someone in real life noticed this and decided to write a birthday greeting on a wall. "happy birthday," he wrote, attaching a paragraph-long message.
(more) it looked too sappy, so the message disappeared.
"happy birthday" alone looked too impersonal by itself, so two sentences showed up.
the sentence couple didn't look as thoughtful as the paragraph, so the paragraph came back, reversed.
now the message's structure was all tangled. backspaces ate up the whole post before a "better" version got typed down as a replacement.
an entire hour passed before the message was deemed perfect. the whole thing was ultimately scrapped, though, because what would people think of his message on her wall?
yet what would she think of his message /not/ being on her wall?(less)
A slight whiff still lingered in the air. The unmistakable, addictive, aroma of gasoline - petrol! He must remember to call it petrol now. It was these types of colloquialisms, along with his other American idiosyncrasies, that could give everything away. Maths not math. Boot not Trunk. And silencer(more) not muffler. A slight whiff of petrol still lingered in the air, but it had almost been completely replaced by the much thicker and dirtier smell of smoke and soot. He threw his old passport into the burning car and watched it slowly curl and fall apart. He was ready to start his new life, a new fresh start, rising out of the ashes of what had become a tired and miserable affair. He walked back onto the main road and flagged down a car. "Hello, you couldn't possibly take me to the nearest gas station could you?" (less)
Between the cost of the hotel and the gasoline, was the gig even worth it? This was not a question Betsy ever asked. Shows were life.
"I'll take it, Stevie." That's all she said. Steven Little was her agent, and older than she was. "Give it ta me,(more) Steve." As if a show was something he would hold back from her, like punishment for her transgressions, the way a parent would hold back dinner.
She'd gone from famous to revered, from thin to fat. She lost all perspective on her own desirability as a talent, as a woman. She only knew what she was. What was life and bread to her, same thing. To sing her songs and not meet anyone's eyes. Just knowing she had them trapped in the bars her voice built, lilting over their heads and their cigarette smoke in clubs. She herself did not smoke anymore though she longed to. She'd kept drinking though, and it showed in her eyes and face. She requested pure white gardenias to pin above her ear and distract from her looks.
In 40 years there would be Auto-Tune. There'd be music videos and expectations of youth everlasting. A new aesthetic of propped-up tits and ass, liposuction and Botox, and yearning looks that spoke of easiness. Of being easy, never hard or difficult. But then Betsy (who would die young) only put on her good trim suit, not worrying if she repeated it twice. Opened her mouth and let the song do the speaking.
Before shows Betsy combed her hair straight up from her ears and pinned it. She lined her lips sharp red and colored them in fuller than they looked close-up. That was the great thing about the stage. The audience was close and she was distant. (less)
Muddy trunks and a sky as delicate as piano notes hugged the convulsing flames. Everything looked like stop motion. The gas was therapeutic, she could command her ghosts into the heat, then put them to bed.
This was the last step in 10,000. Her parents died, her ca(more)r took her to 100 new families until it passed, strangers took her to a further 50, then her feet took her home. She looked about her, happy to be alone with the voices inside. She thought home was where you are taken care of, but it was where she could be herself - where she could be insane. She didn't believe the voices lived beyond her, but she believed they existed; they thought therefore they were.
The quiet hill gave them space to speak. Aggressive rambles subsided into peacefully voices, talking civilly. They befriended one-another, and Sarah befriended them. They would move their voices into quiet melodic hums, and Sarah sang a lead. Sarah was finally home.
changed a lot since mom left
he keeps old furniture in there now
spiders live in the old armchair that was mom's
tools that are no longer used rust away
and open containers of gasoline stain the old rug
(more) inside dad watches Seinfeld on VHS and
cooks beans and soup in the microwave
on holidays i visit him
bearing gifts of ham and mashed potatoes
he plays a scratched CD:
"TUNES FOR CHRISTMAS"
i tell him that No dad, it's Easter
on his good days he bakes cookies
and we share a beer on the porch
he asks me about my job
mom and her new man live
in one of the big houses at the edge of town
their garage painted white
with a ferrari and
spiders are not welcome there
and gasoline is stored in stylish metal cans
painted with flowers
on the fourth of july
american flags flutter
the neighbors come for corn-on-the-cob and bbq
moms new man wears a kiss the cook apron
"i hope your father's doing well," she says
like she had never married him, had a child with him, broken him
i tell her about his cookies
and yes he still watches Seinfeld
on her good days she kisses me
with cherry red lipstick
and tells me that the divorce was the hardest thing she ever did
and asks me Is my old armchair still at his house
He is unreliable and he did leave. Timothy cursed living in this decade. He hated Bob Dylan and the rest of them for framing "Rolling Stones" with, that, caricature. You must be uncommitted because you're free. The tragedy had been glazed over.
(more) He didn't commit because he felt smothered, he couldn't breathe, and it left him choking on panic. How long can you stay underwater? He did pretty well for five years. It was everything he could take, and it did not change the amount he loved his daughter. She was the only reason he drowned for so long.
