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This blog has moved

zondag, juni 06, 2010

Hey guys;

This blog has moved to www.sicyon.be/wordpress

Please go read over there :)

opgehoest door Sicyon
[-] 57 aanklacht(en)


Salem's lost little girl (part 5)

zondag, november 22, 2009

Red had been keeping an eye on the three students. Apparently neither of the two guys was her boyfriend, which made things easier for him. To be sure though he had found something in his pocket that would make things even easier, if she would just have one more drink with him. He couldn’t quite place it but something about her reminded him of An and the memory was stirring up quite some emotions. Strong, powerful emotions that were making his heart race. He took another big gulp of Kasteelbier to take his mind of it.

The group got up from their table and started putting on their jackets as they made their way to the exit. She was walking in between the two tall guys, trying her best not to make eye-contact with Red at the counter.
“Hey missy,” he tried to get her to look at him.
The two guys kept walking, thinking he was talking to someone else. They held open the door but she had stopped at the bar, looking over at him. “What do you want?” Oh he’d have to come up with something smooth to get her to stay behind.
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name there.”
“My name is Nelly.”
Without missing a beat, Red addressed the guys. “Can Nelly come out and play? Oh please daddy, can she? Can she? Can she?”
The guys looked back at her, wondering what the hell was going on. “It’s ok guys, I’ll catch up with you. What bar are you heading to?”
“Are you sure? We’ll be in the Confrater. We’ll text you in case we end up somewhere else.” They didn’t seem too intent on getting involved in the situation, probably because they were used to her getting attention from random guys. And besides, he looked like a benign working-stiff who’d just had one too many drinks.
She waited for them to step out the door before she faced him and the smile left her face. “Listen up, fucker, I don’t know what you’re trying to…” He had to cut her short as soon as possible to change the mood because this was quickly going to end up poorly for him. “Wow, wow, wow, mommy. Slow your row. I’m sorry about before. I think we got off on the wrong foot there. Lets reset our game and give it another go. What do you say?”
Her angry expression slowly faded and was replaced by a cautious frown. He gestured towards the stool to try and get her to sit next to him again. She took a few steps towards him but stopped short of the stool, keeping on her jacket and standing up. Red waved over the barkeep. “A Martini Fiero for Nelly, please.” The board had been set, the pieces were in motion and with some luck, he’d get to bang the queen. “Come on, forget about before. First impressions aren’t everything. How about I apologize for my of-colour remarks earlier and we’ll go from there?”
She thanked the barkeep for the Martini before sipping from it. “Why don’t you just give me a minute to refresh myself and I’ll come in again as if we haven’t met before?” He nodded and extended his hand to the door towards the toilet, “By all means.”
As she entered the restroom he took the rohypnol out of his pocket and played with it for a second, hesitating. Her way of treating him reminded him of An and memories of An made him absolutely livid. He slipped the little white pill in her drink. Game, set, match.


opgehoest door Sicyon
[-] 110 aanklacht(en)


Salem's lost little girl (part 4)

woensdag, november 18, 2009

It was a hot Thursday in July when Red was hanging out at the water cooler, bored with his mind numbing chores at the firm. The water cooler was one of the few places where he could meet some colleagues on a break and they always had the most intricate stories to tell him about their more interesting cases. He couldn’t wait for the days that he would be taking on a more challenging case like the one’s they were gossiping about. This was probably where he heard about Mugsy Salem for the first time. It was Dan, an American expat in his mid-forties, who first brought up the case around the water cooler a few weeks back.

“This is actually quite a big fish in a small pond,” is what Dan had said. “I would imagine that the Leuven police would have arrested him a long time ago but somehow he seems to have slipped through the mazes. Quite a remarkable feat but it seems his luck might have run out.”

“Leuven isn’t exactly the place that I linked with organised crime of this type,” is what Anne had replied. “I studied there for five years and have never heard any stories of organised theft or prostitution.”

“Things have changed since the nineteen-hundreds, Anne,” Pieter quipped. “The North-Africans
moved in and now control the streets and most of the cash flow.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Red finally joined the conversation. “I’m sure this guy’s importance is exaggerated. Who told you all of this nonsense and what kind of rap sheet does he have anyway?”

Dan turned towards Red, the junior employee at the water cooler at that time, and readjusted his glasses. “For starters, I personally checked how many of the kebab shops he actually owns in Leuven. He has a quite significant market share, indeed nearing fifty percent. As for the escort service and the crime syndicate he supposedly runs, you won’t find anything mentioned on his rap sheet since he doesn’t really have one. Officially he’s squeaky-clean but when you talk to people on the street you don’t have to dig long to find out who really runs the show. His name even comes up in investigations here in Brussels. He kicks up a percentage of his profits to his syndicate bosses in the capital. He’s well-connected, I can assure you.”

Red shrugged, pretending he didn’t really care and had no interest in the story. “Whatever, I should be getting back to work.”

