Diary Entries Vol. 3

Weird Fiction/Dystopian/Erotica/Horror

[ Taschen, Benedikt, editor. The Complete Atlas of Human Anatomy and Surgery. Taschen, 2018. All these INCREDIBLE illustrations must be recognized, I love to throw them in the editor engine. I own this book like many, many other anatomy books. Plz don’t sue me, k thx bye.]

If this is your first time here, turn back:
Diary Entries Vol 1: First part of Series Vol 1
Diary Entries Vol 2: Vol 2
If all caught up you can continue here.

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Day 66

First time James spit on my tongue, I watched the cult behind us cream on the asphalt wet sand, birthday presents in menageries. Leash is still tuggin' into a grip between asphyxiation and jitters. The Witch has her hand nestled deep against the root of my hair, I look up and pretend to see God.

Gods are dead, their scriptures of poetry wrench itself to freedom at the collapse of our humanity. Aspiration suction tethers us between the skin. Belle epoque in stained glass.

The Witch spits.
James spits.

Tongue out, on my knees caving for liberation. Blink once, twice. Thunder rumbles laterally. My knees spread open underneath wet clothes, climbin' the unbearable sensation of their connection.

The Witch spits.
James spits.

Death be damned, praise my body.
Voices speak slurred deliberations.

Welcome home, welcome home, they say.

Love is a sham, James cigarette ink bleeds to the ground. Where colors pool in the puddles covering our feet.

Day 66.5

Redacted memory, my eyes split sideways. Toilet seat down. My fingers pull my eyelids back cat eyed. The Witch is inside the mirror. Smeared pain down the drain. A sweat enclave ferments on my pores, drips its poison to the floor.

I see danger.
I see her stranger eyes.

There's nothing behind her irises that I can taste. Chills creep over my back to the nape of my neck where her lips once touched me. You're waiting for her to speak as you mouth, "Fuck you." The Witch doesn't flinch, licking her lips after the exchange.

'Did you like my little fantasy I made for you? Sorry I had to borrow your body to get here.'

You blacked out. Fingers clinch and release. You want to know if you're still in your body and you find a straight razor in your pocket. You cut your finger in a straight line from the tip to the proximal interphalangeal joint. It releases pink pretty red blots before you drag it on your face. The warmth seemed real enough. Madness settles into the nest you've made for it. The Witch only wants what she can't have and that's world domination.

'Your friend hasn't given me the invitation into their body.'

'James is off limits.'

The Witch pouts, her face would look cute if it wasn't deadly. Polish your pout, before you rot. You hate that she has made it into your official world now. You'll have to watch her before she erases and kills you. You think about smashing the mirror that isn't yours. All the entry points that can lead back to dreams.

This isn't natural, she fills the bathroom with a baby octopus. It masks itself to the white of the ground. You feel it's children forming and climbing with its suction, sensors leave an imprint. Senses they can understand. Domino eyes number five. Back arched up, straight razor held like a cigarette as if you'll smoke your pain.

'There's some cult outside for you to eat. You can't take my body. I don't consent to that, right now.'

'I need your blood. It will be quick.'

'James can't see you.'

'I can put them to sleep.'

Tentacles envelop around my face as I reach for the mirror against my will. I feel her mouth sucking on my finger. Hate or merit. A bitch without a crown, her majesty licks around my finger stick. Phallic in nature, God be damned. You love her and despise every feature of her body. Her throne of netted lies. When she licks one last time she closes the wound. Disco. The Witch pretends to protect her food.

Paralyzed with fear at your choice, you blink twice. Switchblade click. The bathroom has settled. The world's record player turns into livestream noise, four floors closest to the hell in your system. Drugs filter through the venom it tastes of pollen gone viral. Golden speckled dust blasts your face from the mirror without a barrel, without a toy, without an American made signal of war. It detonates its symmetry on your body as you slide the door open.

You got to get rid of that fuckin handle. It taunts you as your eyes scan for James. They're passed out underneath Ceilia's tomb which seems fitting. Katya is floating next to the Ken-doll, she stares at you, and tells you that you're a coward. Her voice is an inflection of a wise old Russian woman. Somewhere rural and thick enough that English feels possessed. Nice. Now my Tuesday cat hates me.

