The Sun

The heat is up.

It is an undying walk home. That treacherous journey from a to b. That pilgrimage that never ends, not even at its end. The rays strike me, sweat pours down. No, not sweat. I do not sweat. I perspire. Steps forward, not turning back, the juice in my bottle gone. Home is the goal. Home where a brothel of men are waiting. Where I would sweat more as I pump through them.

I lick my wrist. Later I would be licking something else. The summer has just began but, boy, has it began. I have no airconditioning at my place and the tropical heat is getting to us. Monumental, throbbing, relentless fucking. Just enough for a long shower. Save money, shower with a friend.

How many more miles? How many people are going to St. Ives? We never pass cold, we pass heat and we release heat. As such, our bodies move to sub-zero temperature, deader than dead, as if fucking a goddamn corpse. Unless, heat is received then we are trapped in an uneven cycle of heat transfer, A -> B -> A ad infinitum.

“Aren’t you hot? Why don’t you take something off?”

There go the sunglasses. In pain, we cuddle. Between us, a little dynamite takes off, creating a tiny spark. A tiny spark that feeds the entire cosmos of our bodies. The heat is searing but the pain is gone. Or the pain was never there. Or the pain was a flightful fancy we invented to hide our masochism. Or not.

I glance at you. You are not superman, you do not have heat vision. Do not stare at me. Do not look at me. Do not even steal a fucking glance. We pause for a drink, for a cleanse and resume. We live and die, generations pass, creature evolve into mangled version of themselves, sans claws, sans teeth, sans hide.

And after taking ecstasy, we stop. We laugh, we punch each other. You turn your back away and I hold you. Heat transfer complete but what if I don’t want it to be complete? What if I want our supernova to never crash down, never sink in the ocean, never to be found ever again? The dying star never relinquishes her fame, until it is pried from her putrid fingers.

You got what you wanted, but you’re sunburnt, you’re heatroked, you’re tanned beyond recognition. I get a text message from you. You are offended. You are terribly offended. But you forgive me. You sincerely forgive me. Fuck your adverbs.

In worlds, the sun is the most important. Within closed quarters, we create our own sun. Don’t stare directly or you’ll get blind.




THIS IS THE TAROT CHALLENGE, a 78-day writing challenge where everyday I pick out a random card from my tarot deck and write something about, against, inspired by, based on the card by the day’s end. The works can range from poetry to fiction to drama. When the card is from the major arcana, the title of the work should be the card name. When the card is from the minor arcana, the title can be different but the card drawn should be revealed at the end.