Week 8: Chanting is for sissies

23 Jan

“What am I supposed to do with this?!”

Her voice bounces off the bare, white walls. She reaches over to Rabbit’s lap. They’re sitting on the bare, cold floor, butt naked. The book smokes darkly a few feet off, the poker sticking out of it like a sword. Rabbit looks down and seems about to cry. Lara laughs hysterically.


She asks for the unthinkable and the smoke creature laughs and flicks something at them. There’s a special on the radio and he’d better not miss more than a quarter. Laura Marling, he clarifies. He chuckles darkly and snaps his fingers to the sound of a devilishly stylish beat in his head. Oh me, oh my, and what exactly do they intend to do with this and that, and is it a fact that they believe the otherworld can wrap around their pinky finger at the waving of a sword, and plastic nonetheless. The thing stares back and smiles, slowly, leeringly, gloriously. It questions the purpose of the call, and mocks the arbitrarily chosen ritual utensils. Is that really a poker? Really? They open their eyes and stare into the gleaming, steamy face of something outside reality. The noise, the horror, the unbearably tense silence that follows, close to ripping their eardrums to shreds. A dark, deep voice rumbles about heaven and hell and whatever is in between, though Rabbit’s denomination doesn’t see Purgatory with a good eye, and Lara’s isn’t much of a religion to start with.

 Hearts beat faster, eyes roll in their sockets, the room shakes, the windows break, shards of glass dot the floor beneath them with a thousand glittering suns, if they only opened their eyes to see them. Heavy, dense, deadly, rising, spiraling, snaking surreptitiously towards the ceiling, feeling its way up inch by inch, invading, pervading, perverting. Smoke.


Pretty chilly but it will have to do. She shivers and smiles and looks down at the politically incorrect but cleanly shaven Star of David on her Mound of Venus. The fabric slides right off, making her skin prickle and tingle and pop.  A loud sigh and Rabbit turns around, squeaks and hides his eyes behind big, tender palms she’s only felt helping her over the neighbor’s fence throughout the years. She swears she won’t look but she steals a glance and not bad, not bad at all, mister I’m-too-shy-to-look-up-from-the-floor.  What if he stopped being such a child and really, Rabbit, just get a grip and strip. That’s how you do it, sky-clad, and no, it’s not the ceiling, dummy, it’s the concept. The concept that requires you to take off your woolen sweater, the Tweety boxers, holey socks, and the charm hanging by a string around your neck… And Lara laughs, and Lara twirls on the spot, and it’s Lara’s arms that twist above her head holding the blackened poker, and Lara’s hair that floats as if caught in a voyeuristic hurricane. The book’s flipped open and she laughs and reads and jokes, invokes and prods and sometimes even nods. Rabbit blushes every time she does that. She winks at him. It’s only going to take an hour. No worries, right?


“Chanting is for sissies,” Lara sniffs and spits at her feet. “Let’s do this the right way. Get that poker, Rabbit.”

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