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Two Freaks and a Haircut

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Written During Lunch Break [29 Jul 2004|01:15pm]

[ mood | bouncy ]

Here take some, she said quietly, putting the leaf on my tongue. It was cool and wet and just a little bit bitter. I chewed it slowly and waited patiently. I watched the rain falling and splashing against the Formica table outside, hoping it would become drops of liquid fire or elves splashing against the table and bursting into dance. I looked at Luisa hoping her face would become a mishmash of shapes. Hell, I’d even settle for one eye becoming psychotically larger than the other one. I waited. I waited to feel languid, to feel myself slip away and become an aqueous material oozing across the floor glowing bright blue. I waited for it but it didn’t happen. The rain remained itself and I remained myself. The room didn’t spin and the music did not become a deep fathomless pool of poetic carnality and wisdom. I looked at Luisa and a silly smile played across my face.
“I don’t feel anything.”

I ate five more.

And the five hours that followed are not quite apart of my memories anymore. I remember that I had wings. I had bright, beautiful wings that were silken and fiery orange. And I danced. I remember dancing and being the most gorgeous, most seductive woman in the room. With my fantastical wings and languorous body movements. I was hypnotic and sensual and above and beyond them. Tony told me all about it later—how I danced and sang all of OK Computer (I even recited “Fitter Happier”!) and most of Amnesiac (I stopped after “Morningbell”). And then I got naked and began screeching “Everybody Hurts” over and over again until finally Luisa and Tonya talked me down and gave me tea and got me to go to sleep.

It was a great Halloween.

2 pages| write!

A Talk in the Moonlight. [19 Jun 2004|12:04pm]

[ mood | cynical ]

She feels a little sad, a little wistful, a little angry as her dark gaze meets his twinkling one. If anyone ever had twinkling eyes, it's him. She supposes that's what utter irresponsibility does to you. Only a man, or boy, with such utter disregard for the lives he touches could possibly twinkle at her so after all his indiscretions and deceit. His twinkle is the twinkle of daring. Daring himself, no -- daring her! to forget the repercussions of what's come before and let the cycle repeat itself anyhow.

She's chatting and flirting...Collapse )


I know this community has gone pretty quiet, but I thought I'd chuck this up here anyway. :)

2 pages| write!

An Idea [25 Mar 2004|11:57pm]

[ mood | sleepy ]

uh... i suppose this community is dead, huh? Dead like your... I won't finish that. But seriously this pertains to writing and I have no where else to post it! It's burning a hole in my nipple. huh? Sorry I'll get to the point and make like a shoe and split. gah?

Tonight I found a notebook containing work I did when I was about eighteen. And I was thinking, it would be kinda neat if we took something that we wrote a while ago and then tried to rewrite it. For the life of me, i don't know why I thought this would be interesting, but it would be kinda interesting wouldn't it? To see how we've changed and whatnot? Well I'm going to try it. Shit.

oh and...


Just a Reminder (and a threat) [03 Feb 2004|05:38pm]

[ mood | exhausted ]

friday the 13th... don't forget or else.

11 pages| write!

Buh [19 Dec 2003|02:09am]

[ mood | sleepy ]

I wrote a story yesterday morning for fiction writing. This is the part that really struck a cord with me.

Part of a StoryCollapse )


A writing question [13 Dec 2003|03:39pm]

[ mood | hot ]

What are some crude euphemisms for having sex?


Grr? [13 Dec 2003|03:39pm]

[ mood | full ]

You know about the sand man, yes? Of course you do. The magical little man who sprinkles stardust in your eyes and gets you to go to sleep—yes, we all know about the sandman.

But what you don’t know is that there isn’t just one. There is an entire village of sand people who live in the place where dreams are made. They’ve got the mill where they take stars to be ground into powder, the pub where they gather after work and the ferry that takes them from the half-dream place to the real world. They do the same things day after day and only live to put people to sleep. Occasionally, they sing and dance but, not very often. They have a very strong work ethic. They’re kinda like the smurfs only not as sickening.

There was one, Gregory, who questioned the idea of spending his days grinding moonbeam into dust and his nights sprinkling it into people’s eyes. Though he was not very handsome or very intelligent, he believed that there was more to life. It began as a passing thought, a little flight of fancy, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he hated grinding stars into dust and wearing his ridiculous silk pajamas uniform. He was sick of being “a cute little man who spreads dreams”. He wanted to be a dancer. The idea of dazzling crowds with his graceful pirouettes and gravity-defying leaps made him squeal with joy. It went from being a dream he kept for his off hours to an all-consuming fantasy that wove itself into his everyday life. When he was ironing his nightcap, he would often hum a jaunty tune and kick his left leg to the side. When he was applying his nightcream (to give his skin a lovely blue sheen), he saw himself at the great mirror backstage getting ready for a performance. Even when he was grinding his loathsome stardust, he would hop up on the grindstone and blow kisses to his adoring crowd. One day, he decided that he’s had enough of ignoring his calling.

