Short Story

Wild Horses

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– Why are you here? 

 Slurring her words in broken English, she leaned in, drunk and defiant, sizing me as a another ‘guiri’ the moment I came across her field of vision, moving in for the kill.

Emerging from the corner of this dimly lit scene, a severe looking bruiser watching over her shoulder I tried to ignore her at first, sensing trouble but she lured me in, confident in her feminine power despite her state.

I tried looking past her, desperate for eye contact with someone, anyone; the indifferent bar staff, the German guy she was draped over when I walked in. She wrapped her arm around me, commanding me to get her another whiskey but I just laughed.

Unfazed, she orders another drink, gets close as if to kiss me then asks me where I come from. Ireland, I say. With some disdain, She asks me if I’m from Dublin and without much prompting goes on a rant about Dublin and how much she loves Cork, the second capital.

Her aim is clear, to test my limits, insult me until I yield to her or reject her. A plan of transparent sexual aggression. She is from Galicia so she starts to dance, in time with the music playing in the darkness of this dimly lit red room.

Creating her own space, the hiply attired clientele fade into the background and I can’t turn away anymore. She’s not young, her face lined with experience but her form is shaped in all the right ways and her hands glide over her body as she moves with the sensual assurance of a woman. I’m turned on but uncomfortable too, a good catholic boy still deep down trying to keep my instincts under control.

But not this time baby, no way. I’m under a spell and I like it. Fuck restraint.

– why am I here?

I’m here to dance so let’s dance.

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reflections

Reflections – Dream Psychosis

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Some nights, I have the most disturbing dreams.To describe them would be to concede that in my mind lies some form of insanity. Without warning, my dreams segue imperceptibly into grotesque displays of extreme violence from which I the reluctant voyeur, trapped in the dream cannot turn away.Scenes of outrageous cruelty, bodily destruction and horror are performed in front of me and I am not allowed to turn away, I am both a willing and unwilling spectator, my own face rubbed in these visceral, nightmarish extremities, bodies, flesh and bone collapse and re-order themselves like putty, characters split apart with their faces and limbs re-arranging. I am at a distance as a scene from a play, a film, a moment in my life plays out and then I am thrust into it, the horror escalating with the line between cruelty and passion, love and hate eradicated as I try to switch it off. But it goes on and I am complicit somehow to this barbaric grand guignol, powerless. I scream. I wake. I cry.

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