"So.... it talks to you?"
"Yeah. Whilst you eat it."
"Surely that wouldn't happen"
"Well no, no, it doesn't usually happen does it?"
"I mean, you're busy eating it, like, your tongue would muffle it...wouldn't it?"
"Really?"
"What?"
"You're really believing me."
Showing posts with label Dark Paradise. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dark Paradise. Show all posts
Friday, 3 May 2013
Thursday, 2 May 2013
Dark Paradise by Solomon Blaze
Singapore.
01:17am.
January 1st 1993.
I’m sat at an empty table, in an empty restaurant, on the 56th floor of a 75 story hotel, that I, fucking, hate; eating an extremely tiny chocolate cake, that, I, fucking, love!
The bottom 5 floors are positively jam-packed with businessmen of the orient (dirty gangsters; 369 gang, specifically) - I’m from a little place called England, maybe you’ve heard of it?
‘Lee, I could hear your clumsy footsteps the second you stepped foot out of the elevator. What do you want?’ I say abruptly to Lee: my closest friend (the only person at work that I genuinely trust). Lee is Chinese, the same as everybody else hear, save for a few Malaysians here and there.
Of course Lee stops dead, bows quickly – it always looks more like a tilt in my opinion – and walks right up to my table, with an everlastingly resilient politeness.
‘Sir,’ he says in Cantonese, ‘Three, Oh, and Three, from the 303 gang have...arrived.’
Rage froths my mind into a flickering frenzy that I quickly push back into my stomach, with a deep breath that I can’t help but turn to a growl upon exhalation, ‘what is that supposed to mean?’ I demand in Cantonese through gritted teeth.
Lee’s body shifts slightly; I revolt Lee.
‘Sir I-‘
‘No.’ I answer flat out.
‘Sir?’
‘I told Him I wasn’t working tonight; no work Christmas weekend; no work New Years Eve or Day.’
‘I have been instructed by him personally, to inform you that you will be rewarded the usual 200% bonus for High Jobs on a holiday, as well as a paid one month vacation.’ Lee says without turning his gaze from my eyes once; this is why I trust Lee.
I feel a little better about the whole situation after that; I won’t lie to you.
Sigh, ‘go on then Lee, one for the New Year and all that eh?’ I say in English with a crooked smile.
‘I’m sticking to my “no S&M” rule this year,’ Lee says in a perfectly natural American accent and the usual Wong Wink – name never fails to make me laugh.
‘Right then!’ I declare, slamming my pals down on the table after my last bite of cake, jumping up from my chair, and throwing on my jacket and holster, ‘let’s go make some money.’
Lee Loads his Glock 32, ‘Right on bruh,; another wink – ting!
We walk side by side to the elevator, strutting all the way; you’d think we had springs in our shins.
Christ, I love this job. I think as I admire the handsome Devil in the mirrored surface of the lift doors.
01:17am.
January 1st 1993.
I’m sat at an empty table, in an empty restaurant, on the 56th floor of a 75 story hotel, that I, fucking, hate; eating an extremely tiny chocolate cake, that, I, fucking, love!
The bottom 5 floors are positively jam-packed with businessmen of the orient (dirty gangsters; 369 gang, specifically) - I’m from a little place called England, maybe you’ve heard of it?
‘Lee, I could hear your clumsy footsteps the second you stepped foot out of the elevator. What do you want?’ I say abruptly to Lee: my closest friend (the only person at work that I genuinely trust). Lee is Chinese, the same as everybody else hear, save for a few Malaysians here and there.
Of course Lee stops dead, bows quickly – it always looks more like a tilt in my opinion – and walks right up to my table, with an everlastingly resilient politeness.
‘Sir,’ he says in Cantonese, ‘Three, Oh, and Three, from the 303 gang have...arrived.’
Rage froths my mind into a flickering frenzy that I quickly push back into my stomach, with a deep breath that I can’t help but turn to a growl upon exhalation, ‘what is that supposed to mean?’ I demand in Cantonese through gritted teeth.
Lee’s body shifts slightly; I revolt Lee.
‘Sir I-‘
‘No.’ I answer flat out.
‘Sir?’
