High Flying

My candle burns at both ends,

It will not last the night; but, ah, my foes. and oh, my friends----it gives a lovely light.

                                                                                          Edna St. Vincent Millay

Tuning out was something she did well. A dusty corner, a pack of cheap cigarettes and a bottle of wine. Cheap. Expensive. Whatever she could afford. Whatever worked. Never much of a smoker except at times like this. "Times like this" happening more frequently then she or anyone could keep track of. She found the quiet crackle and burn of the cigarette comforting as she inhaled, as though she were incinerating all of her hopelessness along with it. Burning it up and blowing it out into thin air. Thin air that would just become thick again and she started to suffocate.

There is only so much fight in a dog, she thought. Only so much before it limps away mangy and bloodied with it's tail between it's legs.....then it lays down to die in relative silence and final bid for peace.

Feeling the thump thumping of bass vibrating the wall she glanced over at the clock. Just before 9pm .
A heap of glitter and perfume collapsed on the floor she forced herself to stand up. Three glasses of wine and three cigarettes. That was the magic mark. Everything was sharp and made sense. Until it didn't and she'd have to start over. Making her way out to the chanting crowd and the hungry world...her tiny frame covered in spandex and organza.

There is only so much fight in a dog, she thought.



CJ Ellis