*This is a bit of an old short story I wrote when I began looking into the idea of writing. It is not as cohesive as I wanted it to be but I built on it, so I left this as it is. Flawed. I hope the story still hits home to others.*

It’s the cold days when the sea’s current is strong and the air is salty that matter sometimes.

Those days when the sun just stands still and the moist salty air whispers nostalgic little hisses on your back. Martha knew this too well. As did Mark. As did his friend’s girlfriend. As did the dreary ocean current.

“They say a woman’s vagina is still active even 5 hours after her death” Mark whispered

“Tell that to me I am your father I fucked a corpse only”

“You are sick dad” He really was. His eyes had long weary bags of a soiled history riding on his face. His pale colorless hair lay, swimming with a sick backwards and forward sway with the current. His lips pale and pink from a life time of licking them and the cured sores never seemed to die on the old man. But most prominently a deep beating he took once in his life time. It left a nasty scar on his face that traversed it from one ear to the other. A deep gash from a knife. A result of an unsatisfied love.

“You are sick just like you mother.” He coughed heavily. Unforgiving Tuberculosis is on the system of a weak man in body and spirit.

“So? What happens now father?”

“I have had a long sexless life son. I have witnessed profanities way beyond your grasp because I loved your mother. But I guess the turtle’s life is that of basking under the glory of the ocean’s current. The dim lights of life are calling son the sun is setting. The sun was setting…

…Mark looked at the setting sun, Her hair was moving in the breeze. she kept going on and on she never really knew how to shut up. But he was ready. ready to listen. ready to lie.

“So he was at the bar and I was standing there and I was like ohhhh my gosshhhh” her squeaky voice filled his ears.

“Really?” his surprise, beautifully rehearsed followed by a smile, she goes on and all he can hear is recounts of her and her boyfriend’s trip to some town he can’t remember. The power of money. Bought her delicate heart away and he stood in the shadow much like a man he knew. Satisfaction is a tough game.

His memory wanders, attempting to remember a better moment of his life. His memory is filthy with history. His Father’s screams from his mother’s beating. The cold black of his mother’s eyes. Her sweet breath and apricot tasting thighs. Her moans and the 39 cracks on her ceiling. He couldn’t forget them.

“There were these awesome purple lights in out bedroom”

His were a simple light bulb. That blinked at the passing of the train by his mother’s window. The room where he slept and his father slept in his. He would return to semen filled sheets every day and his teddy bears had phallic openings in their genital areas.

“Do you think we work with him?”

“Yes you do. You fit perfectly”. His stamp into the friend zone


She sips on her drink blushing, frisking her hair backwards. Memories are free willed cunts. They shower him


“Son are you listening to me”

“Yes mum” he says, assertively looking into the deep black of her eyes wearing his ever perfect fake smile.

“Never be like your pathetic father here” his father whines and gobbles on his morning cereal and the TV plays cuckoldry porn

“Never knew what it means to satisfy a woman, filthy fuck” she added with a undertone whisper

“When a woman has a man, look not to be what he is. Look for what it is he lacks… Obsessions are the deepest holes of a woman’s heart but we are never born with them. We develop them. Weave your uniqueness around the psyche of a woman and she will be obsessed with you, deny you no pleasure and you to her as well”

She already had her hand in his pants, her freckles and sunburnt bust were his norm now. His genitals disagreeing with him, filling coldly with blood.


“You want a lift to his house?” he mumbles.

“Yes please I would love that” she kisses him on his cheek


His mother… gives him a cold kiss on the cheek he shudders. She is cold. Colder than her wanted her. What was going on…


He smiles back at her, her hair is still beautiful in the sunset. Time seemed to have been standing still.

His car engine roared to life, He takes one stare at her. Her lips mostly. They to him spoke the language of her beauty. They were like


His mother’s lips as he applied red lipstick on her cold lips. Her starry eyes looking at him, black, eternal, fulfilling.


“Will you please take this to the dry cleaners for me” she pulled out a red blouse, pulling away his attention from her lips.

“Yeah” he breathed heavily, shifting into first gear

“So Mark where did Martha go?”

Martha, former fiancé.

“She died in a car accident. The breaks stopped working.”

Mark was there to see her dying, looking into her bleeding eyes. The rope was cold on her neck she said. That it wasn’t the proper flavor. He calmed her down and told her everything was going to be all right. That on the other side she would meet his mother. She always wanted to know her. She recently saw her she exclaimed. The better the tattooing with a rusty nail in her arm got the better she could see her she said. Mark was there placed the chair and asked her to kick it. He looked into her eyes as her vagina let go of the remains of her life as urine flowered her thighs.

“When the brakes stopped. She just let go. She was with another man at the time.”

He took his mother’s advice. He began to slowly dress in black and calling himself death. He increased their church visits and slowly she sunk into depression. Until she was obsessed with it. Then they visited suicide clinics until she was obse-

“That’s a red light!” She stopped him. Deep into his memories of Martha.

“Sorry”. His mother’s name was Martha as well.

“Are you all right? You look… anxious.” She questioned

“Where does he live again?” he asked conscious of her notions of care but casting them aside to test their authenticity.

“3 more blocks. I thought you two are friends”

“Nah just checking if you remember” He smiles, She smiles Back.

Her smile. A little reminiscent of the skyline of the town. Beautiful under the setting sun. Time was standing still. Beautifully.

Apartment entrance. The receptionist is adorable Mark thinks to himself she looks… different. Just different. It was her hair. Her curly set hair was just like


His mother’s.

Her whole body was cold now. Her dead starry eyes were still black and cold and reminiscent of his own idea of what hell was like. A place of cold stares and paraphilia and parental intimacy. Of father’s weaknesses and cuckolded bastards like his father.

“Hello mother” Mark whispered. Pulling her hair back staring into her eyes.

She is silent.

He runs his finger down her red blouse. Her pungent perfume slicing open his nostrils. Her perky breasts staring into his eyes. The only woman who ever loved him, her eyes reflecting the 12’oclock hands of the clock on the wall.

It’s the cold days when the sea’s current is strong and the air is salty that matter sometimes.

Those days when the sun just stands still and the moist salty air whispers nostalgic little hisses on your back. Martha knew this too well. As did Mark. As did his friend’s girlfriend. As did the dreary ocean current.

“They say a woman’s vagina is still active even 5 hours after her death”



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