IsaacLives1

There is a distance of three short razor blades between the end of a well-loved cigar and the sooty crimson lips grasping the shaft. Her teeth were white and tinkled crystalline as daggers inches from the neck of her fears and hollow dreams like the burnt out husk of a bitch she was, kneeling. He knew her true face even as it smiled and knew enough to smother that flame while her cigar was sometimes just a cigar and sometimes a cry for deeper burns.

The Death of Byron, the Last Good Man -1- Byron often told me he was born fourteen years old. In a way, it flatters me, for he was fourteen when I first met him. That fact plays no part in his reasoning, nor does he probably remember it, but it comforts me still. These nights grow so cold that I often need such comfort. Before meeting Byron, the most important person I had ever met was named Eliza. When I was eight, her and I had played together. The woods around her house were as expansive as they were sinister, and in our youthful minds they represented all that is glorious on the matter of exploration. They were, in short, our North P

I'm writing this right into the submission box. I just saw her, haven't seen her in what, four years, at least. Maybe five or six, I haven't a clue, god she was so much older than me. I was young then though, and she was already a woman. A beautiful woman, as I recall, as I remember, god I barely remember her. It was so long ago, I think five years. I'm not even sure if it was her. I saw her from about twenty feet away, with three miles of fatigue in my legs, covered in sweat, reeking of effort and with muscles burning. I was moving quickly, she was walking out of her door, calm, cool, cold even, with the subtle sexy grace of a woman who kn