tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63291942012-02-13T20:49:34.139-05:00Dirty SunshineSome of my works.The Writernoreply@blogger.comBlogger391100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1119992294173323782005-06-28T16:53:00.000-04:002005-06-28T16:58:14.176-04:00Recovery Soon!What an atrocity! I've not posted here in weeks!Damn me and my wretched schedules...not to mention my abhorent lack of artistic ingenuity, these days.However, I am soundly optimistic that the posting frequencies will be shifting shortly! Do keep in touch, my eight regulars!See you all shortly.The Writernoreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1117486526790256862005-05-30T16:53:00.000-04:002005-05-30T16:55:26.796-04:00Light Sitting in the coffee shop—Tim Horton’s—at the corner of the two main streets. She sips at a coffee. The taste is bitter. It’s gotten very cold. She’s been sitting in that store since the early morning. Early morning being about three thirty. The truckers hadn’t even stopped in by then. Neither had the commuters. It was just her and the two women manning the front counter.The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1115048017836473192005-05-02T11:32:00.000-04:002005-05-02T11:33:37.840-04:00Whispering Lie in bed and listen to the sounds. Blankets shifting. Lungs working. Kitten purring. Demons rising. Shadows whispering. Always whispering. Her breathing is soft, low, deep—asleep. Her body moves, occasionally. Limbs changing position so as not to be aware of each other. A long and pointed ear flicks. The blankets shift, nudge her black back a little. A head rises, two The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1109020654014703152005-02-21T16:16:00.000-05:002005-02-21T16:17:34.016-05:00I Don't Care What exactly are you supposed to do when the entirety of your existence revolves around the mood swings of one other person? How are you supposed to exist when someone else is constantly threatening to end that existence? What are you supposed to do when you know full well that this existence can be completely destroyed by a single mood swing? Right. Lets see you answer thatThe Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1109019441268337702005-02-21T15:56:00.000-05:002005-02-21T15:57:21.270-05:00What Good? Running rampant down the streets. Never thought she’d have the strength. Never thought he wouldn’t. Tiny little piece of lead. Amazing what just one can do. Good thing she’s not afraid. Maybe it’s not, though. She’s not afraid of anything. She watched the other get gunned-down in the street. She saw the blood. Saw the tears. Heard nothing for a long time. She still doesn’t feel The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1107880072238097812005-02-08T11:26:00.000-05:002005-02-08T11:27:52.240-05:00Game Warden Ever get the feeling that no matter how hard you try, no matter how well you do, and no matter how perfectly you execute something, it still won’t be enough? Ever get the feeling that you’re never going to be anything but a disappointment in someone’s eyes? Ever get that shot of fear—like lightning charging down your spine, spreading out through your nerves, lighting your body on fire—when The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1101304378650243002004-11-24T08:52:00.000-05:002004-11-24T08:55:21.130-05:00Survival “You’ve shut yourself away from everyone.”
“And what would your point be?”
“It’s not healthy.”
“It’s not your business.”
“I don’t see why you’re like this.”
“I don’t see why you should care.”
“I’m a friend.”
“You’re an acquaintance.”
“That’s cold.”
“Adapt.”
“Adapt?”
“Yes.”
“Along the lines of, The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1100721110337899982004-11-17T14:48:00.000-05:002004-11-17T14:51:50.336-05:00LESSON :: Beatings One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
Stop.
Breathe.
Close your eyes.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
Stop. Breathe.
Close your eyes, tighter.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
Stop.
Breathe.
Grit your teeth.
The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1100386507983606762004-11-13T17:51:00.000-05:002004-11-13T17:55:07.983-05:00WAITING FOR A HERO :: Beatings She's sitting on the curb, in the parking lot, running through her options. She's been sitting on the curb for forty-five minutes. She's been sitting alone for twenty. Everyone went home.
If she goes back home... But she can't go back home. Not after what she said to her family.
If she goes home... But she can't go home. Not after what she said to him.
If The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1099711888716953902004-11-05T22:26:00.000-05:002004-11-05T22:31:28.716-05:00WAIT :: Beatings "You can't hide from me."
A door opens. The hinges creaked -the sound high and fast. The door closes with nothing more than a silent click.
"That's what happened?"
"Yes."
"All right."
"That is what happened!"
Scratching wafts against eardrums. A pen scribbling on paper. A fountain pen on the pages of a notepad.
