Cliff

He lifted up the branch to let her through. The place where his finger pushed against the sadistic bramble split open, drawing blood. He let out a gasp and pulled the wound into his mouth and sucked hard, the metallic flavour covered his taste buds. She climbed under his outstretched arm and extended him a lazy smile, her eyes squinting in the setting sun. It's molten fury sat purposefully atop the dark shadows of the forest, burning intensely. As she passed him her 'Smiths' t-shirt caught on one of the patient thorns and ripped slightly, revealing the taught skin of her sun kissed stomach. He smiled softly back at her, and breathing in her flowery scent (one once so repugnant to him), he followed her. They walked silently for the majority of the journey, occasionally exchanging quiet, carefully chosen words about their surroundings. He noticed a lone spider resting delicately on a pure white web. Droplets on rain sat amongst it like friends at a table, all patiently awaiting their victimised dinner. The way the web pulled and pushed in the gentle spring breeze made him think of it as an organism breathing softly, inhaling the sweet air. The serenity surrounding them was so soft he felt that speaking would break it, shatter it into a thousand pieces all ready to cut into him. So they walked in wonderful silence. When they reached the drop she turned to him with tears in her eyes and beckoned to him to join her on the ledge, he followed her. They stared at the glaring inferno as it began its decent into the unknown, to journey to provide light and warmth to the side of the world currently dwelling in darkness. He didn't know why she was crying, he didn't ask either. She reached towards him and weaved her fingers between his, he was shocked at how frail they felt constricted by his desperate grip. He wanted to kiss her but he knew he couldn't, the understanding tore him apart. He remembered how she tapped her feet to the melancholy guitar riffs the radio offered them on the way here, her head listlessly bobbing along to the beat. He looked at her and smiled once more. The perfection of the moment consumed him suddenly and he too began sprouting tears. They trickled down his face silently and he made no effort to wipe them away, he simply allowed them to fall beautifully down his porcelain cheeks. Their translucency caught the sun and shone with it like matchstick fires cascading from his eyes. She squeezed his fingers as they wept together, neither one even pondering as to why. She turned her crumpled face back to the sun and began singing, a sorrowful lament about lost love and a wasted life. He listened intently and wished with every fibre of his being that the tune would never cease, but alas, she belted the last bar and released his shaking hand. Screaming at the top of her lungs she ran full pelt over the edge of the steep cliff, and wincing in fear, he followed her.

