The Host: Chapter 1

Posted by Henry E. Powderly II on Jul 22, 2009 in Portfolio, Prose | 1 comment

It’s been one of my goals this year to self publish my first novel, The Host, which means I have to come up with a final draft. That’s not easy, since for years I have been unable to read it without wanting to change things.

Finally, though, I think I have finished fiddling with the first chapter, which I’ll post below. Any criticism is welcomed. And If you spot a grammatical error or typo I have overlooked, don’t be silent.

Chapter 1

I am a story.

…..

The year two thousand was a fawn. It was mid January, it was Thursday and it was 2 a.m.

Like every other night, I lay in my bed, struggling to fall asleep. I hated my apartment, my bedroom. I hated the noise, outside, on the street. The barks and howls; college students as they stumbled out of the bars.

True silence did not exist in my room. Silence for me was sound, silence was specific, repetitive sound. The sound of sparse traffic outside, the engines and the radios. And I heard the sound of my wall-hung clock as the seconds ticked over and over again. The radiator hissed like a wary snake. The old bricks of my apartment building made deep clicks and knocks. And I imagined it was the walls cracking as they closed in on me.

The most annoying, the loudest sounds were the laughs. The drunk laughs of college kids out on the strip. They yelled and screamed ‘Woo’. Sometimes they screamed ‘fuck you’. Over and over, woo, fuck you, woo, fuck you, but … the most familiar sound was always the ‘tick’ of the clock …

…that, and my noisy thoughts.

…..

Maybe I’ll start smoking.

…..

Since falling asleep was near impossible in that echo chamber of a bedroom, I’d spend most of the evening staring at the shadows, thinking, remembering. It always interested me how some memories played back like a movie, with the scene as vivid as when I had lived it. Other times the memory was like a soundtrack, black in my head with just the voices playing back. And the many voices, mine, and the voices of the the people I’d known, clamored as loud as the drunkards outside my bedroom. That’s how I fought the silence, I remembered and I dreamed.

On this night it started with her, the girl I met at a kegger.

…..

“Hello,” I said.

“Hi,” she said.

“I saw you when I was running today.”

“I know you did.”

“…”

“What’s your name?” she said.

“Benny.”

“The Boxing Bear, right?”

“…Yeah,” I said.

“I heard about you. Undefeated, right?”

“…”

“That’s impressive for a freshman,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“My father talks about you. He thinks next year you’ll win State,” she said.

“…”

“…”

“What’s your name?” I said.

“Cary.”

“… I was hoping you’d be here, Cary.”

“Why is that?”

“Well—when I was running, before, and I saw you sitting under the huge willow by the pond … I couldn’t stop wondering.”

“About what?” she said.

“—You’re very beautiful.”

“…Thank you.”

“And I made this whole plan that if I saw you here I’d say hello, and…ask you what book you were reading,” I said.

“‘That’s easy, Leaves of Grass’.”

“Oh…I’ve never read it…. Heard of it though.”

“It sounds corny, but I usually like to read it on the first beautiful day of spring. I don’t know. He celebrates everything, Whitman. His book makes it impossible to ignore a beautiful day,” she said.

“I’ll have to try that.”

“What, enjoying a beautiful day?” she said.

“No, I mean—“

“Just kidding.”

“Wow…great smile,” I said.

“…”

“It’s kind of like the Cheshire Cat’s,” I said.

“Yeah, how?”

“Um…It’s just a very pretty smile you have, and…you kind of disappear behind it—I mean…It’s all I can focus on.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“…”

“…”

“So, what do you study?” I said.

“Piano.”

“Really?”

“Yep. I’m one of those music nerds…. Still interested Mr. Bear?” she said.

“C’mon. I’m not like that.”

“I can tell. You’re a lot shyer than I’d expect from a boxer.”

“…”

“And you’re sweet, too.”

“…”

“Pick a major yet?” she said.

“English.”

“That’s my minor.”

“Cool. I really liked Freshman Comp. We read Steinbeck, Wordsworth, ‘The Metamorphosis’… great book,” I said.

“You like Kafka?”

“A lot, actually. My favorite’s ‘The Hunger Artist.’”

“Mine too…. That’s winter reading though. Reading him in July could ruin a perfectly good summer,” she said.