"She just up and The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1099534022294806982004-11-03T21:06:00.000-05:002004-11-03T21:07:02.296-05:00Beatings :: BECAUSE "Leeda told me what happened."-
She turns to and looks back at her friend, though she doesn't say anything.
Kate's eyes are soft and warm, they always are these days. "Sorry to hear it, hun."
She shrugs, "Better him than me."
"Guess so," answers Kate, stepping forward and shading the sun from her eyes. "You okay?"
"Yeah," she answers with a bit of a smile. "I'm fine."
The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1099420870441564022004-11-02T12:50:00.000-05:002004-11-02T13:41:10.440-05:00The Coup :: THE SHADOW The darkness of the den was perfect. You can’t see a thing inside. The lights are dead—the breaker in the basement having been torn from the wall. Nothing works in the house.
They had made sure to secure the scramblers to battery operated back-up systems. When the breaker died, the scramblers came on. A small feat of ingenuity, to say the least. Though not one she herself The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1099248143213687102004-10-31T13:38:00.000-05:002004-10-31T13:42:23.213-05:00The Coup :: THE INTRODUCTION They sit out on the patio overlooking the marble fountain. Clear and crisp water bubbles and frothes through the polished limestone, shaping something only The Observer understands.
The birds are content today. Merry, even. Their chirps and songs echo all around the grounds. The fresh and strong leaves whistle beneath the light breeze. Everything is very much alive. Mid-July The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1098931142713059662004-10-27T22:28:00.000-04:002004-10-27T22:39:02.713-04:00The Angel Of Death Her footsteps echo through the empty hallways. The lights are not coming to life. It is, after all, four hours after the curfew.
The place is quiet as the grave. It is a well past two o'clock in the morning. The world sleeps now. Save for those like herself. Her footsteps ringing through the entirety of the house. The others living there hear the footsteps. Though they will The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1098840976997948782004-10-26T21:20:00.000-04:002004-10-26T21:36:16.996-04:00The Beginning They wandered home slowly. His arm draped on her waist casually. Her head resting against his shoulder gently. Their footsteps in sync. Their voices soft whispers. Their smiles perfect and young.
"Thanks for supper," she said softly, looking up into his eyes and smiling.
"Anytime," he answered, squeezing her hip with tenderness.
She smiled a little more as The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1098749821071973852004-10-25T20:13:00.000-04:002004-10-25T20:17:01.073-04:00Scoundrels The breeze is so warm, even a little damp. It smells of damp soil and aging leaves. The sky is a deep and crisp blue. There's not a single cloud anywhere in the world above. A couple of sparrows fly overhead, screeching their soft cries.
Off to the East, the sky is growing steadily darker. The sky to the West has that pale late evening light, still. The trees are all bare. The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1098667068948998722004-10-24T20:45:00.000-04:002004-10-24T21:17:48.946-04:00Wait For Me "So, you coming tonight or what?"
Uhm, I can't."
It's not the guy again, is it?"
Uhm, no."
"You're lying to us."
"Come on! It'll be fun! We haven't been bar hopping in ages. You never come out with us anymore. Stay at my place. He doesn't know where I live so it's not like he'll come looking for you there!"
"Besides, have you seen her DadThe Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1095259909608896932004-09-15T10:51:00.000-04:002004-09-15T10:51:49.610-04:00Sakee & Rayne :: SCOTCH Kay is sitting on the couch. She’s almost being swallowed by the big black cushions. It’s an old couch. You sink into it when you initially sit down. If you stay sitting there for over an hour, you almost feel as though it’s closing in on you, trying to wipe you from the face of the earth. Maybe that’s why she’s been sitting in it for so long now.
The alarm clock went off at The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1095211583756541732004-09-14T21:24:00.000-04:002004-09-14T21:29:28.173-04:00Sakee & Rayne :: UNAFFECTEDSakee & Rayne :: September 14-2004 (19:39)
UNAFFECTED
Kay's sitting on the edge of the bed. Her barefeet are planted firmly against the cold hardwood floor. Only her toes are visible -the rest of her feet hidden within the wide-ankled khakis she's wearing. Her elbows are planted squarely -painfully- into the tops of her knees. Her fingers are tented. Her index fingers press against The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1094158319425503062004-09-02T16:51:00.000-04:002004-09-02T16:51:59.426-04:00Sakee and Rayne :: Just A KissJust A Kiss
“Sakee?”
“Mmm?”
“You asleep?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Liar.”
