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 ~: FICTION / MODERN :~  In the Same Streets You'll Wander Endlessly by JJ DeCeglie Note that this work contains explicit material. He'd seen her just once before that night and then he knew and now he knew. He knew in spite of the planet and the love he knew in it already. She had that on him. He thought that probably with her what he had was slight but her eyes would clutch at him through the dim and music, darting violet chocolate beads that would gaze and remain for instants with a suspiciously eloquent simper then her skull would flick away never looking for a great deal more than ever was desired by her need to gain that rushing effect. The girl was art and he knew that and knew it in the original moment. She was intense and svelte with features finer than the curves on porcelain tea cups, tresses that flowed like gushes of rarefied faultless blood down her swift neck and shoulders, her mouth a shock of colour, the way her lips slid ideal onto glimmering teeth when grinning. No breasts and gorgeous for it, luscious ribs and skin. Eyes though, refined wells of dark and flame that could wax and faze out into muted iridescent reflections or give lucidity and seize you in further than any others he'd yet known. The disparity of the dark pools in opposition to her fair milk membrane. He could distinguish that she was brutal and reckless, just the way she danced, the method in the eyes of playing til it would fracture, the drinking, she was one that was written about or painted, art in the existence unknowing, him the seer, ablaze with need to know her. Ask her for a name, and he did and she just smiled nearby his face and kept walking, her expression so supreme he stood back now, her health and shine, her angles and sweep, the make-up masterfully accentuating the splendour just, fragrance float and linger, her eyes have fun with his now until she decides not, an exquisite fragility of personality, he could tell she was a whore, in the trappings of a princess, she took up a space and insisted that space be taken, he thought that by some mistake she realised he knew, he drank more and watched her do the same even watching him back with her own internal dialogue drumming through the drinks, she had observed him and was mistrustful on account of the wanting to know her name, sweetness's were mostly bullshit, frequently they were, but he is handsome without trying to be, tell him your name if he asks again, see it then, she catches him fully in the eyes and smiles, waits ten minutes, walks by him, he stops her, your name, she says Kelly, he repeats it to her, in his accent, she likes how it sounds coming from his mouth, the way his tongue moves on his teeth with the pronunciation, he puts his hand on her shoulder, dips it into her skin and freckles, you're pretty he says, she is vacant with the language even though her heart beats thicker now with it, she walks away, he watches her, no turning back from her, not then, or ever, she leaves with some other guy later, he'd left earlier, alone and drunk thinking you've seen her only twice and you love her with something, she wakes with the sunlight peeking through a window corner plainly, her skin indigo in that tedious brightness and herself understatedly hung-over, he is her first reflection, his words and himself, lethargic unknowing warmth of a summer yet to be, she wasn't sure if she'd dreamt of him, the carcass alongside her turns with a grunt, she only thinks of him, the one from the night before, nostalgic someway, sometimes it just happens like that. Coincidences play a part. Although happenstance moments tend toward your own making, he would go to the campus to see his crowd and eventually came crosswise her. It was spring still, and she was due home in the States in a month, he was falling in and out of love with some other girl though it made no difference. She made his heart beat faster when he saw her now, he'd given her much thought since he'd got her name that night with all the bourbon and he'd written of her, indecipherable nilhistic nothings that he thought would stand against time and history, that organ walloped within him, that hadn't happened for years, this edgy inertia, this bullshit again, he thought he'd killed all that in him, trounced it thorough, stabbed it with nameless broads and books, with all that was before, maybe things don't die but lay latent, she saw him and said hey, beaming, she didn't stop, the breeze shook the trees in the courtyard, the star played tricks of shattered light on the grass, shadows like a school of darting fish in the shallows across her sunny face, he nodded, smiled, was overwhelmed, besieged with her, she smiled at his friend, recognised that he lived on campus, she kept walking, into the silhouette of the buildings, she needed him to loom up to her, he didn't, she wasn't about to go to him, he watched the skin of her collarbones and shoulder blades, heard her laugh with the friends she walked among, the other guy with them commented on her, not the one who lived on campus, the young married one, additional American sluts, he said it, intended it, the one on campus knew it, we could sleep with at least half of them by the summer, it sounded like a plan, she wished he'd spoken to her, understood why he didn't, same reason she hadn't spoken to he, this wishing for wonder, dizziness of roughly summer and the cool wind that veils it, I haven't had anything near love in this place, just drunken lay downs, it swarms from him in my eyes, refuses to not be there, she went then to her room, willowy and lissom to her space where she could finally let her emotions smoulder, left the