Clown.

When I first started this blog it was with the intention of showcasing not only my work, but also the work of other authors. It is with pride that I present this story written by my son Sebastian Gabriel Titus Bishop. I really enjoyed this story and insisted he put it on Neon Rabbit.

Please read and enjoy.

The body of a woman lay upon the ground, her blood soaked victorian dress draped loosely over unnaturally contorted limbs. Her head completely degloved of its flesh, crisp white bone could be seen peeking through the crimson liquor.

A clown skips away from the scene, a gleeful smile creeping from ear to ear; he picks at the blood and hair lodged beneath his fingernails. He walks through the carnival grounds, an elegant hat sitting upon his head, tipped forwards slightly, concealing a painted face. His left hand drags a large sack behind him, leaving a trail of blood. He frolics, whistling a joyful tune, his glistening teeth shining through the shadow that obscures his face.

Frightened onlookers watch him as he conducts an inaudible symphony using a scalpel lacquered with blood. A crowd of people stare towards him, their faces petrified. The clown’s skipping slowly comes to a halt. His eyes scan the crowd as men and women avert his gaze. Yet eye contact still occurred. A young boy, frozen still, stared directly into his core as only a child is able to. The clown’s face lights up. Elated, he walked towards the child. A terrified mother holds the boy against her chest. The clown drops to one knee.

“I have a g-gift for you little boy,” he whispered ecstatically. The mother still watched the clown in horror. However, the child regarded the clown with something like curiosity. The clown’s hand reached into the bloodied sack. The boy’s eyes widened,

“What is it?” he whispered, asking politely. “Is it candy?”

“Something better,” his hand reemerged from the sack, holding what looked like a rubber mask. He handed it to the child slowly. The boy then held the mask gently.

“Wow!” He held the face up to his own, looking through the eye holes. “This is such a cool mask!” The clown simply smiled,

“Something like that,” He stood up again, making eye contact with the mother. He extended his scalpel bearing hand, dragging the tip gently down her cheek. Her eyes somehow seemed to widen further, pursed lips suppressing a scream. Muscles in his face begin pulling the corners of his mouth across both sides of his head, producing an inhuman gash of a smile. He proceeds to cut downwards, leaving a bloody slit behind as a keepsake.

Walking away slowly, he flourises his blade, then wiping it across his tongue. He turned around and curtseyed, then proceeded to throw his elegantly adorned hat into the horrified, shivering crowd.

Whistling a gleeful melody, he capered, taking long energetic strides, practically bounding towards his small trailer. Before disappearing into the dark box, he turned around and winked towards the crowd, then disappearing.

Suddenly, the crowd erupted into a stupendous roar, applause and cheering ringing all throughout the carnival grounds. A deep, growling voice then played through speakers spread throughout the grounds,

“Wonderful! A wonderful show! Bravo!” Everyone was silent, waiting for the next announcement, “Can we have a big round of applause for our dear Mister Giggles please!?” Applause could be heard once again, like a stampede of bulls. “Just, wonderful! And only twenty-five people had to die”  He put an emphasis on the twenty-five, almost as if he were satisfied by the number, “Thank you all for coming!” Applause again, “I do hope we’ll see each other very soon! Have a wonderful night!”

 

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Night at the Club

I’m back. The work has changed somewhat recently. It’s been a focused change to create something more personal. I am getting back to my roots. The idea is to step away from genre and write something visceral. The idea is to bleed on the page and hope some truth comes from that writing. I will always love genre, but in order to write it better I have to take a step back and write from my life for a while.

The piece I am posting today is satire. Let me state that again, it is satire. I was writing about masculinity in a way that pokes fun, but also shows the fragility of the male psyche. A lot has been written about male psyche recently and toxic masculinity. I have dealt with it in my own way and I’m sure I have a long way to go before I rid myself of these prejudices. This is a way of showcasing what it was like for me as a young man in my twenties while also poking fun at the sense of entitlement men often seem to espouse.

The following piece is a work of fiction. It is a satire. It is meant to poke fun at men. I wrote it in second person perspective with the tone of books about masculine etiquette (maybe, I don’t know, I’ve never read one actually). It also reminded me of “Pick Up Artists” from the aughts.

