.

The tail of Mister Squeeze tightens around my arm.

The reek of sulphur crawls up my nostrils. Before me is a concourse area. Regiments of beds, each with their designated patient, unconscious and emancipated fill the space. Tubes infiltrate mouths and there’s the hum of machinery as they pump a neon solution down unsuspecting oesophaguses. I clock that there appears to be an outlet for waste matter, with two conduits that enter bodies in classic number one and number two positions.

I cup my hand over my mouth, “What is this, hell?”

He selects another cocktail stick and places it in his mouth, “Oh no. This is far worse Icarus, welcome to reality.”

I fix my sight on the landscape; an infinity of apathetic desires and physical needs.
“What can we do?” I ask. A florescent light sparks in the distance and I note the red dots on the ceiling from the CCTV.

He cocks his head, “Follow me. I know the way out.”

I want to stop him and ask about my brother. Is there a chance he’s here? But he’s already on his way past snorkel-masked entities confined to slumber.

The soles of our shoes slap at the ground as we speed in unison, “over there!” he says as he points to a manhole cover. I peek at the world above me and it’s alive with the blink of cameras, their legs creep across the plasterboard in an effort to keep up with the action.

“Why are we stopping?” I ask. I spy another flare of light, closer this time.

“We’re going underground,” he says as he pulls a switch-blade from his pocket, a smile on his face.

A thread of metal extents from above my head, “Hurry up – they’re coming” I say.

Ignas twirls around, “Here take this” he says as he passes me the mace from his shoulder. The instrument is worn and heavy in my hand.

I jam my eyes shut as the laser phishes for my retinas and swing the mace.

“Checking bank balance… do not be-”

The camera crumples on the floor, waves of cobalt run rabid through its circuit board.

“Checking Twitter account-“

“Checking vitals…”

In my head I memorise their positions and let the steel orbs do the rest.

“Are you done yet?” I enquire.

“Hold your fucking horses!” Ignas replies, busy ramming the edge of the knife into the flathead of the drain fitting.

There’s a silhouette of a man about 50 yards from us. The midriff of his face is fitted with an LED screen that conceals his eyes and ears, head ever so slightly titled. The monitor bursts to life and a pair of upward turned lips reveal a set of teeth that form a smirk while his actual mouth remains frozen.

“Erm…We’re not alone here”, I stammer. Mister Squeeze arches his body forward and hisses into the air.

The man tenses a fist that is partially wrapped by a fingerless glove. Ripples of plasma dance between his knuckles on a ridge of brass.

The letters, ‘L-e-t’-s-p-l-a-y’ replace the grin on the man’s display. He folds his fist into the palm of his hand. I hear the word, “Resistance” bounce around the empty space as a collection of whispers.

“How much longer do you need for fucks sake Ignas! I don’t think this guy’s the friendly type.”

I can see he’s still yet to release one screw, “I’m nearly there!” he shouts back at me.
The beat of boots draws my attention. The man charges at me. I watch as he zig-zags from the floor to wall, defying gravity.

The manhole cover groans as we pull it open “…And we’re in!” says Ignas, knife in hand.
Silence reigns. We take a look at each other, “Where did he go?” we say in harmony.

I head for the exit but stop in my tracks. Directly behind Ignas it as though someone has made a window pane from washing up liquid, its iridescent surface swirls and eddies as though in wait for someone to blow a colossal bubble.

I jab my finger at the anomaly in the hope it will grab his attention.

“Huh? What are you pointing at-“ he says.

A figure with a mask awash with the ups and downs of the stock market emerges from the void. The man towers above Ignas as the baritone syllables of, “RE-SIS-TANCE…” gurgle from his mouth.

Ignas spins around and a fist of steel greets him. He twists in pain and crashes to the floor. Through gasps of blood I hear him speak, “Run.” He tries to pick himself up but the man lands another blow, this time to his back. He lands face down on the ground, motionless.

old typewriterWord Count 845

Written By Sebastian King on 12.03.16

This story is under construction. I am waiting for a writer to WriteMeBack a response… Check out the WriteMeBack Facebook Page to write back a response to this story or simply reply as a comment or even a picture!

Ignas kneels down to my level, “Focus Icarus. Concentrate. Feel that pain. Respect it. They will use it against you again and again to get what they want. You must learn to confront it, to make it your strength.”

“That’s how I found her. How I found Sophia, my mother,” I speak through pursed lips.

I feel as though I’m going to be sick, except instead of the usual salivation and rush of liquid that would reside in my gut I can make out a separate movement that squirms up my throat; something alive, inside me. My stomach heaves as my gag reflex goes into overdrive and my eyes flutter open and shut. My jaw jams open, helpless, and wide like two legs. I feel the creature escape my mouth and plop onto the floor, greasy and eel-like.

“What the fuck” I say, voice hoarse.

The snake, about one foot in length, writhes in front of me in a pool of viscous fluid. I notice the coal hue of its skin and sparks of saffron where its eyes are. As it slithers, I make out a cluster of pearly scales and I think of my brother’s birthmark. I used to tease him that the blades of his back looked like a pair of moth wings as a child.

“Mother nature’s a whore, Icarus… Say hello to your spirit animal.”

Ignas picks the serpent up by its tail and it coils itself around his arm, inquisitive in its new surroundings.

“I quite like it,” he says with a nod of approval.

I mumble something about needing a strong drink but can’t raise my voice to say so.
Ignas offers me his hand and helps me to my feet.

“Here you go,” he says as transfers the reptile onto my own arm. It wraps itself around the leather folds and nuzzles its head against my bicep. I’m not sure how to react. I mean, this thing nearly killed me.

“It’s only loyal to you,” a cough flees his lungs and he catches it on his sleeve.  A part of me is concerned that he’s finally choked on that cocktail stick.

“Through its innocence you will find your own,” he continues.

“This is crazy shit,” I croak. The steady flicker of a forked tongue climbs around my neck and the cylindrical bulk of the creature crawls over the arch of my ear.

“Hmm…” he murmurs and looks the other way.

“We should be going. Before we do you need to name it.”

“What. Why on earth do I need to do that?” I retort. I thought we were short on time, not short on names.

He traces the scar tissue on his cheek, “In case we run into trouble and you need to call it back to you. As I said, it only listens to you”.

I furrow my eyebrows and say the first thing that springs to mind, “Mister Squeeze?”

Ignas plants his face in the palm of his hands, “You’re fucking serious. We stand no chance. Let’s get through that door.”

He chuckles to himself, head bowed as he turns and strolls to the door. I try to call him back, to tell him that it was a question and I was looking for some ideas to bounce off, but he’s already storming toward the exit. I jog to catch up.

“Ready?” he asks.

I force a lump of residual phlegm back down my gullet and wait three seconds. 1,2,3.

“Ready.”

old typewriterWord Count 579

Written By Sebastian King on 9.03.16

This story is under construction. I am waiting for a writer to WriteMeBack a response… Check out the WriteMeBack Facebook Page to write back a response to this story or simply reply as a comment or even a picture!

I wish I were an owl, so I could turn my head 360 degrees and analyse the space around me.

“If we need to leave, can’t I just use the exit like any normal person?” I jest.

Ignas, scrapes at his thigh with his fingers and lowers his eyes to the floor, “if it were that easy do you think we’d still be sitting like ducks, waiting to be eaten by creatures that eat our minds? Try the door, by all means. See for yourself”.

The table moans as I remove the mass of my body from it and tip toe toward the handle at the end of the room.

I chuck a final glance back at Ignas, who nods as I extend my hand and turn the knob.
“Go on then,” he says.

With a clack the lock turns and the door opens. Instinct tricks me to step forward and I’m face to face with a brick wall.

I shut the door. Open it again. Same result; an endless discontinue. I feel my eyes glaze over as I question how I ended up in a room with no way in or out.

Ignas slams his mace on the table. My eardrums scream and pull me from my reverie.“It’s a real mindfuck innit? Tell you what’s more of a fucker… I’m trapped in this shithole of a room until you remember what the shit it is that got you here in the first place,” I fear it’s only a matter of time before he loses whatever patience he has left so I scarper back over to the table, mindful to shut the door before I do so.

The spikes of the mace leave an indent on the alloy as he retracts his weapon from the piece of furniture and slings it back over his shoulder.

“Oh, it’s really buggered now,” I add as I brush my hand over the depression marks and knock the filings onto the floor. In the raw silver wound I make out a reflection, it takes a moment for me to realise that the stranger looking back is actually me. I recoil at the sight and almost lose my balance.

“Great shame. I was planning to use that for Christmas dinner,” says Ignas, reaching for another cocktail stick.

I shimmy across the opposite side of the table to avoid my own mirror image.

“Shut up!” I cut him off mid-sentence.

“Bit harsh. But ok Icarus. If it’s silence you want then it’s silence you’ll-“

There, amid the blemishes of paint and rust is a footprint too small to be my own or Ignas’s.

“H-how did that get there?” I stammer.

“What is it?” Ignas enquires.

I press the temples of my head with my fingers and I feel the constant throb of my pulse, “It’s a fucking baby’s footprint or something.”

“What does that mean?”

The skin on the palms of my hands sting, “I don’t know. Someone with tiny feet was standing on the table. You tell me!”

“You know I can’t do that,” says Ignas coolly.

“Why?”

“Because you have to find your own answers. You’re own Light,” The joints of his knuckles pop as he cracks each one individually.

My entire body tingles and radiates. I jump onto the table.

“She was here,” I splatter. Beads of sweat kamikaze onto the floor.

“Who was here, Icarus?”

And I can hear her singing. A song I know very well, I just can’t remember the words. There’s a strange too-ing and fro-ing noise, as though a pendulum or a metronome were being swung in front of me.

“She’s here!”

I reach out for the rope, looped in front of me. There, alongside me on the table, as tangible as my own bones is a woman with elliptical eyes; her face pasty and devoid of emotion.

Who is she Icarus? Say it!”

“It’s…it’s my mother.”

I can tell Ignas is shouting but his voice seems distant, “What’s her name Icarus? Say it! Say it! Say it!”

“Her name is Sophia ,” I say through gritted teeth.

Curls of obsidian envelope the rope as it slips from my grasp. The woman sets the noose around her own neck, turns to me and blows a kiss before she launches herself off the table.
My entire body from my feet to my cheeks burns and pulsates. I throw myself off the edge of the desk in an attempt to prop the body upright and stop her from suffocating but my arms slip straight through her.

I collapse, in foetus position as I watch the life drain out of her complexion and the figure dissipate into the atmosphere.

old typewriter

Word Count 779

Written By Sebastian King on 8.03.16

This story is under construction. I am waiting for a writer to WriteMeBack a response… Check out the WriteMeBack Facebook Page to write back a response to this story or simply reply as a comment or even a picture!

“Icarus. Do you recognise anything in this room?” The man asks.

I scratch my head. Where I would expect the usual rug of fuzz to reside, a smooth scalp now graced my fingertips. “No. I don’t even recognise you…

My hands quiver as I cover my face. Where there was once stubble, strands of what feels like wire wool cover my neck.   “…and  where’s my fucking hair!…What’s this beard about?”  I stammer.