“So what are you doing this summer, going home?” I said.

“Actually, here’s home.”

“New Guernsey?” I said.

“Yep.”

“I guess you don’t have to pack then.”

“…”

“…”

“—Where are you going this summer?” she said.

“My Mom lives in Maine.”

“What about your Dad?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“…”

“…”

“You want to sit down, Benny?” she said.

“Sure—You need another beer?”

“Sure,” she said.

“OK, you find some seats, and I’ll get the beer.”

“OK.”

“OK—Now don’t leave.”

“I won’t,” she said.

…..

“Woo…fuck you.”

The shadows swayed against the dark walls of my room. Clusters. Shadows in all the different shades of grey crawled across my walls as each car passed on the street below. The shadow cast by my dresser; light grey. And my end tables cast grey blots on the wall behind them. It looked as if a black ray had been run through a prism, landing in different hues behind each piece of furniture. And behind the smoky shadows the walls looked like stone.

Those shadows, each alive, stalked and teased me. They looked at me and tip-toed closer whenever I closed my eyes. They were grey clouds, and some looked like faces, both friendly and evil.

At night, in my room, color was dead, and my memories scared me.

…..

Right now, I really miss hugging her. I miss feeling her whole body pressed into me. I miss the feel of her back and shoulders beneath my fingers, and I miss her head pressed against my cheek. I miss that pressure. When I was with her I knew who I was.

I miss her smell, the smell of her hair, and how the strands stuck to the stubble on my face.………This is depressing………… Maybe I need a puppy.

…..

When I was young I believed that I was haunted while I slept, that monsters would torment me and pull on the sheets I had pinned over my head.

Those terrors still happened every now and then, though I’d long ago broke the habit of sleeping with the sheets over my head. I tried hard, every night, to quickly fall asleep. But I never could. I always ended up thinking about something, and stayed awake, because it’s impossible to think and sleep at the same time.

…..

She wasn’t perfect. My dream girl doesn’t have red hair. My dream has long, thin brown hair that drapes over her shoulders in fine, cheesecloth waves. My dream has high cheeks and a square, beautiful face. Her nose, a gradual slope, points its soft, blunt button. Her lips are large, but not so full. When she smiles she stretches those marshmallow lips wide across her flat cheeks, only to curve up at the edges.

Her eyes, her both grassy and evergreen eyes are as wide as her smile with needle fine points at the eastern and western poles of each eye. To look into them is to have them bore a tunnel through you, in which a line of race cars speed through on their kamikaze, full-throttle lap, only to pile up in your heart. Her eyes are exciting and deep and electric, alternating currents of jocund and melancholy thoughts.

On her flat forehead is a widow’s peak, and it is soft—a perfect place to kiss.

She has a long, exquisite neck, its sinews flow liquid beneath her soft skin. Though she often conceals that elegant branch behind a scarf and all I want to do is untie the scarf, and kiss that neck.

Her shoulders are thin, small arches as soft as her neck, and her back curves in and her ass is supple to the touch. It’s full and still softer than her shoulders. Under my fingers it folds like plush. And her long legs are lithe.

Her feet are narrow, but not small. I imagine her walking barefoot for miles. I imagine her feet are made for treading without leather, wood or rubber to interfering with how much she loves to feel with her toes. Her belly is woman, gently bowed. She reminds me of models from the 1920s or 40s. She is fertile.

Her breasts are amazing, the perfect size for her. They sit full and round, put not pointed, and she has apricot nipples. They are firm between my fingers, and she melts.

She is natural, as if grown in a field and picked from a patch of wild herbs. She smells like corn hairs, and laughs a full, honest laugh. She is not cute, like Cary was. She is a presence, she is dream.

…..

The sound of my breath was also part of the silence. And as I dreamed and remembered the silence around me was tick, hiss, knock, tick, …, hiss, tick, …, …, tick, knock, hiss, tick, breathe.

…..

I used to be a boxer.

“How could anyone achieve heightened balance with such uncomfortable boots on?” I said.

“Don’t be a pussy.”

“No, really Coach, can’t we just go somewhere warm and chase a chicken or something?”

“Listen to you—you sound like a woman,” he said.

“Watch it Coach.”

“Shut the fuck up Bear. You never said a goddamn word before your ass got together with that music girl.”

