Pusherofpencils
Bluelighter
****** and cream colored, she sat under the tree, her black hair fanning out behind her. Quimby didn't know how to take it. He'd seen her like this a million times. Out by herself. He was crippled by his fear of her. He looked at his worn hands and imagined them fitting in the small of her back. He felt that once, they were crossing a creek with a group of people and he had managed to get close to her. She slipped and he was there. Quimby had been through this before. He realized that she had probably thought nothing of it. Had been happy that he was there to save her but had promptly forgot.
At night Quimby would leave his house and walk, for hours he would make up songs in his head and feel the night air on his face. Sometimes cool and sometimes hot, the air would come in gusts or would fall on him like a second shadow. There were nights that he saw people on the street and he would imagine horrible things, and how they would dull the pain. How if one of those smiling happy people could feel it they would know and would walk with him. Once he met someone walking, she was ugly. Her smile was crooked and her nose looked like it had been flattened. She talked to him like she knew him. Talked to him like he was a man, strong and virile. At first he kept his hands to himself, then as she became more insistent, he acted. It was dark and they were alone out under the stars. He could feel her hot mouth on him and he recoiled inside of himself. Crawling creeping back into him. Thoughts flashed and he dreamed of her. Imagined her before him, but not like this, not here and not like this. The woman whispered in his ear and he could feel her slime on him. He reached down, his arm elongating and he felt the ground under him. It was all he could do. Make sure that it was still there. He couldn't feel it. Dirt and sand had replaced the ground and they were not solid. They didn't hold him. He felt himself slipping under and grabbing onto the woman. She winced and then relaxed. She held him up and he felt hot wetness come from her face. Body clenched from the outside in. A picture in his mind materialized into form. A painting in oil. Wood, tables, spoons, a pot of tea boiling, an offer of warmth, china white like new snow, polished silver, a nonsense poem being read, and laughter. He felt his toes and the outside came whipping at him. The night air ripped and tore at him. She had fallen to her knees and was sobbing. Quimby dropped some money on her. It floated through the air, one of the most beautiful things there is, floating. Stepped away and the green paper disappeared into nowhere. Stumbling and looking respectable. Crumbling and seeing children destroy his sand castle, their malice clear on their faces as they step and stomp and kick. The concrete felt good. Solid and dependable, he could still walk for all of his other disabilities he could walk. Back and forth forward and back the motion consumed him. He felt in his pocket, pulled out his money, and felt dismay hit him. The first coherent thought in two hours, "I paid her too much". Panic and anger gripped him. Twitch and clench his fists came together. Muscles contracting, a flush came over his face, remembrance: Quimby sitting in class and pointing and laughter, except her, she didn't laugh. He thought he saw pity on her face and he felt the flush. It creeped along his body. Hands, arms, and then back of his neck broke out in sweat. The desk held him. It grappled with him and he felt the inanimate wood winning, feeble and thrashing.
Return: Lights, breathing, he can hear a faint panting, they move next to him. Undulating, feeling their genitals rub against each other. Slick material clings and pulls, skin swaps with skin and fluid is exchanged. Others look on in terror and delight. The music continues. A pulse drives the wrapping, thrashing, grasping, fingers splayed and sensing. Air moving, a sight to see and a movement. Dangling, protruding, wrapped in material. He hears a scream that turns terror sadness joy ecstasy. Pumping the air. Sweat everywhere his hand reaches down to touch the ground. A lie and a good one. A surge of joy and recognition of it's fallacy. Scanning seeing, an approach, a smile, a movement, he feels it. Suddenly fear grips. He runs. He stands there. The pulse moves him and Quimby looks out sadly from inside. Sees faces, all of them, a repeated story. A movie that plays over and over again, a song repeating so that sensation can repeat, the way it makes me feel. Let it happen again. I need this intoxication more than I need myself. When and were. Quimby turns back to life. Grabs the flesh and eats. Consumes, feels the detritus filling his mouth. Swallow. It hurts him. Stomach torn and bleeding he feels a flash of pain. Where is he going? Puzzlement. Air, coolness, smells return. A ride. Welcome to your escape pod. Boarding will begin immediately. You will pay a dear price, recognize that. Inevitability.
