RED RIDGE: STARTER BLOG

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raindrops trickle     down the fogged window  ,     bringing with it a waft of nostalgia ,   easier days ;     lazy sunday mornings wasted away under pale sheets  ,     spread over the soft grass on her belly ,    all red knees and wet socks .     morrigan had never been particularly afraid of the dark,  even as a child   — there was a comfort in the anonymity of it all ,    the mystery and possibility of things you can’t see in the light .   but nowadays it feels as though the nights last forever  ,    and the days get shorter by the minute .      “    it’s just rain,   my hair’s thick —- i’m sure i’ll live.     "      year after year,    day after day,    she’d spent what it felt like millennia in self-isolation ,    piling brick on top of brick to build to this invisible wall that now stands between them ,   in order to outlast winter .

                                   Dealing with unpleasant or straight up weird customers was on the menu almost every night ever since Delphine — no, Delta — started bartending at The Kitten Club. They couldn’t pinpoint what exactly it was about the particular customer that irked them so much: It could solely be because of the other’s stubborn refusal to accept they were overreacting ( contrary to popular customer belief, the customer wasn’t always right ), or it could be the fact that the club’s neon red lights tired their very soul. It could be because they were missing their old life and didn’t feel like embracing the persona that was Delta Hernández that night. “I already told ya, this just a water stain.” Mentioning it once didn’t work. Being polite about it didn’t work. “If they bother you so much feel free to fund the club to buy a better dishwasher.” Whatever was said back, Delphine put effort into trying to block it by turning their back on them, subconsciously leaning closer to another client’s direction as they sighed in defeat and lowered their head. “Fuck’s sake…”

                                   Mila’s unhealthy habit of checking her phone when in the presence of someone else was one she’d been trying to tune down to minimum. That’d only been the third time she’d done it since the dinner date had started. To her, the close contact with the device had nothing to do with killing time on social media whilst out for coffee — or pizza, like then — with a friend ( which she found very disrespectful ), and everything to do with her being notified in case someone wanted to book a new gig with her or, worst case scenario, cancel one. With her scheduled appeareance at Violet in a couple hours from then, she needed to be sure. However, when she refreshed the main page, the only new e-mail she found was a newsletter from the local news website. She wouldn’t have opened it right then and there, but its title captured her attention like a horror scene unfolding before a bystander’s eyes. “Oh, no..” Her free hand dropped the margarita slice back on the plate, her face losing its previous jovial expression. Dark hues turned to meet the other’s with a mix of worry and sorrow in them, before she flipped the screen to show them the title: Rorschach strikes again. “Another body was just found.”

location:  violet ,  10:33 pm

he lessens the pangs of a headache     with beer ,     the bottle held against the corner of his forehead     like an ice pack ,     and remaining there for what has seemed like a lightyear .      crisp ,  cool precipitation     leaves its droplets behind ,    free falling to lashes ,     among eyes that more so blink and flicker     against its own natural will     than it does at the sprinkle of water .     they stare below ,     vacantly ,     where skin grows raw ,     red     against the numbing chill     –     but it doesn’t numb .     relief barely lets up     –     perhaps this wasn’t the best place to go in order to heal ,     where rampant smells ,     roaring music ,     running mouths tend to be ,     one is more likely to create a headache than treat one .     yet ,  somehow ,     remorse doesn’t yet wash over his shoulders .     mind still promotes     peace and quiet     as this part of the sphere ,     functioning like a jungle    or a gymnasium ,     enwraps him ,     and he sits there ,     letting it hold him .

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wheels against cracked pavement  ,       she rolls forth like a fallen angel ,      covered in the dripping colors of the sky ;     blue and orange and red  ,     sprinkled across the horizon in uneven layers  .     hair flowing freely  ,    gold and brown caught in a gust of wind like hanging sheets from her mother’s clothesline and wishbone arms outstretched like a bird’s to set flight .   where will she fly to next ?      sometimes she wonders if mitch would really be mad if she tripped and fell on a corpse .    probably .    she almost wishes she would .     hips sways to the rhythm of the temptations  ,     shifting weight equally between both feet  ;     feather lashes gingerly shut as lacquered lips soundlessly mouth the words as she glides forth .     “  …guess you’d say …     what can make me feel this way?   “  

the lopsided grimace tightening her lips was a dead giveaway — tonight’s earnings amount to a black eye, a busted lip, a bruised jaw, a shoulder that hurt a little too much and a good amount of bruises she’s lost count of — it hurt like a bitch. one thing, however, was for sure: gender equality had allowed even the most retrograde specimens of valencia soldiers to reserve women the usual, fist-handed treatment. not that she hadn’t asked for it, in her own way. questions too bold, too precise to not raise a few eyebrows. one could’ve called her reckless, but she hardly cared about the consequence: she’d wanted to make waves, put some people on edge. the best observations were found when once still atoms buzzed around and crashed into one another.

still, that motherfucker had placed one hell of a hook, and her shoulder was throbbing. leaning with her back against the side of the building, mitch sighed, spat out a splash of blood and let out a curse — son of a bitch — under her breath. she needed a cigarette — badly. right as she lit it up, the flame briefly shining light over her corner of the hallway, right then her eyes met that of a not yet distinct figure: thank god for small miracles. “hey”, she called out, puffing out smoke to her left. “any chance i could hitch a ride to the hospital?”. 

