Concrete

I did a little bit of free writing today, listening to a piece calle “Concrete” by the amazing Chrysanthe Tan, on her new album Stories. If you use music to write to, I highly recommend it. I listed to this on repeat for maybe 20 minutes and wrote just a short scene, maybe a concept scene for something larger one day.  But, why not share it since it’s been a while since I put some new stuff out?


Concrete

Her fingers lightly touch the metallic pole, already slick from the other girls dancing that night—no longer cold to the touch, but warm and tepid. She slid down the pole, bending her knees and spreading her legs, her long blonde hair draping to the floor. Then men watched her and cheered and threw dollar bills and she continued to dance, the pole getting warmer as she did. As she descended to the stage, slowly, seductively, the pole gave way from behind her, and she fell to the hard wood.

Men jumped up in alarm, but she waved them off—until she felt a warm thick liquid on her. She touched her head, feeling it in her hair, running down her face and bare shoulders and bare breasts. She looked at the crowd, looking at her in shock, and then to her hands. But it was not blood. A thick quicksilver, a metallic syrup, cloaked her. It dripped down her arms and onto the stage, where she now knelt in a puddle of liquid metal, the remains of the pole she danced on.

But she did not burn. Rather, the metal began to feel soothing as it collected over her nipples and seeped into her pores. The men gathered began to back away as she moved forward, slightly dizzy and bewildered. She leaned forward, reaching for the other pole on the stage for support. Her hand grasped it, but the metal quickly began to soften. She watched it fold and then ripple, and start seeping over and through her fingers like grabbing onto partially melted wax. She let go, seeing the imprint of her hand just before the pole collapsed under its melting weight.

The men screamed and ran out of the bar. She turned, looking to see if any would stay behind to help her—she saw only one man, kneeling on the ground. He had the look of a soldier. His hair cut close, his chest broad. Scars on his face betrayed any remaining sense of innocence. His hands went to his mouth in disbelief, gasping. She stood, shining silver and red in the low lighting.

“I found you,” he cried, smiling. “I finally found you.”


I already have some ideas of what I want to do with this–hope it was enjoyable.

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