The red dress hung in pride of place- right in the middle of her wardrobe. It was a perfectly ordinary dress, made conspicuous only by its abundance of cigarette burns and wine stains. Its hue was verging on garish, and the thin cotton from which it was made was stretched and shiny from overuse. But still, it hung in pride of place.

Melaine never wore the dress anymore. She considered herself too old for it. But she let her daughter dress up in it sometimes, when she was feeling particularly nostalgic- it gave her a bittersweet thrill, seeing it on her brown-eyed little girl. She knew it gave Qi a thrill too. ‘That dress,’ he would remark fondly. ‘That was always my favourite dress of yours…’

Melbourne, 1981

‘This is the one. We can call off the search.’ Melaine stood motionless in front of the shop window, eyeing a scantily clad mannequin in delight.

‘But it’s so…boring.’ Trace crinkled her bejewelled nose in distaste. ‘It should at least have like…studs on it, or something.’

‘That’s exactly the point, Trace. It’s boring. It’s a blank canvas. Just think what I can do with it!’ She bolted into the store.

The dress fit her like nothing had ever fit her before. It was a new Melaine that confronted her in the fingerprint-smeared mirror: a thrilling, sexy, vampy version of herself. She couldn’t control the gasp that escaped her lips. ‘Lemme see,’ Trace pulled back the curtain with trademark impatience. Her kohl-rimmed eyes widened in shock. ‘Wow…you are a fucking fox in that dress. Like…I would probably screw you!’ Melaine laughed uncomfortably, darting a glance towards the hovering shop assistant. ‘Trace…’she admonished quietly.

‘Well, you do! Tonight’s gonna be INSANE.’ she grinned wickedly. Melaine turned back to the mirror, unable to tear her eyes away. The dress wrapped her so tightly in its fiery red folds, embracing her body with a viciousness she found intoxicating.

The night air had a cruel bite that Melaine had never quite grown used to, in spite of seventeen years of Melbourne winters. At least she looked good, though- she and Trace had gone all out tonight, dressed in full punk garb. Trace looked like a towering insect with her thin, spidery legs and black leather pants. Her lips were a glossy blue-black snarl; her eyes glittering black holes nearly obscured by a shock of peroxide blonde hair. Melaine knew that usually, she skulked along with Trace’s shadow. She was the sidekick- the enigmatic yin to Trace’s yang. But tonight, there was parity. The red dress highlighted all the best parts of herself- the rich darkness of her spiky black hair, the glittering blue of her eyes, the lithe curve of her waist.

Trace grabbed her hand and squeezed it. She was usually the queen of cool, but Melaine could nearly taste her exhilaration. All this effort…she hoped it wouldn’t be in vain. Obtaining the fake IDs was bad enough, hunting down the tickets was worse…and yet here they were, clutched in her hand. Two lily-white stubs to the Birthday Party- ordinary in appearance but, to her, remarkable in content. She could barely suppress a squeal.

‘Hey, you’re crumpling the tix!’ Trace nudged her in disapproval. ‘So…who’s supporting?’

‘Not sure.’ Melaine squinted at the fine print. ‘Apparently…The Skeleton Keys?’

Trace snorted. ‘Here’s hoping their music is better than their name.’

It was packed in the Crystal Ballroom. Melaine breathed slowly and deeply though her nose, in and out. She’d been taught this technique as an asthmatic child, and she still applied it to stressful situations…like trying to convince the bouncer that she really was the gap-toothed waif portrayed in her fake ID. But somehow it had worked, and Trace made a beeline for the bar while Melaine looked around at the debauched madness around her.

She’d been to her fair share of parties, but they seemed so silly and infantile now in comparison to the real, adult, intimidating throng surrounding her. Impossibly cool girls draped themselves over sullen, snarling lads with Mohawks- scary looking men, not boys, who probably rode motorbikes and smoked illegal substances and fucked. Melaine felt the delirious urge to giggle, or maybe sob- she wasn’t sure which. What was she doing here? She was just a silly little girl playing dress-ups.

‘You alright there darling? In need of a drink?’ A deep, lilting voice startled her out of her panic-stricken thought process.

