Prose: eye smoke
Title: eye smoke
Rating: PG13
Summary: A momentary lapse of courage.
She looked amazingly natural perched as she was on the car front, acigarette held artfully in her sarcastical curving lips. Razor-choppedhair in varied unnatural reds and earthen browns carelessly fell andstood at odd angles in such a manner only achieved by rock stars andanime characters. To this day, I believe that she was some radicalcombination thereof. But what she sounded like, propped up on the oldCorolla in the Wal Mart parking lot at one in the morning, was aburgeoning poet under the guidance of Shakespeare, Vonnegut, andMercedes Lackey.
Elise L. Damien could talk about anything.She could talk at length, and she could make it sound good. She coulddamn public education with all the fervor and eloquence of a SouthernBaptist preacher, and she would discourse on what politician would endup where in Dante’s tiered Inferno. Elise would go on about love, cars,God, and old movies, the evils of men and how much she loved herboyfriend, the truth of the Gospel and her favorite tarot, theemptiness of pop-culture and the relevance of Pete Townsend. Evercontradicting, never contrite, and no contradiction in terms.
This time she was alternating between a new controversy -homosexual marriage- and an old pestilence -redneck stupidity.
Asher mellow voice sang about freedom not morals, I began to interjectbut stopped upon the intrusion of footsteps crunching across therefuse-strewn blacktop. I barely had time to wonder why thesecamou-and-Gap-clad boys would bother with us before the one in frontdrawled out “Whatchoo ladies doin’ ‘round ‘here?”
Eliseswallowed laughter and hid her smirk behind a puff of clove smoke.“Just cruisin’ around, picking up babes.” A less verbal individualmight have choked on the irony that clotted in her low, liquid tone,but she managed to pour forth the retort with her typical sensualspeech.
Boy-in-the-Front shot her a look of disgust beforeturning his bleary, shit-brown eyes back to me. Boy-to-the-Left did hisbest to pretend she didn’t exist and watched his feet. Boy To The Rightmade no effort; he stared open-mouthed at the gritty apparition beforehim. She winked, and he looked as though torn between being sick andbecoming erect. Elise grinned and took another long drag.
ShitEyes sidled clumsily up to me, reaching a sweat-slick palm toward myhand, his presence rank with warm beer and too much time in a pick-uptruck. “Hey thar, sweet thang.” You think people only say things likethat in bad movies, but art imitates life. “You sho do look purdy.” Myeyes watered in his acrid aura, and I slid forcefully away. Hepersisted with equal force.
“Hey!” Elise slipped from atop thecar, tossing her completed cancer stick to the pavement. “Get yourfilthy, inbred paws off of her.”
The Boy Who Stared gaped wider.The third boy, who had thus far seemed rather displeased with the wholesituation, took a step forward, laying a tentative hand on the shoulderof his foremost companion. He spoke low and inaudible but must havesaid something to the effect of suggesting departure because Shit Eyesturned on him with a barking “No fucking way! Back the fuck off!” Theboy retreated, looking decidedly apprehensive.
“Bugger off, creep,” Elise growled, clear eyes narrowing to steele strands.
“Shut the fuck up, you fucking dyke.”
Evaporation.Everything. Her tightened face went slack, drawn muscles surrendered.Disbelief, anger, a look that cried “that word…?” flooded her eyes andthe hollows of her cheeks.
The drunken bastard grinned stupidlyand cackled, seeing his victory. The other two visibly relaxed andjoined in the howling guffaws. The impenetrable creature was human, andshe had been stricken down.
She inclined her face toward me,with a gaze pleading, begging, whimpering for defense, aid, relief. Mymouth remained open, my tongue remained silent. I couldn’t speak,wasn’t certain I wanted to. She must have seen it -my hesitance, myreluctance- because an unspeakable despair joined the shadows on herproud cheeks and blended to paint a pale attempt at dignifiedindifference. She turned on the heel of her worn out tennis shoe andswirled into the seat behind the steering wheel, cranking the tiny car.She barely waited for me to fall in beside her before scattering theintruders with a step on the gas.
As we flowed through thestreetlamp shadows, I stole a glance at the defeated driver. A slighttwist of the mouth was all that differentiated from her normal look ofgood-humored impassivity. It was enough.
Her eyes shone dimly withan aqueous glow, and her fingers rubbed awkwardly at the pinkened rims.The nicotine faerie, I thought, the smoke halo-ed angel reduced sosharply by an arbitrary stranger with beer-sour hands and shit-browneyes.
