Fiction in 58

Time for a Fiction in 58.

Feeder

By day, he’s the guy you gaze at in the subway and look through.
By night, he hunts.
He feeds.
The transformation happens by his own free will, he accepts what it is, thinks it’s a gift, but won’t say so out loud.
He understands spray patterns. He’s good at hiding the bodies.
He’s good at blending in.

Wednesay's Three Word Wednesday

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are abandon, gradual and precise.

Anniversary
The old wooden bar has been wiped down, leaving a sour-smelling trail of wetness where the bartender sets up shot glasses in front of one guy who rests his forehead in his palms.
The bartender says something, low and just for him, and he lifts his head and gives a nod, yes.
She goes for a bottle of bourbon, the cheap shit that rests in the metal well that’s ass-level to the servers, and begins to pour 11 precise measures.
The bartender’s pouring number eight when the dude picks up the first one, turns to me, raises the glass and downs it with a grimace.
“Birthday, new job, or just thirsty?” I say.
“Something like that.”
He pours back glasses two, three and four with abandon, the kind of serial drinking I haven’t seen since my time at university.
By number six, his face has a crimson tone to it, bright at the neck where thick veins push blood to his brain, and goes gradually less pink toward his forehead, which is sickly white and covered in a sheen of slick sweat.
The bartender keeps her distance, reading a dog-eared paperback and clicking her thumbnail against her front teeth.
Seven and eight go down tough, with a scowl and he lands a fist-pound on the scarred wood, enough to send ripples across the surface of my pint.
I stare.
He stares back.
“It’s an anniversary celebration,” he says.
I roll my eyes. It’s an old bar with red vinyl booths and dark corners; it's the kind of place that sells simple drinks to people who want to want to get drunk quick.
Thus forgetting the world outside those glass doors, painted black to deter the sunlight from telling someone that noon was too early a time to set one up.
Everyone here’s got a story that no one wants to share.
I’ve asked for it.
He takes his index finger, cocks it and digs at his eyes with the knuckles. The digit comes away wet.
“Eleven years ago, I paid for my girlfriend to have an abortion,” he says above a whisper. “Paid for it with MasterCard. I think I’m still paying interest on it.”
“Shit happens,” I say, lifting my beer to my lips.
He raps his knuckles hard on the lip of the bar, a strip of beat-up brass, which draws blood.
“Think so?” he says, picking up glass number nine, tosses it back, splays his fingers above the glasses, watching tiny drops of blood blossom across his knuckles.
“Look, buddy, none of my fucking business.”
“Yeah, and you asked,” he says.
Number 10 goes down.
And he launches into a monologue, which feels rehearsed, but I’m stuck. I settle my ass in the worn cups of the barstool and listen politely.
He spares no gory detail, down to their last fight before he packed up and left her for good, after she made him clean up a blood clot she dropped from her wounded body on cool, white subway tiles in front of the can.
He digs again at his eyes with his fingers, lets out a small belch, and gives me a long, sad look.
“So I mark the anniversary with a shot,” he says, finally. "One for each fucking miserable year since."
I lean my head in my palm, scratching an itch across my cheek, sigh.
“What happens when you get along in years and that much booze becomes toxic?” I ask.
He smiles, picks up the 11th shot and lets the amber liquid cascade slowly down his throat. He smacks his lips, sets the glass on the bar, upside-down.
And winks.

NaiSaiKu Challenge

The NaiSaiKu Challenge is poetry, but just for fun. So many things to think about.

in the cool darkness, caution
hovers a moist hand across hearts
while reckless abandon calls
DECISIONS, DECISIONS, DECISIONS
while reckless abandon calls
a moist hand hovers across hearts
caution in the cool darkness

OneWord, Rocket

Just some spontaneous writing, for the prompt site, OneWord.

They sat on the roof, an old quilt spread across asphalt shingles, and he had hauled up a backpack filled with a liter of Kool-Aid in a hard plastic bottle and some cheeses and crackers. Despite his care in packing, the crackers were damaged, but she smiled and said the thought was what counted and they still tasted good, even without the brie that was fairly runny in the humid heat of July. As dusk fell, she spread her long, tanned legs and waited patiently. He had promised her fireworks, and from the vantage of this roof, the rocket bursts filled him with anticipation – and lust for her warm olive skin.

Guest Flash Fiction

It takes a lot for someone who professes that she can't write to send a story my way.
But J has a remarkable talent that I think needs to be explored.
So in that vein, I made an edit to her latest, and asked if I could post it on The Tension. She agreed.
(Now if I could just get her to explore her talents on a blog on her own...)