Please read and enjoy,

 

 

She walked into the room like a cliché. The room went silent, she laughed with her whole body to something her friend said. She was a woman that you could fall in love with, grow old with, have children with. All your fantasies fuse onto her like a bear trap and you suddenly can’t picture anyone more attractive. She is light and sunny, but has an edge that screams of some hidden kink that you get to explore. She is unattainable, but highly gettable. She moves like Dita Von Teese and looks like Pam Grier. You imagine she can drink you under the table, but always maintains poise and balance. She is all these things right up until you speak to her, get to know her and find out she is broken and looking for a place in this cold dark world. This doesn’t deter you however. You knew that she was a real person. You are not objectifying her, because in that two second introduction you are in love with her whole being. You don’t even know her name, but you’re sure it’s something exotic, like Rain, or something regal and old like Muriel. The names aren’t important, they’re just titles really. A way to put a sound to the woman you want to spend the rest of your life with. She moves and your eyes follow her into the bathroom and you lose sight of her. You will find the opportunity to speak with her by the end of the night and declare your undying love.
You get a drink at the bar, nothing fancy, a man’s drink. Whiskey neat or on the rocks, both are masculine enough to be seen with. Martini glasses are for women or Hunter S Thompson. Wine is for the artsy types. Beer is yesterday’s big thing. This bar doesn’t have any craft beer anyway. You are a man’s man, here for the music, the atmosphere, and the women. The drink is just a prop, like the cigarettes. The cigarettes should be cheap, but not too cheap. No Basics, No Pall Malls, It’s either Camels, Marlboros, or American Spirits if you’re feeling spendy. Nothing with black paper, no cloves, you’re not in high school, and Johnny Depp is the only straight man you’ve ever seen that can pull off cigarellos. With your bourbon neat in hand you turn back to the dance floor.
Dancing is a tricky prospect. It is necessary in a club to dance, but it can also be off putting. You need to move just enough so that the women around you can dance with you without the distraction of quality dance moves. You are not John Travolta. You stick to the two step, because you can make it look somewhat more complex than it is. Sway the arms more, step quicker or slower, Kick out a foot if you’re feeling frisky. A woman may join you on the dance floor. Match her pace, let her be the star of this show so that perhaps you might be the star of the show to come. Always be aware of your drink. A clumsy spill could end your night on the town. Watch for rings on the fingers of your dance partner, this may make it more challenging to take her to bed. Obstacles are just things to be overcome. Bear in mind it may be too much effort so be prepared to bow out gracefully. You haven’t managed to entice any women so you move off the dance floor. You were starting to sweat and that may be unseemly.
Out to the smoking patio for a quick smoke. Don’t pay too much attention to anyone in the smoking patio. The men tend to be too chummy and the women may be more brazen than you are used to. Light the cigarette, be mindful of your own space. Encourage conversation by having an open stance, but don’t be too encouraging. How many great people have you met in a smoking patio after all? This is a lottery you don’t need to win. Smoke quickly, but not too quickly, the smell may stick to your clothes. Keep an eye out for your one true love. Her smoking habits would be worth noting for later encounters.
Inside the bar the patrons have grown in number. Scan the bar for your beauty, than the dance floor. You had not seen her in the smoking patio, it would be heartbreaking if she had already left. You make a pass through the throng of dancing bodies. No need to dance while you are in pursuit. This is a tenuous time where you should look for her, but you mustn’t seem like you’re looking for her. This can create an aura of desperation that others may see and confuse as an overall desperation to find women. You don’t have any trouble finding women, not usually. The women tonight have been cold. Not one has approached you on the dance floor, at the bar, or indeed even in the smoking patio. There can be no doubt in this regard. It’s not you, it is the women. You are a healthy specimen of masculinity.
At long last you spot her on the dance floor. She is dancing with her friend close enough to ward off lesser men. You should not be fooled by this ruse, she is waiting for the right man. She is waiting for you. You move closer. Dance nearby, within eye sight, but not too close, you mustn’t let your intentions be known until it is absolutely necessary and she can be understandably wooed. At a booth is most preferable with her hand in yours as your eyes drink each other in and you ask her where she would like to spend the night. You find the opportunity to make your move. Her partner has left and she is dancing by herself. Move closer. Make eye contact. Nod at her as you dance. Not too close, but close enough where she can easily close the gap. Your eyes glance over her amazing assets. You note with some joy that she has no ring, that is not a hurtle for you tonight. You move closer. She smiles. The air between you is electric. There is a ferocity in her movements that you don’t believe were there moments ago. You feel a tap on your shoulder, it is the friend of your true love. You move your ear closer to her imagining the possibility of two partners this evening, “That’s my girlfriend.” She says to you in a more serious tone than you were expecting. You nod, of course they are girlfriends. The friend shoves past you and embraces your love. She kisses her. Your love kisses back. The friend’s hands are moving more intimately than you are comfortable with.
In these situations it is best to retreat quickly, but not too quickly. Your haste may be misinterpreted as homophobia. You are not homophobic. You’re drink is finished so you go to the bar. Glance back at the dance floor and you will see your lady’s passion for her friend growing. There is a slight sting in your chest, but this night is still young. Out of the corner of your eye you see a woman enter. She walks in like a cliché.