Rating: PG13
Summary: A momentary lapse of courage.
She looked amazingly natural perched as she was on the car front, acigarette held artfully in her sarcastical curving lips. Razor-choppedhair in varied unnatural reds and earthen browns carelessly fell andstood at odd angles in such a manner only achieved by rock stars andanime characters. To this day, I believe that she was some radicalcombination thereof. But what she sounded like, propped up on the oldCorolla in the Wal Mart parking lot at one in the morning, was aburgeoning poet under the guidance of Shakespeare, Vonnegut, andMercedes Lackey.
Elise L. Damien could talk about anything.She could talk at length, and she could make it sound good. She coulddamn public education with all the fervor and eloquence of a SouthernBaptist preacher, and she would discourse on what politician would endup where in Dante’s tiered Inferno. Elise would go on about love, cars,God, and old movies, the evils of men and how much she loved herboyfriend, the truth of the Gospel and her favorite tarot, theemptiness of pop-culture and the relevance of Pete Townsend. Evercontradicting, never contrite, and no contradiction in terms.
This time she was alternating between a new controversy -homosexual marriage- and an old pestilence -redneck stupidity.
Asher mellow voice sang about freedom not morals, I began to interjectbut stopped upon the intrusion of footsteps crunching across therefuse-strewn blacktop. I barely had time to wonder why thesecamou-and-Gap-clad boys would bother with us before the one in frontdrawled out “Whatchoo ladies doin’ ‘round ‘here?”
Eliseswallowed laughter and hid her smirk behind a puff of clove smoke.“Just cruisin’ around, picking up babes.” A less verbal individualmight have choked on the irony that clotted in her low, liquid tone,but she managed to pour forth the retort with her typical sensualspeech.
Boy-in-the-Front shot her a look of disgust beforeturning his bleary, shit-brown eyes back to me. Boy-to-the-Left did hisbest to pretend she didn’t exist and watched his feet. Boy To The Rightmade no effort; he stared open-mouthed at the gritty apparition beforehim. She winked, and he looked as though torn between being sick andbecoming erect. Elise grinned and took another long drag.
ShitEyes sidled clumsily up to me, reaching a sweat-slick palm toward myhand, his presence rank with warm beer and too much time in a pick-uptruck. “Hey thar, sweet thang.” You think people only say things likethat in bad movies, but art imitates life. “You sho do look purdy.” Myeyes watered in his acrid aura, and I slid forcefully away. Hepersisted with equal force.
“Hey!” Elise slipped from atop thecar, tossing her completed cancer stick to the pavement. “Get yourfilthy, inbred paws off of her.”
The Boy Who Stared gaped wider.The third boy, who had thus far seemed rather displeased with the wholesituation, took a step forward, laying a tentative hand on the shoulderof his foremost companion. He spoke low and inaudible but must havesaid something to the effect of suggesting departure because Shit Eyesturned on him with a barking “No fucking way! Back the fuck off!” Theboy retreated, looking decidedly apprehensive.
“Bugger off, creep,” Elise growled, clear eyes narrowing to steele strands.
“Shut the fuck up, you fucking dyke.”
Evaporation.Everything. Her tightened face went slack, drawn muscles surrendered.Disbelief, anger, a look that cried “that word…?” flooded her eyes andthe hollows of her cheeks.
The drunken bastard grinned stupidlyand cackled, seeing his victory. The other two visibly relaxed andjoined in the howling guffaws. The impenetrable creature was human, andshe had been stricken down.
She inclined her face toward me,with a gaze pleading, begging, whimpering for defense, aid, relief. Mymouth remained open, my tongue remained silent. I couldn’t speak,wasn’t certain I wanted to. She must have seen it -my hesitance, myreluctance- because an unspeakable despair joined the shadows on herproud cheeks and blended to paint a pale attempt at dignifiedindifference. She turned on the heel of her worn out tennis shoe andswirled into the seat behind the steering wheel, cranking the tiny car.She barely waited for me to fall in beside her before scattering theintruders with a step on the gas.
As we flowed through thestreetlamp shadows, I stole a glance at the defeated driver. A slighttwist of the mouth was all that differentiated from her normal look ofgood-humored impassivity. It was enough.
Her eyes shone dimly withan aqueous glow, and her fingers rubbed awkwardly at the pinkened rims.The nicotine faerie, I thought, the smoke halo-ed angel reduced sosharply by an arbitrary stranger with beer-sour hands and shit-browneyes.