window open so as the air could drift throughout, he imagined her doing exactly that, the sunlight lustre splayed across her perfect features, her skirt around her thighs, he imagined her reading a novel, she didn't though, he imagined it being Bowles or Houllebecq, it wasn't, he saw the clean illumination flicker on her fingers and the pages, it didn't, she just lay down atop the covers and watched the purposelessness of blue in the skies, her thoughts departing to him immediately, residing there a time, and next to her boyfriend back home walking amongst the wheat with his baseball bat swinging at sunset and such and then back and onward and to and fro and finishing on kissing this boy here all over again, jointly drunk and happy and shoving one another tightly against that unlit cold wall under the stairs by her room and finishing in her room and waking together in her room all dismayed with morning subtle blue lustre and shadows and upset that it could never be cause she was going home in weeks, he'd seen the same in his thoughts, though the two weeks in his vision were dazzling and intense, whereas she'd focused mostly on the severe tragedy of losing what made her felt like this and he reasoned that nothing and something were the same and that she would understand this and that this was what they saw in each other's eyes, back home gave her nothing now, she'd gone too far and it was much more than could be gotten back unless you were there, she stared still, now at the dust floating about in the sun's immaculate shaft of evident warmth, the glowing specks gliding through space, latching occasionally onto one another, pushed without choice, she could affect it with her breath, did this one or two times, knew there was significance but couldn't determine it, she slept then, eyelid's shivering, her hand by her face, at home reading he considered her uncontrollably, so that he read the same lines again and again, he sipped at his drink, bourbon, put the book down, tried to understand this portion of days he'd been dealt, came up with nothing, not even questions. On the day before he meets her for the first juncture with any clarity or meaningful speech it rains in the springtime and wards off the summer some, he sits at the front of his place breathing in the sodden earth and rainwater, wholesome breaths of simplicity, waiting for a time to come to him and reckoning probably it never would, thinking that times were gone from him and that was how it was, how he wished it was, wishing that hope would just disappear and never gain any momentum in him again, that he could just leave then and scatter around the planet nameless, useless, with darkened women in deficiently lit bars, alone, without this awful tingle of anticipation and forever that comes with an exquisiteness like hers, he'd just lost a girl, not so far ago, one he cared for so that it damaged, loving each other, never making each other happy, could anyone make anyone happy? Sitting watching the rain and waiting and of course he thought of her, not the one he'd lost but this one, the one he may never have, he wanted to make love to her on the bright grass made brighter with the grey skies, for the damp and dirt to soak into her cotton dress, for them to melt into the soil and drain away with the pleasure and fire of each other, rain on her skin and in her scarlet mane, tasting it in each others mouths, dissolving into their own lovely flesh shoved divot, the whites of her eyes and biting her swollen lips, does she spare me a single thought? Should she? This gory weather is lending me to an indulgence on catastrophe and a poignant bogus nostalgia, let it go for now, maybe she adores the rain, you do, cause it lends you all this, ah fuck it. Days become glued together nothings of squander awaiting to glimpse her, chunks of inert torment, how can it feel this way with not anything to back it up, not a thing, this awful mindset, this careless system, he went out with associates one night, shining drunk, wine from the jug generally, a half-hearted night-time, talking to the prettiest girls in the city, cultured femineity of style and manner, amused with eyes iridescent and chatty, talking her back home, he didn't go though, couldn't, it would have been in opposition to her, against all her violent expressiveness and uncertainty, he hadn't felt a thing like that for years. Seeing her next was when he went to the university explicitly to walk into her. Not going there to gulp beer or bourbon, or articulate books or football, but to cross her by will of the planet, by way of the whatever there was past something. It had been days now, it would take some providence or predestination, or maybe they could both will it into the universe. He came by her reading beneath a tree eating a plum, book in one delicate hand and the fruit in the other with a large rimmed hat on defending her from the sun even though she was in the shadow, her hair shuddered in the wind at first then streamed like a waterway. She saw him and smiled and she'd knew he would locate her before long, he tipped the book up with the topside of a finger the nail sliding along it's cover, it was Justine by Durrell, you know it she asked, yeah, you're reading this in the perfect season he said, it's a brilliant book, it suits you he finished, she bit her plum, teeth and lips kissing at it, offering him a bite which he obliged, looked at the little thing, saw a bubble of her saliva just inside the skin sitting on moist orange flesh, he bit that piece, gave it to her back, can I sit a while he asked, she blinked from under her sun-hat, her chin downward and eyes up, contemptuous nearly, of course you can. And he did at that