Castles Made of Sand

Madeline is screaming, pounding at my back. She yells a Public Service Announcement. I can see it in bright yellow paper, sitting in an in-box somewhere:

ATTN: Charlie Graves, Alanna Kay

FROM: Madeline Mason

You should both be informed

that I am having a spectacular

orgasm.

Please conform your future actions

around this new information.

Thank you,

-Madeline

And she's screaming.

Her pussy is so tight.

And I am so ZEN.

And Alanna is licking her clit.

And I'm going to come too.

Her stomach muscles tense and release along with her spasming pussy.

And I'm going to come.

Alanna pulls me out and continues to jerk my cock up and down as she rubs her own sex.

And I need to come.

Madeline shudders and curls up into a ball, still spasming. For a moment, I wonder if that's what it looks like when someone has a seizure.

Alanna's stroking me slowly now. She doesn't want me to come yet.

"You are so stoned," I remind her.

She doesn't answer. She kisses me. She jerks my cock. She lays back and spreads her legs. Her angry red pussy screams at me to relieve it. She softly caresses her stomach and thighs and closes her eyes.

My cock needs relief.

Alanna needs to fall.

But not yet.

I lean down and lick the insides of her knees. She moans. I lean forward and kiss wet kisses along her thighs. She moans. I breath her in. I lick between her crotch and thighs. She moans. I slowly let my tongue slip into her hole, and zip it up the length of her pussy. She cries out.

"Please," she moans, "just do it."

NIKE, I think to myself.

I push my tongue inside her and zip it up again, just grazing her clit.

She grabs my hair and holds me to her crotch. She's not in the mood to be teased.

I have other ideas.

I let a finger slip into her sopping pussy, and find her G-spot. She writhes gently against me. I locate the tiny ribbed ridge inside her and begin to stroke it as I slowly and softly begin to caress her clit with my tongue. My other hand reaches up to grip hers. And she squeezes it tightly.

There is a connection.

I feel… what is it?

"I can feel you," she gasps. "Can you feel it?"

She bucks against my face now. I move my tongue faster.

"Charlie…" she breathes. "Charlie, I…"

What is this? What am I feeling?

"I… I'm gonna' come… I wanna' come…"

I slip another finger inside her slick hole and pump faster, hitting her G-spot again and again and again and again and ravaging her clit with harsh quick random strokes. She wants to come.

"I'm gonna'… I'm gonna'…"

I want to fuck this woman.

She screams.

She screams my name. Her hand feels like it's going to break mine.

She bucks wildly against my face. Her hand feels like it's going to rip out a clump of my scalp.

She screams that she's coming.

She screams my name.

I lean back and find that her juices are being licked from my face. The warm fruit smell of Madeline envelopes me, and my hand reaches down to her still dripping slit. She bites my neck and whispers in my ear, harsh and hot;

"I want your come inside me. I want you to burn me with it." Skinny, endearing little Madeline.

I slip two fingers inside her. She is so hot. She is so wet.

"Will you do that?" she asks me, reaching down to grip my cock.

I take her head and kiss her long and soft, and she grins a hundred watts up at me.

I turn her around, bend her over.

I slip it in, and she cries out.

She's leaning down and kissing Alanna, who seems half passed out. Too much pot.

"Oh God," she says, looking back to me. "You fill me up so good, Charlie…"

"How do you want it?" I ask. I'm not sure if I care.

"I want you to fuck me so hard you think you're gonna' break me," she cries.

It's lovely when you both want the same thing.

I pull back slowly. Slowly. The head nearly out. I softly stroke her back as she rubs her pussy on my cock and tries to get it inside her. Alanna has indeed passed out.

"Please," she says.

I shove it in. All the way. My balls slap her pussy as I pound her.

Again and again and again. I watch the second hand on the clock move around eight times.

And her pussy is so good. It's golden.

And she's screaming. She claws at the cheap yellow sheets until they rip.

"Too hard?" I ask. She turns her head, her eyes covered by the mess of curly hair. She grunts back at me through gritted teeth;

"Harder."

I pound her as she humps against me. Her slim, heart-shaped ass vibrating as my hips bang into her.

And she's screaming. Occasionally Alanna opens her eyes in shock. She merely observes us for a moment before closing them pleasantly again.

And Madeline's screaming. She wants it harder. She's coming again. PSA. Madeline's coming.

Her pussy spasming around me puts me over the edge again.

I want to come.

I'm going to come.

"Come inside me!" she gasps. "I want it inside… ohhhhhhhhhh yes…."

I slap in again and again. Her pussy is dripping. I can feel it shoot from inside me. Like a spitball in junior high. Like a slug from a gun. For a moment my vision goes red.