“You’ve been static. The Host has been keeping you alive. This room is important to you. Do you know why?” The man presses forward, his face gaunt.

“Static? This isn’t real! I’m not telling you zip until you tell me your name and what those techno-fucking-critters were”, I perch on the table and make sure to sit on my hands to stop them discovering any further horrors.

The man sighs, folds his arms. I notice the loose fabric of his jacket where muscles were designed to be.

“Ok”, he says as though I’d asked him to give me £200 as a favour.

“But we can’t stay here long. The Drones would’ve logged your consciousness.”

He takes a cocktail stick from his jacket pocket and places it in his mouth, “The name’s Ignas. Those techno-critters you were referring to, they’re Drones, made by The Host with a single purpose in mind…to make you passive and to harvest your labour. In your world you see them as something completely different, maybe a phone or a TV.”

I re-align my balance on the desk as one of the legs is wonky and I don’t trust it, “So what’s The Host?”

“They are part human, part genetically modified. They believe in the ideology of Financial Fascism. You see in the first days of the war there were those who worshiped the gods of the market; supply and demand. Anything that could be privatised was privatised, even if it were a detriment to those who had nothing to give but required fundamental help.”

The weight of my head feels heavy on my neck and I decided to prop it up with both hands while keeping the gaze of Ignas, “What happened?”

“Eventually those with nothing to exchange either died out or were put to ‘work’ by Drones. But there are some of us, The Resistance, who aren’t plugged in to The Host,” He rolls the wooden spike over the surface of his molars.

“Y-you’re talking about eugenics, right?” I splutter.

“I’m pleased we managed to scramble some of the bullshit they were feeding you. Yes, I’m talking about a holocaust; except we just walked straight into it knowing what the consequences would be. People convinced themselves that we’d all become richer and better off as a result,” Ignas chuckles without even a hint of a smile and continues.

“There was only ever going to be one set of people whose lives would be improved, those in the Inner Circle of The Host. Eventually, their greed and blind faith in market powers meant that companies started dealing in legions of people as ‘Droned’ workers and nobody did so much as bat an eyelid; either because they were unconscious and unable to fight back or because, they too, had their fingers in the pie.”

“Why should I believe you?” I ask. Apart from my long finger nails, I have no form of weapon.

“Because if you don’t, everyone you’ve ever known, ever loved, ever shared a moment with will think you never existed. They won’t even know who you are, because if you’re lucky, The Host would’ve wiped their memory of you. Bing! Erased. Gone,” His hood falls down over his shoulder and reveals a mesh of hair tied back neatly with an old phone cable.

“If you’re unlucky then they’ll think you’re a psycho murderer and probably try and kill you,” the man points to the scar on his cheek and grins.

A nervous titter escapes my lips.

“Also, if you don’t believe me I might have to smash you over the head with this,” Ignas motions to the mace that rests on his shoulder.

“Trust me. No one wants to be wrecked with an electro-magnetic trio of bollocks. No one!” He throws a wink at me. My head spins.

“Now, enough small talk. What’s familiar to you in this room?”

old typewriterWord Count 716

Written By Sebastian King on 7.03.16

This story is under construction. I am waiting for a writer to WriteMeBack a response… Check out the WriteMeBack Facebook Page to write back a response to this story or simply reply as a comment.

There’s a stench of burning hair. My breath, ghostly in the tarmac night, dances about my mouth and evaporates. I can feel the hairs on my skin stand to attention, despite my leather jacket.

It’s as though the world were drained of colour. I try to free my wrists and to my own disbelief, they come free; as if they were never bound.  I pass my hand over my eyes and decipher that other than say 30 centimetres in front of me; I’m blind.

The room is the same layout. Same mildew and plasterboard aroma, except I’m acutely aware that this is the first time I’ve been here. I try to silence the disorientation and convince myself that I’m sitting on the very same chair in the very same room I was perched on five minutes previous.

I remember the man. The one with nicotine stained fingers and breath like an ashtray. Where had he vanished to? Maybe he was still here, somewhere under the obsidian blanket.

I try calling out.

“Hello! Mister…erm…” I stammer.

“…it’s pretty dark in here. Can you turn the light on?”

Movement. Metal on metal. I’m not alone. The abrasive sound ricochets against the floor and walls, as though whatever may be the root of it is able to climb. I stand and strain my neck to better locate its position.

An LED light descends from the ceiling and hangs, as though from a spider web, level with my eye-line.
A voice resonates, calm and with authority “Checking vitals….do not be alarmed…”
I blink as the laser scans my body from head to toe. I can make out eight shards that must function as legs, swivel on their hinges as the beam bounces off my wristwatch and illuminates the aluminium thread that eventually leads into an abdomen.

“You appear to have a malignant abbess located on your right shoulder. It will cost you £13,000 to undergo surgery and £10,000 for your inpatient care. Do you wish to continue with your purchase?”
Flabbergasted and outraged, I reach for my shoulder. Press the skin between my fingers feel a lump the size of a golf ball nestled beneath the curve of my joint. Frozen to the spot, I dare not move as I feel the sting of a needle slip under my skin. Cold fluid courses through my body.

Another ray from the laser and the machine reads my retinas. “Purchase incomplete. You have Insufficient funds. IN-SUF-FI-CIENT FUNDS. IN-SUF-FI-CIENT FUNDS. IN-SUF-FI-CIENT FUNDS.”

Shivering and sweating in simultaneous fashion, I think about my brother and my family. I remember the holidays we shared and the places we explored as children.

“Your family thinks you are a failure. You can’t even pay for your own medical bills. You deserve to die”, the voice says.

One single propulsion from its bulbous body and my wrists are bound with thread. I struggle to tear my gaze from the lucent creature, but I’m conscious of other noises. Wiry feet scuttle on the hard surface.

“Checking Facebook account….do not be alarmed…”

“Checking Twitter account… do not be alarmed…”

“Checking email account…do not be alarmed…”

LEDs glisten in the dark, a sea of malevolent diamonds, each one poised to consume their host. With a woosh my feet are bound to the chair and I’m forced to sit. The tingle of more needles, offer a strange pleasure as a patchwork of spikes mount my arms and shine their lasers in my face.

“It has been discovered that you harbour ill-informed intensions towards The State…is this not a picture of you with Karl Marx ‘The Communist Manifesto?’”

“We have taken the liberty of informing your family of your unfortunate illness via Twitter. We hope you understand.”

“Your email account was hacked by a terrorist organisation using a proxy server. As a result we have taken greater measures to ensure your safety. We have embedded a device underneath your skin, so we know where you are at all times…Because your safety, is our safety”

Just one blink and I’m caught by another lucent assault. Beads of sweat pour into my lap. My neck jerks spontaneously and I feel my body droop against the back of the chair.

“You have exactly 24 hours to live. Have a nice-”

Plasma ignites the room. The creature jolts as it stops mid-air, caught on the thread that’s attached to my hands. I watch as the spider web snaps and the mechanical arachnid smashes into pieces on the floor.

“Do not struggle. Your-”

Cobalt flashes combine with a smell of burnt electronics. There’s a sharp pain as the intravenous syringes ping out of my skin.

“Fuck!”

My head lurches forward and crashes against the desk. I look up. Before me is a man dressed in a cloak with a mace slung over his shoulder.

“Who the fuck are you!” My head throbs with a mixture of intoxicants and confusion.

“We’ve met already, in another world.”

“Is that your explanation! What the actual fuck is going on? What are those things!”

“No time to explain now. We need to get you back to The Light”.

old typewriter Word Count 853

Written By Sebastian King on 4.03.16

This story is under construction. I am waiting for a writer to WriteMeBack a response… Check out the WriteMeBack Facebook Page to write back a response to this story or simply reply as a comment.

 

Every moment. You.
Every moment. Them.
Every moment. Conflict.

Nails gnawed, conscious of my own gaze.
Where am I?
Vacant and separate.

Time lurches forward.
Indecision defines being.
Pick up the pieces and start again.

I can see a story in every eye. Every pock mark, wrinkle or strained laugh. It’s hard to ignore. Sometimes, I can feel their consciousness press on mine, a barrier that says in no less words ‘please don’t talk to me’ or ‘leave me alone’: as though I were going to speak to them in some way.

Perhaps this is just another product of my over thinking. I feel judged and rightly so. People are constantly trying to make stories out of their everyday existence that fit their fictional perspective of themselves. So where do I fit in and why does it matter so much to me that people see me not as a threat but as someone with feelings, not as a male aggressor with a beard and flashy shoes?

Have you ever looked a complete stranger in the eye and thought ‘I know exactly how you feel’…. Ever wondered if they were thinking the same thing? Maybe such assumptions are a figment of an overactive imagination, maybe not; but they are a tangible part of my day to day cognition and that makes it real. Yes, my need to relate to someone on a similar level to myself is a part of my nature. So you see, when a pretty  woman avoids my eye, sits on the seat next to me, pulls on her hair and bites her nails I can’t help but feel a sense of inquisitiveness; why is someone so obviously attractive, anxious? What has the world done to her? I am already searching for a fix to a situation which I have no control over.

Which is why rejection hurts. I decide to sit in silence. It’s cowardly. I’m working on that  but deep inside I’m more scared of not being able to help someone who truly needs me or worse, is completely unaware of my trying; than I am of being turned down. So in theory, via my own silence and incessant gaze out the window I suppose I’m rejecting myself. Yes I’m painfully conscious that life’s about the right choices blah blah blah and just like all things big, they start small blah blah. Except I can’t stop vetoing social situations simply because it seems everyone is out to snare me. Sounds crazy, I know.

It’s supposed to simple, life, but I’ve found it to be the single most complicated thing that continues to push on at an alarmingly uncontrollable rate. Probably the only thing that is more of a mindfuck is my relationship (or lack of) with women.

This boils down to how women see men and how men see woman. Historically, not a pretty picture with a backdrop of decapitated royals, being burnt alive at the stake for floating in water not to mention being the alleged instigators of original sin. Top of all this with a sense of biological injustice for childbirth and it’s no wonder feminism is so concerned about the Male Gaze. We’re not all murderous psychopaths on mission to stick their erotic member in the nearest available orifice. Needless to say, history has a nasty habit of repeating itself so, again, a friendly smile is often met with a degree of caution.

The cycle repeats itself. We will never be equal until feminism forgives men for the injustices in our society and men will never give women an equal footing until it is clear that they do not wish to slit our throats in the night.  Certainly aggressive feminism will not help matters because it is an exclusive club that excludes men from the process of change. What we need to do is alter the way men look at women and then the way women see men might just change as a result. I hope I see it in my lifetime, because I am tired of the constant games and conflicts built on reinforcing a culture of sexual exploitation when we were built to coexist together in trust and harmony.

It’s time to make love, not tinder accounts. Time to be brave and strike up a conversation amongst a sea of silence and the frenzied tap tap tap of digits on a screen. But then again, perhaps I’d rather look out the window at the branches in the wind. I’m a bit feline like that.

