Category: randomness

A gloved hand held the fruit, teeth resting against the firm, smooth skin, a moment of hesitation, the sun in his eyes and the flutter of wings, he bit the apple. Enamel tour through the crisp flesh, filling his nostrils with a sweet scent that he had always been fond of. The other hand rested limply in the pocket of his pants, fingering loose change, a ticket stub and the single key to his apartment. He was standing too close to the platform, his mother would have a fit.

 

 

Thumb strikes the flint wheel, a flame whispers to life, lingers for a moment and vanishes as quickly as it had appeared,

 

Thumb struck the flint wheel, produced an ephemeral, whispering flame, lingered for a moment before vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, retracting into the darkness as the lighter snapped shut. Exhaling a satisfied puff smoke, he relished in its metallic chill and allowed gravity to sink the lighter, drifting to the bottom of his pocket. A thin, diaphanous wisp of smoke drifted toward the crisp September sky. His grey eyes following each movement, met the open heavens, scattered patches of clouds and stillness in the air that accompanied autumn afternoons. The station platform was empty, a vast expanse of loneliness upon which he stood, smoking, brooding, waiting.

            The cigarette, caught between his index and middle finger, moved slowly to his lips, hovered there for a moment, the flutter of wings and a ghost from his memories, he inhaled. Had a habit of mumbling with a hand and cigarette over his lips, of slouching because he never enjoyed his height, of fiddling with things in his pocket, of standing too close to the platform edge, his mother would yell at him, of being impatient, but he was waiting now. He made her a promise, didn’t he? He’d wait for her, and so, he’s waiting. A pained smirk, of all the promises to keep

           

I think I’m going to melt, the mere sight of your cobalt irises, spiked with daggers of green, the ringlets of your golden, honey colored hair, the silk of your dress falling gently on the curves of your body as twirl and twirl beneath the ghostly white moon. If only I could pour my heart and soul, like water fro a pitcher, a shimmering mess of my emotions, into your hands, letting it seep between your fingers, if only I could show you how my heart trembles and weeps and breaks and swoons, if only you could see how your smile strangles me, if only you could see how this love ails me so, if only you could love me.

 

I’m a bit of a melodramatic fool; comes with the job, goes with the job, probably is the job. To blow everything incredibly out of proportions and to expect that a round peg fits into a square hole. One of these, I’m just going to give up and ram the damn peg into the hole, hell with fitting in, I’m out of place wherever I go. That’s that and that’s all there ever will be. I’m satisfied and oddly content with squandering the rest of my over analyzing Japanese anime. It’s a good life, what’s wrong with being independent? I’ll tell you what’s wrong, the world wants conformity, the world wants a nice square peg to shove into the nice square hole. Problems arise when the peg is round. What’s wrong with being independent? I’m not going to get what I want. Playing the game will set me free? I think not, I’ll just be dragged down, sink into the quagmire that is life. That’ll be that, my melodramatic fool. Farewell, farewell.

 

 

Sleepy, he yawned and rolled over. A thin stream of sunlight across his barren floor, he’s sleeping on a straw mat.

 

One liners and a lot of cheese, that’s what it is. Maybe it’s the cheese, that sharp cheddar cheese, going to his head, like alcohol, but no quite.

 

He liked Scooby-Doo, was a good show. Yeah, it was a pretty good show. Whatever happened to stuff like that? Stuff he’s starting to miss now, stuff that he had before, stuff he took for granted. Like freedom and liberty and a talking cartoon dog of yesteryear.

The Cartographer

 

Sometimes, when he stands, there’s emptiness, an inability to breathe, suffocation winding like a thin wire around his neck, his lungs crushed under some obscure weight, eyes bulging and hands clawing at the space around him. And then, he closes his eyes, the air starts to flow, rippling across the open water, a salty

 

 

He kissed her, in the aftermath of their argument, a rash, passionate kiss, had no idea where it came from. She took well to the whole affair, no idea why that was so either. Her hair smelled like peaches, lovely, lovely ripe peaches in a summer breeze. And he just stood there for a while, smelling peaches, tasting honey and the emptiness that occasionally accompanied her kisses, not sure if he wanted the emptiness. His arm resting in the curve of her back

 

“Both of them died in the end! Both of them!” Coffee cup in the air and waving, warm, brown liquid on the verge of spilling forth, he continues, gesticulating, “I can’t believe they’d do this me, a devout viewer of all five seasons, even that disastrous,” a pause, “thing they called a third season.” Downs half the scalding drink, enjoying the bitterness of black coffee with a cheap diner aftertaste, trudges on with his rants, “You know, I mean, you know what I mean! The ending was tragic, terrible, waste of time, ruined everything.” Dark green eyes annoyed, brows furrowed in vexation and irritation, as if the mere idea were a fly, buzzing incessantly, driving him to the point of madness. He finally placed the cup back on the counter with a sigh of indignant resignation, nothing he could about it, any of it. Not just the damned, criminal ending to his favorite show this season, but the pieces of his life, drifting away in a small creek of rainwater and city filth dribbling by a sidewalk gutter, ink splotches in rain, goddamn it all to hell. Picks up the paper cup with disgust, downs another sip, realizes that it’s not even liquor he’s drowning himself in, can’t afford liquor, that’s what it is, defers to coffee, cheap, weak, tasteless coffee. Rainy afternoon, talking to some poor bystander in his life, probably wasn’t even listening to him babble, probably thinks he’s a freak, probably. Oh fucking well, “I can’t believe these people! Both of them! What was the point?” He asks, almost shouting, slams the cup, a drop of coffee on the counter, a drop of coffee on his pants, a drop of coffee on the beige overcoat of the poor bystander in his life. He grunts an apology with a sidelong glance, mumbles to himself, shrivels like a prune to a hunched position over the counter. End of that embarrassing situation, sometimes he surprises even himself with his silly antics. Lost one too many marbles, anybody there to help him pick them up, the silly pieces of glass, memories of his unfortunate childhood, scattered liked leaves in the wind on the floor of his empty mind. A hand on his shoulder, he turns to look, some poor bystander in his life, beige overcoat, brown, chocolate curls lapping at his face as she bends down and kisses him, light and sweet, ephemeral, turns and leaves, stilettos and the sway of her hips, taste of sugar and eminent death. And so, death it is.