venus stopped the train: olivia liddell.

[secondhand_stars]

It's still more night than day, more dark than light. I'm watching the slow fade of bruised sky. It's snowing again. The snowflakes are nearly invisible until they hit the windowsill or street. I still can't get over them. I touch the window and the area around my fingertips immediately fog up in reaction to their warmth. I should leave now before the kids wake up, before he wakes up. I should leave because, just maybe, it would piss him off. I don't though because more likely, it'd just disappoint him. I hate disappointing people. He wants to make me breakfast. I'm already imagining the scene. It's so fucking wholesome that I'm sure later I'll be shaken by the whole thing. It's stupid really. I can handle moving halfway across the country to a city I've never seen before with two suitcases and my guitar, but I can barely sit through pancakes.

I'm sitting in the corner of his bedroom like a child in time-out. Maybe that's why this chair is in here anyway. I'm fully clothed and smoking the first of my many cigarettes of the day. It's a regular one too with a brown paper filter and smoke that tastes like ash rather than licorice. I'm watching him sleep. I'm watching his slow progression towards the middle of the bed now that I don't occupy a good half of it. He's clothed too. If we actually admitted to spending the night together to someone, they wouldn't believe our chastity. It's fucking laughable. Tipping my chin to the ceiling, I practice smoke rings that I can barely trace out against the shadow.

I take that back. If I actually admitted to spending the night with him, is more appropriate. He might not have a problem with saying anything. Afterall, he's the one with two kids across the hall. I pretended to be completely interested in the scrolling news ticker as he put them to bed with their glasses of water, favorite animals, and stories. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he tucked them in and then circled back. Maybe I'm the only one who felt weird about the entire thing. I blame sobriety. Speaking of, I need a drink. I need some sort-of soft-filter to make everything less real. Never been one for bullshit, but I'll admit that there's only so much I can handle. At least now, when it's still dark out and everyone is asleep. It's only when no one's watching that I drag everything out and let myself settle in the middle of it.

This whole thing is a really bad idea. I'm seeing all sorts of red flags. I'm being broke down. He's a sneaky bastard, I'll give him that. He's got this way of looking at me that makes me want to tell the truth. In the same moment, I want to set him off like a roman candle. I want to see him come undone. I crush my cigarette out in the ashtray that I've got balanced upon the flat of my palm and darkness settles in deeper. He flops over with arms angled above his head and knuckles cutting against the headboard. I don't realize until now that he's foreshortened like some bleeding Christ on canvas how short he really is. His t-shirt is hiked up, leaving a sliver of his stomach exposed to the cut of light coming in from the window. I want to kiss that narrow space between waistband and hem. I want to leave a bruise. For now, I'll have to settle for the next best thing.

Leaving the ashtray upon the windowsill, I blindly search the ground beside me for where I've left my purse. Its little more than a lumpy bundle of fabric that my fingers fumble through. Picking past cigarette carton and a tube of lipstick I never wear, I find the cold plastic of the felt-tipped pen. The ink is semipermanent. I wonder if it'll last longer than I do as I sneak across the floorboards towards the bed again. It's a brief thought though quickly struck out by this late-night whim.

The mattress creaks beneath my weight as I crawl over the tangle of sheets and blankets toward him. The comforter is a thick knot shoved up against the baseboard by feet. My shadow covers the slant of light. My mouth fills with the bitter fumes of the marker-pen as I leave the cap hanging off the corner of it. With my free hand, I tug up the line of his shirt a few more inches. The panel of his stomach is now mine to scrawl upon; a blank journal page, a memory to be set. Immediately, I'm seeing lines of music struck by black notes full of curlicued ends and coiled beginning points. I'll settle for lyrics now. They aren't my own, but they'll do. If he doesn't wake up with a disoriented lion's howl, I'll consider my project a success. He's let me get away with bigger things than this. In my slanted, spidery script I finish off the lines in quick, shallow strokes and fall back to examine my handiwork:


<center>i want to be your lover
lipstick my name across your mirror.
blood red flaked with gunshot glitter
and be one with all you disown.</center>

[secondhand_stars]

There was something about pianos that always reminded her of horses. Traditionally, both had always been viewed as graceful and noble things. Like a colt, pianos were most often propped up upon spindly legs with a body that overwhelmed the combination of two and four. The black Steinway took up most of the white wall practice room. It was an impressive beast in its own right even with the top lid closed and the black and white keys concealed. It was intimidating. Most of all, it reminded Olivia of her mother's piano.

