January 31, 2011
Sick...again. I've had all of 3 or 4 actual healthy days this year. It's awesome, really. I'll probably get healthy on wednesday, which is when the entire northeast is suppose ot be buried under [x]inches of snow, which Ill be shoveling, alone, and will leave me sick again.
I'm exhausted and unable to focus...Ive spaced out on more than a few facebook/aim convos this week and writing anything useful has gone out the window.
...so you get this instead...
I jumped out the window
And found I could fly
I soared strait on up
And out into the sky
I passed a flock of birds
And some ducks heading south
I tried so very hard
To keep bugs out of my mouth
I felt just like Icarus
Or that guy Clark Kent
I’ll fly so very far
Long before I’m spent
I’ll fly through clouds near stars
Deep into the night
You’ll sit on the ground and marvel
At my amazing flight
Now back to reality
Where I’ll be hitting the ground
As I’m about to land I wonder
Will I make a sound?
Watch me from a distance
Be sure not to miss
Remember when I hit the ground
To blow me a kiss
Wake up again I’m flying
Up high again once more
Pale, dead, transparent
And still yet I soar
And once again I’m falling
At the sound of some bell
For I committed suicide
And now I go to hell.
January 30, 2011
Yea, that's right. I tried it. Tell me what you think :-). I don't have a title but I'm pretty sure rappers name their song's after whatever word is said the most.
January 29, 2011
Hey Everyone. I just realized it's been a couple of days. So I figured that since I haven't finished any of my stories and I don't want to post them yet I'll throw an old poem on here. I was at a club last night, and I pretty much had one of the funnest times of my life and it reminded me how much better things have gotten since I wrote this poem that I'm posting. So I hope everyone enjoys.
January 28, 2011
Got a couple other awesome writers on the way, folks, so our quartet will soon become a sextet (which sounds so much better, dont you agree?)
Meanwhile, enjoy this little bit while I decide what long term project to do here next...
A simple task
Forgotten by a drunken stumble
The message gone
Save for fragments
Impossible to decipher
Remember it not
No longer means a thing.
January 25, 2011
So...between 2008 and 2010, the bulk of my writing efforts went towards a project called "That One Night" It completely overshadows all my previous projects in terms of length, time spent, bloodshed per death, swearing*, and the most important stat: readers.
*Id have to check on that one...I do swear a lot when I write. I use "fuck" more than commas...
Obviously Ive found a new obsession in this site, but it does raise a key question:
Why not post it here?
Cuz its fucking long, holmes. I could break it up and post it piece by piece, but then Id be unable to post anything new for a long while and Id rather use that time to work some raw, unseen and unedited work.
But I'm not a complete asshole...so Ill post this one shot-short story that takes place in the same universe, bringing up a plot event for the hell of it.
You can call it a teaser...just dont call me a tease...
"That One Bus Ride"
Hey, how ya doing? You don’t mind if I sit next to you, do you? Of coarse not. I mean, yeah, it’s just me and you on this bus but hey, you looked like you could use some company. Funny thing about buses…eh, no. I doubt you’d be interested in the last time I rode a public bus. Then again it sure makes a great topic of conversation while we’re actually on a bus.
Not much of a talker, eh? That’s ok. Better off with no interruptions. I hate interrupters, always budding in on my stories with silly little questions. I fucking hate it when people do that. What’s that? Don’t approve of swearing? Yeah, I know you didn’t actually say it but you sure as hell were thinking it, I can tell. Don’t ask me how it is that I can tell because that would be one long ass story that I certainly couldn’t tell before my stop comes up. Anyway, yeah, I swear. I swear a lot. Get used to it, I certainly have.
So yeah, the story I was gonna tell you. Well, you remember that one night where that gas station blew up? What am I saying, of coarse you remember. Who wouldn’t? Explosion damn near woke up the entire city let alone how it was in the news all week. Well I was there. That’s right, I saw it in person…well, no. I didn’t actually see it since I was sprinting as fast as I could away from it at the time, but trust me, I was there.
Quick side note: remember how the news reported that there were “definite fatalities” but couldn’t produce any bodies? They said they were completely obliterated? Yeah, tragic, I know. You know why they couldn’t find any bodies? That’s because those “definite fatalities” didn’t stay dead. No, I’m not talking about zombies; sorry, read your mind again, didn’t I? There were no zombies at the gas station, but the people who died at the gas station didn’t exactly stay dead. Damn, you sure are skeptical. I’m not even sure why I brought it up.
So, gas station blew up, right? And let me tell you, I was sure as hell lucky to still have my eyebrows. By the way, in case you were wondering, I didn’t actually cause the gas station to blow up in the first place, that was the attendants fault…well, not entirely his fault. He couldn’t exactly be held accountable for his actions at the time as he set himself on fire and ran into a spraying gas hose. Funny how being possessed works, huh? Don’t give me that look.
