Nor because . . . her heart used to beat listlessly like a dryer.Inedible jelly slowly gathers in a slimy puddle between her legs.The searchlight remains focused on the pulsating stream of naked, pink worms crawling upon her wide op-en genitals.She has grown bigger in the past hour or so.
Nor because . . .
The most obscure of her deeds had a purpose.Her frozen pupils . . . conceal nothing.The absence enclosed in the broken witnesses of light will eventually deteriorate into a double hollowness.Two nights ago she was serving three glasses with transparent ice cubes.How transparent were they . . . Were they transparent enough to conceal any minor suspicion about . . . Did she play with the naughty little bubbles clinging to the sides of her glass?Or maybe she was amusing herself with the palepinklipstick print she left at the edge of the glass.Not much left on her semi-open lips.Cold blue . . . The shadow of her lips has fallen silent.The scent gives off stronger and less subtle smell.
The intimate beauty of the flesh is unhindered by the absolute stillness.Anonymous indifferent mass, resembling something I haven’t known well . . .
. . . .
This is the first page of the story. I charge a subscription of $36 per year for access to all my stories. There are 15 stories currently on my website -- ogoart.com -- and I will publish a new one each month, together with -- from time to time -- some excerpts from my novels. To subscribe, go to my website at www.ogoart.com and click on "Writings".
So old am I that even the sequoias were getting sick of my state of being.So, I got sick of them.On the other hand . . . different meridians were not drawn for any other reason than fuck’s sake.The age of the big discoveries wouldn’t have happened if men had no balls.No balls – no poles.No North, no South . . . The world would have been like a big round tongueless mouth.Undivided zone with scattered homeless bones.Not that right now the situation is much different but at least the Earth has been sliced up into semi-neat, complete deadbeat suite, unsuitable and stuffed with a human stench, mincemeat bench . . . on stomping bare feet, some drying wheat in the sea of downbeat full defeat . . .
Wow . . . Roaming could be as nutritious as some heavy pig meal dining.That indisputable conclusion has indeed a lot to do with the meridian division of this fucked up world.A one-balled man could still be bold enough to take a deep . . . rum soaked, stinging puff from a slow-burning tobacco stick and . . . cross the loss of this prime-time years.Right . . . what’s next . . .There is a dead fish in the sand.It’s still a dish . . . Yes . . . The subject is still meridians.The beauty of those is . . . they can’t ever be parallel.How exciting . . . the boundless curve of roundness . . . Most painters paint it with their eyes shut – fewer do it with eyes wide open.Let them . . . Who cares.Texture isn’t a shabby content of painterly surfaces.Skin too . . . One major reason for the generous sperm donor to go through the pain of crossing meridians and slide up and down on their concave edges has entirely to do with chasing after the most adaptable and tough tribe of species, well-known as the race of pussy-holding eggs.Or . . . eggy pussy-holders.Whatever.Another word is women, indeed.Melt the untouched butter cream over the low heat of her sugar bowl or heavy-bottomed pan and when melted stir in the sugar-egg mixture and the passion fruit juice and . . . keep cooking gently stirring constantly, until thickened.Then off to another meridian.
. . . .
This is the first page of the story. I charge a subscription of $36 per year for access to all my stories. There are 15 stories currently on my website -- ogoart.com -- and I will publish a new one each month, together with -- from time to time -- some excerpts from my novels. To subscribe, go to my website at www.ogoart.com and click on "Writings".
This thing . . . yesterday . . . So far away.It’s made out of too many departures and fewer returns.Real farewells take place in silence.Yesterdays are lived by two large opposing groups.Remainers and departers.Their mirrored gestures seldom answered.Most of the time not really.The footsteps of those who leave have a different stretch and charge in comparison with the cramped, anguish-bearing expressions of the men left behind.The smell of tar-smeared boats, seaweeds and gutted fish stings the hidden tears at departure time.The silver shields of choppy ocean water one can see inside those humid eyes of suppressed sorrow.Certainly above everything else . . . the ancient snake of time uncoils silently, invisibly, imperceptibly treacherous . . . Hunting horns of half spoken unfinished words.Hands, arms, and bodies trying to touch one another.Colors, full of grayish light.Ardent grace of shared somberness.Palm trees . . . flat-palmed and waving.Summer nights demand departures . . . Glances get so soft.So full of dying sunset spillage.The joy of sadness reigns and seize the moment, feeds the lantern of unstaged reactions.To reunite the chariots of no returns is a paradoxical hoax . . . Embalmed illusions.Soon death will reconfirm and seal the deal for all departures.But waves will dominate the ocean.As usual . . . the cooling streams of shapeless plankton will ring the bell for very basic breakfast.And then the widened nostrils, lips in search of different lips, a forest of sun-burned and salty stares . . . An agony of love gone numb before the last good-bye, takes place.Thick lace of real human fear.The fateful moment fate awaits.