Work in progress

I have recently moved into a new place, started working a new job, and it has been tricky finding time to write anything substantial recently. I have been working on something that I have enjoyed, but it feels like a pastiche of whatever I’m reading which creates a kind of schizophrenic story that’s not sure what it wants to be. However I think I’ve found my groove and I’m submitting a small excerpt for your perusal. The story centers around the life and times of an expressionist artist named Taylor Messing.

Please read and enjoy.

Taylor Messing

He was in a club, couldn’t remember the name. High class posing as low class, you wouldn’t know the difference until you ordered, then you would see the strange liqueurs made from rhubarb and lavender. Frenet Branca in the drinks and the 15 dollar price tag for cocktails. Taylor drank wine, which he did to make himself feel more like an artist and less like a phony. He tried not to be concerned about appearances, but the culture magazines always made their way to him and he would see himself picked apart in those pages. He even hired a style consultant to buy clothes for him.

He never liked dancing, but instead found himself wading through the dancers as the night wore on. The music was too loud for conversation and communication became a series of gestures and body language. Taylor watched silently and tried to be unobtrusive, but kept stepping in the line of dancers. He was out of sync and he felt it, but the rush of music and the heat of the bodies was like a salve. It was the thrum of humanity that kept him coming back, not actual connection.

A woman’s arm glanced across his face and left a trail of sweat. She stopped her dancing to apologize. He grimaced as she spoke. He couldn’t hear a word she was saying, but her face was emotive. He understood her apology and nodded. Taylor made what he thought was a gesture for drinks, but she shrugged. He pulled her close and spoke into her ear, “Would you like a drink?” She appeared to have heard him and nodded. She followed him through the crowd. They wove wordlessly up to the bar and smiled at each other. Another wordless conversation. In frustration she tugged at his shirt and pulled him to the restrooms. She pulled a small vial filled with white powder from her cleavage and scooped out a pinky nails worth before snorting it. She repeated the process and offered it to him. He leaned in and inhaled deeply.

Hands groped, kneaded, caressed, and traced along the contours of her body. Her name was Jessica, at least that was the name she gave him. She was small, elfin in appearance. Her eyes looked bigger in the black light of the club, but when they got out onto the street he could see the age in her face. Her eyes were still massive. Her grin, and the way she bit her lower lip was casting spells on his resolve. She moved into the kiss first. She was bold. She took him by the hand and lead him to the street where she quickly waved down a taxi. “You in a rush?” Taylor asked.

She turned to him her smile gleaming under the streetlights, “Yeah, I want to get fucked.” She laughed, kissed him, then returned to hailing a cab.

The cab smelled like Nag Champa with a hint of urine. Money for Nothing by Dire Straits blared on the radio when Jessica pushed him into the cab and climbed on top. “Where am I headed?” The cabbie asked disinterested in the back seat display.

Taylor broke away long enough to call out the address before returning to Jessica’s insistent mouth and hands. His eyes were closed as he ran his fingernails along her tight stomach. As they played her body dissolved into a mental landscape of hills, valleys, and peaks. Her body changed shape in his mindscape, it was no longer humanoid, but instead morphed into a kind of space craft he might have seen on a science fiction movie from the seventies. Traffic lights flickered across his closed eyelids and exacerbated the effect.

