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Vol. 2, Issue #3 March 2nd - March 15th, 2007
No More Happy Endings Episode 3 - Pop Surrealism, what? Violentia? pop n. 1, a short explosive sound. 2, a soft drink. 3, (Informal) papa. –v.i. [popped,pop’ping) 1, make such a sound; burst. 2, appear or disappear suddenly. –v.t. 1, to cause to burst or explode. 2, put (in) quickly. –adj.(Informal) popular. –pop art, a movement, esp. in painting and sculpture, dealing with objects from every day life and borrowing the techniques of commercial art. –pop the question, (Informal) propose marriage. surrealism (se-re’liz-em) n. art interpreting the workings of the unconscious mind. –sur-re’al-ist, n. & adj. –sur-re’al, adj. vi’o-lent (vi’e-lent) adj. 1, acting with, or characterized by strong physical force. 2, vehement; passionate; furious. –vi’o-lence, n. de-men’tia (di-men’she) n. impairment of the mental powers; insanity. –de-men’tia
There were no words, but the communication was obvious.What the hell is happening here? I thought. But the present mixed with the past and the future just seemed to step right of the room. From somewhere I heard a voice of a friend almost forgotten, “Inside every woman is a gorilla waiting to tear your arms off and beat the shit out of you,” a truth that a friend of mine had said since the nineties. Rest in peace, brother. I’ll miss you. Some kind of otherworldly heat found its way into my bloodstream. Demons screamed inside of me urging me on, and my arm tensed and I felt it before I pulled the trigger. It was over. Everything. I had been led down a path by a succubus that I loved more than life itself and before the dark bedroom flickered for that split sharp loud second I saw something in her eyes that I had never seen before. It wasn’t fear or hate or anger or sadness. It was something from somewhere else, some other time and place that both of us forgot about, something that I had seen the first few moments that something clicked between us. Magic, or Grace of I don’t know, what it was, but it was something. And it came with that action. Lightning entering our bedroom for the second time. And when the thunder from the barrel of the gun cracked. I awoke. I awoke in the same room, our bedroom and I rolled over into her as I had done before having so many nightmares and having so many nights where I would roll into her and she would spoon me in and take my hand and tuck it under her breasts and make it all okay. But as I rolled she wasn’t there. And my realities were crossed. There had been no murders. But still she wasn’t here. She was at her mother’s. I grabbed my cell phone. It was 4:44. I opened it up and sent her a text. ‘I don’t know whether I’m the boxer or the bag.’ And I closed it and laid there unable to wrap my mind around anything. There is something in every mans heart that seeks destruction whether its cast outward or inward and no matter how small its still there, waiting with the patience of Job. The dreams they came in a series, the first seemed so real, the second, so horrible, but as they came and I tried to discover their meaning as I tried to move on. But what could I do but let them play out in my subconscious? No More Happy Endings Homepage ©2007 G. Smith |
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I had my knee pressed between her naked breasts, the hammer cocked, barrel pressed hard into that soft cheek. I was in tears she was in tears and that harddicked jackass lay in the corner of our bedroom limp and bleeding.©2006-2007 NONCO Media, L.L.C.