Kay turns over, facing Rayne. With her eyes still shut, “You know it.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“I am sleeping very well, thank you.”
“We should get up.”
“I have no desire to get out of bed today.”
“We should still get up.”
“We should also not be in the same bed.”
The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1094089749619460902004-09-01T21:48:00.000-04:002004-09-01T21:49:09.620-04:00SakeeSakee and Rayne
One's sitting in the comfortable office chair at the desk. A bottle -still nearly full- of Bacardi's Raz sits in a small puddle of cool water, soft droplets of thick condensation forming over the bottle.
She's playing something at the computer. It looks like Minesweeper.
The other one is sitting on the couch. She's got an empty bottle of Smirnoff Ice -Green The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1093312563356477652004-08-23T21:55:00.000-04:002004-08-23T21:56:03.356-04:00Memories with the Shamaan You sit in the big armchair. Your elbows lean over the arms, your hands hang limply above your thighs.
The woman sitting across from you has her legs stretched-out, her feet resting on the coffee table. She's sort of lounging on the couch -the one you should, in all theory, be lying on.
"How long will you sit there?" she asks, looking at you from behind her glasses.
You The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1093215391343345772004-08-22T18:52:00.000-04:002004-08-22T18:56:31.343-04:00Walk Away The coffee shop is bustling with people. Sundays, for some reason or another, always draw such a crowd. You watch as people come and go. Laughing and smiling without any cares in the world -at least, without much thought of their worries.
Four women are seated inside. You watch them chat and laugh together. The warmth of the spring morning pools over you. And yet, your body The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1093208225005722872004-08-22T16:55:00.000-04:002004-08-22T16:57:05.006-04:00Trademark She sits there, on his bed, staring into the darkness. He hates the morning sunshine. She loves it. Really, it's the only thing that keeps her alive anymore. That faint trickle of light, the one that just manages to escape over the heavy black drapes and skirt across the ceiling.
But he caught that light not too long ago. Took a roll of heavy gray tape and covered the remaining The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1092774375164302272004-08-17T16:23:00.000-04:002004-08-17T16:26:15.166-04:00Run The city is oddly quiet. The stars high above the building tops shine brightly. The moon is nowhere to be seen. There aren't any sounds. No cars driving by or honking. No sirens in the distance. No clatter of people ambling about. Nothing. Just the occasional bang, or rat-tat-tat-tat.
It's starting to rain. The droplets are heavy. They fall from the sky, hurtling toward the The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1092019990536526052004-08-08T22:42:00.000-04:002004-08-08T22:55:30.813-04:00Evening Strolls Marion stared out the large window. Her eyes set on the snow covered forest. She watched a small white rabbit, barely noticeable, and watched as it carefully made its way through the treacherous surroundings. Her grandfather, still peacefully puffing on his pipe, watched her standing before the window.
Where has the time gone? he thought. It seemed like it was only yesterday that heThe Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1091799724947149102004-08-06T09:39:00.000-04:002004-08-06T09:42:04.946-04:00White Coats The room is empty. It smells like amonia and bleach cleaners. There aren't any windows in this room. It's suffocating. This room is meant to suffocate you. It's meant to drain every ounce of life from your body. You're supposed to come here to get better. But you don't. If you do leave, you're going to die anyway. If you leave. You don't though. The only way you leave this place is The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1091589869016767092004-08-03T23:22:00.000-04:002004-08-03T23:24:29.016-04:00She's The Only One She goes back everytime she's home. She parks the truck, or car, or station wagon. She counts to eight. Her lungs slowly fill with air. She holds it there, trapped in her body. She holds her breath for ten seconds. She exhales fast. She can't trap anything.
The keys always jingle in her pocket. The cold metal digs into her thigh. The pain forces the understanding that she's The Writernoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1091391401284516272004-08-01T16:10:00.000-04:002004-08-01T16:16:41.286-04:00The Little Things She can't remember the last time she felt this good. Everything is bright and warm. Everything is new. It's all so real. There aren't any shadows around her. There aren't any dangers. All she can see is waiting for her touch, for her experience. It's all waiting for her.
"Look at that!" she says, pointing off into the distance.
"Look at what?"
"That!" She's smilingThe Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1090891902524794822004-07-26T21:22:00.000-04:002004-07-26T21:31:42.523-04:00Tears She doesn't understand what's happening to her. All she knows is that something is not right. Not by any means.
