Chaos reigns here in the Blackthorn kitchen on this most sacred of nights.  Whilst rain
​swept any soliciting children back to their homes, we macerated our intellects
with Resident Evil and stuffed our gullets with unsightly profiteroles laden
​with home made ganache and passionfruit cream.  I am lactose intolerant and not too
good with grain starch either but life is a mystery to be lived, not a problem to be solved.
These are the ghosts of profiteroles past now.

Halloween is our anniversary.  26 fucking years in close proximity is a long time not be
stabbing each ​other with whatever comes to hand.  I have learned a few important
things about relationships: there are no soul mates, just the people you choose to
be with.  Good will is everything.  Apathy will sour empathy.  No one really emphasises
boring shit like this, but they are the pillars of enduring regard.
Just thought I should pass that on.

Have a good time tonight or whenever you're celebrating.  It's the start of summer for us
so there are no fucking pumpkins.  Only flowers.

homegrown canary / LA hybrid lilies 

port otago / european wasp on banksia

dinghies / arctotis daisies

spider and streetlight down a macro lens / geum

pet shop goldfish / osteospermum

Daylight caught her eyes with its slanting, assaultive slivers as Susan leant out across the stone footing the archway.  The contents of her stomach poured in a long slick down the rain-streaked rock below; frothy golden bile signaled their end, its way greased by the liquids she had already divulged.  Coughing out the last of it, she lay in silence on the broad sill with her arms compressed beneath her, the bass pounding in the hotly bloated sections of her face racing with her heartbeat.  Her knee crushed a box of UHT milk lying on the floor and the thought of it pushed her out again over the drop, the rolling heave answered only by stained saliva and she slid down to lie against the wall.  Though vertigo had abated, its violence was redeployed by the infection in her head until light and sound began to distort at its evil behest.  Susan heard hinges grinding as something distant and academic and felt the hands beneath her arms as half-imagined adjuncts to her desire for her makeshift bed, but she was laid out on stone instead of mounded needles.  She lifted her head to cough again and dry-retch, spitting out the taste of the necrotic tooth.  Someone wiped her chin with something soft and warm.  In the midst of screwing up her face she looked into the bright colours of the brothers' stares and grew still, breathing slowly.

"It's better..." she croaked, trying to rise between them.

They ignored the shabby perjury, the cordon of fait accompli closing in an arc as she was forced back down, Sachiin taking her head and shoulders into his lap until the stripe of silver in Edward's hand became a knifeblade and she cried out, scrambling from torpor into desperate rigor and kicking out.  Her feet caught a hold on Edward's trousers and shoved him backward, surprising him with the strength that was left to her.  He reached across and seized her left arm, using it to drag her toward him and secure her head in the crook of an elbow while he pinned her flailing legs with one of his own.

"Get off me, you... fucking sadistic mental case!" she snarled, still twisting in his grasp; his hold tightened until she conceded and lay stiffly, breathing hard and shying from the hand he laid against her cheek.  It found the buried heat and brought his fingers to the broken premolar directly despite the clenching of her jaw, a measure she was compelled to give up as blood poured from her gums.  Susan screwed her eyes closed.  "Don't let him do it... not him, please... I don't trust him..." she sobbed.  Sachiin glanced up at his brother as she lapsed into despond between them, tears pooling in the hand he slid beneath her cheek.  Edward loosed his hold, settling her head on his thigh and stowing her hair behind her ear. 

"Prends ton courage á deux mains." he told her.

​Blinking up at him slowly, she looked to Sachiin, who closed his hands around hers.  Edward slid back her lip with the side of his thumb and in his free hand flipped the knife, swung the horn stock downward and struck the dead tooth loose.  While she coughed out a cry he tore it free and Sachiin spat a wad of bark into his hand, watching the new blood well and flush the wound before applying his palliative chemistry, taking her in both arms and speaking again into her ear.  The task discharged, Edward drew the face cloth from the pail and dropped the extracted tooth into the water.
​


​CONTINUED NEXT WEEK
​© céili o'keefe  do not reproduce

​My god I love Aroids.  Will post more pics when it's fully out.

My apologies to Edgar and vintage Daniel but with great hotness comes great responsibility.

Language.  It's interesting, isn't it?  This may not be a particularly original observation, universally speaking, but I only just noticed the other day that right wing fuckwits always have to have some sort of euphemism for who they are and what they're doing.  While Antifacists are just plain AntiFa, liberals are just liberals and feminists are feminists, white supremacists and male tears outfits always have to call themselves something else, don't they?  Skinheads.  Futurists.  Nationalists.  MAGA.  All those puzzling acronyms.  The Proud Boys.  Why not Proud Men?  You guys are all about super-literal interpretations of fucking everything, so your tricksy reticence confuses my feminine perception.  I think we've already established that you're not too concerned about looking/quacking like massive wankers.  Surely your self-evident and inherent truths require no such verbal ganache.  Why not just stand on a corner shouting white people/men in general are inherently superior and the best at everything please reinstate every nanogram of our unjustly-revoked privilege immediately or we'll kill you?  It's your only real  thing.  Why be coy?

I urge all interested parties to just go on with their bad selves, stop treasuring their ballbags in private and summon the courage to call their arsehole parties Men Are Furious At Even These Token Concessions And Will Rule Over You Again or something equally forthright.  Just go for radical honesty and demand full Viking funerals with 10 teenage girls assaulted and incinerated with every drunk high-value citizen who falls through river ice chasing a dog that looked at him wrong.  Don't ask, don't get.  Jesus fucking christ, even Incels, that most reviled, maladaptive and fucktarded of demographics somehow summon the fortitude to moosh two brutally explicit descriptors together and wear them with the kind of petulant abandon that underpins their assaults upon randoms.  Who's more chickenshit than a fucking Incel?  

​Logic.  Invented by men, for men.  We can but spy it dimly.  There is a moral to this story and that is never get involved in something that needs a euphemism the way dirty fingernails need a dark polish.  

Also: in light of the historic weight of judgement regarding feminine presentation, and with his consistently puerile execration of us in mind, I'm pretty sure it's equitable for me to note the endless gratitude we should feel toward Trump's physiological and mental repulsiveness.  I know it's hard, but consider this; imagine the extra legions of sloppy apologists there would be for his shit if he was even remotely cute or smooth.  There are a lot of shallow cunts out there who would vote for him in a trice if they could bring themselves to identify with or aspire to him physically.  I'm happy he has a face like a sunburnt toe wart and the conversational skills of a dead dugong.  That he has to walk, in public, like a poor person, for fear of getting perigluteal with a mobility scooter and losing that thing forever.  

Especially post-politically, when no one will ever go hunting in that cleft again. 

I want all of these pieces.
See there rest here.