Recently he’d been following some of his colleagues around, waiting for them to leave their offices so that he could slip in and read some of their files. The minute Dan had brought up the Salem case, Red had felt the immediate urge to barge into Dan’s office and to go over the files. This Mugsy character was fascinating. The entrepreneur criminal was an archetype that fascinated Red. Much more interesting than passion-murder cases or white collar crime, these organised crime cases had a tendency to involve a whole bunch of unsavoury characters and that was exactly the part that he loved. All levels of society would at some point or another be involved in this story and it would be beautiful. It was no doubt not a coincidence that it took this long for Mugsy to be investigated. He must have paid off the right people to maintain his status as untouchable all this time. And at the same time, he must have pissed of one of these people for that untouchable status to be revoked now. This had very little to do with luck, Red imagined.
After checking the hallway, he slipped into Dan’s empty office to snoop around. He moved the mouse of the pc to deactivate the screensaver and quickly browsed through the open files. A couple of browser window’s with random google searches, a window of minesweeper and three word documents. One document entitled Mugsy Salem with at the top of the page a recent picture of the man. A recent picture of the man… Red’s heart skipped a beat as he recognized a face that brought back a painful memory. He had seen this man before. His mind raced to find the possible link why the guy she’d been with was Mugsy Salem.

A puzzled Red Carter sneaked out of an empty office into the hallway of a Brussels office-building.


opgehoest door Sicyon
[-] 12 aanklacht(en)


Salem's lost little girl (part 3)

vrijdag, november 13, 2009

She had dreads, nicely tucked away in the cap that she was wearing, and a stud in her tongue that she played around with continuously. Her face had a very pure beauty, very captivating eyes and a smile to die for. She wasn’t the shy kind, that much was for sure. As he started opening his pack of cigarettes she plopped down on the stool next to his. “Do you have a light,” she continued and put the cigarette in between her lips in the corner of her mouth. He grabbed a candle from the bar-top and held it to her cigarette. “Thanks,” she said as she hopped off the stool. There was no doubt in his mind that she would join the other hippies in the corner.

“You’re seriously going to join those two clowns in the corner? Take it from me, princess, if you want to waste your time on something, cocaine is much more interesting.”
She turned around and as she drew from her cigarette with one eye closed she sized him up. “You mean to say that I should stay with you because you’re so interesting?”
Red swivelled his chair back around, turning his back to her and tapped his hand on the stool next to him. “I know rocks more interesting than those guys.” He took a cigarette for himself and once more used the candle to light it.
She hesitated for a second but after a glance over her shoulder at the two guys heavily discussing with each other, she took him up on his offer. “Sure, why not. I’ll have a Martini Fiero.”
He ordered her drink and turned towards her. She was probably 5 to 10 years younger than him. With his cigarette in between his fingers he grabbed one of her dreads sticking out of her cap. “Too lazy to properly take care of your hair?”
She smiled and responded calmly. “Shouldn’t you be home with the wife, playing house?”
He grinned. “The wife is working the streets and I left the kid in the car. Don’t worry, I rolled the window down just a little. But with all these responsibilities I still find the time to wash my hair.”
“I should have stuck with the cocaine it seems.”
“You would be bouncing of the walls like you wouldn’t believe, little girl.”
“I’m not so little,” she smirked. “So what is it you do in life?”
He picked up his beer and took a gulp as he looked at her from the corner of his eye. “I run a small crew of tough guys who go around the city breaking into student’s houses and stealing the expensive shit their mommies and daddies buy them. I also have an escort service selling eastern-European women to sad men who want something only paid love can get you. On top of that I own 50 percent of the kebab shops in Leuven.”
“Huh. How quaint. You just described someone very close to me, only, he’s not spending his time in bars at night making up stories to impress young girls.” Red was suddenly very intrigued but had no intention of showing that to her.
“I hardy think a gangster like that would have a hippie friend like you though. He’d slap some sense into you, believe you me,” he tried to play down her comment, as if he didn’t believe her.
“Oh he tried alright. Once I moved out there wasn’t much left for him to do though.”
“From the looks of you and your friends I’m guessing you’re either a psychology student or a political science student.”
She shrugged and tapped some ashes into the ashtray. “Does it really matter? I hardly think you care about what my interests are.”
“Oh so we’ve got a cynic here. You think your beauty stands in the way of you meeting guys who actually look beyond your cute face and care about your dreams and hopes?”
“Don’t make me out to be a narcissistic bitch. This has nothing to do with what I think about myself, this has everything to do with your dick doing all the talking.”
“So to sum it up, all men are sexist pigs and players? Don’t tell me you’re a dyke or even worse, a feminist?”
“I think I’ve heard about all I needed to hear. Thank you very much for the drink and the smoke, mister…?”
“Carter, Red Carter. Pleasure was all mine. You know where to find me when you figure out your impotent buddies over there won’t satisfy you.”
“Fuck you very much.”

