Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom.
Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.
PLEASE NOTE: IT IS HALLOWEEN. I WILL BE BACK TO COMMENT, BUT TODAY WILL BE CHAOS. I WON'T BE AS PROMPT. HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
Thin droplets fall from the sky, devoured by the parched earth. All around, people smile or look up confused - this must be that wet drought they promised. And then there is the "hallelujah chorus". Rain! We have been saved. The lord must be good, and he must be up there. Just LOOK!
If he's up there, he's laughing or crying, because half an inch of rain ain't gonna do shit except make my motorcycle shinier. We need buckets of rain. We need crazy people making arks in their back yards. We need to be lighting candles and sacrificing chickens. The central valley is one thirsty place. They'll never get enough.
Don't even get me started on the cotton mouth epidemic in Mendocino County.
Point being. This was a nice drizzle. Let's call it an appetizer. Bring on the drops that land like tiny explosions. I want to see actual puddles. I know, call me crazy. You won't be the first. I happen to like eating, though, and I'm cool with shiny motorcycles.
Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. IT MIGHT BE TOMORROW, THOUGH...
Friday, October 31, 2014
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Sneak
You closed the door as softly as you could - held the knob to stop the click. The house was dark, and everyone was asleep, but you knew it would only take the slightest creak, a bumped vase, a sneeze - he always slept light. They said it was because of the war, but they said lots of things. Some of them true. Some baffling and false. So, you tried to be quiet.
There was something about sneaking out. It was freedom, sure. A minor brown stamp on the rosie fucking lens used to cover collective despair. It was fun, exciting. Getting caught was part of the thrill. The fear of it. You knew what would happen.
You slipped into your bedroom. Safe. Then, you saw him sitting at the window, head canted to the side. Slumped. Fuck!
"I'm home, Dad. I'm sorry I made you worry. I know you think it's dangerous, but I was just -"
He did not turn. He did not even move. You approached slowly, trying not to startle him. You waved a hand in front of his face, but his gaze did not leave the street. You jumped. Yelled. The panic began to rise in you. Then you heard your mother's voice from the doorway.
"Bill, it wasn't your fault. Why do you torture yourself."
"Because someday she'll come home. You believe the cops if you want. I'm waiting for my girl."
And then the whole room changed. It spun so fast you thought you'd pass out. There was a cold horror in the back of your mind as you tried to put your hand on his shoulder.
It passed right through.
There was something about sneaking out. It was freedom, sure. A minor brown stamp on the rosie fucking lens used to cover collective despair. It was fun, exciting. Getting caught was part of the thrill. The fear of it. You knew what would happen.
You slipped into your bedroom. Safe. Then, you saw him sitting at the window, head canted to the side. Slumped. Fuck!
"I'm home, Dad. I'm sorry I made you worry. I know you think it's dangerous, but I was just -"
He did not turn. He did not even move. You approached slowly, trying not to startle him. You waved a hand in front of his face, but his gaze did not leave the street. You jumped. Yelled. The panic began to rise in you. Then you heard your mother's voice from the doorway.
"Bill, it wasn't your fault. Why do you torture yourself."
"Because someday she'll come home. You believe the cops if you want. I'm waiting for my girl."
And then the whole room changed. It spun so fast you thought you'd pass out. There was a cold horror in the back of your mind as you tried to put your hand on his shoulder.
It passed right through.
Friday, October 24, 2014
2 Minutes. Go!
Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom.
Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.
If you have a blog and you want to post your pieces there too (and link back here), that would be lovely.
They looked toward the sky with wide, white eyes. There was a nervous chattering. The danger call sounded from every direction, and the jungle seemed to breathe - awareness and tension growing. Beneath the leaves that littered the ground, insects carried on untroubled. This would not involve them. They would benefit nicely, in fact. There would be meat for days - they would feast.
High above the canopy an eagle soared. He watched the forest down below - heard the cries. This was not his fight either. He would catch updrafts and observe the chaos from above, wings slicing the rich air while the ground animals scrambled for hiding places and avoided clearings ripe for ambush.
Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Happy Friday!
Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.
If you have a blog and you want to post your pieces there too (and link back here), that would be lovely.
They looked toward the sky with wide, white eyes. There was a nervous chattering. The danger call sounded from every direction, and the jungle seemed to breathe - awareness and tension growing. Beneath the leaves that littered the ground, insects carried on untroubled. This would not involve them. They would benefit nicely, in fact. There would be meat for days - they would feast.
High above the canopy an eagle soared. He watched the forest down below - heard the cries. This was not his fight either. He would catch updrafts and observe the chaos from above, wings slicing the rich air while the ground animals scrambled for hiding places and avoided clearings ripe for ambush.
Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Happy Friday!
Friday, October 17, 2014
2 Minutes. Go!
Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom.
Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.
If you have a blog and you want to post your pieces there too (and link back here), that would be lovely.
Lou stood in the darkness, listening for any sound that might change his plans. There was nothing. Distant snoring that was like a blackened afternoon, low summer rumbling. He hoped he would not cross paths with them, he had no distinct plan and it frightened him. He had plans, but they swept in and out of his brain appearing brilliant, then naive, before cycling back out. He walked slowly in clean white socks. He could see the outline of things, but it was the small mistakes that would cost him. A toy kicked across the room, a box of legos knocked off a table; the small obstacles were his enemy.
With an agonizing patience, he stood in front of the shiny silver, which gleamed in the small slice of moonlight that suddenly filled the room. The clouds had passed, and the light was loud. Lou froze and waited for a sound. Hearing nothing, he slowly opened the door, bathing the kitchen in light. There it was, at the top. The remnants of his brother's birthday cake. He would wake up to crying and time outs, but, first, he would eat as much cake as he could stuff in his mouth.
Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Happy Friday!
Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.
If you have a blog and you want to post your pieces there too (and link back here), that would be lovely.
Lou stood in the darkness, listening for any sound that might change his plans. There was nothing. Distant snoring that was like a blackened afternoon, low summer rumbling. He hoped he would not cross paths with them, he had no distinct plan and it frightened him. He had plans, but they swept in and out of his brain appearing brilliant, then naive, before cycling back out. He walked slowly in clean white socks. He could see the outline of things, but it was the small mistakes that would cost him. A toy kicked across the room, a box of legos knocked off a table; the small obstacles were his enemy.
With an agonizing patience, he stood in front of the shiny silver, which gleamed in the small slice of moonlight that suddenly filled the room. The clouds had passed, and the light was loud. Lou froze and waited for a sound. Hearing nothing, he slowly opened the door, bathing the kitchen in light. There it was, at the top. The remnants of his brother's birthday cake. He would wake up to crying and time outs, but, first, he would eat as much cake as he could stuff in his mouth.
Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Happy Friday!
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Your Secrets
He lied. He looked at you with big, open eyes and spat that thing right in front of you. You knew it was a lie, but you forced a fancy smile and tried to still the brain spin. He couldn't take back the lie and you couldn't take back that huckster smile. And you both accepted that you'd live with it, never admitting what you knew.
It all started so many years ago. Fighting the current is hard, so you stopped. People asked you if you liked this movie or that song, and you just nodded and smiled. You wanted to get closer in, inside where it matters; you didn't realize the power of the omitted lies.
You could trace it back days, years, lifetimes, eons - this shit ain't nothing new. Dinosaurs didn't trip, but they had tiny brains. They sure fell, though.
You think about dinosaurs because that's your secret. The real secret. The one you don't even recognize yourself. It exists in you, but outside your awareness. You are waiting for a comet, an asteroid. Something that will cover the earth in dust and dirt, burying all the secrets forever. One fell swoop.
Friday, October 10, 2014
2 Minutes. Go!
Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom.
Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.
If you have a blog and you want to post your pieces there too (and link back here), that would be lovely.