Stage

Her body twists, the sweat kissed skin of her bare legs glistening in the dull light. Wrapping a calf around the cold metal she spins, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. Her auburn hair cascades down her back like liquid fire, shimmering with every rotation. She places her hand at the front of her bodice and with one swift flick of her well-practiced wrist she releases the clasp. She notices that his eyes are still on hers. With her breasts exposed she finds this strange. She moves around the stage fluidly, every step carefully rehearsed. She lifts the cheap fabric of her minuscule skirt ever so slightly, just high enough on her thigh to inspire temptation but still allowing enough concealment to retain mystery. Every lift, every blink, every step, every touch - a practiced art.
When he walked in she didn't think anything of it, just another set of eyes to please, another mind to exploit - another wallet to plunder. That was five hours ago. He hasn't moved from his chair at the back, hasn't ordered a drink, hasn't averted his gaze from her the entire time. She's used to creepers forming perverted obsessions with her, but this feels different. She feels like she knows him, she's certain they've met before. She runs through lists in her mind, crossing off every mundane place where this man could have made an impact on her life. She glides to the front of the stage as her solo cue music starts, by the end of the first verse of jazzy chorus she's down to just two pieces of fabric barely covering her modesty. Her narrowed eyes bore through him as she loops a finger under each section of lace, all the while gyrating her hips in time to the rhythmic horn. With a daring raise of the eyebrow she begins to pull at the delicate bow holding the fabric up. And she's exposed, entirely exposed. Yet his eyes never wander beyond hers.
She returns back to her pole at the left of the stage and continues to dance, as she does every night in this dingy STI-riddled cesspit. The applauds starts, every clap stabbing through her like a shame poisoned dagger. She flicks her eyes to him and the look on his face catches her off guard, his features are twisted into what she recognizes as disappointment. It's the same look she got from her mother when she left college to pursue her career as a dancer and subsequently every visit home since. This was not what either of them had in mind. The money starts flying her way and she scoops to retrieve it, all the while being careful not to bend too far in either direction. She can feel his eyes on her. searing her flesh as if his vision is burning her, charring the skin where ever it falls. She considers getting the manager to be rid of him, but the girls always say not to anger the 'creepers'. That's what ends you up like Mary-lou. She was found with her breasts cut off and her skull bashed in around July last year. Rumor has it she got a guy thrown out who'd been stalking her and he waited the 6 hours for her shift to end, raped her, killed her, and then took with him the part of her he liked best.
The song ends and she gathers her clothes and heads backstage for a costume change. Entering her cool dressing room she shoves on her tacky, bright underwear in a rush - she only has 30 minutes. She stares at herself in the mirror as she allows her heart rate to return to normal following the vigorous activity on stage. She has to blink to know the face looking back at her is her own, you can barely make out the girl underneath all the garish disguise. She hears a knock on her dressing room door shortly after taking off her false lashes. Grabbing a terrycloth robe she steps towards the sound, tightly wrapping it around herself as she does so. She opens the door, smile plastered to her heavily made up face, and there he stands. Tall and brooding, the crease between his eyes deep, his brow furrowed. He looks her up and down apprehensively and then growls almost begrudgingly;
'May I come in?'. His iridescent irises gleam in the hall's fluorescent light.
'Yes.' she breaths. She's unsure of why she did so, it was like he was the hammer and she was the knee. She notes his broad shoulders and his large hands as he passes her in the cramped doorway - he smells like rain and something sweet she can't quite place. He shuffles across the room and stands awkwardly by her clothing rail, his eyes flicker quickly to the array of undergarments hanging frivolously there, then they immediately flick back to her and his face turns a peculiar shade of red. She starts to warm her heart towards this awkward, strange man. He's dressed incongruously from her usual clientele in a fine suit and is holding a rain-soaked anorak in his shaking hands.Taking in the salt and pepper dashing trough his slick-backed mahogany hair she would place him at about fifty, a possible three decades older than her. She's used to older men coming back to speak to her, to gush over her. They bumble and fawn in the most repulsive manor, like starved dogs in the presence of a prime steak. This man is different. She feels comfortable in his presence, he has a calming air about him. His deep breathing reminds her of a breaking shore and his eyes have lines around them that she's certain were made by smiles, not frowns. She herself smiles softly at the thought and offers him a seat - which he rejects.
'I can't stay.' He looks up and their eyes meet again, but this time it's different. She becomes very aware of the small space between them, of the lack of other human beings around, again of his broad shoulders, his large, rough, hands. In spite of his great stature and his gruff voice she believes he'd be a gentle lover. As she leans against her dressing table, leg bent and garter showing, she decides she'll let him sleep with her. She knows that's why he's here, that's why they're all here. Never before has she let a costumer into her bed, but there's something about the awkward mannerisms of this stranger that charms her. She illogically feels she can trust him.
'What's your name?' she coos, cocking her head.
'Charles.' he replies. He clears his throat. 'Charles Linton'
'Well Charles' she begins taking off her robe, and soon she is standing in just her underwear once more, the terrycloth softly dangling from her elbows. 'What can I do for you?' He looks at her and he winces. Taken-aback she lets the robe fall completely to the floor.
'Nothing.' he says flatly, his eyes on hers once more. His face tells her nothing. 'I should never of come.' he walks briskly to the door and yanks it open. He stands in the door way for a second, fumbling with something in his pocket. He turns and places a dirty envelope on the floor by her feet. He does not even glance at her before he exits through the chipped wood frame. The draft from where it's left hanging open hits her bare skin and goose bumps appear all over it but she does nothing to heal them, she just stands in the same spot, confused. She tried to comprehend what just happened, how quickly and bizarrely the mood shifted. Eventually she shivers - bringing her back to earth, back to this dingy dressing room, back to the life she's trapped in. She goes to the mirror, reapplies her lashes and touches up her liner. She looks at herself and is filled with hate. It bubbles up inside her to such a degree that she feels she may just explode all over this boxy room. How dare he? she thinks, How dare he reject her so, and then he has the nerve to leave her money? No, it wasn't right.
'No!' She screams at her reflection and her reflection screams back. She lifts a balled fist and jabs at her face in the mirror. The glass shatters and she recoils in pain, blood spouting from her tarnished knuckles. She falls to the floor on bent knees and howls into her lap, tears falling onto her naked flesh. As the mascara enters her weeping eyes they sting with an intensity to match her throbbing hand. She squeezes them shut to stop the pain. As she lays foetally balled on the floor she runs over the day in her mind and suddenly it clicks. Her thoughts reel and she feels as if she is melting into the nylon carpet rubbing harshly against her skin. The smell, the feeling, the name. She rises to her feet and runs over to the envelope on the floor. She rips it open desperately, pain searing from her wounded fist. Inside is a wad of cash as she anticipated but snuggled next to it is a small neatly folded note. She unfolds it and reads it and sinks down onto the floor once more. The blood on her hand is drying at a rapid pace. The lights blink twice and the bell goes, signalling it's time for her to go back to work. But she just stays where she is. Her head spiraling in a sick, shameful rage. She'd known his name since she was small how could she not have made the connection. Her lecherous desires had prevented her from exercising basic common sense. She wants to cry for him, to beg him to come back, to scream she's sorry and she misses him - all the things she'd ever wanted to say to him. But it didn't work when he left her the first time and she knew it definitely wouldn't work now. Not now he'd seen the damage he'd done, seen what leaving had done to his little girl - seen what she'd become.

