Sunday, December 24, 2006
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
from august, honest
SHE CAN’T HARDLY WAIT
I was in the park at a quarter to one with my fingers wrapped around the chain link fence, watching them. There they were, dancing together on the blacktop beneath makeshift spotlight. It was silent, except for the passing cars. The cold went down my spine. I hadn’t seen him all summer, and now here I was, no better than a peeping tom. He always thought I talked too much.
I had to leave the party. I watched from the doorway as they were kissing on the futon, it was too much. I had excused myself politely saying I was going to the bathroom. The front door was open for the smokers; it just looked like I was looking for better conversation. But here I was in the park. I had run all the way down, in the middle of the street because asphalt is supposed to be better for your knees than pavement. On the way I had stopped and sat in a wet front lawn to catch my breath. The park wasn’t any help, I couldn’t forget things I wanted to and seeing the shadows of their dancing just reminded me of more things I didn’t want to remember.
So I went to the supermarket.
It was full of cardboard boxes for restocking. All the workers with kneepads were stoned. There were only four other shoppers. Once there I didn’t know what to do. I asked where the Fritos were. Seventh aisle, snacking goods. I bought them and sat outside on one of the concrete picnic tables trying to figure out my next move, and my future. At first I planed on going to Denny’s and staying there until it was late enough in the morning to go home. But I had spent my coffee money on the salty Fritos. Cursing myself for not getting a drink I decided I would go to college but only after a year off. Maybe I could sneak in through the window, but I had too much energy to sleep. I would live in a big city.
I considered if he wasn’t real while crumpling the bag, and looked down at my sneakers.
I spotted the meth couple from inside leaving and decided to follow them. They took the shopping cart all the way to their apartment complex two blocks away. I think their names were Reggie and Fred. Fred had a strong jaw and intimidating eyes and would be attractive if he didn’t have a mullet he pulled back into a ponytail. Reggie had big dyed red hair that was turning orange at the tips. I sat in the stairwell and listened to them bicker over the radio. ‘California Dreamin’ came on and all the arguing stopped, all I heard was the man say, “Shh…listen”. The song echoed down my staircase.
After that I walked home.
On the way I kicked a dumpster and saw the girl who flashed everyone at the football game. At home I peeled dried glue off my hand and thought about how he had ripped the cover off my favorite book.
I was in the park at a quarter to one with my fingers wrapped around the chain link fence, watching them. There they were, dancing together on the blacktop beneath makeshift spotlight. It was silent, except for the passing cars. The cold went down my spine. I hadn’t seen him all summer, and now here I was, no better than a peeping tom. He always thought I talked too much.
I had to leave the party. I watched from the doorway as they were kissing on the futon, it was too much. I had excused myself politely saying I was going to the bathroom. The front door was open for the smokers; it just looked like I was looking for better conversation. But here I was in the park. I had run all the way down, in the middle of the street because asphalt is supposed to be better for your knees than pavement. On the way I had stopped and sat in a wet front lawn to catch my breath. The park wasn’t any help, I couldn’t forget things I wanted to and seeing the shadows of their dancing just reminded me of more things I didn’t want to remember.
So I went to the supermarket.
It was full of cardboard boxes for restocking. All the workers with kneepads were stoned. There were only four other shoppers. Once there I didn’t know what to do. I asked where the Fritos were. Seventh aisle, snacking goods. I bought them and sat outside on one of the concrete picnic tables trying to figure out my next move, and my future. At first I planed on going to Denny’s and staying there until it was late enough in the morning to go home. But I had spent my coffee money on the salty Fritos. Cursing myself for not getting a drink I decided I would go to college but only after a year off. Maybe I could sneak in through the window, but I had too much energy to sleep. I would live in a big city.
I considered if he wasn’t real while crumpling the bag, and looked down at my sneakers.
I spotted the meth couple from inside leaving and decided to follow them. They took the shopping cart all the way to their apartment complex two blocks away. I think their names were Reggie and Fred. Fred had a strong jaw and intimidating eyes and would be attractive if he didn’t have a mullet he pulled back into a ponytail. Reggie had big dyed red hair that was turning orange at the tips. I sat in the stairwell and listened to them bicker over the radio. ‘California Dreamin’ came on and all the arguing stopped, all I heard was the man say, “Shh…listen”. The song echoed down my staircase.
After that I walked home.
