Making progress

She got out the shower and walked to her living room. Lux was half expecting the dead bird to be gone for some reason. She was still in her towel when she turned on the nine o' clock news. An announcement on a possible sniper, four people dead. Then on to other news, a reminder for daylight savings. Two weeks past. It was now late enough in October to be discussing Halloween costumes. The bird had begun to rot and the neighbors had complained of a sickly sweet fish smell. But Lux still hadn't gotten rid of it. To be honest, it scared the shit out of her. She was to afraid to move it. Here was something that had distracted her for days, instead of just hours. It was just so frightening, she had even been having terrifying nightmares about it. Dreams where she would be walking along a ditch covered in the fallen leaves that she didn't recognize. Every time she would come across an old decrepid Victorian house, with a woman standing with her back to Lux. There would always be crows flying overhead and in the trees. Then the woman would turn around and instead of a human head, there would be the dead head of the raven, staring back at her with the cold eyes. Lux would wake up, shaking violently. The first few times she had thrown up, then it was just uncontrollable sobbing. The deep throat filled gasping kind. But Lux was fascinated by it. She even had played with the idea of being the bird for Halloween. Lux was thinking about the dream now, as she watched the TV, which was now on weather. She had started smoking again. She hadn't picked up a pack since she was 15, to look cool, but now she did it to calm her nerves. The raven was like a ghost, a presence you weren't sure of which left a creepy aftermath. The bird had obviously changed her. She had been drinking more coffee to keep her up at night to avoid the inevitable dream. Overall, she was just perpetually on edge. Shifty. Lux didnt want to stop moving. She even left her lonely apartment, the only place she felt comfort, more and more to go to the cafe. Lux had even started to think about men again. There was another regular at the Cafe, who came at night like her, that she had noticed. But she didn't talk to him, and avoided eye contact at all cost. She knew she couldn't tell anyone about the bird, and that was the only thing that she wanted to talk about.

Work in progress

She wasn't depressed, just unhappy. She first realized this fact on the bus ride home as she was listening to the insane rants of the homeless Blackman had seen this man many times before, it is hard to avoid anyone in such a small town time he was talking about how amazing a dog's sense of smell was. " they can smell what you had for lunch they smell each other they smell there children! They can smell when you last defecated they can smell if you had just been driving just gotten out of the car they can smell your period the don't like that." he had been going on like this, without stopping, the intire bus ride. Lux couldn't help but smile every now and then at all the uncomfortable people trying to ignore him. Lux was taking the bus back to an empty apartment with only the neighbors cat that she was taking care of to welcome her. Yes, she was lonely, but so is everyone else. Loneliness wasn't the issue. She didn't know what it was that was making her dissatisfied, of coarse she had tried to figure out what it was. She had tried disappearing her abnormally strange dreams, and even tried talking to her fake friends who never listened, but she new that wouldn't help. Then Lux decided to move on to more drastic solutions. Getting stoned in strangers homes with stained carpets who felt the same unhappiness and emptiness she did. One reason she did know that was causing it was that her talents were going to waste. But whose aren't? She bought some pencils, a sketchbook and a fresh notebook, as well as a camera. But none of these items helped. She didn't know what to fill them up with. So Lux decided to just give it time, maybe she was just in a 'funk'. It was now October, and nothing had changed. The notebook was empty, her camera film undeveloped. The only difference was she was not as desperate to find out how to free herself of the weight, and had accepted it as her fate of loosing touch completely. She was more alone then ever, disconnecting herself from all the girls who tried to fix her up with some guy, hoping that she would be fun again. Eventually they all gave up and had stopped calling. Tonight she was walking down her street from the bust stop around dusk. It was brisk and she was wearing all black. She was looking down as she walked, hoping to avoid small talk with the neighbors. All of a sudden she stopped. There was something dark and big in the middle of the road. She walked over to it. roadkill. Or was it? She took a second look. No, it was a dead bird. A raven, and it looked as though it had been killed by a dog. Blood at the throat and hunks of purpleblack feathers everywhere. But when she looked at her reflection in its open dead eyes, she felt so cold and empty as if ice water and been dumped inside her. She picked up the dead bird and carried it home. Once she got inside she placed it on the kitchen table, next to her dirty dishes. Then she took a hot shower.

i just finished watching alice in wonerland

everything is fallling apart and i dont know how to put it back together.

fuck.

Short story

Irving Monroe is tall and skinny. When he was growing up in Baltimore, he stuck out among the Jews. He told me he feels like an anachronism. When you meet Irving, you can tell he's itching for a cigarette. But since he wont be 18 for another three months, he never has one. Usually he tries to bum them off the homeless and disabled. He would ask more of the majority (to be politically correct) but then he gets dirty looks. Before you get to know Irving well, you want him to be asexual, or asocial, asomething. But he's not, an your always disappointed. He's straight, and what you would label a 'floater'. In highschool, people think they're being really deep by rejecting labels, but Irving knows better and accepts it. Whenever I go to meet Irving, its always at the same place. The cafe. He's always sitting in the back, in one of the faux red leather booths, with a pot of Japanese tea that tastes like seaweed. Every time I sit down, he doesn't even try the small talk and just bitches about how everyone at the cafe are either hippies or trust fund babies. Besides the regular. But, where else are you going to get liquid sushi? Booth culture is an amazing thing. They're very personal with out being to close to someone. A perfect place for conversation. After the complaints, Irving will tell me about some movie I have never heard of, (usually expressionist films), or some poem that only sounds slightly familiar. While he is talking, I nod my head and pretend to understand while watching the brown moth flutter around the ceiling lamp. After tea we go out and walk the ally ways and climb on roofs. Occasionally we go on elevator tides, but only if he wants to tell me about some mystery girl. The problem with our tall skinny boy is that he is attractive. So Occasionally an even stupider girl will come over with her little friend to try to talk to him. But he just stares back and eventually they will leave. Irving likes stuningly beautiful brunettes with mystery and lines of poems hand written on there cigarettes. The 15 year olds who try to bat eyelashes at him are not those girls. Every Saturday we take the bus down to the city and go to the art museum. Art is one thing I can understand. We go on satiates because it is free. Our preference is modern art. Tacky, I know, but we love it. Irving is not an artist, he is a writer. Now, most literary types are highly pretentious and a pain in the ass. They all want to be the star, they're as bad as drama nerds. Irving knows this, so he keeps his mouth shut. When I'm with Irving, I usually tear up whatever piece of paper that might be near by. Napkins, bus transfers, Styrofoam cups, anything. He always asks me if I am anxious about something, but I lie and say no. I know what you must be thinking, but don't get the wrong idea about Irving and I, all I am is someone to hear his unnaturally high voice appreciate things that most people don't know about yet. He is nice though. He gave his old holy gray sweater once. It smelled like hardwood floor and coffee and cigarettes. Exactly like the cafe we go to so often. The smell is all gone, but Occasionally I will put it on and read a book he recommended. If you haven't guessed it yet, I am in love with Irving Monroe. It is a bit of a handicap, but I don't think he's noticed yet.