She had been raised in a musical household. Each room had its own genre. In the formal living room and dining room, starched symphonies played. In the kitchen, she had delighted their cook and housemaid with her jaunty shuffle steps and tapping toes as they danced around the wide circular table to ragtime melody and tin pan alley in its standard format: a pretty chain of a, a, and b sections. In the upper wings of the house, older brothers and sisters each claimed a piece of the musical landscape. Country, rock'n roll, and the deceptively simple thrumming of folk all had their place. After the death of their father, the oldest Stevens children had been stifled. The music had ended that fateful day that the songwriter's car had been found wrapped horrifically around a tree. For years, instruments gathered dust and the radio unplugged. It was only after the unexpected series of events and birth of their youngest, most curious sister that a thaw melted down a mother's resolve. By the time that Liv was ten, Sam was actively recording and touring again. The past, much like all the other things that were not spoken of, had been shelved. Daily, each reflected upon those silent items, but none touched them.

Though music was loved by all of the children, only the youngest two: Tess and Olivia managed to absorb the genetic inclination that their respective mix-match of parents carried in their veins. There was no denying who both sprang from as they sat down upon the glossy bench of their mother's piano. Tess was the day to Olivia's sultry, swampy night. Each favored their father. Red-haired and speckled with gold-dust freckles upon the sharps of her cheek, nose, and down the line of pale arms, Tess was wiry and long limbed. Carefree and prone to bouts of laughter, she had also inherited her father's good natured attitude. She played immaculately with fingers posed and wrists straight. Her spine was unbroken as hands roamed over the keys. When she opened her mouth to sing, each note was clear and deliberate. It had been this way since her feet hung high above the ground and a good foot away from the pedals.

In contrast, Olivia was tempestuous and unpredictable. Her behavior was as unexpected as her conception had been. It seemed as if that one night of indiscretion had blazed the path for the Shaman's daughter to follow if she was so obliged to. No one dared remark upon the darkness of her skin or the shocking similarities between her and her reclusive, but brilliant father. This, though all her failures and short comings were taken with a knowing nod and look that screamed out his name. Her wild fits and howls were not reduced to mere conflicts over toys, bedtimes, and meals. Instead, it bled into her music. From the beginning, she played with an organic, violent intensity. Rather than learn form and composition, fingers crashed down upon keys and thunderstorm pieces were born. She had no patience for lessons. Every teacher, with exception for her Tante Marie, had been quickly chased away. When she sang, her voice held all the age and wear of a veteran performer. She was smoke-lined and whiskey battered long before either vice had been adopted.

Now, years later, Olivia stood before a piano that made the past suddenly bleed in. The empty shell of the practice studio in a brief moment held all the warmth and smell of her childhood home. She could hear the sounds of her siblings and their friends streaming through the house. She could almost taste the bites that were offered off the tip of a cooking spoon to her. The only thing that anchored her back into the present and drowned out the past was the chill of the piano bench as she slid into her seat. The lid creaked as fingers pried it open and away from the keys. Rather than pounce upon the instrument as she had as a child, as if it were a long-lost friend or surrogate parent, fingers tentatively rolled over the ivory keys in a whirl of notes.

Things were changing, she realized as distracted eyes angled towards her ghostly reflection set into one of the walls. It was a black square of plexiglass set into the solid white. Someone could see in clearly from the opposite end where Olivia was left only with the subtle play of shadow and her curious reflection. She watched the minute changes upon her expression: a furrowed brow, the pout of her lip. It was merely a surface shift. Hardly anything at all compared to the slow, churning feeling inside her. It was the same-song story. She knew exactly what was about to unfold. The fear was in her belly and inspiration was on the horizon.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, percussion rumbled and brass notes spiked out as a piece of her fell away like white-upon-black sheet music paper. In rush of sound born from memory and moment, everything crashed together in one final note before falling away to silence.

[secondhand_stars]

The phone was a harmless device fashioned from plastic and insulated wire. When she lifted it from its dock, the soft buttons upon the concave belly of it illuminated in a hazy, green light. Her thumb pressed in and a distinctive beep sounded in reaction. She dialed each number to memorize the sound, then later, played out nursery rhymes in monotone: Mary had a little lamb and Twinkle, twinkle little star.

Olivia, however, did not dial in the number that had inspired this game. The area code alone -- familiar as any three digit number -- made her stomach twist with anxiety. Against her ribcage, her heart beat furiously. Rarely shaken, the belle was defeated by a number string.

"Oh goddamnit," she finally muttered. Scolding herself for such dramatics, the number was furiously dialed in before she could draw back into her nervous second-guessing. Pressing phone to her ear, feet began to pace in a quick circle in time with the digital pulse. A fist balled into her hip and tension drew knots into the wings of her shoulder-blades.