In the corner of De Blauwe Kater three young hippies sat discussing the merits of bio-fuel subsidies while an absent-minded Red Carter looked for something in his pockets.


opgehoest door Sicyon
[-] 24 aanklacht(en)


Salem's lost little girl (part 2)

donderdag, november 12, 2009

Red Carter was sitting at the end of the bar on his usual barstool. In front of him stood half a glass of a Kasteelbier, a dark one, and an empty ashtray right next to a new and unopened pack of cigarettes. De Blauwe Kater was a jazz bar just off the Oude Markt on the Naamsestraat. It wasn’t directly on the street. A small cobblestone alley lead to the bar and in summer they’d put tables out in the alley as well. The inside of the bar wasn’t very spacious and when jazz-bands would come there to play, it got really cramped. At this time the five small tables were all free except for the one in the back corner behind Red. Two long haired students were sitting there and were probably discussing world politics and the impact of globalization, or some bullshit topic young ideologists that age discuss. Red had a strong dislike for those kind of students but was just too jaded right then to care. He’d been coming there for the better part of ten years and knew very well that this was exactly the kind of place that attracted those kind of people.

In a distant past he used to care and he used to get into heated debates that would quite often end in small bar-fights. Fucking hippies. Things were very different then. Being a student, it didn’t matter if you’d wake up with a black eye and a couple broken ribs. These days, showing up to work with a black eye wouldn’t exactly be appreciated. Every morning Red went to Brussels for his job at a big law firm. When he first started there he’d been sure that this was the job for him. For a very long time he had dreamed of working there but it took only a couple months for him to figure out that he had had no idea what the job really entailed. The long hours, the boring people he worked with and the trivial cases he was given to handle were slowly sapping the motivation out of him. He missed the days of old. Now when he arrived back home he had a quick dinner and had time for one or two beers in De Blauwe Kater. He lived for the weekend. Every passing day he started considering changing his life around but then he’d have to… “Can I bum a fag,” a young woman interrupted his thoughts.

opgehoest door Sicyon
[-] 8 aanklacht(en)


Salem's lost little girl (part 1)

woensdag, november 11, 2009

“Do you reckon they ever find any of these kids?” The picture on the Childfocus missing person’s report seemed old and the colours had faded. The two men were standing in the underpass at the railway station.

“I’d certainly like to think so.” It was freezing cold and it was late. Deserted and forgotten, both the underpass and railway seemed to be more of a ghost town than anything else. Except for the occasional train passing by, nothing seemed to move.

“It seems like there’s always someone missing. I wonder where all these people go.” One of the men was shorter while the other one was taller and heavier. Both of them wore all black and had broad shoulders and big arms. They seemed to be waiting for something or someone.

“You never really find out if they find them, do you?” Anybody passing through the underpass at that time, would undoubtedly remember the two strange men standing there. Their unremarkable appearance would however result in very bland descriptions to the cops. That would be of little help.
“I guess you could find a list of people that they’ve found somewhere on their…” The rest of the sentence was lost in the rumbling noise of a train pulling into the station. Both men put on black gloves and walked over to the stairs of platform 8. On the platform there were very few people. The conductor waited for everybody to get off. They saw only 4 or 5 passengers walking towards the stairs. One man got off at the far end of the platform and came down the stairs long after the rest of the passengers. “Showtime,” said the small one. The man coming down the stairs had a tall, slender figure and wore an old raincoat and a worn-down hat. Underneath his open raincoat he was wearing a suit. A slip of his shirt was hanging out of his pants and his tie had been undone. His glasses seemed to go natural with the shape of his face. He carried a briefcase and had obviously had a long day at the office. As he walked by the two men, hardly even noticing them, they followed him immediately. The tallest of the two men stuck a gun in the man’s back while the other one said: “Evening mister Carter. Just keep walking, act casual and don’t try anything funny.” Mister Carter paled but didn’t flinch. He kept his composure and continued his walk through the underpass, making his way to the underground parking lot at the end of it. The two men lead him to their car where they opened the trunk. The trunk was lined with a large plastic sheet. As mister Carter saw this his eyes opened wide and then glazed over as his mouth gaped. He quickly turned around to face the men. “Mugsy sends his regards.” Two clicks and while he collapsed they pushed him into the trunk. “I bet they have a reasonable success-rate finding those kids.” The shorter one picked up mister Carter’s briefcase and the tall one got in the driver’s seat.

A black Volkswagen sedan pulled out of the underground parking lot of the Leuven railway station.

opgehoest door Sicyon
[-] 8 aanklacht(en)



zondag, september 13, 2009

Sometimes I want to tell you that I want to go back to the way we were but I'm afraid to open this door to a room full of mirrors showing us freakishly distorted reflections of our former selves, disfigured by all that happened since.


I stare out of this window. The sun comes up. The sun goes down. One minute it’s raining. The next minute it’s dry. Briefly a rainbow brightens up the dull grey sky. I stare out of this window, sixteen stories high. I see the whole wide world. And nobody sees me. Story of my life.


I couldn’t quite understand her. Did she say ‘hello’ or ‘hell no’. Ever the optimist, I chose to believe the former. That would be forevermore the misconception/lucky guess on which our relationship would be based. Thank god it was sunny that day.


So for one evening I borrowed her smile. What could go wrong I thought? It turned out that her world would quickly collapse without the vital support of an ubiquitous all-powerful smile. Mid-way through my important dinner-date – the occasion of our rent-a-smile arrangement – she called me to have it returned, post-haste. I ate desert by myself, wondering if someone would sell their smile permanently.


