Marble City Sunshine by John Traynor

Reseeding

Reseeding

Photo by Luca Calvani

 

‘Marble City Sunshine’ by John Traynor

 

They dropped the tabs and threw caution to turbulent beauty.

Their LSD eyes, arose amid a day-glow city, gorgeously scary.

“Let’s get out of the city. All these people are really eerie. They don’t understand. Life has become torture, most people are only teasing’s of the truth.” Darra licked her rich lips as she lazily strolled through the slums, slinging a red overbearing handbag over her bare shoulder.

The boy was tired. He didn’t want to walk. But he said yes, he would, like all boys say yes to hot girl’s they don’t understand. So he led with the heart, and if there is one true truth to this tragedy, the heart is not blind, the heart is honest. His dreams detached from loves wavering involvement, he was in love, yet not lost to love, because he’s never been in love longer than a week. They seeped passed the city limits, suddenly enshrouded by countryside.

They strolled down a dry-dirt embankment. Their shadows crept along the rivers currents, calm and constantly curious. Her walk was wicked, almost springy on her tender tippy toes, ponytail profoundly bobbing to and fro, trailing her veiled velvet smile. Their convulsive monologue visions, nursed by secretive narrative. She smiled at the boy, seeming to understand similes and metaphors never said, never spoken. She rearranged his thoughts into her own insular dialogue, drowning the dialect with aroused personal notions. Her face confused by everlasting expressions, wave after wave. Silence is the splendid land where genius grows.

She opened a package of scampi fries. “Do you want one? They taste like my fanny.”

“What?” He laughed “you mean crusty n dry?”

She teasingly stuck out her tongue. Yes. He knew now he had her. He knew she was his.

“You want me, don’t cha?” The boy still giggled, taking and tasting a scampi fry.

“What would I want with you, and I’ve a dildo in me handbag.”

Faint visions frolicked on the latent overlapped clouds of cruel obscurity. They walked silently. The boy listened to the girl’s lovely bare legs serenade the shrubs, freshly shaven this morning. Then he became distracted by rose shadows, limply lovelorn, begging to bud loves last litany over a generation engrossed by gorgeous, rainbow-blanketed-black-outs. And then the woodlands sprang into view, so steeply deep and vastly verdurous. They ambled up the memorizing wooded mountain.

Near the top, they sat and settled under a tree. Webs of wild sunlight sang through tangled flowery leaves. An iridescence; a pale iridescence perished into the shade to steal a feathered flake from Darra’s face, and her souls scent sang, lowly punctuating aromas and mildly emitting enigmatic auras.

“I hear music in your smile.” The boy talked to the panoramic pleasures of tecni-coloured fields.

“Please don’t be in love with me James. If you are in love with somebody more than yourself, you are surely a disappointment. I can’t love a disappointment. I already know n love meself.”

It is a lie that women are the only abstract human. Both men and women cannot be understood. But there is a big difference, women beg to be understood, whilst men don’t wanna be understood, so we agree to disagree until the argument wanes, and then drift back to that natural land of dreamy delusions. I love ya coz I need ta cum, then I cum, I don’t need ya till I need ta cum again. James veiled his true thoughts by complementing her short summer dress.

But Darra was like a man. “Now shush Jamesy. You silly boy. People only talk when they have nothing to say. So shut up and listen to your dreams. They possess poignancy.” The words fell into her mouth like soft antidote pictures, pleasurable to pronounce. A voice that sang the summer sky’s hazy magic.

And what’s left in a life without words? I dedicate myself to creation, the page, my mirrors image, coz all those people are not me and I’m not them. How could I love someone? But if only I could hold on to the evanescent feeling of knowing, well, then I would know, wouldn’t I? 

They kissed. They kissed the residue of receding love. And the boy smelt the pale shadow of loves last secretive scent.

 

She listened to the zephyr, letting its serene smooth warmth ripple up her dress. A lingering odour of dry cow shite made her strangely seductive to the boy. “Is she too pretty to sodomise?” He thought “nobody’s too fuckin pretty ta sodomise. It’s all about the bum baby.”

“We should try knock the gear on da head.” He said aloud “your eyes fires become extinct on that existential shite.”

“That’s how I like it. I don’t need eyes on gear. I don’t need to be pretty; my dreams will always be the picturesque part of my persona.”

