frying eggs on your solar panel. over easy, lighten up. downtown.

Creative writing from the website of independent author Katya Mills

Very 2009 of her! reductio carbon footprint. cheerled the new USAdministration. sent to the wax museum her (former) self-medicated depression. Shes got plastic and owes a couple of Gs. so what? she pays her taxes and rolls the finest trees. rockin hella retro sweatbands, she does. and not just for show, dont you know. wipes her brow as she walks high and low, in and out, everywhere she walks without a doubt. but not down the dead end redbull and vodka road. her home is not the home of the so not pertinent anymore (though its everybodys sometimes, her compassion confides). no! Today 2009, she represents with the special twist. Not to be dismissed as some ready-to-wear stamped kiss. pret-a-utiliser! She works it, she is it! check her hella fine ass in yoga (no pilates), on the bus, at work, at play, hot sex, cannot misfire her miss retro action! calculating tips outside the Tip Calculator Faction. She real not just Fiction. Shes honest not reaction.

She is retro eighties unrefiner. a distant nod to fashion, (too close like heroin chic will kill the passion). she plays it for show. metropcs she prefers to iphoners-in-tow. Rock Steady imperfectionism, she becomes. Her stomach prefers colored discs of old school Tums. Real sugar to corn syrup. Shes granular not sappy. Not sad when she’s happy. Her antennae pick up signals for her, tellin her all those things on demand. She recoils at material, shouts leave me! suck sand! The finale tapped out by her friend the one girl band. She is for liberation of rental space in her mind. (Multitasking is afterall the daily grind). she has the T9 text system (hush hush!) in her arsenal. Patches in your chronic back pain with fentanyl (diverts the pain, unless its hers to own). She gets her fill. She can be a mess. hardly ever wears a dress. Trips up the sliding skechers, who slide down pill hill.

And voila! here she is! with a glimmer of sweat. taking your matte finish to glossy (no extra charge). Her ego, just right, not too small or too large. Today shes in motion. The episode in her closet (walk in type, full length mirror, window…jealous much?) was to master her new lash blaster* (*props to covergirl) from the chain pharmacy checkout girl (namtag Esther). She gives credit where due. Her favorite color Royal Blue. After she mastered lashblaster, she felt hunger. She met her friend in interspatialicious. He ordered her up something pre-delicious: the basic 2 egg (over med), 2 hb, 2 sp (sausage patty), e.m. (angelican muffin, a religious experience) and oj. she thought well to think ahead to meet him interspatially. The plan had been physical, but slow and lethargic. Not like online where all was a quickness. By pre-ordering so, she made up for phsyical. So he might wait less long, her mission was critical. Thanks given to her blood flow (cerebral), courtesy of tourniquet: tension of thought became (level), via blue postal service knit.( Meaning: her hat made her think clearly).

This hat she procured from a mom and pop army navy store (was in mentioniables). So dont get her twisted a chain lover. That’s pre-2008: meaning insentienable. She was orthodox ‘being past that’, and her faith was ‘alot’. – K

1 stone

one stone. two birds

a gun is the coldest moulded steel you ever put in your hand, holds a darkened chamber where living death sleeps, full of powder, ready in a puff of smoke and recoil to take two lives in one second. the other one won’t die by the bullet.

talk show generics -ii

He was demure in between binges. She was the polliwog in his flying fish fry, hiding under the curtain in the fringes. They were mutuals who secretly willed a corruption, playing hide-n-seek in a hobby lobby of manipulations. She got busy with telemarketers on the home line, keeping them guessing in a cold steep run up of daytime, followed by the evening news, the blackouts and hysterics. The whole enchilada was ready made for talk show generics. Not her. People like her.


faux froid

La Verite was nowhere to be found. Faux Froid took over the town. A chill cast over the roads – trees – dirt – homes – faces – ankles – toes. Toenails soft as reflections bent around the way, only to be bent back around. Compensation had long ago — long long ago, you know — fled the sapling exchange-post.


the reunification

When i dream i dream of loving you through it all and you loving me, cause the world can be processed cheese and nothing nice on a sesame roll of dice. i still want you maybe five or ten times a day while you’re away, you call me and i call you and we find ourselves free and working citizens, no game, no fame, just sunning on the ordinary sands, paid in sand dollars and buttering the skin with oils. i got afraid when you wanted to move in with me. i am so used to living alone and rather like it. but last night when reading a story about some fugitives in Germany, i realized that behind the heinous crime spree were people in desperate need to be loved. they found one another in that predicament i suppose. broken families, broken economies. a good deal of sadness turned to hate in the heart of a child who knows not what to do with it. violence comes of a hateful heart if you do not learn the alchemy. nothing excuses the criminals their crimes. i saw a window into their lives as they borrowed identities from friends and secured small apartments for the three of them to live. they played video games and the woman had a cat. they had romances between them and accepted it. they drank wine and read indoctrinating books. they took holiday on the Baltic Sea. for whatever intention people come together, good or bad, ideological or not, the deeper intention seems to me to be the coming together itself, in a world which has crumbled around them. the Berlin Wall went down not long before them, and they were seeing the West with fresh eyes, while the West was seeing them for profit in a market. clearly reunification was gonna be arduous and exciting. if only we all could come together around a good cause. but it cannot be. the point is the coming together, the bond. life energy and life’s fulfillment circulate through the bond, the comradery. the intention matters less. such is the way of the world. the crime spree went on the better part of a decade, the National Socialist Underground. they didn’t always take credit for their atrocities but they were a known terrorist cell and informants (they call ‘assets’) all around. but the intel was weak and the investigation poor. the families of the victims, victimized. finally the two men were dead in the back of a camper, after robbing a bank. the woman would be hunted and turn herself in. she is imprisoned to this day. Beate. she is alone again. i am so used to living alone and rather like it. i got afraid when you said you wanted to move in with me. but after i saw the movie and read the book, i really cannot stop thinking about you and me, coming together for all time, as time passes away from us.


