Transfiguration of the Loathsome — Ch. 2

II: ABYSMS

II.I (JANUARY MMIX)

“There is something else howling alongside us…not closely, distant…”

II.II (JANUARY MMIX)

With the same mechanical tread that drives waves into shore the morning delineates itself upon my throat, the sky paralyzed therein. I trace comfort in the din of horses as rabidly they eat from cavities torn open in my chest. What brings them such distances to pasture? The day falls useless and arid, the sheets that I pull to my face stinking of gypsum. Yes, but what brings them such distances to pasture? She watches over me, her mouth fixed at an angle of roughly twenty degrees. To explore that wilderness with my fingers would be like touching upon the event horizon of a black hole; time as I understand it would no longer hold sway and eventually the pull of the terrain would simply tear me limb from limb. Yes, yes, yes, that is all well and good, but what exactly brings them such distances to pasture? I may never know.

II.III (JANUARY MMIX)

Having pried loose from her throat a pair of fangs whose molecules vibrate at such a high frequency that they are invisible to the human eye, she unzips my jeans then takes my cock in her hand. She grips it tight; the skin of her palm is warm and moist. I feel sick from inertia and can respond only by looking at her skull whilst breathing gently through my nostrils. The meat that she massages between her fingers and thumb is long and thin. She adds a second hand to it and works the skin backwards and forwards, pressuring the shaft and periodically altering the tempo. Weariness, however, cloaks my arousal and it takes a long time for me to come, far longer than would normally be the case. I spill my seed into a tissue that she produces from a pocket in her skirt before slipping the receding length back into my jeans. The expression on her face is unchanging, marked like polar terrains by the shifting of ice.

II.IV (JANUARY MMIX)

Her laughter has about it a tone similar to that of rhinos colliding among dry grass; her smile like that of a deltoid advancing languidly through the various stages of flexion. I warm myself in moments of desperation on the feces that she deposits.

II.V (FEBRUARY MMIX)

For the past twelve minutes, and with the appetite and voracious need of a stab wound running horizontally along the thorax, I have engaged myself in mining the primordial sap located between her thighs. What directly results from this procedure is a vibration originating somewhere in the solar plexus before information is decoded at a speed best reserved for communication among dolphins along the esophagus then finally translated into a low guttural decreasing in volume at a point in its trajectory somewhat removed from the egress, i.e. the aperture made by her lips parted ever so gently like meat registering the early signs of frostbite in the hands of a mountaineer. The sound she makes is not unlike that of a convict who, in a cell filled with artificial light, is beaten half to death by apes in uniforms, their oedipal-charged fury propagated further due to excitation of the ascending reticular activating system (a fibrous mesh constituting the organism’s arousal network that creates an awning of sorts over the prefrontal cortex after first being erected above the reptilian and mammalian regions of the brain) and stems from the convict’s muffled – though seemingly ecstatic – cries for help. Accordingly, her field is altered, twisted, thrown out of shape beyond all recognition, abominated most violently via fluctuations that occur from a space removed from, yet nevertheless informed by, her pudendum. In saying this I do not mean to infer a mere chemical (re: emotional) change. One need only devour the sky in order to bypass the cortical, after all, or reverse the alignment of musculature in the body through entering a black hole that has opened like stigmata on a wrist. Rather I am, as it were, ruminating on the spatial disturbance affecting at once the organism and the environment into which it has been inlaid caused during the preliminary stages of coition. The change I hint at transpires not in the raising of the cheekbones to a different quadrant, the chin made less prominent, a defect erased or muted, the eyebrows shaded lighter or the hypothalamus redesigned using the combined blueprints of theme parks and concentration camps. It is the very molecules and particles – the oscillating waves – themselves that, conforming to a genetic rule in allowing her to become the conduit through which said impulses are fundamentally expressed, dissolve the morphology of the room and everything it encompasses (myself included). Irregularities in the given solidity of the walls added to the barriers that isolate our flesh are at last made apparent. Amplitudes once hidden are temporarily revealed…much to my overall horror! The map of the room coupled with that of our forms (created largely by the brain from ciphers sent to it using nerve endings via cellular memories stored inside the spinal mast), their contours and angles, is reconfigured internally. Things of hideous aspect stir restlessly in the shadows. I attempt to ignore them, even when their teeth pierce the epidermis then fuse to my veins as nutrients from my body are filtered into each of their eight workable stomachs.

II.VI (MARCH MMIX)

Entry erased.

II.VII (MARCH MMIX)

Combined, the self-inflicted scars across her arms give one the impression of an aerial map of ice fields, a topology created by an ordeal whose importance has long since been consigned to the past and which, against the bracts of light opening outside, seems no more expressive or meaningful unto itself than are the rifts of sunken tissue below the eyes of a bear whose wounds were inflicted many seasons previous. As if pushed beyond the threshold of pleasure the nerves have simply been put out. The devastation is total. Unlike the seeds of the protea shrub which in the wake of localized fires are first released from then afterwards grow in the ash of their progenitors the skin here is dead, mere wasteland, more fallow than what technically is known by gynecologists as a hostile womb.

II.VIII (MARCH MMIX)

Her body is a desert, its corresponding arcs dimensioned in the contours of sleep. A distance that caresses alone cannot traverse has formed between us as she lays on her side with her back to me. The sheets at my waist are dyed a mute pink and into them, mingled amongst the smell of our genitalia, has been suffused a trace of orchards, courtyards and fine scented candles. Watching her lids flutter as though in REM and experiencing a nightmare of such intensity that it must also be causing vascular congestion of the vagina, I am neither enamored nor repulsed by the figure whose room shares amplitudes and bisecting planes with mausoleums and public lavatories. Her vertebrae, primed as a telecommunications mast, reflects little more than does the spine of a trauma patient who, upon catching sight of the void within the flesh and consequently wishing only for reprisal, slips willfully into catatonia. She mumbles incoherent entreaties and going unanswered these return to her body like the thread of a spider, no longer estranged, but minus prey, before trying a different, less subtle approach: they are farted out of her cunt.

II.IX (MARCH MMIX)

Without clothing to conceal them, freak patterns and formations become visible in serrated columns along her shoulders. Her atoms spit and hiss, swarm and eddy; continuously rearranging themselves – the dunes of her breasts are thus formed. If they were to lessen their speed for even two milliseconds I believe myself capable of pushing my hands right through from one side of her body to the other. (Certainly, in viewing a hive of bees at a distance of no more than, say, twenty feet one sees a solid mass until upon closer inspection said mass unveils itself as nothing more than an alliance of constituent parts.) In the gloom I scan no outline; her cunt is the source of the blackness itself, emitting a drone like pain dulled in a rotted tooth – a drone that is both frequency and hieroglyph, conveying everything with the accuracy of an animal during the latter stages of predation, various energy fields having accumulated in the room after the squall of her orgasm and presently to be projected outwards by way of the first tentative fractals of dawn.

Read Chapter 1 here.

And be sure to tune in next Tuesday & Wednesday for Chapters 3 & 4.

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Christopher Brownsword was born in Sheffield, England on the 11th of December, 1981. Transfiguration of the Loathsome is the first of his short stories to be published; the rest having been either destroyed or lost. His debut novel, a diseased outpouring of ugliness, filth, and degradation titled The Terraced Orchards is currently under development.