He let his mind wander down this surreal path. He pictured the decks of the craft lit in green and red. The exterior was a mass of gothic spires and trellises ornamented with gold filigree against the black wrought iron hull of her body. This image held despite the obvious suppleness of her breast which was cupped in his right hand. In his mind’s eye he saw Jessica at the helm. She stood naked except for a pair of polished knee high black leather boots. She stood behind a steering wheel that seemed to be lifted from some ancient pirate ship. Her breasts were heaving and already beading with sweat. She didn’t turn the steering wheel, instead she stroked two handles rigorously with her head thrown back. She was moaning as she stroked the handles, her volume increased with the speed of her strokes.

“We’re here.” The cabbie barked, “Twenty three seventy five.”

The spell was broken. Jessica licked her lips and Mick Jagger was crooning on the radio. Taylor shook the fog from his head and slapped some bills into the cabbie’s hand.

………………………………….

Sheldon

This is a shorter post today. I was playing with the idea of an adult children’s book. simplistic, but creepy.

Enjoy.

Sheldon.

There is nothing to be afraid of. You didn’t actually hear anything crash through the security door at the bottom of the stairs. Pull your thin flannel sheet over your head so it can’t see you. You may have heard your neighbor scream, but that doesn’t mean the lumbering footsteps you hear in the hallway are going to stop at your door. Roll over and try not to breathe. It helps to sing a little song in your head, something from your childhood will calm your nerves as you wait out the monster that just snapped your door handle off with the ease of a child popping the head from a dandelion.

If you go down to the woods today you’re in for a big surprise.

If you go down to the woods today you’ll hardly believe your eyes.

It is helping, isn’t it? If you think very loudly it will drown out the sound of his breathing as he opens your bedroom door. Your muscles feel tight, don’t they? That is adrenalin. The sheet will protect you just keep it over your head.

The sound of its nail carving at the foot of your bed is distracting, but you just keep singing your song.

They’re in the trees where nobody sees.

They’ll laugh and play as long as they please.

Its hot breath is on your feet. You can feel it through the sheet. Don’t move. He may take you for a scrunched up blanket or a few pillows if you lay still.

There is nothing to be afraid of. It isn’t smelling your flesh beneath the cover. It most certainly hasn’t reached your head. You can ignore the thin talons gripping the top of your sheet, he didn’t actually touch your knuckle and is likely still fooled by your clever ruse. Don’t forget your song.

That’s they way the teddy bears have their picnic.

You can’t actually see the beast, because there is blood in your eyes, but at least you didn’t scream. The other tenants won’t be near as clever as you were.

Hunter S Thompson

It’s been a while since I posted anything. I have been writing a lot of non-fiction lately and it has taken a lot of my time, but I wanted to post this piece. I was given an assignment to write about Hunter S Thompson and his abuse of drugs and alcohol. This is what I wrote before I got the full instructions. The finished piece was good, but I thought this was more playful and better suited to my personal blog.

Please enjoy

 

I’ve never been a big fan of personal heroes. Heroes have an elevated position that creates unrealistic standards of who and what they are. It’s like the objectification of women to me, it’s fun intellectually, but as soon as they start talking the cover is blown. They become human, and therefore cease to be objects. I have never liked objectification so I never had heroes. When it comes to writing there are perhaps two people, and I regret that they are both white men. I wish there was a more inclusive list in my head, but there isn’t so we need to move past this. One is William S Burroughs and the other is Hunter S Thompson. Luckily they are both deceased so they’re actions are immortalized and fixed. I can objectify them all I want now.

The subject of this article is Hunter S Thompson and his prolific drug and alcohol use. I have used both drugs and alcohol, but never to the legendary levels that Mr. Thompson used drugs and alcohol. I thought it would be an interesting experiment to try and follow his drug regimen as listed through multiple sources on the internet here, here, and here. I would also like to note that I am not lampooning Mr. Thompson’s gonzo style so much as paying homage to a man that meant a lot to me over the years. You would see through it in a heartbeat if I tried.

His drug regimen began at 3pm when he woke. He would apparently have Chivas Regal, a Dunhill cigarette and read the paper. I have none of those things, so I am already off to a bad start. It follows with Cocaine at 3:45. I don’t have that either. Luckily as of the time of this writing it is only 9:43 am so I have time before his schedule takes effect. Chivas Regal is a blended Scotch Whiskey and fairly easy to acquire. The Dunhills will be easy as well, they just require a walk to the store. I will resume writing once I return.

