Flying Whale


Lester’s Note

Lester wanted to be famous it was all he could think about since he was 14. His parents died when he was 12, his grandparents did the best they could, but were too old to give him the attention he needed. His life revolved around getting out, getting out of this shithole little town to make a name for himself.
She was his ticket. She would deliver him to the public. People would take notice of him, write about him, think about him, fantasize about him. In her, he would have it all. She was valedictorian, captain of the field hockey team, and a member of the First United Church of Christ choir. Just standing next to her elevated your social status. Together, he knew they could make it.
Her eyes were still open as Lester scrawled out his message, in her warm blood, on the gym floor. In big block letters he wrote, Thank you.


The room smelled like sex, musty and damp with the faint, but distinct sent of latex.  There was a trail of clothes leading to the bed, which is torn apart.  The room had a yellow glow from the morning sun beaming through the curtains, burning off the night’s dew on a spider web outside the window and baking the spunk into the sheets. 
She was still asleep, partially covered and spread across the bed.  Her thong hung off the nightstand where it landed the night before.  A half a glass of wine tattooed with lipstick sat next to an overflowing ashtray, the butts also marked with the same shade, her shade, strawberry-mellon.  She said she was going to quit, but then again, she’s said many things. I carefully step over a bottle of lubricant and picked up three condom wrappers, I threw them in the garbage with the others.
I pushed some clothes off a chair and sat down, peering out the window at the day ahead.  She looked so content, satisfied even, stretching, she rolled over, a white trail crusted on the side of her cheek, starting at her mouth, ran back to her ear.  I told myself it was drool.
The covers gently fell along the curves of her body as if meticulously laid out by the trained eyes of a photographer shooting a boudoir scene.  This isn’t the first time we’ve been here; in fact, it was the third time this week.  Things were getting out of control; actually, they had long been out of control.  I steal one her smokes, fucking menthols.  The room seems different from this angle as if only memories in some flashback like you see in movies, hazy and fuzzy.   She looks good in this light, considering how messy she is after last night.  It is surprising, she is not very attractive, I mean she is not ugly, but she isn’t beautiful either.  If you saw her on the street, you’d probably wouldn’t even notice her.  Although, for her age some would say she’s attractive, maybe even a M.I.L.F.
This is my routine at least three to five times a week.  The room looks the same only the details change.  Different brands of condom wrappers, the trail of clothes cataloging the pattern in which she was undressed, the wine is sometimes beer, or iced tea depending on the mood the night before.  The sheets and the stains change, evidence of the position in which climax was achieved.  Under a black light, her sheets must look like army camouflage, each pattern a different erotic story like snowflakes of DNA, no two alike or from the same donor for that matter.  
She opens one eye and gives me a look, “how long have you been up?” “Only an hour,” I say.  She checks the alarm clock and rubs her eyes.  She says,” did you eat?” I reply, “no, I’m not hungry, I’ll get a cup of coffee later.” She says, “Honey, you have to eat something, let me make you some eggs”.  She never listens to me.  “No mom”, I say, “Ill get something on the way to school”.

Cellar Door

Don’t go in the Cellar.