Acacia couldn’t help it. Some days brought her to the steps of the restaurant that had been her home. No matter how short it had been, she’d always view it with a kind of wistfulness. Like a moth to the flame, she was across the street. Large sunglasses obscured part of her face, but any of  the senior staff would still recognize her. The danger wasn’t lost on her, but the same amount of uneasiness curled around her throat. It was a constant companion, though. The woman paused for a moment, eyeing the sign advertising the day’s specials. Her desserts were still being featured. She’d bet a week’s tips that the recipe was the same. too. Acacia shook her head as she thought better of her snooping, she hurried around the corner, only to stop short before colliding with a stranger. “Oh! I’m sorry!” she exclaimed. 

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POSSESSED BY AN ANCIENT RHYTHM  ,    her feet are bond to the chase  ,    lost in the wilderness of this everlasting hunt , of this fever dream of femininity untamed  ;     unchained from gravity and grace  ,    what flourishes  violent    ,   primal  ,    a lightening of the soul that that begs to be unleashed from this mortal coil .   it climbs through the gap between her freckled thighs ,   through the crevices hidden along her neck  &   throat ,   and through the protruding ribs that thread along her small fingers like white keys ,      stretching through the paleness of her doughy girl - flesh  ,   made steel .   the swaying of limbs comes as a natural disaster ,   not beautiful   -  harsh,   cruel  ,     natural  -   clashing against wood ,    birth and rebirth ,   dragging itself through the floor   &    back into the air   —–  she is a puppet on strings  ,   and only feels the impact   &   weariness of it all when it all comes to a halt ,   and her warm body crashes against something solid     —— a   curt gasp   lodges itself between windpipe  ,     eyes flash wide ,     returning to earth in a blink . 

mopey faces aren’t unusual in this corner of the earth. either you walk in here for a drink before getting your ass kicked at rogue’s, or you’re coming for a place where all your sorrows, your failures and faults will fit just right in with the chipped paneling on the walls, the stains on the floor and the ever present smell of ancient booze seeping beneath the floorboards. somehow, she likes it — feels right at home among broken things, be them humans or the cracking shards of glass beneath the counter. she waltzes from one corner of the counter to the other with ease, and she is grateful for the grind of every day: it keeps the thoughts at bay, as if evil had no reason to crawl through the door of st. peter’s — shit’s been rotten for far too long already, in here.

she, however, still feels a certain responsibility for everyone’s sorrow. it weighs over her; as if any disruption of an otherwise precarious, but trustworthy balance, automatically became a direct consequence of her presence when it happened around her. egomaniacal, perhaps: she still felt it was her duty to correct its existence. so, hands dutifully polishing a load of spoons before setting them back in the drawer, fred’s eyebrows quirk in inquisitive interest. “long day?”,  the hint of a smirk pulling the corner of her lips upwards. “i’m not gonna have to start crackin’ jokes like some tv bartender, am i ?”

Red Ridge reeked of murder and blood – the town’s name had started becoming somewhat a joke among agencies all over Nevada; oh yeah, Red Ridge, there’s a good reason it’s called that now, huh? Jake was tired, frankly. It wasn’t nearly as much as it felt – someone going missing every month or so (to be honest, all the missing and murdered cases were piling up and he could hardly keep track of it all), it felt like it was every week that a new person had been reported missing, every week a new body found in a pool of their own blood that had coagulated along their frame, cold, stiff and lifeless with nothing else but a single word typed on a note, stuck on their body. Note after note collected as evidence without any indication who’d done it. Not a single print, not a single hair or clothing fiber to go off. Whoever they were – they were tidy, neat, smart.

Rogues Club normally hadn’t been high on his list of places to go but Freddie was busy that night at work for the next two hours and he enjoyed himself a good ol’brawl. The small arena, as usual, had been more crowded than he would’ve liked, but he found himself an empty seat next to one that had been occupied. “D’you mind if I grab this? I’d like to actually see what’s happening.”

It had been an overall slow night at Violet thus far. There was nothing particularly noteworthy happening, nothing grabbing Caspian’s attention, nothing to take his abundance of energy out on. He’d probably been cleaning the same whiskey glass for the last five minutes, and it was getting boring quickly. For a city that didn’t sleep, Red Ridge seemed incredibly sleepy right now. The sound of the door opening grabbed his attention; turning towards it, he gave the newcomer a little smile. “Welcome in,” he greeted as if he were the host at a formal restaurant. “What’s your poison tonight?” Hopefully this person had some way to entertain him.