The girl stared at the clock. It was three in the morning and she had to get up for a nine o’clock class. She turned off the lights, the television, and turned on some meditative music to calm down. It was not working at all. Her eyes were wide open and sleep would not come. She tried clearing her mind of all thoughts. She tried slowing her breathing. She even tried counting sheep. Nothing was working. And she needed her rest. A week of tests and papers were starting to catch up her. All she wanted was some sleep.
She sighed and decided to do some of her reading for class. That never failed to put her to sleep. As she turned on the lamp, she saw a little flash of blue go running behind her bookbag. She stared intently, hoping that her tired eyes were simply playing tricks on her. But she saw it again, this time more clearly. She blinked several times and rubbed her eyes, unable to believe that what she was seeing was real. A little man, about five inches tall, was scurrying to her to window with a little sack over his back. It was the oddest thing she’d ever seen.
“Hey!” she cried. She waited for a moment and after a series of tiny grunts, the little man was on her bed.
“Hullo,” he said amiably.
“I must be dreaming.”
“You wish!” he retorted smugly. “But I’m afraid you need me for that.”
“I’m Gregory, you personal sandman.”
“This isn’t happening. I’m way too young to be senile. Maybe I’m just crazy.”
“You’re not crazy. I’m real. I’m Gregory. I just thought I should tell you that I’m going on strike.”
Gregory rolled his eyes and sat down. He pulled a tiny bit of bread out of his pack. “You’re not very bright are you?”
“I haven’t slept, you little twerp.”
“Jeez, no reason to get nasty. I almost felt sorry for you, but not now. I was going to help you a bit but—“
“I really some sleep!” she said desperately.
“Yeah I’m sure, but you know, life’s funny. Actually, no, life’s a bitch. I’m not going to help you. I just thought I should warn you: you won’t be sleeping for a while. I’m going on strike.”
“Why would a sandman go on strike? Wait a minute--why should I care?”
Gregory’s face became a storm cloud. “Oh, I suppose I don’t matter, do I? So long as you get a good night’s rest and sweet dreams. Well what about my dreams! You think I like being a happy little freakin’ elf?”
“Well you’re more of a pixie than an elf. Elves are actually human but with a kind of magical—“
“Shut up, please. Just shut up. Don’t embarrass yourself. Listen to me, my life is shit. I wake up, sing a freaking happy song, eat honeydew or some shit and then I spend the rest of my day making stardust so you can get a good night’s rest. This is my life. I will be with you until you die. And trust me, it’s not a million laughs in the little sandman village. I don’t have any friends, my wife left me, and my kids hate me. They think I’m a failure. But no one knows that I have a gift! I spark!”
“What are you talking about?”
“I was meant for the stage!” Gregory’s eyes lit up and he got to his feet and began to pace. “I have this fire inside of me, Human. I want to show the world what I’m made of! I wanna live forever!” He burst into dance. The girl had to admit that he was pretty good, but that didn’t solve her problem.
“You’re good. So why don’t you quit?”
“Quit and do what? There aren’t many choices for a sandman over forty-five. I could be the shoemaker and make these retarded little court jester shoes or I could become a tailor and make these wretched uniforms. Or I could work in the pub.”
“Why don’t you start a dance troupe or something?” She felt ridiculous having this conversation, but she wanted to placate him and have him make with the stardust already.
“A dance troupe? Get a life.”
“So you’re punishing me? What did I ever do to you?”
“Hey, if you want to make an omelet you gotta crack a few eggs. And I’m telling you, until the world is ready to recognize my talent, you and I will both suffer.” And with that, Gregory hopped off the bed and disappeared.

The girl sighed heavily and fell into her pillows.

2 pages| write!

The Scarf. [10 Dec 2003|12:28am]

He had hesitated too long before responding, and it seemed to her as if the air rang out with a cacophony of alarm bells. Time to make her exit. Awkward silences were never her strong point, and this time was certainly no exception. She hated that it always seemed to fall to her to fill them; bloody men and their inability to do anything when things got difficult! As she desperately tried to find something to fill the ever expanding white road-to-nowhere silence that was stretching between them now, her movements were becoming heavy and clumsy, and her normally nimble mind was creaking and groaning like an old rickety staircase. Each mental footstep was supported, but only just. It made a loud complaining noise every time she tried to continue.

God damn him, why was --

"... We could make it a group thing or something, yeah."

Oh, so he does speak! She made a conscious note to kick herself later. Repeatedly. Although she'd much rather be kicking him, for being such an over reacting dunce.