She turns her head a little and sees him lying there beside her. He looks so sweet, sound alseep. His chest rises and falls peacefully, calmly. His fists are clenched, tucked under his chest. His eyes move back and forth behind closed lids. He grunts and The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1090853060865012642004-07-26T10:35:00.000-04:002004-07-26T10:44:20.866-04:00The Drunk and the Bouncer She sits at the bar—alone. He’s late. He’s always late. There was a time that he would arrive early. But then everything changed. He became her nightmare. He’s always late.
‘Better late than early,’ she thinks, taking a sip of her scotch.
The bar tender smiles at her. He winks, too. She looks at her glass and feels her hands tremble. This stranger is smiling at herThe Writernoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1090607394669635262004-07-23T14:26:00.000-04:002004-07-23T14:29:54.670-04:00St-Louis “Son of a bitch!”
The four words echo through apartment. The sound of glass shattering over a cheap tiled floor follows.
“Get up!”
Silence.
“GET up!”
Silence.
“Fucking bitch!”
Silence.
The sound of wood colliding with bone.
“Get the FUCK UP!”
Silence.
“Get up you fucking son of a bit—”
The voice stops in The Writernoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1090515089039422212004-07-22T12:50:00.000-04:002004-07-22T12:52:25.953-04:00Helplessness
Sometimes, when she’s alone, the shadows in the room take-on dark and sinister shapes. Any time she’s alone, the voices she hears scream and blame her for what’s happened—for what she allowed to happen. Now that she is not alone, everything is becoming much more dangerous, much more real.
She sits in her room, legs held tightly against her chest. Her chin is The Writernoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1090422473191201872004-07-21T11:07:00.000-04:002004-07-21T11:07:53.193-04:00Never To Sleep AgainA grey mist wafts about the ground. A damp and heavy rain pummels the dirt, forming lake-like puddles of impossible depth, splashing mud high into the sky. Deep charcoal-like clouds hang above the earth—ominous and destructive. The sky itself is a swirling mass of black, silver, and blood red. Thunder slams across everything, causing the ground to shake. Lightning slashes through the sky, The Writernoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1090253363107063782004-07-18T22:15:00.000-04:002004-07-19T12:09:23.106-04:00
Casual clothes, really. Jeans and a white shirt. Someone must have brought a change of clothes. She wasn’t aware this was allowed. Then again, what does she care? Secretly, she wanted to see him in that orange jumpsuit, with numbers stamped to his back, identifying him as a criminal, a convict, wrong.
He’s already sitting in the room. A man in blue uniform is behind the chair, The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1090253413842141722004-07-18T00:09:00.000-04:002004-07-19T12:10:13.843-04:00Conversations
Casual clothes, really. Jeans and a white shirt. Someone must have brought a change of clothes. She wasn’t aware this was allowed. Then again, what does she care? Secretly, she wanted to see him in that orange jumpsuit, with numbers stamped to his back, identifying him as a criminal, a convict, wrong.
He’s already sitting in the room. A man in blue uniform is behind the chair, The Writernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1089438868441386652004-07-10T01:50:00.000-04:002004-07-10T01:54:28.440-04:00Of Bruises and Beds
“Jesus Christ.”
Ah yes, the eternal and all-encompassing declaration of shock and anger. I turn and see Em step into the ward. All I can do is smile at her. “Hey.”
“Hey?” she says, stepping toward me in something of a mad rush. “Jesus Christ! What—what the fuck happened to you?”
Immediately, my eyes fall to the floor as I start to scratch at the brace that’s now holding my The Writernoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1088195089386169902004-06-25T16:24:00.000-04:002004-07-02T23:09:42.386-04:00Bus RidesThe man and the boy sit there on the bus—silent and still. Neither of the two says anything. The bus itself is considerably more empty than normal. Maybe five people—these two included.
The man is old, probably some ninety years. His skin is slack, creased, aged—wise. His eyes are bright, crisp, laughing, sharp. A deep grey—steel blue, really. His hands and bony. Knuckles resemble marblesThe Writernoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6329194.post-1088135678480325542004-06-24T23:39:00.000-04:002004-07-02T23:10:40.813-04:00Suffocation Of SolitudeShe sits there, alone in the corner of the room. Her chair is empty. The couch is layered with books, papers, pens...garbage, really. She hides in the corner. Her body shivers, trembles...shakes. Broken knees are held tightly under her chin by small and fragile arms.
Her stomach churns and flips. If there was any food contained within, she would throw-up. But she did that already. She had her The Writernoreply@blogger.com0