insomnia.

Abbie hadn't slept. She'd sat there, in the dark, thinking. Martini after martini until she got to the point where the liquor lost its taste and she held the Smirnoff in her lap, with the cap uncapped. She ocassionally took heavy swigs, to her it was like drinking water. She hadn't been able to sleep recently. Twelve shots and she's usually making out with the floor but last night she was on number thirteen and she was only swaying. Eventually she must've dozed off because Lauryn came in looking for a fix and there Abbie was, her head slung back over the back of her chair and an empty bottle of Smirnoff lying on the floor. Even her pin curls had gotten tired and fallen off her head. Lauryn helped her down the stairs but only after she got her fix. She propped Abbie up like a ventriloquist doll and let her stare. Lauryn felt the punch and turned on some music, she also made trips to the liquor cabinet. Abbie wasn't fully awake until 2:30. After a couple quick mimosas she's almost back to normal. The girls trail in through the back and before she knows it, it's a party. Abbie sat back, watching her finest girls dance and sway and drink and play. Renee came for her treatment and quickly announced the news. The Christians were back and Abbie was surprised she hadn't smelled them coming. Some messed up substance must've made its way into their soup because if Renee was telling the truth, they were going psycho. Abbie was slightly entertained. Especially when she heard they were burning books. Abbie had resented education from a very young age. The only thing she'd ever learned from school was how to roll a joint and spread her legs. Seeing that Madame Abbie was happy, the girls were happy and continued to drink. Very heavily. By five they were being plain rowdy. They were shouting and screaming and dancing even when there was no music playing. Even Abbie danced a little. When the rain came down the girls came out. Abbie, prepared with some Smirnoff under both arms set off into the night with her army of tweaked up girls behind her. She was leading the pack, wandering until they found a reason for the night. Eventually they were being admired. The local homeless population had fallen in love with Abbie a long time ago after she supplied them with booze and girls after one crazy night. The men followed closely behind. Before they can feel the sensation, the rain is coming down like a monsoon. There's thunder loud enough to drown out Renee's singing and bright enough to leave sparkles in their eyes. A clash, a bright light, a burn. They watch the mosque go up in flames. But they don't even care. Abbie begins to open up one of her handles and passes it back to the group of ladies behind her. The trotting up heels behind her turn into a tumbling mess once girls topple over and heels break. Abbie maintains her composure. Some what. She follows the scent of the smoke. She decides she may finally get some peace if she aids the book burning. She never really learned how to read unless she saw it in a bar. Books were foreign to her. They make it to the burning and it's a spiritual experience. Her girls immidietely surround the bonfire because they too have a grudge against books. They figured that books never taught them what they really needed to learn. So they gathered, like vultures to a carcass and turned tribal in their joy. Abbie felt powerful. She felt important and she felt redeemed. All her pent up hatred towards her teachers who failed, her parents who forgot, and her loved ones that never showed up became the fuel to Abbie's own fire. Before she knew it, another half of a handle was gone and Abbie tossed it into the fire. Chemistry should have taught her that alcohol increases the intensity of a fire but she learned that on her own that night. Watching the fire react, the girls copied Abbie. They took beer bottles and samplers and handles and fifths and threw them into the fire. As glass hit the ground a little bit of the fire spread and the girls were amazed again. The homeless had become their minions. They had broken into the closest liquor store, which was probably DD's, and gave more ammunition to the girls who were shooting more chaos at the fire. Abbie even joined in on Renee's tribal rant. The whole flock moved together as a singular wave moving around and dancing, gaining energy by the light from the fire. The Christians had mostly gone home but some troopers had stayed, continuing to throw books off of carts and into the fire. Abbie's girls amused the men who were left. Perhaps they assumed that a bump or grind from a lovely girl couldn't hurt. They should've realized that they were wrong. Abbie watched as her girls formed little mobs around the remaining Christian men who were still shoveling books from the library into the fire. Their own private dances and Abbie didn't even think to charge. She was too caught up in the wonder of it all. She still felt powerful. She still felt in control. And she still felt good. Her body hadn't passed it's alcohol limit where it's no longer fun to be drunk but more focused on how and when can she get home. It seemed that tonight there was no such barrier. Tonight it seemed that after every swig of the bottle handed to her she didn't feel worse, she only felt better. If shot 12 had been a face to floor move then now she was definitely on 20 at least and continued to feel wonderful. It was like no matter how long or hard or burning the last shot may have been, it only built up her happiness. She watched as her heathen women began to take control of the civilized men by dancing and giving sexual offerings. The fire burned and burned. As Abbie lit her cigarette by one of the pages in the Odyssey that a bum had taken out for her. She began to think again. Her throne was a large overturned dumpster from where she could perch herself and watch the town burn. From a distance she could see a wall of fire made between the mosque and the library. A city divided by fire. A kingdom. The library was only a street away from the mosque. It could be done, Abbie thought. It can be done. From some help from some homeless and the remaining Christian men Abbie conducted a line of books in order to build a connection between the mosque and the library. They began to drag alcohol - doused books down the streets and under benches and over fire hydraunts to build to the wall connecting the library to the mosque.