“Jesus Coach, she’s a pianist—.”

“Who the fuck—?”

“And her name’s Cary, OK?”

“Alright—Fuck this. You listen now. I don’t give a fat-man’s shit about how those fucking boots feel. You’re gonna ski your goddamn, hopeless-romantic ass off. OK……….whiny fool.”

“Yes Coach.”

“Now…are you gonna get on the lift or do I have to beat you with this pole and tie your sloppy ass to the chair.”

He raised the point of his ski pole to my eyes.

“…I didn’t lose coach,” I said, quiet, monotoned and raspy.

“You didn’t Bear, but you almost got knocked down.”

“He blindsided me. I didn’t see his left coming.”

“Bullshit! You see everything before it gets there. I know what I saw. You were off-balance.”

He lowered his voice. “Idiot,” he said.

“So how’s skiing going to—Look at the size of that mountain. You could fit about a hundred thousand boxing rings up there.”

“Doubt it Bear, they’d keep sliding off.”

He broke out laughing.

“That’s awful—just—not funny,” I said.

Coach couldn’t stop sneering, giggling, full-out laughing, and biting his lip to hold it down…. And then he stopped at once, spit and said, “Alright…. Don’t think this will help, huh?”

He walked over to me, stopped at my right shoulder, to the side of it, and leaned forward as if he was going to whisper something in my ear, very soft…, …and then he pushed me, quick but light, touching me for less than a second.

I tried to fight the fall, leaning quickly to my right, left arm flailing, then I felt myself falling backwards so I leaned quickly to my front and started down a tiny snow bank and my legs spread apart and my skis crossed and I moved left as my bottom half went forward….

And I went down, elbow first, knees locked and moving away from each other, ass in the air…. My ass was the last thing to hit the snow.

“And you saw that coming,” he said.

I did. I just wanted to see if I could stay on my feet.

…..

My bed was large and my pillow was comfortable. I was warm under my blankets. A voice from the street outside echoed ‘show me then, asshole’.

…..

My trainer in Maine and my coach in New Guernsey were like opposite sides of a yin-yang in every way I can think of. In Maine I trained with Martin. He didn’t want to be called Coach or even Mr. Temple. He wanted me to call him Martin. The first time I met him he said, “Call me Martin, and nothing else.”

Coach was just Coach. Not John or Coach Brighton, he was just Coach. The first time I met him he said, “Bouchard, you fight Williams.”

Martin was soft-spoken and very deliberate with what he said. It was like he thought over every word in his head before he let it out of his mouth. He was patient and encouraging. And he never asked me to do anything. He just told me what I could do.

Coach blabbed. Profanity colored every sentence he let fly out without thought. Coach didn’t think at all about what he said, he just spoke what he felt. And it seemed like all he felt was angst and pressure, and somehow by saying ‘fuck’ a few times in each sentence he vented the tension that would otherwise have given him a heart attack.

Martin wouldn’t let me fight, he only trained me. He taught me weight lifting, stretching, and essential boxing techniques. He would give me scenarios that I had to solve with my head, with an intelligent solution based on the essentials he had taught me. He’d ask me what I’d do if a fighter cornered me, or he’d ask me how I’d disarm a southpaw. He made me imagine that the heavy bag was my opponent. He made me visualize, step around that bag like it had a mind of its own, and when the day’s session was over he’d say, “That’s enough. Wash up, and make sure you tell your mother I said Hello.”

For Coach, I fought. He didn’t stage scenarios. He addressed the mistakes I made while winning. He’d make me aware of why one guy was able to catch me with an overhand right, or he’d grill me about not throwing enough jabs. He’d comment on combinations I had already thrown and opponents I had already beaten. He made me remember every mistake I had made. The training was left up to me. Motivation was his department. “Move your fucking ass,” he’d say, and when the practice was over he’d yell, “This isn’t over. It’s only a break until tomorrow. Now go take a fucking shower…. You wouldn’t hug your mother smelling that that, would you?”

I think Martin was in love with my mother all along, and he looked after me like a father would.

Coach never met my mother, and he’d lecture and berate me like a father would.

…..

