Before I add a new story, I must pay tribute to the justice system of the United States. What a massive thing for the world that has happened. America accepting gay marriage as just and a civil right is a wonderful and life changing move for the world. Bravo America!!!
(c) 2015 Vikram Kolmannskog
I’m sitting facing what we leave behind rather than the direction of movement. I’m listening to love songs. Stay with me, Do you remember, it’s that summer. Can I listen without starting to cry in public, I wonder. I look around.
An older gentleman in a beige suit, white hair, drinking Evian, sits on the other side of the aisle. He takes out an iPhone and snaps a few photos. Green mountains, sky, clouds, light, in movement. I think about NSA from Grindr – I googled it – no strings attached.
A lady in purple skirt and make-up and mischievous smile sits diagonally across from me. She’s reading, Nos Secrets de Famille. Using her feet she slips off some sandals and puts, provocatively, the bare feet on the empty seat by the aisle, effectively fencing me in.
A young man enters, excusez-moi to the purple lady and sits down next to her, by the window, straight across from me. I pull my legs back a little, giving space for his. French looking, I think. Slim, well-groomed, glasses, summer blond beard, shirt that’s tucked up to reveal summer blond arms and some visible veins, open at the neck, a little hair on the chest. He takes out a book, Zola, so French, puts it on the table between us and leans a little forward.
I’m tired and sink into the seat. Can I stretch out one leg? I do, don’t bump into him, am probably slightly on the side of, or in between, his legs. Falling asleep now, I think. And then contact, a light touch against one side of the leg, then both. I’m in between. Merely a momentary touch, but the sensation of the light pressure lingers. I open my eyes, meet his, bleu, the purple lady sleeps, pulsating penis, la bite. Under the table, our table, us three in this moment, and no one to see. Massive mountains meeting clouds. He’s wearing shorts, hands on his thighs, straightens them. Gazes, heart hammering, Zola on the table, train rolling along the tracks. He leans back, closes his eyes, winks at me? I put on my headphones, You wish by Nightmares On Wax, close my eyes, sense from the inside that I’m smiling. I let myself sink into the chair, knee forward, must be near his crotch now. Knee falls out to the side, against the inside of his thigh, a warmth, and then a hand.
Suddenly I wake up and see a man in a black T-shirt across from me, clean-shaven, other eyes, and the purple lady smiles again.
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Vikram Kolmannskog is a gay man living in Oslo, Norway, writing fiction and non-fiction in both English and Norwegian. His texts have been published in electronic and printed media, including Erotic Review, Bent magazine, Gaylaxy and Pink Pages.
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(c) 2015 Cal Marcius
Forget love. Forget the years you’ve spent with him. Forget your children. The only reason you had them in the first place is because he raped you. Never mind that he told you he loved you that day in high school behind the bike shed. He’d taken a strand of hair and brushed it tenderly behind your ear. Then there was the kiss and you were his. He pushed you up against the wall and had his way with you.
When you got pregnant, there were whispers behind your back. You’d been drunk and foolish. You were wasting your life. Nine months later Jack was born, a spitting image of his father.
You got married, because that’s what everyone expected of you. You gave up on university, had another two kids. Both boys, both the image of him. You got older. Too old to do something with your life. Too old to start over again.
But it’s a lie. All of it.
The truth is different, isn’t it, sis. He had money. You had the looks. Boys were falling over you. You could’ve had anyone, but you chose him. The handsome boy with the money and the bright future. Because you always get what you want. An easy life. Waited on hand and foot. Not this time though. You didn’t realise he’d changed his will, did you?
That he left everything to the boys and me.
Did you honestly think you wouldn’t be found out?
He talked to us, you know. Told us about his suspicions. About what he heard when he came home early that day. You and the other guy in the bedroom, making plans to get rid of him. Poisoning him, or staging a break-in gone bad. Some bullshit like that.
The boys knew for a long time that you didn’t care. They stopped asking why you never had the time to play games with them or help with their homework. They realised it was more important for you to go out and be seen, and spend his money on designer clothes and spa treatments.
You want to know why I’m doing this?
News flash, bitch. We were lovers.
He only married you because you tricked him. You knew he was gay, but you had to get him into bed. Your ticket to the life you wanted. You knew he would do the right thing.
You didn’t just kill him. You robbed your children of a father. And you destroyed the love of my life.
While you were out partying and fucking someone else, I stayed at your house with him and the boys, and we lived the family life you should’ve had.
I look at you now, at the tear streaked face, and I want to hurt you. The same way you hurt him. You want to live, I know that, but you recognise the gun, don’t you?
I will kill you. And when I’m done with you, I’ll find the other guy, and I’ll bring him here and show him your body. Then I’ll make him pay.
I’ll do a better job than you.
She starts to laugh, hysterically, and does the unthinkable. She admits to everything. Without remorse. For the first time in my life I see the real her – the liar, the bitch, the manipulator.
It makes it easier when I pull the trigger.
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