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emmyemmy0 commentsfiction, odin and ada

mostly the point

“hey! it’s the sweetheart,” Odin said, cutting our conversation short, his voice all sunshine and gladness. and when i looked up, i saw that he was right.

            taking in her silhouette as it approached made me remember what it felt like to be awestruck, and the feeling only intensified until she was at our table and looking down at me with her sparkling eyes as if i were some poor creature she could pity or hopefully one day adore.

            “Hina,” i said, not really knowing why a sudden warmth had started to scorch its way down my prickling neck. “Hina,” i said again, since the one utterance didn’t seem to suffice.

            “hello darling,” she purred, and i wasn’t sure if she was talking to me or Odin.

            i stood up to greet her, an old-fashioned impulse driving my legs up, and she pressed an imitation kiss to my cheek, holding my bare forearms in her small, manicured hands to keep me still as she did so. i didn’t say anything, just acquiesced, and as i sat back down i watched her do the exact same thing to Odin, beat for beat, as if she were greeting two of many fans queued up to witness her.

            she took the seat next to me and opposite him, and then i was semi-trapped between the thick pillowy wall of the booth and her soft forgiving body and i was not the least bit upset by it.

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emmyemmy0 commentsfiction, odin and ada

3:00 AM

i groaned. “oh, why. why.” i groaned again, as if it could help the fact that my entire body felt like one giant, ready-to-burst artery. “i’m never drinking that much again. oh, Odin, mercy. hold me to that.”

            “you have my word,” he said, every bit as solemn as a priest as he traced an x over his heart.

            “thank you.”

            he was leaning against the kitchen island, sans shredded costume and in comfier-looking attire: grey sweatpants and a dark, thin, oversized jumper. he seemed refreshed—less pitiable than he’d looked during rehearsal, for sure—but i could still see traces of clingy, raspberry-red blood caked under his short, usually-neat nails, and smudged around the backs of his ears. some of it was still clinging to the nape of his neck, matting his hair. i wondered if that was something he’d just gotten used to by now.

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emmyemmy0 commentsfiction, odin and ada

sometimes beautiful

it is easy to recall the moment our friendship fractured. it is still readily available to relive in my mind, just as technicolour and bursting and tragic as any other momentous wound.

           thinking back, i am just surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. we were awful for each other from the very beginning, i now understand. but stitched through the awfulness, we really were sometimes beautiful.

           like the time we sat under his family’s blossoming peach trees in the backyard and philosophised with the melting sun. his voice, i remember, was so soft and candy-sweet that the quiet animals of the outdoors tentatively approached to listen, too.

           he’d always had that welcoming miraculousness, that inviting aura, which seemingly took effect on every earthly creature. myself included, which is why at the time, i didn’t think to bring up my mild peach allergy. i didn’t want to ruin the idyllic scene—wanted even less to interrupt his careful, dulcet musings—and when he handed me a freshly-plucked peach to eat, i pretended the buzzing against my lips was a kind of secret, tormented kiss.

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emmyemmy0 commentsfiction, pineapple upside down cake

pineapple upside down cake

Pineapple Upside Down Cake is a double-voiced narrative poem, concerned with the fluctuations of power in a turbulent relationship.

In the following story, the character’s personalities, motivations, lifestyles, and emotions have been sculpted only through their dialogical choices. Mikhail M. Bakhtin’s philosophy of language—namely, that life is experienced and evidenced through dialogue—was a key component in the crafting process.

This piece contains sexual references, abusive and mature language, dysfunctional relationships, and violent imagery. Please proceed with caution.

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emmyemmy0 commentspoetry, the libidinous consort

the colour of quarks

being queer is being pleasure. it is the highest form of art. when you are queer (which is when you are always) you pity those who aren’t. being queer undoes your seatbelt—it is the stranger at your door. when you are queer, you’re so insufferably good-feeling—a bigot mourns. being queer makes you a blessing—the next day alive can be a miracle—since rising from a stupor is defiance, pure & simple. being queer is navigational—though versatility is welcome. it is eating from the dog bowl—& then surfing in stilettos. being queer is quick to suffer; both erotic & lubricious. it’s perverting prior signals—holding hands turns fetishistic. being queer is on the weekend. or it is crushed into your coffee. it’s a painless execution—with you at church, on both your knees. being queer is biodegradable (just not in the way you think). being queer is body-hot—feeling so horny that you vomit. being queer is hand on throat. a ring of bruises; righteous necklace. being queer’s a melting ice cube—forever sliding down your sternum. being queer is proof of bullets—or else the shore of foamy leisure. being queer is subatomic—inextricable from nature.

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emmyemmy2 commentsfiction, the libidinous consort

The Libidinous Consort (Narrative Only)

Disclaimer: this is part of a larger work. Check out the other visual and mystical elements if you’re interested !

           God opened the clouds one evening and delivered a message to the house of The Professor and The Queer. The two of them had been enjoying a quiet dinner, like always, when an omnipotent cough startled them both into alertness.

           “You have been assigned a task,” God said. The Professor—rapturous—and The Queer—bemused—listened carefully. The arcane voice seemed to be coming from everywhere. “There is a place on Earth you must visit for me.”

           “Where is this place?” asked The Professor, looking to the ceiling. “What shall we do once we get there? And why?”

           God’s voice boomed: “It is lost to me—you must find it. You must follow these directions.”

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emmyemmy0 commentsand ever more stranger, fiction

and ever more stranger

i. duodenum

so i stooped by the pond and opened my mouth as wide as it would go and that’s when the fish slid out. all slimy and cold, it was a big, white fish, with splotches of red and black; it fell with a splash into murky water where it looked like it belonged. i gaped and shuddered as the now-emancipated creature darted away. my unhinged jaw wouldn’t close.

           my open palms pressed flat and hard against the cool pavestones that lined the shallows. with my bare knees pressing painfully into the semi-damp earth, i’m sure i looked like i was trying to summon a deity from the ground / single-handedly reverse the axis of the world / split the brick right down the middle. my throat was dilated and coated in stringy mucus. my intestines were swollen, twisted ribbons.

           i clutched my stomach and doubled over again and my nose touched the surface of the water as meters of seaweed slithered out of my throat and into the depths of the pond. my stomach went from distended to calm as it all unfurled. then the nausea dissipated.

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emmyemmy0 commentsfiction, so in raptures

so in raptures

i swear i had never heard a man so in raptures before. his voice like an incantation — all at once, i was falling through the floorboards, transported to the last time (birthday party, beach) where he and i had first created / shared / indulged in our (this) tremendous illicitness. it was bad then, so it must be doubly bad now — a year later to the date — this time indoors (his place, poker night) instead of all sunshine and sandy.

            he was bad for me. bad for me like really really very bad for me. he was wrong for me and yet i was wondering where next he might grab me ;; take me hold me grip my thighs (his hand compressing pliant flesh my eyes ignoring his ring finger with that awful damning tan line) — i wasn’t sure if he knew just how much i knew that what we were doing was at best immoral. at worst …

            “we’d better not again; there’s no way,” i said, “we couldn’t though, do you think?”

            “i think i need to,” he said, and the way his voice was light and breathy and airy like he was on the precipice of the most divine pleasure and too gone to hold it back made me shiver with delight. and after needing twice before … !

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