The can of worms sat leaning against the bark of a tall tree. The old man went suddenly rigid and then cursed. The boy flinched inside, but his face betrayed nothing. The man took a sip of his beer and nodded toward the worm can. It was an old coffee tin, holes poked through the plastic top. The boy plucked a nightcrawler from the rich earth and handed it to the man. He looked away as the worm was threaded onto the hook - he tried to ignore the whistling.
Minutes passed like hours and the man went rigid again. This time the rod doubled over. Just play it slow, Dad. But the man didn't play it at all. He turned the handle on the reel like he'd die if he stopped. The bass jumped and threw the hook right in front of them. The man cursed again, breaking the old bamboo rod over his knee. The boy's mouth fell open.
"Dad! That was -"
He wheeled, face red and angry.
"I know whose rod it was, don't I? Come here, boy."
He knew what was coming. He should have kept quiet. Instead, he marched into the punch, and it sent him sprawling in the grass; he fell into the worm can and knocked it over.
"Bring me a worm."
The boy didn't answer. He was watching the worms slither out of the can, watching them find real earth, meaning freedom. The boy didn't answer, but inside his mind, he thought Go, worms! GO!
Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Happy Friday!
Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.
If you have a blog and you want to post your pieces there too (and link back here), that would be lovely.
The can of worms sat leaning against the bark of a tall tree. The old man went suddenly rigid and then cursed. The boy flinched inside, but his face betrayed nothing. The man took a sip of his beer and nodded toward the worm can. It was an old coffee tin, holes poked through the plastic top. The boy plucked a nightcrawler from the rich earth and handed it to the man. He looked away as the worm was threaded onto the hook - he tried to ignore the whistling.
Minutes passed like hours and the man went rigid again. This time the rod doubled over. Just play it slow, Dad. But the man didn't play it at all. He turned the handle on the reel like he'd die if he stopped. The bass jumped and threw the hook right in front of them. The man cursed again, breaking the old bamboo rod over his knee. The boy's mouth fell open.
"Dad! That was -"
He wheeled, face red and angry.
"I know whose rod it was, don't I? Come here, boy."
He knew what was coming. He should have kept quiet. Instead, he marched into the punch, and it sent him sprawling in the grass; he fell into the worm can and knocked it over.
"Bring me a worm."
The boy didn't answer. He was watching the worms slither out of the can, watching them find real earth, meaning freedom. The boy didn't answer, but inside his mind, he thought Go, worms! GO!
Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Happy Friday!
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Crucifixion
The preacher's robes were starched, his hair shiny and smooth. There was a small microphone attached to his collar. His smile could have sold every used car in Alabama. He had very white teeth.
"John was a generous man who served his community selflessly for forty years. We gather here today to share and remember the acts that humbled us, that gave us a model to - "
The preacher had already been talking for five minutes when John's daughter stood up. At first, she didn't speak, but those in attendance followed the preacher's gaze. Their eyes fell upon a slight young woman, dressed in black trousers and a black blouse. Her skin was pale, cheeks aflame. She was shaking. No one moved. Most held their breath.
Slowly, she raised her head. Her eyes were moist but fierce. The preacher knew what was about to happen. It had happened before. There was a chance ...
"Sally, you just sit and rest, honey. Try and take it in."
It might have been alright if the preacher hadn't spoken to her. Try and take it in...
Sally stood ramrod straight, her eyes now cold and hard.
"Why don't you tell them the truth?"
The old man opened his mouth, but did not speak. A cousin grabbed at Sally's arm, but she shook it off.
"I'll tell them the truth. My dad was a mediocre person and sometimes a downright petty asshole. I loved him anyway, but he wasn't a Prince. I know it; you all know it. He was human, like all of us. I'm tired of dressing up in black to listen to your lies. You think if you say enough nice things about folks when they pass, someone will extend the same courtesy to you. Despite what we all know about why Ms. Hastings left town. Despite the fact that, somehow, our devout spiritual guide lives in the nicest house in the county..."
There was complete silence when the preacher spoke.
