So, here it begins. Here it is.
What self respecting writer doesn’t create a blog these days? Who doesn’t want to be read? To be seen? To garner some of the respect and attention we, as artists, all strive for.
Don’t lie, you fucks. You know you want it. We’re writers. We wave our manuscripts and plays, poems and prose, novels and short stories into the starry sky and hope that stars mistaken for stars will see them, publish them and bring us the dough that hack in Arizona has accumulated.
Dough? You know. Scrilla. Green backs. Cheddar.
And I ain’t no different. I ain’t no cowboy or philanthropist.
I ain’t your Robin Hood, nigga.
I’m just here to write and share it and hope some sonovabitch likes what I got to offer.
Be prepared for writing. Short stories, sometimes. Mostly the progress of my non-fiction novel-in-progress and excerpts.
BORDERLANDS. Working title.
Be brutal. Merciless. Love me, hate me. Bite, steal, rob, worship, ignore.
Do what you do best.
Here’s a short story I cooked up in all of 15 minutes earlier today.
Partake. Feast. Swallow. Taste.
Nico A. Grande
Thinking about the two thousand dollars in cash in a Neruda book jacket at her apartment helped keep her warm on the stone cemetery bench. She picked at the black fishnets and toyed with her septum ring. It was strange with the jewelry down. She wasn’t old enough to feel as old as she did.
What do you want to be called? The guy without the camera had asked her as he pulled his winter coat closer to his thin frame.
No, that’s not really the feel we’re going for.
Something darker, added the man with the camera. It wasn’t recording.
Yeah, something gothic.
Over the tombstones and mausoleums, marble and stone spires of sharp crosses, raising angels with hands held high in hopes of delivering up the long-since-dead to the heavens of wherever they would go, she could see steel frame works and glimmering glass of the city itself. The wind swayed the skeletons of oaks and rode up her skirt. The g-string running up the crack of her ass warmed nothing. All of it was what they had asked her to wear.
Dress as slutty as possible.
Not too slutty, the skinny guy in the coat said. We don’t want you getting arrested.
Good point, Coney, the cameraman concurred.
A leather jacket sheathed her upper half, concealing her corset. The sky warmed nothing. Gray on gray on gray. Even the snow stuck to the grass, shoveled into hardened piles like discarded granite rubble, was gray. For some reason she couldn’t bring herself to shiver.
The slab of marble before her bore a fading name that she thought might be German considering all the u’s and t’s. Each date was before she was born. People lived, people died. Before she was alive. And after. She thought of Coney and wondered how big he was.
Twenty. I ain’t made of money, sweetheart.
Their voices carried before their footsteps.
“Perfect place to go goth hunting.”
“Well, you would know. You are the Goth Hunter, my well-hung friend.” Fake laughter. Forced. She lit a cigarette like they had asked her to and the thick cake of black lipstick stuck to the filter immediately.
“Oh man, look at that one,” the cameraman attempted to whisper but it came out loud enough for the microphone to pick up.
“A fine specimen,” Coney had picked up an Australian accent since last she has seen him, “Hey, little lady. What’re you doing in a place like this?”
Make sure you’re cold, Coney had told her.
It’s twenty degrees out.
No, I mean, make sure you’re a bitch.
“It’s none of your business why I’m here,” she stared to the tombstones and blew smoke from her nose.
The cameraman stood a few feet from Coney’s right and kept them both in view. A red light burned on the video recorder.
“Oh, a feisty one.”
“What’s your name, baby?”
Pick something sinister, Coney had said.
But not scary.
Yeah, not scary. Just something that invokes that, that invokes-
Yeah, something gothic.
Perfect. Yeah, gothic.
“Sexy name, baby.”
The cameraman was rubbing his cock. She wondered if she would have to fuck them both. They hadn’t discussed that.
“So, you want to have a little fun?”
“Being a little blunt, aren’t you?” she acted.
Act natural, Coney smoked as they had stood outside the cemetery.
And don’t look at the camera.
“You know you want some, baby.”
She thought of the two grand at home. Of what it could buy. Of the rent and bills and how her shit job didn’t pay and how they hated the way she dressed and made her cover her tattoos and take the rings and barbells from her face. She snuffed the cigarette.
“Sure,” she stood, “Why not?”