Perhaps she just wasn't worth making the effort for?

No, no. That was an unhealthy way to think. It wasn't her fault that she consistently fell for bad men. Bad for her, anyway. They tended to actually be fairly nice guys. Intelligent, cheeky, witty, arrogant, sexy as hell and always either too old, uninterested or just plain foul. Why had she made the first move? Why had she made any move? Why had she thought for a moment that he wasn't going to fall into her category of unsuitable partners?

He made a quick exit with an exaggeratedly cheery and loud, "See you later!" In retrospect, she reasoned that perhaps she'd not been that terribly forward. Not really. The dark pink blush of shame that crept unabashedly over her cheeks begged to differ, however, and she did a brief shudder as she felt what seemed to be pure mortification trickling down her backbone. She shouldn't feel embarrassed, her rational mind insisted. Yes, she'd made the first move, but it wasn't a terribly huge or inappropriate first move, and he needn't have been so bloody frightened about it. It certainly didn't merit The Look.

Like a rabbit caught in a headlight. She knew that frightened bunny-boy face only too well, and was starting to dread it. She couldn't imagine that she was really all that intimidating or scary. She wasn't physically deformed -- definitely room for improvement, but nothing too terrible and she knew she scrubbed up nicely. She was fairly popular and respected, intelligent, amusing, honest. So what was the problem? Why did she reduce grown men to rodents on a regular basis?

As her frustration and humiliation bubbled up in her chest and constricted her throat, she quickened her pace. Her heels struck the pavement with a vehement force. Every step was stomping on an another frightened bunny face. Serves them right.

She heard her name called, and glanced over her shoulder. He was half jogging towards her, a silly awkward grin on his face.

"Yes...?" she prompted, biting back hope.

"Uh - you still have my scarf..."

With utter disbelief and disappointment flooding through her veins, she lowered her eyes to rest on the black wool scarf that was indeed draped over her arm. She'd held it for him as he'd been fiddling around with his coat. Trying very hard not to show any change in emotion, she handed it back to him with a light hearted smile.

"There you go."

"Thanks. Sorry about that. See you!"

And in a blink, he was gone.

writing question [09 Dec 2003|03:55pm]

[ mood | icky ]

is hard-on a hyphenated word? As in "her husband is always rubbing his disgusting hard-on against her flannel nightgown"? or is it just hard on?

3 pages| write!

Hem Hem [01 Dec 2003|03:13pm]

[ mood | silly ]

I just realized our community doesn't have an icon! Yes, yes I know we've had this community for months and I'm just noticing? I'm a bit slow these days. I was watching the "If I was invisible" video by my best buddy Clay Aiken and I didn't realize until the end of the video that he was saying "invisible." I kept wondering, "why is he mispronouncing invincible? That's totally distracting." And why was I watching a Clay Aiken video? Because I'm a glutton for punishment, that's why.

but back to the point at hand. we need some icons.

7 pages| write!

Jealousy. [28 Nov 2003|11:29am]

[ mood | accomplished ]

It curled around her throat and choked her. It corroded away at her abdomen like acid, it seeped through her blood, running under her skin, clawing her insides, sinking into her thoughts, everywhere around her, relentlessly smothering every other sense. It was pugnent, and filled the air - her first inhale took it full force. The hairs on the back of her neck were ridgid and her mouth was dry. All she could do was stare.

There he was.

There he was.

There she was.

Tender murmurs and loving glances and soft sighs and a lingering, irresistible kiss. A nose, wrinkled in a perfected display of her cuteness, a musical giggle, a woman reduced to a girl by his attentions. Soft, and pink, and with an aura of pure gold around her.

And she stood, silent. Wanting to move but finding herself unable, crippled by the overwhelming taste of bitter on her tongue and the rush of blood in her ears blocking out all sound. Too stunned to cry, it was too real to blink and feign that perhaps she was dreaming or hallucinating. She was too struck to even try to torment herself with "it's not what it looks like" or "it's not really him". Oh God, her head was suddenly terribly, terribly light, she was floating away and at the same time cemented to the spot. Her eyes burned as she watched.

The intensity of the first attack ebbed ever-so-slightly and her body seemed to lighten a thousand times. The burning, seething, crawling sensation had given way to one of absolute emptiness, save a whirring flutter in her heart. There was no sound at all, now, not even the rush of blood. Silence. Ice cold silence, as if coated in freshly fallen snow. She slowly moved her tongue, half to check she still could, and she heard the soft sound of it unsticking itself from the roof of her dry mouth.