Non-stop, your limbs are filled with botox fatigue, a brown sludge wedged into your meat. Body disconnected of thought, a playground slide that slips into confusion and projectile joy. Hands on the door as you suck the air between your teeth because you have to watch. It's your fuckin' responsibility. Your heritage sins cook in a stew pot.

Out the tiny square window on the door is the cult attempting to strip The Witch. On a Molotov cocktail they burn, birds of a feather, fuck together without a voice. Teeth clamped down, she bites at every vein in the nearest vicinity, paper bursts from the open wounds, dollar dollar bills flush into the air without dancers present. Cum shoots up, faucets and broken pipes flood the concrete. Your eyes can't process the stream of information, a permanent condition to be misunderstood.

Turning away, it didn't make sense. You weren't cut out for this future, this end of the world scenario.

James has a cigarette unlit, There are no pills in someone else.

There's no cure in someone else.

Day 69

James is sitting on their crescent moon couch, rains pouring violently on the top of our heads. I can hear each drop penetrate the roof and splatter. The ship is floating a bit, and James is taking a long drag of her cigarette, ash falling to their thighs. I hear that splatter, too.

"At first, I thought you were crazy. That's what I liked about you. Easy. Now I am not exactly sure if you're cursed or not."

Drool swabs touch the corner of my mouth and I am not sure if I can lift myself from the floor. The Witch is near. Where it doesn't matter. Her power is stronger than its ever been. It's not toying with my body, the way a cat sadistically tortures its prey. I feel thankful for a split second.

"I saw The Witch. She's real."

No. This was not our contract. "Are you sure? I am fairly sure she's just in my head."

"She's on the ship. The Witch is taking a nap on my fuckin' bed. I didn't think she was real. You know. I didn't even ask her name. I just knew. It's a feeling. The Witch isn't like them. Not like the fuckers who blasted themselves in the sky. Said she'd help the boat move without a contract. Said whatever. Do immortal beings sleep? What do they dream of? Does the TV in their brain go blank?"

Fuck. Fuck. She became temporal. Your ancestors never warned you about what happens when. The what IF in the room. If she ate enough people, what her body MIGHT do. You'll pull yourself up and you'll have to explain. Sorry, so sorry. My crazy witch family kept this one in a birdcage and fed it people. Real people. She lived in our dreams.

Don't have a manual for this part. Don't have a gotcha moment. Don't have.

James is all bugged eyed staring at me. "I know better than to make contracts with things I don't understand. If she helps us, I don't care if she's here."

I care. My legs are barely steady and I don't know why. I lean carefully against the tomb with Ceilia and Katya weavin' in it as if its ocean treasure. Now I need a fuckin' cigarette. Christ on a cross. The bitch had some nerve to make herself a temporal body. Guess the birds out. She's free now. Guess all I can do is watch.

"It's complicated. The Witch has never made it this far."

"Spare me your sympathies. She's here now. We just have to deal with it. What's the worst that can happen?"

"Have you heard of the In between?"

James is interested and lights another cigarette, it says, Say your prayers. James writes every cigarette for a mood, before it ever happens. James has something you don't. Intuition. You envy James, you don't wanna bend their bad luck with you in it.

Insomnia dreams, they move between the light of the stars. Bitten lip, bruises sucker up. "The In between is the place we go before we hit complete darkness. There are deities of sorts that live there. They decide how you get to live there. You think the apocalypse is bad. There's no comparison."

"You said this is the part where I throw you off the ship."

"Better luck next time. The Witch is awake. These things can take your body, your soul, and ship you to the In between. Body is still the same. You feel. A portal, if you will. There are others." You walk over to James and take their cigarette, yes the sensation of dying. It tears at your lungs and the heart pumps slower. "Others in cages. The cage that was in my flat, there's supposedly six. Every being is different, not all are Witch. We just had The Witch."

James snatches her cigarette back from my fingers. "Is The Witch trying to unite with the Others?"

"Couldn't tell you. She has other plans for me. No idea what it means."