‘Oh…ummm, well my friend…’ Melaine was speechless. She was without speech. She was, to use a word she despised, gobsmacked. The man belonging to the deep voice was gorgeous.

‘Your friend what? Does she want a drink too?’ He grinned cheekily. Melaine choked out a laugh.

‘Sure, I’ll have a drink.’ He draped his arm loosely around her waist and steered her towards the bar. Trace was coming towards them, having already discovered a boy even taller than she was- a lanky, scowling Sid Vicious type. She wiggled her eyebrows at them and mouthed something indecipherable, then disappeared into the crowd.

Melaine fought the irrational fear that again gripped her, forcing herself to look Gorgeous Man straight in the eyes. If she was going to be deserted, left alone with this potential nutcase, she should at least get a good hard look at him. He was tall- just the right amount of tall, in fact. Unkempt black hair skimmed his shoulders and he looked like he hadn’t seen a razor in days. His sleepy brown eyes looked genuine though, and she liked the dimple that played around his lips as he stared right back at her.

‘So who wins the staring contest then? He quipped, flashing another cheeky smile. Melaine blushed, and then shrugged sheepishly.

‘I’ll take good care of you, don’t worry,’ he murmured seriously, tightening his grip around her waist. ‘I won’t let you get too drunk. If you fall over, straight in the cab for you!’

She laughed, biting her lip as he ordered two beers, laughing easily with the barman. Her experience with boys was limited to a few awkward gropes at parties, but she felt she could trust this guy. Maybe it was time for her to follow Trace’s lead- to stop dipping her toe in the water and just jump in. Maybe it was time for her to stop being a shadow.

With x-ray vision (obviously the result of years in dark, dingy bars), Gorgeous Man managed to find a booth for them both to slide into. Melaine could only catch every few words that he whispered in her ear, but she got the gist- his name was Qi, after his Chinese father; he was from the deep, dark north of England originally, but had moved to Melbourne a year prior; he was a musician with designs on fame and fortune. She listened intently, intoxicated by his lilting accent and the way he never dragged his eyes from hers. He played with her fingers absent-mindedly as he talked.

‘Sorry luv, I’ve been going on and on about myself without as much as a question for you!’ Melaine was touched by his obvious embarrassment, bold enough to squeeze his hand in reassurance.

‘There’s nothing much to tell, really…’ She desperately wished she was older, more experienced. She felt her age emanating from her very pores.

‘Sure there is,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll bet you think this is just a line, but I was drawn to you. I saw you standing there…and I had to know you. You’re beautiful.’

It was the first time anyone other than a relative had called her that word- a word reserved for fairytales and romantic movies. Melaine felt like she’d been thrust into a combination of both. All her life, she’d been overlooked; no-one had ever picked her out of a crowd except to tell her off…not to tell her she was beautiful. It was overwhelming.

‘Can you at least tell me your name?’ Qi asked with a sudden urgency.

‘I’m Mel…Melaine.’

‘That’s unusual, isn’t it? Like Melanie, sort of…’

‘It was misspelled on the birth certificate.’ The tragic truth of her name, delivered in the deadpan voice she’d learned to master over years of questions.

Qi looked at her- she looked at him- and the laughing fit that enveloped them was glorious. Tears ran down their cheeks and they clutched at each other’s hands as they laughed, rocking back and forth, and then he pulled her face in towards him and kissed her, deeply and sweetly and properly, nuzzling into her neck and encircling her with his hands.

‘Wait for me,’ he whispered hoarsely, before bolting from the booth. She looked about wildly, the tears of laughter still glistening on her cheeks. What had she done? Just seconds earlier, he’d been kissing her like a madman, and now-

‘Good evening Melbourne! We are The Skeleton Keys, and we’re here to support the Birthday Party tonight!’ Qi was on stage, clutching at the mike stand and grinning. Melaine felt dizzy.

‘Now, I would like to dedicate this first song to a little lady in a little red dress,’ he winked, slinging a black guitar over his shoulder. Melaine didn’t know if she was just imagining everyone swivelling around to stare at her, but she definitely wasn’t imagining Trace’s excited whoop in the crowd.