At night Quimby would leave his house and walk, for hours he would make up songs in his head and feel the night air on his face. Sometimes cool and sometimes hot, the air would come in gusts or would fall on him like a second shadow. There were nights that he saw people on the street and he would imagine horrible things, and how they would dull the pain. How if one of those smiling happy people could feel it they would know and would walk with him. Once he met someone walking, she was ugly. Her smile was crooked and her nose looked like it had been flattened. She talked to him like she knew him. Talked to him like he was a man, strong and virile. At first he kept his hands to himself, then as she became more insistent, he acted. It was dark and they were alone out under the stars. He could feel her hot mouth on him and he recoiled inside of himself. Crawling creeping back into him. Thoughts flashed and he dreamed of her. Imagined her before him, but not like this, not here and not like this. The woman whispered in his ear and he could feel her slime on him. He reached down, his arm elongating and he felt the ground under him. It was all he could do. Make sure that it was still there. He couldn't feel it. Dirt and sand had replaced the ground and they were not solid. They didn't hold him. He felt himself slipping under and grabbing onto the woman. She winced and then relaxed. She held him up and he felt hot wetness come from her face. Body clenched from the outside in. A picture in his mind materialized into form. A painting in oil. Wood, tables, spoons, a pot of tea boiling, an offer of warmth, china white like new snow, polished silver, a nonsense poem being read, and laughter. He felt his toes and the outside came whipping at him. The night air ripped and tore at him. She had fallen to her knees and was sobbing. Quimby dropped some money on her. It floated through the air, one of the most beautiful things there is, floating. Stepped away and the green paper disappeared into nowhere. Stumbling and looking respectable. Crumbling and seeing children destroy his sand castle, their malice clear on their faces as they step and stomp and kick. The concrete felt good. Solid and dependable, he could still walk for all of his other disabilities he could walk. Back and forth forward and back the motion consumed him. He felt in his pocket, pulled out his money, and felt dismay hit him. The first coherent thought in two hours, "I paid her too much". Panic and anger gripped him. Twitch and clench his fists came together. Muscles contracting, a flush came over his face, remembrance: Quimby sitting in class and pointing and laughter, except her, she didn't laugh. He thought he saw pity on her face and he felt the flush. It creeped along his body. Hands, arms, and then back of his neck broke out in sweat. The desk held him. It grappled with him and he felt the inanimate wood winning, feeble and thrashing.
Return: Lights, breathing, he can hear a faint panting, they move next to him. Undulating, feeling their genitals rub against each other. Slick material clings and pulls, skin swaps with skin and fluid is exchanged. Others look on in terror and delight. The music continues. A pulse drives the wrapping, thrashing, grasping, fingers splayed and sensing. Air moving, a sight to see and a movement. Dangling, protruding, wrapped in material. He hears a scream that turns terror sadness joy ecstasy. Pumping the air. Sweat everywhere his hand reaches down to touch the ground. A lie and a good one. A surge of joy and recognition of it's fallacy. Scanning seeing, an approach, a smile, a movement, he feels it. Suddenly fear grips. He runs. He stands there. The pulse moves him and Quimby looks out sadly from inside. Sees faces, all of them, a repeated story. A movie that plays over and over again, a song repeating so that sensation can repeat, the way it makes me feel. Let it happen again. I need this intoxication more than I need myself. When and were. Quimby turns back to life. Grabs the flesh and eats. Consumes, feels the detritus filling his mouth. Swallow. It hurts him. Stomach torn and bleeding he feels a flash of pain. Where is he going? Puzzlement. Air, coolness, smells return. A ride. Welcome to your escape pod. Boarding will begin immediately. You will pay a dear price, recognize that. Inevitability.
