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                Practice Fiction…inspired by last night’s True Blood episode, “9 Crimes,” and Massive Attack’s “Paradise Circle.”

                If you have not yet seen last night’s episode, or are not up on the current season, although I want you to read my Blog fiction post, it contains spoilers in regard to last night’s episode and the season.

                By the way, enjoy.

Faced with a task that was against his “principles,” Bill entered the hazy club.  The scent was thick, years of promiscuity and infidelity coated the dingy walls.  Full light would never do justice, as the neon lighting, and bear advertisements set the scene.  Each of the stages full of observers as they offered single bills to see more of the women who would accompany them home, only in memory.

Unlike the others, Bill did not want to be there.  They sat for enjoyment slickly sliding dollars onto the glossy stages, Bill sought another end.  Hunting to procure a meal, a practice in which he had not taken part in for many years.  Hours since sending his would be future wife away, in part to save her life, he was returning to the very beginnings of his existence as a parasite.

“Something…exotic,” he remembered his orders.  As a blond approaches, he looks toward the dark haired woman dancing behind him and makes his choice.

She walks into the private room, in a skimpy top and bottom, with a glass of champagne.  Eerily Massive Attack’s “Paradise Circle,” envelopes the room.

                “…oh well the devil makes us sin…

                …but we like it when we’re spinning…in his grip…”

 “All yours,” offers Bill no longer able to partake of the food and drink of the living.  Nestled into rough leather chair, that has been the collocation of unspeakable acts, and coital fluid, and cacophony of feigned moans, and lost repute.

The yet unnamed dancer imbibes the beverage, as he leans back.

“Shal l I,” she asks removing her top to expose her supple breasts.  Bill notices a tattoo discretely hidden behind her breast under her left arm.

                “…love is like a sin my love…”

“Perhaps,” he agrees.  She approaches him, cold, unfeeling, desensitized by this moribund world.  He is just another, in a long line of customers this night, she thinks as an aside.  There is no difference between tonight and last night, and the many nights before.  Her life has become such a cold and unfeeling repetition that the fact that she takes off her clothing for money, means nothing to her now.

So long ago, when this all began for her, she was timid and sadly, now…it was just a job.  And it paid her better than saying, “Hello, may I take your order.”  She rubbed her body against him, as she straddled his lap.

“What’s your name,” he asked feeling out his prey.

“Destiny,” she lied, as she had done hundreds of times each night.

“What’s your real name,” Bill asked, knowing the obvious lie.

“Camilla,” she offered nonchalantly, as she always had a second name ready for that question.  She continued to dance atop him and earn her stake.

“What’s your name,” he asked thrice as he glamoured her to tell the truth.

“Ann,” she breathily answered with her will artificially broken.

“What does your husband think about your profession,” Bill further inquired, compassionately discerning whether he should choose her for his new master’s meal.

“No husband,” she further offered tersely.  Uneasily it became apparent to Bill that she fit as the perfect person to go missing, unnoticed by anyone.

“Children,” he asked, almost pleaded to find some reason to allow her to leave, and find another ‘meal.’

“Never wanted any, was too fucked up,” she answered while grinding against him.  Her life and entire being was fighting any reason for her to continue living.

                “…look at her with a smile like a flame…”

“And your family,” he asked sensing that she was the prime candidate to die.  Her body supple, her veins full, and her lust for life thoroughly and sadly depleted.

“Told me I wasn’t worth knowing,” she began with a voice full of melancholy, “I figured I ain’t wanna know them,” Ann finished, with a broken soul.

“Perhaps you’re right about that,” Bill replied pensively.  His thoughts slowly focusing on leaving with her.

“No point anyway,” Ann abruptly broke his concentration.


“Lovin’ anyone,” she spoke unprovoked, “anything,” she paused.  “Feels good at first, but always turns to crap.  I know the truth about life,” she told Bill, from a point that seemed wiser than his years, “it’s a hell that I’ll never get out of alive.”

“No one does,” he replied, almost to himself with fresh pained thoughts of Sookie.

                “…she will love you like a fly will never love you again…”


The manuscript Blue Lines is the fictional coming of age narrative of a young California woman Key Yemaya Walker, and her 2 year growing journey through school, love, and life period piece, written by Kenneth Suffern, Jr., taking place at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill between the years of 1997 – 1998. Loosely based on true events, and experiences during that time, told through the eyes and voice of the main female protagonist, a freshman first attending the school.