I killed him. Shot a bullet through his spine, while in his laptop he’s viewing this Scott Pommier Photography website. This. Blood splattered the motorcycle and it gleamed too scarlet a color. The background is soft, reminiscent of an April sunset in the backyard. Her face seemed to feel sarcastic about the blood, as if to say, stain me, I’m fine with blood stains. The thing is, I wouldn’t have screamed but the woman in the picture looks at me in shame. See her eyes and how it narrows as she looks at me. Her gait is effortless; a domineering woman. She could have been my wife or a girlfriend in the past, but I barely recognize her. She probably smokes a little cigarette, drinks a little beer, a girl tamed by vices and motorcycles, just right for someone like me.
I put back the gun in the holster and shoved the body away from the garden to the trunk of my car. I drove away, screaming, as she made another apparition. As I drive she multiplies, her motion hypnotic like a Slinky: she stretches herself up to a million duplicates, then collapses back, stretches again, an endless domino chain effect. She vanishes then shows up again. I put on a cassette tape of this something band (the scotch-taped label says NORTH). It was all instrumental, with the countryside thing going on, and their music as if played on a meadow. For some time it chased her away from the road and the Slinky motion stopped and it was all fine, the gun at peace in my holster, my eyes tired from the gore of the shot, and the bloody Scott Pommier Photography still open in a remote basement, charging.
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August 29, 2010, 3:14 am, filed under Vignettes. Comments.
And then I couldn’t write anything out of my father’s stories, nor could I find the will to write that knock on the door at 10AM, or about escaping an African war in my dreams. I lack words. I couldn’t read books anymore. I lost faith in movies months ago. My Livejournal has published some fifty-something posts in a month, all are bouts of frustration and the futility of writing without any other audience.
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August 28, 2010, 9:56 pm, filed under Stress ball narratives. Comments.
Your slippers are squeaking, they’re absorbent and they squirt water in and out like a sponge. The dirt from the water forms in between your toes. You woke up the next morning and you saw your feet. It was disgusting. Dirt coagulated at the brink of the bays. It brought you back in the moviehouse where you almost slipped. Flocks of people watched and your feet stank. You squish them back and forth your porous slippers, all the rat pee and the dirt of destinations. It’s violating, a friend might say with that half wince on your feet. The squishing has been freezing your feet in the mall. You ordered coffee to fight the cold. You smoked a cigarette outside and your feet starts to wrinkle. The skin might come off your bone. In the supermarket you accidentally stepped on a yogurt that has been deserted for some time on the floor. Everyone hates picking things up. The yogurt cup exploded without a sound and it was graceful. It seemed orgasmic. Real fruit pieces mixed with orgasm. Your feet now stank of delicate yogurt and squish. You went home. Under the stained carpet is the key and you had to pick it up with your toes. The dirt of the city clung to your keys and it got cold and it smelled like soggy carpet. You wanted to wash your feet but the plumber hasn’t arrived yet.
On your way home you felt the stir of August, the millipedes uncoiling, crawling on the sidewalks. Sometimes it bothers you where to walk. You’ve spent your childhood listening to the hymns of the frogs. Every morning your breakfast comes with the whiff of the fragrance she wears and it brings you back to a million dates, that whiff of lightness.
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August 25, 2010, 9:37 am, filed under Slang and random, Vignettes. Comments.