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Cosmic
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Jun 4, 2011
Although I wouldn't call this a story yet, this is an idea that has been kicking around in my head for sometime. It's definitely the start to something that's sure, but I'm not sure where to go with it exactly. Any comments or suggestions appreciated.
It smelled of sex and sweetness. Dust and grime were splashed on the walls and windows with abandon, and the low growl of the air conditioner on the windowsill combined with traffic sounds of the city in a buzzing opera reminiscent of Carmen. The room itself looked of quality, at least once upon a time. Real hard wood peaked out from the covering of dirty clothes on the ground, and the wall paper looked like a smiling refugee of the 50’s that had been through hell and back, giving it just a tad of PTSD in the process.
On the bed sleeping were two forms. The pillows had an abused child’s countenance as the grey light of morning cut through the half broken blinds, and splashed on the matted Technicolor of hair that were in their embrace. Although their faces couldn’t be seen it was obvious from the dirty white sheet, now crusty beige, that the one closest to the window was female. And she was pissed off.
She rose from the bed, attempting to push a hand through her short violet hair—however giving up when the leftover hair products and glue only made her scalp hurt and gave her face and even more displeased frown. Her nude body was pale in the light, interrupted by a large bird tattoo on her left shoulder. It was a phoenix, mostly done in black ink, but the large plumes that dipped all the way to her waistline were a gradual rainbow. She had high cheekbones and a square, yet feminine jaw, which typically formed a nondescript expression with her laughter. Her eyes were large and almond shaped, gently showing her connection to some Asian country she was neither taught anything about, nor cared much about. Though they were ethnic in shape, in color she had the most shocking aqua colored eyes, that many people claimed they must be contacts. But the truth is always strange than fiction.
She began to pull on her clothes, not bothering to deal with the other person in the bed. There was a lot that could be said between the two of them, but nothing she wanted to deal with at the moment. She needed a cigarette at first before she opened that particular can of worms. Thoughts of a shower floated through her head, but she didn’t want to stay around long.
Perhaps it was just the fact that it was one of those days that hit the soul in the most unflattering manner, bringing out the worst of human nature. Or perhaps it was just her common default nature, but the woman didn’t want a big fuss about her departure. She didn’t want tears and bullshit excuses trailing after her like some leftover wispy ghost in a horror movie. All she wanted was to get back to her bike, and drive out into the grey morning and not look back. And hell, considering she got this far, she might as well go all the way, eh?
She zipped up her jacket, not bothering to try to find more than the bare minimum she needed to get out. A pair of pants, her belt and wallet, and a black sweater being all the fabric separating her from the world as she stepped into the dismal living room, the smallness of it, making her flinch at the smell. Certainly housekeeping was not a priority to whoever owned this dismal shack. Rotting containers of old take out and moldy dishes covered the coffee table in the center, and the floor around one depressed looking couch. Clothes too, were piled in a colorful arrangement of laziness. She sighed. She really needed to raise her standards as far as a free fuck went.
Deciding that the house couldn’t possibly smell worse, she lit her cigarette there, slipping on her shoes with as much grace as she could muster. Inhale. Exhale. Savor it. She didn’t know when she would be able to buy another pack again, her money being eaten by the hungry monsters of the various bad habits she had obtained in her short life. Pondering on where she was going to get her next meal, and more importantly her next cigarette, the door to the bedroom swung open, the gust of air hitting her square in the face.
“Leaving already? I…I could make you breakfast or—“
“I rather not.” Her voice was flat in emotion, but taunt in annoyance. It had a definite melodic glint to it, but the medium quality of it did not betray the truth of her talent.
“Right. I can take you out. There’s a waffle house—“
“I don’t even know your name, so let’s make this very simple. I don’t know you, you don’t know me. We already had sex, and on a scale of one to ten I’d give you a six for effort. I’m not into repeat performances, and I’m sure as hell not into dealing with someone who can’t take a fucking hint. Though I will say, thanks for the dry place to sleep. It’s been fun. Toodles.” She spun on her heel and found her way to the front door just in time to hear a surprised and pathetic whimper.
“Bitch.”
She turned giving a grin of sorts. The kind that doesn’t make it all the way to the eyes, but have a chilling honesty to them that nobody wants to question.
“You have no fucking idea,” she said simply, shutting the door.
And this was just an average morning for Katarina Saunders.
Her Harley was waiting for her against an utterly dismal piece of shit car that matched the house rather lovely. She sighed. Her poor baby deserved better than that. She got on and started it with a roar that gave her chills. If there was one force that gave her shivers more than a skilled lover, good music, or a nice smoke, was the power of machinery. Grease, metal, industrial goods that were both of God, and against him. It was that kind of contradiction that she loved the most. Being against something and part of it as well. It was a lot like humanity. It was a lot like music. She smiled, opening her eyes fully to the elegant ugly of the morning, her headache making up for lost time. She wondered if it was just freedom that kept her running, or if it was slavery forcing her from staying. She shook the thoughts from her head. Coffee first.