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*1

Written on a train in Essex on the 3rd March 2016

*1Credit for image: LSD Magazine, 15th Jan 2016

“Turn this thing off!” she screams.

The remote, a simple yet effective piece of kit, consists of one red button with the word ‘vibration’ etched into the plastic, one yellow button entitled ‘rotation’ and another that was aptly named ‘corkscrew’.

I crane my neck closer to my client. “Not until you say the safeword.”

A ray of light manages to pierce the black felt that covers the basement’s windows and finds its way, annoyingly, into my eye. I squint as I turn the knob clockwise, adding more vibration to the party.

“You know, I think I’ve forgotten how to turn this thing off,” I say. I can feel one side of my lips rise in an upward smirk. I love my job.

The girl, strapped to what would be commonly associated as a doctor’s examination table by both her arms and legs, buckles under the force of the Cyclops. Her eyes jam shut in ecstasy.

I shrug my shoulders, some people can never fully let go of the leash because they fear that the animal inside them will tear down the walls of their fragile existence. “Oh, don’t worry Cristal. You know, I think I’ve suddenly remembered how this thing works.”

I kill the vibration and rotation. The whirr of the motor dies down and the Cyclops rests.

I watch as my client, the girl with jet black hair squirms and slithers on the metallic furniture. From my shirt pocket I select a tailormade cigarette and stick it behind my ear. She is so close and she has only been in session for 15 minutes.

Through mouthfuls of spit she howls at me, “You bastard!”

Obscene language is something I just can’t stomach, regardless of how much I am getting paid. “In this room you will address me as Sir!” I retort.

I jam the knob on the remote with ‘corkscrew’ written beside it to full power. The jelly dildo dances like a stag poised to attack a fellow competitor; it inches forward, nervously at first as though it is scared of the limelight.

“Please Sir!”

I step over the wires that are hooked up to the video recorder perched upon a tripod, “Please Sir what?” I say.

“Please Sir, give me a break.”

I consider her request and watch the blink of the LED from the all-seeing eye that is mounted above my head. “Cristal. You have to understand that you have been a very bad girl. You have an attitude problem that needs…”

I let my final word hang in the air,“…correcting.”

The Cyclops, lubricated and ready for action, twists and turns between her thighs.

“Please Sir, I’m sorry! I can’t remember the safeword”, her voice trembles with an emotion which is alien to me. Normally the act of machine sex can evoke strong emotional reactions in clients. In my experience it’s easy to be fooled by an accomplished actress especially if they happen to be entirely submerged in the character they are determined to play.  The last thing I want to do is to leave her without a sense of fulfilment.

Of course his statement was going to need a little softening, even if the trial was just a means of self-publicising. I couldn’t figure his angle though, promote the machine, get himself deeper in the adult industry, he and the girl had to be in on it, that’s what I needed to watch more than anything; that I wasn’t made complicit somehow.

He watched me reading (I’d declined his offer to hear him ‘perform’ it) when I looked up his face was lit with pride, I had no desire to check his crotch, ‘So you think we’ve got a case?’

‘Legally we’re on interesting ground, ‘no’ as a term doesn’t function in its usual way in this context, what we have to establish is under the terms of the verbal contract you’d agreed to the word ’

‘Cauliflower’ he cut in, ‘yes, that only after the utterance of that particular word were you to cease whatever activity you were engaged in’

He reflected on this, I reflected on seven years of law school, a further seven to get the money to set up my own private practice, and then now this moment, employed by at least an exhibitionist, a deviant, likely worse, to prove the mechanical insertion of a purple prosthetic penis into a 32 year old woman’s vagina was legal.

I was meant to help impoverished peoples, fight injustice; the whole damn system would melt in the face of my brilliance’.’ This hadn’t happened.’ Here, now, 47 years old, paunchy, balding with a shot back and a sizeable painkiller habit, where had I, it? gone wrong?

I grappled for familiar targets my ex-wife, my father, some teachers, but I knew, even they knew that as much as the game was rigged, and it was, I was still a thoroughly shitty player.

‘What I really wanna get across’ he began ‘is that she fuckING loved it’ ‘she may not admit it to herself, but when you’re in the business I’m in you can spot a goer’

He pulled a rolled cigarette from behind his ear, lit it, I considered telling him to put it out, a cheap power thrill, but instead asked for one myself, ‘Shit take this one man, it’s got a little something though’

I hadn’t smoked, anything, in twelve years.

The grain on the wood panelling began to pulse, he waved the page under my nose  ‘hey you think like here, I can say something about her pussy you know, how her pussy responded, back it up with a  vid clip and like a pointer, shit that’d clear the whole thing right up,I mean it took two whole packs of kleenex to clean her off for the next customer’

Again he grinned, the room tilted slightly, ‘No I do not think you will be permitted to make that type of presentation in open court’ puzzled, he continued studying the page. I was in no shape to drive home later, I stubbed the cigarette, swallowed two diazepam tablets with a tumbler of water. He watched from the corner of an eye, ‘shit man you really know how to party’

I cleared my throat, the room looked deeper somehow I tried  focusing on the ceiling fan.

‘That’ll be all for today Mr ______, I’ll be in touch during the week’

My keys, which may as well have belonged to a janitor on death row, jingle in my hand as I fumble for the key to the Chubb lock. The key fits the lock perfectly and makes a hollow click as the metal tongue comes loose against the doorframe. The words of that professional jerk-off lawyer echo around the cobwebs of my head, ‘’No I do not think you will be permitted to make that type of presentation in open court’. Why the fuck not? She was blatantly fucking crazy for it, after all pleasure and pain are interconnected; you can’t have one without the other. What was the point of suing someone that you paid to take you into the murky sexual waters? Surely all this proves is that I am doing my job properly. You don’t see people suing the makers of a theme park ride because it took them too high do you? Of course you fucking don’t.

From the outside I suppose my apartment looked nothing more than a box with two small windows. Often, after a heavy session manipulating the Cyclops safe in the knowledge that the client is satisfied and the deal has been completed, I find myself smirking; the conventional world with its sweaty balding men dressed in suits and sappy wives probably think a real down and out lives here. But I know better. If only they knew about the business I’ve nurtured since my teenage years.

I reach for the second key, the padlock. I’ve always thought a man who understands the value of protection in sexual encounters should always treat his home with the same strict code; no nasty surprises, no unwanted visitors.

I examine the teeth of the silver shard, run my finger over the grooves and reflect on how so many manmade items such as keys, drain connectors and Lego reflect nature’s grand design. Why do humans have to complicate a process designed to gives us pleasure with bureaucracy and emotional constipation? Surely if something feels good, then you should do it? The world is full of pricks that tell you how to live your life. The Cristal situation or ‘Cristal Gate’ as that wanker-lawyer would describe it is just another prime example of how tangled people can become in their own web of obsession with being a ‘respectable human’ before it hits home that they, like all organic matter are gradually decaying and will eventually perish like the animals we are. Better make the most of the time we have on this rock.

A movement catches my eye and causes me to look over my shoulder. Satisfied that there no immediate threats I try to find the padlock key once again, but it slips from my grasp and lands on the pavement.

I lurch forward for the key, ignoring the instinct to double take for intruders. I just need the key to get home. Once the door is shut, the outside world and take a giant fuck off pill.

That’s when I hear her.  Stilettos tap against the pavement as though tiny pistons.

I look up.

“Cristal?”

It’s too late. She grinds my knuckle in the concrete with her shoe and picks up the set of keys on the pavement.

“Is this the key you were searching for?” She says. Her obsidian hair covers half of her face so that I am left wondering what secrets lurk there.

Maybe.”

She swivels and delivers a knee that manages to find my solar plexus with astounding accuracy.

“I’ll ask you one more time…” The air in my lungs feels as though someone set fire to it.

“Is this the key to that padlock?” Cristal gesticulates with her manicured hand.

I nod.

She uses that same fragment of metal that I was examining just five minutes ago to penetrate the lock and steps inside my home.

I drive anyway, make it a couple of streets and pull into a multi-storey. The strip lighting sears into my vision. I reach for sunglasses I don’t own, stumble down two flights of stairs and enter a bar next to a boarded up newsagents.

I order triple bells and ice, squint at the bartender, 19,20 maybe, pretty maybe. I take the stool nearest a fruit machine and stare alternately at her hair and various patterns on the cigar boxes above the till.

When my eyes open it’s 6.00am, room is unfamiliar, definitely a hotel, a chain, I look down, smell; vomit on my vest, a wet patch on my trousers.

I roll off the bed hitting the floor hard, crawl, find hung on a chair, my jacket, phone, dial his number, ‘Mr _____, I think for our case moving forward I need to see you work, to monitor the entire process, if the jury perceives any reticence on my part around your occupation it will be used against us’ I drop the handset, fall onto my side, glad for the answerphone.

I reach down for my cock, my lifeless, neglected, shrivelled cock. The only constant. I couldn’t transcend this soggy appendage, build anything meaningful, a bundle of shitty memories and a noodle cock – my epitaph.

Fuck it, he could cut me in, I’d seen photos of the plaintiff maybe he’d let me operate the machine as she rode it, as she fucking rode it. A heartbeat flutters through my groin, I debate pursuing it for a half second. Then noticing a dresser, I see stationary and think words, so many cunting words, communicating what exactly, to whom, for whom…the thought trails off. I look around again, spot a half empty hip flask by the door, crawl to it, open, swig.

I yank off my trousers, breaking the clasps and try ripping off my vest but it tugs my soiled chest hair, I give up, crawl back up into the bed.

I feel a plastic cylinder against my right hip, reach for it, press its uppermost button, a mistake, a huge fucking mistake. Rolling News, warzone, dust, terror, fear, the usual, lucky. Cock machine, seven divorces, two personal injuries. Where’s the fucking life? Murder, robbery, anything but childish quibbling over sex and money, fucking money – cowards who don’t dare fucking snatch it, need some prick in a wig doing their work, and fucking fucking fucking, will he fuck him, her him, I her, a culture of deception and cowardice, deception and I reach down again, my foot brushes a pill packet, I dry swallow all seven, pop pop pop pop pop pop pop.

I roll, crawl to the phone again, ‘Mr_____ I don’t know if I’ve made this clear in person, but your case is very important to me personally , I think this is a crucial right we’re looking at here, it’s it’s liberty it’s the right of a singular agent to introduce external ephemera into a conducive conduit, fundamental freedoms, libertational…’ then blackness again.

old typewriterOverall Word Count 2,200

Written by James Ortiz – a Chilean-English Urban Planner & Robert Pollard enthusiast 03.09.2013

This short story is complete.

To start your own story vist the WriteMeBack Facebook Page and get scribbling.

“The light. Can you see it?”

His voice is loaded with impatience.

“I see it”, I reply.

And I do. Through its bulbous see-through cage burns a filament, so bright that I can hear the whirr of a thousand electrons rushing to burn out at once. A mass suicide of energy, happily throwing itself off the edge of existence in some sort of twisted game to see which atom would do it first.