Look, this isn’t even about the fucking gas station. It’s about my bus ride. I’m just letting you know about the gas station so you know when this all went down. Now, the night the gas station went up and obviously I need an alternate mode of transportation now since the truck I was originally driving around in was currently on the moon thanks in part to the gas station. So eventually we found a bus stop and caught the next bus.
Huh? Oh, yeah. “We.” There were two of us. No I didn’t forget to tell you shit, I was just getting to that part. I wasn’t traveling alone, I was with….uh…my niece. Yeah, that’s it, my niece…who I was taking home to her mother. No, she wasn’t anywhere near the gas station when it exploded. That’s just silly. You’re silly.
Anyway, me and my niece caught the next bus that came by. This is where the whole story becomes relevant, and why I don’t bother with public transportation unless I absolutely have to. This isn’t just some run of the mill bus we climbed aboard either, no, this is the midnight run crowd. You know the crowd, right? No, you wouldn’t. You probably only ride the bus at normal hours. Smart move, but I didn’t have the luxury of choosing when I rode the bus, or who I rode the bus with. I just had to deal.
The midnight run crowd isn’t exactly a bunch of nice people. You ever wonder how murderers and rapists get home after they’re done murdering and raping? How could you not? Well a friend of mine came up with this theory that they all take the same bus home and work on alibis with each other. That would be one interesting crowd. No, I’m not saying that that particular bus was filled with murderers, I’m just saying that the people on the bus reminded me of murderers and rapists…plus that one guy I’m pretty sure was a rapist.
Whatever, there were four other people on the bus at the time, all spread out around the bus and sitting alone. There was the rapist up front, a homeless woman a few seats back of the driver, a drug dealer in the way back and the wild card guy who looked like he had just got done with a Richard Simmons workout and forgot to change out of his short shorts and tank top, he was sitting a few rows ahead of the dealer. Now, I’m not exaggerating with any of these people, they really were a rapist, homeless, drug dealer and that other weird guy.
So, all these weird people on a bus, and they give me of all people a collective “what the fuck?” look when I walk on. I mean, yeah, I looked like shit; I was covered in dirt, bleeding and my pants had been on fire before, but to say I was the weirdest person on the bus was a gross overstatement. These people didn’t know about the gas station either, and I doubt they would care even if I had told them. It wouldn’t have changed their perception of me as the weirdest person on the bus, that‘s for sure.
I didn’t talk to any of these people. No reason to. I had somewhere to be and the only way there was to ride the bus. None of that required me to talk to anybody, and they sure as hell didn’t talk to me. Shit, they didn’t even make a peep. No coughs, no sneezes, no clearing of throats, nothing. And it wasn’t out of fear, either. I mean sure, you hear a loud explosion and you don’t immediately think “Yup, the ole gas station must have gone up.” Hell, most rational people think it’s a terror attack and run for cover. These people on the bus though, it was just another night riding through the city; one going home after sex, another looking to sell, one tired after sweatin’ off some weight and another with absolutely nowhere to go. The only difference here was that I had decided to join their ranks tonight.
We took a seat in the middle of the bus and waited. So, like I said, utter silence until the bus made another stop and picked up a new passenger. The driver said something to himself about getting some winners tonight as a black guy wearing all black stepped onto the bus. I thought he looked familiar until I realized that it was the gas station attendant. I shit you not. He wasn’t black so much as he was burnt to a crisp. Every time he moved, he skin would crack and crinkle like it were glass being stepped on.
I kinda slumped down into my seat and hoped he wouldn’t notice me. Ya see, while he was possessed and trying to blow us all up, I kinda kicked him in the nuts hoping that would stop him. It ultimately didn’t, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t happy about it. Sure enough as he cracked his head around and surveyed the crowd, he came upon me and immediately started walking over. I briefly considered jumping off the bus to get away, but it seemed moot since it would require me to somehow get passed the burn man anyway.
So the guys standing over me, just staring down. I try apologizing for getting physical earlier, but he only stares some more, also he growls a little, and he’s balling his hands into fists, and I doubt anyone would rise up and fight him off if he decides to beat me to a pulp. Also he smells like cooked beef jerky, which made it hard for me to concentrate on an escape plan. So, inevitably, beef jerky became my escape plan. I told him that’s exactly what he smelt like and he should beware of any hungry dogs who might attack him, and ya know what, he laughed! He thought it was funny. Then he turned and walked away. Anti-climactic, I know, but what would you expect me to do? Fucker wants to kill you and he just recently walked away from being inside a gas station explosion? If that don’t fuck him up, there ain’t much I can do to stop him.
