A BEGINNING OF A STORY THAT ENDED ITSELF DUE TO POOR EXECUTION OF NARRATIVE
BY KATE ANDERSON / CLITERACY / OCTOBER 2017
A beginning of a story that ended itself due to poor execution of narrative
The opening night was approaching, Napoleon was sweating, and I was down town at the Basement most nights, watching poorly disguised trannies rub their junk on a rusty pole to the theme song of Cheers.
Of all the things Napoleon and I could have shared, we never expected it to be blood on our hands.
She was beautiful. Jet black hair flowing down to her pencil thin waste, a river of darkness. Amber eyes carved straight from the earth’s deep, unforgiving heart. A smile that melted winter, skin as soft as a widow’s first whimper. She was pure as morning, quiet as night, soon to become frozen delight.
Her profession was glamour, limousines, lipstick, champagne and banquets. She reported the newest talent and the worst offenders. The Napoleon Exquisite was to be the feature article of the culinary section. She was our ticket to a golden future.
Napoleon’s appetite for women thirsted in to overdrive the morning she swept in to our construction site.
His English turned to white gravy, his legs to ribband jelly, his sweat overflowing into a river of distaste that made his armpits look like they were ready to oil the pan of his demise.
Fortunately, or so I thought, I intercepted her glowing stare and directed her to a quiet room to speak whilst my head chef steadied himself on the silver polished counter. I later wished I’d let him drive her off with his sudden display of perverse ogling.
She asked few questions, preferring to base her notes on my reactions to her devious looks and selfish innocence. Luckily, unlike my short, unforgivable counterpart, my cock did not stir, not even at the way her small breasts moved up and down rapidly as she breathed with curiosity, jotting down notes regarding some otherworldly judgement of my mostly brutish and silent form. She shifted in her chair, swapping one leg over the other and revealing a brief glimpse of lace between her thighs. I smiled sadly to myself, wondering how often this goddess had used her higher powers to seduce as much scandal as she pleased from the rich and foolish alike.
She may have been an exceptional judge of character and intent when it came to other men, yet somehow she had missed the fact that I was indeed a homosexual alcoholic posing as an investor, and her tricks could not work on me.
Described by those closest to her as a passionate old soul, Kate delights in classical music, lives inside libraries and can often be found swirling a glass of wine at an underground Sydney house party, recalling life stories and practising her not so secret dream of stand up comedy. Over the years, Kate has been coming to terms with a major depressive disorder. She has been working hard to understand and befriend the black dog which has been following her, and has made significant progress. Her outlet has always been writing, and with a deep lust for the English language, she hopes to communicate to her readers the joys as well as the darkness of the world through her own eyes, and to create connections through written words.