On the third ring, the line opened. The voice at the other end was efficient and professional despite the familiar laze of her southern drawl. "Stevens residence. This is Nina speakin'. How may I be of assistance to you?"

"Can --" Liv's voice faltered and husky alto dipped back into her throat for a half-beat. Swallowing, eyes rolled towards the ceiling. "Can I please speak to... Ah, Ms. Stevens?"

"'Fraid Ms. Stevens isn't available. Can I connect y'to her voice messagin' service?"

"Nina, is Hattie there?"

Silence. Olivia could hear the machinery of Nina's brain working to decode the familiar voice and strange request. No one ever called the regular line to ask for one of the employees. There had always been a separate line in the kitchen for service questions and calls. After a moment, she heard that achingly familiar cluck of tongue against the back of Nina's teeth where a gap sliced neatly through the first two. "...Livvy, is that you, baby?" Her voice shook.

"Yeah Nina. S'me."

The housecleaner on the other end broke into a gasp. In the background, she could hear the sound of her comfortable work-shoes clattering against floorboards. In mind's eye, Olivia could see the scrawny woman scurrying through narrow hallways towards the kitchen. "Oh my baby-girl! How are you? Where are you? I -- Why! We didn't know where you runned oft to. Had us all in a panic when ole Ollie tol' us that you left Vince'n headed out. You ain't even grown, girl!"

"I am too!"

"You ain't neither!"

"Nina," Liv whined vaguely. "Don't start. If you get to cryin' then everybody is gonna start up too and I ain't worth nobody's tears. Listen, I'm fine. Jus' fine. Livin' in New York."

Nina gave a horrified gasp.

"Tch," she clucked in a light scold. "Don't give me that. I ain't no Yank yet. Jus' got an opportunity'n had to follow it. Workin' now in a real nice salon'n makin' music with some people. Got myself a roommate with a real nice apartment'n friends'n everythin'."

"A man?"

"No," Olivia said quickly. "No man. Ain't got time for funny business."

"Honey, the baby Jesus don't like liars --"

"Then it's a good thing that I don't believe in him!"

Nina shrieked in horror. "You little heathen! I tol' you a million times that ain't funny. God have mercy on your poor soul."

"Indeed."

"What's his name?"

"Who?"

"Yo' man. I hear him in yo'voice. You got that sound to y' now."

Olivia coughed noisily into the phone and cleared her throat. "Now I don't. See."

"Livvy, you callin' long distance?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Don't waste yo'li'l monies on us now," Nina scolded fretfully. "Big city means big money and you cain't be makin' enough with your hair cuttin'. People nowadays'n there ratty ol'hair. Girl, give me yo'number 'n I'll have yo'Mama call you when she gets back from Charlie-boy's."

"Eeeh," Liv murmured warily. Staring out over her empty room, she debated the cost of calling versus the cost of her mother being able to contact her. There were so many factors involved. Curling a strand of hair around her finger, she pulled the coil straight and stared at the golden-brown length of it for a long moment before allowing it to spring back. "I dunno'bout that. I'll just call later. I got me some money saved up."

"Well, send ole Hattie'n I th'bill'n we'll take care of it if y'want. We miss your pretty face 'round here, y'know. Ain't the same without'cha."

"Nah. You know I cain't do that." Pausing a moment, Oliva redirected. "Can I talk to Hattie real quick?"

"She ain't in. Got a doctor's appointment. You know how her diabetes like to act up durin' the holiday. Woman never was able to resist them treats'n tastes while she was cookin'."

"Give her my love then, huh?"

"I most surely will," Nina vowed.

"Well, I got'sta get goin' now."

"You take care darlin'. Always did love me like you was my own."

The affection that bled through the telephone wire made her heart ache. The nervous twitching transformed. Melting over muscle, homesickness and soft words broke down the rigid calcifications and scar tissue. Sniffling quitely, the flat of her wrist rubbed against nose. "Yeah. I know. Love you too. Bye Nina."

"Bye-bye baby."

[secondhand_stars]

Things had shifted back from the circus-like atmosphere of the back-room into the modest tradition of its white contrast. By night, the ballroom was a brilliant display. A far cry from the sultry red velvet and dim light, circle tables were covered with white silk that shimmered in the bright light of the overhead chandelier that dripped in a rainfall of crystal teardrops. Though far too cold for use, the garden was a thorny-dark place licked with the silvery reflection of the stars above. As the single women were herded together, Liv couldn't help but turn and give a backwards look to the curving glass wall that provided the outside image. In mind's eye, she saw it easily: hands hiking up skirt and feet kicking off heels, the belle making her finest of escapes into the winter.