As Qi and his band broke into a stomping punk anthem, she ran her hands along the folds of her boring, beer-stained, amazing red dress. Draining the last of her drink, she stood- and with a final, lingering look, went to find Trace.

The odour of public urinal was so pungent it was like stepping into a physical barrier. Opting to breathe through my mouth rather than my nose only convinced me I could taste the feculence at the back of my throat. The thought would have made a lesser person gip, well, even more than I was.

The cubicles that lined the walls were pine green against dank red walls, Christmassy. Well it would have been if the spirit of Christmastide had just crawled forth from the Bog of Eternal Stench. Labyrinth, great film, Muppets and Bowie tunes. I directed all thoughts at the smell ‘You have no power over me’. It was worth a shot.

The room rattled with the thrum of a passing lorry, the service stations bathrooms obviously back up to the A1. The sound of running water issued from a clogged sink, toilet paper had been stuffed into the plug hole, because that was a smart use of time. A pall of grime seemed to coat everything and I really didn’t want to make skin contact with anything. The dark shades of paint probably concealed the worst of it.

But I could dwell on the abhorrent state of public areas for ages, the way only a germaphobe can. I use the term loosely, as some poor bastards suffer genuine mysophobia, not sure how they cope. Maybe they don’t!

The reflection in the mirror revealed a washed out complexion with dark circles around the eyes. The signs of the long drive, with almost no rest stops. Short and almost platinum hair had been flattened at the back from the headrest of the car. I mussed it up with one hand, I’m not vain I just don’t want to look stupid. Grey eyes, still alert despite the rest of my appearance. For someone approaching thirty, I look younger; maybe it’s the lack of makeup. Maybe it’s the preference for comfort over fashion, that’s my personal favourite counter for my ignorance in trends and pop culture.

Mirrors are creepy, maybe it’s too many films or an over active imagination. The latter is part of my job however. I’m positive that many people despite being keenly aware of how alone they are, always expect someone or thing to be behind them in the reflection. The Keifer Sutherland film did it best.

The lights flickered, the sickly luminescence they offered was only missed after it was gone. The door was flung open slamming into the wall with force. Maybe kicking machines is the way forward because the lights quivered back to life with the impact.

Two silhouettes marred the light from the Little Chef and brought a wave of greasy fumes with them. The closest people I had to family hurried in, taking pains to ensure the door was closed behind them. Marie stared hard at the only entrance and exit to the toilets, her posture tense, like she expected something to follow her in.
“Em?” I asked, confused.
Marie, otherwise known as Em to the inner circle, turned frightened blue eyes to me. I could see even in the poor light the tears ready to spill. She was a head shorter than I, but broad shouldered and not to be trifled with. Her hair had come loose to frame her face with dark curls. She looked exceptionally pale, freckles stood out like splattered ink on the page.

Looming over her shoulder, as if he could find shelter behind his wife was Charles. Charles had been tall and lanky when we were at school, but since those days he had become thickset in all the places a woman would write off. And although dithery to the point of frustration, he was the most laid back person. Seeing him now, strung tighter than wrap over guitar strings, was weird to the extreme.
“Riley, oh god.” Charles’ voice held a tremor.
“Sup’ Charlie?”
Em clasped my forearms, pulling me closer.
“Is it true? What they said earlier, is it true?” Em all but screamed at me.

What had they said earlier? I had to ask myself. My books blurring into the physical, stories needed separating, fact from fantasy.  Memories opened up on command. It hurt, like a drop with a sudden stop. I remember that I too was afraid, but the worst part was I knew why.

Algidity crawled across my nerves, and set my heart to pounding.

“We have to hide!” Em hissed and led Charles into one of the cramped little cubicles.

I heard the latch thrown as my existence was hauled into question. The door ripped from its hinges and sailed through the air. I want to say ‘by unseen forces’ but fact of the matter is I was busy getting hit by the UFO.

Blank. Someone broke time. If grandfather time was a little old hunched man with a pocket watch containing the universe, some fucker had just taken a hammer to his magical clock. And quite possibly my head.

The door lay across my lap and splinters skewered my torso, my first thought was like an action hero, I might have even smiled. But being pressed up against the urinals with one arm draped in the porcelain my mind changed to I wish I was dead.

