Kirk A.C. Marshall

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Red is Best

Red is Best: a stream-of-consciousness microficition (c)
Published 31/01/05

What the fuck does she know?

Tell me I brought ruination upon the relationship. Ruination. Who the fuck says “ruination”? It makes me sick. If you break up with me, bitch, at least, at least – shit, watch out, dickbrain, this is a zebra crossing – complete ludicrous, go on, yeah, submit a goddamn’ literary resume to me when you want to tell me I’m a big, putrescent pile a shit. And it was that expression. Shit, if I, if I don’t fucking do something soon I’m going to go –

What the hell are you looking at? It’s no law to scream in these streets, is it? “Oh, but boy--” – yeah, don’t pretend you’re not thinking it, you are, man, I can see it imprinted upon your fucking brow. I ain’t your boy, I ain’t no-one’s boy no more, haha, and that’s the fucking point, see. I’m screaming ‘coz I’ve been dumped, and I’m dumping it on these streets, and it’s – Holy Christ, these people don’t slow down. Watch out there, Gonzalez, not every turn is well-adapted to the parameters of your little fucking mouse brain.

What the fuck does she know, though? I mean, did she get some kick out of doing it? -- Yeah, I’m still staring at you, cunt. Maybe you can enlighten me. Motherfucker.

Fuck you, what the hell is this? I’m crying. Jesus, I can’t. I can’t believe I’m goddamn’ crying. In front of this bitch with the probing eyes, fuck, oh Christ, that’s three years, she can’t just let it go after three years, it’s not like it’s an expired bus ticket, it’s a, a fucking relationship – you don’t stick it between your pants and ass cheek and pretend it’s not there, that’s not fair, she’s not being fair, if I was fair to her – okay, look dick, this is getting too much. If you put that mobile phone to your ear, I’ll punch you innit. I’m not mad, you think I’m a psycho, I can be psycho. That’s a dance I’m good at. It involves fists, fists, fists, oh you scornful bitch, you didn’t even look at me, in my eyes, not in my own piercing, sad eyes when you told me. I don’t even know how to take this, it’s three years, that’s, yeah yeah yeah, I don’t have a calculator, but that’s long, that’s, what, thousand or more days. That’s me holding your lying, succubus-womb hand every time you cried your little demon, lead tears. I should. I should. Should. Should. Should just – fuck, this place, it gets bigger the more you sink within it, doesn’t it? That’s the way it happens, you fall into the pavement, and then you are the pavement. You’re the one people walk on, and you ask for it, ‘coz that’s your purpose. You’ve devoted yourself to being utilised, it’s a life, ain’t it, oh, but it’s a life you didn’t ask to be attended to, it’s not a life that you took upon, like some drunken night’s tattoo. It’s not body art, not unless you count the pieces of my tattered soul fucking Christ stuck to the soles of her feet as she’s trampled over me. And it’s. I mean. Her Dad can get stomach cancer, and I can send him a goddamn’ card when I’m struggling to pay rent, and you can just sit there with dulling eyes, lancing my insides as though it was expected. Expected? Was this expected, you illegitimate slut? Were we always going to break up? Three years ago, did you know how you were going to do it?

Do this? Do this without ever doing it. Without giving me a reason. Reason with my fucking blood, because it’s boiling. You think I love you now? I love you I love you like I love a soldering iron in the eye of my penis, you, you did this, didn’t you. I can’t get it, though, I mean, you just said it to me like it was obvious. And I hate that, because I’m not dumb, I’m as subtle as wreathes of caramel smoke, babe. I don’t get it, I don’t. I just.

That’s the best thing with stoplights. The red ones are the apples of Satan. Look at that red. That’s the eyes of the morningstar. Oh boo. You’re being morbid now. No I fucking ain’t. That red stops life’s progress, it’s just a scarlet hand telling you the perfection of the ride is over, you better let your legs drop. That colour should be used to paint portraits of the crucifixion. Don’t look no further.

You whore. I love you.

I love you so much. I hate this numbing stereotypical bullshit. I thought we’d transcended that rubbish. We’d agreed to adopt an outmoded system and to push it in transgressive areas, bitch. We dated because we could date the way it should be dated. I didn’t do this for three f-bomb years to fall into some preordained rut. I did this the proper way. I kissed you when I shouldn’t have, I made love to you when I felt like I couldn’t give anything but ink black piss. And that was okay, because it was true, much truer than any puppy, hangdog shit you see in the shopping centres, where some gimp and a Matel plastic hussy half-spit on each other’s faces, with these awful eyes.

Those, those are the type of eyes that watched Dresden fall. Vonnegut would cry vinegar if he met a boy or girl like that, you watch out.

Those eyes are –

These red stoplights. Slower than fucking euthanasia patients. Slower than the growth of the dick protruding from my head when she told me that we had to talk. “Talk? That’s silly, I’ve been doing that for two hours. Do I have to do it differently, somehow?”

“Yes, Van. You let me talk.”

That bitch – she said that – she said that when she was going to dump an oceanliner of Texan oil onto the baby penguins in my smile – why don’t you go murder yourself, you ugly, nefarious, unrighteous, despotic leper-turned-inside-out. You put your lips on me, and all the while you were waiting to see me infected. And I should be angrier at you, I mean, I’m thinking all the right words, ain’t I? But it’s not like that – you and that person aren’t one and the same. It was like you were role-playing.

I didn’t pay to see a shit play, you awful creature. I came to see the girl I’ve laybuyed a necklace for.

Green. Set your old stones on that. Green like the soda in my head right now. I can’t think right. Straight. Think. Greener than – dude, will you just get screwed?! I hate you. I hate your family. I’m walking, look, these are my legs, and this is.

This is it. That’s what it is. It’s green like her eyes are in those photos of us in the bar, even though her eyes are brown in reality. Each pixel, here, a marble of Jupiter, deep-sea fireflies, a free-floating ball of gas with a personality and a laugh, a rare type of glass flower, green todays, a closed fist of Tolkien magic, the light of my bedside reading lamp.

Wow! I can’t believe this, but, shit! If I don’t try, it’s like her phone number was never scored in diamond into the fabric of my brain. I can’t remember it! It’s so far away, like suppressed remembrances of my mum’s fucking uterus, haha.

Green. It means walk.


That’s the thing with green. It’s a lot faster than red.





Kid, don’t do this to me! I didn’t even fucken hit you hard! The car didn’t even get scratched! You went down – kid! -- like you were falling! You were already falling! This isn’t my fault, man, this isn’t, wake up! You shouldn’t just be standing in the centre of a busy road! There’s no blame! Because. Because you’re going to wake up! -- Punk, didn’t you hear me, you, with the mobile! Call a fucken ambulance, already! -- Why’d you do that, kid? You were standing, and then.

You were falling!





Green like this fucking hospital jelly they feed me.

When are they gonna start giving me the raspberry. Christ.