However, tradition and a need to please the glowing bride, kept her grounded with a pained smile to the excited women who hummed and nudged at her with elbows as the bouquet was lifted up. Filled with dread -- a strange premonition burning through mental landscape -- Liv avoided all eye-contact with the bundle of red and white roses in various phases of bloom.

Behind her, at one of the tables, Jude sat with a grin that begged to be slapped off his face. Hazel eyes narrowed in at him in a death-stare that only made him flash more teeth. On either side of him, two sleepy flower-girls were tucked in with sticky hands tugging on his tie and nuzzling cheeks into neck. Long ago, the thick velveteen ribbons that had been looped around tamed fairy-floss hair had slipped away and found a new home in the bottom of her small handbag. However, it was nothing short of a miracle that their dresses of tulle and watered silk had survived at all. All her threats to their new friend, the overgrown boy, River Holiday had payed off, it seemed. Glancing towards him, the rainbow-suspendered wonderkid only grinned nervously with mouth stretching out the line of his kool-aid stained upper lip. Snickering, head turned and shook lazily. They were a fun bunch. A whimsical gallery of the androgynous, the fairy-children and sullen-faced princes.

A gasp and the shutter-click of cameras passed over the crowd of women as the bouquet was flung backwards from the hands of one, Lani Stanton. As the bride twisted back around in a rustle of silk and organza to see where the bundle had fallen, her mismatched eyes were wildly bright and feverish with the excitement that now hummed at fever-pitch as the bouquet made its descent.

When the thickly cut stems wrapped in ribbon hit her hands, the pianist couldn't help but stare at the bouquet as if it were some new carrier of the plague. Jaw dropping and eyes bulging widely, she stared down as the cluster of voices around her began to buzz with jealousy and congratulations. Behind her, she could hear the masculine choir of laughter start up. Liv resisted the urge to throw down the bouquet and stalk off. However that didn't keep her from shooting a suspicious look to the giggling bride.

"Well, son of a bitch!" She finally managed in a horrified howl.

[secondhand_stars]

Fuckin' February Ninth Two-thousand and five. Happy fucking birthday to me. The kid in me still's got to wake up real early and watch the sun slowly, slowly arch up from beneath the city. This is the first mornin' in a real long time that I've woke up before the girls get to screechin' and hollerin' for their daddy.Yeah, yeah. I ask myself everyday how I got in this damn situation myself. Ain't complainin'. Nah. It's real nice to wake up to a warm body all curled up against ya' couple'a mornings a week. 'Specially if that warm body gets his hot ass up and makes you whatever the hell you want for breakfast. It's real cute how he knows to put a cigarette'n the lighter next to my cup of coffee too. Shit, I just grin thinkin' about it. I'm such a fuckin' woman. Hell.

Today's my twen'y-first birthday. Twen'y-fuckin'-one. That makes me jus'bout legal, I suppose. I can order my own damn drink. Don't mean I'm gonna, but I could. Keep tryin' to think of other things that most twen'y-one year olds get to do that I ain't been able to do with out some manipulation. Fuck if I know of anything I cain't do though. I'm old, y'see. I'm old as the day is long. Always been this way too. When I'm an ole granny with my hair all done up in a kerchief 'n my glasses on the edge of my nose, I'll swat at my chillen's chillen and tell'em how they don't know what bored is and sure as hell can't say they is if they did. Yeah. It suits me just fine, I think. Of course, I'm still mostly young now. I cain't be goin' around admitting shit like that. I've got to keep it in and under. Cain't be thinkin' bout it much none either. Ain't right. 'Specially ain't safe.

I cain't sleep though. By nine or ten, I'll be draggin' my ass back to Ellie's or here again with a hunger in my belly and cloud over my eyes. After I eat, I'll pass the hell right out and my birthday will be over. Jus' like that. It's kind'a nice that way though. I mean, then tomorrow? I can give Jude shit for forgettin' and keep it up for the rest of the goddamned year. All, "Hey Judey, 'member when you forgot my birthday?" "Goddamn. I wish I would'a had myself a nice li'l birthday cake." and so on. The face he'll make over it all once he's done bein' all apologetic 'n shit will be fantastic.

Yeah. That's just 'bout it. That's how I'm gonna celebrate my big ol' twen'y and one.

[secondhand_stars]

A trainwreck of a girl, Olivia sat upon one of the several park benches that created an invisible ring around the playground. At the center, children climbed shakily upon the iron dome of a jungle gym and pumped spindly legs into the air upon a swingset. In the backdrop, she watched Shevon cut quickly through the park to where she had promised to meet Liv at noon. The southern belle pushed up the sleeve of her coat and squinted past the harsh reflection that cut across the glass face of her wristwatch. Twelve-fifteen. She was late, but only to herself. Liv had no where to be today.