The gas station dude is no longer a threat and we rode in silence for a while longer. When we hit the next stop, all those non-dead people quickly got off the bus leaving just me and the burnt man…uh, and my niece. We did pick up a couple new passengers though, a man and a woman.
The man was a former drug addict and the woman used to be an aspiring model. She was hot but she had been taking a lot of dieting pills and avoiding food. I say they used to be a drug addict and aspiring model mainly due to the fact that they were dead now as w-
-Hey! I saw that, mother fucker! You thought about pulling the stop cord and running off the bus, then you twitched for it before second guessing yourself. Why would you want to stop now? This isn’t anywhere near your house and I’m not crazy, nor am I lying. Those two people were dead. The guy was wearing a wool knit hat and you know something? Blood was flowing down both sides of his head from the hat. It had pooled into his shirt and was glistening in the light…ok, maybe not glistening, but it sure has hell was wet. Plus his jaw was just hanging there. I mean, really hanging, like it wasn’t actually connected to his skull anymore except for the skin and tissue.
The woman? She was eating…herself! I kid you fucking not! She was reaching into her shirt, and was pulling out organs from her torso, then she ate it before presumably reaching back in for it again. It was probably the same portion of stomach and it looked disgusting at the time, though awesome in retrospect...Please stop pretending like you’re going to puke. We both know you’re not.
Anyway, the guy stood up and walked over to the driver. After saying something inaudible to his girlfriend, he reached over and snapped the drivers neck. At first I wasn’t worried because I figured the driver would come back top life and drive the bus like a maniac, and keep the bus from slamming into that upcoming building. No such luck. Apparently you don’t get to return to life if it happens to benefit me.
So yeah, we crashed. I know the news reports talk about the bus crash and how it happened right after the gas station explosion, but it didn’t, and it had next to nothing to do with the gas station other than a few of the occupants. The crash wasn’t that bad though, me being the only one on board with a pulse to begin with didn’t hurt either…oh yeah, and the niece…
So, that’s kinda the reason why I don’t trust public transit as much: never know when some undead asshole will come on board and kill the driver just for a cheap thrill.
…Alright, lemme be honest with you: I don’t have a niece. The little girl who was with me wasn’t related to me, I didn’t meet her until a short while before the bus ride and I never knew her while she was alive. Don’t get me wrong, she was an undead freak like everyone else on the bus that night but she seemed to have liked me so she didn’t try to kill me…plus she kinda proved her worth earlier when she helped me scare an old lady half to death and inadvertently kill a cop…
Oh look! That’s my stop. Great talk! Can’t wait until we talk again…oh we will, but we wont, cuz you’ll be strung out on meth and I’ll be all kinds of fucked up after falling down a staircase. Gonna be one hell of a New Years party!
January 24, 2011
Dear Man in the Next Stall,
Don't pretend I didn't hear you. I walked in only a moment after you. I heard the sound of toilet paper folding into the form of a toilet seat cover. And then to make it even better you used a toilet seat cover. Is there a reason for that much protection? Are you trying to fool the world into believing that your bowel movements are made up of waste more pure than everyone elses?
Although we only shared moments of disgusting sounds, I feel I already know enough about you to not want to be your friend. There were three open stalls. And although Man Law indicates you are to choose the furthest stall away, I'm not sure it meant for you take the handicapped stall when there were two regular stalls available. For this, I believe you are a creature of habit. One who believes that your comfort is an issuea far greater than the comfort or even well being of a possible handicapped who may have walked in; yes this also includes very big people who need that stall.
But again, you used three layers of sanitation between you and the toilet seat. Did you somehow think that your normal, skinny physique is somehow better than that of an overweight or handicapped person? Is that why you believed that your skin could not touch something that another's skin had touched? Are you so naive as to believe that we are not the same?
I could understand if someone had left a surprise on the seat for you. But did they? The world may never know. You are like a serial killer, cleaning up after yourself leaving not a trace that you were even there. You even cleaned the sink after you washed your hands. Do you even work here? Are you trying not to leave fingerprints because in some sick way you'll think that I will dust the handles after you leave? Ultimately proving that you are guilty of a crime that happened twenty years ago which luckily has no statute of limitations?
But again, I heard you. You may have thrown three sheets down to prevent your skin from touching the seat, but your body produced some of the worst sounds I had ever heard. I was disgusted that I could smell your excrement only two stalls away. Were you genetically engineered to render your prey unconscious with those smells? Luckily, my sense of smell is under developedand I didn't fall victim to your evil plot.
