DEATH WAS A BIKINI-CLAD GOTH CHICK
by
Marc Sanchez
I was about to take a nice
refreshing dip into the Pacific when I saw Death
walking down the
beach, headed in my direction, and wondered what had happened to
the scythe
and hooded robe.
Finally she walked by and I said, "I thought you were
supposed to be a guy?"
The raven-haired beauty with blonde roots and clad in a very tiny
black
bikini stopped, shielded
her soft sable eyes from the sun, and squinted up into my face.
"You're not
listed as one that
adheres to male-chauvinistic thinking, why on earth would you
make a
statement like that?"
"I wasn't aware that I was being chauvinistic." Two
kids, one skinny, one
fat, squealed and ran
past us into the tranquil surf, flippers flapping fluid sand. The
plump one
sported a pea-green
blow-up sea monster around his jiggling middle.
"You were." She put her hands on her hips and cocked
her head to the right.
I was instantly in lust. "Sorry. Listen, I was wondering-"
"I know, I know," she said. "You want to ask me
out."
"No." I wanted to know how the hell it was that I knew
she was Death and
nobody else did.
"Well, what then?" she reached out and tapped me on the
forearm with her
black fingernails.
"I'm very busy."
Instead I skirted my selfish motives and decided to chalk this
one up to
Mezcal. Still, I surprised
myself and said, "I was wondering why you were hanging
around this
particular beach today. Is
someone going to die?"
She folded her arms across her chest and I was in double lust.
"Yes."
"Shit." I looked down at her feet. Her toenails were
painted black. They
were covered with wet
sand. Her ebon anklet glittered in the sun. "How?"
"Typical drowning." She tossed her long hair over her
shoulder and licked
her lips, which were
also black. "How did you spot me anyway?"
So I'll be damned, Death was a blonde Goth chick in a black
string bikini.
"I'm not sure," I
replied. "I just knew it was you."
"They always do."
"What do you mean?"
She hesitated, "Never mind." Her eyes dropped down the
length of my body
and then shot back
into mine. I definitely had mixed emotions about this whole
encounter.
On top of all of those hormones screaming through the tequila, I
was
freaked. "Oh," I said.
"Yeah, well, see ya." I swore off Mezcal right there.
"See ya." She smiled and I just about did ask her out.
But I knew it could
never work. I'd pretty
much given up on wasted weekends with strange blonde Goth chicks
in black
bikinis anyway. I
watched her walk away, in that way, that...illegal way.
Then I dove into
the sea and swam out as
far as I could, peeking up once to see if I could still spot her
strolling
on the sand. But she was
gone.
That's when I felt my legs start cramping.
Marc lives on the Oregon Coast with wife Kari and daughter Acacia.
He's been
writing for 31 of his 39 surreal years, penning three screenplays
by age
ten. He's still waiting to hear back from Kubrick, Hitchcock, and
Fellini
on those. A former Hippie, Druggie, Alchie, Fundie, and Yuppie,
Marc now
believes that waking up in the morning knowing his general
location is the
start of a good day. Recent pubs include "Grey Swirlings"
to Dark Moon
Rising, "Deep Acolyte" and "The Thing in the
Lighthouse" to Nightscapes
#15, "This is Life" to Shadow Keep, forthcoming, "Down
in the Cellar" to
Nightscapes #16, "Link" to Deviant Minds, and "Milking
the Hot Bite" to
Morbid Musings #4.
Links: Sausage please or just e-mail Marc at:
