#Fahrenbruary Short Story: ‘Horizontal Vertical’ by Saira Viola. @sairaviola @F13Noir @FahrenheitPress




Goodness to gracious me, is it Day 21 of #Fahrenbruary already? How can that possibly be? It seems like only yesterday that I was sat at me desk in my comfy pants writing my first post and getting all excited for the month to come. Now look at us – only 7 days to go.

That’s nuts that is.

So what have I got for you today then, I hear you ask? Well…

Today I bring you TWO short stories from the ‘Punk Princess of Noir’ herself, Saira Viola.

First up is Horizontal Vertical.

This short story pulls no punches. It’s a hard-hitting, fast, sexy and dark tale: Kiki is a woman forced to work four jobs and turn tricks to keep herself afloat in a seedy world. Her life is a downward spiral of drugs, booze and sex. She’s had enough, but is she willing to commit murder to get herself out?

Saira is also the author of two brilliant books published by Fahrenheit 13: Jukebox and Crack Apple & Pop. You can read my reviews of each by clicking those little linky-poos below…

#Fahrenbruary Review: Jukebox – Saira Viola @sairaviola @F13Noir @fahrenheitpress

#Fahrenbruary Review Repost: Crack Apple & Pop – Saira Viola @sairaviola @f13noir @fahrenheitpress

Tomorrow I bring you further 2-4-1 treats in the form of a Q&A and two new poems.

Wowsers Trousers, it don’t get much better than this, FahrenFans 😍

So pour yourself a coffee, or tea – mix a smoothie if you prefer, I don’t mind – pull up a chair, settle down and enjoy the first of todays posts from Saira. The second story, Circling The Drain will be up later today.

Enjoy. TBBB X



Saira Viola

Horizontal  Vertical  

By Saira Viola 


A low swung smile hung on her heart shaped face. She was half naked, topless in bordello red panties. Her left leg was slung at a ninety-degree angle across a black scrunched cocktail dress. Her right leg straddled the arm of an easy fit budget sofa,  upholstered in an aggressive shade of convict orange. On the floor beside her was an open tub of vaginal jelly, three fingers of blow and a dinky gold-plated cocaine spoon. It was noon. The sun was vomiting diluted rays of insipid light into the room. A slit of dust on the coffee table and a shit strewn kitty litter box sat by the back wall. It stunk of broken promises and a thousand school girl dreams hidden in boxes. Kiki Loveheart, aka Mizz WhipKink, aka Maddie Summers, aka Sweet Cheeks 69, stirred. Bone tired, she was eking out a piece meal existence as daytime nurse, afternoon phone sex operator, night time glamour escort, and weekend stripper. Forced to juggle four jobs just to live in a cramped foul smelling roach ridden walk up. 

She Stared ruefully at her purple jazz berry mirrored Jimmy Choo’s that sat proudly on the floor. She felt like a Penthouse pin up in those heels. They elongated her calf muscles popped her pelvis and kinked her hips. Strutting the sidewalk never felt so good. Kiki blinked, yawned and slowly got up. Barefoot, she tip toed to the refrigerator and took out a cold bottle of San Pellegrino and rolled it against her forehead: ‘Ahh.’ 


A goopy taffy laced little voice. It could have belonged to a third grader or a whiny half-bagged grandma, but it belonged to Michael Wiesel. A squiffy-eyed, Buddha-faced, eight-toed, high-talking sex perv. Serial fraudster, bourgeois rapist and TV Judge. Wiesel presided over his own prime time reality tv court show, judging real life problems in a mock court room set-up. Miserable little suburban dramas scripted for mass consumption. Of course it was a ratings winner and Wiesel wore his success like an electric lit billboard. His patterned argyle socks, vintage Rolex, silk satin tux, and two-ply cotton designer shirt screamed smug money. But his ageing blond comb-over pomaded across his jutting forehead, swollen bucket gut, and peeling pink skin, humbled him on occasion especially at funerals, country clubs and IRS meetings.

‘Keeeeeki. C’meer. I want chou to freshen up. Put on a dress or somethin’ pretty. You look like a tweaker. Clean yaw self-up. Dirty  bitch.’ His accent pure New Yawk. Purple gums on show. He  threw a couple of c notes on the floor and flashed his platinum circled pinkie. His wide set, loose lipped pig mouth slapped her butt with another slew of insults: ‘You need a tan – lose a few pounds – I like your hair straight – classy chicks wear perfume – get bigger tits.’

Kiki sighed. Twenty-eight years old and she was still listening to fruitless fuck balls, who reminded her that she was just a split-second vignette in THE BIG PICTURE. She switched her gaze between a mouldy slice of Kraft deli-deluxe and Wiesel’s spreading bald spot. Swirling her tongue around her index finger she winked. 

‘Got a better idea.’ 


‘Hmmmm. Why don’t I text Nahhhtashhha, and we mix it up?’ 

Natashaar: Twentyish. Nouveau redhead. Faux Russian accent, big bazookas, shapely  ass, creamy lips. Sweeter than Nutella, and Kiki’s bestie. The pair of them responsible for a rash of tricks that would make even the hardest hustler blush. 

‘Whaddaya have in mind?’

‘Wait and see.’

‘Do it .’

‘Okayyyyy. Make  yourself more comfortable. Take off your pants.’ 

Kiki grabbed her phone from the dresser. Natasha would be there in a few minutes. Wiesel was caught between the bastard of time and his own carnal greed. He Paced the floor like a one eyed tiger.

‘Hurry up.’

Kiki patted the seat with a fiendish glint in her eye.