‘I told Him I wasn’t working tonight; no work Christmas weekend; no work New Years Eve or Day.’
‘I have been instructed by him personally, to inform you that you will be rewarded the usual 200% bonus for High Jobs on a holiday, as well as a paid one month vacation.’ Lee says without turning his gaze from my eyes once; this is why I trust Lee.
I feel a little better about the whole situation after that; I won’t lie to you.
Sigh, ‘go on then Lee, one for the New Year and all that eh?’ I say in English with a crooked smile.
‘I’m sticking to my “no S&M” rule this year,’ Lee says in a perfectly natural American accent and the usual Wong Wink – name never fails to make me laugh.
‘Right then!’ I declare, slamming my pals down on the table after my last bite of cake, jumping up from my chair, and throwing on my jacket and holster, ‘let’s go make some money.’
Lee Loads his Glock 32, ‘Right on bruh,; another wink – ting!
We walk side by side to the elevator, strutting all the way; you’d think we had springs in our shins.
Christ, I love this job. I think as I admire the handsome Devil in the mirrored surface of the lift doors.
Dark Paradise by Ben Hayward
Her face has worn with time.
She is now little more than a bust,
Fit for little more than showing hats,
But we worship her.
We’re told that she was beautiful,
That the whole world marveled upon her,
They tell us that we should aspire to be her,
To be like that empty stone face,
That one sat in the corner of the crypt,
The one where nobody goes,
If we are, we will be rewarded.
With what is never specified, only told.
As I run my hand across her face,
I feel the coarse limestone stick to my hand,
Trapped like protracted tears.
Her hands are little more than blunted claws,
And her once feminine shape lost to time.
The stories of her vary,
Women tell us that she was the vision of a mother,
Men tell us that she was some ancient whore.
All we can guarantee is that she existed,
Paralysed in time by some long forgotten sculptor.
She is now little more than a bust,
Fit for little more than showing hats,
But we worship her.
We’re told that she was beautiful,
That the whole world marveled upon her,
They tell us that we should aspire to be her,
To be like that empty stone face,
That one sat in the corner of the crypt,
The one where nobody goes,
If we are, we will be rewarded.
With what is never specified, only told.
As I run my hand across her face,
I feel the coarse limestone stick to my hand,
Trapped like protracted tears.
Her hands are little more than blunted claws,
And her once feminine shape lost to time.
The stories of her vary,
Women tell us that she was the vision of a mother,
Men tell us that she was some ancient whore.
All we can guarantee is that she existed,
Paralysed in time by some long forgotten sculptor.
Dark Paradise by Sara Travis
When he comes to, he’s not entirely sure if his eyes are open or not. All around him is darkness, a perfect, unbroken darkness. He blinks once, twice, and feels his crusty lashes sticking together. He’s definitely alive; he can feel a feeble heartbeat through his thin, bony chest. Making an attempt to raise his head from the dusty, hard, concrete floor, he becomes aware of a dull ache in his lower back, and as he struggles to pull his torso up, the pain increases, spreading up his spine towards the nape of his neck. With a hoarse, strangled cry, he collapses back with a thud, but the pain burns now. He’s breathing heavily, the air rattling in his fragile chest, and he feels the panic begin to rise. There’s a sticky dampness beneath him, and now he’s aware of it, he’s sure he can taste copper on his dry, furry tongue, smell a metallic tinge to the stale air. His gut tells him to wiggle his toes, twitch his leg, just check, make sure he’s okay. But he already knows what that burning, throbbing pain in his spine is telling him.
Somewhere in the darkness, his mind reaches for a memory, and he winces at the fragments as they’re replayed to him. A fist in his face, blood in his eyes and mouth, and the loud, sharp spit of gunfire. And pain, more pain than he’d ever imagined, and then a cool blanket of darkness. He closes his eyes, scrunches them shut, and suppresses an urge to scream.
And somehow, behind the dark of his eyelids, an image stirs. It’s fuzzy at first, a blurry, white mass that slowly grows bigger, crisper. And suddenly there’s no pain anymore, no taste of blood on his lips, no cold, harsh concrete beneath his head. He’s looking at a woman, her pale figure hazy on his eyelids, her dark hair billowing around her as if under water. Her eyes are deep, her lips red and full, and slowly, she extends an ivory hand towards him. He doesn’t think twice, raising his stiff, heavy arm to meet hers, and the light emanating from her form erupts around him, engulfing, embracing.