This is the first page of the story. I charge a subscription of $36 per year for access to all my stories. There are 15 stories currently on my website -- ogoart.com -- and I will publish a new one each month, together with -- from time to time -- some excerpts from my novels. To subscribe, go to my website at www.ogoart.com and click on "Writings".
Dark. Darker. Wet. Slippery. Follow the headlights. Ascending. Lanes moving so slowly. Then blocked. The truck on the left side moves backwards. The car on the right veers close. Closer. What . . . two inches. Less than that. No space forward. Flashing stoplights. From behind – beaming headlights. The rain starts again. Heavier this time. Hands still clutched to the steering wheel. Gloved. Dark green leather. Radio off. Doesn’t make sense any longer. The windshield wipers move faster. Frantic unleashed bladey mechanical hands. Relentless. As vulnerable as warm ones. Even more so . . . They divide the night out there in even dark brown sections. Frequently lit by blurred sodium lights. Equally sliced sections in burnt sienna. The brown and the wet don’t go together. Don’t belong to one another. Don’t make sense . . . But still, those strict cuts come again and again, slightly modified by the slight differences, ignited by the light’s ephemeral alternating.
Somewhere in the country. That’s how light breaks the news of time passing. How many sliced up portions of unabridged contortions will it take to get away. No clue. Counting. Ridiculous. There . . . small, imperceptible changes and shifts will modify the incredulous march of presentness harassed by its own inevitable fractal limitations. There is a sound of motion.
But who or what is moving. Everything is. As always. So many wheels. Stuck together. Now this togetherness is breaking apart. For how long . . . Right now . . . The stoplight in front moves forward. Three inches . . . four . . . a whole foot. There. A yard already. The reflections of lights on the right spell “push”. Pushers push calls for overpushing and forward and sideways. This half an inch makes the difference. They know it too, indeed. Slow . . . slower . . . Almost full stop. As if this non-moving threesome mechanical clutter agitates the darkness outside. Sleet. The wind forces it from right to left. Gets thicker. Heavier. It starts to swirl. Counterclockwise. Wheels move again. All restricted from the left. There is a wall there. Can’t be outmaneuvered or pushed . . . Walls are unpushable. The sound of falling ice needles hisses on the top of the hood. Can’t be an overpass. It’s something else . . . The swirl of sleet doubles its speed. A vortex of iciness descends vigorously with sharper contrast. Now all the wheels have somehow found a way to find the minimal but exact distance that would allow them to maneuver sideways and counterclockwise in the same time. As if they are following or they’ve been forced to do that by the sleet’s increasing vortex. Unprecedented swirl liberates slowly and smoothly those stuck vehicles. Unlocks the traffic trap they’ve been sucked into.
Ascending. Higher. Way above the brown. Where white is really white. Where snow is whiter than the white. Where the white demands rupture. For some imminent break. There it is . . . Right on top of the rock. Spread out on its back. Split up. Wide open – the mink. Still alive. Pulsating soundlessly. Blood gushing out of this breathing wound. It saturates the white powder caressing his butchered flesh. Is it aware of those three witnesses contemplating his contrasting agony? So red . . .
So white . . . So bright. Vivid. Unapologetically natural. Demanding sensitivity of purified tonality. Irretrievable blood sprinkler getting in the way . . . crossing the wind’s thin shadow. Inward-turned expression in the mink’s eyes. Ultra-red rays of despair. Channeled upon different eyes. Pain’s eyes know better. Crimson tears roll slower. Red’s superiority emanates from the trembling axed mark on the powdered rock. Tiny black grave bursting with expiring life. Regardless, the colors – impression and representation are united by ultimate suffering. The boundaries of flesh have been utterly broken. The mink’s form deformed. Deformation strongly supported by the immediate call of blood running.
. . . .
This is the first page of the story. I charge a subscription of $36 per year for access to all my stories. There are 15 stories currently on my website -- ogoart.com -- and I will publish a new one each month, together with -- from time to time -- some excerpts from my novels. To subscribe, go to my website at www.ogoart.com and click on "Writings".