Abbie was waiting for the signal to come so that she could light a match for the firewall to erupt. Abbie had no patience. She took a cigarette from behind her ear, plopped it in her mouth and brought out a pair of matches. She struck one for her cigarette and it was lit. She took out a second match stick. She could'nt wait to light it. It was the light that would ignite this crappy town and expose the truths that some people were too afraid to confront. But to Abbie these things were connections. For her, this was all coming down to a point, a fire, or not? Do I sleep or do i never wake up?

boots and heels.

Abbie expected a peaceful day. It was not her kind of weather outside but she didn't expect any action. She still dressed up of course, and sipped on a mimosa through a straw while watching Dave Gorlomi through their adjacent windows. He was tenderizing meat. She liked to watch. Her legs were propped up on her register, her head was relaxed back over the back of her chair. She was completely in peace, but then she heard it. That dreadful noise. The noise that indicates that a certain person, a particular rat was coming closer. Abbie's head perked up. She quickly slipped her feet off the register, removed the straw from her mimosa, took a giant sip and rushed to the glass door of Abbott's Dream. As she was halfway through closing the blinds on the door, the face popped up. The noise ceased. Abbie was stuck, paralyzed even, staring into the eager eyes of Courtney Red. Abbie scanned her, from her ugly clothes all the way down to her monstrous, blood-red boots. Abbie was shocked back into reality by the presence of the boots. She slammed the blinds down and locked the door. The boots made their way to one of the glass windows.

"Hi." the boots said.

"No, no." Abbie said, shaking her hands in the air, grabbing her mimosa as she kept her back turned to the window.

"I know-"

"No, no. No you don't. You don't know anything." Abbie shot back the rest of her mimosa, and made her way to the mini-fridge beside the register.

"I saw Kandie-"

"That's nice." Abbie threw open the mini fridge door.

"And Renee-"

"Wonderful." Abbie scanned through her collection and grabbed a sampler of Smirnoff and Patron.

"They came here."

"This is a store." She tossed the Patron back into the fridge and closed the door.

"Through the back."

Abbie stopped.

"I know what they were doing here. There were men."

Abbie untwisted the cap off of her vodka sampler and slipped it down her throat. She cringed, but popped up behind the counter. She stared at the boots, and then at Courtney.

"Listen, Red." Abbie said, swaying a bit. "You don't know anything. What I got going on is completely illeg- I mean legal. Just some girls having a good time with some guys that need a good time. There's nothing wrong with that."

"So you confirm?" Courtney said, whipping out a small notebook and jotting things down feverishly.

"Do I confirm what?" Abbie hiccuped and held her stomach.

"That you're running a brothel." Courtney looked up from her notebook, a sly smile curling on her face. Abbie turned red. Her face became hot and she stomped to her door, unlocked it and stood outside on the sidewalk. Courtney backed up slightly, continuously noting things down.

"Unless you want a job, run." Abbie shook her curls back, preparing herself.

"What?"

"I said unless you want a job, run." Abbie placed her hands on her hips, ready.

"Run? Why?"

Abbie bent down and grabbed her vintage heels. She took aim and threw one directly at Courtney's face. Courtney dropped her notebook and held her face. A drop of blood hit the sidewalk.

"Assault!" Courtney yelped, revealing a bloody eyebrow gash. Abbie bent down again. Courtney grabbed her notebook from the ground and started to jog away. Abbie chucked her other heel at Courtney's back. "You're psycho!" She screamed and sprinted for the rest of the block. Abbie stood, hands on hips, still a little tipsy, but relieved.

"Hey baby," Renee said, appearing from the doorway of Abbott's Dream. "We're out of tequila downstairs. Should I make a run?" Abbie turned around, a new rip forming in her tights.

"Yes." She said going back inside the store. "And pick up my shoes while you're at it."

chicks.

