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 ~: FICTION / EXPERIMENTAL :~  The Wench is Dead by JJ DeCeglie Please note that this work contains explicit material. Last card dealt is a lady, of hearts, and it slices through him like a fishing knife into your finger and to the bone. He doesn't show it, acts concussed, he's in for such a great deal now that he can't back out, trapped in previous balls gripped in hand decisions, goes in for the entirety, the lot, says it, this other guy chases, the cards are laid down like corpses in a stagnant morgue, not in any slow motion instant but rather a slapping rapid into the frame, across the table, limp and dead, the chip mound a pyramidal kaleidoscope of nasty tones and mottos, life riding on horrid moments, he's knows he's punched before the second card is fronted, knew it five minutes ago, that intestinal slump of higher organs, core fucking collapse, he slams a gulp down his throat and pours another and then tosses the cards and doesn't say a word. Slams the next drink too. Not a chip left. Closes his eyes. Flashes on times when things weren't this way. When the sun didn't sting his eyes every morning. When girls weren't just a rough smacking thump or regretted sorrow. Leaves. Punches the wall outside, cringes to weep but can't, it happens two or three times, drives with the window down, cold glow of orange black night in his face, gets cash out on the credit card from the hole in the wall, buys drinks at a bar for hours, tumbles them down, ends up at a brothel down some back alley, hammering his aggravation into some sweet stout whore, mouthing her savage, in her dingy little fuck room, she kisses him farewell and asks if he'll come back to see her some time, again he says not anything. Walks to the ocean and watches the sun sweep up gold over the mass. He studies his hands in the shine. The way he saw it, from every slant he was fucked. Somehow he taught high school. Somehow he'd lived in Europe. Now though he was back home and the fractures were in everything. Couldn't win. Couldn't write. Hope was bullshit he was better off without and everything and nothing were the same. All he had was his work and that should have been enough. Though he was just as fine at poker, as talented, the shortage in both had to end shortly, that's what they told him, everyone went cold sometime, everyone. Before playing the schedule was set. It was there and was true. It had worked before and then over again and he had no choice but to brawl on. Especially with the way it was now. He was good and they all knew that. Had known for a while. Unfortunately, that meant nothing. And that was the same for everything. Up late. Hole up for the afternoon reading Hemingway for clarity. Down bourbon for the swish. Shower still drinking and then stare at yourself in the reflection for at least twenty minutes. Determine something. Work it out. Finish at least half the bottle. If there was anything in your dick muscle it away so as not to add blush to your vision. Dress with snap. Get there sharp. Play. One big pot an hour. Protect what you got. Win. Fuck off. Go out. Drink more. Meet girls. Fuck. Sleep. Straightforward. In the morning write. If hungover or drowsy make notes. Read the greats. Write to add to them Notes: With games of possibility it doesn't so much wound when you are beaten, if anything it's more a philosophical dumbfoundment akin to dread, a total ununderstanding of how this transpired and why, of how your existence came to this or any end, this defined comprehension and loss, a confoundment with chance and it's choice of you to not benefit with the way the world spun that instant. You were chosen. Boredom and suffering and such and so on. He was of the belief that if you were going to try at it you may as well try til the very end no matter the consequence. That was the only true life and only authentic method of living. He had lost much already and would lose more but he had gained just as much and was certain the gains would be greater than the losses in the conclusion. Ah the whole thing is an endless casket. Next game he fronts too early and flunks and is gone before midnight chasing a straight that never came. Never chase straights. He owes the wrong people and drives out where he knows they won't be and drinks til sunup in his car then walking around til breakfast by the river. He needed a stake now. He was neck deep in it. Working days would help some. Slacken the taut in the noose round his gullet. He thought to himself very hard with a near empty bottle in his hand, this is the puncture you wanted to be in, the cavity fuels the writing but the manuscript may be buried with you. You live on this path edge, you may plummet off. He walked in the park that morning in the clear light, words fluid within, that great novel bubbling, short stories as clear as gunshots, dewy lime and drenched blonde palettes, cooling shadows from an already vicious star, he had to go on a dash, work days and play nights and live very tough a while. One last swill to leave the bottle of any inclination. Sharpen the fuck up. Further clarity came now. She threw him out. He moved home. The summer was charging at everyone. He wasn't writing or winning. She said she smelt other cunt on him and she was right but he loved her very much and wept terribly when she'd cried during the ordeal. He told her he loved her like no other and meant it. Too many other things come first for you. She was right, mostly she was. He tried to hold her and she hit at him then. That summer just kept coming. Wave after wave of scorch, he didn't play for a month. Slept like hell. Wrote little, just sentence shards that stung like slivers of glass waiting in the carpet. On yet another burning insomnia night with his window open so as the moon