The other woman glanced towards her, noted her with a glimmer of nothing -- not even triumph, nothing! -- and glanced away again. Automatically and very smoothly she broke through her granite shell and flashed a warm and wholly unsincere smile in return. He noticed the glance and she could see his eyes widen fractionally as he turned his eyes to her and registered who she was. A nervous half-smile danced across his lips and, although regret was evident in the creases that hinted around his eyes, he returned his attention to its original source.

Slowly, steadily, she turned away. And walked. The satisfying rhythmic click-clack of her heels against the pavement soothed her, if only because she could focus her concentration on it, rather than on what she had just seen. She felt his eyes on her back for a moment. Or maybe she just hoped she did. She knew he felt the same longing, the same sadness... but he had consolation right there in his arms, and she had none.

He had made his choice, and he had chosen to leave her behind.

About 'She'.Collapse )

2 pages| write!

[24 Nov 2003|04:18pm]

This isn't so much a story as it is psychotic babble written while attempting to retain remnants of my sanity during Archaeology today. But, to create the illusion that I actually write and participate here, I thought, hell! Let's post!


A memory resurfaces. A memory that does not belong to me. A memory whose owner I am not even aware of. There are tress the size of houses around, trees so large the fact that they occur naturally

makes them that much more staggering. Their color is deep, so brown it's almost red. So red it could be mistaken as black. You could get lost in their color, in their depth. These tress surround me as I stand motionless, shivering in the shade cast by the canopy that seems as far above me as heaven.

The ground below me is rich. Like the trees, it has more depth than seems usual. More depth, and it is more dense. I can feel it beneath my feet, between my toes. It is cold and moist, and it feels alive, like some form of consciousness flows through it, and through my own body via my contact with the soil. I can smell it, the ground. Not the grass or fragrant flowers, but the soil itself. The smell of earth. It is deep and rich. It contains history, the smell, and memory. The soil covers me. It is smeared across my bare chest, on my cheeks. Why it is there I do not know, but it feels right. Natural. It feels who I am to be covered in the soil of the forest, my bare feet immersed in the ground below me. There is water nearby, not moving or flowing, but stagnant. A pond, maybe, or just the leftover of a heavy rainfall, the same rainfall that made the ground beneath me moist. I can sense it some distance to my right. The movement caused by the fleeting breeze upon its surface. The disturbance.

I don't feel the rain when it begins to fall. I hear it first, the patter of the drops as they hit the water nearby. The hypnotic, monotonous sound. Then the smell of the earth is replaced by the smell of the rain. A smell from the air, not from the ground. And then I feel it, the raindrops, rolling off the leaves of the trees above me, hitting my skin. Cold, sharp points of rain. It hits the dirt on my chest, and begins to run down my skin, like blood seeping not from a wound, but from my every pore.

The rain grows heavier and the blood is washed completely from my skin, down my body to rejoin the blood of the earth below.

I turn my head skyward and let the rain flow through my entire body, washing all the blood away, cleansing and purifying.

And then a noise. The snap of a twig. My head snaps sharply to the left and my eyes peer through the darkness between the enormous trees. My gaze bending around each raindrop. My heart is stopped, my breath still.

Seconds pass, and then minutes. I make no movement. As my heart beats again and I turn my head back to the sky, my ears are assaulted once more by the sound. Twig snapping, leaves crunching. I turn to the right and bolt. My eyes race ahead of the rest of my body searching for my path, clearing a fallen tree, changing direction at that collection of water. When my legs catch up to my eyes, they do as instructed, deviating not an inch from my prescribed path. Behind me the snapping of twigs, the pounding of feet. My eyes now too far ahead, my feet falter, unable to keep up.

An echo of thunder behind me. A flash of light that casts my shadow to the ground before me. My eyes retreat. My legs are taken from under me and my body joins my shadow below. The rain stops, but my blood continues to rejoin the earth below my still body. The trees fade and my eyes close. The smells are gone. The forest is dead.

Story time, children [19 Nov 2003|10:24pm]

[ mood | dark ]

She gave me that old familiar secret smile and went outside with me. The full moon shone almost as bright as the sun and reflected eerily in the ice-covered snow. Pistol went scampering off to her favorite bush, leaving Kate and me on our own. She had that unreadable grin that always made me nervous. I never knew what to expect. She might say, “I’m going to move to New Delhi” or “I’m in love with you” with that broad grin. I braced myself.
“You haven’t changed at all,” she said finally.
“Oh sure,” I replied, finding it hard to talk to her. We used to share the most intimate details and now were resorting to boring small talk.
“No, really,” she persisted, touching the edge of my scarf. “You’re just the same.”
I knew I was. The same twenty year old with the beady eyes and large face, wearing the same old ratty black coat covered in dog hair. I was still me.
She was staring at me expectantly, waiting, I suppose, for me to compare her. This was how it worked. She would say how I had changed and I was supposed to tell her how she had changed so drastically and become a somebody.
“Well… you look very nice. Very…chic. Really.” I could hear the words. They sounded pathetic. I could smell them. They smelled of failure. I could even seem them caught in the night air, wobbly and faint.
She tugged at her jacket. “Well, I feel better. Being away for a while really helped. Now Jo and I are back on track.”