Abbie felt like doing something today she rarely ever does. She left the store closed up and decided to take a walk. The screams hadn't stopped. The laughter seemed only to get louder with each attempt at sleep. So she gave up and forced herself out of Abbott's Dream. Heavily clad in her fur coat, trench, and wellies, she lit a cigarette as she locked the door behind her. It was dim out, nothing too intense. She predicted a storm later and smiled at the thought of being lulled to sleep by the elements. She took a long, hard drag. She kept her gaze forward, she never wanted to attract any attention from the people who lived in her town so no chance at eye contact. She kept walking towards the sounds of screams and laughter. A few more drags. She turns a corner and there it is. The carnival in all of its disposable glory. A rusted ferris wheel, a stumbling clown handing out balloons, and kids. Lots of kids. More kids than she thought actually lived in her town. She found a dry tree and leaned against it. A long drag and then an overdue ashing of the cigarette. Normally in a situation like this she would feel overwhelmed, suffocated by the attention of a gaggle of kids. But now she felt comfort knwoing that there were greater freaks than she who could hold their attention better. She took a travel mug and took a sip, another mimosa. Extra champagne. Instead of reflecting on her own childhood she watched the young ones play and run. She couldn't remember when she'd been that small or when she'd been so innocent. So she convinced herself she never was and took another drag. She liked to watch people. She was interested in what they talked about, how they acted, and what they did when forced with a balloon by the strung out clown. As if God had planned to make her day anymore eventful than it had already been, Abbie began to notice a few chickens trickling in with the children at the carnival. At first it seemed like some chickens got lose from a pen or the food tent or somerthing so she thought nothing of it. But when the chickens began to out populate the children, she knew something was wrong. Wonderfully wrong. Chickens streamed into the parking lot of the carnival. Kids had fun at first but when the roosters came it was all terror. The roosters pecked and hissed and flung themselves onto the smallest children. Chicken feathers spread everywhere as the children ran, talons digging deeper into their shoulders and heads. The screams got louder and Abbie began to smile, a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. Kids were curled on the ground, their only cover was the small t-shirt fabric that could hardly stand up to all the uric acid flying around. She began to laugh, and took the cigarette out of her mouth. She watched mothers and fathers try and pry their children away from vicious roosters with no luck. Kids were screaming and crying and some were even bleeding. A lone hen made her way to Abbie, pecking at her shoes for food. Abbie kicked but it would not budge, so somewhat dizzily she bent down and picked the hen up and held it under her arm. Giggling, she began to walk away from the carnival. Chickens were flooding the streets and she could see the butcher screaming and yelling profanties at a pimply truck driver. She stopped and watched the chaos. She looked down and there was a small girl next to her. Abbie tried to avert her eyes but the little asian girl kept staring. Abbie continued to walk but stopped and turned around. The little asian girl was still there, staring. "Chickens!" Abbie laughed hysterically and walked shaking her head all the way to Abbott's Dream.

amusement.

It's a rainy day. Abbie is laying on her side, her left arm under her head. Her pins that hold her pin curls in place are poking through her hair net, causing white indentations on her soft, yet aging skin. Her bed comforter covers her legs and half of her abdomen. Even though she knows she's alone, she's still uncomfortable with the slight pudge developing in her belly. She watches the rain coming down from outside the window. Sometimes it's pouring, then the next second it will be a slight drizzle. It seems like she's been staring out the window for hours, attempting to convince herself to get out of bed. She hears quiet yelps and screams, either of happiness or terror. They don't help her decide whether or not to get out of bed. Eventually she rises.

After her morning mimosa she slips on one of her old vintage dresses she'd scored from her mother years ago and throws on her tattered fur coat. She slips on her floral-patterned slippers and slowly makes her way down to the store. Her body quietly tosses from side to side as she lumbers down the stairs. She feels as though with each step she's adding more years onto her already tired body. She flips on the light switches to illuminate Abbott's Dream. She cringes, but moves on. After making her way through her dingy shop she comes to rest at her register. This morning she didn't think to slip on her tights or cute heels so she'd rather leave her feet on the floor. It isn't until she catches herself in a lonely compact mirror that she realizes her pin curls are still intact. She slowly removes the hair net and some curlers roll onto the register. Today she doesn't feel like bothering to gather them up. She still hears the screams. The laughs, the quiet roar from some place near her. Reluctantly she climbs down from her chair and pokes her head out Abbott's Dream's door. She sees Lietenant Statone walking down the street, a yellow balloon in his hand accompanied by a giddy smile, and she knows. "Oh lord," she moaned quietly. "The carnies are back." Abbott's Dream's door is slammed and all that is heard is footsteps crawling back up the stairs, an occasional curler falls.

boy toy.

Abbie started drinking early today. Every once in a while, usually when she's had a bad day, she'll start at around 3, sometimes even 2:15. She has her own bar in her room, a glass case filled with different handles of different liquor. She hardly drinks beer, it's not good for her figure. And she hardly drinks wine either, she's not that classy. She has a shaker, a bowl of slightly moldy limes, a salt shaker and different sizes of glass cups, some of them nice. She gathered them from the shop most likely. She always takes the good stuff for herself. Other glasses were jelly jars that her grandma used. She never used them, but they're there.

"What do you think, kids?"

She turned to look at her ferrets, Adelaide and Mojo. Her only companions were sleeping in their rusting cage, curled into furry circles. She'd woken an hour earlier to the sound of heavy rain and still hadn't made it downstairs to the store. It was 2 in the afternoon.

