here's a few I've written...
Girl
It wasn’t long before I was on that train again, and I cursed myself for it. I had sworn to myself that I’d never see her again, but I couldn’t stop my damn legs, they carried me wherever it was they wanted to go. And I knew exactly where that place was; it was back to the alley. I used to love her you know, back when we would still have fun together, back when having fun didn’t burn holes in my pockets, back when I was young and stupid, and didn’t give a shit about anyone or anything.
I handed the man a handful of crumpled twenties and he left me with her. She was white as snow against that mirror, and it reminded me of how I had grown bitter with her, and hated being with her now. “I used to love her you know,” I thought to myself as I put her to my nose and inhaled.
10 Things on a Desert Island
I saw the ad in Rolling Stone, so I just figured I’d get brownie points by making it musical. How was I supposed to know? Fucking bastards.
“This is bullshit!” I thought to myself, chewing on the neck of my Fender Stratocaster. They could have at least given me a heads up. Now I’m stuck listening to Yo La Tengo all day long. I don’t even like Yo La Tengo, they’re just one of those bands that music critics love. Once again, brownie points. I should be saving my batteries, but there’s not much else I could use them for, and I think I’m just gonna kill myself anyway. If only I had some real cymbals. Electronic drum boxes aren’t very useful when it comes to committing suicide.
Wait a minute!
6) Battery-Powered Turntable (gotta have my vinyl!)
I can probably use that to build some kind of rudimentary motor, then all I have to do is make a boat out of some trees. I can use my 20GB iPod as a hammer, and if push came to shove, I could use the headphone and power adapter cables as rope. Now I really wish I had chosen some Police records. That would make for some great boat making music.
Untitled
Everyone is staring. Everyone. Staring. I can feel the heat from my face turning red. I feel like running into the woods and hiding in a hole in the ground. Some of the children are giggling. Giggling and staring. Staring and giggling. I try to picture the audience as naked, but the use of the word ‘audience,’ even if only in my head, reminds me of their piercing eyes… staring. Maybe if I walk away slowly, no one will see me. Maybe if I point my finger at someone else they’ll believe me.
“Ryan! Oh my God! Hahaha!” It’s not working.
If only I had a cigarette. Then I could just shrug it off with that kind of ‘who gives a shit’ attitude characteristic of poorly made 60’s film noir/spy movies set to a cool, laidback jazz soundtrack. Later, when people talk to me about it, I’ll deny it ever happened at all.
The crowd’s begun to congregate elsewhere. Maybe that chimpanzee fell out of the tree again. That’d be good.
They’ll forget about this by tomorrow. I’m sure of it.
Untitled
The man in the apartment next to Billy masturbated to war films. Every night he could clearly hear the sounds of explosions and moaning through the wall. Every time a building fell, every time a tank burst into flames, every time a prisoner was shot in the head for stealing a scrap of stale bread, every time a volley of bullets ripped through the thick jungle, every time the poison gas spread gracefully like a cloud over the battle field and men clutched their throats a writhed on the ground like worms in the sun, the man would roar and shout and grumble, and the floor would pound in rhythm with the rocking of his armchair.
Occasionally there would be a narrator describing the various atrocities in grim monotone. At this he would become even more aroused – grunting like an ape and screaming things at the television set… things like, “yeah, baby that’s just how I like it!”
Billy supposed it was easier to come by than traditional pornography, as all one needed to do was flick on the History Channel or A&E or Biography, and find the screen filled with the fast, vigorous workings of war. Even now, at one o’clock in the morning, such programs were readily available for consumption by anyone who was willing to consume such things at such a late hour.
But the only thing Billy desired at this late hour was a little shut eye, and with the groaning and exploding going on next door, that was a bit harder to come by. So Billy stuffed cotton in his ears, and the screams of dying soldiers and the whimpers of perverted men were transformed into a peaceful droning that lulled Billy to sleep. |
