Gris Lee Stories

The tang of iron rustles the hairs of my nostrils and the buds of my tongue. It kicks me awake. I don’t know where I am. My vision is blurred. My hearing is muffled. My taste and smell are muddied with blood. I can only rely on my touch. Invisible hands weigh down my limbs, leaving them sluggish. I settle for wiggling my fingers. They feel restrained, stroking only at the cool metal they appear bound to. This is frustrating. I want to scream for help, twist, turn, struggle, find a clue, find help, find anything. Someone help. Help. Help. Help. Help. Help. Help. I start falling asleep again… AH! A jolt of surprise adrenaline snakes its way through my veins. All of a sudden my heartbeat erupts in action, thumping at an insane rate. The mugginess that masked my senses dissipates, revealing…so little. The room I’m in is dimly lit, aside from some otherworldly glows clawing in from the corners of my eyes. I can make out shapes of basic furniture and unusual e

'I take things like honor and loyalty seriously. It's more important to me than any materialistic thing or any fame I could have' ~Llyod Banks~ -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I stare mournfully at the black, cracked sunglasses laid lifeless in my palm. Loose shards occasionally snap off as the limousine hits a minor bump. I try keep my hand stretched out flat so as not to cut myself on them. Patricio groans beside me. I ignore him, just wanting to be left to lament for my last surviving pair of combat sunglasses. Pat’s groans gain volume until he reaches a breaking point.   “Dios mio will you stop!?” He growls, snatching the broken accessory from the hands. In my absolute shock I find myself unable to respond for the few moments it takes for him to roll down the window, contemplate tossing the glasses to the road, rolling the window back up, instead shoving them in hi

'You give loyalty, you'll get it back. You give love, you'll get it back' ~Tommy Lasorda~ -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I love the way her rainbow hair sprawls out over the pillow, every colour illuminated by the night-time neon. Even when laid beside Roux, the scoundrel I’m forced to be civil with, she is the sole focus of my sight. Her naked body is covered elegantly yet scantily by the blanket. Her arms are connected neither to me nor Roux. Instead, she is curled into herself, twitching lightly from undoubtedly magnificent dreams. I am blessed to have Mally as my love in my life. It must be two years now that we’ve been living here, the three of us occupying this apartment towering over the mayhem of the city’s media central. About two years now I’ve been operating under the identity of Sakura. Likewise with Roux, though I imagine Mally has been toying with he

' We all have split personalities; we all wear masks at some point in our careers' ~Rey Mysterio~ -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The chill of the winter air streams past my legs as they slide across the rooftops. My senses are sharp as I leap from building to building, imaginary cape fluttering in the bitter breeze. I love the simplicity of it. It reminds me of the old days, back in our Russian home. Jumping over the furniture, smacking my face on the floor, feeling nothing, continuing to run. I never caused my parents much concern back then. If they were watching right now I’d likely be scolded beyond belief. They don’t seem to like me running around by myself. I’m more likely to get hurt or hurt myself. But kid Rody wants to run and play. Yay, this fun! Slide, skip, never stop. You can’t catch me, you can’t- My foot is slipping, papa help! I’m hu

Before the birthday when I would turn three. These are the things that mum said to me. It’s too late for tea. It’s too late to ski. It’s too late to plant a brand-new tree. It’s too late to look out the window baby. So hurry my child, move quickly. It’s too late to dance. It’s too late for prance. It’s too late to try and save both of the aunts. It’s too late to take that vacation to France. It’s too late to give your sweet mummy a glance. It’s too late for pie. It’s too late to fly. Just go with your sister and daddy outside. It’s too late to cry. It’s too late to try. Don’t try and save me if you don’t want to die. Please don’t try and plea. Just take the car key. Go with the rest of the family and flee. It’s too late for tea. It’s too late for me. Your mummy has turned into a zombie.

It's a powerful thing, all at once the greatest excitement and the most overwhelming fear. For one with anxiety, the prospect of love is an arduous journey.  The climb starts with the crush. Those bubbles of emotion become determination, the first step. Each step after is in pursuit of something you are not entirely sure provides a positive outcome.  However, each little message, every touch, any single thought of this person is the helping hand that pulls you up that mountain.  Sometimes the summit becomes so obscured, so dark you give in and climb back down to the safety of your loneliness. If all the factors align in your favour though, the summit becomes brighter, clearer and so much more incredible than you could have hoped for.  Even greater when the hand that you reached for is the one to help over the last leg.

'The worst guilt is to accept an unearned guilt' ~Ayn Rand~ -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “One thousand, two thousand, three thousand…” Each time that number goes a little higher I can feel the bump in Sol’s smugness. We’d been planning this heist for about a week straight, all three of us. Beside me, Ricardo is celebrating with one of his special cigars; those Cuban ones Papa kept in the bedside drawer. If it weren’t for the spaciousness of the drawing room we’d be enveloped in a choking fog. There’s a cool air of smugness about him as well. As usual though it’s thinly covering a layer of unwarranted self-deprecation. I keep my eyes on the money, letting him wallow in as much privacy as I can allow in this situation. If I look at him I might not stay calm for much longer. Solitaire stacks hundreds of pound notes over and over on the table. I should be happier about it