“Focus on it,” he mops his brow with his handkerchief.

The bulb, hangs from a wire from the ceiling. The walls are blistered with damp.

Focus!”

I attempt to free my hands, to discover they are tied behind the chair on which I sit.

The man inches forward. “What is your name?” stale tobacco fills my nostrils.

I try to reach for it. There is a familiar feeling of being punched in the stomach when it dawns on me that I don’t know where I put it, I don’t know how I lost it, but I feel its absence. Where have I put myself? Who can I be without a name?

“My name?” I buy a few seconds before he is in my face again, breath baited.

“Concentrate on the light. Let your mind wonder,” the man removes his glasses and polishes the beads of sweat from his lenses.

I dare not blink. An image, similar to that of a moth burns into my retinas. I watch as its wings beat against the jar which holds it captive.

“My name?”

The light flickers.

He grabs my jacket by the collar, pulls me closer, breaking my concentration on the curiously illuminated creature.

“We don’t have time for this… They’ll be here soon!” he says.

There’s a strange feeling, as though water jinxs over the surface of my skin and cools my blood. I breathe. The thud in my chest slows.

“My name is Icarus,” I speak.

The glass cage erupts. The moth sings no more. I am surrounded by the inky night, truthful enough in its deception to warrant an emotion; fear.

 

old typewriterWord Count 337

Written By Sebastian King on 13.01.16

This story is under construction. I am waiting for a writer to WriteMeBack a response… Check out the WriteMeBack Google+ Community Page or the WriteMeBack Facebook Page to write back a response to this story.

Remember, the overall story has a 2,000 word limit overall

 

 

This time I would succeed. I had to. Segments of sandstone crumble beneath my feet and tumble into the vast space of watery darkness below.

Surely no one would follow me here? This was personal business, my own private issue; to be kept behind closed eyes and mouths.

A myriad of birds hover above the rocks as they ride thermals. It’s almost as though the winged creatures hang from an invisible thread, anchored somewhere out of sight by a puppet master. Even amongst the most palpable of mother nature’s displays of freedom I can’t help but wonder; from one perspective the soaring of wings and random ‘cawwwwwing’ might seem liberating to those unwilling to see it from the harsh reality, a search for food or a search for a mate. Animals are programmed to play their strongest hand in the game of life where as us humans are programmed to be corrupted. I’m unsure as to which is more tragic.

Why did everything seem so manufactured? Somewhere amongst the incessant distractions was there a life we were all supposed to be living? If you believe the commercials, news bulletins and newspapers then there certainly was. Everyone is always so keen to explain to you what they think you should be doing, and are never there when what you think you actually enjoy comes to fruition. I suppose people en mass are a collection of corrupted cells desperate to re-create the same mistakes as themselves in order to be understood and therefore gain influence over those they’ve duped.

Splinters of sandstone wedge themselves in my feet although I can’t feel them, like most things. I have been invaded by a foreign power that suffocated the child inside with a steel pillow. Pain is now just a bi-product of living, sterile and obvious.

Escape; The Final Fucking Frontier. Escape the drudgery of everyday life. Get-up-get-dressed-go-to-work-repeat-until-dead. Someone or something had found my escape hatch that I so often retreated to as a child and destroyed it, confident that I would never have a use for it again. Now I am forced to watch through glazed eyes, life as dull as I can wildly imagine.

I picked up the pace. My blood deposits thick rouge blotches on the sun-bleached stones as I clambered higher up the screed.

At last the summit beckons. How I envy those birds, wings outstretched and screeching; the ability to fly away instantaneously from boredom or discomfort a constant reminder of the pressures of life on two feet.

I edge closer toward the lip of the precipice.

The crack of thunder resounds around the bay. I can smell gunpowder.

The birds fly away.

old typewriterWord Count 442

Written By Sebastian King on 11.09.14

This story is under construction. I am waiting for a writer to WriteMeBack a 500 word response… Check out the WriteMeBack Google+ Community Page or the WriteMeBack Facebook Page to write back a response to this story.

Remember, the story has a 2,000 word limit overall and consists of four 500 word sections.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The pdq flashes impatiently.

“Do you wish to pay cash, Sir”, asks the waiter. His dead insect-eyes scan for a reaction to his question, assumedly a motion of mine towards my wallet.

“The service charge is optional,” he says. His lips look as though someone has stretched a balloon over his skin and coloured them in with a permanent red pen. He smiles at me. What a wanker.

Servility becomes ugly if the sincerity to find enjoyment in the job in hand becomes strained. It’s a fine line between being servile and being a servant and this cunt is well aware of his shitty hand and clearly hasn’t got the balls to find alternative job prospects; not that I blame him for this, but if his current role is to aid the capture of innocent woman and hand them over to some evil bastard with a hot poker then that is sadistic apathy at its finest. I’ve eaten at a lot of restaurants, believe me when I say that a waiter’s smile should be the most genuine illusion possible; of flower vases and sunsets. This aphid of a creature smiles like a thousand baby rapes; grim and perfectly visible for all to see either directly by being in the wrong place at the wrong time or indirectly via the newspapers.

“I’ll pay with card please”, I say as I hold out my hand to receive the card machine. I turn my lips up at right angles so as to form a counterfeit grin. Sunsets and flower vases; The Great Lie we buy into.

I feel the weight of the device, maintain eye contact with the Insect-Waiter, then wallop him over the head with it. Thump. A body hits the floor. People spin around in their seats and strain their necks to catch the action.

The man dressed in a waistcoat clutches at his head and scuttles about as if he were a human cockroach, searching for safety in its closest proximity. The other diners gasp as a collective. This was not what I ordered with my caviar, they’re probably thinking.

Meanwhile, I slip into a brief reverie, a mind fart, about how this sudden group of diners’ pretending to be shocked is nothing more than a coming together of molecules and atoms belonging to a complex organism that was preparing to rid itself of a tapeworm that has so frequently blighted its progress. Deadly peer pressure. Deadly society.

I take the initiative. “You seriously expect me to pay for this meal? The Juvenile Spéciale was raw and the dish you claim to be food that you put in front of my partner was cold”, I spit. Irrational violence was perfectly acceptable if it involved something as rabidly consumable and profitable as find cuisine. People understood.

The living, breathing organism called ‘A Room Full Of Diners’ turned back to their respective meals. The Insect-Waiter tries to right itself back onto its feet but before it can I pin its fingers beneath the heel of my shoe. I note that a ribbon of blood flows past its eyebrow and down to its jaw. A sense of satisfaction fills me. That’s what pdq machines should be used for.

I lean down to its eye level and whisper, “Where is she?”

The Insect-Waiter winces in what I assume to be pain but it impossible to tell through those obsidian eyes and papier-mâché complexion. I tread my heel down a little harder and repeat my question.

“Where is she?”

It takes a matter of seconds for the Insect-Waiter’s polystyrene will to break into fragments in desperate search of a quick fix to the ‘problem’.

“Delivery Bay 13. North Service Yard”, it stammers.

With a wistful wave of a free hand, the Creature on the floor indicates through the kitchen, directly behind me.

I reach for my pocket, produce my wallet and sprinkle a few coins onto the floor.

old typewriterWord Count 653

Written By Sebastian King on 02.09.14

This story is under construction. I am waiting for a writer to WriteMeBack a 500 word response… Check out the WriteMeBack Google+ Community Page or the WriteMeBack Facebook Page to write back a response to this story.

Remember, the story has a 2,000 word limit overall and consists of four 500 word sections.

“Was it alive when you ate it?” she asks, as if it would make any difference to me if it were. I’d hate to disappoint Elisha, but if I’m honest I probably love satisfying the animalistic itch that we call ‘hunger’ more than I love her.

I take a sip from my coffee, it’s now cold. “They serve the Juvenile Spéciale so that it is alive on the plate for a couple of minutes. The waiter suggested that I should use the steak knife to severe the head after five minutes, so as to avoid being inhumane.”

Elisha gazes at me, her eyes the size of giant pearls. As with most women in my life I’m unsure whether she would be upset if I were castrated and hung out to dry on a telegraph pole. I guess this is the problem with being born with an organ that does not internally spawn offspring and has the potential to ruin lives. I suppose the burden of having a dick is that it makes others paranoid of your intensions toward them.

“Sounds gross!” says Elisha, as she throws those fibres of her hair removed from what she considers to be the optimum point of attractiveness by a gust of wind back over her shoulder.

“You think so?”

I cock my head to one side. “How can you be so sure if you haven’t tried it? I thought it tasted sublime! The meat is char-grilled, seasoned with sea salt and served on a bed of rocket. Goes wonderfully well with a glass of New Zealand sauvignon blanc”.

Elisha crinkles her face in a snarl, “Some things I don’t have to try to know whether I like them or not.”

I acknowledge her response and stir my coffee with the teaspoon in hope of it miraculously becoming hot again.

On the street outside the restaurant a mother attends to her new born child in a pram. The shrill cry, nature’s oldest and clinically effective alarm clock causes my skin to crawl as though someone had just scraped their fingernails down a blackboard. The mother brushes past the luminous tag with ‘LEGITIMATE’ printed in black on the baby’s arm to reach the dummy that had fallen from the child’s mouth and swiftly plugs the source of noise pollution. I am at peace once more, blissfully ignorant that the human species will continue to multiply and divide until the final source of nourishment is ripped from the soil.

Elisha raises an eyebrow so tragically plucked of hair that I may as well draw them on for her with a marker pen when she is sleeping.

“Aww isn’t she cute?” she says.

I stop stirring my coffee and let my jaw hang loose, “is that meant to be sarcastic?”

I force a lump of phlegm down my oesophagus, “…and what makes you think it’s girl?”

“You work it out”, she says casually filing a rogue nail on her manicured hand.

I shrug my shoulders, “At least it’s legitimate.”

“At least it didn’t end up on your plate!” she snaps.

old typewriterWord count 512

Written by Sebastian King 29.08.2013

This story is under construction. I am waiting for a writer to WriteMeBack a 500 word response… Check out the WriteMeBack Google+ Community Page or the WriteMeBack Facebook Page to write back a response to this story.

Remember, the story has a 2,000 word limit overall and consists of four 500 word sections.

 

“Was it alive when you ate it?” she asks, as if it would make any difference to me if it were. I’d hate to disappoint Elisha, but if I’m honest I probably love satisfying the animalistic itch that we call ‘hunger’ more than I love her.

I take a sip from my coffee, it’s now cold. “They serve the Juvenile Spéciale so that it is alive on the plate for a couple of minutes. The waiter suggested that I should use the steak knife to severe the head after five minutes, so as to avoid being inhumane.”

Elisha gazes at me, her eyes the size of giant pearls. As with most women in my life I’m unsure whether she would be upset if I were castrated and hung out to dry on a telegraph pole. I guess this is the problem with being born with an organ that does not internally spawn offspring and has the potential to ruin lives. I suppose the burden of having a dick is that it makes others paranoid of your intensions toward them.

