Midnight came and went
Jesus gossiped about
on am radio
Why are you
name dropping God?
jesus i’m tired
my ears and my eyes
hurt
All forty years of me
fall apart
Tomorrow when the
sky turns
i will roar like a tiger
to the whistle of steam
i will suck on ceramic
and coffee and cream
fuck all the noise
i got tangerine
dream
Katya Mills, 2013
Flash! My life there before my eyes! My history blown up so suddenly, my eyelashes fell right off and down into the earth, seeding a tree that grew so far and fast up and around the chain-link fences, under the sacred earth and up and into the light of impossible spaces, through cracked pavement. Up and up, and now looking down upon the city with double the eyes of a thousand conscious souls. Then every other eye gave forth a ray of light, down upon the closed doors and minds of a counter-counterculture mashup of a million devastated hearts. The lights were benevolent, though burning. They set fire to the doors and out poured the run-for-your-life darkness, of heretofore contained-in-container ship, immigration-made whores. Leaving a trail of stilettos in the mud of urban decay. Taking flight into the benevolent white tractor-beam light, from the eyes of the tree, rooted in the lash that fell from a compassionate tear of washed up, suck of history of mine and maybe yours, too. Taking refuge finally, in our alien shared landless loving of the downtrodden and will be downtrodden no more, and never again.
Everlee & Lee (a dark fantasy)
[Just click on the title above, Everlee & Lee, to be redirected to the publication.]
A short story and dark fiction by Katya, author of Girl Without Borders (2013, Amazon.com). A young brother and sister come together to makes sense of their terrifying circumstance, after the untimely death of their parents. Sinister Aunt Rose has a dark agenda, and vengeance in her heart. The apparition of their mother holds the light to the darkness that has enveloped Everlee and Lee, within the walls of their 19th-century Victorian house. Telepathy and telekinesis are two of the forces which come to play in this tale of survival. And a strange ritual which invokes an alternate reality, by way of digesting fruit growing off thick vines in the yard. This is a dark fantasy for all ages, a modern fairy tale, written in the author’s own compelling literary style.
The MC gave the nod, the DJ let up on the brakes. The models coupled off in cliques, two by two, traveling in an arc around the club. Thievery Corporation stole the show. Stilletos shot into the air, all the pole strippers were there. Clocked in and synchronized. Carrying our eyes. Up in the VIP room, a Lindsay Lohan lookalike and some worthless piece of shit were playing truth or dare. He dared her to go down on him. She went all up in his face, with a backhand and then some! The night had hardly begun.
The socially-challenged took their little pills, and waited for the shit to kick in. Hustlers played nine ball, washing the scene down with tonic, and gin. Versace’s ghost was in the corner scanning fashion mags. Pink was sadly watching the dancefloor and the lights. She excused herself the many times she was asked to dance: no thanks, i’m on the rag. No worries, all was good. The bartenders were on their toes, and that’s just the way things stood.
Bottom line was this club was poppin’. All five stories wrapped around a stage. The BDSM crowd surfed right into their cage. Everyone anticipated the night’s billing, Sweet Fucking Disaster. The band was still back stage, feeling cherry. All the underage girls in their arms, in lieu of instruments. No one asked for ID. Pretty scary. The socially-challenged, started feeling the chills. Thanking false gods for their pills. Dispersing out easily, now that they were lubricated. Like the thighs around the poles. Everyone wanted something, they would most likely get. Touching. Anticipating that Sweet Fucking Disaster that hadn’t quite fallen off — not just yet.
by Katya Mills
if this touched you, touch me back… like this post
They had hooked up before, you know. Just getting back to one another, it had been too long. They saw each other at the dollar store. They walked out that dollar store, each with someone invaluable under their arm. Each with one another. Hand in hand. Laughing. Invaluable kinda love. A dollar store’s wet dream.
The night began in the middle of the fucking day, you know. Oh!
Light kisses on the insides of arms. Pandora on the chromebook. Sad Flower, by Keston and Westdal kicked the whole thing off. Legs forming diamonds in the air, toes touching, knees bent. Arms just searching the air for a prayer. Fingertips gliding across the edges of ears. Acupuncture needles were threaded through, five on a side. Then Emiliana Torrini’s voice dripped out the speakers and filled the air. Set off goosebumps which got hard; then softened by each warm breath and whisper.
Then came the reflexology sessions, working the soles over and pushing the magic release of tension all the way up the spine by way of the simple careful pressure. Breathing got deep. And deeper. Then two bodies were like words, and freshly pressed.
This was not a test.
Four eyes met somewhere around five. Predawn. Just as they had put one another to sleep, the looking into one another’s yawning glass eyes woke them into the eternity that comes of staring into some soul for even one minute. Palms of hands surfed up the back of the calves, with sleeves of dragons fire biting the achilles.
Then a slow motion hyperventilation filled the room, synchronized deep breathing. Both women were naturally tan. One was a slender five nine. She did an extended child pose over the other, sitting back on her ankles in between the dragons, and pushing her upper body down and across the length of the other. And then the moment the deal got sealed: clasping hands and way over their heads.
The one above had tresses of auburn hair, falling like flames over the shoulders and tits of the one below her with her boot camp close cut to the head. Their ribs fell into one another like a grill. The heat was fantastic in the predawn coolness.