"Mimosa or Mojito, my little darlings?"

She figured since it was sort of morning she'd go with the Mimosa. At least it had orange juice in it. She took the old champagne out of her glass cabinet. She took the half full jug of orange juice and poured them into a glass cup. She sniffed, sipped, and felt a little bit better about her day. She hesitantly dressed, slipped up her ripped tights, and placed her vintage heels on. Slowly, glass in hand, she made it downstairs to the store.

It was cluttered, as usual. Items stuffed in nicks and crannies, some things that Abbie had never seen before. She continued to sip. She made her way behind the counter and sat on her tattered revolving stool. She propped her feet on the desk, not taking care if her dress let a little something show.

She continued to sip. Luckily, if she ran out, she had another mini fridge under the desk. She drank fast, and refilled. She figured there was nothing better to do in the day.

She looked around. She had conjoining windows with Styx Meats. It served as a distraction.

Abbie has a list of men in her life. Can she remember all the names? No. But does that really matter? No. But ever since she moved here she's always had her eye on Dave. Yes, Dave Gorlomi. The butcher. Whether it's because he was the only man she really ever saw or because she was genuinely attracted to him, it is unknown. He's not the most glamorous of all men but she's not worried about the quality of men anymore, just how many she can squeeze into one night. She especially likes Dave because she can always smell the booze on him when she walks into Styx Meats. It's like a "coming home" type of feeling. She likes to think that she could have him wrapped around her little finger. Like a boy toy. She hasn't had one in ages. She's seen the way he looks at her when she "happens" to carry her martini into Styx with her. She knows he can't resist the juice. So she has a plan. She plans to lure him in with her collection of Jack, Jim and José. And if he resists, well then she'll bring in the girls. Her loyal girls, the high class girls. And if that doesn't work, then she'll have to roll up her own stockings (which she has no problem doing what-so-ever. Actually she would probably prefer to do it that way.) But until then, she watches him through the window peeking from Abbott's Dream Antiques in Styx Meats. She takes note of his peak times to take a swig. She knows that when he gets especially sweaty in the afternoons, with dried blood all over his hands and the lack of customers coming in, it's his prime time for a drink. And then it's time for a slow waltz into Styx with her own mix of rum and coke.

hello.

Some people say that she was an actress.

Some people say she’s made of plastic.

Some people say that she’s boring.

Some people say that she’s drastic.

Some people say that she’s young.

Some people say that she’s old.

Some people say that she’s charming.

Some people say that she’s cold.

Some people say she’s evil.

Some people say she’s a vamp.

Some people say she’s a martyr.

Some people say she’s a tramp.

But in all truth it never matters what people say, because nobody knows the truth.

She’s a fan of lipstick, pantyhose, and vintage dress patterns. She’s a fan of high-heeled shoes, floral-patterned tablecloths, and Chanel. She doesn’t like poetry, romanticism or flowers. She doesn’t like children, rock and roll or the concept of happy hour. She wears what she wears, she wants what she wants and she drinks when and wherever she drinks. It’s obvious that she’s dabbled in some cosmetic surgery (it’s a fun game to imagine how many places she’s been nipped and tucked,) which must have been done before she ended up here – selling antiques to people who don’t matter. But there’s something charming about how she still chooses to wear ripped stockings.

Some people say she’s a hooker.

Some people say she fights crime.

Some people say she’s a writer.

Men always say she’s divine.

Aberdeen “Abbie” Angus is not her real name. If anyone knew her real name I’d be the first one to know, and trust me I haven’t heard anything.

There’s something mysterious about her. People are drawn to her, people want to know her. But who knows if it has anything to do with her or if it’s just people’s natural addiction to gossip.

Her driver’s license reads 5’ 8” and 120 pounds. Anyone who has ever seen Abbie knows that she hardly even touches 5’ 6” and that’s on a good day. A good day with four-inch heels. And 120 pounds is quite suspicious, considering each of her “natural,” bulbous jubblies must weigh at least 4 pounds each. Her birthday is the 9^th of June, 1978 which would make her 31, in her dreams.

Some say that she had an amazing youth. Some say she had a wasted youth. Some say she laughed with Charlie Chaplin. Some say she danced with Fred Astaire. Some say she wrote with Orson Welles. Some say she drank with Marilyn Monroe. Some even said that she smoked with Janis and Jimi.

But to be honest, it never mattered what she did or what she wanted to be, it’s all about who she is.

She has medium length, somewhat frizzy, somewhat curly, brownish hair. Most days she wishes it was red or blonde. And most days she would rather wish than do. Some of that has to do with the one drink (or the next 3 or 4) she always has at 1 in the afternoon. But most of it has to do with her lack of determination in the life that she is living.

She always thought she’d die young, and it kills here everyday when she wakes up in the morning and sees her spreading wrinkles and realizes that she’s still alive.