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Shoreline of yesterday

Renata looked out across the icy shimmer of the sea, the broken waves flaying themselves into extinction. Their chaotic dance drew right up to the shoreline, a dirty brown beach covered in shingle and pebbles. The chalk of the cliff edge descended below her, and she looked down, imagining the sweet oblivion of her body as it spread itself broken over the rocks below, a pillow emptied of air. The temporary rush, an incandescence of brief desire as she fell, an exhilaration as death's cunning claws groped its way inside her, the seizure of personal annihilation.

Renata considered, turning away from the edge. The vertiginous elixir was enough to  re-energise her, a gentle warmth travelling back towards her inner temple, awaiting further rites from Mitchell. He was lying back in amongst the long grass, seemingly intent on inferring great cosmological truths from the white cumulonimbus clouds whose transience offered a foil for his emotional detachment. She didn't need his emotional engagement, simply his presence, and here she was able to summon him back with the simple bewitchment of a well chosen glance. She draped herself over him, the wax of her desire melting a tendentious journey towards the abyss of his subconscious. Kneeling onto him, her white skirt settled like an open umbrella, circumscribing a languorous circle over his grey jumper, and round down over his blue jeans. She enjoyed this geometrical arrangement, the centre point of this circle finding its precise mark in the inked point of her damp clit, the pointillism of its expectation finding solace in the gradual stirring beneath Mitchell's jeans.

Renata paused, waiting for him to descend back from the vapours above, trusting that the force of gravity would soon bring him into her earth ready to claim to his seed. She saw him turn from the sky and look at her, his brown eyes filled with uncertainty, as if he couldn't quite decide whether he was willing to inhabit himself. She wondered whether he would be more or less present at the moment he erupted inside her; as his semen laced her cunt, if she pried open his eyelids -- for in orgasm, the true deceit that rested in the permanent solitude of the two bodies conjoined revealed itself -- would his eyes still be there, or would they be replaced with two grey blank tombstones, empty orbs that reflected his ultimate dissolution. Part of her wished she could hack him open, to pull out his entrails, hoping to discover some secret location where his soul lay, instead of the mute quivering of his emptied prick.

But no matter. She fancied she caught a glimpse of him, then. He gazed back at her, passing through her waterfall, only the cold grey damp granite behind. Mitchell felt Renata's weight sinking deep down into him, the sinuous folds of her enveloping his apex. She was a monolith over him, a pale force against the grey-blue sky that continued its azure dispersion against the cosmos. Her force, all ice and penetration, emasculated him, as he remained subdued under her mesmeric wake.

Renata could see a buoy far out to sea, gently rocking, a faint bell the insouciance of individual life forever mocked by the fatalistic currents that always washed anything of value away; it only took a glance. One moment, an entire history dissolved and left for mere limescale around the plughole where all hope was destined to wash away, replaced instead by dead slices of skin, mere moments in time guillotined out of the corpse of a man made straw; all blood, guts and fodder for earthen abolition. She wished she could sit on that buoy, waiting for the wrath of the sea to consume her, use her, feed her, and leave her drowned and slaked. Better that this strange meeting of angles, the evasion of two who continually departed to otherness, an elsewhere.

Mitchell reached up and clawed her neck, pulling her towards him, so that he might swallow her lips, feast upon her eyes, and perhaps find at least a reflection there, hidden in the pessimistic slate of her demeanour. Their lips scratched at each other, hoping to find purchase and some brief moment of verification. Some chalkiness, a slight acidic taste rolled across his tongue; he felt himself grow hard, here was a museum of secrets; he needed to see her exhibitions, perhaps leave one of his own displays. All heavy wooden cases, sliding glass doors, neat shelves arranged with the various artefacts of her soul, the various nooks in her that he could decorate with his cock. Renata slid down, unzipping his trousers and parted her lips around the inky chasm of his manhood. She had him now, gatekeeper to his abandoned soul. The rhythm increased, vestigial hymns to his disappearing carcass that was getting entombed into the ground, all entrails and paper thin emptiness. As she felt him draw near (yet so far away), she stopped, removing her panties that she tossed into the wind, a conceded defeat against reality. The wind took them and lay them near the cliff edge, held on by tufts of grass. Renata lifted her skirt and slid down onto him, feeling him engorge her, hoping to find a presence as she descended down onto and into Mitchell.

He fleeted away, disappearing inside her, growing limp. He withered away, nothing but a shadow of half-baked sunlight, an empty shelf of watercolour experiences that had been washed away. The lingerie slipped over the cliff edge, sending her tumbling with it.

The wind had changed direction, and in that one gust they had been scattered asunder. Renata crashed upon the rocky shoreline, spread across the base of the cliff. She fancied she saw Mitchell slowly bobbing out to sea, a corpse now drained of desire into the blank waters of nothingness, ebbing towards the harlequin toll of the buoy which remained constant, an effervescent throb of disinterested temporality, all grey flatness and persistence.  

Renata blinked, turning back from the underwear which still lay on the cliff edge. She immersed herself in the sea, and drove down through him. Mitchell felt himself dissected beneath her, and in that immediate tangled thorn, felt desire ebb back into him, his entrails swallowed back up, and all at once he was finally able to broach the surface, breathe, the sea spilling off his face as he once more saw the grey-blue sky. He fancied that, were he able to look down, he'd be able to spot the dark speck of his presence, still afloat; though far from shore, far from land, far from memories, a spectre forever tossed within the sea as it tried with all its force to empty him of any being, leaving him afloat but a vessel of taciturn sorrow, spilled dreams: a silent voice with illegible words. He met that oblivion, spilling into her, and pretended he would once more be able to speak.


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