moment and lastingly, sat by her and spoke few words, breathe her in and such things, trust her reading, hurting with her now worse than without her, she lay her head in his lap without asking, locks descend on him as if she'd lanced his gut, shine and shadow and lustrous visions, her lips as plump as bloody silk worms, elegiac instants that he thought he knew yet now realised nothing is anything until it comes to be, she rolled her head so as her fine face lay about where he was a man, let her lips sulk there, lungfuls of air there, come on she said, said it so as he knew there were going to her room. She held his hand in the springtime daylight of a time more than half done, the sun losing it's vigour, the stars rapidly set to blaze, he felt she was in complete lucidity of this day and it's weight, felt though he was intoxicated on something he'd reflected no longer was genuine or available in terms of his feelings for this world, though she was running on a whole impulse, wanting this before bit through and the after done, she just wanted her room and him in it, the rest was slag on a welded joint, defending her feelings with robust philosophies and not some potent dizzying love or such, but she felt the puncture in her hand when he held it and if honest, that she'd never felt before. He needed her kiss now like a alcoholic needs that day's opening gulp, the walk to her place on campus was lengthy and dire and marvellous through a track tracing bushland in setting sun blush and conversation was useless, defunct and outdated, maybe neither had ever wanted anything more than to be alone in that room together, maybe nothing had ever been so exact and intense in their time, sometimes there are no choices in these matters, nothing can be done. Now time is without notion as only truest time is. Neither has language obtainable with the experience, there is breathe and such, radiance stirs and shadows are moved through bare, that was a lashing minute of want, she gnaws at his rib with such spite for her feelings that he throws her to the ground hard, then falls upon her, kisses come like syrupy burning showers pouring so as your skin stings, savoured fluid exchange, she tries to clash him back rougher than he fights her but she enjoys this, knew this was in him and was what she desired him to be, through the elevated fever of it the capillaries within her nose rupture, she is pastel and prone to it such, cherry surge down the delicate membrane and onto equally their lips and neither renounces it, it drips downward necks and onto his chest and her swells, he can taste it as can she and both suck it down like wine, sweet copper flavour, ruddy teeth and tongue and the fragrance there now heady, thrilling the tepid stick of it between stomach skin, blotched about and torrented in rivulets of flush over what was now a struggling throng between them, feeling a sweltering gumbo gurgle between her limbs with his digits, sopping about there so as it foamed, he entered her then in a plucking rush, both blow out gutturally impulsive with it, that wild merger of glue and slush and warmth, he clutched at her head pushing it into the flooring, parting them and looking at her now doubly scarlet for a second, messed up like a beaten spouse, so what was he? the need to slake her now, to sate it betwixt them, for them jointly, and he kept her head pressed to the ground and she slurped at his fingers licking them clean of her blood recklessly and biting at them thus, her nose a caked clot, splotches of coagulate about her slender jaw and cheek, she spoke now for the first, don't leave it inside me, he took it approximately as a taunt, a goading dare to leave himself with her right, to threaten a child, don't, don't, spattered amid his fingers and energy pushing within her, kissing at her clamped head in his weighted hand, she wanted nothing more than for him to consciously violate her order and finish that stinging bliss inside her, she had wanted not anything more than that since he had asked her name that night, nobody had ever given her that before because to her that may be for love only and bullying it not was her method, she felt the climb in her and he, she hoped for it, he would never not conclude inside her, wrapped his hands in her flaming mane and went for combustion, making her squeal don't perceptible through gnashing teeth til it got too much and she just let go with her panting and wishing begging it on ending so hard it pulsed for him vicious and letting her have to end too with his boldness which she did with her legs twined around him bleeding from the muzzle over again, thin clear blood now, the tension letting slack like the rope that holds a boat to dock pinging with violent weather the vessel now at the ocean's will and content. I told you not to do that she whispered, he was still atop and within her and the room had turned sapphire as the early night came about, you didn't mean it he countered, she didn't reply, just wriggled free, let's shower she said, lighting a candle in the bathroom, the haze discernible in thawing muted light, juice down a drain and this thing begun devoid of much in lexis though brimming with momentum, kissing under roasting rain standing on tiles and grout dazed, staggered in part, fragile and exposed her creamy lithe tones and sinews give out spiring shadows against shaky candlelight, running his hands about her like outlining a work of art in chaotic finger-paints and getting it right, she tasted like the wholesomeness of youthful summery playground crushes, light gleaming in swimming pool blue clarity eyes, his thoughts clearer than hers now, watching her dry with a towel in fluorescent light, drenched