"Sally..."
"You could just be honest. My dad wasn't a saint, don't try to make him one. He was a human being and he deserves to be remembered as one, not as one of your plastic trophies - you don't get to profit off this. You don't deserve to play the good guy and eat everyones' Sunday dinners like we don't know the goddamn truth. This ain't about you. It's about my dad. The real one. Not this bullshit hero you describe. I don't want to hear lies. I want you to tell the truth."
As one, the eyes left Sally and landed on the pulpit, piercing the man sweating beneath his robes. He seemed to deflate before their eyes. It was the first crucifixion any of them had seen in person.
The moving van appeared the next day. The preacher was gone before Sunday service.
"John was a generous man who served his community selflessly for forty years. We gather here today to share and remember the acts that humbled us, that gave us a model to - "
The preacher had already been talking for five minutes when John's daughter stood up. At first, she didn't speak, but those in attendance followed the preacher's gaze. Their eyes fell upon a slight young woman, dressed in black trousers and a black blouse. Her skin was pale, cheeks aflame. She was shaking. No one moved. Most held their breath.
Slowly, she raised her head. Her eyes were moist but fierce. The preacher knew what was about to happen. It had happened before. There was a chance ...
"Sally, you just sit and rest, honey. Try and take it in."
It might have been alright if the preacher hadn't spoken to her. Try and take it in...
Sally stood ramrod straight, her eyes now cold and hard.
"Why don't you tell them the truth?"
The old man opened his mouth, but did not speak. A cousin grabbed at Sally's arm, but she shook it off.
"I'll tell them the truth. My dad was a mediocre person and sometimes a downright petty asshole. I loved him anyway, but he wasn't a Prince. I know it; you all know it. He was human, like all of us. I'm tired of dressing up in black to listen to your lies. You think if you say enough nice things about folks when they pass, someone will extend the same courtesy to you. Despite what we all know about why Ms. Hastings left town. Despite the fact that, somehow, our devout spiritual guide lives in the nicest house in the county..."
There was complete silence when the preacher spoke.
"Sally..."
"You could just be honest. My dad wasn't a saint, don't try to make him one. He was a human being and he deserves to be remembered as one, not as one of your plastic trophies - you don't get to profit off this. You don't deserve to play the good guy and eat everyones' Sunday dinners like we don't know the goddamn truth. This ain't about you. It's about my dad. The real one. Not this bullshit hero you describe. I don't want to hear lies. I want you to tell the truth."
As one, the eyes left Sally and landed on the pulpit, piercing the man sweating beneath his robes. He seemed to deflate before their eyes. It was the first crucifixion any of them had seen in person.
The moving van appeared the next day. The preacher was gone before Sunday service.
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
Let's have a hootenanny.
There are whispers in the eaves, leaves on the trees ... for now. They're going, going, your mind is gone. Who hears whispers from inanimate objects? Who even uses the word 'eaves' anymore? Crazy people, that's who. Are you crazy? Do you have moments of stark terror where you want to close your eyes so tightly that your head folds in on itself? Do you you wake in the middle of the night unsure of who, where, or what you are? Do you hear snippets of conversation and try to convince yourself they're not talking about you? See, crazy.
There are gentle whispers, though. Just as there are slight nudges from the wisp clouds. Come up here, the view's great. But you can't float, you crazy bastard. If you could, you would have cut the tether long ago. Let's not be foolish.
It's never going to work the same way for you as it does for them because you're not you and you're not you. People are gonna think that's a typo, but you can't control what other people think. If you could, there'd be a lot less war and a lot more singing. You know how many tambourines you can get for the price of one Murder Drone? A fucking lot.
Let's have a hootenanny.
There are gentle whispers, though. Just as there are slight nudges from the wisp clouds. Come up here, the view's great. But you can't float, you crazy bastard. If you could, you would have cut the tether long ago. Let's not be foolish.