Terminus

The breeze is crisp, with just the hint of winter in the air. Almost all the leaves have fallen off of the oaks, which surround the small cabin.

She sits in her grandmother’s ancient rocking chair, which she has drug onto the porch, and snuggles in the warmth of a quilt she found at the country store in town earlier that week. She can feel the sun’s warmth as it rises over the hills. Still half asleep from the night before, she cradles the cup of too-hot coffee, just breathing in the aroma for the moment.
The golden retriever lies by her side, always by her side, and he makes small whining noises and soft barks at the imaginary creatures in his dreams. She runs light fingers through his thick coat, hoping to calm him.

Her coffee has cooled enough to drink and she finishes it quickly, not taking the time she would like to enjoy it. Already the grandfather clock in the hall has struck eight bells and she knows she needs to be ready before her guests arrive.

The same routine, the same everyday motions, usually left her with more than enough time. But today was special. Today was the beginning and an ending – and she wanted to make the most out of every minute.

Into the shower for a quick rinse, she slips into her favorite pair of panties, then into the only pair of jeans that fit her the way she likes, low on the hips, a t-shirt and a sweatshirt to cover the colostomy bag, the missing breasts and all the scars that went with it, both inside and out.

Her sister arrives first and in succession friends, other family. Seated in the living room with it’s over stuffed chairs and couches, they talk quietly, guarded.

When she moved in three months ago - after the doctors told her it wouldn’t be much longer and really wouldn’t she be more comfortable at the hospital? - she took down all the animal trophy heads. They reminded her too much of what she had lost. Their vacant eyes cried of pain and loss, something she knew more about than she ever thought she would.
With everyone gathered, she feels remarkably well.

Kisses and hugs and polite “How have you been?” and “You look so good.” All the things people are suppose to say, until she turns around and they whisper, “Have you seen how much weight she’s lost?” or “The circles under her eyes are so dark.”

It’s OK, she thinks. She’s made the pleasantries and made her rounds. It’s time.

“Everybody, if I can have your attention?”

She stands at the top of the stairs and looks so very small, so very weak.

“I have decided there will be no more treatments, no hospitals.”

Gasps and small chatter erupt, but she pays no attention.

“Thank you all for coming out one last time to see me, I love each one of you and you are all very special to me.”

She waves slightly and smiles warmly, taking the time to look each loved one in the face, making eye contact.

She turns to the curio in the hall and takes out a nickel-plated .22 and palms it. Its cold, heavy steel fits perfectly in her emancipated hand.

She turns, puts the barrel in her mouth, lips painted in her favorite light fuchsia for the occasion, and pulls the trigger.

In the time it takes for her to crumple to the bare wood floor, she hears their screams. But it’s too late. There’s an oncoming darkness, a rush of peace, mixed with spent gunpowder.

And at the end, she smells the coffee, feels the soft fur of her lovely boy, the sweet warmth of the sunrise.

There is no pain.

Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are dread, grasp and pacify.

Objets d'art

It wasn’t Thanksgiving, no far, far from it, but that didn’t stop him from dialing up a Thanksgiving feast from the replicator, including feeding in the recipe for lefse to reflect his Norwegian heritage he’d never quite understood.
After he’d eaten, the dishes stored and everything back into its sparklingly clean receptacle, he took a tour of the ship. The air had that cool, recycled feel to it, manufactured, shipped in, pumped for his pleasure. He always thought it tasted “blue,” as if that would explain it.
As expected, there were no urgent matters to attend to, no crisis management. The ship was on autopilot, its course fixed by computers and calculations, so he wandered into the fitness bay and tried to run away the edginess.
Every time the alarm clock rang, he was reminded of the mind-numbing silence of a craft this size. Mission protocols called for one person to be up and active, that shift being in duration of six months, as recommended by the flight surgeon.
There were 24 aboard. It would take the ship, on maximum efficiency, a dozen years to reach their destination.
He felt the dread, like lead weights on his chest: Six months on, then back into the “can” for the duration. He didn’t know which shift was worse – years in stasis, not dreaming, breathing once ever two minutes or six months awake and alone, trying to fill the hours with something, anything.
And while he had found something to pacify the boredom, he told himself no more. It wasn’t something he wanted the colonel up his ass for, not this close to the disembark.
But the pull was too great.
He’d wander into medical, into the stasis bay, and turn the lights up to full.
He’d check his suit, adjust the airflow, disable the artificial gravity – luckily, there were times where this was needed, so it wouldn’t look odd on the operational reports – and seal the unit.
He found it best to use a canvas that was manageable, three feet by two feet, and made a frame out of length of PVC pipe from the utility stores.
He figured it was Komarov’s turn to supply the paint.
He took just enough blood as to not worry the sensors and injected it into the zero-gravity environment. He then spent the next 45 minutes capturing every single drop onto the canvas.
He admired his handiwork over dinner – a replicated version of a Hungarian Paprikash – and thought he was getting better with each successive commission.
He traced the lines and splotches with his finger, and would tell himself that this was it, this was the last.
He rolled the canvas in with the others.
And in the idle quiet, his mind grasped at the math: Fourteen more weeks until his return to the can.
Eight more crew members to paint.