And I said I was sorry, like so many times before. I apologize so often that the word sorry has lost all colour and all weight. It has become an empty shell of a word with a cavernous echo that keeps on coming back. You must be wondering when things will change.

opgehoest door Sicyon
[-] 25 aanklacht(en)


For old times sake

vrijdag, mei 01, 2009

Maybe the next time you spot me in the street you can shout and wave. And I will wave back. And we will walk away smiling, thinking the world isn't such a bad place after all. I'd like that.


Just the other day some stranger spoke to me with the intent to help. It left me thinking, trying to remember when the last time was I did this for someone else. I was at a loss.


I've wanted to hug you a thousand times but couldn't. You've brightened up my days countless times. Thanks for being there.


It's 6 in the morning and I wish I had someone I could message at 6 in the morning telling her I wish she was here with me, close to me. But then I let out a terrible beer-fart and I remember why maybe being in bed alone after a night on the town isn't such a bad thing.

opgehoest door Sicyon
[-] 0 aanklacht(en)


I wrote this for me

donderdag, april 30, 2009

When I wake up it's a "no, god no". By the evening, when I'm tired and alone, it becomes a "wouldn't it be nice". By the time I answer, it's a "stop overthinking it, live a little and see where it goes". But I've ran out of ways to say yes while really meaning no. So no, just please, no. It feels like a compromise between settling for whatever I can get now and waiting for what I really want.

To put it in the wise words of a Magic 8 Ball: ask again later.

opgehoest door Sicyon
[-] 4 aanklacht(en)


Verbose no more

woensdag, april 29, 2009

And I will learn to say what I mean in ten words or less. No more buying time with empty phrases to figure out what I really want to say. You can measure the value of my answer by the seconds of silence that precede it.

And no more will I buy viagra for my ego with borrowed words. Let my passion slowly burn through the dead layers of routine to reach the surface. I will rekindle my flame by your lips.

So much for ten words or less. I opened a door and found a universe, hiding under the bed.

opgehoest door Sicyon
[-] 2 aanklacht(en)


Dreams of a different past

vrijdag, januari 02, 2009

We walk across a frozen barren wasteland covered in frozen weeds. I say we because I think you were there. I’m not sure anymore but I distinctly remember not being alone. The dog rushed past us in a mad dash for a target that would perpetually elude him. I wasn’t sure what he had seen but it had him all excited. Winter had colours for breakfast and so around lunchtime everything around us had found it’s place on the greyscale that the world had become. The whole landscape around us was telling us that it was cold but for some reason my body didn’t register the fact that my toes were slowly solidifying into flesh-flavoured icicles. Our every breath brought forth a white plume, winter sucking out a tiny bit of warmth with every exhalation. There was an undefined shape on the horizon that we seemed to be walking towards to. I can’t remember for the life of me what it was. We didn’t say a word all the way over there. It was not because we were having issues, or at least I don’t remember the atmosphere between us being hostile. For my part the emptiness of the frozen wasteland had seeped into my head and had thoroughly cleansed it of any concrete thoughts. All that lived within me were abstract concepts and pure emotions, slowed down to the pace of an ancient turtle due to the brutal cold. Maybe you were pre-occupied with motherly worries about everything and nothing, I won’t pretend to know what was on your mind. I think you knew the way, knew where you were going. Clearly you’d walked there before. Or maybe I only thought so because I felt like I was following you, trusting that you knew where to go. You know how people get when they allow themselves to completely depend on someone else. It’s so comforting to know that there’s somebody there to take care of things for you. Suddenly I saw, in the midst of all the white and grey, one vibrant lively yellow flower covered in frost trying it’s hardest not to be crushed. I stopped and pointed at it, hardly managing to force a “look mom” through my lips. You stopped too, walked over to me, stood behind me towering over me with your hands on my shoulders trying to find what I was pointing at. When you finally saw the flower you said: “Beautiful, isn’t it? No matter the circumstances, life doesn’t just give up. It never gives up.” You tussled my hair, put your arm around my shoulder and dragged me along to continue our journey to nowhere in particular.

opgehoest door Sicyon
[-] 8 aanklacht(en)


Jullie gingen slapen, ik schreef dit...

donderdag, januari 01, 2009

Extract uit brieven aan mijn toekomstige:

Dag meisje,

Lights. A lot of lights. Smiles. A lot of smiles. These smiling faces grouped together on all the corners of the streets.

Ik heb je gezocht in al de glimlachende gezichten op deze oudejaarsavond. Was je daar? Ik weet het niet goed. Om eerlijk te zijn had ik al best wat op en zou ik je hoogstwaarschijnlijk niet gevonden hebben in de massa beschonken mensen. Ja ik weet het. Waarom moet er altijd wat te drinken zijn voordat ik loskom en plezier begin te maken? Ik weet het allemaal niet zo goed. Als ik echt bij de mensen was waar ik me volledig thuis voelde dan was alles misschien anders geweest. Maar wees nu eerlijk, een extra glas kan toch ook geen kwaad? Het jaar 2008 is nu officieel achter de rug. Ik hoop dat het een jaar was waar je met weemoed aan kunt terugdenken. Herinneringen zijn een bron van warmte die geen mens mag ontbreken. Ik kan je zeggen dat 2008 voor mij een raar jaar was waar ik met gemengde gevoelens aan zal terugdenken.