"Fuck! Fuck! Ohhhhh Charlie…"

Slowly. See-sawing in and out of her sopping sex.

And now she's loose, and I know my erection is fading along with consciousness.

I collapse onto her slim back. I kiss her neck. I hold her hand.

"Do you feel that?" she asks.

I ask what.

"That connection."

I can't lie to her about that.

I just tell her she's golden.

FIVE: DROPS OF BLOOD AND THE EMPTY HORIZON

Wait until I get in.

Strip down.

Slip in.

Turn it on.

Cold.

Only cold.

The cold water hits me like a freight train. For a moment I consider turning on the hot.

My dedication to the cold proves golden.

I am aware.

Every nerve ending on my body is alive.

I can feel the cheap floor of the cheap motel shift. One of the girls is approaching.

It's not Alanna.

I can feel it through the floor.

It's Madeline.

The shower door slides open.

She stands there naked, a smoldering cigarette dangling between her perfect little perfectly pink lips. Offensive against her lush exterior. She is damaged.

My dried come is hard and flaking against her thighs.

She's damaged. And she grins a hundred twenty.

I hold out my hand to her and she slips inside with me, giggling as she's struck by the train.

She lets the water hit the cigarette and it falls from her lips, becoming brown and ugly at our feet as it soaks, a little spiral of black ash trailing into the drain.

She's become so deliciously imperfect.

Her skin is sandpaper. Infinite tiny bumps rough against mine as we kiss.

Her nipples are pebbles. They scratch my chest as I move her face under the water and let it soak her unruly mane of curls.

The woman is laughing.

I lean back and look at her. For a moment, I see her as a wet rat, dripping and scraggly with those huge, dark, knowing eyes.

And she's laughing. She runs the soap between her legs as I shampoo her hair.

And I am aware. I can hear the Scratch. Scratch. Scratch of the soap against her rough pubic hair.

I am aware. I can feel the soft, grainy feel of the broken cigarette beneath my feet.

And I am aware. I can feel the ground shift. Alanna's coming to join us.

The shower door slides open.

She stands there, wrapped in a peach-white robe. Her wavy blond hair perfect. Her skin perfect. Perfectly perfect lips. Full. Perfectly perfect figure. Full. Perfect, huge, sad green eyes.

Her sad eyes.

She closes the shower door without coming in.

And Madeline is laughing.

But my balance is broken. I'm not golden. I'm a chocolate starfish. I'm the shit and piss of the world. I'm their dilapidated beach house with the door that hangs on broken hinges. Rats and cockroaches scream and flee for the shadows inside me when you hit a light. I'm an interesting place to visit.

But something tells me Alanna won't be living here.

When you're golden everything glows.

We pack up.

We don't eat.

We've got shit to do.

I go to open the door, but I feel something.

You can feel things, sometimes, if you let yourself.

And I feel something.

I am aware.

I don't open the door.

I peek through the shutters.

A Huge, Blue Charger sits content beside The Long Black Lincoln. It grins at me.

Death now sits behind the wheel.

I can see him clearly now. I am aware.

He's a huge skinhead-looking fellow. I don't like his eyes.

He knows he's not golden.

Flunky number two is absent. I suppose he's gone into the office to find out which room is ours.

I'm glad I brought the map inside with us.

"Alanna," I say. "Do you remember where the gun is?"

"In the glove box," she says through her toothbrush. Brush, brush, brushing her perfect teeth.

"Hm," I say. Perhaps I should have been as throughtful with the gun as the map.

"What's up?" Madeline squeaks behind me.

Sully would know what to do.

Sully always knows what to do.

I can see his head poking out from his top bunk, his blond hair falling around his face like a halo.

He's fifteen and I'm twelve.

"Did you know that if you take some styrofoam, gas and oil you can make plastic explosives?"

Sully knows all kinds of shit.

The leather blazer is too hot in the late morning Sun. But the ultraviolets don't get through it. It's my six-hundred-dollar skin block. My half-assed protection against the mistakes of Them.

My hair is messed up to a defiant, spiky perfection.

I look golden. But I know I'm not.

I close the door behind me and walk up to the Charger.

Death sits behind the wheel and he watches me approach. I can see one hand leave the wheel and rest on the seat beside him. His trusty shotgun.

"Hold on," I tell him. I raise my hands and approach.

Dumb Fuckin' Me for staying on the same highway all day.

"You can see my hands," I tell him. "How about a show of faith?"

He places the hand back on the wheel.

"Golden," I tell him. "Now listen, there's two of you and three of us. I got a piece in my belt, and they've both got revolvers."

He doesn't move. Doesn't show an expression.

I can't tell if he believes me.

He knows I'm not golden too.

