& A 20 DOLLAR PSYCHIC NOSEBLEED

RULES & ROSTER. PROMPTS. OPEN POSTS. MUSE WHEEL.

cashed out, spent, bent, shit out of luck and out of your mind. you have two faces and one of them is turning patina green. your money is no good at the automat. you suck the marrow from the bones of the congregation hymning in your head. the collection plate rattles. the bet against you comes in at 10-1. it's not about winning. it's about bucking hard enough to stay alive.

makes for some really winning parlor room entertainment.

in a well-appointed pile of sandstone in hillhead, the help opens the windows so what little air there is in the dead, grey-skied heat might circulate through the blue haze blooming from pipes and cigarette ends. nervous laughter crackles overhead.

pashandra could stick a heavy-ringed hand up and feel the jolt run through her fingers. for my first trick, a storm in a bottle! but she won't, and say she did, depending on how badly she needs to amuse herself later. her arms, for right now, are too heavy. she feels as if she rowed the boat herself.

the party douses itself before she makes her entrance, an oil slick through the oaky door that her manager dion holds open for her. he near kicks her through by the tuchus, distracted as she gets by that swooping, swirling nouveau inlay that seems to crawl about the place. it winds all the way from the door to the skirting boards, to the table set out and ready for her to tickle pinkies with partygoers already aroused by the idea of penetrating the other side.

they're a decorative folk, the middle class boheme, the ones with the money, and she is their bauble for the night. pashandra wears a silk cocoon coat filthified with fringe, kohl daubed around her eyes as if she had rubbed them in her fatigue, and very little else besides her big, gravy boat china white smile.

the boston planchette is more exotic than advertised.

in a small, girlish, high society voice to the nearest spiffy looking older gentleman, "pardon me, if i may sit?"

she charges, valise with the broken clasp abandoned on the ground, ready to clip the ear of the closest bastard she can catch. no worry on her as regards the bag - nothin worth anythin in it unless you're keen on dirty clothes.

"don't throw the CUNTIN thing if you can't FUCKIN make the shot, ya shcutther!"

a sharp whistle echoes up the hall, followed by a big green eye and half a mop of bricktop hair stuck out the door.

"mariiiia... maria! c'mere. come down here. it's a 'mergency."

"heyor boss," pidgeen calls over the lady's shoulder, stockings starting to itch, "while she's makin up her mind, gis over a big yoke of vinegar. a big yoke!"

tankards clatter, liquid slosh and spittoon clanging,

"óró sé do bheatha abhaile,"

balanced on her hip like the babies she used carry from caravan to caravan,

"óró sé do bheatha abhaileeeee,"

by christ, for the state she's in, she's up and standing an'way. stitches embroider her cheek where it's looking yellow and rotty, but luckily not smelling that way. she can't bend down too far, can't stretch up too high but she won't be cowed away in st. johns, thanks be to god. pidgeen's bell-clear voice a little more insistent for the stragglers still left in the pub,

"and don't wake up your miiiiisssuuuuss!"

PIDGEEN femur. what drives them forward ?

the fact that you can't go back! it's a long road that has no turnin! what's for ya won't pass ya! we could surmise that pidgeen's curiousity, the kind that kills cats, is the thing that keeps her going. fierce nosy, needs to see what'll happen next. but whether it's a gift from god or something else, hope is what it is, hope that hasn't been bate out of her yet.

VARLA clavicle. who/what do they lean on when they're vulnerable ?

isolation, dry martinis and turning the blade on somebody else. if you're down, there's no better way to get up than by stepping on someone else's neck. casper ciccone gets the brunt of this most often, if not the girls that work for her. and they're used to it, which calls into question how vulnerable varla feels on a regular basis. if you stay mean, you don't need to get mean.

PASHA coccyx. what outdated beliefs do they still carry, if any ?

little miss bucks-the-law still thinks marriage oughta mean something, as in, it's the twoayas, sympatico and in flow against the push and pull of life and temptation and whatever this polyamory shit they keep talking about is. she's a slut but the capri really only has room for two. she wants to be the only one somebody comes home to. she wants somebody to love her the best and the most, coz god knows she'll pitch it right back. plus, she's jealous when it comes down to it and is getting less good at hiding it, longer in the tooth she grows.

PASHA spine. when do they lose their backbone, what scares them ?

being trapped, as pedestrian as it is. animal trapped, that's a problem, where it looks like something good. like the job that's gonna get you level, or like love if you squint. that makes her hands shake. the notion that she might get snagged and locked up in some place or with some person where they leech all the good, and the bad that's feeding the good like that good bacteria, right out of her. they take that dumb, tired question she faces all the time, what is the matter with you?! and they make work out of it. they turn her body against her. and worst of all, worst of all, no one comes to pick her up. no one tries to break her out. nobody believes her when she tells them that it hurts. she sees it sometimes, out of the corner of her eye. she was lucky to get out the first time.

ROSCOE cheekbone. what makes them smile ?

contrary to everything you and i and everyone else knows about him, a full house. fucker like this always ends up in a crowd, you know, whether it's the proctor property in massachussets with all his dozen half siblings, or the vermin and poetry filled lofts of alphabet city in a pile of likewise tramps, or his current place where the volume control of giddy rosenstock and pasha novak combined make a crowd between them. you can black sheep all you like, but the intoxication of the ramshackle family unit never really leaves you. he doesn't need to feel responsible. he just likes the noise, and the sharing cigarettes, and the smell of bad-to-okay cooking. plus, what's the point of threatening to kill yourself if no one's around to hear it. once you kick heroin, you really do need a small audience for that kind of thing.

PIDGEEN neck. who taught them to speak up, or stay silent ?

nanny joyce, naturally. the big woman, the top dog of the joyce family. all and sundry go through her and if she's not happy, all and sundry will hear about it. if she was happy, they'd hear it even louder. the common misconception about traveller women, that they get loud only to cause ruction. there were certain things pidgeen was taught in her rearing, alongside the rest of her cousins, among them where and when to clip their voices. keep quite enough and off to yourself in the pub, in a restaurant, up the shops 'cause if you open your mouth you'll be thrown out for what you sound like. that in it, if some settled feen tries to see you for a fool, bear down. which is grand when gettin hollered at out the window of a car but less so in someplace like school. even less so when it's your own people you've to stand up against. wrecks the head, really. she still can't get that balance quite right.

VARLA metacarpals. do they ask for help or clench their fists and bear it ?

forged in the fire of pearls scattered on the stairs and every showgirl for themselves, there is no world where varla clark seeks outside assistance. it's old hat, that whole thing of never being able to make yourself vulnerable in showbusiness or in her business, but the hat is one size fits all and never goes out of style. varla has seen and sneered at too many women propped up on all kinds of handouts from all kinds of people, only to get wrung out regardless. if you can't do it alone, you can't do it. is what she keeps telling herself, anyway.

GIDDY teeth. what lasting mark do they leave on others ?