The Ink Mistress and the Man with Eyes of a Vulture

The ink fell thick and liberal from her tongue and she smeared it across his chest. His eyes like vultures watched her paint, the valleys of color that stained her fingermoons and dripped down the flat plain of his stomach. She retched and coughed and gagged low in her throat as the flow continued. This was sacrifice. This was love in the making. He grabbed her hands and guided them lower. They formed black pools on his hips and he began a shuffling waltz, the rainbow dribbling from her mouth and staining their feet.

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Her spine curved against the cold marble as she stretched. Her feet touched at the toes and she crossed her arms up to her elbows in front of her. The long legs of her scarf breezed the floor and she then realigned. Her eyes met those of the man behind the counter and a metallic taste tickled the back of her tongue. Her eyes moved to the imposing steel vents protruding from the ceiling. She recalled a dream the same color as they, a deep greenish grey in which she had carried small innocence to safety and sacrificed her flesh to the wolf. It might’ve been a mistake, but she was awake now. She paid for her postage and left. The cool breeze of the snowcloud day emptied her thoughts. She gulped a mouthful of air to banish the copper resting in her throat.

A vulture sat on a signpost across the street. It watched her, or rather, watched a spot behind her until a speeding bus lifted it away. She followed its shadow on the sidewalk as it circled the post office. The sky began to snow. The fresh petals danced under cars, serpentining and doubling back until the safety of a gutter or patch of grass was reached. If she was a musician, she would’ve thought of a melody to match their effervescence. She rewrapped her scarf and walked away.

Lynford and Natalie, part 2

There is so much blood coursing through his veins. The first barrage brings her to tears and through the mist she sees the slow motion of his first blow. Her throat pounds as a heart and she falls against the trees. There is a question she knows down to her fingertips and her breath is the answer and dissolves among the branches and a low mumbling shakes her feet. The trees are gasping and unfurling in the dusky air and she can only think to murmur "Yes."

The Burmingham Method©: How to Wake Up with No Family

Move away. Pack your life in flimsy cardboard and haul it across state lines. Call your friends, pay off your debts, sell your dog to Ms. Edna down the street. Do not hesitate. Do not be swayed by your father’s questioning brow, your sister’s clinging eyes, your mother’s photo albums.

Arrive in a new city. Find a roommate and a job; unpack half your things on the first day’s adrenaline rush; leave the rest rotting in their boxes for another month. Use public transportation, but keep your eyes lowered and stare only at the grey-grimed streets. Learn to hate tourists. Buy fresh fish every weekend. These are just mental preparations.

Live this way for three months. Console your roommate when his girlfriend leaves him, but refuse to meet his friends. Remove yourself from social situations. Drink only water. Do not laugh at office parties. These are proven methods that will make the final step a breeze.

Wake up on a beautiful morning, a tower of solitude. Leave your share of the next month’s rent taped to the microwave; bring no regrets. We try to make ourselves available throughout the country. Though our methods are experimental, we have a high success rate. Finish living your current life and find us. It will only take five minutes. Tomorrow is a new beginning.
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A short-short I wrote for my fiction class last semester. It's a tiny bit vague, but I didn't feel like changing that. Just figured I'd update with something over here.