Friday, June 14, 2013

3 minutes. Go!

You thrash at sleep. Careful, you will frighten it. Sleep is delicate. Except when it is not. When the back of the drain-dredge brings specters and memories of things you think happened to you. Then you wrap yourself in bulletproof blankets and hold on. Stare at the ceiling. If you stare at just the one spot, there is no way the memories can find you. You must be still. They sense movement. And weakness. And avarice.

The darkness is almost wet, the room is so black. But you can see a crack of streetlight and you wonder at the need for a brightened cone of disrespect. Disrespect to the night and the blackness and the memories which trail after you like a faithful dog, or one who has been struck and doesn't aim to let it happen twice.

20 comments:

  1. Sallow faces avoid me, looking upwards, or westwards (always west), or anywhere but here. Those same faces, sated with chips, gum, cigarettes and other luxuriant purchases, hurry back out of the neoned store, pretending like they have somewhere to go. Somewhere? Anywhere but here, I suppose.

    That damn glass door packs a wallop. I wonder if that push was on purpose? I never flinch though. I stand,with rigor mortis smile, hat in hand, head at the begger’s tilt. Sometimes I do let the door hit me on purpose so guilt will add a few dimes to the hat. I do what I have to. You would too.

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    1. That was brilliant. Rigor Mortis smile...nice. ;)

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  2. In the centre of the room is a nondescript table. I want to say a formica surface but I'm not sure. It's nondescript, after all. A dirty plastic chair is pulled up to it. You cross the room and sit in the chair, place your elbows on the table and your face in your hands. You recall the low moans from this very room as you curled into a ball of fetal denial much earlier. And the wet sounds. They have cleaned most of the blood, but you can never clean it all. Her blood. You wonder vaguely where they are but it matters little, because you know they will be back.

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  3. Denise Lhamon's (the internet is being stupid and jerky):

    Writing. Writing. I'm always writing! But I'm not getting anywhere. It doesn't feel like on paper, but in my head I'm miles away. I'm chapters away, I already know what's going to happen-what should happen, what doesn't happen even though I want it too-who said authors rule the page? It's all about the characters, baby. Never fuck a girl whose sixteen, she'll ruin your life and kill her daddy just to make sure you'll stay with her. Zombies or not, bitch is crazy. Shit. That's not supposed to happen yet. Stop it, brain!
    When did planets feel it was okay to charge me 12$ for a salad and drink? Seriously.
    I want something sweet. Anyone have a cookie?
    I had this amazing dream that would make a wicked story. Science needs to catch up and make it so I can record my dreams as I have them.
    Seriously. I really want a cookie.

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    1. You deserve a cookie, that was awesome.

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  4. I literally bumped into her on the corner of Pender and Main, Chinatown. The lights were coming on against a dull bruised sky.

    "God, how long has it been, girl?"

    "Too long."

    "What have you been up to?"

    "Well, since you're asking... I left the group home after one of the staff tried to finger me and then accused me of coming on to them. I lived under a bridge for a while, got raped by some jackass, got fucking pregnant and my stupid ass decided I wanted to keep it. Gave birth after just seven months, a premie, it died as I rocked it under the bridge, then we cooked it as we were starving. So how have you been doing?"

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    1. That's why I never ask people how they're doing. Strong piece, man.

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  5. No one is going to open the door if you knock like a cop. That should be understood. The fact that you don't understand that makes me wonder. Or maybe I'm jumpy. Maybe it is a cop. Maybe they know. But they can't. Can they? I've been so careful. Sure, I get some odd looks from the neighbors on trash day. My neighbors don't ask questions. They are good at averting their eyes. They do not knock on my door.

    There is that one guy, though. He always looks a little too long. Lets his eyes ask a few too many questions. I didn't think about it before, but now...hell, I can HEAR his haircut it's so fucking tight. It's got the academy written all over it. Chopper blades thresh the sky. I don't care either way. Tomorrow's trash day.

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    1. Excellent! And "I can hear his haircut it's so tight" is Mader gold. :)))

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  6. “I’m on the fire escape. You try going into the apartment then. It smells like backstage at a freak show. I told you not to tell them where we lived- I know. I know... Shut the fuck up, will you? I’m freezing out here. Get your brother’s van and come and get me."

    "I think there are three. Two are passed out and I think the other guy is dead. He’s blue in any case. Are you driving now? You fucking better be driving, Louie, or so help me god when I get off this goddamn fire escape you are going to be the first thing to do on my list. And it ain’t goin’ be pretty. Oh hey, yeah, I see you now. Park it on seventh. Yeah, okay. Now what?”

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  7. He could barely see the glisten of the crater lake at the bottom of the quarry. It had been his brother’s idea to come out here after dark, because he said it was cool to float around in the water, staring at the fireflies. Said it was just about as cool as smoking pot, which he kept promising to find but never did. The lake looked miles away. From over his shoulder, he could sense his brother and definitely smelled his sour breath. “You want in first?” he said. “It’s easy. There’s handholds and stuff down the rock, and then a ladder at the bottom that the miners used to use.” He paused a moment. The crickets chirped and he thought he heard a coyote howl in the distance. “Unless you’re chicken.”

    “I’m not chicken,” he said, although the quiver in his knees belied that fact. So he sat with his legs over the ledge and twisted, digging for the promised holds in the rock. Found one and bit his left toes into it. Found the second. But it was wet, and his right foot scrabbled to find purchase but could not hold. As he fell, he thought he saw the fireflies. And they were beautiful.

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  8. The crash is an afterthought that catches the glass as it flies through the air and into the soft lines of my tired and useless face. Shards prick like the idea of pain but not nearly enough to satisfy the compulsion toward freedom. Blood tastes refreshing and urges an instant of exhale, undone by shocked silence. I got what I wanted.

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  9. She could see the gleam in the man's eye even in the darkness. She had seen the glint of steel when he backed her into the alley, but what stayed in her vision was that gleam, that moment of pure evil that sliced into her from the red fire within his soul. The fear that look induced overpowered her senses, invaded her bones and made her still and silent.

    The touch of steel broke the spell. And the screams began.

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    1. Nice!, those last two sentences...

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  10. Enough is Enough:

    She hated that smell. Why did he insist on smoking those damned cigars? No matter how many times she told him they gave her a headache, he just wouldn't stop. She swore he did it on purpose. Taking a deep breath, she opened the sewing basket sitting beside her rocker. Pulling out what she needed, she deftly threaded the sharp needle with black thread. Picking up the cloth in her lap, she stabbed the needle into the black fabric - over and over again, rapidly pulling the thread through. She ignored the slam of the back door and his shout that he was going to work in the basement. Over and over she punched holes in the cloth, sewing as though her life depended on it. Finishing with a sigh, she stuck the needle into her pin cushion and shook out the cloth. "That ought to fit," she muttered as she stood and held the large bag against her body. "Good thing he's short," she snorted. She laid it over the arm of the rocker and walked purposely into the kitchen. "Now where did I put that arsenic."

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