Bullshit Lit Mag published my shit. Yay!
I will never abstain from writing the trash.
I’m able to NOT take my writing seriously. Especially when it is published by Bullshit Lit Mag ))
Oh, did I mention that I chat with characters of my novels and screenplays? That’s how this publication (or newsletter) was born.
“You always throw away shit writing?” I asked Gia* who just crumpled up a piece of paper.
She put the unfortunate outcast aside and sipped coffee in her usual way: cautiously-excited as if she was a child trying the new thing. And yet, Gia was a coffee maniac, just like me.
“I keep my shit,” I said. The crumpled paper looked lonely. I wouldn’t be surprised if it started to cry.
“If my first impulse is to destroy the piece, that’s a clear sign that I have to.”
We both looked at the sad outcast.
“Sometimes I think that my shit writing gets more publishing chances than the good one. Look,” I opened my laptop, found a vanity-infused folder called “YES!” (aka works accepted by various mags) and opened a flash fiction story. “This one is featured in Bullshit Lit Mag.”
Gia smiled and in one slick movement - only she was able to move in this way - she sat very close to me and began to read.
*Gia - one of the two main characters of The Black Fox: A Fairytale For Grownups novel. She writes dark, moody novels, screenplays and plays. She is from Tuscany and her family has a very curious secret (I can’t disclose it here as it’ll be a major spoiler).
Martinez
The dim light at the wine bar painted mysterious portraits of its visitors.
“Make it a double.” He heard her saying.
It was her second double. She ordered a cocktail he had never heard of before - Martinez. And each time a waiter glanced at her with appreciation.
Sophistication, eh? Ok, it was expected. Her appearance promised something intriguing, exotic even.
She had porcelain skin. Her straight hair was Dita Von Teese-black. Deeper than jet-black. And no, she didn’t have rouge on her lips and her nails were not polished with that color, either. In fact, her round lips had just a gloss. Her eyes were disproportionately huge. But that’s because her face was very thin.
When she glanced occasionally to where he sat, those eyes drilled right through his skin and to the very core, crushing molecule structure. And maybe even reaching something people call soul.
Her two doubles of that rare cocktail didn’t have any effect on her. She sat upright, composed. Her perfectly tailored suit didn’t wrinkle. Everything was as pitch-perfect as when she just entered the wine bar. She was… elongated. Very slim. Perhaps on the verge of getting skinny. The waiter nodded to her.
And now, while almost facing him, the woman didn’t give any damn shit about the space around her. She glanced occasionally at him, yes. As if her eyes drilled through his flesh, but she did that with each object and subject her eyes happen to see.
He had an urge to hear her voice again. It was suitably low. Would she order a third round of doubles? Oh, let her!
When Gia read the piece she said:
“This is the first time I saw you writing from a man pov.”
“And that was also the last time.” I answered.
Her disproportionately huge eyes were drilling through me. But it wasn’t intimidating or disturbing. It was just the way she looked at anyone or anything her eyes happen to see.
Classic Martinez Cocktail
Fancy video here: Ooooooh
Thank you for reading!
Please be aware that:
English is not my native language
I keep «author’s style» intact (including grammar mistakes) as a proof of authenticity (no ai involved)
I’m a coffee maniac
Your character conversations remind me of an idea I was playing around with awhile back: imaginary writing mentors, imaginary writing group, etc., sort of a memory mansion, but for interaction rather than preservation. Intriguing post, Victoria!