I couldn’t find a newspaper, I found it odd, but they were out at every gas station that I passed. I was walking into the last grocery store on my way back when I saw him. A man of about 6 feet tall with dark sunglasses. He had a stack of newspapers under his arm and was moving rapidly towards a vehicle that was idling nearby. I ran towards him, but was not quick enough to catch him. The vehicle sped away and nearly clipped me as it moved past. I lit a cigarette and decided a free City Pages would work in place of an honest newspaper.

Cocaine is not as difficult to acquire as you might think. I don’t have any great connections in the city. I do not know any drug dealers. I didn’t think I knew any. I was mistaken. I passed a friend on my way to get a newspaper, we’ll call him J for sake of anonymity. I told him about my bold experiment. He said, without skipping a beat, “How much do you need?” I told him quite a lot to really do the experiment properly. He replied, “Meet me back here in about twenty minutes.” I agreed and decided to drink some of the Chivas while I waited.

It is not legal to drink in public where I live. I don’t usually drink before noon, but given the fact that I was waiting for coke on a city street to help write an article about Hunters S. Thompson I suddenly felt painfully sober at 11 am. I cracked the bottle and took a deep pull.

I sat on a nearby bench waiting for my drugs and sipping at my bottle. When you sip on a bottle of alcohol it has been my experience that it is difficult to gauge how much you have drunk. When my friend returned I stood to greet him. All the alcohol I had ingested hit me like a tidal wave and I felt my head swoon. A glance at the bottle in my hand told me I had about half the bottle put away. Not too shabby, but I hadn’t eaten much so the sudden inebriation was intensified and I doubled over. I reached out to the bench that I was sure existed, but missed and cracked my head on the cement. The bottle rolled gently to a patch of grass and was feeding the ground with its contents.

After J was done laughing he helped me up and grabbed what was left of the scotch. I blathered at him and tried to hand him money for the drugs. He pushed my hand away and kept telling me to put the cash back in my pocket. I was insistent, “I need that coke.” I yelled. That’s when I heard a new voice above me. I looked up and saw what appeared to be a pit bull dressed as a man. He had a dark blue bullet proof vest and a matching hat. He barked in a way that sounded like an order, but I was beyond the English language at that point and tried to ignore him in the hopes that he would go away. The rest of the encounter was a blur. What I do know is that I was not arrested and neither was my friend, since he was unable to score the drugs he was sure he could procure. I was given a fine and my scotch was taken from me.

By some miracle I made it back to my place and promptly passed out in the doorway. 3 o’clock came and went and I woke somewhere around 7 very sore and unable to turn my neck. I considered the experiment over and a complete failure. I couldn’t get past breakfast and that is my lament, but as Hunter once said, “I hate to advocate for drugs and alcohol, but they’ve worked so well for me.” I am not Hunter and to tell the complete truth I am glad of this. I am more glad that he was the inspiration for adventures like this and it is his spirit that sometimes spurs me to push myself beyond the ordinary boundaries I am acquainted with.

Thank you Mr. Thompson and I wish you well wherever you may be.

Kid stuff

sebcat

My son has been producing videos using a bike helmet camera. They’re fun, I was really impressed with them , he put a bed of music underneath and made something cool. This may be a bit of parentral pride, but screw it, it’s my blog and I don’t have any new stories right now.

This one is my favorite and if you want to watch the other two check them out here.

Novels!

I have noticed in the short time this blog has existed that people have a limited attention span, not your fault, I understand. I too am a product of MTV editing techniques and the emerging blogosphere, it’s got to be short or I won’t read it. However I feel like I should put the longer pieces up, so I’ve found a solution.
The Novels page! it is made for the longer texts. if you’ve got an afternoon handy or feel like watching the evolution of a story you can check out the new page. I’ll post when I make changes or throw new material up.
Check it out, currently I have a completed story called Georgia about hypnosis and a cuckholding fetish. I also posted the incomplete Snot; A Redneck Fantasia about a Pro Wrestler with acidic snot coursing through his sinuses and a Norwegian Black Metal band fueled by the powers of Satan.

As always, enjoy,

k.bishop
Neon Rabbit