Then, after you leave the stall, you look at me and smile as though nothing had transpired and I'm supposed to ignore the fact that you just reigned biological warfare on me. I was the victim of a Kamikaze attack that went wrong, because for one; I survived. And for two, you walked away leaving a chemline trail throughout the bathroom. Your victory was almost complete, I had begun to feel the effects of methayne gas poisoning. But then. Someone opened the door and the fan kicked on. You sealed your own fate, because you should have known that methayne can be transferred with ventialtion.
The battle was won, and I had emerged a survivor. Victorious. Your declaration of war had been recieved and like Switzerland I chose to remain neutral. I feel although this battle has been drawn to a close, I fear a next encounter. I may not survive without the enhanced ability of a gas mask.
I wonder if your attacks are based on a higher power. Will you walk lovingly into the manor of gods? Will you recieve 72 dark haired virgins? I know not. But until the next encounter, I remain fearful.
The Survivor of Your Chemical Assault.
I hate salespeople. People in sales constantly bothering you, looking to find new and creative ways to make you say yes. I wonder if they hate themselves as much as other people do? I would hate to live that way, going day to day constantly trying to screw over good, decent, hardworking people out of their hard earned dollars just to peddle my wears and make a sale. I don’t think there is any other group of people I hate more than these who call themselves in sales. Well I can think of one, salesgirls. They’re different…
Now, I don’t hate the fairer sex, although far more often than not are they ever that fair. And no I’m not sexist. I don’t hate them specifically because I think they are stealing their sales job from a man or that they are inferior to men at their job, just the opposite in fact. I hate them because they are just so damn good at it, too good. I hate salesgirls because they make life too hard and they're even harder to say no to, that’s why I hate them. Just by looking at them, they immediately make you want to say, yes and that was exactly the case one Saturday morning.
I was in my apartment in Florida, sitting on my couch, in my pajamas watching rerun television shows. I hadn’t even eaten my breakfast yet, when they came, followed by a knock at my door at eleven that morning. Who the fuck was bothering me before noon? I thought to myself. I got up and peered out the peek hole in my door and that’s when I saw them, angels. More like she-wolves in sheep’s clothing… but they were visions and of course their attire was provocative as most of the fairer sexes attire is. Which to me again begs the question, are they really ever that fair? I’m sure the wardrobe was intentional, as it almost always is. I’ve often wondered if girls, women even, knew of their power of provocation over men.
Just by the way that they dress can cause a man’s mind start to wander. A man’s imagination is a powerful tool and a terrible curse. Now, attire changes as it spans time, fads fade. However, there is one thing that never changes, provocation. Although, perhaps it isn’t always the clothing they wear that’s provocative, maybe it’s a man’s mind that remains never changing? I know one thing at least and that’s that a man’s mind never fails at being overactive. A man’s mind can and will wander and imagine; dream about, a woman’s body. Sometimes even if he wants to or not, regardless…
Times have changed drastically in which girls today, much like the girls on my doorstep, dress extremely provocatively, they wear less clothing and show more skin. More often than not it leaves little to a man’s imagination, it’s sad to think about really, the death of imagination… but I suppose that is my lot for being born in such an unfortunate time. Men a hundred or so years ago wanted, wished for girls, women, to wear less, more provocative clothes. In just the mere hopes of catching an accidental glimpse of a woman’s ankle or a bit of collar bone as they dreamt of seeing cleavage if not a bountiful bosom. Now with the way that they dress, cleavage is every where you go, you notice the tightness of the jeans they wear and the cracks of their ass as they bend over in their apple bottom jeans, sometimes exposing some form of underwear although that too has even become a dwindling expectation. With them revealing so much, too much, a man today has nothing left to dream about. I bet if you looked in the dictionary you’d find that under the definition of irony. Men a hundred years ago or so would truly be jealous of men living today. They saw less and dreamt more, we see more and dream less… the grass is always greener I guess…
I think that one could argue that all women are in sales, with the way that that they dress to impress for success. All women are in sales, they all want something and they know exactly how to get it. Just by showing some skin can cause even the most stone cold, harden man’s heart to melt and when he does he’s theirs and when he is, the world is their oyster. It’s funny isn’t in? How all it takes is one clam to make the world her oyster… We were born men after all and after all we were born to lose… that’s life.
Perhaps girls; women, dress that way thinking they’re doing men a service by showing it all off? Now, believe me I have no real complaint with seeing a little extra skin. Maybe, just maybe they are doing the men in this dreary world a little service… with a little extra skin, with the clothing being a little extra tight, with a little less clothing, with every jump, jaunt, jiggle, wiggle… can make a man’s heart skip a beat, we’re entranced by them. We seem to become mindless, spineless drones because of them.