2008 was een jaar van:
- hard werk
- een nieuwe vorm van reizen ontdekken
- herontdekken van basketbal en alle nieuwe mensen via basketbal
- leren hoe een ex ook een goede vriend kan zijn
- leren hoe je afscheid neemt van iemand die je liefde niet waard is
- inzien dat de ultieme luiheid thuis geen oplossing is
- eenzaamheid zonder schade (waar was je verdomme?)

Het is een aloude gewoonte om met het inzetten van het nieuwe jaar ook goede voornemens te proclameren. Bij deze, in 2009 wil ik:
- jou leren kennen (haast je wat, ik heb het kou)
- minder lui zijn op het werk en thuis
- iets aan mijn conditie doen
- een lieve en beschikbare mens worden
- meer met wildvreemde mensen praten
- meer tijd maken voor de mensen om wie ik echt geef (ja, jullie)
- iets echt belangrijk doen voor iemand

Niet zo lang geleden kreeg ik een enveloppe van een zus van mijn oma. Het mensje kan van haar leven niet meer schrijven omdat ze zo hard trilt met haar handen. Maar gelukkig kan ze nog overweg met haar typemachine. Ze schreef het volgende:

Lieve Rufi,

Wat mag ik je wensen voor Kerst en het nieuwe jaar? Liefde zo meteen lijkt me wat voorbarig, maar zachtheid en tederheid mag altijd, en jij mag dat ook doorgeven aan de mensen rondom je heen: jouw papa zou er vast heel blij mee zijn. En dan komt ook nog het lukken in je specialiteit; maar kijk breed en steek je voelhorens uit naar andere dingen. Daarvoor zul je echter uit je schelp moeten kruipen, en dat is misschien wel het voornaamste wat ik je mag wensen. Wordt een lieve beschikbare mens.

Dat is voorwaar het mooiste Kerstkaartje dat ik in mijn hele leven heb gekregen. Die kaart zal ik niet snel verliezen en die wensen zal ik niet snel vergeten. Sommige mensen kijken zo door je uit, zonder dat je het verwacht, zonder dat je het weet. Na al die grootspraak, na al die show, zou ik het liefst van al zijn bij jou. Kom nu maar gauw.

opgehoest door Sicyon
[-] 10 aanklacht(en)


Just a regular Sunday

dinsdag, december 09, 2008

She had deep blue eyes and glasses, glasses that made her look sharp as a pencil. She caught my gaze and captivated me, kept me breathless for a minute, not quite sure why but the eyes were a factor. A nice, pearly white smile, performed as if it were a trick she learned, with ease but no conviction. She stood snatch deep in pot, wading through it like a muddy pond and still with the smile. Half a moon hung idle in the sky, wondering what way was up, yes, it was one of those days. If anything, you'd think that somebody dropped his coffee on some cables somewhere and I got connected with the wrong reality. By the time she reached the border of the pot-pool I noticed that she wasn't wearing much more than a t-shirt and panties with a pot-colour crotch. If I would stop staring at her crotch, she asks, still with the zombie smile giving me the creeps. I tell her that if her crotch was always that shade of green, she might want to see a doctor. A tall black man wearing gloves pushes me back into a dandy, white leather couch and I curse. She inquired if I knew who the fuck she was, as if that even mattered, let's start with the basics, who the fuck am I? The tall black man offers me a scotch, two ice cubes and a very nice glass.

Two dogs perform a little dance, one of them tries to sing a little tune to go with it but obviously singing is not a dog thing. You might even wonder why all those rappers keep calling out for their dogs, the creatures have no sense of rhyming and no idea what rhythm is.
What exactly I wanted, she asked, whether I was just there to gratuitously stare at her ass or if we could do business. I wouldn't mind staring a little while longer quite honestly, hell, I could stare the day away if she didn't mind. The black man took position behind me and suddenly the couch got a lot less comfortable, the dogs still dancing, like anybody really cared. She informs me that her questions are meant to be rhetorical and that if I knew what was best for me, I'd best not come up with any more cute answers from now on. For a second I wonder if I should come back with a witty comment on that as well but the big black guy suddenly grabs my shoulders. I inquire for the prices of her product and her services while one of the dogs sniffs the bum of the other one, I barely manage to suppress my laughter, that seemed more like the stereotypical rapper behaviour. The drink I had went straight to my head, I wonder if she spiked it or if maybe some of the stuff I did earlier just kicked in, I'd find out by the speed at which I'd hit the floor. The moon finally decides to take a short break and retreats behind a nice thick pack of clouds, cheeky lass, I was just getting excited too. Things get a lot hazier from there on in.