It's never going to work the same way for you as it does for them because you're not you and you're not you. People are gonna think that's a typo, but you can't control what other people think. If you could, there'd be a lot less war and a lot more singing. You know how many tambourines you can get for the price of one Murder Drone? A fucking lot.
Let's have a hootenanny.
Friday, October 3, 2014
2 Minutes. Go!
Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom.
Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.
If you have a blog and you want to post your pieces there too (and link back here), that would be lovely.
You never did understand it, and they wouldn't explain it to you no matter how many times you asked. You'd work up your gumption, take a deep breath and just say it, but you never got an answer. You got chuckles and ruffled hair and you wanted to yell, "yo, I'm not Opie! We're not going to Mt. Pilot for Chinese!" No one else seemed to think there was anything amiss, though, and that was scary.
So, you figured you had to find your own answers, and you did, but you found them in hard, dark places. It could have been easier. Which is like saying 'the volcano could have not erupted' or 'Grandma could have not died, or at least died easier'.
There's this ringing in your ears and you can't concentrate anyway; you had your say. You can't make them hear it. They don't want to hear it. You do, but you'll figure it out, kid.
I did.
If I may be so bold, I just dropped Mix Tape No. 1, some stories were born here in #2minutesgo! Check it.
Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Happy Friday!
Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.
If you have a blog and you want to post your pieces there too (and link back here), that would be lovely.
You never did understand it, and they wouldn't explain it to you no matter how many times you asked. You'd work up your gumption, take a deep breath and just say it, but you never got an answer. You got chuckles and ruffled hair and you wanted to yell, "yo, I'm not Opie! We're not going to Mt. Pilot for Chinese!" No one else seemed to think there was anything amiss, though, and that was scary.
So, you figured you had to find your own answers, and you did, but you found them in hard, dark places. It could have been easier. Which is like saying 'the volcano could have not erupted' or 'Grandma could have not died, or at least died easier'.
There's this ringing in your ears and you can't concentrate anyway; you had your say. You can't make them hear it. They don't want to hear it. You do, but you'll figure it out, kid.
I did.
If I may be so bold, I just dropped Mix Tape No. 1, some stories were born here in #2minutesgo! Check it.
Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Happy Friday!
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Ain't none of it been true.
The old woman's hands twisted, wringing the water out of some imaginary nothing. Her skin was dry, it sounded like fine-grit sandpaper. Salt and pepper in her hair, and she was beautiful, still, even with the anxious look and the tremor. She was so beautiful it was hard to believe.
She tapped her foot, white orthopedic shoes that matched the nurses'. She was keeping time. That's what she'd say and folks would chuckle, thinking it was a joke. It was no joke. You spend your life on a stage snapping your fingers and singing through your heroes' songs, and it starts to be an obsession. She knew she couldn't keep time - it was slipping away fast, but she could keep a beat, and that's what she did. Click, click. Rubber soles on linoleum.
No one ever visited, but it didn't seem to bother her. She didn't want pity. She'd wave it off. I didn't do much in my life that warrants company, honey. It wasn't true, but she had long ago stopped trying to show people who she really was. They wanted a pretty statue with an Ella Fitzgerald soundtrack that didn't cost as much, so that's what they got.
She felt like a pet, and she didn't like it. She didn't like that the nurses "happened to bring their kids" to say hello sometimes. Look at the legend, kids. The hometown hero. You ignore all that stuff you hear - this here is a good woman. Voice like an angel, and I ain't just saying it. It's the Gospel truth.
It was just lies, but it didn't matter to her, especially now. So, she'd hum a little, shake their little hands, wondering why she was shaking hands with someone she had no interest in meeting, someone who had no interest in meeting her. She was used to the cell phone pictures now. No point arguing, they'd just change the meds and write it off. She knew it wasn't for the kids and it sure as hell wasn't for her. She knew the score. She was on a lot of peoples' computers, she knew that.