illuminated the lines of his space he realised he could never have her back. Not if he continued to go for what he wanted. He couldn't cry. Fractures were in everything. Working he was a partial automaton. Never sleeping sufficient, thinking relentlessly of the return. Of the way the cards would arrive. The structure of the sentence. He was outdoors with the kids mostly. The sun clawing at him. It was a caretaker role. Easy street. He drank coffee in vast amounts, read greatly, made notes when given a break. He watched these nice people in pleasant lives waste desperately away, giving advice they could never follow themselves. He could never understand anyone's need to work like this. To work at almost nothing. Wholly he understood again the rarity of guts in this world, the lack of leading some sort of authenticity. He could hate this existence so fiercely there, could be completely vacant on originality and the sincerity of life, there amongst the soil sweet scent of the moisture baked out of the grassy oval, the cool of the concrete walking between classes, the reverberating glare of the numbing tennis courts, the slaughter of character when playing a deviant role on this planet. Redemption for it all was such, the exquisite beauty of feminine youth about him enhanced by the cut light of a booming sun, he had noticed this unhurriedly though straight off, noticed how wonderful they were by the poolside on the sunniest of days, untainted lucidity and enchantment that grew and delivered him from each day of evil, that and the jacaranda trees raining lilac petals through slanted sheets of sunbeams, blanketing the ground trampled lovely, pouring mauve unending yet always more colour on the branches to fall. Muses were auspicious miracles amidst the dark. Sentence shard: It was Thoreau who'd said most men led lives of quite desperation, he looked about him, knew it was a great deal worse than that. So much lack as time went by and you went with it. Death was a wench that had to be fought relentlessly and severely. It was in everything as far as he could glimpse, the intense fervour and craft of the writing, the nameless rabid sex, the bright falling cards and the gallons of drink and tufted furls of fine cigar smoke, the uninspiring confines of sleeping late and his eyes raw to the radiant sunlight. It was her beauty that allowed him these thoughts. This adolescent nymph and pure constellation of loveliness. He knew of the contradictions that this unrequited love of a student had brought him but now he thought that only beauty could overwhelm the wench and by fuck he heed it, he knew he may be muddled in a musing rut and stupor, but the sunbeam's shine off the skin on her long languid legs was enough to give him succour forever, he died in her planet blue eyes and the dark plumes of rippled hair, she fanned the smoulder of kindling inside him enough to keep him from not getting up each daytime. Something splendid in a splendidless occasion. Be everything as it was, it wasn't the vague fluid yearning of the beauty and impulsiveness of instinctive loveliness that came with schoolgirls or the way they glistened in the blossoming sun. He was ending even with the prettiness of her and the others. Sleep was unknown to him except in blackened spurts of failure. He was drinking still, whilst writing now too, not that he wrote much, the work was being drained by the job and the daydreams were much more poetical in his mind than on the paper. He did no longer doubt himself; there were the plays of whim and romantic fancy in his head, idiotic notions of loving these girls and running about with them in some fit of imbecile worship, especially with the most affecting of them, the most very beautiful and interesting, she took him fully, had his greatest awareness, all this though was blemished by a twisting of virile subterranean lust and a dark red mist, forceful thoughts and overpowering influence, flashing throes of gritted teeth and squeal that made him burn good and warm inside then shudder. He felt it was a standard desire; one to write from, something heady and full of fecundity, skin and flowers, lips and bare knees, sleepy voices and longings, wantonness and anguish, sunlit schoolyards and smiles from eyes and attention sought and secrets maybe there or maybe not, the smell of rain on summer roads, warm mouths, first times, the entirety poured from him one disturbed night and he wrote it with a obligation he had lacked for some time, an insomnia induced sweating breakthrough, an awesome obsession swollen fiction, misogynistic til the last with an almost rape induced vague fuck scene and such ennui and insight throughout, a short masterwork he was sure, the young girl concerned a mixed portrait of the intense feeling and ache he endured, he conjured the picture of her effortlessly and flawlessly, a svelte witty innocent, a sylphlike cosmic cunt, dangled at him and able to swipe and cut without will or remorse, clawing at his heart and senses, ravaging her sexuality into him and him having no alternative but to belt back, what sentences he had formed, the raw cut of it, the tension and torture and ultimate blissful dire discharge, her basking famously by the glowing swimming pool at the story's end, every desirous inch of her afire and resplendent with midday sun, nothing to do but take it as it is, done and gone and thankful she somehow understood, though the wound and pain of it, perhaps no getting back from it, from her, this, images flame into you ceaselessly, at least she'll never forget you. The work gave him a bankroll. Something to create with. The summer split in the school year was coming and he knew he had to take a run at it. He needed only some things in this instant, parts though that could complete the return to full. He had