The heat got spent in no time.
What was left, they took to the bank, by six.
By seven, they laughed it all out, side by side, in a milky way of sheets and blankets all mixed up.
Wonderfully spent. Came and went.
Spun out in a daydream. Pale and smooth faces, looking up like flowers to the sun.
They laughed it out at eight.
Oh, what a date.
-erotica, by Katya
She was falling out with relatives, again. Another full moon, subsiding. A tide of unanswerable and unacceptable emails foamed back into the great NSA-tapped archive of global communications. She was in the third person. Otherwise, writing about her life would be next to impossible. Today. She held her dishevelled head in her hands. Only 3 am. Just freshly pressed, hung up and wrung out already. Gravity wrestled the entire nebula to the ground. She would take a torch to the whole neurosis. Then douse it with a bell jar. Sylvia Plath style. Then drown it in a tub.
I am involved in a turning point. 6 am. Turning like turnstiles, in the deafening silence of some graveyard shift subway. Something is happening! First person put third on a shelf. I paid my fucking dues, by dawn. The nightmares chased me around for a while, ya, from within. The tv flashed its many screens like S.O.S. , tried for my attention but failed. I would not have it. Sleep. TV.
The rain is imminent, outside these walls. When I woke, I held my head in my hands for a while. I was feeling the pain. Another falling out, you know. But then something happened. One of the cats wanted to play fetch. Kept bringing me a first draft I had crumpled up the day before, into a paper ball. I wanted nothing of it, at first. The cat left my first draft just behind my laptop screen. I wasn’t even aware at first. And then I was. I was aware. Third person shoved off, for first.
I paid my dues and thought my way through the turnstiles. I just had to think real hard, my head in my hands. Then stop. Then click click – click click – click click. The sound of change cycling through the metal reservoir. The digital numbers flipping on a backlit screen the size of a cell phone template. Like I won the fucking lottery. That’s when I stopped thinking. The color was a vivd kinda green. Seawater. Fluorescent. There was no-one around. Just me and my cats. Imminent rain, and our turning point.
I grabbed the ball and threw it! Left the laptop behind. Threw my first draft all around the place. And my cats became dogs. Just me and my dogs! They were coveting my awful first draft, I had balled up and thrown in the trash yesterday. They were growling! And I had named my cat Pitbull. Yes, I named my cat Pitbull. Many full moons ago, about five. We were all growling together. Me and Mouse and Pitbull. We were turning and growling. And yes, I named my cat Mouse.
‘mouse’ by k
It was only 6am, and I had full on access to change in my life. Full on frontal change, from worse to better! Thanks to a crumpled old useless ball of first draft. And a cat named Pitbull. And a cat named Mouse. I need not jump the turnstiles and jump the subway train, no. Not like I used to. In Chicago. In Oakland. In NYC. In Boston. There’s not a city turnstile, I didn’t once jump. Because my essence is punk. Ya. My essence is punk. I have cats like dogs. And it’s gonna rain like them, too. And the moon is gonna wane. Ya. The moon is gonna wane. And I got my first person, bartered back from the third. And i claimed a whole vortex of emotion… I know it sounds absurd. And I love my fucking relatives, ya, I just gotta say. Like a love a good proofreader, and rainbow shoelaces, and the month of May. I don’t care if you’re black, disabled or gay. I will love you if your white as the sheets in a bleach bath. I will love you if your head is flushed red, full of wrath. I will love all the haters I hope will just go away. Even the ones inside my head. I will love them. Today.
by Katya, 09/13
Pitbull at 2 months
letters
letters come from childhood. Where we studied them, one at a time. Some of us started to put them together on black or green slate, with chalk. Spelling our names before blowing the chalkdust away – to see ourselves, in writing
letters
some kick out confidently. Others stand tall like a sentry. Others roll back upon themselves, forever. Some stand alone just fine, thank you very much – in plain, white chalkdust
some are selfless and silent. Some want to helping our voices to speak them
others play predicate and pluralize a whole world of words
letters
some couple off, and work best as a pair
others play dissident, or become just a number
chalkdust
letters form words which, placed side by side, and exposed to light and eyes – form tears which fall over snowdrifts of smiles
to watercolor slate…
chalkdust
all meaning then blooms – against a green or black sky
My heart was no longer aching, not today. Maybe cause i got down on my knees to pray. Maybe i was just lucky. The truth was somewhere, obfuscated by layers upon layers of typewriter paper. I could catch a glimpse of it now and then, but today i could not tell you, if you asked how i was. i probably would not give you the old routine.
i’m okay.
No really, how are you?
Nah, at least i can say that on my behalf. I won’t tell you i am okay. somewhere between 4am and 10am, the smoothest window of my life in a day, something goes awfully wrong. And it happens almost every fucking day. Maybe 8 cups of coffee is too much for one person? Maybe two cats is one too many for this girl? Maybe i do not know how to be alone.
i’m not okay.
well, what’s wrong?
Nothing is necessarily wrong. My life is a superfluous cliffhanger waiting to happen. I fall like my novel, into the ebook via freebook via genre fiction via romance via mystery and suspense via suspense is killing me, category. I may be featured #1 of the suspense is killing me bestseller list, at any given moment in time. This is heartfelt#1. by Katya.
K IS SILENT 