Moon fire

In the dark everything looks different. Trees become sinister characters, towering above you ready to strike. The soft wind becomes vicious whispers, merciless threats against your life. The throbbing flicker of a streetlamp is the warning glare of a UFO, coming to claim your shaking body for alien science. Everything can adopt a malevolent nature, in the dark. 
 There you are, sitting alone at the isolated bus shelter, back hunched against the wind assaulting you from all angles. The amber glow of a solitary streetlamp half illuminates your bleak expression, a menacing shadow shrouds the other section from sight. There's rain kissing the road, reflecting the artificial haze above you, patterns dancing across it making it molten. You roll a cigarette, your frozen hands fumbling to collect the last dregs of dry tobacco from your worn out tin. Post- ignition you inhale deeply, throat burning. You are the only person at the stop. The road stretches before you in both directions. It has no bends, just barren concrete, an industrial invitation for adventure - or demise. Trees swaying gently in the frosty winds surround you, their melancholy rustling creates a lullaby that lures you into the dangerous familiar arms of sleep. You close your eyes, just for a second, just to rest them. But sleep grasps you, it takes you by the hand and leads you into the further - into the subconscious of your own mind, it guides you through your repressed memories and over your empowering secrets and dark sexual fantasies. You float around in the valley of sleep for a while, only to be brought back down by kittens scratching your face. You open your sleep encrusted eyes to tell them to go away, to fend off your furry foes. However you are not met by the small adorable faces of disgruntled cats, but a mossy tree branch. You're on the dank floor of the woodland that lay behind you at the bus stop. 
You have no memory of walking there, no idea how you got to be there. You sit up, heart pounding. You think you can hear footsteps fast approaching to the right of you, so you rise to your feet and you run. As you run the footsteps increase, pounding all around you, throbbing closer and closer like an agitated heartbeat. Branches are grabbing at your clothes as you flee, cutting into your skin and grazing your face, making attempts to catch you, to hinder your escape. You don't know where you're running, with no path and no clear idea of what you're running from every direction change is thoughtless. It's almost as if your destination is running to you. You hear an owl screech somewhere behind you, vocalizing the lamented anguish you're too afraid to express. You want to call out but you're unaware and apprehensive as to what may answer your plea. As you speed up, so does your apparent stalker. You slow, the cold air searing your tightened chest. The footsteps subside, and as you stop - they cease. You realize in a moment of shameful recognition that you were evading yourself, your own heinous blood pumping throughout your imbecilic body. You trudge forward, now just hoping you make it back to the stop so you can put this whole incident behind you. But you're so lost. You continue to walk through the cryptic forest. Devoid of the immediate threat of death you now begin to notice how beautiful your surroundings are. The towering moss riddled trees obscure your visionary pathway to the sky above you, you crane your neck and catch a glimpse of the moon. Wide and lethargic it sighs light at you through the murmuring leaves. 
You come to a clearing. There's a woman standing before you. You stare at her in awe, unable to believe her solid presence in this desolate place. But is she solid? Her straggly hair falls over her petite bosom, perfectly encircling her undersized mounds. She cocks her head to the side and you hear her neck clicking mechanically.The sound of it is years of discomfort, the release of eons of deformed tension. It sickens you. She reaches towards you. The bluish tint of her water logged skin shines with the moonlight- reflecting its lonesome purity. You notice her veins are black, the blood in them long stagnant. Each iris an abyss, her eyes freeze into you, boring down into your mind and thieving the part of you that you weren't conscious of since you were sat at that bus stop - your clarity. You fall into them as you gaze, seeing in them everything she has seen. The augural nature of all you find beneath her lids imbues into you a beautiful fear of a magnitude you never thought you could experience. You begin to scream. Her solidarity breaks you, bringing you to your knees. The desperate longing on her rotting face lights you up, igniting you from the inside so you burst, warmth spreading to the very tips of your extremities. How tingles race through your body like moon fire, forcing it into convulsion. She beckons you forward. You join her in the sea of lunar light, your peach skin flourishing as it's placed against her decaying tissue - the contrast monstrous. She extends a long purple tongue and places it against your cheek, you feel a stomach churning pain as the two make contact. You can smell your skin decaying, her saliva burning you like acid. You go to pull away but then you remember her stare, the worlds you saw consumed within her pupils. Dark mythical haunts where the people were all like her, infinite beauty exploding from them. You long to be like her. You shut your eyes, screw them closed so tightly you can feel them twitching manically with the strain of it all. You hear the owl again and somewhere in front of you a harsh, unforgiving voice;
'Mate, you getting on or what?'