I shut my eyes. I was done remembering, ready to sleep. But then something startled me. I heard an exhale that was not mine, as if someone I could not see had whispered into my ears, both of then at once. It rasped, that whisper of a voice, pitched between tenor and baritone. But it was words. It spoke. It was a sentence. Something had just spoken to me, and it wasn’t in my head.

My eyes opened wider, and for once my room was silent, a thick, humid hush. What was that cold voice. I looked let and then right. I tried to believe I had dreamed it, tried to assume that the voice came from my imagination. But I knew my dreams, I knew what sentences in my head sounded like. I had heard a voice, a sentence, outside of my brain. Something was in my room …and it said …

A tornado is reflective reason

What did that mean? Was it a message? The words didn’t seem to fit together. It sounded more like a riddle.

The more I thought about it, the surer I became that I hadn’t said it myself, and certainly not dreamed it. It was someone else’s voice… and it scared me. Then the fear grew worse, felt like pressure on my stomach, like something was sitting on me.

I had heard a voice, a phrase from the shadows and the tick, hiss, knock.

And then it whispered again, a little louder.

A tornado is reflective reason

I stopped breathing, jumped out of my bed. I looked around the room. I looked for a ghost. I looked for a figure that might be standing by my bed, but there was no one in the room. I was alone, and outside kids screamed ‘fuck.’

I heard a voice. I believed I had heard it. I froze, felt paralyzed and would not close my eyes.

I sat on the bed.

I accepted it. I doubted it. I denied I had really heard it. Besides, I had little faith in myself then. I was just a repetition of the same day. Nothing extraordinary ever happened anymore.

And after watching the shadows move for a while I lay back down. I spent a half hour watching the shadows, listening to the clamor outside die down as it got later and later. eventually, I started to forget about the voice.. My mind drifted. The voice was gone, and I finally believed that I had imagined hearing it. I was tired ….

Nothing extraordinary ever happened to me anymore. I had let my life stagnate. Only my memories haunted me now.

…..

My friendship with Todd was once innocent. We were pure, imaginative 10-year-olds. We’d explore the woods behind Todd’s house like they were a dark forest, like we were knights, or ninjas, or soldiers. We carried sticks that were swords, and we shared a fantasy. Trees and bushes were witches and enemy soldiers. Every sound we heard meant something, enemies in the shadows, monsters to be fought. It was fun, our tours and conquests. Then I took Todd to the creeks.

We had spent most of the afternoon battling with the cornfield. We slashed the farmer’s crop, and threw corn like they were grenades. Our hands were green. Corn husks were wrapped and dangling from our swords. We had slashed a trail through the field between Todd’s normal, suburban housing development and the one-colored condo city I lived in, Creek Hills.

Later, I led him to the creeks, told him it would be fun. And when we walked by and the frogs on the banks chirped as they jumped in I said, “C’mon. Let’s hit some frogs with rocks.”

Todd shrugged. “Sure.” He picked up a rock no bigger than a toy car, and waited for a frog to pop its head from under the water.

“There’s one,” he whispered too loud, and he threw the stone and missed.

“Did you get it?” I said.

“Nope.”

Then I picked up a stone the size of a football. Todd laughed and took a few steps away from the creek to avoid the splash. The frog’s brown head popped up…. I slowly lifted the stone above me and stared at the frog. I hadn’t seen me. I saw the frog’s back, his legs too, on top of the water. Todd watched me, and I watched the frog until I knew the frog was unaware and I pushed down on the stone with all my young, fat strength, and ‘splash’… right on top of it. Todd was quiet for a second.

“Did you get it?” he said.

I stayed quiet.

Soon, the white underbelly of the frog came dead to the surface. Its tongue floated too and looked languid as it broke the water’s top.

Todd’s expression changed from curious to solemn … to appalled. His head turned, his mouth opened, and his eyebrows furrowed above his disgusted eyes. I just stood and stared at the carcass.

“It’s dead right?” Todd said.

I felt bitter happiness as I watched it bounce in the choppy and now murky creek.

“We got it!” I yelled.

Todd was still. He looked stoic, and afraid. And his expression did not change until the crooked legs of the frog started to kick … slowly, painfully. Todd turned white. His mouth opened wider.

“It’s still alive,” he said in a slow, quiet voice.

When I saw it move my bitter triumph drowned. I then felt nothing. I reached into the water.