He missed her large warm eyes. He would keep choking on them if he could.(less)
“I’m a rolling stone all alone and lost” Hank Williams admitted through the beatup Chevy’s radio as Killer Clyde drove towards the most notorious Street in New Orleans. Money was on his mind til’ he saw her standing on the side of the road. Her fluorescent sunglasses and short(more) shorts jerked him out of his thoughts.
He didn’t know why but he pulled over and asked her “Where you headed, Darlin’?”
With a sweet southern drawl she answered “Shealy May Bayou”.
“Well. Sheally May Buyou I can get you there but I have to handle some business before then, care to tag along?”
She thought for a second then answered “Sure Mister I can wait” with the look of desperation in her eyes.
Clyde told her to get in and buckle up and when she protested he explained that he didn’t abide with carelessness.
Basin St. was cleaning up from the night before as they came into the French quarter.
Shealy May Bayou said “I just left this place, why you comin’ back.
“I have to” the Killer named Clyde stated.
He pulled his shotgun from under his seat as he turned the corner and parked.
“How high can you count, Shealy May Bayou?”
“I can count to a million… asshole” she replied.
“Well count to 500, if I ain’t back, go on home and never say nuthin, …deal?”
“Deal”, she said.
You had me breathless from the beginning. The way your deep blue eye's pierced into the depths of my very being sent a chill down my spine the moment I saw your face. You saw me for who I was the instant we locked eyes. You were the one.(more) When you smiled, radiance poured forth like the first crack of sunshine on a new day banishing the cold, dark night. The sound of your voice was music to my ears. God in heaven listens to your laughter when he wants to smile. Your wit was stunning, your kindness, divine. When I reached towards you and you reached a hand out to touch mine, my heart melted. When I woke up though, it broke.(less)
Candy-red lips soaked in sangria,
The Bloodletting Bitch with bumblebee hair.
She bristled alive, frost in her eyes,
Caught a glimpse of her lies with my own silver eyes.
Sapphire emeralds with pewter and jet,
A throwing of magic and throne of the wise,
(more) Thrown, cast aside in the magnate of books.
Her wisdom and beauty unmatched by her looks,
She tells me I'm wrong when it's my turn to die.(less)
i get breathless from
a lot of things.
running (wow that wears me out)
walking (yeah maybe i should exercise more)
sitting down (okay now it's getting embarrassing)
laughing (this is my favorite)
(more) crying (least favorite)
talking (i'm surprised i ever have air)
seeing (have you seen the stars around here?)
understanding (man when it clicks it stuns me)
learning (so much to learn so little time)
i guess i am
easy to please
i have really bad lungs)(less)
I imagine life as a dog toy would be traumatizing, especially when I see "dead rabbit" has reemerged from the shallow grave our dog has buried him in, covered in pieces of dead grass, dirt and leaf matter. He probabl(more)y wished to be some child's teddy bear- to be hugged, and cuddled, and cared for. Even the whole dangling from the arm thing while being carried and tossed from room to room would be preferable to the thrashing and shaking of dog's play. The horrible pain of sharp, little teeth chomping and ripping just to hear that /squeak-squeak/ is probably too much for poor "dead rabbit."
When he saw those squeakers on the assembly line of the toy factory he must have known it was the end.(less)
Gotou stood over the kitchen sink, head tilted forward and a towel pressed to his nose to stifle the bleeding. It didn't feel like his nose was broken, thank god, but DAMN that had rattled his brain about but good. He glanced over to Masayoshi, who was hovering guiltily(more) in the doorway.
"Are you okay?" Masayoshi asked tentatively.
"If that was just a flail, I don't ever want to be on the business end of your right hook," Gotou said, and carefully lifted the towel. A few bright bursts of blood dripped into the sink below, but it seemed the majority of the bleeding had stopped. Gotou rubbed the bridge of his nose tenderly and glowered at Masayoshi, who promptly shrank behind the doorframe.
"I'm sorry," he said, eyes and hair the only thing visible.
"I ran my face into your fist and you're the one apologizing," Gotou huffed, and rinsed the blood-stained hand towel under the cold water. He inhaled deeply through his nose, the metallic scent and taste of blood still in his throat. "It was my fault, Masayoshi."
Which, it was his own fault - Masayoshi wasn't paying attention, Gotou should have been - but Masayoshi was still hovering, the expression on his face wavering between kicked pupped and just plain ol' guilt. "Jeez," Gotou said. "You should be yelling at me for not paying enough attention you know."
Masayoshi eased through the doorway - it was amazing how he could fold in on himself, he was taller (by just a hair, Gotou thought indignantly), but he could make himself seem much smaller by just his posture. "I should have been paying more attention too," Masayoshi said softly, and put his hand gently on Gotou's face. "Does it hurt?"
"Not anymore," Gotou murmured, and smiled for Masayoshi.(less)