“I know what ya mean. But beauty…”

“Beauty is built to be broken. Heroin is harrowing honesty. Just tell me how it is James, warts n all, or don’t tell me at all.” Her fantasy eyes vanishing and remerging; James could taste passion in the promise of her words. Her button nose crinkled at the rising scent of pine wood. She slumped her perfumed hair on his broad shoulder, looking across a few tri-coloured fields to the southeast, where they spotted a farmhouse and barn. Darra sheepishly yawned. A sheepdog with a flawless black n white coat howled at a herd of cattle. The house stood lonesome and silent, enshrouded by a blazing sun-haze. They trudged towards the house, tired and hungry.

On reaching the bungalow, the girl involuntarily shivered, noticing the countryside silence, eerily sweeping the uncut lawn. They checked the windows. The house was empty. Through the summer fields blew a beautiful zephyr, carrying the sound of contemporary music from a passing boy-racer car. The sheepdog barking, viciously, yet his puppyish eyes asking for a pet on the head. They did not pet the poor dog. Darra stepped inside the back door, her sun-kissed-serenading legs shaded by the kitchens cool shade. Acid converted the boy’s sexual energy into sexual sensuality.

He followed her bare legs through the cool long narrow kitchen, pulling up a chair to the table. Remnants of a full Irish were left on the table. The smell lingered, eagerly arousing their empty bellies. Darra switched on the battery radio. She changed channels from Lyric FM to Southeast Radio. Then she cooked a chicken stir-fry on the stove, adding sliced mushrooms, onions, red and green peppers, the works. She boiled brown rice in a pot, adding salt and pepper.

She let the stir-fry simmer. She sat opposite the boy, and through the window, pale patterns of golden brown light fell upon her pure unpainted face. Sighing, she leaned her chin into the cup of her ivory palms “Let’s fuck first. I can’t enjoy my food when I’m horny.” Her velvet voice muted into a palm poverty mumble.

James knelt down, kissing her bare thighs. This tickled her fanny. With his teeth, he encouraged a shred of string which unfurled from her purple faded panties. He licked, longingly and slowly. She giggled and jerked, compulsively cuming, gripping to the chairs rickety armrests. “That’s the spot.” She squirmed. He worked harder coz he had a small tongue. Darra appreciated his enthusiasm. Red lazy sunlight slatted on her soft fawn face. A fusion of fear mixed with ecstasy erased her eyes into the shadows, her moans becoming more moving than melancholic music.

Her wet vage like sparkling spittle on her awaiting flaps. She was wildly wet and oddly tasteless. “Thank god she’s tasteless” He thought “thank god” his ex-girlfriend tasted of expired salmon left out ta rot in the melting midday sun.

With a finger coaxing her cunt, and his tongue softly teasing her clit to the rhythm of her wild reckless squirms, she left her stuttering bare foot on his broad backbone. The girl came. Or at least the boy thinks she came. On her way down to give head, he stopped her, lifting her slender body up on the table. He’d definitely cum if she gave head. He wanted badly his hole.

His average erect cock pierced her tight pussy. Overwhelmed by the exotic impact penetrating from an intensely intimate woman, managing to sustain strides amidst her mind blowing magnetism was catastrophic. He came, his heart exfoliating into her soul. Her even, sympathetic smile suggested she was immune to male’s quick climax. If they became a proper couple he would be forced to practice foreplay.

She lay on the floor, on her tight stomach. “Give it to me. Let me have it James.” She spanked her own ass. His cock rose swiftly, smacking his stomach with a thud. James was profoundly aroused by this positions authority, spanking her suave bare bum, her face veiled by a meek melee of messy brunette hair. The tiles cold on her cunt. Oddly comfortable. The boy’s rhythm compromised and restricted by the hard tiled floor, knees rigid, he lasted longer, giddily lapping up her luscious bum. His cock lost, he came.

She lay there a long time, her voice eerily echoing on the tiles “It’s nice to forget. It’s nice to forget that you are alive.”

The boy understood. That’s why  the boy said nothing.

Love lurks in the light that surrounds us, almost silently smothers us, she is my mind, she is my heart, my private muse, I am lost without her, but most of all, I am lost within her.

 

The smell of warmth on the starlit night reminded him of foreign summer holidays, reminded him of a supposed better time. They stumbled back up the mountain, half naked. The boy had no pants. The girl, topless, techin-coloured bra as the acid lay illuminatingly brooding. Up the steep path, ink engraved the intense gravitating cloud quotes “Looking for love I found sex, and in sex I found love. We are lost shadows seeking the dying sun.”