“What are you doing?”

“Picking it up.”

“But it’s still alive … let’s go … I don’t like this.”

“What? It’s just a stupid, fucking frog.”

I cursed a lot when I was young.

“C’mon Benny, put it down.”

I stopped thinking at that moment. I only felt my pulse. Without looking at Todd I started to run, with the frog still squirming in my hand. I ran, and then I stopped, and threw the frog, with every bit of my strength and momentum, hard against a boulder that stood twice my size.

The sound … the sound of a half-dead frog smacking into a boulder and dropping to the ground…. A sound like that has no name, only an experience. I hear it. I hear it.

I turned to Todd. He was staring at me.

“What?” I said. “What? Say something.”

He stared.

“What? C’mon Todd, it was suffering. I had to do it.”

He stared.

“What? Will you fucking say something?”

“I’m going home,” he said, and he turned and slowly walked back to the cornfield, to the path we had made.

…..

I wished that I understood what went through the minds of those people who were outside my window, yelling, “Pussy, baby, Pussy.”

The doors to one of the bars opened, someone either coming or leaving. But when it opened I heard music. Dark Machine, the local Pink Floyd cover band was playing across the street. I had probably seen them two hundred times.

…..

The more I watch musicians play in a loud, ambivalent bar, the more heroic they appear. In raucous clamber that they bear their souls, to be largely ignored yet soaked in by an inspired few. They are better than the crowd, because, as they selfishly profess their fears and feelings and secret stories, hoping to be loved and understood in return. They do it for the clamor. They do it for you, even if you couldn’t care less … because they love their message more than they fear the judgment of the crowd. They believe that their sounds are important, because they believe that they are important, and their self-love is so big they don’t feel ashamed to let you see it burst from them. The heroes love what they have to give.… I am not a musician…. I am certainly not a hero.

…..

I felt heavy and tired. My eyelids began to slip shut, but I once again wondered if I had heard a voice. It was late, and I had been lying in bed since midnight.

…..

Were the demons really there, or was I dreaming?……………..

I know that one day Max and I will be two old men sitting in a bar some early afternoon like a couple of old books. We’ll read aloud our memories, share between us the unique lessons we learned walking down our own ending paths, and we’ll sip bourbon and laugh old laughs…….

How is it that I know we will get there?

…..

My head sank deeper into the pillow. I rolled to my side, and breathed deep, conscious of how my heartbeat slowed. I was warm and my room was dry. I reached to my bookshelf and grabbed my pint of water, and sipped. Then I laid back down, and gawked the grey ceiling.

…..

My mother never came down to see any of my fights. She won’t say why but I’m sure it has to do with how I hurt Pete. I don’t think she thought I was a monster, a violent maniac with an unfettering desire to smash heads with my hands. She just didn’t care to see me be violent. I asked hr about it right before my fight at the Lexington. I asked her if she would come to see my biggest fight. She wouldn’t. She said, “From up here I can appreciate the sport of boxing, but in person … it just looks like violence to me.”

My mother’s a saint….

“The Lord God knows the thoughts of man, that they are vanity,” said the priest.

“Mom, what’s vanity?”

“Self love,” she said.

“Is that bad?”

“Shhh, Benny. Listen to the father.”

“Today, my brothers and sisters, we talk about vanity. The Psalm tells us that vanity is the thoughts of man.”

“Mom. Does he mean women too?”

“Yes Benny. Now be quiet.”

“But what is vanity as we understand it? Is it our morning routines, our grooming? Is it our individual desire to look our best? Is vanity our styled hair and the designer jeans that we wear? Or is it the meticulous attention we pay to the make-up we spend so much time applying?”

“Mom? Does the priest wear make-up?”

“No Benny.”

“Is it our Italian suits and expensive perfumes? Is it our automobiles—or better yet … is it the time we spend waxing and vacuuming those automobiles? Is it our jewelry, our diamond engagement rings, or pearl earrings, or signet rings, or, to a few, our nose rings?”

“Mom? Priests don’t get married, right?”

“Yes Benny,” she said.

“And I saw the priest’s car. It didn’t look waxed. It’s a real piece of crap.”

“Benny. What? Are you crazy, using that language in church?” she said.

“I just don’t?”

“Be quiet. You listen when the father speaks.”