And with a smile fitting that of the latest suicide victim, she drove out into the smoky air.
It smelled of sex and sweetness. Dust and grime were splashed on the walls and windows with abandon, and the low growl of the air conditioner on the windowsill combined with traffic sounds of the city in a buzzing opera reminiscent of Carmen. The room itself looked of quality, at least once upon a time. Real hard wood peaked out from the covering of dirty clothes on the ground, and the wall paper looked like a smiling refugee of the 50’s that had been through hell and back, giving it just a tad of PTSD in the process.
On the bed sleeping were two forms. The pillows had an abused child’s countenance as the grey light of morning cut through the half broken blinds, and splashed on the matted Technicolor of hair that were in their embrace. Although their faces couldn’t be seen it was obvious from the dirty white sheet, now crusty beige, that the one closest to the window was female. And she was pissed off.
She rose from the bed, attempting to push a hand through her short violet hair—however giving up when the leftover hair products and glue only made her scalp hurt and gave her face and even more displeased frown. Her nude body was pale in the light, interrupted by a large bird tattoo on her left shoulder. It was a phoenix, mostly done in black ink, but the large plumes that dipped all the way to her waistline were a gradual rainbow. She had high cheekbones and a square, yet feminine jaw, which typically formed a nondescript expression with her laughter. Her eyes were large and almond shaped, gently showing her connection to some Asian country she was neither taught anything about, nor cared much about. Though they were ethnic in shape, in color she had the most shocking aqua colored eyes, that many people claimed they must be contacts. But the truth is always strange than fiction.
She began to pull on her clothes, not bothering to deal with the other person in the bed. There was a lot that could be said between the two of them, but nothing she wanted to deal with at the moment. She needed a cigarette at first before she opened that particular can of worms. Thoughts of a shower floated through her head, but she didn’t want to stay around long.
Perhaps it was just the fact that it was one of those days that hit the soul in the most unflattering manner, bringing out the worst of human nature. Or perhaps it was just her common default nature, but the woman didn’t want a big fuss about her departure. She didn’t want tears and bullshit excuses trailing after her like some leftover wispy ghost in a horror movie. All she wanted was to get back to her bike, and drive out into the grey morning and not look back. And hell, considering she got this far, she might as well go all the way, eh?
She zipped up her jacket, not bothering to try to find more than the bare minimum she needed to get out. A pair of pants, her belt and wallet, and a black sweater being all the fabric separating her from the world as she stepped into the dismal living room, the smallness of it, making her flinch at the smell. Certainly housekeeping was not a priority to whoever owned this dismal shack. Rotting containers of old take out and moldy dishes covered the coffee table in the center, and the floor around one depressed looking couch. Clothes too, were piled in a colorful arrangement of laziness. She sighed. She really needed to raise her standards as far as a free fuck went.
Deciding that the house couldn’t possibly smell worse, she lit her cigarette there, slipping on her shoes with as much grace as she could muster. Inhale. Exhale. Savor it. She didn’t know when she would be able to buy another pack again, her money being eaten by the hungry monsters of the various bad habits she had obtained in her short life. Pondering on where she was going to get her next meal, and more importantly her next cigarette, the door to the bedroom swung open, the gust of air hitting her square in the face.
“Leaving already? I…I could make you breakfast or—“
“I rather not.” Her voice was flat in emotion, but taunt in annoyance. It had a definite melodic glint to it, but the medium quality of it did not betray the truth of her talent.
“Right. I can take you out. There’s a waffle house—“
“I don’t even know your name, so let’s make this very simple. I don’t know you, you don’t know me. We already had sex, and on a scale of one to ten I’d give you a six for effort. I’m not into repeat performances, and I’m sure as hell not into dealing with someone who can’t take a fucking hint. Though I will say, thanks for the dry place to sleep. It’s been fun. Toodles.” She spun on her heel and found her way to the front door just in time to hear a surprised and pathetic whimper.
“Bitch.”
She turned giving a grin of sorts. The kind that doesn’t make it all the way to the eyes, but have a chilling honesty to them that nobody wants to question.
“You have no fucking idea,” she said simply, shutting the door.
And this was just an average morning for Katarina Saunders.
Her Harley was waiting for her against an utterly dismal piece of shit car that matched the house rather lovely. She sighed. Her poor baby deserved better than that. She got on and started it with a roar that gave her chills. If there was one force that gave her shivers more than a skilled lover, good music, or a nice smoke, was the power of machinery. Grease, metal, industrial goods that were both of God, and against him. It was that kind of contradiction that she loved the most. Being against something and part of it as well. It was a lot like humanity. It was a lot like music. She smiled, opening her eyes fully to the elegant ugly of the morning, her headache making up for lost time. She wondered if it was just freedom that kept her running, or if it was slavery forcing her from staying. She shook the thoughts from her head. Coffee first.
And with a smile fitting that of the latest suicide victim, she drove out into the smoky air.