At her feet, Emily Eden crouched childishly low to the ground and watched her more extroverted twin play Queen for a day amongst the other children. With a wave of her hand and bossy shout, Mia sent a flock of kids running in some make-believe game.

"Don' y'wanna go play with Mia, huh?" Liv suggested carefully, her eyes following Mia as she skipped in a wild circle and sent her corduroy skirt spinning out from candy-striped legs. "Looks like she's havin' a lotta fun."

Emily gave a sniff and shook her head. When Shevon was close enough to wave and shriek of in surprise at her friend's battered appearance, dark eyes widened and the little girl scrambled up onto the bench next to Liv. Arms shyly wrapped around her sleeve and cheek buried against its woolen shoulder. The belle only laughed and dipped head in a sharp angle. The loose ends of her curling hair spilled over the little girl and tickled her rosy cheeks. "Hey!" She piped in as fingers batted and tangled in the loose strands. "You're gettin' your hair all over me!"

"Oh lord Liv, look at your face! And your arm! Is it broken? Oh girl! What happened?!" Shevon, nearly as petite and curved as her work colleague, skittered around a group of kids and settled on the other side of Liv. A hand patted gingerly at the puckered bruise that smeared over her cheekbone.

"Nah, nah. Just the wrist. I f-- I fell when Jude'n me was out."

"Jude is my daddy," Emily announced gravely.

Shevon winked to the little girl. "Looks like you fell off'a cliff."

"Feels like it too," Liv muttered. "Long story. Can't say nothin' now. Li'l pitchers got theyself some big ears, if'n y'know what I mean."

Shevon nodded and gave a final pat to the bruise. The sweep of her fingers sent skin to throb again with a temporary pulse of pain. Olivia grimaced and turned her eyes back to the playground. Mia, spotting the new arrival to the bench, marched proudly over with arms swinging and the neatly plaited ends of her pigtails swinging. In a rare show of affection to her father's friend, arms wrapped around denim covered knees and the little girl flailed upon Liv. Eyes sparkled up to the stranger and mouth stretched into a charming grin.

"Look at Liv's face! She's got boo-boos all over! My daddy has lots too! Right there and there and --" Fingers unhooked from the back of knees to point blindly at her mouth and jaw.

"This is Mia."

"Identical twins?" Shevon drawled glancing between the two Edens.

"Yes!" -- "No!"

Each twin interjected strongly before Liv could answer. Emily with her bright eyes and little grin. Mia with her furrowed brow and pout. Little fingers trailed over the length of one braid and lifted up its ribboned end. "No!" she said again, "Liv gave me pink ribbons! Emily has blue."

"Oh well," she remarked with a fanning of one hand over her collar. "I stand corrected."

"Liv has a pink too! See!" She pointed to the pink wrapping of the cast the peeked out from a coat sleeve and covered the top part of the pianist's hand.

"Girls," Liv mumbled with a nudge of her elbow into Emily's petite frame. Two sets of dark eyes rolled back up to her. "Why don'tcha go spin out there in that nice patch of sunshine. I bet Shevon would love to see your, uh, dance moves."

Two heads bobbled, one more enthusiastically than the other, though both were slowly pulling up from their sprawls and bounding across the way to where Liv had tipped her head. Joining hands, the Edens spun wildly and sent pale braids flopping.

"Will wonders ever cease?" Shevon remarked after a moment.

"Yeah, I know. They're funny kids."

"Nah, girl. I'm talking about you."

From their distracted lean upon the pair to friend, the golden-hazel sheen of her eyes flip-flopped. She stared at the woman blankly and gave a dulled over blink. Then, clearing her throat and setting the gentle slope of her jaw, head shook lightly. "Dunno what you're over there babblin'bout. Goddamn. Ain't like I look that bad."

"I'm not talking about your face. I'd expect a bar-brawl out of you any day, Liv --"

"Ain't a brawl," she interrupted.

Shevon simply shrugged and continued, "--fighting and playing house. I can't believe you're the same girl who told Julie that her newborn looked like a monkey in a onesie."

"That kid was covered in hair. Jesus! Ain't gonna lie to the woman."

"Liv! Liv! Look at me!"

She dutifully turned eyes back to the spinning pair as they clumsily turned themselves in teetering circles and waved distracted, passing fingers at her. Her own hand lifted to return the wave and chin bowed lightly into collar. "Don'even say it."

"You like them kids."

"So?"

"You like them a lot."

"Yeah, and if I do?"

