Samantha lay out on the old wooden platform that floated on the lake. It bobbed with the tide, chained to its position. She had full face-makeup from the concert still- silver stars around her eyes, black lightening bolts on her cheeks. Her hair splayed out from her head onto the wood boards, thick and twisted like a pile of platinum blonde snakes. She had on silver hot-pants that were still wet from her swim from the shore and was topless except for one remaining silver star pastie. Her upper chest and arms were tattooed with a myriad of skulls, the newer ones still outlined with dark black, the older ones having faded to a dull blue. A dragon tattoo encircled her bellybutton, blood dripping from its vicious grin.

On the shore stood a girl all in white- short white dress, white flowing robe that trailed on the ground. Her hair was black and her eye makeup made her eyes look like black bullet holes. Her legs were long and pale. She stared out at Samantha, not moving.

Time passed. Samantha’s body lay heavy on the wood as the platform pitched with the tide. The other girl stood ghostly on the shore. The sunlight faded to evening and as the trees behind her darkened, the white of the girl’s clothing appeared to glow brighter.

A motorcycle arrived, ridden by a boy in an open leather jacket with no shirt underneath and a girl in short shorts seated behind him. The police followed, one car after another, and soon a small crowd formed behind the girl in white, all of them staring out at Samantha rocking in the waves. One of the officers raised a bull-horn. You have the right to remain silent, he started. Just then her body rose up like a wooden puppet pulled by strings. She leaned forward and twisted to an awkward standing position. She gave an ugly grin, blood dripping down from her mouth. One of the officers raised a pistol and fired a shot high over the lake. The explosion echoed back across the water. Samantha walked forward across the platform. The police aimed their guns. It got quiet except for some police radio static. She stepped off the platform into the water and dropped down, disappearing below the surface.

Minutes passed. Then gradually she rose up, out of the water, first her blonde head, her hair half-floating in the water, then her black skull-covered shoulders, then her breasts with the single pasty, then the blood-mouthed dragon. She walked slowly up the dirt beach out of the water, her steps jerking and unnatural. The air exploded with gunfire, bullets piercing her skin only slightly til her body looked like a kind of bullet pincushion. She brushed the bullets off and they plinked into the shallow water, blood dripping from the shallow holes in her skin.

She went straight for the girl in white and strangled her. The crowd widened their circle and the police reloaded their weapons. When the girl in white collapsed, Samantha advanced toward the crowd, straight into another volley of bullets. The holes were deeper now and each bullet had to be physically pulled out with her long nails. She did not attack, she simply walked through the parting crowd, pulling out bullet after bullet as more and more bullets stuck into her. Eventually she stopped pulling them out and simply continued on into the trees, a bloody mess. The police moved in and tried to grab hold of her but she tore at their throats when they got close, taking four or five with her before she finally fell down face-first onto the dry leaves, bleeding.

The girl in white had managed to get to her feet, her neck raw and torn. She moved to where Samantha lay on the dark forest earth. Don’t come back this time, she said to Samantha. Sam’s bloody, destroyed face turned, the silver star makeup perforated and gory. Go to Hell, she said, then closed her eyes, blood pouring from her mouth.

The boy and girl had moved closer. She dead? the boy asked. The girl in white looked at him. Do your worst fears ever die? she asked. No, they just wait until you’re weak and they rise up from their shallow graves. The girl in white turned then and disappeared like a moth into the woods.

The boy stared down at the bullet-riddled corpse. She’s just trying to scare you, a young officer said. Go home an’ hug your girl tight until you forgit any of this ever happened.

The police stuck around for a while, waiting for someone to remove the body. The boy and the girl got back on their motorcycle and tore up the dirt road. The roar of their engine got fainter and fainter as a light rain fell on the police vehicles. The crowd of cops waited quietly in the dark, smoking.

 

 

 

Jermeld stood alone in front of a painting. He wore his signature ivory-colored dinner jacket with some jeans and dark-framed glasses. He’d wandered into a side room in the museum and stood, transfixed. That morning he’d left his wife and his world had been torn to shreds, leaving gaping holes that he intended to fill with art. The piece he stared at was an explosion of white paint and wax, littered with glued-on wooden matches. Small animal bones had been bleached and epoxied into the swirl. Looking at the piece he felt like he was falling into an abyss and spinning. Or like he was being lifted off the ground. He imagined porcelain hands reached out from the painting and pulling him in. Stand away from the art! the goateed security guard said. Jermeld stumbled backwards, blood rushing to his face.

Then he was out by a fountain in the museum’s courtyard. A dead Coi fish floated in the water, staring up at him. He found a few coins in his pocket and pressed them between his fingers, concentrating hard on a wish. The wish was that his wife would have a perfect life without him. He threw the coins into the fountain.

In the men’s room his face didn’t look like his own. It looked like a rubber mask loosely epoxied to a lopsided armature. He rubbed his chin and stared.

He looked at his phone. He’d deleted any sign of his now-former wife but he continuously unlocked it to see if something new had come in.

He sat for a while in his car in the cement bowels of the parking structure. The air smelled of exhaust. His tongue pressed on a chip in one of his teeth. He closed his eyes. He focused on an imagined white void like the one in the painting he’d seen. In the end he determined he needed to see more art.

 

It was at a modern art gallery that he met his next wife. The place was completely empty except for the woman working there, Marla McKenmille, 32, from Rhode Island. She had on an olive turtleneck and a white skirt. They got talking and before long she was leading him on a walking tour of the gallery. They went upstairs to an installation piece that included a large white bed, about twice the size of a king-sized bed. Beside the bed were bedside tables and lamps, equally oversized, all white. A giant, white alarm clock rested on one of the tables. You’re allowed to get on the bed, the woman said. Really? Jermeld asked.

Yes, go ahead. That’s part of it, she told him. Jermeld cautiously pulled himself up onto the huge mattress and sat on the edge. Hmm. Comfortable, he said.

She laughed. Don’t just sit on the edge! Really try it out! He lay back, his hands behind his head. I like this! he said.

Oh, come on! she said. Don’t be shy! She swung her legs up onto the bed and kicked off her heels. Then she jumped up and down on the white bedspread in her stockinged feet. She lifted one of the huge white pillows and heaved it right at him. Hey! he said. Soon they were swatting each other with pillows and laughing, goose down floating around them like snow. So, people come in here and do this every day? Jermeld asked.

No, actually, she laughed. This is the first time.

Jermeld stopped his pillow in mid-swing.

This is actually my last day, she said, with a serious look. I was fired this morning! She laughed. Before Jermeld could respond he was hit squarely in the face with a giant pillow. He swung his in retaliation, knocking her off her feet. She lay face down on the bed. He knelt beside her. Are you okay? She sat up suddenly and pulled him towards her. Her hands went all over him, sliding under his clothes. He glanced around but they were still alone.

Suddenly the giant alarm clock beside the bed went off. They stopped and stared at it, sweaty and panting. Then they laughed.

They were still going at it when they heard voices downstairs. They hid under the huge duvet, giggling like school kids.

 

Their first son was conceived that afternoon but instead of becoming an artist he installed storm drains for work. He supplemented his income with a side business selling cocaine. When he went to jail they divorced and Jermeld found himself in front of the original white painting once again, standing there motionless for hours. The same goateed security guard waited a few yards away to make sure he didn’t get too close.