She looked at me and wanted me to ask the sordid details, but I already knew them. I got my information from the unlikeliest of sources. Chris, who usually loathed gossiping, had made it his business to tell me everything. I knew Jo had wanted to get married and that Kate kept putting her off until Jo got fed up and left. I refused to pretend to be interested for her sake. I wouldn’t pretend I didn’t know and ask her all about it sympathetically.

She stared at me for a long while.
“I’m glad,” I said finally.
Kate reached and pulled me into a hug. She reeked of stale smoke. “I’ve missed you.”
I felt my hands pull her into me. I didn’t tell her I missed her too. It was what she wanted, I told myself. Then I cursed myself for playing the ridiculous mind game in my head—still.
She held me for a few seconds longer and pulled away to look at me. Our faces were only a few inches apart.
“You haven’t really changed,” she said quietly, breathing her peppermint breath in my face.
“Yeah,” I replied lamely. I loved her, truly, and I had no reprimands or accusations. I loved her. And I told her so. And for the first time in the history of our friendship, I didn’t feel foolish in saying it. I didn’t care if it was going to be repeated on the car ride home and exaggerated for story-telling purposes. I didn’t care because I really didn’t belong to her anymore. Her whims, her anger, her bodacious laughter, the madness, it was something that barely even skimmed along the surface of my mind. I didn’t forget what I owed her or what she once meant, but really, it was all so long ago and now so unimportant. I could be first in her mind or last and it didn’t matter. Forgiving her was no longer important because she was no long important. Not in the grand scheme of things. Not in the life I shared with Jason. Not in my work. She was once the only soul I loved. I wanted to delve into her, breathe her in, and swim in her to get all that I could. Now she was merely an old friend, a glimmer into the past that could no longer control me.

I smiled at her, patted her arm, and led Pistol back into the house.

23 pages| write!

[16 Nov 2003|10:43pm]

I think it's time we re-vamped this bi-otch. Yes? Yes.
2 pages| write!

I didn't know where else to post it. it will be a story someday, i'm sure. [16 Nov 2003|10:42pm]

[ mood | cynical ]

I regret the first time I ever fell in love. Not like I regret having moved to Chicago, but it’s up there on my list of great regrets. The whole move to “Chi-town” was unavoidable and doomed from the start. But the fact that this deplorable first love began with joy and laughter takes it to another level. It’s one thing to expect misery and depression and then get it; there’s a way of off-set it if you know it’s coming. But not even expect it is like getting kicked in the crotch. And trust me—just because I don’t have a penis doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like hell.

For me, love is something I can’t help but idealize. Not the way some people—typically women—tend to do. I don’t imagine love ever-lasting, romantic dinners for two, Valentines’ Day, and all that other sentimental shit. I dreamed of a bond that is friendship, but somewhat deeper. I’ve mentioned it, dreamed it, and written it so often that it only serves to embarrass and irritate me. It is my unyielding belief that I will ever have a “soul mate” that irritates me. Even though I know deep in my heart that the whole thing is crap, I still hold onto it in that junior high part of my brain. You’d think that by now, as an experienced whore of a woman, that I’d realize that my love life will never include a person who shares a bond with me. Oh, there was the one, the first one actually, but it didn’t last. It didn’t end on good terms. It couldn’t have crashed and burned in a more spectacular way.

I met this succubus when I was still caught up in this idea of a soul mate. When I truly, truly believed that it would all culminate in something important. If I just wished enough, prayed enough, thought positive long enough. It amuses me how I would set my heart on things that I’d never seen in real life. I mean I’ve never had any good examples. My parents loathed each other and slept at opposite ends of the hall since I was born. My brother ended up strangling his wife on their second honeymoon. My sister married a very nice, very kind man but he decided that being married to a woman just wasn’t enough and left with his hedonistic boyfriend, Ted. And of course I had movies and television but it’s all lies. Even when the movie boasts that it was “based on a true story”, it’s a lie.


[13 Nov 2003|11:28pm]

I think I knew he was coming before he even walked in. In a way, it almost seemed like I felt the same way I did when we first knew him nearly ten years ago. Kind of like how when you listen to a CD you haven't heard in years, feelings from the time you last listened to the music suddenly burst forward through space and time and wash over your entire body. Of course, I'm probably just making up all this stuff about feeling and sensing in retrospect. That's one of the problems about writing in the past tense, about only being able to live in one moment of time. You continually rewrite what's done and over with, adding in thoughts and feelings, most of which probably weren't there to begin with.

