Issue #1: June 2008
» page ONE
» page TWO
» page THREE
» page FOUR
» page FIVE
» frequently asked
» contributors
» contact/link
maintainer: antigone
© 2008 & beyond
want to be notified when new issues arrive?
Issue #1: June 2008
» page ONE
» page TWO
» page THREE
» page FOUR
» page FIVE
on this page: red mountain [art], I woke up [poetry], teardrop [prose], sui generis. teardrop [art]
Fire was what he tasted in her, and it burnt in their mouths hungrily for sustenance.
But she extracted her lips from his and turned away, almost predicting his response.
"I love you." He smiled hopefully, waiting for her answer, reaching for her long, beautiful hair, already missing the burning taste of her, so sweet--
"Oh." A simple answer, a momentary pause. "Do you?"
He seemed rather confused, bafflement shining through his expression more so than disappointment. "What?"
She whispered softly to herself, and the boy all but heard her.
"Please don't."
~
They had met in the train station. This was what she remembered.
He, clumsy dolt that he was, had almost tripped on to the tracks that an approaching train was soon to come in contact with.
She had grabbed his coat and pulled him up. He apologized.
She was shocked at herself, too shocked to reply. She had saved someone else's life, instead of, well, the opposite. She had done something for someone else without expectation of reimbursement.
She was rather amazed.
He had said something and was repeating himself for the fourth time. She became focused again and was about to decline-- politely, of course, that was how she had been taught to do in public-- until she noticed what the man was wearing.
They made love that night. He thought she was so uncommonly wonderful, like a strike of lightning to the body.
She left after he fell asleep. The clock glowed red digits, 3:04.
~
"I told you not to," the woman said softly to nobody in particular.
For the only other person in the room was dead. He was wearing a bland uniform. For his state, he seemed unusually happy-- or had seemed, before--
She stepped over the body gingerly and sighed. Pocketing her gun, she walked out of the useless, now ownerless house.
~
Flow Solitaire's 304th victim was the only one she remembered the name of.
Throughout her life, there had been nobody to love, nobody worth saving.
He was the only one who knew her secret, knew how to save her from the piteous existence she indifferently referred to as life.
But love would make her vulnerable. And vulnerability was the only possible weakness.
A job is eternally more important than petty, unpredictable things like emotions.
There was a piece of paper-- just a useless paper-- lying on the ground, stained in blood, and although she had already read it several times, she picked it up and squeezed the paper into a crude sphere. She had no use for it now, however, so she released her fingers, and the crumpled ball flew away in the wind.
~
For one who lives in solitude, such as yourself, there is a type of sad, painful, heartbreaking beauty inside of them that they will never witness.
I am fully aware you only decided to have tea with me when you glanced up and realized I was your target. You will not have to explain it to me when it happens, because it will happen, sometime soon. It's not like you to have dwelled on one job for so long, so if you must finish it, by all means finish it, soon, because I do not care-- do not care if I must give my own life in sacrifice for whatever it takes for you to understand, yes, you are human, and you are capable of love-- as long as it is done.
I cannot say my life was a waste, for I have met you, and perhaps more times than you have thought. And, yes, I do. I love you. Perhaps it is unwise to tell you this at a time such as this, and you may not believe it-- maybe love is not pure, true, eternal, good, or even "fun"-- for we both know how much you detest boredom so, for it comprises so much of your daily life-- but that is my truth.
Maybe I have not affected you at all.
I know where you will aim, and will hold this letter near it so you may endeavor to read it, and then you will realized. Will you find it idiotic, foolish, or even funny, that I wished for you to read this after you completed the job?
But I am finally reaching the main point of this letter. If you thought of sparing my life, do not cry-- although I am not suggested you would, really-- and leave my body. If you truly have thought of me no more than a job or target, step on my body, please, and dump it in the mud. I am quite aware it will be raining.
Perhaps it is a preposterous request, and I will not be able to witness the outcome. Perhaps you will not read this at all, yet it is quite suspicious, so I safely doubt you will overlook it.
The time is fast approaching, so I must end this. But I must say one last thing.
Never forget the boy who kissed you when you were 15, although you swore to yourself you felt nothing for him. The first and last person to say he loved you. Goodbye, Flow.
Eternally yours,
Drop Lightwind
I hope to see you again, in the sky.
+
E N D .
