Eternal Darkness

Latte in one hand, Kerouac in the other. Jamie and Lindsey arguing magical realism next to him, Ben sneaking a joint on the other side, periodically sneaking him long, quiet drags from Ben's sweet soft mouth.

Man, Friday nights were the best.

One of his students -- some heavy-set chick with curly red hair and a whiskey-colored voice -- was up at the mic, doing a damned good job of slamming. The subject matter was a little boring -- how many premenstrual, blood-soaked pseudo-prayers to the joys of womanhood and Kali could any man appreciate?

Still, the metaphors didn't suck.

The doors opened, letting in the cold late fall air. It was unusual for anyone to show up mid-slam, so it couldn't be a regular.

Three Goths came in, all girls with a tall man in the midst of them. He was dressed all in black with dark hair and a pale, pale face. Still, there was something about him that set him apart from his black-clad, white-faced companions; as if they were playing dress-up and he wasn't.

Kieran watched them move, the maryjane making everything a little ethereal, a little unreal. Fuck, it was sexy, though. Sweet. Sensual.

Mmm... Alliteration.

They headed to a booth near the front, the tall guy stopping them about halfway there. They all listened intently to him, answered him, and then two continued on to the empty front table, the third girl coming back toward his table with the man.

From Hunger for the Edge, by Angel and Star

He walked the streets, his cane tapping before him, ears and nose bringing him the night. The cars passed, their airstreams telling him their position. He paused at a crosswalk, listening to the box click over, and then crossed the street. He remembered cars from before he went to sleep.

His cane warned him of the curb. He could smell the people: the whores, their perfume over the deeper scents of drugs and disease, one of the latter new in the time he'd been gone; the loiterers, beer and whiskey, cigarettes and crystal; the druggies dying of despair and the substances in their veins; the thrill-seekers, soap and shampoo and temperature-controlled air from their workplaces; and through it all the smell of sex and desire. He needed tonight, needed as he had not in years. Needed as he always did upon awakening.

His ears led him to the clubs. The steady techno beat went right through him, making him most uncomfortable as it jarred the fluids that had once been internal organs. He breathed deeply; smoke and sex, alcohol and other, less legal intoxicants filled the night. Male and female, all female... ah, the one he was seeking: a melange of testosterone, male sweat, low voices and a grinding dance beat.

The line smelled of anticipation and need, the murmured conversations a distraction. He did not join it. Toward the end, a more promising draft drew his attention. A whiff of garbage, and over it, the high smell of sex recently accomplished. The man smelled clean, as if slumming by having quick sex in an alley. He heard the little sounds of the zipper, of cloth on cloth. He collapsed his cane and waited at the end of the alley.

He knew what they would see when they emerged: a young black man, all in blue that matched his startling eyes. All his shirts were blue and his pants were black. He had always liked blue: the skies over New Orleans, the dresses of the wealthy mulatto women, the uniforms of the French army, the brave feathers and tatty finery of Jean Lafitte and his crew. The men in the alley would learn soon enough that he was blind, just as he had upon this awakening.

With luck, neither would figure out his condition.