"I bet you don't like them nearly as much as you like their daddy."

"Oh, shut up you. Still have one good wrist in me."

Shevon crowed out a laugh and neatly folded arms across the front of her jacket. As a particularly sharp gust of wind struck her and flushed the dark skin of her cheeks faintly, she arched up shoulders and ducked lower into her collar. "So," she extended the ending vowel as mind searched for a topic. "--How's the band?"

"Had to quit," she answered back efficiently.

"What?"

"Y'heard me."

"Why?!"

"Fuckin' Jill pulled a goddamn gun on Jude."

Silent now, glassy doll's eyes bulged towards the pianist and Shevon stared hazily towards her friend. Unable to respond or to press on, she simply gaped until Liv grew tired of her goldfish expression and sighed out a hissing note. Her brow itched with irritation and drew eyebrows close.

"They got into a fight'n yeah. Can't be involved in that shit."

"So, what're you going to do now?"

"Fuck if I know," she muttered coolly. "Wait six weeks for my goddamn wrist to heal, 'suppose."

"...Is that -- Is that why you are all beat up?"

It was her turn to dip down into the lift of her collar and fall quiet. Staring out over the playground where Mia and Emily's dizzying dance had veered off into a wooden bridge detour, she chewed gently upon the scabbed over split down the center of her mouth. "Yeah -- Wait. No. Well. It led up to it. I said some shit that Jill didn't like none. I was out'a line maybe. So she tackled me'n started throwin'em. I let'er too. Maybe I deserved it."

"Nobody deserves that! Your wrist!"

"I fell on it. She didn' do that none. Jus' the face-work o'course. Jus' like a woman. Only glad she didn' fuckin' start kickin' in shit. I'd be fuckin' pissed if she cracked a rib. Goddamn." Fingers lifted from their sprawl upon her knee. Turning palm in, they folded over and eyes inspected the half-moons of her nails. "Ain't nothin' that can't be fixed. Plus, it gives me a real 'don't fuck with this shit' look, y'know?"

Shevon could only swallow and nod dumbly.

"Liv! Shevon! Look at me! Look at me!"

Eyes centered upon Mia, pink-ribbons and pink cheeks, high upon the wooden construction of the castle complete with rickety bridge and a spiraling slide in cherry-red paint. She stood at the top of the slide now, a hand waving out wildly. Behind her, Emily watched meekly and waited her turn to go down the slide.

"Stop lookin' at me like that," she murmured stoically as fingers unfurled to wave again at the twins. Cracking a grin and lifting chin up, eyes slid to watch the profile of her friend. "Now look at th' girls and wave. Smile. Ain't like somebody died. Goddamn."

The somber, concerned woman nodded dumbly and followed Liv's lead. She waved to the girls. A pleased Mia waved back with a notch more enthusiasm before her body folded low and scooted off the slide. With a shriek and grip upon the slick edges of the spiraling design, she rolled down in a jerky-stop-and-start motion until palms gave way and little frame rocketed down the last part onto gravel.

[secondhand_stars]

I'm still drunk. Oh god, I'm so fuckin' drunk. In the morning, I'll be feelin' this still when I'm woken up by either th'itch of synthetic Barbie hair being shoved up m'nose by Mia or by Jude tryin' to get in some time before th'girls wake up an'start demandin' their breakfast an'hugs. I'm gonna blame th'gin in Lucy's drink. A girl's got to stick wit'what works, y'know? An' whiskey works jus'fine for this ol'girl.

The room won't quit spinnin'. I throw Jude's arm 'round me, but that don't change none. Maybe in a li'l while I'll throw up and th'world'll be right again. Shit. I jus' wanna sleep, but my eyes won't close. I'm starin' up at the ceilin' and thinkin'bout all that's been goin' on. A lot of shit's gone down this week an' I'm covered in impact bruises. Things are a'right though. Hell, they're more than a'right. They're fuckin' fantastic. Kin'a waitin' for the bottom to fal out though. Things can't jus' work out all right and rosy, y'know. There's gotta be a goddamn catch. Ain't this easy. Ain't possible.

Came back to the apartment covered in another girl's lipstick an'perfume. My hair was'a mess an' my mouth twisted into this fuckin' awful, cocky sort'a grin. Jude jus' looked at me, pushed th'hair outta my eyes and asked if I wanted him to heat up some leftovers. Tol' him I took to kissin' on Lucy an' all he could do was leer an' ask for pictures next time. Goddamn man. Don't want no fight, but who would'a thought it? Now he's sleepin' next to me without a fuckin' care in the world. I'm th'one sittin' up an' thinkin' bout all the questions he outta be askin' but ain't. Could wonder how he could be so fuckin' carefree and laissez-faire, but I a'ready know the answer. He's got more t'think about than Christian names an' girl-on-girl action. Maybe I should'a brought 'er home. Then again, couldn't bring myself to do more than tuck'er up to sleep on the couch with a pillow an' blanket. Saddest goddamn eyes I ever did see. Can't stop thinkin' bout that either. Maybe aw'l write a song 'bout it.