Ficton in 58

I have bronchitis. I’ve time for a Fiction in 58, before I pass out again.

That water in the bath is warm, and is just deep enough that when he submerges, he can breathe through his nose.
Air bubbles escape his ear cavities, ticklish, and the world is mute. He’s aware of the stereo, the street noise, but all he can hear is his blood, pulsing.
He is back to the womb, briefly.

Surprise Saturday Fiction

What's the surprise, you ask? Read and see.

Enough
Toes dug into the cool, wet sand.
She feels the ocean spray on her face, mingled with the slight fragrance of cocoa butter on her body. In the distance, gulls circle a barge, its loud, obnoxious horn intrusive and unrelenting.
Her back is to the sun as it fades into pinks and oranges, then sinks into cooling lavenders. She knows she should have put a cover-up on hours ago, but a soothing shower and some fresh aloe will make everything better.
Slowly, she makes her way across the shell-sprinkled beachside, littered with the corpses of kelp and small crustaceans. A half-buried can catches her eye, glinting in the last rays of sunlight before nightfall.
The shower is wonderful, the aloe even better.
And the drink... bourbon, neat.
Not her drink of choice, but this drink was for him wasn't it. Not for her.
She stands in the bedroom, still wet from her shower and somewhat sticky from the aloe. Bourbon in hand, she slowly lets it roll across her open lips. Swallowing the last sip, she makes her way into the living room and lights the gas fireplace. It’s gone chilly and she wears only his sweatshirt from college. He always liked it on her.
She sits the glass down, careful to place it on the coaster, wouldn't want water rings on the table, he wouldn't like that.
She couldn't believe how quiet it was. The stillness wasn't something she knew.
Perfect silence comes at a price.
The mess in the kitchen would have to wait until the morning. She’d meant to clean it up sooner, but couldn't quite find the time.
From the mess in the kitchen, she focuses toward the dining room table, the puddle collecting on the rug he picked out. She thinks she can see it going deeper Burgundy by the moment. It's been hours now, she thinks, puzzled.
She picks at food that’s gone cold on dinner plates. She’s moved onto a second drink. A Budweiser that feels cool and refreshing.
A second thought enters her mind…
Does a body keep overnight?




I did not write this. A friend, inspired to write something for me, emailed this piece. Except for a light edit, fixing a couple of tense issues, it is as she sent it.
Find inspiration, people, and run with it. Create.

OneWord, Wealth

OneWord is a prompt site I like very much. Sixty seconds to write about one owrd. In this case, it's wealth.

If you hard it all, what would you do with it?
He rode the bus to a place of business he hated, seething silent as menial tasks were completed for bosses who didn’t give a shit. He rode home to a place where shabby was a step up, cracked plaster and stains and roaches crawling the walls.
On a mattress on the floor, he crossed his arms and laid his head in his palms, staring into the darkness, dreaming.
Counting the hours. Making the anticipation that much more delicious.
The Power Ball drawing was 348 days ago, the largest pot in the tri-state area. No one had yet come forward to claim the big check, the wealth. At 366 days, the ticket was worthless.
A smile spread across his face. He still had time. Moments to savor his shitty lot in his current life.
He looked at the Bible on the nightstand, licked his lips. His winning ticket was tucked in it, slid safely into Ecclesiastes.

Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are fear, ignore and weightless.