As I maintained earlier a man’s imagination is a powerful tool and when we gander as we have been known to do, our mind’s eye imagines a woman’s body far greater, far better and far more glorious than it could possibly ever be. So perhaps women dress the way they do as a form of truth telling. Like saying, “Gaze upon them, my features. See me. What you see is what you get!” Now, I’m not saying that women don’t cheat their features with illusions or trickery with inventions like the padded bra or the push up to accent their breasts as larger than they are and men stare. We should however, remove our rose-colored glasses when we see them exit stores like Victoria’s Secret. Speaking of which, Victoria’s Secret? Objects may be smaller than they appear… secret uncovered.
Women seem to have a plethora of tricks in their bags when it comes to putting their breasts out on display. Is that why they are sometimes referred to as racks? Girls; women like the two on my door often put their best feature forward, in this instance, their heaving breasts, leaving them out for display like two big circular pies fresh out of the oven and left out to cool on a window sill. Putting them out there was a like a signal to all men, they were fresh, they were hot and they were ready, ready to be devoured by the world. The dinner bell was ringing and they were signaling, sending a sirens call out to all men, to come and get it. The dinner bell’s a-ringin’ and men are always hungry, always ready, ready to come and get it…
Those girls were at my door and when their knock came I made a mistake that day. I answered the call. One of the many things I’ve learned in my many travels through this crazy little thing called life is that women in sales dress provocatively and then ask men a barrage of questions to catch men off guard while we are as enamored as we are distracted. We are powerless to their charms. It is a flaw that all men share and a flaw that I am man enough to admit. The sad part is that I am not even revealing any man secret we all share, for women already know this and exploit it daily and they’re so goddamn good at it.
I saw the girls standing at my door through it’s peek hole and I stepped back, removed my glasses and rubbed my eyes in disbelieve. They knocked again. I was frozen. I quickly looked down at my loose pajama pants to make sure that my manhood hadn’t reared his ugly head or poked his head out as if to say hello. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief to know that turgidity was at a minimum.
“Thank god”, I sighed out loud.
I opened the door to their bright and shining faces. They were radiant angels at the time, but then again I was a sucker for pretty girls. They stared at me deeply, devilishly and flashed me their come to, come hither, bedroom eyes as they pushed their breasts out to me, forward. Pushing the boundaries of their extra small, tight shirts, their tops were about to blow, as I felt, as was I… I’ve always heard that you’re supposed to put your best foot forward; do you think this is what they meant? I think something was lost in the translation, at any rate the foot was on the other breast… but I digress.
“Yes?” I responded timidly, half awake.
They exchanged looks. They knew they had me. I was in trouble.
“Do you consider yourself a nonviolent person?” One of the girls asked.
“What?” I responded as if I could pretend I didn’t understand the question. They reiterated the question.
All I could think of was oh shit… is this a trick question? What is it that they want? If I answer yes, I’m open to them coming in and selling me something or if I say no, they would look at me like I was a freak or something. I cared then, what people thought, but never fear, I quickly outgrew that.
“Yes…” I answered.
They invited themselves in. I was a goner. They sat down on my couch and perused my coffee table. I had some books and movies out along with an old lilac scented candle. There were also some scraps of leftover weed sprinkled on it, stems mostly. There was a pause. The girls smiled. Well, I thought, at least they weren’t peddling religion. Then one of the girls broke the silence.
“You can tell a lot about a person from what is on their coffee table.”
“Oh?” I inquired.
“Yes.” She smiled.
She peered at my, then current, movie collection; which consisted of a few Kubrick films… particularly A Clockwork Orange and Dr. Strangelove. I also had Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Next to those there were some comic books featuring the Punisher and Captain America, I also had the complete works of Poe next to the novel Wicked and some other film course studies books for school.
“You have…eclectic tastes…” she continued.
Maybe the candle won her over, but it was probably the weed. Either way I didn’t care. I was just impressed that she knew the word eclectic…
“So what is it that you want?” I asked firmly.
“Ah good, right down to brass tacks.” She replied.
“How much for the ape…” I replied laughing.
The girls stared at me blankly. I had apparently lost them with my obscure Fear and Loathing reference. Then the girl started her pitch. Her friend didn’t say much. Actually she looked rather bored. I started to wonder how she got her job I thought… I looked at her again… it was her looks… definitely her looks. A condensed version of the girl’s pitch ended up being about how they needed to sell so many magazines in order to go on some trip somewhere, Europe probably… I’m sure at some point in your life you’ve heard or will hear a similar pitch.
“Well I didn’t have any plans on buying anything. I’m not really interested.” I said when she finished.
“That’s ok.” She said.