’She won’t be long. C’mon. Relax. Sit down.’ 

She  slid on  thigh scraper black velvet boots and a black leather string bikini. Authoritatively seedy, Wiesel’s creeper peepers on her downy v-shape mound peeping through the slit of her gusset. She slid her right hand on her bra strap, twisted it tighter and sighed.  

‘Ground zero of the Walmart sex trade. Puny limp dick with big dick complex. Today I’m jumping off that pyramid.’ 

‘Whaddaya say? Speak up ?’

‘I said you know you make me so hot for it.’

The creases on Wiesel’s face were lined with dust and type two diabetic sweat. Everything Kiki did to make things better slam jammed into nothing and now here she was, star of her own dime store crime story. Her mind somersaulted at freeway speed: Cancer – table sex – a black swan – yogi – tea homilies – dead – sister cancer – be yourself – shaman mantras – truck stop suicides – cancer – blue rubber covered asses – boobytrapped commitment – rib eye steak – pus filled promises – Je Je Spa – Happy Ending – Massage – Kung Fu nuns – Himalayasautoerotic strangulation. 

Squatting on a throne of debt, Kiki was tired of sleazo tricksters. Tired of renting herself out to small souled roly-poly hardballs. Tired of one bowl easy mac frozen dinners, three minute hustles with teenage dopers, and cheapo plastic heart break. Her brain backed up with years of toxic yesterdays. Ever since her only sister had succumbed to cancer. She felt  trapped in a psycho blizzard. She wanted out. 

Wiesel. He was the catalyst. Sprawled there on her green linoleum five dollar armchair, balancing papers on his balloon shaped stomach. Tapping his clumsy foot to the money  beat. Kiki stiffened. The double thump of her heart jumped three seconds. She had a driving primal urge to glass him in the neck. Playing every move slowly in the dungeon of her mind. 

Psych out! 

It wasn’t the most original way to kill someone, but it was definitely doable. It made her body tingle. She knew that Wiesel kept at least ten grand in his grab bag. A pre-packed emergency kit stocked with doomsday end of the world shit. Wiesel carried it everywhere he went. Bragging to anyone who’d listen that he was ready for Armageddon. It was the perfect get away bag. Ideal for two huzzies on the lam. Kiki’s murder plan simmered. Something gross and a little immoral was about to happen. 

‘Ding dong ding ding dong.’

‘That’ll be Natassha.’ Kiki buzzed her up. Wiesel moistened his mouth and schlepped to the bed. Natasha bounced into view. 

‘Well hellllloooo! How ya doing?’ Rude cute, dressed to titillate in a stylized red plaid mini, cropped shirt, white gartered knee highs, a striped tie with pigtailed hair and cheap Mary-Jane shoes. She slow kissed Kiki as she cupped her face in her hands. Wiesel unbuttoned his shirt and revealed an expanse of silver gorilla chest hair and a thatch of wispy fuzz that sprung from the nape of his neck. Panting his fairy tale sex romp through the jungle of his mind and pepto-bismol coughs. He stank of onions and tuxedoed fraud .

‘You know what I love about your type?’ he tracked the curves of Kiki’s thighs . 

Natasha pulled away grinning. ‘Our type?’

‘Yeah, pussy princesses.’ 

Kiki’s eyes narrowed, ‘What?’ 

Wiesel ignored the sarcastic inflexion in her voice and sucked his teeth. ‘You understand that sex is just a business. I don’t have to think too hard – I fuck you. Pay you. You’re… MINE.’

His mildew eyes clung to her ass. She had to dig her nails into her palms to stop herself from puking in his lap. In a bitter sweet tone, part Marilyn Monroe, part Morticia Adams, she whispered: ‘Let’s try something new.’ A dangerous smile hung from her lips. Together they cuffed Wiesel to the bed. Kiki placed a blindfold on his eyes.

‘C’mon, let’s get on with it.’ He growled.

Kiki and Natasha shared a knowing wink. Natasha banged her hips in Wiesel’s face, toying with him. They jiggled, bounced and bopped, while Kiki got busy.

‘You think you know our type? Think again!’ 


She gagged him with a pair of sheer stockings, deaf to his protestations. The gentle curve of her mouth promised more pain. Natasha bound his ankles with uber-kinky bondage tape and leather restraints. 

Kiki‘s adenoidal saliva, slushing under her tongue. ‘It’s you and your type. You’re the limp dick asshole who’s got your greedy cheating hands all over the city. Everybody knows you’re as crooked as hell. We’re the only ones hurtin.’ Kiki marched into the kitchenette, smashed the San Pellegrino bottle against the wall and stomped back to the bedroom. She ignored the little yelps and spittle dribbling down Wiesel’s chin. He was thrashing around like a bottom trawled fish gasping for air. Kiki gripped the base of the bottle and jabbed it into his neck, slicing open his throat. She hit both carotid arteries and his jugular. Blood rhymes splattered the sheets. A symphony of choking strawberries. Warm. Red mulch. 


The skies outside had paled. Quickly, they racked up the balance of the coke, Kiki armed with the grab bag. 

‘C’mon let’s get outta here.’

A few moments of thin silence. Kiki’s voice strangely alien eaten by the shadows in the room.

Ghetto sluts like me always end up vertical not horizontal.’




My biggest and most groove-tastic of thanks to Saira for sending me this story to use on my humble blog.

But, that isn’t all, Beardy Blog Fans, for Saira has also recorded a short extract of the above story, narrated by herself. Enjoy 😃



You can buy both of Saira’s books direct form Fahrenheit Press at the links below:




crack apple and pop


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