Something sinister moves behind you. It's The Witch. You pivot your legs away from her hands inches away from grazing your body. There is a smile you can feel. She likes it best when I talk about her world, where she's safe and calm. There's no hell. There's no heaven. There is only the In between.

'Those were excellent donations, Maxy.'

"They were going to die. Better you than drowning, I suppose."

'I'd give you light in your last veiled hour.'

"Save your romance for suckers who kneel."

James tapped her cigarette amused by our interaction. "I actually think this is going to work. We're going to need your magic, I didn't have enough days to get this fucker to float."

Beneath the vessel, I felt the shift. Half of my head fell between our world and the next. Dog on my knees, the hole is filled with Witch neurosis. I taste every part of her juice, its bitter molasses. Intimate secrecy, used to be asleep day dreamin', noggin' spillikin.

'Now you're the prettiest for me.'

Eyes rolled back to the head, crystal chunky white.

Day 69.5

The In-between's sun blares six rig horns on your back and spreads your skin for a little bone. Primitive bodies move themselves toward your body until a gong goes off in the distance.

Vermin scatters to the shadows. Bug bite infested wounded imagery.

A little babe in the loincloth, your body floats through architecture arches, stairs, rails, hair that belongs to someone else's name. Hazel eyes with speckles of green when you stand behind the red.

A thing, a body you haven't seen before sits in an ornate chair colors of aquamarine jewels whistles through the empty whiskey glasses. They have pale white cowboy boots that kiss their calves. The clink of the empty bottles are longer than an empire pummeling through your brain. Memories that aren't yours to keep.

Violated, you feel their fingers touch your face. Language that doesn't have song behind it.

It cuts through, not soft.

We had divine sense.
We had a promise made.
We had a goblet filled.
We killed the devil.

Do you remember?

When the world collapses, another comes.

It's yours. It's mine. It's ours. We share the present and the future.

The Witch pulls your hair back, walls pass through you and the Other. Greys and neutrals, minimalist architecture with bloodstains. I want to resist The Witch, but I won't stop her. I don't have the power to tell her no. Gettin' into trouble not knowin' who it was meant for and it makes you feel all the marbles chip their teeth inside of you.

'Not yet.'

You ain't seen shit. This is not real. She's not real.

Bodies on fire, all the tremors have minds of their own with their own bodies imprinting yours. Identities are trader cards for tricks with sticks. Flags burnt to the crisp. Your body is a country with no states and representatives. Reptiles eatin' sandwiches, abandoned of thought. Her hands are still pullin' the roots and you pull a gun from the inside of your vest.

I am ready.

Pull the trigger and say good night.

Day 69.98762

One bullet wound is etched wrong. I'm not ashamed, it was a passive punch. My gutter mouth is a maelstrom whirling endlessly. The hole was supposed to be on the other side. Steam filters up through the casino coin slot and into the air. Cha-ching. No jackpot.

You were bent over like those fent zombies when you came up for air. The Witch isn't cursing you, the way she does which feels like a dream. A dream within one. Nectar of an euphoria where bliss begs the question. Everything dies, everything I know is a lie.

The Witch grabs your hand and shoves your pointer finger deep into the hole. It feels off. No squish, no matter that makes a person human. It's soft. Fur like. Bunny. It's tender enough you want to know why but then within seconds; she takes the tip of your finger, chomps it inside the hole and heals the nub in one go.

'That's a fair trade for shooting me. We won't drown as long as I'm on this ship, Maxy.'

"Don't shoot The Witch on my ship, Maxy." James smokin' furiously. "You should've seen my side. You go out and the next thing I see and hear is a hail fire gun ring through my damn ears. No gun in sight. Just bang motherfucker bang. The Witches chest has a hole with tea steam swarmin' out of her damn chest and the ship wobbles a bit. We on a river now. We gotta float to higher land without hittin' a buildin' or a feckin car."

I laugh and look at my nub. I want to draw a smiley face on it where my finger parts used to be. James doesn't know shit. The Witch isn't who she tells the world she is; she plays pretend house and we're all her little dolls. Her thorns are showing in full bloom. The Witch plays your favorite song. The one where two people know the players on the cards. Walls are bending shape, you stare at the wheel that is turning on its own and you know The Witch has plans.