It's only moments like these when everythin' is six feet under th'dreamin' and still that I feel any real sorta, candor.I wanna wake 'im up and tell 'im everythin'. Wanna be twen'y-one and silly. Wanna kiss all the boys an' make'em cry then move on to th'girls. Most of all, I jus' wanna have'im understand the goddamn things I don't get 'bout myself none neither. I crawl up 'gainst him an' whisper all sorta secrets in his ears. 'Bout how funny I felt when we'd all go out an' nobody would ever guess none that I was related to my lily-white brother an'sisters. Or how when I was ten an' my daddy crashed his car into th'river cos he was so goddamn drunk. He would'a drowned had ol'Amos not been drivin' by. Or how mad mama got when Sally braided my hair up like her girls' hair. Still remember how she made me pick out all o'them pretty braids myself. Wan'a tell him how my legs use'ta shake when my ol'sweetheart used to unbutton my blouse. Mostly that I use'ta be real sweet an' soft. Maybe that I could someday be tha'girl if'n it suited.

Like I said before though. I'm drunk. I'm real drunk. Past th'point of derlirum and straight into despair. Goddamn it makes a girl wanna cry a li'l an' hide'rself away sometimes. Not that I tol' y'tha' myself.

[secondhand_stars]

Losing ground
Under my feet
There's a low rumbling
There's a crack in the street
It's just no good
It's just no good anymore
Everything I do
Has been done before

Yeah I found my voice
Yeah I got nothing to say
The whole thing started
Cause my mind has gone away
I used to get high
Now I just get lost
I used to bark at the moon
The first one I came across

Almost here
Almost gone

Almost here
Almost gone
Almost where
We belong

Better watch where you step
Better watch what you say
Speak the truth, baby
Believe in what you say
Believe in what you say
It's just no good anymore
It's just no good anymore

You bet I got trouble baby
You bet I got trouble baby
You bet I got trouble baby
You bet I got trouble baby

-- Losing Ground, PJ Harvey.

[secondhand_stars]

Woke up this morning and found myself going underground to take the number three uptown rather than a'crossing the street and hailing a cab to take me from the old apartment to home. Now I'm sitting on a rented piano bench and staring out over the glossy black sea of polished wood. I see my reflection in awful, monster-designs. I'm suddenly the boogeyman in the closet or trollish things beneath the bed. I feel so fucking empty -- not from what I've done, but what I've got to do. I woke up this morning and just knew it. It ain't right. This ain't right unless everybody is okay. It don't mean a thing for Jude to be secure or lacking some sort of defensive need to cut down, if one person is out of the know.

He'll kill her, she said. He'll fucking kill her. He don't understand. Of course he can't. He ain't like Jude. He's something else, something more man and less scar -- at least in that area. Jude's learned not to use his fists or his mouth without some sort of reason to it. I blame the girls. Kids'll do that to you. Hell, ain't never pushed one out and it's done it to me.

I can be happy living my little life writing songs and tending after the Eden twins when I'm not cutting hair. I can pretend that nothing never did happen if that's how it's got to be. I'll be good, for her. I'll stitch up my mouth and shove my hands in my pocket. I ain't an animal. I got some self control in me. 'Sides, ain't ashamed of my friendship with the girl or anything about it. It ain't dirty or deviant. Nobody but a couple of unlikely souls will ever understand it, but those who do see it the way I do. Fuck him though, to some degree. Fuck him for not understanding, for taking the third shift and the suburban dream, for letting something break down so that he's standing on one page while she's on another, for not wanting babies. But then again, fuck Jude, too. As understanding as the man is, he ain't ever gonna give me a baby either. That is, if'n I wanted one, he wouldn't go for it. He'd tell me we've done filled our quota and to not go there. Maybe that's why Lucy and I get on so well. We both want things (hypothetically) that no man does. And each kiss, each touch is a goddamn comfort. Silly jokes and hard questions free from judgement are a break from the norm more than what we do elsewhere. We's just two ice queens a'melting over shit that we wouldn't dare squeal about with no one else.

