Concerning the Canvas

 Flame so blue it was almost translucent spread slowly like a cat licking her lips, tiny mercurial droplets speeding down the glass like flaming seraphs. Kevin blew the wave out with a thin curl of smoke.
  They say you get to a point, cross some line like overcoming a threshold and you no longer feel the pain, just hear the leaden impact against a body you cling to the remembrance is yours. That’s a trifle deceptive. You don’t feel, because all you feel is a wall of pain. It’s like throwing paint on a canvas – it’s vibrant at first, stark as the color bifurcates the dusty white of the canvas, but after a time there is no more white, you’re just adding color on top of the same color.

Concerning a Certain Birth

 Kevin had survived an abortion. This was not his choosing.
  He had often been told that, respectively, God had some divine, ineffable purpose for his life, or his own inner consciousness had even in nascence asserted itself in Herculean manner. One was so much abysmal, relative hope in the face of evidence, and for that matter, God no longer held credibility either.
  Even now he looked as if he’d carried that mantle of death for seventeen years; consumptive, pale, eyes like a sunken grave, scarred more ways than one and prone to inexhaustible nightmares.
  He had developed a way to counter them, like he had the physical side to pain. It involved a tumbler of absinthe, a cube of sugar and a dollop of pills, all coruscated by a simple Blue Tip match.
  His father violently threw things like this out when he caught him, like he treated everything. Said he was going to hell. He was wrong though. This was hell.

Intermission

Thanks to all of our listeners. We will be starting a new twisted tale this month, having wrapped up Chiaroscuro, so stay tuned. This week however, taking a short break. Be sure to visit the rest of port-evenus.com for more tales and excitement.

Concerning the Music

   Out of the midst of nowhere Taylor remembered Eric. He looked about desperately. Eric. There he was, by the cairn. Taylor could see his brother had been wounded, moving waving like a fish trapped on the bank. He had to reach him, had to help him He pulled himself to his feet.
  Taylor stumbled, fell on a picnic table. He tried to drag himself across it, leaving a crimson painting. Eric was dying, he knew it. What he had wanted just an hour ago, and yet all the hatred he’d felt was washed away like so many times before in a wave of feeling beyond explanation. They were closer than brothers, and that transcended rules and where the rules fractured. Taylor tried to save him. But he was tired, his own time running. So tired. He made it to the cairn, and collapsed.

  Funnily, the Music cleared.



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