tresses that darker ruby claret, laying together naked and speechless, tracing grooves and lines with the ridges of unique fingers, slight smirks and breathing, minds dashing independent, touching is truer, finally she poses, are we in love? He doesn't flinch, if you would have it in that method, you don't she supposed, I don't trust it as true, then what do you consider accurate, he considered it now and had before and had written it down, I think perhaps courage, perhaps, love as a prize for that, a briefly glimpsed prize at that, she tucked her head into his chest, rustled her pubis on his thigh, you must have felt it here, she stated this, no query in the sentence, yes, he pondered though, daring is truth and so it is God, and love is the reward of that mysticism, quite a fucking intellect aren't you, he continued, you speak of love now, he smiled at her, love me properly, do that, I have to have all your places, here, anywhere, first in mind and flesh, no one else there, she lifted her pupils at him then swept them down and back up, just now you have the whole thing, and the next minute he asked, everything and she smiled, he seized her taut then, told her to sleep, she did and he drank a few beers from her fridge and watched out the window he'd opened into the night's flare. He was convinced there was something and nothing and in between those there was death. He lit up a cheap cigar. Opened one more beer. Thoughts or shunning them. Drawing a void. Breathes unkind smoke into the world. Possibly clarity would emerge with the birth of the sun. Now what is there? What could there be? She was scrutinising him sleeping. It was belatedly morning, dazzling highlights by shutter sides, her turn to consider away this planet. She had more luck, wasn't devoted with something other before being consumed with this. Where the linger with him was always that the writing may have to come primary, she had a stung stain within her that always itched with something that made her sore from the chance of this sort of thing she may be in currently, pained from the hurt that can well come when it is done, particularly now with how she felt, with this sensation of bustling delight and beautiful lethargy, of wondering what his words were next, of this day and that night and the ones that would follow and now didn't seem busted anymore but buoyant and sunlit. Eases out the bed. Stalks exposed over to the mirror and poses together in figure and thought, shakes her mane about and off her slender features, licks her lips and rubs at her eyes, will it end badly? Gaze back at him in the grey light. What would he state? He could declare how else. Might say it won't end. Did it begin? Blinking at herself reflected. The world never ends for us, for anybody with what we have, go back to bed. Doesn't though, stands staring at him, just by him, til he wakes, she smiles. Walks over and swishes open the shutters fiercely allowing the light to flash as a camera does though with permanence, he covers his eyes, grins, you bitch, not nice she says, I'm blinded, bet you can see me still, his grin expands, his lids still fastened, I have no choice he plays, why not? he leaves it, why not? there's no answer to that...I think I'm bitched maybe, there's an answer. She liked what he said. Liked it very much. She decided, I may be bitched too. Then we're in agreement. She laughed, countenance and body lit up with luminescence. Let's hang about here all day, she concurred, yes...we could just about fuck again too. Dappled rooms and sparkling shores and the truth that she is leaving in days now. Time as slow moving and serious as lava. Summer bouquets, fresh cut grass, lucid seawater, her fresh florid perfume on his fingers and chest. A dark molten era of loss and gain so potent that neither could distinguish the elements, seasons or signs about them. How can there be nothing but some other being for entire sections of your existence. She hated how he could make her feel this. He adored it but knew of the venom. Just stay, can't she says, just come, can't he says, so much for love then, write all about it and post me a copy, I will he said, though what if I smote you with the pen, would you dare she asked and he said well I dared to come this far into it, I can just kill it for us both and end it all dreadful, save us both some compelling lament, I could do that too she mentioned, then neither said an utterance. Thoughts though. Sentences he may write, as bright as a flower in full startling bloom, cosmos twirled and spun in abstract expressions of agony and light, penetration as if a blade into her healthy snug flesh, what of anything? Explain life in terms of choices never made. Will you love me when you fuck the next one? I won't counter sentences such as that, either you won't...or will...or you can't bear to say it. He knew one of them was accurate. She regretted saying it. Regret putting the notion into his brain and their air. Now they both must gasp it in. Solemn paragraphs unneeded and spoken into sad hours and uncomfort. Said things were true. She said I want to sleep some. He said I'll be back tonight. He drove in the summer swelter. He pondered the next one briefly. It was funny, he felt as though he never wanted to see her again, he wouldn't come back to see her tonight, a hatred for her and what she'd said. He swore the sun was trying to murder him. In her daylight blotched room, bare breasted on her bed she wept so that her shining rusty hair clung to her fine cheekbones and chin, stuck to her sweating elegant back and neck with her anguished rolling about, seeming as though it's beautiful colour should run and stain her creamy sparsely freckled skin as if