So, I'm left in a fucking hard place, but for good reasons. I'm gonna pull one of those Jesus-acts and take her rough spots upon my own damn self. Ain't cos she can't take or or can't take that husband of hers, but because she's my fucking best friend and I don't want to see her out-of-sorts over something I'm a part of. I never meant to jump in the marriage bed. I ain't no Charlie. I ain't even a substitute. So, here it is. I'm gonna step back and let them work out their issues. She'd do it for Jude and me if'n we were in the same spot. I don't know what I'm gonna say. Just the thought of it makes my stomach all knotted up and tongue dry. She's just about the only damn person in this world who I care what they think of me. I don't want to let her down, but I've gotta. I'm gonna.


My hand's just about healed up. The cast is more in the way than a protector. I can play a little bit now. Playing helps too. It clears a girl's head and sets everything right. When I'm all out-of-shape, I can't ever play my own stuff though. I gotta put together scraps from everybody else. Pressing down on the edges of slippery keys, everything comes out all tentative and quiet. It matches my voice though. I'm all hoarse and strained like I've been smokin' too much when I unofficially gave'em up last night. But ain't doing no damage by singing. It's a good sort of bite in my throat. The shallow pain takes the spotlight away from something bigger and more important:

[secondhand_stars]

While favorites such as Beck and the UK's Coldplay are making their new albums available now, the end of the summer is gearing up to be an explosion of new talent. One label in particular, the fledgling Satellite Records has been receiving a tremendous amount of buzz. When the announcement of its creation from global force, Donovan Records, hit industry mags late last year, everyone wondered just where the maverick creative teaming of Lani Stanton (nee Donovan, note the surname) and Richard Mills -- famous for their cultivating of local New York underground talents such as Jump McCartney, internationally acclaimed Go, and others -- would take their latest pet project. Little did we know at the time that 'pet project' would become a gross understatement. Already several critically and commercially acclaimed albums hit airwaves, but it seems that the best is yet to come.

Following her departure from Jill Lockhart's ever metamorphosing Traffic soon after the release of their latest chart-topping album, it was reported that keyboardist Liv Liddell was snagged by Satellite for her own project. According to a Vinyl insider, the New Orleans born-and-raised Liddell is actually Olivia Berge. If that name doesn't strike a bell, perhaps the names of her parents might: Sam Stevens and Gabe Berge. It has long been suspected that Steven's youngest daughter was the product of a brief reunion between her and her early Seventies collaborative partner, the guitar legend Berge. All reports have continually been met with silence from either the Stevens' or now reclusive Berge's parties. While other famous rock celeb-offspring's albums have been met with lukewarm praise, buzz and speculation continues to mount for the young Miss Liddell.

Also from Satellite is their own personal, and affectionately dubbed, Brat Prince, Harlen Pri--

Mismatched eyes shot up from the glossy pages of the magazine. Though hands were gripped painfully tight upon the paper-edges, she couldn't help but feel as if her grip was slipping. Before her, Rich sat with a hand pressed to the curve of his shining scalp and patient brown eyes waiting. Neither said a word. Instead, Lani gave a little cough and placed the magazine down upon the mess of her desk and fanned hands over its surface. "Well," she began.

The clues had always been in front of her: a voice so strangely familiar, deft fingers that could conform to any instrument that she touched, her blend of striking features. Even her name, Olivia, should have rang a bell that went untouched. Now, in the aftermath of a breaking story that would no doubt send her telephone lines into panic as soon as the story hit shelves on Monday, she simply felt ridiculous for never catching it.

"Olivia fucking Berge," Rich muttered gravely for her.

"I know."

"You know? Oh god. Everyone knows! My parents worshipped Gabe Berge. And, Sam --"

A hand lifted to cut off the spiel that would inevitably end in a gaspy rush and bulge of dark beady eyes behind their glasses lens. "I know," she reiterated as fingers turned back in to steeple upon her forehead.

"Her album has to be a winner."

"It already is. It will be."

"How are we going to even, think about handling her? All of her."

Lani had already expected plenty of coverage for Liv. She was a slip of a woman with her electric-riot of curling hair and sharp tongue. That alone was attention getting, but with her music thrown into the aesthetic and social mix, she had anticipated as much positive buzz as she did scandal. Now, with her heritage revealed, Liv had become a sprawling situation. Silent again for a moment, she stared at Rich. "Don't worry about it," she finally reassured as a hand reached out to lift phone from its cradle. Dialing in a string of numbers, she pressed the device to her ear and waited for pick-up.

"Hey Jude? It's me Lani. When you get in tomorrow, I've got this story that you need to read. It's about Liv." She paused for his curious, prodding questioning before swallowing and beginning again. "No, no. It's nothing bad. It's good actually. Anyway, she's your girl. You get to handle it."