Conjoined

Betta traced the distance between raindrops on the cool glass with her index finger, idle and child-like, her view of the world on soft-focus.
An echo of her own soft voice mentioned casually from the next room that she thought the rain could have held off for at least another few hours, since it really was going to make things a lot more difficult and there were a few art pieces she had no desire to expose to the elements.
A single tear rolled off Betta's cheek and made an oblong spatter on the glass. With her thumb, she wiped it way, indistinguishable from the soft rain that now pelted the glass.
Things had grown tenuous between them in such short order. She had feared it, but acquiesced to Gretta's wishes. They’d been together since their tumultuous birth and Gretta was the stronger one, more striking, always.
Gretta's hair was wavy and dark, having the color and luster of a good bar of chocolate. Her skin was flawless, with an olive hue. While her teeth were crooked – their parents had no cash or desire to get two mouths fixed at the orthodontist – they were white and gleamed.
Betta, on the other hand, had hair that would have looked stylish on a rat – bushy, gray-black and if she didn’t spend considerable time and money, it took on an oily tone before noon.
Her skin was the same olive color, but throughout puberty, it had erupted, tiny, angry red volcanoes that left scars.
Her teeth? A copious coffee drinker, their hue was closer to banana skins going bad.
She tried to ignore Gretta's restlessness as they entered their teens and early 20s, often feeling what Gretta truly wanted in her heart, which fed Betta's as well.
Gretta passed through the doorway, asking Betta if she had been listening.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I’m only taking a few things. The rest of the furniture, it’s yours. You picked it out, you should have it.”
She nodded and returned her gaze to the window.
“Don’t you love me anymore?” Betta said, her breath creating a ring or fog on the windowpane.
Gretta's shoulders slumped. She put a hand to her side, elbow cocked at 90 degrees and rubbed.
“Of course I love you,” she said. “Always have, always will.”
Gretta twisted her head, heard the satisfying crunch of tendons stretching and waited.
“Then why?”
Gretta rubbed her hands across her face, kneaded the blood that pulsed hot and angry, diffusing it, redirecting.
“We’ve talked about this, don’t you see this really is for the best?”
Betta took tiny sips of air, the tears flowed freely.
“We’re connected,” she said, lifting the tank-top toward her breasts, exposing an angry scar that still bore the lingering blues and yellows of heavy bruising.
“We were conjoined, but that was another lifetime ago,” Gretta said.
“I never really wanted this,” Betta said, spittle coating her chapped lips.
Gretta spent a lifetime hooked to her. Sharing blood, organs. Hearing the murmur of Betta's weaker heartbeat in her ears, feeling her timid tremblings rattle in Gretta's bones. Surgeons had severed the physical connections, the bone and sinew, but Gretta knew the emotions ran deep.
Deeper for Betta, perhaps, as she fed on Gretta's strength, humor, charm.
Gretta had no desire to hurt her twin.
But that time had come. The moment where they needed to stand separately.
Alone.
“Look, with you, I felt anchored to a life I never wanted,” Gretta said, resting warm hands on her sister's trembling shoulders. “Apart from you, I feel truly weightless.”

Flash Fiction

Crowd Control
It is that time in the in-between, just after sex and right before they turn to their favorite sleeping positions and fall into blissful rest. She twirls a finger in his chest hair, circling the gray ones, and tosses her leg over his thigh and lets out a contented sigh into the crook of his still sweaty neck.
There was nothing left to say, verbally. Just the pleasure of their warm, naked bodies intertwined.
How do these things start, really?
There was some yelling, a couple of “fuck you’s” launched in gravelly, drink-soaked voices. Then a scuffle.
Then a scrum.
He looks at her and makes a pained face, fish-like, by pulling his lips across his teeth.
She smiles. Then touches the pads of her fingers to her lips as the protest grows.
The sounds of a body hitting the pavement, warm and solid, the crescendo of an angry crowd, separates their embrace.
Elbows on the sleigh bed, they peek through wood blinds. The angles are all wrong, as they turn this way and that to see.
Her breaths come and go in excited gulps; he watches her breasts rise and fall in the candlelight, the curve of her hip in silhouette.
She looks at him, eyes pleading.
He grabs for cords, slides open the blinds, exposes the street below. A melee unfolds before them.
“Holy shit,” she says.
The crowd is angry and swarms around police cars with lights flashing but no sirens. Men in torn shirts and baggy pants try to push themselves away from capture, women in party dresses and pleading tears, mascara running down their faces, frantic to explain away their dates’ indiscretions with hands gestures while still clutching tiny pocketbooks.
Police, their black uniforms dark holes in the orange glow of sodium arc lights, rush to beat back the screeching crowd. Two young men, their boxers hovering half off their asses, squirm and holler against steel handcuffs, black-clad knees pressed into their lower backs.
“They’re close to losing control,” he says, chin resting on his palms, elbows resting on the leather sleigh bed.
“Ohhh, look at her, what a pretty dress,” she says, both hands on the sleigh bed, her chin sunk into the coffee-colored leather.
Like a school of fish, the crowd breaks and reforms around police. More officers show up. It’s a numbers thing. The mob loses steam.
“Hey, look,” she says.
There, three floors below, a woman in a white dress with a maroon sash looks up at them, scans their faces through tears as they watch the skirmish. She stands in front of a Ford, it’s anti-theft system active and bleating.
He watches as she puts a forearm across her chest, straightens up on her knees and with her right hand, waves.
The woman waves back.
She drops to the bed, cupping her breasts in her hands and laughs.
He drops the blinds and joins her.
There’s a moment of quiet, until her eyebrows twitch and she tilts her head.
Her lithe body is quick. She throws a leg over his chest, slides forward, rakes her nails from his nipples to his throat.
“OK, mister, you’re under arrest,” she says, playfully grabs his wrists together above his head. “No funny business, and no one gets hurt.”
He feels her warmth against his chest, her weight.
He nods in the affirmative, mute.
She tilts her chin up, tips her head. She squints, purses her full lips.
And lowers them to his, hungrily.