at the site of some dreadful suicide landscape. Sunbeams on pallid membranes, deep red tones and beauty, sticky sweet horror. Warm salted juice for tragedies impending in the universe this afternoon and evening. He started drinking at home. Unaccompanied. There is nothing. Not a thing other than this that is. Nothing shows me otherwise or lends me in any potential other way. The shift in him was violent. Knowing something then having it unknown by a slip. Doubting it all along anyway. She is lost, never had even. He drank brutally, aimed it at dulling things. He fathomed that she was perhaps weeping alone. The clouds external concealed the sun and swept shadow in a swell across the land and through his window making everything dim and soft, he smelt at his hand, her delicious fragrance, closed his eyes and pain shot clear through him tearing at his organs and bursting out his back, he punched where the bullet would have lodged in the wall, made his way outside, nothing, yet it hurts like more than something, he fell asleep in the mottled shade sitting on an aged decrepit chair, bottle by his ankle. They both woke after the world had turned sufficient to lose luminosity. Both rose in the dark feeling some frightful landscape about. It played out too quickly. Showering cold and forcing himself to vomit then drinking water and forcing himself again. She washes warm and lush and dresses in cotton then heads to the melody in a room nearby. Her hair still wet. No bra on. He loses inebriety while she gains it. Gets in his car to start driving back to her. Shouldn't be in that state. She follows every else to the campus bar. The air is sweet and humid. It feels sticky and charming and hushed and she rolls her eyes when sucking straight from the champagne bottle. Fractures in everything, now and forever. Driving dazed. Dancing departed. No sensation or mood other than in relation to one another. Just the potency of what passion can be. Both collide into something whilst falling urgently distant from each other. He hits another car and she another person. Metal screeching and bunted hard with busted glass infrequently dinning. While he's delayed she wipes the fierce ache away with someone else. Like she said she might. Like he threatened to let her do. He may have a broken rib. He drives what's left of it still onward to her. The fume of the night seems orange and amethyst. Seems to be leaking wretchedness out it's glow. She sweats shiny dancing and drinking, and gets relief only when walking home with him in the open atmosphere. Kissing at him callous, tripping into him, fumbling into a messy fuck from her lawn and up the steps through the door and onto her bed. Gracelessly tumbling with this phantom phallus, it's acid breath and weight. Holding that hurt mercilessly with its head under water she could still hear it's submerged deathly gargled roars. Outside he grips at his rib and grits his teeth in the halo lit car park. Kicks the dent in the car's front hard as he can and then goes to his knees in ribshatter fit pain. Over grass and up the concrete stairway. Her door unlocked then opened and he stands watching the disorder. Numbness pervades til he flips over her table with the arm on his good side in one dark tempered swoop. Says get out. The phallus suddenly stationary, she turns on the lamp, he says it again, just stares at her underneath the ghoulish imp with his damp back and brow, the stink of condom rubber and body friction slung about the room, neither would remember how that one left, neither could care. He slumps to the floor, she sits up naked and beautiful in the lamplight, her fine features vivid, that shining point of the light's cusp on the furthermost curl of her scarlet tresses, the fiery lit blue of her orbs, the supple scatter of freckles on her milky skin and ideal limbs, he doesn't need to look at her to know what he feels, she gets up and positions by him standing, he can hear her breath, he doesn't know what will come of laying a hand on her, motions to touch her shin, hesitates with his eyes never in hers, she sighs a vital lungful of air, lets her head fall to her left shoulder, further moments lastly shared unforeseeable in this beam, he places his hand on her skin, feels her sharp shin bone and runs his fingers down along to her handsome ankle, she collapses upon him, her perspiration and tears leave a great moist salted stain on his chest where she buries her face, using her slippery cheek pushed to his chin away and their mouths meet so as the suck the love out of one another once and for all, a fresh launch or a last part, lost in spiteful lust a minute, she was aware of him equipped against her thigh, he pushes her off and she goes to the floor willingly, there an instant when she thought he was about to lay atop her, overwhelm her roughly, an instant where she lit up inside, I'm leaving he said, she doesn't articulate a word, only allowing her face to crack up into a distressed and sorrow filled weeping that he never even turns back to witness. He just scowls upward gripping his painful side, lurches out and down the stairs and across the corona of synthetic illumination by his and all the cars, she lays there, seizes at her breasts, can't watch him out the window, just falls back onto her still warm bed dampening the pillows with her searing tears, he puts his head on the steering wheel of his car, whispers alone, what of something now? He turns the keys, starts the drive home. |
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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 The Wench is Dead Experimental Early Lasting Sunlight Modern | |
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