that dark gem written and others were seeping through with time. He was running most days and lifting weights on others, he needed some girls to fetch the juice from him correctly but that would come with the poker and liquor. He had to be drinking fitting too; he seldom played well exclusive of that. That humid groove he knew too well was to come for him now, a careful slipped section of lux and settle, bourboned pupils and digits on emerald felt with excellent smoke smeared across the room, striking fluidity in his gambled motions, his load on and those identical clear eyes peering unfathomable into hers whoever she was, her stacked breasts and pungent perfume, light dancing off her oiled thighs and watching the money he dragged in observantly, the big pots, the huge ones that made their countenance skip, biting her rich lips and elegant neck in some random soft lit city hotel room, talking ruthlessly to her, fucking her every which way, the wad of cash in his hand the next crisp morning, the giant breakfast, going on 48 hour lopes of cards, another nameless broad the next night-time or bed slept in. He'd start petite though, the casino with the mug punters and flunkies, he could pound out days there, get his nerve correct, his judgements sound, pay off the rest of what was owed and not paid for with the work cash. Then a valid swipe at it. The casino plays as he remembered. Simply a matter of patience and timing. He clicks in to the old endurance and existence, plays entire weekends out in that early morning nausea that lasts perpetually in that place, that is defeated by big pots and good quality cards and the understanding of drinking well and eating vigorously when required, of the wellbeing of a warm bath and cold shower and some girl to be with exactly when you wanted to and rid of her in the matching way. He had flashes of the nubile princess at times, pangs of torment for her that bordered of what he felt before as possibly love with others; they came at the bad times, the appalling moments of reminisced lack or seconds of current barrenness, mostly they came when with others, girls finished with, men beaten by him, everyone was paid back plus the juice they had run on the debts, he was writing as work genuinely each day and his instincts at the tables were supreme. He was aware that the longing he so badly sensed must not arrive at his decisions. He had to write that fucking pain out of him. Though he knew foolhardiness rest in him. Incontestable hunger and ache. The star that summer went on and on blazing, opening doors to outside as if opening the hatch on a blast oven, discomfort and roast, the temperature seeming so close to the soil and part of the air, superfluous to everyone and everything and lending time a drag and adversity that he couldn't see anyone wanting. Wet somehow seemed uncommon. Anyhow, he'd slept with a dynamite little thing one night, a bobble of sex and sweat and hips plus her pink silken engorged lips, he left her asleep at her place the next morning, the sun up so early and beginning it's shove, her sweet smooth back looked blue in the light of her room, her legs twisted in sheets, though tonight was a giant one, he had a place at a table worth at least eight thousand if one played fine, some expensive house on the river, he imagined it could be worth up to twelve thousand with a good roll of skill, he could smell the girl on him still, drove to the beach, it wasn't early, maybe nine, carpark was filling already, the daylight so sharp in the air and off everything, as he trudged over the dune he saw the sun shoot off the water like a strip of aluminium foil, discontinuous flash of white and stun, the blue progressing water, ashen sand and crash plunge of waves, he saw her there, with her friends who he recognised also, attractiveness more blinding than a direct snap at the sun, dancing waist deep in her blood red two piece, every part of her as girl should be, moreso even, from here on in it's a nightmarish daydream. Waking and it's feels as though his face is in a plaster cast and the total of him in a furnace. Now this is the subsequent day and he's been comatose down by the river. He felt like a slab of hell and what he couldn't see was his expression caked in even blood that cracked when he grimaced in pain as he tried to thrust himself up with his left shoulder, this pointed stab led to amplified breathing and the fact that his ribs ached but he reasoned quickly they were bruised not broken, the sun was punishing him and he wore it's full burden, the silver flashes of it off the water were blinding to his rare eyes, he was damaged, right socket mostly shut with swell, golf ball bulge under his left ear, his hair was matted with black dry bleeding and his knuckles and lips were cut up, he manoeuvred so as to sit with his back to a tree, a flicker of memory and he grabbed at his crotch and felt the plastic crackle, worked his hand in under his where his scrotum ended and pulled out the gangster roll, just over eleven large swaddled in an elastic band, he was sweating and sunburnt and wished to fuck he had the capacity to get in some proper shadow, where was rain when you needed it, everything felt like a full-bore stove top, the money gave him solace and recollection, he'd played like a demon, as skilled as matador dodging first rate bulls, endurance and poise and heartlessness, and the entire time thinking of her and that unthinkable rendezvous they'd made, her at the shoreline that morning, saying those girls weren't in actuality her friends, telling him what books she planned to read over the summer, water to both their waists, her tresses like tangled flames, eyes the blue of an electrical fire, do you like my swimsuit? He noticed her nipples. Those other girls watching and giggling and he felt