The Orange Party

Blasted house, blasted faces and a room decked in orange. Here’s the last place. No filtered light here just the bare bulb. Tulips in Denmark were traded for bread. In the years of the plague the dead rotted in the ditches.

 

We are the revelers spared no less nor no more than the pious and temperate. A short woman runs past naked. Pigtails like the strings of a bonnet. In spite of the flood below us, the top floor is dry. I grab her lively bonnet strings and wrestle her to the ground. 

 

She’s over my face, her legs straddle my head and I suckle hard and fast on her flesh pinion. My mouth is quickly filled with fluid, so much so that I almost gag but still I say to you, “Quick get behind her and fuck her. We’ll pleasure her both at once.” 

 

She squeals and shimmies her hips. This is the game. We are having a raunchy old time. I’m so drunk I can hardly feel my legs but none of that will soon matter. Old Donald is already gone the way of the ditch and so has Macron.  

 

You come hard in her and I feel her plump shudder against the sides of my face.  Then she’s off and away. 

 

We stagger to the door. Laughing, you put your arm around me. “The sun has finally set,” you say. 

 

The sky is a swath of charred pigskin. God’s wrath or randomness—it hardly matters. There’s no one left to save us but ourselves, and we’re still having too much fun.  

Claire Russell is a Montreal based writer. Her work combines allegory and realism.

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