“Sounds gross!” says Elisha, as she throws those fibres of her hair removed from what she considers to be the optimum point of attractiveness by a gust of wind back over her shoulder.

“You think so?”

I cock my head to one side. “How can you be so sure if you haven’t tried it? I thought it tasted sublime! The meat is char-grilled, seasoned with sea salt and served on a bed of rocket. Goes wonderfully well with a glass of New Zealand sauvignon blanc”.

Elisha crinkles her face in a snarl, “Some things I don’t have to try to know whether I like them or not.”

I acknowledge her response and stir my coffee with the teaspoon in hope of it miraculously becoming hot again.

On the street outside the restaurant a mother attends to her new born child in a pram. The shrill cry, nature’s oldest and clinically effective alarm clock causes my skin to crawl as though someone had just scraped their fingernails down a blackboard. The mother brushes past the luminous tag with ‘LEGITIMATE’ printed in black on the baby’s arm to reach the dummy that had fallen from the child’s mouth and swiftly plugs the source of noise pollution. I am at peace once more, blissfully ignorant that the human species will continue to multiply and divide until the final source of nourishment is ripped from the soil.

Elisha raises an eyebrow so tragically plucked of hair that I may as well draw them on for her with a marker pen when she is sleeping.

“Aww isn’t she cute?” she says.

I stop stirring my coffee and let my jaw hang loose, “is that meant to be sarcastic?”

I force a lump of phlegm down my oesophagus, “…and what makes you think it’s girl?”

“You work it out”, she says casually filing a rogue nail on her manicured hand.

I shrug my shoulders, “At least it’s legitimate.”

“At least it didn’t end up on your plate!” she snaps.

old typewriterWord count 512

Written by Sebastian King 29.08.2013

This story is under construction. I am waiting for a writer to WriteMeBack a 500 word response… Check out the WriteMeBack Google+ Community Page or the WriteMeBack Facebook Page to write back a response to this story.

Remember, the story has a 2,000 word limit overall and consists of four 500 word sections.

 

 

 

 

There’s no stopping Elisha when she’s like this. I sigh and lean back in my chair to ask a waiter for the bill when a chill sweeps through the restaurant. All faces turn to the door, which is opened as wide as Elisha’s mouth.

My eyes linger on those heart-shaped lips. Knowing that she wouldn’t eat a bite where we were going tonight, she has carefully painted them red. It’s a statement. A ritual. I know she’ll keep teasing and taunting me with that mouth until I grab her by her blonde locks tonight, force her on her knees and smudge that lipstick.

Mouth still wide open, Elisha pushes our table forward and storms to the entrance of the restaurant. Just before my chair slams against the floor, I can see her push our waiter out of the way.

The pain shoots from my lower back right to the top of my skull. My ears are ringing so loud it takes me a while to hear Elisha scream ‘noo!’ again. As nobody comes to my rescue, I get on my hands and knees to see what’s going on. When I see Elisha at the door, she’s trying to push the pram and mother back over the threshold.

This is the moment I realize I won’t be smudging any lipstick tonight.

The next moment, the waiter puts a chloroform cloth over her face.

Her body turns to jelly in the waiter’s well-trained arms. Slinging her lifeless body to one side, the waiter turns to the mother with the pram.

“I have to admit this is a little unusual,” he says. “A table for one?”

The mother mumbles something – I’m not sure what. The waiter hushes his voice too. He says something about a separate entrance for deliveries and disappears outside with her before I can even get back on my feet.

Another waiter appears at my table and puts my chair back on its legs. He watches me while I readjust my suit. When I’m done, he asks if I would like the bill.

“I would like my wife back.”

“Would you like the bill, sir?” I see him grope for the chloroform wipes that he must be keeping in his back pocket. I don’t care.

“Where is he taking my wife?”

 

old typewriterWritten by Deborah Klaassen

Author of ‘Bek dicht en dooreten!’ (which is Dutch for ‘Shut up and eat!’)

Word count: 379 words

This story is under construction. I am waiting for a writer to WriteMeBack a 500 word response… Check out the WriteMeBack Google+ Community Page or the WriteMeBack Facebook Page to write back a response to this story.

Remember, the story has a 2,000 word limit overall and consists of four 500 word sections.

“Turn this thing off!” she screams.

The remote, a simple yet effective piece of kit, consists of one red button with the word ‘vibration’ etched into the plastic, one yellow button entitled ‘rotation’ and another that was aptly named ‘corkscrew’.

I crane my neck closer to my client. “Not until you say the safeword.”

A ray of light manages to pierce the black felt that covers the basement’s windows and finds its way, annoyingly, into my eye. I squint as I turn the knob clockwise, adding more vibration to the party.

“You know, I think I’ve forgotten how to turn this thing off,” I say. I can feel one side of my lips rise in an upward smirk. I love my job.

The girl, strapped to what would be commonly associated as a doctor’s examination table by both her arms and legs, buckles under the force of the Cyclops. Her eyes jam shut in ecstasy.

I shrug my shoulders, some people can never fully let go of the leash because they fear that the animal inside them will tear down the walls of their fragile existence. “Oh, don’t worry Cristal. You know, I think I’ve suddenly remembered how this thing works.”

I kill the vibration and rotation. The whirr of the motor dies down and the Cyclops rests.

I watch as my client, the girl with jet black hair squirms and slithers on the metallic furniture. From my shirt pocket I select a tailormade cigarette and stick it behind my ear. She is so close and she has only been in session for 15 minutes.

Through mouthfuls of spit she howls at me, “You bastard!”

Obscene language is something I just can’t stomach, regardless of how much I am getting paid. “In this room you will address me as Sir!” I retort.

I jam the knob on the remote with ‘corkscrew’ written beside it to full power. The jelly dildo dances like a stag poised to attack a fellow competitor; it inches forward, nervously at first as though it is scared of the limelight.

“Please Sir!”

I step over the wires that are hooked up to the video recorder perched upon a tripod, “Please Sir what?” I say.

“Please Sir, give me a break.”

I consider her request and watch the blink of the LED from the all-seeing eye that is mounted above my head. “Cristal. You have to understand that you have been a very bad girl. You have an attitude problem that needs…”

I let my final word hang in the air,“…correcting.”

The Cyclops, lubricated and ready for action, twists and turns between her thighs.

“Please Sir, I’m sorry! I can’t remember the safeword”, her voice trembles with an emotion which is alien to me. Normally the act of machine sex can evoke strong emotional reactions in clients. In my experience it’s easy to be fooled by an accomplished actress especially if they happen to be entirely submerged in the character they are determined to play.  The last thing I want to do is to leave her without a sense of fulfilment.

Of course his statement was going to need a little softening, even if the trial was just a means of self-publicising. I couldn’t figure his angle though, promote the machine, get himself deeper in the adult industry, he and the girl had to be in on it, that’s what I needed to watch more than anything; that I wasn’t made complicit somehow.

He watched me reading (I’d declined his offer to hear him ‘perform’ it) when I looked up his face was lit with pride, I had no desire to check his crotch, ‘So you think we’ve got a case?’

‘Legally we’re on interesting ground, ‘no’ as a term doesn’t function in its usual way in this context, what we have to establish is under the terms of the verbal contract you’d agreed to the word ’

‘Cauliflower’ he cut in, ‘yes, that only after the utterance of that particular word were you to cease whatever activity you were engaged in’

He reflected on this, I reflected on seven years of law school, a further seven to get the money to set up my own private practice, and then now this moment, employed by at least an exhibitionist, a deviant, likely worse, to prove the mechanical insertion of a purple prosthetic penis into a 32 year old woman’s vagina was legal.

I was meant to help impoverished peoples, fight injustice; the whole damn system would melt in the face of my brilliance’.’ This hadn’t happened.’ Here, now, 47 years old, paunchy, balding with a shot back and a sizeable painkiller habit, where had I, it? gone wrong?

I grappled for familiar targets my ex-wife, my father, some teachers, but I knew, even they knew that as much as the game was rigged, and it was, I was still a thoroughly shitty player.

‘What I really wanna get across’ he began ‘is that she fuckING loved it’ ‘she may not admit it to herself, but when you’re in the business I’m in you can spot a goer’

He pulled a rolled cigarette from behind his ear, lit it, I considered telling him to put it out, a cheap power thrill, but instead asked for one myself, ‘Shit take this one man, it’s got a little something though’

I hadn’t smoked, anything, in twelve years.

The grain on the wood panelling began to pulse, he waved the page under my nose  ‘hey you think like here, I can say something about her pussy you know, how her pussy responded, back it up with a  vid clip and like a pointer, shit that’d clear the whole thing right up,I mean it took two whole packs of kleenex to clean her off for the next customer’

Again he grinned, the room tilted slightly, ‘No I do not think you will be permitted to make that type of presentation in open court’ puzzled, he continued studying the page. I was in no shape to drive home later, I stubbed the cigarette, swallowed two diazepam tablets with a tumbler of water. He watched from the corner of an eye, ‘shit man you really know how to party’

I cleared my throat, the room looked deeper somehow I tried  focusing on the ceiling fan.

‘That’ll be all for today Mr ______, I’ll be in touch during the week’

My keys, which may as well have belonged to a janitor on death row, jingle in my hand as I fumble for the key to the Chubb lock. The key fits the lock perfectly and makes a hollow click as the metal tongue comes loose against the doorframe. The words of that professional jerk-off lawyer echo around the cobwebs of my head, ‘’No I do not think you will be permitted to make that type of presentation in open court’. Why the fuck not? She was blatantly fucking crazy for it, after all pleasure and pain are interconnected; you can’t have one without the other. What was the point of suing someone that you paid to take you into the murky sexual waters? Surely all this proves is that I am doing my job properly. You don’t see people suing the makers of a theme park ride because it took them too high do you? Of course you fucking don’t.

From the outside I suppose my apartment looked nothing more than a box with two small windows. Often, after a heavy session manipulating the Cyclops safe in the knowledge that the client is satisfied and the deal has been completed, I find myself smirking; the conventional world with its sweaty balding men dressed in suits and sappy wives probably think a real down and out lives here. But I know better. If only they knew about the business I’ve nurtured since my teenage years.

I reach for the second key, the padlock. I’ve always thought a man who understands the value of protection in sexual encounters should always treat his home with the same strict code; no nasty surprises, no unwanted visitors.

I examine the teeth of the silver shard, run my finger over the grooves and reflect on how so many manmade items such as keys, drain connectors and Lego reflect nature’s grand design. Why do humans have to complicate a process designed to gives us pleasure with bureaucracy and emotional constipation? Surely if something feels good, then you should do it? The world is full of pricks that tell you how to live your life. The Cristal situation or ‘Cristal Gate’ as that wanker-lawyer would describe it is just another prime example of how tangled people can become in their own web of obsession with being a ‘respectable human’ before it hits home that they, like all organic matter are gradually decaying and will eventually perish like the animals we are. Better make the most of the time we have on this rock.

A movement catches my eye and causes me to look over my shoulder. Satisfied that there no immediate threats I try to find the padlock key once again, but it slips from my grasp and lands on the pavement.