“It is?” I questioned her easiness.
“Totally, we understand. But please if you could take a look at our magazines and pick out two that you yourself would be interested in…”
I briefly looked over the brochure. At random I picked out Men’s Health and Entertainment Weekly. I looked over and the other girl was already writing down my information and then she made a phone call. As she did so the girl continued on about how they take any major credit card, check or cash. Oh fuck, I thought. These girls aren’t going to take no for an answer. The conversation had already led to payment options and I was trapped. There were two of them and one of me. I looked to my front door. It was closed. Damn. I was trapped and no one could hear me scream. I surrendered. They looked honest, I mean, I could only hope…
I gave up my credit card. I figured well I could always cancel it and dispute the charges later. But it wasn’t over. My card only covered one subscription. I reiterated that I had no plans to buy anything that day… to which they smiled and reassured me that it was ok.
“Where’s the nearest ATM?” She asked.
“Down the street.” I answered, defeated.
“Cool, we’ll all go!” She said brightly.
Goddamn it I thought… I went with it anyway. Whatever it would take to get rid of these vultures, I thought. On a side note, is that why British women are referred to as birds? Buzzards of a feather, flock to sales? Anyway we walked down the sidewalk, the sun was bright and hot. I was still a bit hung over from the night before so I perspired quickly. They didn’t. Hell’s angels must be used to the heat. They were cool as cucumbers. I always hated that expression. But then again, if there was anything I learned from my old tenth grade biology teacher it was this; women don’t sweat, they glow. But, moving on…
We made it to the corner convenient store and I hit up the ATM. I wouldn’t admit just how much this entire venture set me back; I’m rather embarrassed enough… fuck it… all together it was about a hundred and sixty dollars. Don’t judge me, like any of you could have resisted… The three of us walked back to my apartment, I figured that they got what they wanted; they must be done with me. Nope. We went back to my place and had an amazingly fantastically epic pornographic three-way in my queen sized bed…. Ok, not really but I wished that had happened though. In my mind it did. At least if it did it would have been well worth my money spent. Oh well… C’est la vie, as the French say.
However when we did get back to my place the girls brought up the stems they saw earlier on my coffee table and asked if I smoked.
“Yeah, doesn’t everyone?” I said indignantly.
They were carrying but we were baffled at how we could partake. My piece had gone missing since the night before. We attempted to craft a device out of an empty soda bottle, no such luck. Eventually between the three of us we found cigarettes, cut them open and replaced the tobacco, rolled them back up and lit up on the back porch. I led them to the back porch through my bedroom, maybe in hopes of one of them being inspired by the advantageous proposition… another failure.
As we sat on my back porch smoking and talking, suddenly none of the other shit that day mattered. Eventually they left in search of a new mark, I had bet. To peddle their magazines elsewhere and I’m sure they had many more successes that day and I’m sure eventually, conquest after conquest they made their way to Europe or where ever the hell they said they were going, I didn’t care. I just sat on my back porch, cracked open a few beers and enjoyed the rest of the day. I’ve laughed about those events later because I knew at least it would make one hell of a story some day.
A beautiful woman is trouble, a smart and beautiful woman… dangerous. Between their brains and their beauty, a woman could conquer the world. We men are weak; I admit that a pretty smile could make me sign away anything and everything, including a soul. We’re fools, let this be a lesson to ye merry gentlemen… be careful when you answer your doors. The fact is I was ashamed that I had been had. Well, that is, I thought I had. It wasn’t till some months later my phone rang. I came to realize that it wasn’t all a sham, I wrote down the wrong address. My mother called and asked why all these magazines started showing up at her house…
I laughed and breathed a sigh of relief. All I could think was, good thing I didn’t order playboy…
January 22, 2011
I haven't written any decent poetry in over four years. I wrote this one after reading a vampire novel that was based on Jack the Ripper. I like the dark lore and history so putting them together in one book was the perfect bit of inspiration.
For the time being, I'll probably only have older stuff, as I'm still working on writing new stuff.
Written July 24, 2004
The scent of ale.
It's all normal.
It's New Orleans
Young, fresh blood.
He craves innocence
That is gathered at
The tourist attractions.
It's all normal.
It's New Orleans
Death, a corpse.
He had his fill
And the results lay in tatters.
It's all normal.
The vampire struck again
In New Orleans after dark.
January 21, 2011
Well everyone. We've gained a third contributor. His name is Will, referred to us by Ted. I hope everyone enjoys his stuff. Also, I'm working on several short stories and novels at the same time so I'm going to be posting little bits of them from time to time and in between I'll update with poems or short stories I've already finished. The one I'm updating with today is my attempt at a romance. I don't know how polished it is, I just know that I can't stand writing romances. It was a practice at my strength of being a writer though.