“To some, vanity might be an invitation to dinner or a cocktail party with friends. Vanity might be in the bottle of wine you bring. One might say that our paychecks are also vanity, that our toys are bought by vanity.”

“Mom. How much do priests make?”

“Benny.”

“It may seem that vanity is in everything that we do, and every motive that we have. It might be fair to say that we all came to worship today with our vanity on our backs, buttoned up and tied in nice bows … that we all walked in with shiny shoes.”

“Mine are dirty Mom. Look?the priest’s shoes are shiny though. I saw them when he walked in.”

“Benny, I’m getting angry.”

“And I guess the question that remains is simply… how does that make us feel?”

“Todd says that priests drink a lot. Is that true?” I said.

“That’s it, Benny. One more outburst and there’ll be no TV tonight.”

“Because the Psalm talks about the thoughts of man, not about the hearts of man. And what is it that comes from our hearts and not our minds?”

“A heartbeat,” I said.

“Benny. That’s it.”

“C’mon mom. That was funny.”

“I’m not laughing, am I?” she said.

“Faith and love…. There is no way we can change the focus of our minds, take them off ourselves. Our thoughts, our minds, they turn inwards—but our hearts…our hearts are designed to reach out. It is no sin to dress yourself or to take pride in the presentation of your homes. These are the impulses of our vain minds. Think on the words for a moment…. Vanity…It’s what we think … of ourselves. We cannot think for others, it wouldn’t even sound right in a sentence. ‘I think for my brother,’ or, ‘I think for my wife.’ We wouldn’t say that, because we can’t do that. We think only for ourselves because that is how the mind works. However…we can feel for others. We can feel for our children or feel for our husbands. Because the heart works … outwards. Our hearts can be easily shared in many ways…. Now… I’m not going to talk about all of them today, only the two ways that are most supreme. Faith and love.”

“Mom. How does he know all this?”

“Because he’s devoted his life to it Benny—now you’re upsetting me. I don’t understand how you can be so disrespectful,” she said.

“As we love one another we are actually sharing our hearts. Love is what brings us together, unites us with our brothers and sisters. But there is one more divine way in which we share our hearts…. It is faith. Consider our own language, and you’ll see why faith is a function of the heart, and not our minds. We say to each other, ‘I believe in the Lord.’ We don’t say, ‘I think about the Lord.’ Because our thoughts could never handle the full glory of our heavenly father. Our thoughts cannot contain God…. Our hearts, on the other hand, can. Our hearts can hold all  of his glory, because faith opens our hearts. With faith, we open our hearts to the Lord, and just as love brings us together, faith makes us one with God. It is our heart’s ability to share unify us with both our fellow man and the Lord that defeats the vanity of our minds. It is in our hearts where the power is found. Our thoughts are only puffs of wind in comparison to the immensity of love and faith. So, I say to you, my brothers and sisters, that it is fine to have nice cars and designer jeans, it is fine to surround yourself with toys and fine wine, because if you have love in your heart and believe in the grace of our Lord than your futile vanities cannot harm you…because you are full with grace…. However, if you have nor love nor faith, than you are empty with vanity. So, my friends, the next time you look at yourselves in the mirror, feel love burst out of your heart and express faith in your Lord before you think about how beautiful you look….”

“Mom. You look nice today.”

“It’s not going to work Benny.”

“Mom, you don’t need designer jeans to look good.”

“And you don’t need to be surrounded with toys to love your mother.”

“That’s right, Mom.”

“Come here.” She hugged me. “Just save your questions ‘till after the Mass is done. Alright?”

“Sure, but I still don’t understand what that whole ‘fine wine’ and ‘fancy car’ stuff was about. This is Central Maine, not Hollywood,” I said.

“Well, sometimes when people talk to each other they’re really talking to themselves,” she said.

“Please rise,” the priest said.

…..

I am hungry. I want spaghetti, or baked ziti, or maybe even a burger with grilled onions and blue cheese, or a calzone with meatballs, or sausage and peppers, or a big steak… But it’s too late now…. When I wake up I’m going to take a shower and get a calzone for lunch.

I hate this hunger, it seems pointless. Pain is the body’s way of telling you that something is wrong. This is wrong, hunger. Hunger is wrong, food is available. Eat.