I lurch forward for the key, ignoring the instinct to double take for intruders. I just need the key to get home. Once the door is shut, the outside world and take a giant fuck off pill.

That’s when I hear her.  Stilettos tap against the pavement as though tiny pistons.

I look up.

“Cristal?”

It’s too late. She grinds my knuckle in the concrete with her shoe and picks up the set of keys on the pavement.

“Is this the key you were searching for?” She says. Her obsidian hair covers half of her face so that I am left wondering what secrets lurk there.

Maybe.”

She swivels and delivers a knee that manages to find my solar plexus with astounding accuracy.

“I’ll ask you one more time…” The air in my lungs feels as though someone set fire to it.

“Is this the key to that padlock?” Cristal gesticulates with her manicured hand.

I nod.

She uses that same fragment of metal that I was examining just five minutes ago to penetrate the lock and steps inside my home.

I drive anyway, make it a couple of streets and pull into a multi-storey. The strip lighting sears into my vision. I reach for sunglasses I don’t own, stumble down two flights of stairs and enter a bar next to a boarded up newsagents.

I order triple bells and ice, squint at the bartender, 19,20 maybe, pretty maybe. I take the stool nearest a fruit machine and stare alternately at her hair and various patterns on the cigar boxes above the till.

When my eyes open it’s 6.00am, room is unfamiliar, definitely a hotel, a chain, I look down, smell; vomit on my vest, a wet patch on my trousers.

I roll off the bed hitting the floor hard, crawl, find hung on a chair, my jacket, phone, dial his number, ‘Mr _____, I think for our case moving forward I need to see you work, to monitor the entire process, if the jury perceives any reticence on my part around your occupation it will be used against us’ I drop the handset, fall onto my side, glad for the answerphone.

I reach down for my cock, my lifeless, neglected, shrivelled cock. The only constant. I couldn’t transcend this soggy appendage, build anything meaningful, a bundle of shitty memories and a noodle cock – my epitaph.

Fuck it, he could cut me in, I’d seen photos of the plaintiff maybe he’d let me operate the machine as she rode it, as she fucking rode it. A heartbeat flutters through my groin, I debate pursuing it for a half second. Then noticing a dresser, I see stationary and think words, so many cunting words, communicating what exactly, to whom, for whom…the thought trails off. I look around again, spot a half empty hip flask by the door, crawl to it, open, swig.

I yank off my trousers, breaking the clasps and try ripping off my vest but it tugs my soiled chest hair, I give up, crawl back up into the bed.

I feel a plastic cylinder against my right hip, reach for it, press its uppermost button, a mistake, a huge fucking mistake. Rolling News, warzone, dust, terror, fear, the usual, lucky. Cock machine, seven divorces, two personal injuries. Where’s the fucking life? Murder, robbery, anything but childish quibbling over sex and money, fucking money – cowards who don’t dare fucking snatch it, need some prick in a wig doing their work, and fucking fucking fucking, will he fuck him, her him, I her, a culture of deception and cowardice, deception and I reach down again, my foot brushes a pill packet, I dry swallow all seven, pop pop pop pop pop pop pop.

I roll, crawl to the phone again, ‘Mr_____ I don’t know if I’ve made this clear in person, but your case is very important to me personally , I think this is a crucial right we’re looking at here, it’s it’s liberty it’s the right of a singular agent to introduce external ephemera into a conducive conduit, fundamental freedoms, libertational…’ then blackness again.

old typewriterOverall Word Count 2,200

Written by James Ortiz – a Chilean-English Urban Planner & Robert Pollard enthusiast 03.09.2013

This short story is complete.

 

“Don’t push me,” he said.

His eyes, red with booze stare at me unblinking in the night.

He was gunna get what was coming to him alright. No doubt about that. He was the very definition of a massif prick. I lurch forward and shove him against the wall so it takes the wind out of his lungs. He slides down the wall until his arms rests on his thighs. I guess his fat arse stops him from hitting the floor that was laden with piss and bits of glass because he sure as hell was no muscle man. There was no chance this guy was ever a squaddy.

I take a slug from my whiskey and coke then he is on me like a swarm of locust on a field of prize winning crops.

“I told you not to fookin’ push me you cocksucking prick”, he slurs as fists smash against my chest. I keep my balance and let the blows bounce off me.

“Enough lip fatboy. Hit me proper. Right in the face. I’ll give you one try. Then I’m gunna break your legs…” I say.

I suppose I was always a bit of sadist. I put my drink down and hold my arms behind my back.

He stops flailing himself at me, “You’re a fookin’ fruit mate. You’ve got issues.”

Issues: haven’t we all I think. I shut my eyes.

“Just do it you dickless son of a bitch,” I say.

“This is for real men who live and die on the front line,” he says, his words full of pride and self-importance.

The punch takes me by surprise and I feel my heart race and the pain dance around my head. Next thing I know is he’s on top of me with his fat thighs on my neck, pummelling my chiselled jaw like a blacksmith. I can taste blood.

The pain sings to me. It demands attention, right here and now. Beautiful, unparalleled pain…nothing beats it. This is living.

I feel the adrenaline rush, take a deep breath and speak through my busted lip, “If your job is so fookin’ important to you, why don’t you go and invade Zimbabwe. I hear they av’ a proper nasty cunt in charge over there.”

“You just don’t get it do you dickhead?” he says.

“Who do you think you’re protecting, us? Everyone knows the Taliban only exist because you’re too fookin’ busy rapin’ all their wives and killing all their sons,” I say breathlessly.

He stops. “What did you just say?”

“You ‘eard. Then you even have the cheek to come back here and demand respect from people because of your robotic tendencies for destruction”, I say. I’m barely able to get the words out.

He lifts my head towards his and with one disgustingly wonderful motion nuts me right in the face. I feel my nose break and exhale in delight. Finally, a release.

He gets his fat arse off me and mutters something under his breath. Something along the lines of “Ungrateful sack of shit” and walks away.

A couple of hours later, I’m sat thinking about Newton’s law.  What a motherfucker.  Even as pure  sensation sends you soaring into open skies of sanity and hope, you can never  escape the world for long.  You rise up to that glorious apex, but soon enough gravity turns your flight into a fall and you’re headed straight back to Earth.

On which thought I become uncomfortably aware of the hard plastic chair and drops of sweat pooling in the crack of my arse.  The blood that soaked my front has dried  and my chest-hairs are glued into the crusted fabric of my t-shirt which pulls them when I move.  My face feels too big for my head; it throbs dully.  I try to concentrate on that, each beat of my heart bringing a new, tiny thrill of pain.  But it’s not enough.  Nowhere near.

It’s a quiet night in the ‘minors’ waiting room, but as I know from experience how little that means.  I’m not counting on getting my nose splinted quickly.  There’s a guy asleep against the vending machine in the corner.  A young girl on the other side of the room, wearing a lot of black and a fearful expression, a wad of tissue bound to her left forearm with what looks like masking tape.  She won’t meet my eye.  I don’t blame her.  I’ll bet she was enjoying herself earlier too.

What goes up, must come down.

Except Newton was wrong.  Because if you head into the sky and don’t stop, just keep going upwards, it’s possible to reach the place where gravity ends.  It’s only a matter of propulsion. You get so high, so fast, that the world can’t drag you back.  Escape velocity.  Achieve that and you don’t have to come down.  Not ever.

I eventually graduate from plastic chair to curtained cubicle.  A doctor walks in.  She barely glances at me, writes in my notes, leaves.  Doesn’t say a word.  I guess they remember me here.

The nurse tuts and clucks over me, but at no point asks what happened.  She’s middle-aged, South-East Asian at a guess.  She’s treated me a couple of times before, but doesn’t show any recognition.  Maybe one busted-up face looks like another to her.  She’s gentle with me, but I gasp a couple of times when she swabs the dried blood under my nose.  She says, ‘sorry’ but it’s a reflex not a sentiment.  I give a faint smile and sing behind my eyes.

One day I’ll climb on board a fucking rocket.  Never to return.

Then she’s done and I get ready to leave.  A tall man comes through the curtain and smiles at me with what looks worryingly like real pleasure.  The lanyard around his neck announces him as hospital staff.  Everything else about him tells me he’s dangerous.  He holds a beige folder with my name and hospital number printed of the cover.

“Mr. Armstrong,” he says, “I have an offer to make you.”

Blood is still pissing from my nose but I’m not interested in keeping up appearances. What we look like is irrelevant seeing as we’re lumbering bags of blood in search of procreation. I suppose our image is a lie we mollycoddle as though this reflection of ourselves were actually more alive than the person staring back at us in the mirror. We’re the biggest, walking, talking lying monsters that have ever graced this planet.

“I’m not really in the mood for offers,” I say.

The tall man inches a little closer to the hospital bed that I’m perched on and adjusts his glasses, “Why? Bad day at the office Mr. Armstrong?”

This guy is a joker, “Fuck off. Do I look like a worker bee to you?”

“That’s exactly why I am here Mr. Armstrong…” I wish he would drop the whole Mr. Armstrong act, who does he think he is, a fucking ticket inspector?

He clears his throat, “… you have been fighting against the web they have created for you. They are watching you and they want you, neutralised.”

Now I’m sweating. My skin feels as though some prick has began to iron it. “You’re not from the hospital are you?” I ask. I take a second glance at his identity card. It looks legit and has holograms and all that jazz.

He shakes his head and I notice the scar tissue on his eyelid as he blinks.

“So you’re not Dr. Stentson then?”

His eyes dart around the vicinity, “They call me Draven, Mr. Armstrong.”

He flings the folder with my hospital number on the bed.

“Open it up. We’ve not got much time.”

I pick the thing up and rip it open. My fingers reach inside, I can feel celluloid paper; the type that those pricks in the national rags use to develop their images in darkened rooms to make a quick quid from the slipped nipple of some famous actor. It hits me like a cannonball and I can feel the ground eat me up.

In my hand is a picture of my mother. Her face is all puffy with bruises and plastered with dried blood. She is gagged and bound to her armchair, the one she would not let anyone else sit on when I was younger because it was ‘hers’. On the mantelpiece behind her I can see a picture of myself in that shitty school uniform, framed and arranged lovingly alongside a picture of my father posing in his new office. I can tell this Draven prick is talking bollocks to me but I can’t hear him because I’m focussing so hard on the image in front of me that there is a ringing noise in my ear; the kind you get after you’ve been to a metal gig and stand next to the speakers.

I suppose the thing about rockets is that they are lucky. By the time they are spiralling down to earth under the pull of gravity they are dead already, they never get to experience what it is like to revisit the places they have left behind in such a hurry because they are too busy getting high.

“You’ve got some fucking explaining to do!” I scream and rush at this Draven prick, fists windmilling.

Draven, face emotionless and serene, blocks each and every punch with ease. I throw a few kicks in to mix things up a bit but he catches my leg with both hands and stares me dead in the eye while I hop around as though I’ve been penetrated with a hot poker.