The poison is in your vessel.

"I won't shoot The Witch. I can't wish away my nightmare when she's standing right there."

You need a drink. Anything. To forget. It was your dumb fault you got into this mess in the first place.

Unchosen existence touches your tongue and burns you. Girl, without. Till the seeds seep in. Melt and flow. Ebbs and glow. Millennium versions of yourself, unrelented to the beep of your heartbeat.

The Witch is holding rainbow colored toothpicks in her hand. The poke part doesn't feel sharp. It doesn't have a wrapper. You stick it in your mouth. There's a cool peppermint flavor with pickled ginger wishin' for umami and salt. Half of your molars have rotted, it lays between the gums and enlarges into a popsicle. Juice leaking down the throat. The Witch wants you to cry for help where no one can hear you. She gets high off this serotonin exchange.

James leans back and smirks, her cigarette reads, Magic 8 ball for-ata Piña Colada. Her arms stretch on the couch, there's a lounge chair where she snaps at The Witch to sit.

"You're going to make me seasick if you stand the whole time, Maxy. Just relax."

"Easy for you to say. I failed my mission." Your legs are pumped with fight or flight sensors. For now the bombs have been defused, despite the glares that live on your skin. You feel everything The Witch does now. It's in the blood.

'Don't feel too bad. Your ancestors did a sorry job. If they listened to me, your world wouldn't be drowning.'

You can't turn your feelings off faster than light. Jazzy pop beats fumble through mystical air waves, a saxophone distorts down the hallway. Its faint microscopic sound eerily drifts between left and right. Thank fuck it’s not elevator music. Slinked into the couch, slippery legs blend with the colors. Toothpicks were drugged. Hair strands feel of heavy ropes weaved on the top with little knots. Milked like corporate booze in 85' white noses sparkle in my thighs.

My love to exist is a barracuda tiger, The Witch succulent in nature, twists every part of me dry. A phantom when the lights turn off and on. I can't hate her completely, drownin' is one helluva a way to go.

"James, what's your star sign?"

James smokes the cigarette flame close to the lips. "It's obvious. You want to know what my dream was before the apocalypse?"

'Enlighten us, conductor.'

"I was going to shoot Ceilia in the head and start a drug ring. I am a chemist. Shit was getting real fucked up before it started to rain all the time."

"I thought you loved Ceilia. Why keep him? He's just dead weight. Katya could have a better partner."

'I can arrange that my paramour.'

"No, be a good girl for a fuckin' second. I know you can read my thoughts. I don't know why I even bother to speak."

James laughed, it was genuine. I hated them for it for a split second. It's not their fault, I have real grade A baggage. "Ceilia did the suicide cult shit with his family. It was pretty convenient. I consider him my trophy husband. I stare at him and remember, in the end I was the one who survived, not the exec at a big pharma company snortin' coke off a hooker's ass."

You can see the hooker's ass in your head. You can't decide if you'd rather shoot Ceilia, or nibble on the ass. You grasp the edge of the couch, the fabric is starting to cover your skin like a blanket. The blanket has a mouth. It'll consume you if you don't watch it closely.

'What's your favorite drug, James?'

"Quaaludes. I have a pack in my room. That's how I am going out when I can't keep going anymore."

'If you want, you can be immortal. I can arrange any desire.'

I cough loudly. James hasn't broken eye contact with The Witch. She smokes and blows it in her direction. You long for moments when The Witch doesn't bruise your brain. She was supposed to stay inside your nightmares.

"Miss Witch, there would be no books to read in a drowned world. What good would that do me? Let's find land. I don't plan to die in the Midwest. Grounds too flat. I've never seen the mountains."

What's the state with all the corn fields?

Flat motherfucker with all the porn stores. 'Cause you have to do somethin' to feel somethin'.

The couch grows eyes, this rodeo town is done for the night. They'll stab you in the back if you don't wait for the trigger.

Pull it back baby, you want to see the Other.

James got dog genetics. Different colors for contrasted modes.

Smoke.
Shoot.
Snort.
All the way to the In-between.

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[Next up Diary Entries Vol 4: Vol 4 ]