SNUFF (h.s.)

Chapter 36

The River Poetress

Shall I call you Jolly Roger? If you came for my pussy dance, you can call me that.

He was convinced his life was worth less than a silver dollar on these mesas. He wasn't aware Jolly Roger was worth a million solid simoleons – or, perhaps, more than he could envision himself capable of spending in his lanky life.

We existed together. You're determined that I am the Last Poetress? Doc, of that be sure. She winked in her golden chain and white strapped sandals. She hung her leather trousers on a branch. The soil was squeezed between her shoe and feet persistent and tender.

They were sitting on the leftover coolness of the morning mist. My mind vanishes, I can sense the deterioration. I am terrified I will forget each thing, and so I never existed. I won't have existed, Harry.

She was pressing her forehead on the tree trunk. It wrinkled. She saw a spider weaving a ghostly bed in the holler. Mushrooms had sprouted on the bottom. She pushed her bare skin on the tree, resin and dust stuck on her skin, a few ants. Harry approached her.

Are you feeling alright, Nora? Aren't we going for a dive?

Harry was staring at the river. He was pulling his boots. He stepped on damp rotting leaves. He stood beside her. He gripped his belt. He was waiting for hands to take off his vest. She embraced him. Her pube rubbed on his blue-jeans. Her waist chain bedewed him.

I am trying to remember. I try to treat myself an honest woman. I try to understand what I am doing. And it is strange, I figure. I cannot single-track. I have to ask myself constantly otherwise I will... I will... Harry.

What's your question? What is it, Jolly Roger? Why don't you take a dive? You'll like it. I know.

They converse, their mouths are immobile. Nora caressed and scratched his back, her bangs have grown thick, she has to part them in order to see. But she doesn't desire to see. Not this world. The wind blew freeing her eyes. Yes, the river was handsome. She must always wonder otherwise she will... Her art. What art is that? She must always think, otherwise she will lose her art. She will...

You have to get rid of the empty spaces. Are you familiar with these empty spaces?

They were climbing the rocks. Harry was carrying his boots, he wore them back, the stones were hurting his soles. She would walk three steps and stand or kneel to speak. When she moved, Harry was watching her vulva hide and grow large. Her skin was stretching and shrinking. This heartbeat did not belong to him; it was the pulse of his sperm in his cock awaiting its liberation on her flesh. He couldn't reach for her sex for her bare skin was distant now.

What are those empty spaces you speak of?

They're persistent. What fills the empty spaces? A horridity. When I'm waiting for the answer I must be bold, precise, clear. Indecent? I don't know what it means. Certainly salient. If I delude myself, I permit all others to deceive me. And when I say something to myself, Harry, then I cannot take it back. I cannot mislead me. I've said it now.

Come' ere. Nora stood on the rock. She turned her half torso, she resembled a hypnotized cobra. Her sandals were hard-strapped, her skin swelled in rhombic shapes. Come' ere baby bud. Come you. He took off his vest. She kneeled on the stone. She lied. She slid her skein body.

Her breasts widened as she stretched her arms holding her head, the sun was tiring, it turned red when she pressed it on the rock. Harry fondled her nipples discovering a bizarre tale of braille. She had nothing to say to him today. Her hair wrapped her face and her neck. Her hair writhe like lithe demons. She pinches her hidden cheeks. He can't dig it yet, can he? She yearns, she suffocates. She ignores him. Her gums were numb as if she'd sucked small cubes of ice.