Somewhere in the darkness, his mind reaches for a memory, and he winces at the fragments as they’re replayed to him. A fist in his face, blood in his eyes and mouth, and the loud, sharp spit of gunfire. And pain, more pain than he’d ever imagined, and then a cool blanket of darkness. He closes his eyes, scrunches them shut, and suppresses an urge to scream.
And somehow, behind the dark of his eyelids, an image stirs. It’s fuzzy at first, a blurry, white mass that slowly grows bigger, crisper. And suddenly there’s no pain anymore, no taste of blood on his lips, no cold, harsh concrete beneath his head. He’s looking at a woman, her pale figure hazy on his eyelids, her dark hair billowing around her as if under water. Her eyes are deep, her lips red and full, and slowly, she extends an ivory hand towards him. He doesn’t think twice, raising his stiff, heavy arm to meet hers, and the light emanating from her form erupts around him, engulfing, embracing.
Dark Paradise by James D. Irwin
The guilt bled into the pleasure, and the lies made it exciting.
He wondered what she suspected, if she suspected anything. He was a bad liar. She deserved better. She could never know— no one could, ever. It was 8pm. She’d be tucking them in bed and making excuses for daddy’s absence.
Daddy has to work late. Daddy worked late a lot now.
It was a reflex now, the silent vow to stop. A token nod to the shame he should feel. Whatever sincerity that first promise held was gone.
The leather straps tightened around his wrists. He was stripped. He felt helpless, like a child. He stiffened in anticipation. His was a dark paradise.
He wondered what she suspected, if she suspected anything. He was a bad liar. She deserved better. She could never know— no one could, ever. It was 8pm. She’d be tucking them in bed and making excuses for daddy’s absence.
Daddy has to work late. Daddy worked late a lot now.
It was a reflex now, the silent vow to stop. A token nod to the shame he should feel. Whatever sincerity that first promise held was gone.
The leather straps tightened around his wrists. He was stripped. He felt helpless, like a child. He stiffened in anticipation. His was a dark paradise.
Dark Paradise by Lesley Whyte
Paradise, that's what they said. Well, they said a lot of things - safety, a fresh start, a world that wasn't trying to kill us, Utopia - but Paradise was the one that stuck with me. We filed onto the ship, excited to get to our new home, not even thinking about the fact that it would take us two whole years to get there. It was an inconceivable amount of time. But it didn't matter. We were going to find Paradise at the end of it. It was worth losing two years of my life. Besides, if I'd stayed on Earth, I probably wouldn't even have lasted that long.
What they didn't tell us is how wrong they were. Our new planet wasn't inhabitable. It wasn't safe. The air was toxic, the first wave of settlers all died, surviving just long enough to send back word that we couldn't come here, that it wasn't safe. Their machines took readings and sent data back to the Earth. Instead of looking for a new planet, they decided to persevere. They built tunnels, miles and miles of tunnels under the sand and the toxic air. They expected us to live underground like moles and never see the sun again. Never feel fresh air on our faces again. Never...
They didn't tell us. And now, for the first time, I wish I'd stayed on Earth. Paradise.
What they didn't tell us is how wrong they were. Our new planet wasn't inhabitable. It wasn't safe. The air was toxic, the first wave of settlers all died, surviving just long enough to send back word that we couldn't come here, that it wasn't safe. Their machines took readings and sent data back to the Earth. Instead of looking for a new planet, they decided to persevere. They built tunnels, miles and miles of tunnels under the sand and the toxic air. They expected us to live underground like moles and never see the sun again. Never feel fresh air on our faces again. Never...
They didn't tell us. And now, for the first time, I wish I'd stayed on Earth. Paradise.
Dark Paradise by Nick Trussler
Vampires and things. That was his summary of this girl’s novel, ‘Dark Paradise.’ He tossed the book scornfully into the pile of Best Sellers. If I could burn this fucking bookshop down now, he thought, if I could stand here and watch the flames consume these dregs of literature, then I would truly be in a Dark Paradise.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)