January 18, 2011
...because who doesn't like two-parters?
Anyway, a couple things before my little story. If you dont care, skip ahead.
-I was originally gonna post another poem but I figured I should put this up instead and keep the poem for later...and by "I figured" I actually mean people I knew comming to this blog for the first time informing me that they've already read "Fat Lady Rolling Down A Steep Hill" before and desire something new...and they have a point.
-Right now you're here for one of two reasons: Either Ryan referred you or I did. And if I referred you, than you've already read "Fat Lady" before. So while the Ryan-referred might have read something new, the Ted-referred are scratching their heads and wondering if I've done anything new in the years after writing "Fat Lady"...Well I have. But old stuff will still find its way on here from time to time because my old stuf is just as awesome as the stuff I'm writing now, but until more of our incomming contributors make accounts and officially join us, I figure I'll just post new stuff for now while the talent pool is just 2 men deep...
-Though if there is old stuff on mine that you would like to see me post in the near future, feel free to tell me.
!!!And now on to my little story!!!
Jared was tired. His overtime hours were racking up and things around the station were already chaotic long before they even brought in the kid; The one uniforms caught on the scene and arrested for arson, though it all seemed a little anticlimactic when he finally got a good look at him. He looked like your typical college kid, not some anarchist punk you’d expect the way other officers had been talking about him. Jared wasn’t quite sure what had happened but those other officers were muttering terms like “arson” and “homicide” like casual everyday terms. This casualness would’ve made him sick if he weren’t so damn tired.
Jared was the only available person available at the moment, so he was given the job of interrogating the kid. With only a vague idea of what went down and a file folder someone had handed him on his way in, Jared sat down to talk with the youth who couldn’t have been older than 19.
“You gonna pull the good cop-bad cop act on your own?” the kid asked while playing with something in his hand that looked like a piece of string.
“No,” Jared responded “I’m tired and don’t feel like playing games. Just answer everything I ask you truthfully and we can both be done all the quicker.”
“What’s you’re name?”
“Can I get a cigarette?”
“Just answer the question.”
“If I do, will you spare me a smoke?”
Jared sighed, reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes which he slapped onto the table and kept his hand on. “What is your name?” he asked again.
Jared pulled a cigarette out and handed it to Mark. “Where do you live?”
“Got a light? Kinda lost mine,” Mark said before laughing to himself, like it were an inside joke and only he was privy to it.
“Where do you live?”
“You must be the only guy they had available.”
“Please. Just answer the question so we can-”
“What are you, gauging if I tell the truth? This shits all in my file you have.”
Jared opened the file and started looking through it. He was more tired than he thought, and Mark had proven to be vigilant as hell, considering he was at a party all night.
“Just making sure you’re with me,” Jared said “Tox-screen says you consumed quite the amount of alcohol.” A bluff. Jared was lucky to catch that in the file, but he tried using it to hide the obviousness of his earlier questions. It seemed to work as Mark backed off and just sat with his unlit cigarette in his mouth.
“Tell ya what,” Mark said after a moment “We can either sit here, dance around the obvious and have you guess what happened, or I can just tell you my side about what went down at Tim’s place tonight.”
“Tim?” Jared asked while eyeing the file again, “The man you killed?”
“I didn’t kill Tim,” Mark said “Just shut that damn file, okay? Probably all lies. What I need you to do is get comfortable, listen and make sure I have something to smoke the whole time.”
Jared remained silent for a few minutes, not sure what he should do. Eventually he took his lighter out and slid it across the table to Mark. He lit up and started.
I’m not exactly what you would call popular either. I basically hang out with three other people: Stan, Lucy and Jack. Jack had just transferred over last fall, which was good because until that point I felt like the third wheel to Stan and Lucy who were dating at the time. They broke up about a month ago, by the way.
Stan was the drinker, Lucy was the druggie and I was the smoker. We really didn’t have a niche for Jack though he does have a car to drive us around in, but he never has money for gas, so it’s a waste. The man has no job and survives financially on the money his parents send, which is only enough to drive home (as if they strategically planned that). The other three of us pooled our money into our addictions so like I said, the car goes to waste.
We had a nice rut going on after Tim started throwing parties every weekend. The four of us would go, Stan and I would get in a few rounds of pong and we all usually chill out afterwards drinking beer and smoking whatever we had on the porch. It was a very relaxed and comfortable environment, Stan and Lucy’s breakup notwithstanding.
I know there’s a question rattling around in that beat cop brain of yours and the answer is no, I can’t recall exactly who was at the party when the shit went down. The people I am sure about will be mentioned in this because I would remember watching them-…well, I’ll save that part.