"Then why don't you just shoot me," I hear him finally say. I'm tingling.

I am aware. My so-called resolve.

"Same reason you don't shoot me," I say as I approach. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Can he tell I'm maneuvering myself towards The Lincoln? Probably.

It's worth it.

"I'm having trouble remembering," he says. His right hand is absent from the wheel again.

"I'm missing that hand," I tell him.

"Deal with it," he tells me. "Just give me the map."

"How do you know about this?"

"Your brother squealed to me. Like a pig."

I want to fuck this man up.

He's pulling up the shotgun.

Baby steps. Open the door of The Lincoln.

"Before I slit his throat."

SLAM. I am going to fuck this man up.

"You're lying," I yell as I duck down, fumbling with the glove box.

He doesn't answer.

bang

I hear it hit the passeneger door in a roar of pellets and bent steel. They don't make cars like The Lincoln any more. I grin at the thought.

The Lincoln's a little less golden.

I have the gun. He's reloading.

Baby steps. Jump out of the car.

He's reloading.

Baby steps. Grab him through the window and drag his ass out of the car.

Crunch.

Baby steps. Smash the butt of the Beretta into his head. And again. And again.

Crunch.

See your brother lying dead in your mind's eye. Baby steps. Hit him again.

And again.

And again.

CRUNCH.

Look up to see Flunky Number Two with his little toy.

His little baseball bat. His yo-yo homie outfit and his backwards baseball cap.

See your brother lying dead in your mind's eye.

Baby steps. Pull up the gun at Flunky Number Two.

Don't pull the trigger. Squeeze.

Watch the blood from his leg explode. Watch him go down.

Baby steps. Get his toy.

Baby steps. Smash him in the head with it.

See your brother lying dead in your mind's eye.

Smash him again.

And again.

Again.

I am not aware.

I'm something else.

I am breathing smoke.

I hear The Lincoln roar to life behind me, and I look at the baseball bat.

It's dripping blood.

It falls into a little pattern on the gravel. Slowly. Drip. Drip. Drip. It takes its shape.

A winding, chaotic, random snake. Complete with a little head and little tongue. Perfection in chaos.

I can't help but manage a small smile. Five watts or so.

Flunky Number Two reaches for me.

Smash him again.

I am not aware.

I'm something else.

How long Alanna had been honking the horn, I have no idea.

Baby steps. Get in the car.

Alanna peels out of the parking lot and onto the open highway. I can't see it, but I can feel Death gather himself to his feet. He touches the welt on his forehead and tastes his own blood.

Baby steps. Let Madeline wipe the spatter of blood from my cheek.

Reach for the cigarette Madeline just lit. She understands. Lights another for herself. Feel my eyes well up. Sully couldn't have been killed. He was tough.

I am not golden.

I am something else.

We're at a payphone that sits across from a truck stop.

Somewhere along the way, I lost Sully's cell phone. We probably left it with the girl's luggage at the motel.

The imperfect near-full moon shines it's half-assed light overhead.

Alanna's smoking her cigarette in the passenger seat, watching me. Madeline is rolling her fifteenth joint in the back. Madeline needs to occupy herself. I can understand that.

I punch eleven digits into the phone.

It rings.

And again.

I am unaware.

My eyes well up again.

See your brother lying dead somewhere.

It rings.

And suddenly a few things matter.

"Hello?" It's Ainsley. Thank God.

"Ainsley. It's Charlie."

"Where the fuck are you?"

"I'm out of town. Dad knows."

"Did you hear Sully got arrested?"

"Yeah."

I look back at Alanna. She doesn't smile. She just watches me. And I know she can feel it.

"Do you know where he is?"

"In jail," I say.

"No, he busted out."

"He what?"

"He went crazy. Someone said he heard Sully screaming about another dealer."

"What other dealer?"

"This guy named Prokosh."

"I don't know a Prokosh." Did I know a Prokosh?

"Sully said he had to get out – it was a matter of life or death or something. No one's heard shit from him."

"Oh God…"

"Listen Charlie, you've got to get back here. Dad's goin' apeshit."

"I'll be back day after tomorrow," I tell her. "Just stay out of Dad's way."

"…easy for you to say."

"I'm serious. Pack up some shit, and you an' me will start fresh somewhere."

"What?"

"If Sully calls, tell him I'm taking care of things. I'll be back in town in two days."

"Uncle Steve called."

"Oh yeah?"

"He says he's pressing kidnapping charges. What's he talking about?"

"Don't worry about that. Just get your stuff together and make sure Dad stays in the dark."

"Okay."

"Alright. I'll see you soon."

"Okay, Charlie. Charlie?"

"Yeah."

"It's not the same with you not around."