Fiction in 58

Time for a Fiction in 58. That's (hopefully) a story in 58 words.

6 Train

The other riders are uncomfortable, so what. The talking draws stares, but the tears, well that’s another matter. It renders him invisible. He grips the steel, body swaying with the train, and sobs.
Better they know his pain, too. Better they look. Even as they look away.
It’s all the therapy he can afford, as his life unravels.

OneWord, Trial

OneWord is a writers prompt that speaks to brevity. One word - in this case, trial - and 60 seconds. I'm shocked this all poured out in that time.
(of course I do a quick edit when time's up.)

Serial

Courtrooms bored him. The polished wood, the uncomfortable chairs, all those motherfuckers constantly droning on. And the suit. Fuck sakes, the suit. The white shirt was itchy from the starch – it was just out of the plastic and he was sure there were still pins in it, and the necktie that fit like a noose.

The trial had lasted most of one week and bled into the next. They gave him a haircut and a pad and a pencil, told him not to scowl. He instead drew pictures of scantily-clad women in compromising positions, until his “legal team” ripped the pad away and made faces of frustration at him.

Finally, they called him to the stand. He’d been coached, oh how he’d been coached, but he figured these fine people in the box, the ones who sat in two rows of elevated chairs, deserved to hear the truth.

Especially since he had hunted in their ranks, and they needed to know that he wasn’t the only one who burned with the hunger to see their everythings consumed.

Scenes of New York

I'm finally getting around to editing some photos of NYC I took with my new Canon G11 camera. Frankly, I took way too many photos with my phone and not with the G11.
I didn't want to look like a tourista.
Anyway, here's a slight tour of the city, from my perspective:


Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are escape, hum and vibrant.

