Title: Saboteur

Summary: A glance into what used to be forever.

Author: Elliott Silver (elliottsilver@hotmail.com)

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Rush.

The shape-shifting mood of New Orleans night like an overdose of pheromones.

Sensation.

Humidity, foreplay. Indistinguishable.

Open-mouthed kisses, long into the never-ending night.

Seductive, but more. Visceral.

Intoxication on the air he breathed, on the air that lipsed his skin. Salty, brine and smoke.

No way to describe it, no place like it.

The sky grey with night, but not with rain. There was a difference in color, he knew. Night was indigo, tempest. Storm was silver.

Women were both.

But not at the same time.

A man in a wrinkled blue hat was playing cerulean jazz against the front of a Cajun restaurant, saxophone glittering like curry.

Narcotic crescendo of strange names, foreign tongue, breath and blood heat hypnotic in his ears.

Music not on the air, but in it. Transfused into his veins, altering the dark rhythms of his heart, his breath, his step.

Sizzle.

Nocturne, of river ghosts.

Pirates and smugglers.

Legato diablerie, dark and sleek.

Woman.

Next to him.

At his elbow.

Passing.

Gone.

Night and storm twisted inside each other.

Night and storm, the burning enchantment of her eyes.

Resonance.

Undiluted, raw.

Deep and pulling.

Cadence, neither changing pace.

By the otherís side, then one step past.

Both heads turned simultaneously, in disbelief, at two steps past. Four slow steps from each other.

Adagio.

Dizzy with syncopation.

The blue jazz in his veins, cymbals.

Spinning him inside out, reverberation.

He stopped, let the vertigo enmesh him.

Her dark hair tumultuous over her face, blown back by wind. Her eyes extravagance and impetuosity.

The quicksilver look.

He stopped.

She kept going.

He reversed towards her.

Tíes en erreur, her eyes whispered. Youíre mistaken.

I am no one you know.

Or knew.

Or will know.

Síil vous plait.

Please.

A discordant chord, too sharp a scale.

A metal squawk.

Wincing.

Not from sound.

Jazz grafting into blues, same color as the sky.

Storm.

Raging, the blue beat.

Subcutaneous pulse.

In his head, his chest.

Revelation.

Sabotage.

 

Continue to the next part, Suzerain.

Continue to the last part, Sazerac.

 

 

Return to Elliott's Pretender Fiction

 

Please let me know what you thought: ElliottSilver@hotmail.com

I reply to all email and keep a journal of all feedback Ö.

 

 

Author's Note: As in the following two stories, Suzerain and Sazerac, there are descriptions of New Orleans. Any mistakes in such are mine. All corrections are welcome.

Disclaimer: The characters of "The Pretender" are not mine; they rightfully belong to NBC, MTM, and Pretender Productions, as well as the actors and actresses who give paper and ink a life and a voice. I am making no profit from these writings; imitation is the highest form of flattery.