The creature stood over me and reality once again gained a foothold. If it had a face it would have been grinning ear to ear and if it had eyes, it would have been staring with open malevolence. Instead it reaches forward with coral like appendages, the underside writhing with what can only be described as an external digestive system.

“This is going to be hard on my editor.”

And make sure you stay posted this month. We are previewing the rest of the series every three days for the next 6 weeks!

Enjoy.

“ITS PORTLAND FOREVER”.

http://kungfutoast.com/                                                                                                                                                                                               Image by  Carlie Armstrong

http://www.flickr.com/photos/devenuta/

Who are you? And what do you do?

My name is Dominic De Venuta and I like to look out windows and draw perverted pictures.

Tell us about your art form and how you got into it . . .

I like to think of my art as an illustrative grab bag of far off fantasies to perverted observations. Some of my first introductions into art other than superhero comics, were artist like Goya, Durer, Bosch, and R. Crumb. Obviously I had really wholesome role models to look up to.

Tell us about a current project you are working on . . .

Right now I am scheming on a not so secret book. The book will be a compilation of my sketchbook pages. I really want to share my screwed up dick drawings with everyone.

Where will this project lead you and what are your aspirations?

I ‘m really hoping to get into book making. Not necessarily any sort of narrative based work but rather art filled books featuring my work and things that inspire me.  My aspirations are pretty humble and simple. I really love community and sharing, whether it’s my work or that of a friends.  I want to inspire people and return that feeling you get when you open a book.

Tell us more about your particular aesthetic/style/mediums your work with/etc?

I’m pretty ADD.  I get impatient with one medium and aesthetic.  I like to be versatile with the medium I work with and the images I create.

What opportunities have your arts skills/experience given you?

Meeting people. Hands down the coolest thing about being an illustrator is meeting new people.  I really enjoy working with people to create art.  Each commission brings to the table fresh new ideas and needs.   Ones that I would never have thought to draw.   Oh and money bails and bails   of unmarked legal currency.

Are there any particular career highlights for you so far? What are they?

So far I am still climbing that proverbial latter.  Every time I see my work in print I am stoke.   I don’t think that’s something that will ever change.  A pretty exciting highlight was being asked to be featured as one of the http://workplacepdx.com/ artists.  It’s a really cool kickstarter project focusing on creative work placed here in Portland Or. started by Carlie Armstrong.  She is a wonderful photographer with a bright future.

Where do you see yourself in 3 years time?

Let’s see… Sitting on top of a big pile of money with a top ranked syndicated late night internet blog show.

Do you have any advice for other young people wanting to get involved in the arts?

Keep creating. Send out those promo packs, and never be afraid to talk to galleries or other creative types.  You would be surprised at how excited people are to talk shop and see your work.

Image by Carlie Armstrong

Image by Carly Armstrong

http://kungfutoast.com/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/devenuta/

Have you seen any of these through your travels?

Superstitions are serious in Asia. I used to think my mum was weird by not hanging the washing out on new year’s day. But then again, even I used to get a little worried when the number 13 shirt was handed to me in my Sunday league soccer games. Still, silly Western superstitions were always something that we just shrugged off and didn’t take too seriously in my own culture, probably because we didn’t know the origin of the superstition. Your dad would always tell you that your crazy grandmother just made them up. But in Asia, you’d better learn the superstitions quick and sure as hell not laugh them off unless you want to cause a scene. War torn countries know the exact origins of their superstitions and they are to be taken seriously. Over there, you’d better not whistle at night, say the number ’4′ out loud or buy your partner a pair of shoes as a present…or else you’re in for some bad, bad luck. 

