ALEIDA TOPRAK

HOUSE WARMING

Red wine and orange juice in a paper cup. Donna's friends’ share-house. Me? Mysteriously invited. 

The paper cup was strangely small and the sangria looked like paint water. 

“Mmm it's good,” I said. It tasted like paint water. We sat in the house moving from the edge of the bed, to the bean bag, to the kitchen top, to the broken-leg chair out the back, and once to the toilet with the Jesus-postered walls. The house was like a 3D collage. A museum of ugly things. Together they lived - the ugly things and the people. And even though there was no real light and all the lounges had intentional stains, it was a funny-nice little house. I couldn't find a comfortable spot in the end; and neither could Donna. 

                                                                                                                      We left.

To another house with another party. They had no sangria. As I was eating the pretzels and talking to no one but Donna, the dry taste of paint water crawled up my throat. We went back to the house with the orange juice wine at the end of the night. We had to. This time I didn't find a place to sit, we just stood; which was lucky because the walls became people - ugly things.

The sangria was finished.

FIN - THE REAL FIN

Before it disappeared, I lived in the fountain.

            I lived in the fountain...

I lived with my little brother. He was a scrawny little animal and we had a duck army.

I've left places that I didn't even know I was leaving. The fountain was one of them. 

The ducks were the first to go. They disappeared one by one. The pond just swallowed them whole. 

Next it was the-

And then it was the ripples. Like a swarm of killer-termites, it started from the bottom, eating all the way to the top;  the fountain disappeared - piece by piece. 

It took about a week for my brother to notice something was wrong. He was back from his long nap.

‘I can't find the ducks,’ he sobbed. 

“They've gone, I think it's time for us to go too.” 

“But who will stay with the fountain and wait for the ducks to come back”-

“We can find somewhere new, a waterfall this time.”

“I want to go back to the old house.”

He yawned a big yawn that filled his eyes up with water, and buried his little head into the soft of my tummy. ‘It’ll be an adventure’, I whispered as I untangled his hair with my fingers. 

That afternoon my brother disappeared.                                       That was the last I ever saw him. 

I wonder why he never came home. I like to think he found another scrawny animal like himself to nap with, all day in the sun. My brother has always been half real. It seemed almost natural for him to disappear too. Would I recognise him if we ever crossed paths again?

I don't think I could forget. 

That was a long time ago, and I’ve moved around alot since then. All I have from those times are blurs of memory that burst and are gone again. 

The few moments I've caught go a little bit like this….

“It's not like we can claim home insurance now”,  someone said 

The other replied: “I told you to get it. You never listen to me. 

I told you so. 

I 

told 

you 

so.”

 
GLITTER GIRLS

It was the beginning of a very miserable day. 

The sky dripped like glitter spilt over glue. This is what I thought. I left my house, asleep in the midst of suburbia. No sparkle. The same way my eyes are heavy and filling - still - a different kind of sparkle. I walk past all the holes in the wall that don't exist.

And I know that the puddles that have been left empty and dry, will be watered in a dull grey rain. 

When I think of what I miss the most, it's usually a sad jumble of objects that I can recall from my childhood:

1. Lava lamps

2. Key chains - so many

3. Glow in the dark pencils and stamps

Everything I remember exists in an overly saturated low-pixel-quality image. 

I look at my life now and I've got quite the collection of sad sparkly things. 

I slip the drugs into the soft crotch of my undies as the taxi pulls up to the club. 

I fix my stockings and pay my fare. The boys don't pat me down. It's too early for that kind of stuff. 

I dump my shit in my room, set up a line and swallow a capsule too small for its effect. This is my favourite part of the day - before the men arrive. This job is simple. The less clothes you wear the easier it is. And when you're on the pole, no one can touch you. I stay there until some faceless stranger sits in front of me. I make him wait. Then I take one of my rhinestone heels and stab it into his shoulder. Hard enough for him to like it;  but not enough for me to enjoy it. I manoeuvre my body in a way that makes him rearrange his belt; and I know he’s mine. When I’ve had my fun I pull him close and tell him “Come and mess me up”.  

He laughs with his mouth closed. I wish he would just. 

I usually don't remember my nights. But once you start, you’re glitter on glue - like girls on poles.