So maybe I didn't feel anything before he walked in. Maybe I just saw him out of the corner of my eye and only my subconscious registered the fact that I knew him. He walked in, set one of his overflowing bags of who knows what on the wooden bench next to the front door and stood next to the pay phone, as if waiting for someone. As if he could fool anyone into thinking he actually had money to sit down and order food.

I looked up and saw him and my first instinct was to quickly walk away, before he had the chance to recognize me. Yeah, I'm an asshole. What can I say? But at the moment I was taking money from a customer and couldn't just bolt into the back without giving her her change. So I kept my gaze fixed steadily on the counter below me as I did my work, hoping that if I didn't look at him, he somehow wouldn't be able to see me. Well, somehow it didn't work.

"Don't I know you?" the man asked, approaching the counter.

I pulled together the most puzzled expression I could muster and shook my head a little bit, obviously entirely unaware of who the man was. "No, I don't think so," I told him, pushing a rogue piece of hair behind my ear.

He sort of half smiled a bit, knowing that he knew me and knowing that I knew too but was pretending not to know for one reason or another. "Yeah, I remember, when you were just a kid...."

"No, sorry," I said quickly, smiling to the man politely and then looking off to my right towards the back of the kitchen that couldn't be seen by anyone at the front counter, pretending someone had just called my name. I nodded to my invisible coworker, letting him know I'd be right there, and then smiled innocently at the man once again before turning away and walking to the back, hoping that by the time I had to go back up to the counter again, he would be gone.

"Hey, Mike."

He moved to my side, looking at me with a questioning gaze. Mike, the shy, quiet kid who only seemed to say a few words each time I worked with him. But what he did say was always either extremely funny, or extremely thought provoking. I guess that's why I liked him, because there seemed to be something very important just beneath the surface. And though he'd never allow me to know what was there entirely, I treasured the few glimpses I got each week.

"We should totally do this one day," I told him, enthusiastically, pointing to an article in my Outdoor Adventure magazine about rock climbing someplace in the New Mexican desert. I knew he would never actually do anything like that, and I probably never would either, but it's still fun to pretend.

He smiled, the small dimples in his cheeks flittering into existence for just a moment. "I haven't been climbing in so long. I really miss it, actually accomplishing something, and straining, and stretching. Just reaching for something that seems so impossible a lot of the time, but doing it anyway and finally reaching the top. It's orgasmic." There were the dimples again.

"God. Imagine camping under all the stars, a billion times as many as we can see in the city. And the complete silence. No cars. No sirens. Nothing." I looked off, pretending to ponder something but really just resting in silence.

"Hey, that bum is back again," he said, walking to the right silver cooler that lined the back wall. He pulled out a small salad and a cup of dressing, thousand island, and set it down on the counter.

Oh, no. Not him again. It had been a week. I had successfully avoided him the rest of that night. And while we had our share of regular bums that came in to try to get free food, or just for a moment's respite from the cold Chicago winter, I was sure it was the same one as last week. "Sophisticated bum?" I asked him.

"Huh? Sophis --. What?" He grinned in his confusion.

"Sophisticated bum. Tall. Big glasses. A couple canvas bags filled with a bunch of junk."

Mike nodded and shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so."

I peeked around the corner up towards the front desk and spotted him sitting on the wooden bench in the front lobby, his head down and his eyes closed.

"Explain," Mike said.

"Oh. Well, he's this bum who is this really nice guy and everything. He used to buy us beer all the time when I was like, 15. Anyway, he came in the other night and he looked at me and remembered me even though it's been almost ten years since the last time I saw him. And he asked me if he knew who I was. And being the asshole I am, I told him no and then walked away. I got scared," I said, pausing, and then added, "I'm not sure why." I shrugged a shrug that makes anyone understand anything simply by dismissing it.

The phone rang then, as it always seems to do in the middle of stories, whether for good or for bad, and Mike picked up the receiver and began taking some person's food order. I picked up another of the four phones to call Bart because it was 10 o’clock at night and I had nothing better to do. It's sort of funny. He was the one who called me constantly while he was away in Oregon chopping down trees. Now, I miss him more than when he was away. I guess it's just a matter of need.

...The End...? Ahaha, I'm so frickin funny!

The Story Place [10 Nov 2003|01:19am]

[ mood | dark ]

Told to Naomi

Tonight I went back to The House. That crappy diner that's open all the time and serves the best coffee. I went there with a fresh pack of Camels—yes Camels—and smoked the entire thing while watching the other patrons talk and smoke and eat pancakes.
I woke up between your legs, breathing in your spicy smell and I felt so trapped that I had to get up and leave. So I went to The House and sat by myself at the window. I had the 3 egg omelette with toast and strawberry jam. I sat there for four hours. I thought about you. Actually, I thought about you in comparison with him. I know it irritates you, but I still think of him. I don't think I still love him but I still crave him. I've been happy these last two years and I really haven't thought about him at all. But I ran into Cal yesterday and it got me going.