If memory serves, she put on some music to get the dogs to finally shut up, something lounge without lyrics, easy to listen to and easy to tune out during a discussion. The big black guy brought along a table which was then slowly covered bit by bit with different types of narcotics, ranging from soft drugs to hard drugs, uppers, downers, hallucinogenics, any kind of high you were looking for, she had just the thing. Clearly anybody looking to get properly fucked up would feel like he just found paradise. I was just thoroughly confused though, being as how I was already properly fucked up. It smelled like I took an ice-scoop and a cone, scooped up some of my brains into the cone and licked off the bits that trickled down the sides of it, succulent. My mind was just bouncing off the walls, it got hard to focus on any one thing and anything shiny or anything moving was enough to reset the entire thought process. I suppose it needs no further explanation to understand that the discussion with the lovely green-crotched lady suffered severely from my state of mind. Considering that I suspected her of spiking my drink I found it very inconsistent of her to hold it against me though. Hard to say how long I had been staring at her ass again, time had long since ceased to follow a clear linear path, which is my favourite time of day or times of day, whatever best describes the situation. Careful what you wish for, you hear these words more often but far too rarely do you hear them just before some hard-body vixen in high-heels, a t-shirt and panties walks up to you, puts her right foot on the side of the couch and grabs the hair on the back of your head to powerfully thrust your face into her crotch. Deep breaths, deep breaths and just rubbing my face full force into the holiest of holies. For a minute I forget everything else around me.

Two blinks of an eye later she's sitting across the table, legs crossed and a severe frown lining her glasses, I check for the dogs to figure out what the hell just happened and if maybe, just maybe, going to town on my brain tissue with a giant sledgehammer left its marks. For a minute things slowed down considerably, I rubbed my face with both hands to retrieve traces of sensation of the mystery that just took place, I could still smell her but it could also just be some other chick’s juices fermenting under my fingernails, damn it, I need to wash my hands a bit more often, filthy son of a gun. What I really got to say is, if that’s how people are going to get down, how are we ever going to get up. Somebody’s got to make a change. It was one of those days.

opgehoest door Sicyon
[-] 7 aanklacht(en)


Stuk verdriet

woensdag, december 03, 2008

Ik vergeef je, ja, want dat hoort zo, dat moet, want Jezus heeft het gezegd. Maar hoe werkt dat juist? Begint het altijd eerst met een sorry of kan het ook gewoon zonder? Is het genoeg om het woord zachtjes te fluisteren of hoort er oogcontact en diepgang bij? Kom je er vanaf met een woord of spreken handelingen altijd luider dan woorden? Ik vergeef je, ja, dat kan ik nu wel even gemakkelijk zeggen als jij net die sorry. Na de woorden is op zich niets veranderd en ligt het zware werk nog voor de boeg. Het zal van beide kanten moeten komen. Een tegemoetkoming waarbij een aangepast gedrag van de ene zal gecombineerd worden met een hernieuwen van vertrouwen van de andere. Maar wat als jij nu gewoon eens begon met je knie uit mijn kloten te halen, stuk verdriet? Let’s go from there.

opgehoest door Sicyon
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dinsdag, oktober 28, 2008

He always slept closest to the wall. This one sentence would most accurately characterise the whole dynamic of their relationship, he later realised. He always slept closest to the wall, often laying on his side, to give her all the extra space she normally enjoyed had he not been there and always giving her the easy way out for a toilet visit. He would spend long nightly hours awake, agonizing over his uncomfortable position but all the while still enjoying her warmth and presence. His raging hormones would urge his mind to ignore the fatigue, to ignore the lack of circulation in his arm. Undoubtedly this is an unfair portrayal of the real dynamic of their relationship. In a sense their dynamic was very much akin to the most basic and naturally instinctive dynamic between man and woman. He was so happy to have someone to take care off, someone to nurture. It gave him purpose, it gave him energy and most of all it gave him a positive sense of self. This instant gratification in the form of happiness gave him all the needed motivation to take this concept to the extreme, to essentially become a non-entity, a drone serving the queen bee. In a sense it was a self-powering downward spiral. At first she would enjoy being cared for, instinctively feeling happy about that love and support but gradually it derailed. Instead of developing a strong personality in a growing and maturing relationship, he faded away into non-existence. He became an overbearing caretaker, smothering a flame which was in dire need of air, jumping through hoops for her which she wasn’t even really holding up. The rising water level didn’t seem to give her a tangible clue as to what the reason was for the sinking ship. She was largely ignorant of what gave her all these feelings of uncertainty and anxiety. Either that or she miserably failed to communicate her feelings. At this point in time, most young people will act alike. They will break rank, they will panic and flee. Take the easy way out and never ever look back until you’ve surely escaped the treacherous grip of the post-relationship quagmire. All in all, what happened, was predestined. Their personalities, their deepest priorities and needs, were misaligned. The only thing that kept the whole charade going for so long were funny hormones, the whole being in love bit. For two young kids, experiencing for the first time the power of love and the happiness it can bring, to blatantly ignore the fact that they are wrong for each other, is the most common thing of all.