The same car passes in the same night, a different song of a different deranged solitude soaking his skin in priceless phantasm. And the songs were lost among the dripping green of the painted black, birch tree woodlands. The loudness, gone, like the imagined giddiness descending upon her proud and courageous kiss. Birds borrow that sacred tune to chaw a backwards broken song-storm. A sketch of heaven on that blank page night; vibrant stars ranting at the static moon and calm are the clouds casting gorgeous purple gloom over silent fields. She gazed at the sky.

Heaven in her eyes

Ireland in her blood.

They sat on a dirt road, wearied, dehydrated, licking their sweat, a second layer of darkness faintly falling over the slow dancing dust. She held his hand, trying to recapture a dying dream. Her index finger tracing the tragic palm lines, their texture like long sentences out of a James Joyce novel.

“I wanna go home,” she softly said.

“You are home.”

The moon cried silver through the clouds. And the boy looked at the girl, unaware of the eerie images that worried her personal acid realm. She kissed him to forget. And for the boy, her kiss was the edge of a dream, eager, yet adorably lost to a new litany of silent, eye contacting wisdom.

He held her close as she slept, seeming to weep as her snores swept into climatic moans. Every time she stopped shivering, she veered into a smile, a smile that could not lie.

James took off his t-shirt, wrapping the thin cotton over her breasts and thin belly. Below, in the begging distance, he saw the city lights shimmer, and heard fraudulent party sounds dimmed in the serene night air. The smell of pine on the descending dew drops, nicely deep in dreams, dreams nearly remembered, yet never re-captured. Dreamy intermittent images as the clouds clustered, stark and black against the initial snippets of sunlight.

 

The sun swam outta the night’s colourful swamp. Darra awoke with borrowed depression, eyes savouring the sorrow.

“Did you bring some gear?” her big frail eyes feebly begged.

“No. I barely brought meself. But I might have a tab.”

“A tab. Would you go fuck off n die.” She squinted suspiciously, as if he was a sinister spectre, as if they had not been childhood sweethearts. “Ya greedy bastard!” she rambled down the dirt track, rushing, urgent, grabbing her cramping stomach.

“You’re losing da the marbles Darra.”

Not turning, she flicked up her middle finger.

Fadeout.

And what was once a painting in his perverse mind meditated into in to fading beauty, forever. Forever is the enemy of romance. His hangover is too violent to hold down. The boy’s body repeatedly depleted by purposeless despair.

We are adjoined by dreams, also, we are divided by dreams. And love is still love until it fades, and surely she’ll fade; our acid kiss, like silent passing ships in an eerie night.

The wind is succulent on his cheeks, creating wise shades of remnant rainbow moisture. He knew no reason to go on. So he succumbed to that subtle suicide of internal dream addiction. He ignored, or at least attempted to ignore the skeleton sketches on the darkly dashed clouds.

Descending the mountain he felt woozy and had to stop. He sat on a wooden fence. Watching the unworried laughter of clouds vanish past his mind, he wondered would life ever be the same again, coz we all wonder worried thoughts at any climax, but we trudge on in the tainted hope, tragically attempting to recapture inane moments that we have romanticised in giddy heartfelt reveries.

In the distance, the city music fills his heart, and he thinks of his boyhood friends, a real remembrance of childhood friendships forming mosaics in his mind. Music revives the past, and then the remembered smell of old mists his memory to kiss his heart, and that is type of love, a reason to live.

The past is a priceless heaven awaiting your futures demise.

 

He read the old book. The book was not about what lay waiting in the crinkled pages, the book was about the girl, the song, the drug, and the dream that vanished at autumns impending dawn. The red dusk bled as the books pages rippled with the soft zephyr sway. The words kinda sang, neither feminine nor masculine, an imitation of a dream; an instant internal orgasm.

Alone at last. I wanna be my own, for if I’m not my own, I’m nobody’s.

He fills the second half of his naggin with club orange:

I love drink, I especially love the way drink undresses the acid words.

 

Did you like the story? Opinions? Praise? Please leave a comment below

 
John Traynor

Bio:

John Traynor is twenty four. An Art’s graduate from U.C.C. At the age of twenty two, he was diagnosed with chronic pancreatitis. He writes between bouts of the pain. His short story, The love of lust, was recently published in the Galway review.
 

Subscribe to Roadside Fiction


 

Contents                                                           Next Page


Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.
Post a comment or leave a trackback: Trackback URL.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>