See your brother lying dead in your mind's eye, and you suddenly appreciate your stupid little sister.

"Two days."

"Okay. Bye."

Click.

I get two jerrycans of gasoline at the truck stop before returning to them.

I get back in the car and start the engine.

"What's up?" Alanna says through her veil of smoke.

"Your stepfather's pressing kidnapping charges against me."

The women are laughing.

It's nice to hear.

But I am not golden.

I am something else.

Sully's Grow House is another two hours away.

Alanna stays quiet. She and I know something Madeline doesn't. Occasionally Alanna reaches down to the gearshift and touches my hand. She and I know something Madeline doesn't.

Madeline contents herself with smoking three joints in a row in the backseat. She's designed herself a small dove's nest of jackets and clothing that fold around her like a multicoloured blob of makeshift comfort. In the rearview I watch her systematically smoke her joints. She's a robot, designed and programmed at the moment. I wonder what it would look like in her robot mind. The program code. A series of ones and zeros, broken down into rough english.

STEP 1. BZZZZT! LEFT. HAND. GRIP. JOINT.

STEP 2. BZZZZZZT! LEFT. ARM. RAISE. JOINT.

STEP 3. BZZT! OPEN. MOUTH.

STEP 4. BZZZT! LEFT. HAND. PUT. JOINT. IN. MOUTH.

STEP 5. BZZT! CLOSE. MOUTH.

STEP 6. BZZZZZZZZZT! LEFT. HAND. DROP.

STEP 7. BZZZZT! RIGHT. HAND. GRIP. LIGHTER.

STEP 8. BZZZZZZZT! RIGHT. HAND. RAISE. LIGHTER.

STEP 9. BZT! RIGHT. HAND. LIGHT. LIGHTER.

STEP 10. BZZZZT! HEAD. TURN. RIGHT.

STEP 11. BZZZZZZZZZ! LUNGS. INHALE.

STEP 12. BZZ. TOKE.

STEP 13. BZZ. TOKE.

STEP 14. B. AND HOLD IT.

STEP 15. B. AND HOLD IT.

STEP 16. BZZZZZZZ! EXHALE.

REPEAT STEPS 12 THROUGH 16 AS NECESSARY

REPEAT FROM STEP 1 WHEN STEP 12 BECOMES IMPOSSIBLE

She's passed out by the time we hit the Grow House.

The Grow House is a dilapidated barn just off a back road five minutes from the middle of nowhere. Two storeys high of refurbished eighty-year-old lumber and good intentions, jutting out of the ground. Man can build such things.

It is sealed tight, so when the doors finally open a gust of air hit Alanna and I in the back. It dances around us and shoots into the building, and we're struck in the face with the heavy, sticky-sweet smell of cured ganje.

I'd never seen Sully's Grow House. No one had. Except Sully. I find and hit the lights.

It stretches out to infinity before us. Fields of marijuana. Hydroponics bays. Pot hangs from the celing. Pot in measured bags of five pounds each. Alanna walked through the frields of the pot as I let my fingers dance over the measured bags. Thirty-two five-pound bags. My head began to calculate. A whineing streamer of ticker tape rolled behind my eyeballs:

One (1) ounce = 28 grams. // One (1) pound = 16 ounces.

One (1) gram – (street price): $10.00

One (1) pound (street price): ($10.00 X 28 X 16) = $4,480.00

Five (5) pounds (street price): ($4,480.00 X 5) = $22,400.00

TOTAL: Thirty-two (32) five (5) pound bags (street price): ($22,400.00 X 32) = $716,800.00

Golden.

Baby steps. I shove the measured and sealed bags onto a trolley and begin loading them into the trunk of The Lincoln.

Madeline is still passed out. The bags don't smell. The curve of her hip as she lays on her side for a moment reminds me of something better.

Baby steps. I pull out the jerrycans of gasoline and finish loading the last four bags.

Baby steps. I walk into the growhouse and Alanna looks up from behind one of the hydroponics bays. She nods and stamps out her cigarette as I kneel beside the jerrycans and remove the knife from my pocket.

A rescue worker's knife with a QuickRelease. A flick of my thumb and the blade springs free, flashing once, then twice into each of the jerrycans. I begin to walk randomly about the growhouse, a trail of stinking, psychedelic colours swirling on the floor behind me. For a moment I look down and consider the infinite chaos of the swirls. Is there a pattern? Does something govern their random colours and shapes?

A splash of Alanna's foot in the rainbow on the floor confirms my suspicions. The patterns change and form anew. Anything is possible.
She follows me about the growhouse, creating new infinite worlds in the puddles as she does. I wonder if she's conscious of the worlds she's changed. She examines the plants one by one, and I watch.