He always slept closest to the wall. Only in the most honest of moods would he quietly admit to himself that he slept there because in reality he was just afraid of falling out of the bed were he to sleep on the other side.

opgehoest door Sicyon
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zondag, juli 13, 2008

Vandaag was een warme dag in de Balkan. De hele dag gemakkelijk rond de 40 graden. Dit was onze enige dag in Belgrado dus we hebben ook deze hele dag in de zon rondgelopen. Van helemaal in het noorden van Belgrado in de Bohemian Quarter tot helemaal in het zuiden van Belgrado aan het Mausoleum van Tito. Belgrado is best de moeite.

Niet veel tijd. Later meer. Wenen was een puik stadje van Keizers en Sisis. En veel toeristen. En vrouwen die geen BH willen dragen. Grr.

opgehoest door Sicyon
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woensdag, juli 02, 2008

Het was een prachtige dag, het soort dag waarvan je er niet genoeg krijgt. Het was één van de eerste vakantiedagen na een lange examenperiode en niets moest, alles kon. Geen haast om ergens te raken, volledig relax. Zonnetje spuwt gezapig zijn straling onze kant uit, de hemel is kraaknet blauw en de wereld gaat ongestoord zijn gangetje. Kortom, de perfecte dag om er een eind aan te maken… blijkbaar.

Omroeper station – “Door een persoonsongeval zullen de treinen tussen Kortrijk en Brugge met 10 minuten vertraging rijden.”
Ik in mezelf – “Persoonsongeval? Mooi woord.”

Iets later op de trein.

Bompa Roger – “Zeg conducteur, wat is er gebeurd?”
Conducteur – “Euh, ja, de examens zijn gedaan eh…”
Ik in mezelf – “What’s your motherfucking point, cunt?”
Bompa Roger – “Mekker mekker, dochter, mekker, psychiatrische instelling, mekker mekker.”

Iets later bleek dat iemand zich ook zo nodig onder de trein moest werpen op het traject Gent-Brussel. Als ge het mij vraagt is het een complot. Het uitkomen van zowel “The Happening” als "Hancock " in deze periode kunnen geen toeval zijn.


Ik was niet meer van deze wereld, toegegeven. Te veel bier, niet genoeg water. Te veel zon, niet genoeg schaduw. Te veel gapen, niet genoeg praten. Terwijl de side-kick zich een krultang aan het aanschaffen was, leunde ik zo zwaar tegen de toog dat het een wonder was dat die het niet gewoon voor bekeken hield en ergens anders ging staan. Blijkbaar had ik al geruime tijd staan gapen naar een meisje. Bouncy bouncy white, make my night. Plots verdween ze uit mijn zicht en in mijn hoofd zei een grappig stemmetje: “Haha, die komt zo op u af, zie maar dat ge iets te zeggen hebt”. Een ander stemmetje zei: “Haha! Ma nee gij. Nooit!” Dat stemmetje was echt achterlijk en die kerel heb ik er vervolgens gewoon uitgekieperd.

Bouncy thing – “Zeg, gaat het een beetje met u?”
De Achterlijke, verrast dat ze daar dan toch ineens stond – “Euh, ja ze.”
Bouncy thing – “…” Stapt gewoon door naar de WC.

Dit soort dingen overkomt me te vaak. Ik moet minder leren drinken of korter op de bal spelen. Ge weet wel, vanaf dat een speler de bal krijgt, zitten er al twee man op.

Achteraf daagt het dan. Dat grappig stemmetje had het woord moeten voeren. Die had waarschijnlijk wel iets scherp en gevat kunnen bedenken. Iets in de zin van: “Nee, niet echt, ik heb wat lucht nodig. Komt ge niet even mee?”

opgehoest door Sicyon
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Shit or get off the pot

vrijdag, juni 20, 2008

Extract uit "Brieven aan mijn toekomstige".