“I’m here to help you Mr. Armstrong. If you stay here they will find you and if you do not tell them everything you know about Securi-Core then they will discard you, and everyone you have ever loved like a piece of out of date meat.”

“Who are they?” I ask.

“The Norms, Mr. Armstrong.”

old typewriterWord count 654

Written by Sebastian King, barman and snake enthusiast  on the 21.09.13

This story is under construction. I am waiting for a writer to WriteMeBack a 500 word response… Check out the WriteMeBack Google+ Community Page or the WriteMeBack Facebook Page to write back a response to this story.

Remember, the story has a 2,000 word limit overall and consists of four 500 word sections.

“Don’t push me,” he said.

His eyes, red with booze stare at me unblinking in the night.

He was gunna get what was coming to him alright. No doubt about that. He was the very definition of a massif prick. I lurch forward and shove him against the wall so it takes the wind out of his lungs. He slides down the wall until his arms rests on his thighs. I guess his fat arse stops him from hitting the floor that was laden with piss and bits of glass because he sure as hell was no muscle man. There was no chance this guy was ever a squaddy.

I take a slug from my whiskey and coke then he is on me like a swarm of locust on a field of prize winning crops.

“I told you not to fookin’ push me you cocksucking prick”, he slurs as fists smash against my chest. I keep my balance and let the blows bounce off me.

“Enough lip fatboy. Hit me proper. Right in the face. I’ll give you one try. Then I’m gunna break your legs…” I say.

I suppose I was always a bit of sadist. I put my drink down and hold my arms behind my back.

He stops flailing himself at me, “You’re a fookin’ fruit mate. You’ve got issues.”

Issues: haven’t we all I think. I shut my eyes.

“Just do it you dickless son of a bitch,” I say.

“This is for real men who live and die on the front line,” he says, his words full of pride and self-importance.

The punch takes me by surprise and I feel my heart race and the pain dance around my head. Next thing I know is he’s on top of me with his fat thighs on my neck, pummelling my chiselled jaw like a blacksmith. I can taste blood.

The pain sings to me. It demands attention, right here and now. Beautiful, unparalleled pain…nothing beats it. This is living.

I feel the adrenaline rush, take a deep breath and speak through my busted lip, “If your job is so fookin’ important to you, why don’t you go and invade Zimbabwe. I hear they av’ a proper nasty cunt in charge over there.”

“You just don’t get it do you dickhead?” he says.

“Who do you think you’re protecting, us? Everyone knows the Taliban only exist because you’re too fookin’ busy rapin’ all their wives and killing all their sons,” I say breathlessly.

He stops. “What did you just say?”

“You ‘eard. Then you even have the cheek to come back here and demand respect from people because of your robotic tendencies for destruction”, I say. I’m barely able to get the words out.

He lifts my head towards his and with one disgustingly wonderful motion nuts me right in the face. I feel my nose break and exhale in delight. Finally, a release.

He gets his fat arse off me and mutters something under his breath. Something along the lines of “Ungrateful sack of shit” and walks away.

A couple of hours later, I’m sat thinking about Newton’s law.  What a motherfucker.  Even as pure  sensation sends you soaring into open skies of sanity and hope, you can never  escape the world for long.  You rise up to that glorious apex, but soon enough gravity turns your flight into a fall and you’re headed straight back to Earth.

On which thought I become uncomfortably aware of the hard plastic chair and drops of sweat pooling in the crack of my arse.  The blood that soaked my front has dried  and my chest-hairs are glued into the crusted fabric of my t-shirt which pulls them when I move.  My face feels too big for my head; it throbs dully.  I try to concentrate on that, each beat of my heart bringing a new, tiny thrill of pain.  But it’s not enough.  Nowhere near.

It’s a quiet night in the ‘minors’ waiting room, but as I know from experience how little that means.  I’m not counting on getting my nose splinted quickly.  There’s a guy asleep against the vending machine in the corner.  A young girl on the other side of the room, wearing a lot of black and a fearful expression, a wad of tissue bound to her left forearm with what looks like masking tape.  She won’t meet my eye.  I don’t blame her.  I’ll bet she was enjoying herself earlier too.

What goes up, must come down.

Except Newton was wrong.  Because if you head into the sky and don’t stop, just keep going upwards, it’s possible to reach the place where gravity ends.  It’s only a matter of propulsion. You get so high, so fast, that the world can’t drag you back.  Escape velocity.  Achieve that and you don’t have to come down.  Not ever.

I eventually graduate from plastic chair to curtained cubicle.  A doctor walks in.  She barely glances at me, writes in my notes, leaves.  Doesn’t say a word.  I guess they remember me here.

The nurse tuts and clucks over me, but at no point asks what happened.  She’s middle-aged, South-East Asian at a guess.  She’s treated me a couple of times before, but doesn’t show any recognition.  Maybe one busted-up face looks like another to her.  She’s gentle with me, but I gasp a couple of times when she swabs the dried blood under my nose.  She says, ‘sorry’ but it’s a reflex not a sentiment.  I give a faint smile and sing behind my eyes.

One day I’ll climb on board a fucking rocket.  Never to return.

Then she’s done and I get ready to leave.  A tall man comes through the curtain and smiles at me with what looks worryingly like real pleasure.  The lanyard around his neck announces him as hospital staff.  Everything else about him tells me he’s dangerous.  He holds a beige folder with my name and hospital number printed of the cover.

“Mr. Armstrong,” he says, “I have an offer to make you.”


old typewriterWritten by Alex Wall – A part-time model citizen on the 09.09.2013

Word count: 500 words

This story is under construction. I am waiting for a writer to WriteMeBack a 500 word response… Check out the WriteMeBack Google+ Community Page or the WriteMeBack Facebook Page to write back a response to this story.

Remember, the story has a 2,000 word limit overall and consists of four 500 word sections.

“Turn this thing off!” she screams.

The remote, a simple yet effective piece of kit, consists of one red button with the word ‘vibration’ etched into the plastic, one yellow button entitled ‘rotation’ and another that was aptly named ‘corkscrew’.

I crane my neck closer to my client. “Not until you say the safeword.”

A ray of light manages to pierce the black felt that covers the basement’s windows and finds its way, annoyingly, into my eye. I squint as I turn the knob clockwise, adding more vibration to the party.

“You know, I think I’ve forgotten how to turn this thing off,” I say. I can feel one side of my lips rise in an upward smirk. I love my job.

The girl, strapped to what would be commonly associated as a doctor’s examination table by both her arms and legs, buckles under the force of the Cyclops. Her eyes jam shut in ecstasy.

I shrug my shoulders, some people can never fully let go of the leash because they fear that the animal inside them will tear down the walls of their fragile existence. “Oh, don’t worry Cristal. You know, I think I’ve suddenly remembered how this thing works.”

I kill the vibration and rotation. The whirr of the motor dies down and the Cyclops rests.

I watch as my client, the girl with jet black hair squirms and slithers on the metallic furniture. From my shirt pocket I select a tailormade cigarette and stick it behind my ear. She is so close and she has only been in session for 15 minutes.

Through mouthfuls of spit she howls at me, “You bastard!”

Obscene language is something I just can’t stomach, regardless of how much I am getting paid. “In this room you will address me as Sir!” I retort.

I jam the knob on the remote with ‘corkscrew’ written beside it to full power. The jelly dildo dances like a stag poised to attack a fellow competitor; it inches forward, nervously at first as though it is scared of the limelight.

“Please Sir!”

I step over the wires that are hooked up to the video recorder perched upon a tripod, “Please Sir what?” I say.

“Please Sir, give me a break.”

I consider her request and watch the blink of the LED from the all-seeing eye that is mounted above my head. “Cristal. You have to understand that you have been a very bad girl. You have an attitude problem that needs…”

I let my final word hang in the air,“…correcting.”

The Cyclops, lubricated and ready for action, twists and turns between her thighs.

“Please Sir, I’m sorry! I can’t remember the safeword”, her voice trembles with an emotion which is alien to me. Normally the act of machine sex can evoke strong emotional reactions in clients. In my experience it’s easy to be fooled by an accomplished actress especially if they happen to be entirely submerged in the character they are determined to play.  The last thing I want to do is to leave her without a sense of fulfilment.

Of course his statement was going to need a little softening, even if the trial was just a means of self-publicising. I couldn’t figure his angle though, promote the machine, get himself deeper in the adult industry, he and the girl had to be in on it, that’s what I needed to watch more than anything; that I wasn’t made complicit somehow.

He watched me reading (I’d declined his offer to hear him ‘perform’ it) when I looked up his face was lit with pride, I had no desire to check his crotch, ‘So you think we’ve got a case?’

‘Legally we’re on interesting ground, ‘no’ as a term doesn’t function in its usual way in this context, what we have to establish is under the terms of the verbal contract you’d agreed to the word ’

‘cauliflower’ he cut in, ‘yes, that only after the utterance of that particular word were you to cease whatever activity you were engaged in’

He reflected on this, I reflected on seven years of law school, a further seven to get the money to set up my own private practice, and then now this moment, employed by at least an exhibitionist, a deviant, likely worse, to prove the mechanical insertion of a purple prosthetic penis into a 32 year old woman’s vagina was legal.

I was meant to help impoverished peoples, fight injustice; the whole damn system would melt in the face of my brilliance’.’ This hadn’t happened.’ Here, now, 47 years old, paunchy, balding with a shot back and a sizeable painkiller habit, where had I, it? gone wrong?

I grappled for familiar targets my ex-wife, my father, some teachers, but I knew, even they knew that as much as the game was rigged, and it was, I was still a thoroughly shitty player.

‘What I really wanna get across’ he began ‘is that she fuckING loved it’ ‘she may not admit it to herself, but when you’re in the business I’m in you can spot a goer’

He pulled a rolled cigarette from behind his ear, lit it, I considered telling him to put it out, a cheap power thrill, but instead asked for one myself, ‘Shit take this one man, it’s got a little something though’

I hadn’t smoked, anything, in twelve years.

The grain on the wood panelling began to pulse, he waved the page under my nose  ‘hey you think like here, I can say something about her pussy you know, how her pussy responded, back it up with a  vid clip and like a pointer, shit that’d clear the whole thing right up,I mean it took two whole packs of kleenex to clean her off for the next customer’

Again he grinned, the room tilted slightly, ‘No I do not think you will be permitted to make that type of presentation in open court’ puzzled, he continued studying the page. I was in no shape to drive home later, I stubbed the cigarette, swallowed two diazepam tablets with a tumbler of water. He watched from the corner of an eye, ‘shit man you really know how to party’

I cleared my throat, the room looked deeper somehow I tried  focusing on the ceiling fan.