I know you just adore all this unnecessary back story bull shit so I’ll cut the foreplay and get right to the party. I knew from the start it was going to be a bad night. Lucy was on her period and had a term paper due, which just made her extra crazy. Naturally, there wouldn’t be enough money in all of the universe to make me want to spend the night with her, so instead the three of us guys went to the party without her.
It was windy that night, too. You ever realize that the wind blows like a motherfucker whenever something serious is about to go down? Bet you never realize it until after the fact? It’s like some higher power or unseen all knowing force is trying to warn you about something, but like I said, you don’t think about it until afterwards, prompting you to kick yourself in the ass for not being as observant as you should be.
So onto the party. At first I was glad Lucy stayed behind because it was literally PACKED at Tim’s. Apparently Tim decided to go bankrupt and buy all the beer from the local gas stations. He put every other party out for the night because everyone, and I mean everyone was at Tim’s that night. But at the same time no one was there because most of the people there I had never seen before.
The only person I kept running into that night was Tim himself, and he looked different. I couldn’t place it at first but Jack soon pointed out that Tim’s hair didn’t have any gel or anything in it. Tim had always been a man to gel his hair back to the point I felt he had OCD over it. You’d swear he was wearing a helmet because his hair did not move an inch. It had so much gunk in it, it was probably impossible to reposition his hair any other way than the way he combed it.
So yeah, his hair had no gel, and let me tell you, looking at it now I felt like I was trippin’. The slightest movement and every last strand of hair seemed to sway. Hell it seemed to all be moving in different directions but in sync with each other. It was freaky to say the least.
So while the warning lights in my head were going off after looking at Tim’s hair, the full blown sirens went off for me when Tim got up and announced several times that the porch was off limits and we weren’t allowed to smoke anything at all tonight. Many asked why but he never clarified. Now as the heavy chain smoker I am, the mere mention of smoking makes me crave a cigarette, and since Tim wouldn’t allow me to smoke on the porch for some reason, I weaved through the stinking, sweaty crowd for the exit.
“Where are you going?” I heard Tim ask me from behind. I held up my pack of smokes and gestured towards the door. I then fruitlessly tried to turn the knob on the door. “It’s locked, dude,” Time said “Besides, why leave? It’s almost time,” he said as he walked away. To say that creped out was an understatement, though maybe because I had watched Tim’s hair as he walked away. Was it growing longer?
I made a beeline for where I had left Jack and Stan and to my dismay they weren’t there. I had spotted them on the other side of the room and made for their direction.
Now let me explain just how serious this situation was. On my way over, I had passed three different chicks: One whose top was practically falling off, one who was belligerently drunk and actively looking for someone to go home with and one who (if the word on the street can be believed) wanted to ride my cock. Now I was so intent on getting to Jack and Stan and getting the fuck out of Tim’s, that I ignored these three women whom on any other night I would have definitely taken the time to meet and see how far I could get.
I wanted out. Period. I reached Jack and Stan and demanded why the hell they had moved. “Chill out,” Stan said “Jack just needs to piss and someone’s taking their damn sweet time in there!” Stan yelled the last part of that sentence as he banged the bathroom door he and Jack were standing by. “So why are you here too?” I asked. Stan looked back at me and said “I…gotta pee too.”
“Dude, I’ve got a bad feeling bout this place,” I said “I’ve got like, fucking spider senses or something over it. Lets bail.” Stan nodded “I’m feelin’ ya. Place gives me the creeps too right now. Must be Timmy’s hair. Have you seen that shit?”
“That’s freaky.” Jack said before banging on the door himself and yelling “Hurry the fuck up!” to which a female from inside screamed something inaudible.
“Either way, we should bail,” Stan said “But not before I pick up this one chick I met earlier.”
“You don’t even know her fucking name,” Jack said.
“The hell I don’t. It’s…Sherry.”
“I heard her say her name was Jill.”
“No, that was her roommate’s name.”
“The roommate’s name was Claire.”
“You are high as fuck. I didn’t hear anyone say Claire.”
“You walk up to that chick and call her Sherry, and she’ll beat your dumb ass.”
“Guys!” I shouted “How bout we find a way out of here, and THEN you two can bitch!” Stan and Jack stood in silence for a second before Stan spoke.
“…Or maybe her name was Ada.”
“What do you mean “find a way out”?” Jack said, ignoring Stan “What’s wrong with the front door?”
Before I could answer, Tim had jumped onto a coffee table and screamed for everyone’s attention. The room had got completely silent as everyone was looking up at Tim.
From there, everything went nuts. You got another cig?
“Are you saying that ghosts are to blame and you’re just an innocent victim?”