She'd tried once. I know what y'all think of me. The crazy nigger. I know you say the word in your head cause you ain't allowed to say it aloud. You wear those whites nice, but this is still Mississippi. I just want to be left alone. Y'all are the same as you always been, you just pretend. Shocked faces. Oh, and the groveling. So fake it hurt her fucking teeth. We would NEVER think of you as crazy or ... that word! But then the meds changed and she didn't like it, so she kept her mouth shut and they backed it off. She'd learned her lesson. The entertainment better damn well stay entertaining.
She'd managed to live her life her way ... to the extent that she was able to - she remembered when the water fountains had labels. Her doctors didn't, but she did. She got a bit of reprieve because she could sing. Just like the little visitors. It was all the same thing. Same as being on a stage sixty years ago. Talk pretty. Call people 'sugar', but don't let them know you're real. These are hard working folks, they didn't come here to feel guilty.
It happened on her birthday. She'd planned it well ... a final gift to herself. She was dead when they found her, but there was a note:
I'm done singing for y'all. Ain't none of it been true. I never did love a man for money, and I never even smoked a cigarette. A man in a suit made up those lies. Said it would make me famous, and it seems he was right. But it was lies. And I never liked singing to begin with. I was just good at it, and it was all I was allowed to do.
The funeral was like a festival. A bunch of balloons tied to a string of lies. Even in death.
She tapped her foot, white orthopedic shoes that matched the nurses'. She was keeping time. That's what she'd say and folks would chuckle, thinking it was a joke. It was no joke. You spend your life on a stage snapping your fingers and singing through your heroes' songs, and it starts to be an obsession. She knew she couldn't keep time - it was slipping away fast, but she could keep a beat, and that's what she did. Click, click. Rubber soles on linoleum.
No one ever visited, but it didn't seem to bother her. She didn't want pity. She'd wave it off. I didn't do much in my life that warrants company, honey. It wasn't true, but she had long ago stopped trying to show people who she really was. They wanted a pretty statue with an Ella Fitzgerald soundtrack that didn't cost as much, so that's what they got.
She felt like a pet, and she didn't like it. She didn't like that the nurses "happened to bring their kids" to say hello sometimes. Look at the legend, kids. The hometown hero. You ignore all that stuff you hear - this here is a good woman. Voice like an angel, and I ain't just saying it. It's the Gospel truth.
It was just lies, but it didn't matter to her, especially now. So, she'd hum a little, shake their little hands, wondering why she was shaking hands with someone she had no interest in meeting, someone who had no interest in meeting her. She was used to the cell phone pictures now. No point arguing, they'd just change the meds and write it off. She knew it wasn't for the kids and it sure as hell wasn't for her. She knew the score. She was on a lot of peoples' computers, she knew that.
She'd tried once. I know what y'all think of me. The crazy nigger. I know you say the word in your head cause you ain't allowed to say it aloud. You wear those whites nice, but this is still Mississippi. I just want to be left alone. Y'all are the same as you always been, you just pretend. Shocked faces. Oh, and the groveling. So fake it hurt her fucking teeth. We would NEVER think of you as crazy or ... that word! But then the meds changed and she didn't like it, so she kept her mouth shut and they backed it off. She'd learned her lesson. The entertainment better damn well stay entertaining.
She'd managed to live her life her way ... to the extent that she was able to - she remembered when the water fountains had labels. Her doctors didn't, but she did. She got a bit of reprieve because she could sing. Just like the little visitors. It was all the same thing. Same as being on a stage sixty years ago. Talk pretty. Call people 'sugar', but don't let them know you're real. These are hard working folks, they didn't come here to feel guilty.
It happened on her birthday. She'd planned it well ... a final gift to herself. She was dead when they found her, but there was a note:
I'm done singing for y'all. Ain't none of it been true. I never did love a man for money, and I never even smoked a cigarette. A man in a suit made up those lies. Said it would make me famous, and it seems he was right. But it was lies. And I never liked singing to begin with. I was just good at it, and it was all I was allowed to do.
The funeral was like a festival. A bunch of balloons tied to a string of lies. Even in death.
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