‘That’ll be all for today Mr ______, I’ll be in touch during the week’

My keys, which may as well have belonged to a janitor on death row, jingle in my hand as I fumble for the key to the Chubb lock. The key fits the lock perfectly and makes a hollow click as the metal tongue comes loose against the doorframe. The words of that professional jerk-off lawyer echo around the cobwebs of my head, ‘’No I do not think you will be permitted to make that type of presentation in open court’. Why the fuck not? She was blatantly fucking crazy for it, after all pleasure and pain are interconnected; you can’t have one without the other. What was the point of suing someone that you paid to take you into the murky sexual waters? Surely all this proves is that I am doing my job properly. You don’t see people suing the makers of a theme park ride because it took them too high do you? Of course you fucking don’t.

From the outside I suppose my apartment looked nothing more than a box with two small windows. Often, after a heavy session manipulating the Cyclops safe in the knowledge that the client is satisfied and the deal has been completed, I find myself smirking; the conventional world with its sweaty balding men dressed in suits and sappy wives probably think a real down and out lives here. But I know better. If only they knew about the business I’ve nurtured since my teenage years.

I reach for the second key, the padlock. I’ve always thought a man who understands the value of protection in sexual encounters should always treat his home with the same strict code; no nasty surprises, no unwanted visitors.

I examine the teeth of the silver shard, run my finger over the grooves and reflect on how so many manmade items such as keys, drain connectors and Lego reflect nature’s grand design. Why do humans have to complicate a process designed to gives us pleasure with bureaucracy and emotional constipation? Surely if something feels good, then you should do it? The world is full of pricks that tell you how to live your life. The Cristal situation or ‘Cristal Gate’ as that wanker-lawyer would describe it is just another prime example of how tangled people can become in their own web of obsession with being a ‘respectable human’ before it hits home that they, like all organic matter are gradually decaying and will eventually perish like the animals we are. Better make the most of the time we have on this rock.

A movement catches my eye and causes me to look over my shoulder. Satisfied that there no immediate threats I try to find the padlock key once again, but it slips from my grasp and lands on the pavement.

I lurch forward for the key, ignoring the instinct to double take for intruders. I just need the key to get home. Once the door is shut, the outside world and take a giant fuck off pill.

That’s when I hear her.  Stilettos tap against the pavement as though tiny pistons.

I look up.

“Cristal?”

It’s too late. She grinds my knuckle in the concrete with her shoe and picks up the set of keys on the pavement.

“Is this the key you were searching for?” She says. Her obsidian hair covers half of her face so that I am left wondering what secrets lurk there.

Maybe.”

She swivels and delivers a knee that manages to find my solar plexus with astounding accuracy.

“I’ll ask you one more time…” The air in my lungs feels as though someone set fire to it.

“Is this the key to that padlock?” Cristal gesticulates with her manicured hand.

I nod.

She uses that same fragment of metal that I was examining just five minutes ago to penetrate the lock and steps inside my home.

old typewriterWord count 645

Written by Sebastian King, barman and snake enthusiast  on the 30.08.2013

This story is under construction. I am waiting for a writer to WriteMeBack a 500 word response… Check out the WriteMeBack Google+ Community Page or the WriteMeBack Facebook Page to write back a response to this story.

Remember, the story has a 2,000 word limit overall and consists of four 500 word sections.

“Turn this thing off!” she screams.

The remote, a simple yet effective piece of kit, consists of one red button with the word ‘vibration’ etched into the plastic, one yellow button entitled ‘rotation’ and another that was aptly named ‘corkscrew’.

I crane my neck closer to my client. “Not until you say the safeword.”

A ray of light manages to pierce the black felt that covers the basement’s windows and finds its way, annoyingly, into my eye. I squint as I turn the knob clockwise, adding more vibration to the party.

“You know, I think I’ve forgotten how to turn this thing off,” I say. I can feel one side of my lips rise in an upward smirk. I love my job.

The girl, strapped to what would be commonly associated as a doctor’s examination table by both her arms and legs, buckles under the force of the Cyclops. Her eyes jam shut in ecstasy.

I shrug my shoulders, some people can never fully let go of the leash because they fear that the animal inside them will tear down the walls of their fragile existence. “Oh, don’t worry Cristal. You know, I think I’ve suddenly remembered how this thing works.”

I kill the vibration and rotation. The whirr of the motor dies down and the Cyclops rests.

I watch as my client, the girl with jet black hair squirms and slithers on the metallic furniture. From my shirt pocket I select a tailormade cigarette and stick it behind my ear. She is so close and she has only been in session for 15 minutes.

Through mouthfuls of spit she howls at me, “You bastard!”

Obscene language is something I just can’t stomach, regardless of how much I am getting paid. “In this room you will address me as Sir!” I retort.

I jam the knob on the remote with ‘corkscrew’ written beside it to full power. The jelly dildo dances like a stag poised to attack a fellow competitor; it inches forward, nervously at first as though it is scared of the limelight.

“Please Sir!”

I step over the wires that are hooked up to the video recorder perched upon a tripod, “Please Sir what?” I say.

“Please Sir, give me a break.”

I consider her request and watch the blink of the LED from the all-seeing eye that is mounted above my head. “Cristal. You have to understand that you have been a very bad girl. You have an attitude problem that needs…”

I let my final word hang in the air,“…correcting.”

The Cyclops, lubricated and ready for action, twists and turns between her thighs.

“Please Sir, I’m sorry! I can’t remember the safeword”, her voice trembles with an emotion which is alien to me. Normally the act of machine sex can evoke strong emotional reactions in clients. In my experience it’s easy to be fooled by an accomplished actress especially if they happen to be entirely submerged in the character they are determined to play.  The last thing I want to do is to leave her without a sense of fulfilment.

Of course his statement was going to need softening, even if the trial was just a means of self-publicising. I couldn’t figure his angle though, promote the machine, get himself deeper in the adult industry, they were in on it, he and the woman, that’s what I had to watch more than anything; that I wasn’t made complicit somehow.

He watched me reading (I’d declined to hear him ‘perform’ it) when I looked up his face was lit with pride, I had no desire to check his crotch, ‘So you think we’ve got a case?’

‘Legally we’re on interesting ground, ‘no’ as a term doesn’t function in its usual way in this context, what we have to establish is under the terms of the verbal contract you’d agreed to the word ’

‘cauliflower’ he cut in, ‘yes, that only after the utterance of that particular word were you to cease whatever activity you were engaged in’

He reflected on this, I reflected on seven years of law school, a further seven getting money together to set up my own private practice, and then this moment, employed by an exhibitionist, a deviant, likely worse, to prove the mechanical insertion of a purple prosthetic penis into a 32 year old woman’s vagina was legal.

The plan was help impoverished peoples, fight injustice; the whole damn system was going to melt in the face of my brilliance. This hadn’t happened. Here, now, 47 years old, paunchy, balding with a shot back and sizeable painkiller habit, where had I, it? gone wrong?

I grappled for familiar targets ex-wives, my father, some teachers, but I knew as they did, that despite the game being rigged, and it was, I was still a thoroughly shitty player.

‘What I really wanna get across’ he spat, ‘is that she fuckING loved it’ ‘she may not admit it to herself, but when you’re in the business you can spot a goer’

From behind his ear he pulled a rolled cigarette, lit it, I considered making him put it out, a cheap power kick, but instead asked for one myself, ‘Shit take this one man, it’s got a little something though’

I hadn’t smoked, anything, in twelve years.

The grain on the wood panelling began pulsing, he gripped the page three inches from my nose  ‘hey you think like here, I can say something about her pussy you know, how her pussy responded, back it up with a  vid clip and like a pointer, shit that’d clear the whole thing right up, I mean it took two whole packs of kleenex to clean her off for the next customer’

Again he grinned, the tilt of the room matching the angle of his mouth, ‘No I do not think you will be permitted to make that type of presentation in open court’ puzzled, he went on studying the page. I was in no shape to drive later. I stubbed the cigarette, swallowed two diazepam tablets with a tumbler of water, he watched from the corner of an eye, ‘shit man you really know how to party’

I cleared my throat, the room deeper somehow and tried to focus on the ceiling fan.

‘That’ll be all for today Mr ______, I’ll be in touch during the week’

old typewriterWord count 551

Written by James Ortiz – a Chilean-English Urban Planner & Robert Pollard enthusiast 03.09.2013

This story is under construction. I am waiting for a writer to WriteMeBack a 500 word response… Check out the WriteMeBack Google+ Community Page or the WriteMeBack Facebook Page to write back a response to this story.

Remember, the story has a 2,000 word limit overall and consists of four 500 word sections.

“Turn this thing off!” she screams.

The remote, a simple yet effective piece of kit, consists of one red button with the word ‘vibration’ etched into the plastic, one yellow button entitled ‘rotation’ and another that was aptly named ‘corkscrew’.

I crane my neck closer to my client. “Not until you say the safeword.”

A ray of light manages to pierce the black felt that covers the basement’s windows and finds its way, annoyingly, into my eye. I squint as I turn the knob clockwise, adding more vibration to the party.

“You know, I think I’ve forgotten how to turn this thing off,” I say. I can feel one side of my lips rise in an upward smirk. I love my job.

The girl, strapped to what would be commonly associated as a doctor’s examination table by both her arms and legs, buckles under the force of the Cyclops. Her eyes jam shut in ecstasy.

I shrug my shoulders, some people can never fully let go of the leash because they fear that the animal inside them will tear down the walls of their fragile existence. “Oh, don’t worry Cristal. You know, I think I’ve suddenly remembered how this thing works.”

I kill the vibration and rotation. The whirr of the motor dies down and the Cyclops rests.

I watch as my client, the girl with jet black hair squirms and slithers on the metallic furniture. From my shirt pocket I select a tailormade cigarette and stick it behind my ear. She is so close and she has only been in session for 15 minutes.

Through mouthfuls of spit she howls at me, “You bastard!”

Obscene language is something I just can’t stomach, regardless of how much I am getting paid. “In this room you will address me as Sir!” I retort.

I jam the knob on the remote with ‘corkscrew’ written beside it to full power. The jelly dildo dances like a stag poised to attack a fellow competitor; it inches forward, nervously at first as though it is scared of the limelight.

“Please Sir!”

I step over the wires that are hooked up to the video recorder perched upon a tripod, “Please Sir what?” I say.

“Please Sir, give me a break.”

I consider her request and watch the blink of the LED from the all-seeing eye that is mounted above my head. “Cristal. You have to understand that you have been a very bad girl. You have an attitude problem that needs…”

I let my final word hang in the air,“…correcting.”

The Cyclops, lubricated and ready for action, twists and turns between her thighs.

“Please Sir, I’m sorry! I can’t remember the safeword”, her voice trembles with an emotion which is alien to me. Normally the act of machine sex can evoke strong emotional reactions in clients. In my experience it’s easy to be fooled by an accomplished actress especially if they happen to be entirely submerged in the character they are determined to play.  The last thing I want to do is to leave her without a sense of fulfilment.

old typewriter

Word count 514

Written by Sebastian King, barman and snake enthusiast on the 30.08.2013

This story is under construction. I am waiting for a writer to WriteMeBack a 500 word response… Check out the WriteMeBack Google+ Community Page or the WriteMeBack Facebook Page to write back a response to this story.

Remember, the story has a 2,000 word limit overall and consists of four 500 word sections.