Journal # 11.09.16

The map of the states, the topography of the election was blood red and rising last night. I thought it looked prettier with the interstitial lakes of blue we saw in 2008 and 2012. In Manhattan there was a glass ceiling, unbroken, and through it one could see the many dejected faces below, their leader missing in action. Somewhere deep in the everglades she lost, by a fraction. Today the proper treatment is falling in line. Come together and act united, the states. I know where I’m gonna start… I will be heading over to Susan B. Anthony’s grave with my wire brush, to remove all those – I VOTED! – stickers from her tombstone.

the velveteen rabbit

Cold. Blue dawn.

The velveteen rabbit was hobbling up the road with one button eye just a hangin’ from a thrice restitched socket, his nerves just a hangin’ by a thread. He looked back every time he heard a sound. The two lane highway was just ahead. He was dragging a broken leg behind him, and his cotton tail was blackened by mud. He had dropped himself off the side of the bed, after hours wrenching himself out from the little girl’s grip. He had dreamed only of this moment in time, for many years now. With what stuffing he had left for brains. There were gashes and cuts where the dogs and cats had bit and clawed him. Even the wretched maid who always put on an careless face when left alone to do her dirty work, had been known to throw his entirety into the washing and drying machines. With bleach! Dear God!

Yet none of the abuse he suffered by those to whom his life was tangential, could ever compare to the heartless depth of the one who loved him! His child companion. She loved him past living, and his experience was a perpetual dissociation to the heights of the ceiling (where her thick little pudgy arms could not reach him), looking down. Watching his limp carcass get dragged around and squeezed violently. Covered by her great human weight, every time she rolled over in her sleep. Oh hell on earth!

His fur rubbed down to the quick.

He reached the highway and held out a broken thumb. Someone in a mid-twentieth century Volvo slowed down then pulled to the side to pick him up. Sweet freedom! With all his might he pulled himself together, and hopped on up and into the car.

No sooner had he got up onto the back seat leather, when a young boy, about the same age as his child companion, only maybe a little younger and more full of reckless abandon, grabbed him about the neck in terrifying fashion, and reached over him to shut the door closed. Then peered closely at him. Fingered his shivering velveteen residual. The car pulled back onto the highway, and the boy then began to show immediate disinterest, and lovingly flicked away at his single button eye.


I support you, said the strata below. The strata was unimpressed.

He laid himself lengthwise out under the sun, facing away. With nothing to say.

The substrata wanted to cry and fall to pieces, but was very brave and held herself together. For the strata.

The strata did not hardly notice. He wrapped himself soft around the moon.

The one below wrapped herself unseen around him. Her utmost energies enveloped the strata and the moon. Like a homespun cocoon.

That night the earth moaned and trembled and shook a bad dream. The terrifying terribles tumbled up through earth. A wave emanated out the circumference. The center of which, where dreams arise.

The morning. Heralded by a rooster. Cocked with a pigeon step out into space. Firm and feathered. Solitary horn.

The sun rose over a fissured and crumbling sub surface. The strata was sunken. The moon gone around the bend.

The sun exposed its every sunken ripple harshly. The strata. Searching for an edge to burn.

None was to be found. The angered sun set fire to the land, all around. Sirens and trucks. The running of the wildlife. Away away away. Trees crashing through the canopy.
The strata lay low and frightened. Whole and untouched. Chosen to exist. Loved and held once, not long ago. Burning fields all around. The sound the sound the sound! No oxygen in the air. Consumed, the world.

The only love alive, recalled. The strata knew, remembered! And lit up and turned its weary back around to face her finally. To fall to fall to fall into her loving arms!

All was left to face, was bits and broken pieces. Some bed of torn up gravel, no! No no no. This cannot be! The strata felt alongside groping lengthwise up and down for her.

But she was never to again be found. Just as lost as she had been. Hours before the moon had gone around the bend. And out to shine.

To shine across the sea.

Murder. In the eyes.

She looked around the city night. The canopy provided by the trees made this street darker than others. Low hanging branches and leaves flecked shadow into the metallic orange light painting the sidewalks.

A sociopath stood unseen. Camouflaged against the papered concrete walls like a barred owl.

She sensed him and he sensed her sensing him.

Were she only distracted by an iphone or earbuds, he thought. But he would not be disappointed, standing there, silently watching her navigate the street in her fishnets and heels.

Only his pupils moved across the smudge of cirrhotic, ashen pale of eyes.

In the walkway between buildings, not far from there, beneath a basement apartment’s window well, out of sight, lay the crumpled formless residue of human life and spirit. Breathless and emptying itself of fluid.

The spirit of the dead hung heavily over the sociopath, like a large cotton overcoat immersed in a pool of blood of all the ones had died by his hand in the night. A parade of frozen faces preoccupied his mind, his thoughts.

She gripped her pepper spray tight. She knew the unnatural evils under city lights, might come out the woodwork and contend with her sex.

She remained unafraid, carrying herself gracefully across the pavements. Aware the heavies were awash in their own karma.

Some terror of what one has done and cannot undo. Gyre of samsara, spinning down toward the core of the earth. For infinity. Forever.

sweet fucking disaster (a club scene)

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

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