Trajectory

The kernel for his escape began as she raked her hand across his three-day stubble, fingers shrunken and cold like parchment, in the wake of her struggle to lean her lips near to his ear and whispered, “Let me go.”
He ran his palms across his jeans, the ones he’d purchased for this getaway at a thrift store, and worried. Gaining enough trajectory for this, he’d downsized quickly, selling off possessions that included both their high-priced vehicles, a reminder of a different time, a different life.
He would slink into the expanse clean with the clothes on his back, driving a pickup he’d purchased with cash from a farmer who had placed a sign in the cab, hand-painted with a spray can, announcing it was low on miles and “ran good.”
But in getting the truck ready for the journey, he’d haphazardly gotten battery acid on the denim and in the wake, blossoms opened, exposing his flesh.
He rubbed at the holes, felt the soft cotton where the acid had devoured, and fretted. There wasn’t the energy to shop again, that would interrupt his flight, maybe even signal an abrupt abort. No.
He pulled his fingers away from the holes, closed his eyes, turned the key that caused the truck to sputter to life.
She had passed from him on a Tuesday and he had missed it. She slipped silently away while he slept in her hospital bed, his muscle tone, his healthy pink skin engulfing her decline from beauty to skin-wrapped skeleton.
He woke startled, felt with his frame for any signs of life and finding none, softly wept in her ear, filling the canal (he still felt guilt about that), until the charge nurse put her hand on his shoulder and said, “It’s time, honey, let go of her, let God have her.”
The service was private, held at the graveside, avoiding both awkward explanations and open caskets.
The sell-off was immediate, calculated. Money transfers to a holding company where he could gain access, shopping, thrust building.
He retired via email, from an account he would never check again.
Sitting on the truck’s bench seat was a pristine Rand-McNally atlas and an 1888 Morgan silver dollar, a gift from her during a trip to San Francisco when he still cared about obtaining things.
Lady Liberty faced him and lay slightly west of Ohio.
Heads meant west, so he nudged the truck into the flow of traffic, avoided the Interstate and instead rumbled toward the Pacific on a two-lane blacktop into darkness and a sea of stars, the first echo of pinks and oranges making an appearance in his rear-view mirror.
He remembered the day clearly. She’d gone for a run, but cut it short when a stitch developed in her side and would not be subdued. The pain escalated, until she called their doctor and begged an audience.
The cancer was advanced, aggressive. It was eating her in such a way that there was nothing to do but go home, open a bottle of wine and cry into each-other’s shoulders, until she suggested they go to bed and make love like they used to, unbridled, loud, carnal.
He protested, worried that he’d hurt her somehow, but she stripped in front of him, deliberate, bending this way and that, her body still full and supple.
They had stayed naked and in bed the next day and deep into the next night. They laughed at the stains made on the expensive cotton sheets, touched, laughed, cried.
Thirty-six days later, she felt his warmth one last time, let out a sigh, left him.
He closed his eyes for a time to savor her memory, then snapped them open to scan the open prairie. The windows were open and the cab was filled with moist, vibrant smells of earth, the sweetness of the emerging green fields.
He came to a rise and watched as a figure began to emerge as he closed the distance in the truck. She was altogether familiar, all the curves in the correct places, but younger. He slowed when she put out a thumb on her extended arm, walking casually in brown cowboy boots, the hem of lemon-colored sundress sashaying as she followed the fog line.
He passed her and in the rear-view, he watched as she lowered her arm, turn completely around on one heel in a little dance move and bowed toward him, the gesture playful, defiant.
He braked hard, sent gravel flying. The truck sat angled, clumsy, half on the shoulder, the ass-end in the roadway. She picked up her pace, reached the passenger door and smiled.
“I appreciate the sudden impulse to stop,” she said, laughing. “Where you headed?”
“West,” he said, weaker than he intended, his saliva suddenly depleted.
“Wow, works for me.”
She slid into the cab, careful not to damage the atlas, spied the coin with a crinkle in the corners of her eyes and smiled again.
“Road trip without a predetermined destination, some sort of quest or are you just running from the law?”
“A combination of the first two,” he said, gripping the wheel much too hard.
“Cool.”
He angled back onto the roadway, the cab bouncing as the wheels gained purchase on the blacktop and thanked her for joining him. She laid a hand on his arm, warm and electric, and laughed.
“You have no idea,” she said.
And without aid of the radio, she began to hum a tune that caused his breath to stick in his chest.
Her song, the one she hummed while reading food labels at the grocery, the tune she murmured while she shaved her legs.
He looked at her, tears welling in his eyes, causing the landscape to blur into muted tones.
Another jolt as she touched his arm again.
“Just drive,” she whispered. “West suits us, I think.”

Perspectives

There are decisions to be made.
Go bold.
Play it safe.
Listen to your heart.
Listen to your head.
“It was just a vacation,” she says, the one who has played it safe for so many years that she’s insulated from what it would really be like to just jump from the curb and land in the puddle. Drench the shoes for the glorious fucking hell of it.
Bold is where the heart is; a telling – a yearning – for something more. Another new start in another place where you’ve got a few friends staked out.
Safe is where the head is at; analytical and cold. Penny-pinching realist. A tape repeating fiscal conservatism and preaching the safety of employment and a life that’s “not all that bad.”
The two fight for a soul that’s tired of the struggle. Tired of the status quo.
But a soul that still feels the scars of the past, all the moves that quite didn’t work out so well. The older you get, the longer it takes to heal.
There’s a feeling that time is growing short; the clock’s ticking and there’s got to be a decision.
For now, the boldness of eight days in the city energizes the thought process. It tingles.
It’s like a slight cut on the lips that you can’t help but tongue, just to taste the blood, feel the sting.
Needing the pleasure, but knowing the pain.