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Sour Cherry Smile

She is the petrol and the match

By Francis Curt O'NeillPublished 2 years ago 3 min read
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Sour Cherry Smile
Photo by BRUNO EMMANUELLE on Unsplash

“It’s just not worth it” Cal utters through overlong drags on his drooping cigarette.” All your schemings and machinations, they’re fruitless. You’re better served by devoting your energies to… other pursuits.”

“Namely?” Susie asks with an expectant, wide stare.

“Births and deaths, there’s always those. Food, healthcare, schooling, the basic necessities, the fundaments of life. Forever dependable.”

“Notable for their distinct lack of fun” she paws at his mouth, beckoning the ciggy into her ham-fisted grip.

“Who told you any of this would be fun? That’s a child’s misconception right there, and a pretty integral part of your problem. Time to abandon childish things and suffer with the rest of us, enter into the abusive relationship that is employment.”

‘So I walk through the world with a babe’s sense of wonder, should I be punished for its coarseness? The fault is not mine, why should I compromise for… well-” Cal lowers, waiting for the inevitably refutable point, “-a sort of torture.”

“Less of the melodrama. Unless the stage calls?” She hands him back his cigarette, freeing her face to paint disdain. “Listen, I don’t want to go all, money makes the world go round, suckle from the corporate teat, but you decidedly have a crappy time in this scene kid. Unless your end goal as the starving artist is to have your ribs function as an impromptu xylophone. Survival just ain’t enough anymore. You will be bled dry, chasing a ghost of fame. The pain will make you rightly bitter, and it won’t matter whether it was deserved or unjust, it’ll just be. Don’t let your life be wreckage.”

“Like I got a choice…” Susie scrunches in her biker jacket, as awkward as a chastised schoolgirl.

“Of course you do.”

“You expect me to just flip a switch, lay down my arms and wear a smile, put on an apron, bake, marry for money, neglect a kid and break up anyway? The end is always bitter. If life wants a taste of me, at least I’ll be sour on my own terms.” He stares her dead in the eyes, the same burning fire as ever, the taunting lick of flames unchallenged.

“Convincing you otherwise was always going to be a losing battle.”

“We don’t lay down and die Cal, we shout until we can’t shout anymore.”

“Well.” He gifts her the last drag, the commencement of an implicit ritual. “Forgive me for wanting to hear your dulcet tones mature into old age. You’ve given this thing a lot already, you don’t got to give it your life.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Already signed it away, all cursive and pretty. Just waiting on the devil to collect.” She puffs on the barely there cigarette, tempted to let it singe her fingers, burn down to the bone. Instead it’s crushed under a steel capped boot. ‘So, shall we?”

“Lead the way.”

Blood piss and vomit the welcome currency of this transaction. Undulating tides of the tattooed, the lost, the hopeless and the barely hopeful. Crowds damned to vocal despair, here for her. Vessel for their current, sacrificial lamb for a few hours’ mercy. The venue is a dive, barely held together, it would crumble in all of this angst if their icon were any less than captivating, devotion palpable in ear busting bass. Susie is, as ever, demonic. Screams summoned from the pit of her stomach, rebel yells like breath.

In that revelry she thinks she wouldn’t mind dying on stage, in any night like this, because Cal’s right… It doesn’t get any better. She knows that. Cal locks with Susie fondly, shaped together as he wrestles his electric guitar, and she looses a banshee wail. She is the petrol and the match, immolation is a pretty gift to give after all. Sealed with a smile, they play until the night is over, unable to even beg for more.

Horror
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About the Creator

Francis Curt O'Neill

Writer and artist based in the north of England, passionate about all forms of storytelling.

@curtoneill on most socials

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