Magazine, website & books written by teens since 1989

The Demigoddess Of Friday Evenings

Pale gray smoke blows out from her honeysuckle mouth. She's been branded red, her lips an angry slash across her face. Yes, angry. Aren't we all just a little bit angry? Angry at the person who never called, the friend that left you behind. The crush that never gave a crap to smile back. Yes,we're all angry. But she wears her anger on her sleeve, ripped and stained red. She stumbles in corners and reaches for another sip from a sliver flash. She asks the bartender for whiskey, not a tequila or another stupid fruity drink. But whiskey. That's your first warning.
This girl's dangerous.
She doesn't let you buy her a drink, and she won't let you take her to back to your place. But she will push you up against the wall, in the girls bathroom. She already has the condoms out and you discover her eyes are the color of cigarette smoke.Drifting clouds of gray, that play tricks with your mind in the dim lightning.
A warning before the flame.
She strips you down bare in the bathroom stall and rips away your defenses.Right away its become obvious she's not going to have much fun. You're so simple to her. Child's play. But she can't help but examine your bone structure, delicate lines that hide themselves over rough skin. She'll pull your hair not in lust but in interest, counting the beads of sweat that trickle down your neck. Your clothes are scattered across the floor when you finish, and will still be here when she leaves. And then it hits you.
She'll leave.
No matter how infinite you feel at this point of time, how absolute, as if a great fire as swept across your soul leaving baked in heat, she will leave.And you? You won't even get a backwards glance. If you're one of the lucky few, you might be able to get your clothes on just in time to watch her leave. You'll try to call out her in the crowd but you have already forgotten her name. You remember asking for it, and getting a reply. But between all that was the sound of smoke whispering in the eaves. She had a name that you would burn into your mind if you weren't already lost in the haze of cheap beers and club music.
Try and follow her if you like. It would do you any good. One day you might catch a glimpse of smoke covered eyes, fading in the light of street lamps. But then they'll disappear, like there was nothing there at all. What might feel like a cool touch runs down your spine, as you make your way back home. It's night, and her eyes bore holes in your skull

like cigarette burns.



Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

Site Feedback