…..

Outside, someone yelled, “Let’s go motherfucker.”

…..

My room was warm and the street was quiet the first night I made love to Cary. We were curled and stripping and kissing until we found ourselves tangled and naked and breathing deep the pale-blue darkness, and nothing else mattered around us. I felt her body, her arches and her hair and the gentle bow of her woman’s kiss.

It was warmer than any other night I had spent in my room.

I went blank. What thoughts could I have possibly had with her skin under my fingers. The warmth around me was mine, it was hers, an atmosphere, our atmosphere of breath and steam. There was so much pleasure, washing away thoughts like wind-swept waves, leaving instinct to guide our lips. Was this animal instinct as I stalked the mind-erasing glow, soaked in the sight, touch, smell, taste and sounds hat her body made as I gently felt the moistening poise of her soft woman’s kiss.

Breathing makes the buzz. Breathing together or just feeling the motion and the wind of a pleased exhale.

For a while we kissed open kisses.

“What are you going to do with me?” she said.

I kissed her more, and tried to calm myself. I heard my thoughts again. Cary was special, and this would be the first time I made love to her. It had to be awesome. At that moment, I wanted her forever.

I breathed deep the warmth, trying to calm down. However, the buzz and glow, the anticipation and awe kept my heart from slowing down. I was being handed exactly what I had always wanted, the woman, simply given to me. The curves of her body and the blue darkness cast faint shadows of her on me, and me on her.

And it began, and we held each other. We moved together and our breath grew thick and long and sounds were loosed and escaped, and grips were gentle and strong and our mouths were open. We cast a tangled shadow for as long as it lasted….

And when it was done we were warmer and thanked each other for the quivers we shared, with smiles.

I was ripped open. My quiet mind rode my excited, churning heart like a child in a tube being bounced with glee across the many hyper crests of a river’s rapids.

– How do you find supreme beauty, the one thing that stands above all of the beauties of the world?  Perhaps, if you imagine the ugliest and darkest of all visions, then you’ll be so disgusted that beauty will appear to you in the smallest, most unexpected things. Or maybe in your rebellion against the wretched, you’ll see all beauty as equally supreme….

I’m willing to bet that Calzone Girl’s lips are the softest ever made. I could kiss them for hours.

…..

I don’t remember it, but I fell asleep.

And as I slept, a parasite crawled up the leg of my bed and under my sheets. A tick. It was glossy, like it was wet. It had a slight, cross-like, wooden mark on its back. It was a crucifer. Its eight, jointed legs carried it to me, and it moved, slowly, onto my leg. Each hair of my thigh was thick cord to the tick, and it crawled across them with the grace of a tightrope walker. Its weight never affected the flow and curve of each hair. The tick climbed the grooves of my skin. My pores were grips for the tick to seize, and it moved, steady and hungry. It moved in search of blood, looking for the perfect roost upon which to sit and feed. This black teardrop crawled over my stomach, and rode the waves that my breath made in the soft casing of my gut. It brandished its slight, barbed tongue. A tongue that with its ridges was much finer than a needle. It crawled up my chest, fixed on its goal, steady to my blood…so perfect and slow. Its eyes sensed the flow under my skin, and it formed a viscous drool as it emerged from under my sheets and sparkled in the light that came through my window. Its armor glistened like enamel.

The tick was on my neck, and it crept to the back of it. It could smell its food under my skin, it could hear the pump and whir, and the tick crept forward still, to the spot where it would be comfortable to sit and eat. And then the tick stopped its crawl at the joint of my skull and spine. It concealed itself under the scribble of my hairline. Its barbed tongue, a microscopic drill bit, slid through the skin of my neck. The tick’s fangs pierced, too, my skin and curled beneath the layers. It was anchored. The tick was attached, as its tongue drew blood and its fangs held it in place.

As I slept, warm in my grey room, and as I dreamed and made wishes I’d forget…the tick was feeding.

The Host by Henry E. Powderly II is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. Based on a work at henrythesecond.wordpress.com.

© 2009 – 2010, Henry E. Powderly II. All rights reserved.

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1. The Host: Chapter 9
2. The Host: Chapter 8
3. The Host: Chapter 7
4. The Host: Chapter 6
5. The Host: Chapter 5