Dag Meisje,

Ik wou dat je hier was. Dat je naast me in de zetel zou komen zitten. Die zetel waar je zo gezellig naast elkaar kan zitten en die een band schept die niet in woorden kan gevat worden. Ik wou dat je naast me zat en zou vertellen over morgen. Morgen, die dag dat ik je eindelijk voor het eerst zal ontmoeten. Vertel me over het moment dat jouw ogen mij voor het eerst zullen zien. Vertel me over je eerste meest instinctieve reflex. Over hoe je zal blijven kijken tot mijn ogen de jouwe vinden en hoe we voor enkele seconden blijven kijken, niet helemaal gewaar van het gevaar. Wat je ook zult doen, speel alsjeblieft het spel mee. Neem geen binnenpaadjes, snij geen hoeken af. Speel het spel mee en laat ons beiden het doolhof doorlopen. Want het plezier ligt in het verloren lopen in het doolhof en dan plots een oase vinden. Daar waar je het niet zal verwachten zal ik op je wachten, met een glimlach. Ik beloof het. Ik zal je zeggen wat mijn naam is. En daarna nog eens want je zult denken dat je me slecht verstaan hebt. Je zal even fronsen. Is dat ook al een naam? Als alles goed zit, zal je mij dan jouw naam meedelen en ik zal ergens in mijn hoofd al een alternatieve benaming voor je hebben. Een benaming die van dan af aan volledige auteursrechtelijk aan mij toebehoort. En aan jou, zoals het hoort. Het eerste beetje ons, dan al in mijn hoofd maar nog te schuchter om gefluisterd te worden. Maar de glimmer van het slijmerige kind van mijn gedachten verblind mij even. Je vind me stil omdat ik in gedachten ben verzonken, dromend van een wereld waarin ik een spraakwaterval ben en je mee sleur in mijn hoofd. Je zal vragen hebben, brandend op je lippen, die je niet meteen durft te vragen omdat ik zo koel en afstandelijk overkom. Ik zal je ogen ontwijken maar steeds minder. Ik zal aftasten maar traag, te traag naar jouw zin. Jij zal twijfelen, jij zal een klein beetje ongedurig worden van mijn spelletjes. Ik zal je plagen. Meisjes plagen, liefde vragen. Ik zal duwen wanneer ik eigenlijk wil trekken, ik zal juist het tegenovergestelde antwoorden van wat jij wil horen. Ik zal zelfzeker afstappen op een doel terwijl jij een klein beetje wegkwijnt van verlangen. Ik zal naar jouw reactie kijken, ik zal aftasten maar snel, te snel naar jouw zin. En dan plots is de bal in jouw kamp, zonder dat ik duidelijk weet hoe dat zo ineens in zijn werk gegaan is. Je bent een meisje en ook al is twijfelen een deel van je genen, het spel dat ken je wel. Je speelt ook al even mee en je zal niet zo over je heen laten lopen. Je zal me in een hoekje drijven, de duimschroeven aanschroeven en me onverbiddelijk kleur laten bekennen. Ik zal diep in je ogen kijken en zeggen dat ik dringend moet kakken.

opgehoest door Sicyon
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De jongen die een wesp ving onder zijn glas

woensdag, juni 04, 2008

Een smeulende sigaret was het enige lichtpunt in de hele kamer. Een duister silhouet zat in de zetel en zuchtte diep terwijl hij de rook uitblies. Toegegeven, het was geen nieuw concept, geen plotse creatieve bevlieging waarvan hij in zijn enthousiasme de volledige uitkomst niet had doordacht. Hij overliep het scenario van de nacht nog een derde maal om in te zien waar het juist fout was gegaan. Haar oeverloos geschreeuw was na het afproppen van haar mond overgegaan in een zielig snikkend gegrien. Hij hoopte dat ze al wat begon te kalmeren maar die kans was bijzonder klein. Wat een achterlijke kleun was hij toch. Een beginnersfout van formaat in een match op topniveau. Een “urban legend night” die alvast niet gauw vergeten zou worden. Personal note to self: if you’re going to tie a girl down and take a steaming dump on her chest, make sure to take her to her place first.

Of ze misschien wat koffie wou bij haar ontbijt?

opgehoest door Sicyon
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dinsdag, mei 06, 2008

Je stond erbij en je keek ernaar. De boterhammen lang gesmeerd, van zachte beren weinig sprake en toch… je stond erbij en je keek ernaar. Ogen wijd, een mond op half zeven en duidelijk hopeloos op zoek naar de juiste combinatie van klanken om een woord te vormen. Schaapachtig laat ik het plukje schaamhaar in de vuilnisbak vallen en schakel ik het scheerapparaat uit. Het wordt dramatisch stil en eindelijk flitsen je ogen van mijn kruis omhoog om oogcontact te maken. Ik neem de tandenborstel uit mijn schuimende bek en kijk duidelijk verveeld.

‘Nooit van kloppen gehoord, trut?’

Je knippert met je ogen en de betovering is verbroken. Je staat op het punt om te draaien en met een gloeiend rood hoofd weg te lopen.

‘Ja kom nu maar binnen, eh. Doe gewoon de deur toe.’

Snel een handdoek om mijn lenden. De rest werk ik later nog wel af. Het begint al een beetje te jeuken. Verdomme. Je bent niet op je gemak en durft me amper nog aan te kijken. Je mompelt iets over per ongeluk maar het klinkt niet overtuigend. Ik spoel de tandpasta uit mijn mond en steek een wattenstokje in mijn oor. Ik kijk je aan met een ‘wat mot je?’ blik, geleerd uit jaren bestuderen van derderangs acteurs in Vlaamse soaps.

‘Heb je soms nog wat boterhammen die ik mag lenen,’ vraag je kordaat.

Nu toch weer die onzin over boterhammen! Straks komen de beren hier uit hun winterslaap. Ik wijs naar het brood op de lage, rode tafel en laat blijken dat ik geen bakker ben maar jou broodje wel eens wil beleggen. Je raadt me aan geen mayonaise te gebruiken in dat geval. Ik beschrijf een broodje met harde worst en heet gekookte eieren. Je vindt me flauw en beschouwt de grap uitgemolken.

Met wie moet ik volgend jaar flauwe moppen gaan maken? Stinkie toch.

opgehoest door Sicyon
[-] 6 aanklacht(en)