I was walking to pick up some rum for tomorrow when I saw him. I hadn't seen him or thought about him in forever and there he was, just standing in front of Ellie Todd's market, smoking a cigarette and talking to some girl. I don't know what made me go up to him and speak to him, but I did.
“Hullo, Cal.”
He smiled brightly at me. “Hello, Sunshine!” he cried. “You look good.”
The little girl next to him sucked her teeth and stared at me. “Who's this, Cal? I thought I was your “Sunshine”.”
“You are, honey, you are,” he said quickly. “Why don't you go in and get some chips? I'll be in as soon as I finish my cigarette.”
The Lolita gave me a quick, withering glance and went inside.
“Still trolling the playgrounds, Cal?”
“Har. You always were a barrel of laughs, Kel. She's legal.”
“So, how you been? You look good.”
“Thanks, Cal. I feel good. How have you been doing?”
He looked like shit. His beard was longer and bushier and his skin was white. His large dark eyes were bloodshot.
“I'm good, Kel. I'm really good. I've been working night and day on this new art piece. That girl? She's my new model.”
“Don't look at me that way.”
“How long have you been back in town?”
“About two months.”Five years ago, Cal was chased out of town by this girl's brothers and father. They found Cal and the girl doing it in the pool. She was a rich art student who thought slumming it with some emaciated creep would help keep her “grounded”. Her little adventure left Cal with cracked ribs and an eye that would never be able to see the whole picture.
“I thought I would come back and visit with my good old pals. I stopped by your place and you guys were gone. Where are you and Chase staying?”
I was surprised that no one had told him about Chase and me ending it all after six years. I sighed.
“We moved out of that dump and into this little place on Ashland. But I don't live there anymore. I moved out.”
“You guys are over?”
“Well.” He looked at me for a moment with a long hard look. “Well. That just fucks with my entire idea of right and wrong.”
“Sorry to fuck up your ideology.”
He shrugged. “Eh, don't worry about it. It had to happen some time.”
“What have you been up to, Cal?”
“Nothing at all, really. Left to avoid death and stayed away to clean myself up. I'm more focused than I've ever been, Kel. It's so freeing. I love it.”
“Well I'm glad for you.”
“And I've fallen in love.”
I stared at him in shock and didn't speak for several moments. “Not that girl.”
“No, not that girl,” he replied irritably. “I told you she was just a model. No. I meet this wonderful woman at The House. She's so incredible. We've been dating for a month and a half. She's changing my life.”
“She's a woman? A grown up?”
He glared at me. “She is.”
“And she's real? Not just another of your hallucinations?”
“You're cracking me up here. Yes, she's real. With warts and all. And she's brilliant.”

The little darling joined us outside again, her face stuck to the inside of a Chee-tos bag. “I got to go home now,” she said after finishing the bag. “I'll talk to you later.”
“Yes, of course Sunshine. Good-bye.” He gave her a small peck on the forehead and smiled at her. The little fool smiled back and skipped away.
“This is how you got in trouble in the first place,”I said.
“But it's different this time. She's just a kid to me.”
“So... are you seeing anyone?”
“Yes.” I was afraid to tell him about you. I was worried that he would think ill of me and then I remember that this was the pedophile. Nothing I said could upset him. “Her name is Naomi and she works as a receptionist at Fowler and Page.”
He stared at me for a moment. “You're dating a chick?”
“I'm shacking up with a chick.”
“Nice,” he replied. “Kinky.”
“Uh... why don't you come by tomorrow? We're having a party.”
“Oh, I can't, kiddo. I've got big plans for tomorrow. Me and the missus are going to go and spend the day in the park. We're going to sketch, write, eat, and make love.”
“I'm sure the other people in the park will love that,” I said smiling. “Well, I'll see you around, Cal.” I gave him the tiniest of hugs and went about my day.

I would have forgotten about Chase if I hadn't read something he'd written. I wouldn't have read what he wrote if Lorna and Cluth hadn't sent me the article. They really are a couple of bitches. They knew what it would do to me. “Love is no limits. It can only replinish.” I began to cry. I never cry. I began to sob and wish I were dead.

You see, he never really believed that when he was with me. There were always limits with him, places I couldn't go, things I couldn't touch. Our love didn't have replinishing power; it simply held things together for while but finally was spread too thin to sustain us. The way he tells it, I was too rigid and unwilling to let him have his dark quiet corners where he could retreat to get away from me. The way I tell it, he's an asshole. It's quite simple for me.