We know the sun will shrink into a crystal shuttlecocks.A form of capital despair.No iced wings above or around us.The horizontality of the white calls us to sleep and demands that we abandon our bodies.To barter life for death.Inexpressible anguish.Slow coagulation of the senses.Mental fire drained.Desires clothed in coldness.I don’t know why but I insist on being here.Time doesn’t advance.Time devours.Less time than it takes to think about it and the perpendicularity of my shadow is already different.The anomaly of foreshadowing thoughts goes hand in hand with low temperatures.No crossroads over here.A frozen face of white reality.Unfissured.The sleeves of nights and days are counted so clearly.The breathing dough of life has no further need to speak.Finally we have defected from the bestiary of the others.Divulged.My hair shrivels.Flowering gestation of an icicle inside my gut.Isn’t it a privilege to vanish in the white?Soon it will be dark. Ingrained inability to survive in darkness.Is someone, or rather something following us?Impossible.Immense contingency of frozen white.How come we ended up here?Why . . . Clutched to memories . . . The sky is already tilted.Fed to the white.Gratifying meal.It’s a matter of minutes.The sun is lower than my face.It’ll be extinguished by the vaulted line.How many heartbeats separate us from the beginning of nothingness?How luring and attractive is the sinister sickly light, hypnotically raining on us, so far away from millions of breathing lungs.You and me at the uneven threshold of unsubmissive eternity.We . . . The grip . . . The naked language of survival.Gloves clutching one another.As if contradicting the vastness assimilating our silhouettes.I’m holding onto her hand, pulling it forward ahead of her exhausted body.Obeying the very principle of life.Action. Numbness . . .. slowly will take the inmost depths of us.Frostbitten, my fingertips don’t belong to my hand.The cold carves up our anatomies.It demands absolute possession of our organs.The immensity of the white invades even the clearest testimony of the senses.She can’t make the next step.I pull hard.The many layers of frozen snow defy my efforts.The bottomless flatness of the snowdrift wants to keep her.Thirsts to turn her into a crumbled pillar of salt.I want to shout but then I see them.A violent convulsion of primal anger runs down my spine.Seven dark tiny silhouettes.Advancing effortlessly behind us.Against us.For us.The snow under their feet is way firmer than under mine.They seem to glide their starving guts upon us.Messengers of death. . . I don’t want her to see them.I want to delay the horror mirrored in her eyes.Come on . . . my love.I pull her over, on her back.Now maybe I can slide her over this deadly powder.But she must help me with her feet.She must make the effort. Plant and push with your feet, come on my love.Do it.You’ll get warmer.Warmer . . . Warmer for . . . what.For those behind.
. . . .
This is the first page of the story. I charge a subscription of $36 per year for access to all my stories. There are 15 stories currently on my website -- ogoart.com -- and I will publish a new one each month, together with -- from time to time -- some excerpts from my novels. To subscribe, go to my website at www.ogoart.com and click on "Writings".
(An insignificant attempt to reproduce my irrevocably lost story)
Defused cold light streams from the big rectangular window.Twenty-six inches of off-white wall below the windowpane is the crest of her wavy hair. Blond open curls cascade down to the top of her shoulders.She wears a buttoned white blouse with long sleeves.The freefalling Renaissance texture of her golden hair contrasts stringently with the whiteness of her blouse.Her face slightly tilted to the right looks down.The three parallel horizontals divide her physiognomy in unviolated scapes of unsullied expression.The well-proportioned forehead section evidently doesn’t contradict her prism of the mind.Unauthorized streak of hair naughtily curtains her right eyebrow. Transparent symmetry and measurement of the shadows are nesting below the unaltered line of her eyebrows.A refined principle of subordination reflects on her half-closed eyelids, seductively bathed in a half-tone glow.The unblinking shadows of her lowered eyelids carry a piercing strain of uncharted sensuality.Clear feminine contour of her jaw line softly draws the pre-established harmony of her chin.Her expression is as if her mind gravitates around itself.Her right hand is resting on the chair’s arm.Long, pale fingers with well-kept dark manicure.From time to time they rhythmically drum over the chrome part underneath. . . . .
This is the first page of the story. I charge a subscription of $36 per year for access to all my stories. There are 15 stories currently on my website -- ogoart.com -- and I will publish a new one each month, together with -- from time to time -- some excerpts from my novels. To subscribe, go to my website at www.ogoart.com and click on "Writings".Orlin G. Oroschakoff
I have decided to introduce you just to the beginning of some beginnings. The endings I will leave to you.
Since the beginning, Thursdays have always been the day . . . with edgeful angularity (to me anyway). Thursday is the fourth day of the week (by my count).
Let me give you a taste. A sampler. There must be . . . maybe another Thursday ahead. If that is the case, then possibly I can deliver a new beginning. If I’m lucky enough . . . but I don’t want you to get too full. Not good for shagging. Endings have their bright side. They make space for more beginnings. I’m interested in beginnings – they are less constricted and confined than endings.
Every beginning is a jealous carrier of its own ending. Isn’t the content of direction a beginning . . . Does not a story give a direction . . .
Words are what they are, but they are. Muscles tend to rupture after good use. Words like wingless birds tend to turn into a predictably stale and boring bunch of verbal hunches (any kind of rupture is an opposition to order). Opposition to order certainly contains (in some cases) a higher degree of order. The ossification of forms and words is inevitable. The only cure for this optimistic conclusion is “THE BEGINNING”.
So let me introduce you to the beginnings of some shortless short stories severely conceived on . . . you can already guess. Can’t you . . .
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