I’d tolerated him all week. It was the last day of the summer camp. Some kids are such idiots that you become irritated just being in their presence. We all remember this type of kid from when we were students ourselves. Bratty kids who didn’t give a damn about punishments, other students or authority. They wasted everyone’s time. This particular kid bullied the other kids and sneered at teachers. He disrupted others, never did his work and had no respect for his teacher…he made me livid. So being a graduate teacher thinking I knew it all, I used a technique to discipline him that I’d learned at university. Just a visual ‘warning’ thing that I knew probably wouldn’t work, but I wanted to try to make an example of the kid to warn off the others. So after he called out one too many times, I stopped speaking and walked towards the whiteboard. As soon as I turned my back on the kid and he saw what I did next, I flinched and spun around to a kamakaze scream. The kid had dramatically collapsed, wailing and pushing his face into the desk and slapping it loudly with his palms. I looked around the class, stunned. The kids all looked equally as stunned, but they stared at me, not the kid. The kid’s face was a ‘Jackson Pollock’ of tears, bubbles, saliva and snot. He was  throwing a frantic fit… like a combination of a tantrum and a bad dream…fucking horrible to watch. I had to yell at the other kids to be heard over this kid’s wailing.

“What is it, what is it… Jesus Christ, is he ok?? What the hell just happened? Hey you, ask him whats wrong!”

I pointed at the nearest kid who was sitting wide-eyed at his desk, watching the loud, bizarre events unfold. He very tentatively approached the kid going through meltdown and murmered something at him. The meltdown kid suddenly threw his hands into the air, flung his head back and released a blood curdling scream, followed by a burst of dramatic wailing… I noticed he’d screamed the word ‘pi’, which I knew meant ‘blood’ in his language. The tentative kid looked up at me.

“Teacher, you kill him.” 

“What?!”

“Him….he die now”

The kid was pointing at the meltdown boy, who’d worn himself out from wailing and was now moaning like a Buddhist monk. His red, wet face was pressed against the desk, his hands loosely hanging over the sides. I was getting first aid flashbacks. “Recovery positions? Is he choking? Epilepsy? Allergies? Fuck, I’m in the shit here.” I was starting to panic.

“What the fu..  what’re talking about? What’s happening? I didn’t touch him! I just wrote his name on the board! What the hell’s wrong with him!?”

The tentative kid flinched at the pace and volume of my response. There was chaos all around him, poor kid. A lunatic  kid freaking out to his left and to his right he had a panicing teacher yelling at him in a foreign language and putting him on the spot. He was squinting and bracing, like he was about to get a book flung in his direction. He stammered back at me.

“Teacher, you write name in ‘pi’, you…you kill him!”

After getting his words out, he ducked, covering his head and bracing for an impact. I guess he thought either the meltdown kid would fly off the handle at any momement, or his teacher would take umbrage at being told by a student that he’d made a mistake.

The class suddenly went silent, waiting for my response. Even the meltdown kid stopped moaning. The mounting tense atmosphere had reached its peak. I looked at the name on the board.  I’d used a red marker. What had the kid screamed out? Was it ‘pi’…blood? Did I just write his name ‘in blood’? Ahhhhh….. I rubbed out his name and wrote it again using a black marker. I then turned to face the class. The tone had dramatically changed. They had all instantly realised that I had just figured out their superstition involving the colour red, and the whole thing had been one of those cultural misunderstandings. The meltdown kid was sitting up now, sniffing and wiping his nose, suddenly becoming embarrassingly aware of the scene he had just caused. He was no longer the class bad boy, he was now the class wuss…and all the kids knew it. Some were even struggling to hold back giggles. I heard a few grunts and snorts from the back. All that time, all I had to do to diffuse him was use a red marker pen… unbelievable.

I pieced the superstition together with the help of some other native teachers later that day. Writing a name in red was like a death curse. Koreans write the names of deceased people in red ink. To do it to a living person, curses them to death. I learned it’s a weird superstition that had evolved from the Japanese occupation of Korea before WW2. Something about the names of the excecuted prisoners being written in blood. So while we Western folk calmly refuse to walk under ladders and swear at ourselves when we break mirrors, for reasons we don’t even know, Koreans are fully aware of their own superstitions and their origins, and will apparently completely freak out if their name is written in red.

As it turns out, I made the ‘mistake’ of writing a bad kid’s name on the board in red a few more times during my stint working there. I got a sick pleasure in tolerating a loud, obnoxious and disruptive little brat student for days on end, then seeing him instantly transform into a blubbering, wailing mess after I’d written his name on the board in red. I’d then sit at my desk, calmly sipping my tea and dramatically blinking at his hissy fit, while the rest of the class sat silently watching the tantrum, smirking, and giving me that little nod that says, ‘Nice!’