Just a Question [08 Nov 2003|03:37pm]

[ mood | crazy ]

urm... I know this is our community, but I was unsure about something. I didn't know if it was a rule or anything.

Can we post anything? Even if it sucks to high heaven? I mean, that's the point isn't? To post some work even if it sucks and then discuss it like we used to do? And not just post "gosh wilikers!" or "hmmm...nice." I mean, to actually discuss it. Yes? I'm only asking because I would love if we could discuss the nuances of the stories. If we could talk about the details that stood out or we felt were missing. A public forum instead of just discussing it with two people and third missing out some dialogue. I mean, this is Word Shit True dat. Not Word Shit or Word True dat or any of the other two word combinations. It's kinda like the planeteers. their rings work on their own, but only when all the powers combine can they create Captain Planet.

Did I just use a Captain Planet reference?

You see how sick I am. And how important this is. I think we should start posting at least once a week. Even if it's shit. At least we'd be writing. And discussing. and whatnot. Come on you guys. Especially you, missyb1117. Please post. I'm on bended knee, beggin' you please.


We live in a beautiful world [03 Nov 2003|07:01pm]

[ mood | content ]

"I just don't understand why suicide is such a big deal, if you really consider everything," the boy said, pacing the cement patio back and forth under the dreary, late afternoon gray sky.

"And you've considered everything, then, I guess?"

"Well, I know what I have here, what I'll be leaving behind, who I'll be leaving behind. And I know what I'll have afterwards. The more I think about it, the more I realize I actually have nothing worth sticking around for." He stopped in the middle of the empty yard, looking skyward as the clouds parted momentarily, allowing a small ray of cold autumn sunshine to escape to the earth below. The clouds shifted, the sun hidden. "Except maybe that...."

"Nothing worth sticking around for? No one worth sticking around for?"

The boy sighed and looked down from the sky to his feet as he began shuffling aimlessly around the patio once more. "They would understand. They would forgive, in time. I mean, how could they not? Yeah, it's a selfish thing. Or so they say. But the people who say that must have really sad lives to think something like that. What people need to do is step into someone else's shoes for just a minute. Just pretend, what would it be like to really be this person, apart from all the facades and fake cheerfulness? No one really knows."

"No, I guess no one does. Though, how could they?"

"Yeah, how could they? Maybe I'm thinking about it all wrong. I don't know. I never was great at understanding other people very well. Hell, I don't understand myself half the time."

"And it's not worth trying? Others and yourself?"

The boy's eyebrows raised questioningly, angrily. "Like I haven't." His expression faded. Dead leaves littered the cement patio of the backyard, leaves the boy was brushing aside with his feet.

"Hmm. You've considered everything then. You're so sure what will be waiting for you once you're dead?"

"Well, of course," the boy smirked. "I know better than anyone else. I've seen it for myself."

"You've seen heaven?"

"In a dream, once. Although, I don't think I'd use the term heaven. But I've seen what's waiting for all of us when we die. And you know what? I feel no hesitation at all, concerning that. It's like the next step in some great cosmic ladder. That's stupid. But most people think of the life of the soul in only two different parts: life on earth and whatever comes after. But my view is much wider. I see a much greater scale of things. There's so much more after this life, and after what comes next, and after that. I think probably it's never ending.

I'm ready to move on to the next part, the next act. I feel like no matter what happens, no matter what I try or how hard I try it, I'll never be more than I already am, I'll never accomplish more."

"That's a very sad thing to think."

The boy stopped once more, leaves crunching under his feet and then silence. A pitiable expression on his face as he sighed and said, "Yeah, I guess it is. But...I don't know how to think any differently, sometimes."

"It will be okay, soon."

"Yeah, soon. Always soon. I say this every winter, but I really think these heavy gray clouds and cold empty days are going to kill me." He looked around, no blue in sight. All colorless.

He walked to the back door and stepped inside, warmth stinging his skin and artificial light burning his eyes. His mom walked into the kitchen as he closed the door, keeping the heat in. She looked at him with a feigned expression of wonderment and frightened concern.

"What is it?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "Who were you talking to out there?"

"Oh." The boy felt embarrassed and fumbled for words. "I...hey, everybody talks to themselves. As if you don't."

His mom shrugged and smiled with half her mouth. "Well, I'm old. I'm allowed to act crazy. You're only twenty, what's your excuse?"

The boy smiled and began to walk past her, mounting the stairs that led to his bedroom two at a time. "I'm in a good mood," he called back to her from the top of the landing.

1 page| write!

ummm... [27 Oct 2003|06:49pm]

[ mood | happy ]

Thought I'd clear things up for folks

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