flush and mislaid but she was so dazzling to him, her voice like ice-cold milk, the way her waist tucked in then bloomed about with taut broad hips and how her backside swooped off her lean back and fit perfectly into the top of her thigh then leading down wrapped expansive and magical, the crystal jade blue of the salt water and the clean wind whipping about her, her wit and wonder, even now indisposed and slumped by a tree near the river she buoyed him, everything was vibrant and drenched in his eyes now, heavy air can do that, I live near the school you know, we break in and swim in the pool on hot nights, do you have keys to the pool sir, she spoke mostly, expressively and past her age, she could paint well and wanted to be either a writer or painter, who knew she said, and then continued, I'll probably just work behind a check-out my whole life, he doubted that, doubted himself, tonight's a significant night for me he said, I don't think I can make it, yes you can, I'll be there at two in the morning, he looked at her and realised she meant it, her smile better than any sunset he'd seen, what I have planned usually takes all night, you can come, though they stood three quarters of a metre apart letting the swell and wash lull about them her foot had been tracing his awhile, trailing pleasurably deep then to shin and thigh and finally her toes strumming where they could only end up, undetectable to the world, a disturbing whirl he couldn't believe real, her foot then trying to drag his her way, toes curled pulling at the tendon running from his heel, he made eyes with her wholly, tried to conclude all this, omitted in the sun and hue and glare and rushing blood and thoughts, dangerously innocent, innocently dangerous, he mouthed words to her, firstly stop, finally tonight, an extroverted girlish grin, she backstroked away the same way she'd done coming over, except she kept her eyes on him the complete time, he dived underwater and wished away the flesh from his bones, no denying he played some of the best cards of his life that night though, he'd seen half the table off, he felt her gush with him, that her touch had charged him truly, she'd let him write such sentences, and now play so thoroughly, the swirl and scope of it was clear to him though the repercussions not gone astray, he had decided that life was only had once and this was no reassurance, he tried to cash out so as to meet her, this was met with bitter condemnation, they wanted an opportunity to win back their money, not tonight fellas, next time, he was threatened, that had happened before, usually he would have stayed and taken the lot, tonight though, not tonight, the air outside choked him with it's consistency, he knew he was followed out and thus shoved the wad down his pants, there were two of them and the one instructing, a clattering pulping commenced and he fought back best he could but these guys were monsters, they finished with him and then drove him down and dumped him by the river where the swelter was thicker cause of the humidity caused by the water and grass, spinning dark, he passed out on the lawn dreaming of the pool, the kindness of her body, warmth inside her mouth, the smell of her hair, her tastes, hushes and sighs, he would only kiss her, maybe mouth at her breasts gently, they would talk and talk and laugh and laugh and then not know at all what to do with what would become of them, of this place they now shared and the unfair spasms that raced through them, everything would have been blue and mauve and then in the sunrise some blonde and pink would have come, in the unjust sunlight he lurched over to a toilet block and washed all the visible blackened blood from his skin and hair and watched the watery chaos drain away, he determined no stitches were needed, nothing was broken either, he gripped the eleven grand in his fist and smiled to himself in the mirror then made it outside and back up the hill to where he hoped his car was still parked by the lavish house he'd last night played at, the homicidal luminary would not let up and as went on he realised he had to leave and decided on Amsterdam and as soon as possible. The cool canals and pretty whores and Van Gogh to sympathise with, I'll fight this place again next summer, the sadness can only do me good to write with and they're all wholehearted card players over there. summer beginnings, a further year disappeared, vivid lilac raining from the jacaranda tree, intense with the grey atmosphere and against the cement and lime, directness of home air, nick of radiance through a classroom door break, her beauty is unlimited, crossed legs below a desk, shinbone polish, lustrous ponytail, darkness in the room and light, walk by, her underwear is azure satin, eyes are moons, feline and clarity |
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| JJ DeCeglie | |
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| JJ DeCeglie is from Fremantle, WA. JJ is 25 years old, published in Paris and the US, and is author ...>> | |
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| More by author: Still in the Fury Adventure In the Same Streets You'll Wander Endlessly Modern Early Lasting Sunlight Modern | |
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| More Experimental: A Girl Named Wednesday by Kate White You don't just fall into Happily Ever After. That ending is spun of fairy floss fantasy and if it ever came it would be without force or finality. Can you hear the echo of my laughter?... >> Voices in the Dark by Ian Smith He runs along a city street lit up at night. Traffic avoids him even though he matches its speed. His feet zoom but his legs seem joined with only one knee. Some unknown force, Satanic, like shifting gravity, pushes him away from where he wants to go. ... >> | |