Monday, June 25, 2018

Review of The Distiller's Darling

The Distiller’s Darling
By Rebecca Norinne & Jamaila Brinkley

“He was never going to be the best-looking lad in the room, but he had something no other man here did: and Irish accent.”

Oh. My God. Iain and his whisky and his beard. Need I say more? Well, I will anyways.

Monday, June 4, 2018

Pink Lines

It’s almost that time again. 
I look down at the jagged line marring the—mostly—smooth terrain around it. The red is long gone, and today, it seems, the pink has finally faded as well. 
When it’s red I can’t do more than a quick rub without a white flash of pain, but when it’s pink I can do far more. I can push, poke, give it a light scratch, and each touch sends painful tendrils up and up until they pop, leaving euphoric tingles in their place. 
The pink—that’s what I’ve aptly named the in-between time. The pink—that’s why I do it. 
I rub the jagged line again, and the feeling I get is completely exterior to me. No tingles, no pops, just another mountain formed from the tectonic plates in my control. 
I look at the other jagged lines marring the inside of my leg, faded and white. Some still have the ability to grow unruly hair, and some haven’t grown hair since the day I sliced the lines into existence.

Sunday, June 3, 2018


Fog is weird. 
Go to bed and it’s hotter than Hell, wake up and it’s a cool sixty degrees and the moisture in the air is thick enough for you to stick a straw in and take a drink. There’s your car. Parked as close as can be to the tailgate of your neighbor, because their lack of common courtesy leads them to park in the middle of the two spots in front of the duplex. 
Can’t see shit. It’s still dark as night, and when the phone flashlight blinks on it illuminates one of the land clouds you seem to be standing in the middle of. Motherfu—you catch yourself before the entire expletive has escaped because there in the upstairs window across the street are the sleepy, blinking eyes of a little, curly-headed girl. You smile at her through the dark, unsure if she can even see you. Likely, your teeth look like a scary Cheshire cat smile while your skin blends into the darkness around you. 
You fall down into your low riding car, simultaneously tossing your bag in the passenger seat. It wasn’t zipped all the way, and now your books and your lunch are spewed all over the floor of your car. Wonderful. You’re already running late, even though the sun isn’t up yet, so you choose to ignore the mess for now and get to the highway as fast as you can. 

Aeipathy:(n) An enduring and consuming passion

A click. 
A flame. 
A breath. 
That sound. That wonderful, crackling sound created by my own two lips. A simple breath in… and a slow breath out. I see the burning end reflected in the eyes looking back at me, eyes that are now crinkled with laughter as my slow breath out turns into a hacking cough I can’t control. 
He makes a joke about my reaction, but I can’t hear him over the protest of my lungs, trying desperately to dispel the smoke I’d just filled them with. I flip him off and he shoves a bottle of water into my shaking hand. 
I take a huge glug, the bottle convulsing under the pull of my lips. At some point, he took the cigarette out of my hand and is finishing it off himself, breathing deeply and showing no sign that the smoke is burning its way into his lungs. I admire his tolerance, and I long for his lips to welcome me the way they welcome the thin white invader between his fingers. 
I notice the glow starting to fade, the grey butt marking its territory. He twitches those long fingers just slightly, flicks his thumb with purpose, and the ashes drift to the ground with grace.
I wonder momentarily if my fingers will ever behave like that—comfortable, like welcoming an old friend into the cove they’ve eroded into you. A gap that seemingly appears overnight, but really forms over time with each and every smoky invasion. Maybe I’ll have callouses, or maybe I’ll never smoke again. 
My head is buzzing like I’m drunk, but this is more instantaneous and short lived. A giggle breaks through my traitorous lips, and he smiles a sideways smile back at me. By the time it wears off I’m wearing his letterman jacket and I already want to do it again. 

Friday, June 1, 2018

The Basement

         “Oh my God,” I croak out of my overly dry mouth. I blink my eyes and it takes a few tries for my vision to clear, my eyes are about as dry as my mouth and my eyelids are practically glued together. I try to roll over and I’m hit by a wall of nausea and blinding agony so intense that I actually gag, but my stomach is so empty that only a little bit of stomach acid comes up and burns my throat. I cough and that causes pain to roll through my body too, but nothing compared to what I felt trying to roll over. Clearly moving around is out of the question so I look around the best I can. 
            I’m in a basement… well I think I am. It has that basement smell to it. Like when you don’t use a room as often as the others and it’s got more dust and less life? That smell. It’s also kind of cold down here. The pain I caused myself from trying to roll over has me covered in sweat and now it’s really cooling me down. 
I look to the right and see stairs leading up. I don’t see any stairs leading down to another level, another indicator of me being in a basement. 

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