On the way I kicked a dumpster and saw the girl who flashed everyone at the football game. At home I peeled dried glue off my hand and thought about how he had ripped the cover off my favorite book.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
black swan II - ending
Black swan
They thought he was a real psycho, the kind that would go postal and shoot up the school; and even though he had held a knife to my throat and told me I was beautiful, I didn’t believe him because it was a dull blade. Of coarse we knew better and that his crazy eyes were just an act, and the way he went off on people was just his way of blowing off steam. They kept an eye on him though, and after one of the copycat bomb threats they got even more suspicious.
He was a runner, that’s for sure. And he ran fast. We all knew what he was running from. Technically we were all running from the same thing. His friends would sit on the sides of the tracks smoking cigarettes and clocking him, usually as far away from the flimsy bleachers as possible. He probably would’ve shot us all if he didn’t have his running. Everyday in the late afternoon he would go out and run. Afterwards he’d come off the tracks panting with his head down like a dog and go to the showers, not looking at anyone. The one time he wouldn’t look you directly in the eye. He moved here from Ohio in his second year of high school and didn’t seem to have a problem fitting in. I think that surprised his teachers the most. I had no idea whether he was a good student or not, all I knew was that he could run. Everyone knew, even the track coaches who were constantly trying to get him to join, even with his reputation. Somehow the librarians seemed to hate him the most; it was like he went there just to get kicked out. I think it was them, with their black beady eyes and tight buns that "tipped them off". I don’t think he was particularly close to anyone but he had a lot of friends. The way he ran you knew something more was going on in his head.
I sat with his friends that I didn’t know to well and listened to the quiet thumping and slapping of his sneakers on the Astroturf that must’ve matched his heartbeat. It would get louder and quieter each time he came around. And even though his chuck taylors would slowly get looser and unlaced, he didn’t stop. The focus he had made you think he really was insane. Everyone secretly wondered about him, although no one besides the teachers ever said anything.
He hated school. You could tell he was trying to out run everything. Early morning, late at night, whenever anything started to get to him he’d go running. Thinking: “I can’t make myself believe the next ones any better. Is the next one better?”
He lasted until April. In the afternoon we went to see him run, as usual. And he didn’t stop, he didn’t even slow down. He just kept going around the track, beating out the lub dubs in his chest. We waited for him to collapse from dehydration, but even that didn’t stop him. This confirmed our suspicions that he was sub-human, or on steroids. After sundown someone had turned on their headlights so he could see the track lines.
Soon enough everybody just got bored and went home to watch TV.
It wasn’t ‘till a month later when we realized no one had seen him out on the tracks since then. Eventually we just figured he ran away. I guess he never stopped running.
You just can’t forget something like that.
They thought he was a real psycho, the kind that would go postal and shoot up the school; and even though he had held a knife to my throat and told me I was beautiful, I didn’t believe him because it was a dull blade. Of coarse we knew better and that his crazy eyes were just an act, and the way he went off on people was just his way of blowing off steam. They kept an eye on him though, and after one of the copycat bomb threats they got even more suspicious.
He was a runner, that’s for sure. And he ran fast. We all knew what he was running from. Technically we were all running from the same thing. His friends would sit on the sides of the tracks smoking cigarettes and clocking him, usually as far away from the flimsy bleachers as possible. He probably would’ve shot us all if he didn’t have his running. Everyday in the late afternoon he would go out and run. Afterwards he’d come off the tracks panting with his head down like a dog and go to the showers, not looking at anyone. The one time he wouldn’t look you directly in the eye. He moved here from Ohio in his second year of high school and didn’t seem to have a problem fitting in. I think that surprised his teachers the most. I had no idea whether he was a good student or not, all I knew was that he could run. Everyone knew, even the track coaches who were constantly trying to get him to join, even with his reputation. Somehow the librarians seemed to hate him the most; it was like he went there just to get kicked out. I think it was them, with their black beady eyes and tight buns that "tipped them off". I don’t think he was particularly close to anyone but he had a lot of friends. The way he ran you knew something more was going on in his head.
I sat with his friends that I didn’t know to well and listened to the quiet thumping and slapping of his sneakers on the Astroturf that must’ve matched his heartbeat. It would get louder and quieter each time he came around. And even though his chuck taylors would slowly get looser and unlaced, he didn’t stop. The focus he had made you think he really was insane. Everyone secretly wondered about him, although no one besides the teachers ever said anything.
He hated school. You could tell he was trying to out run everything. Early morning, late at night, whenever anything started to get to him he’d go running. Thinking: “I can’t make myself believe the next ones any better. Is the next one better?”
He lasted until April. In the afternoon we went to see him run, as usual. And he didn’t stop, he didn’t even slow down. He just kept going around the track, beating out the lub dubs in his chest. We waited for him to collapse from dehydration, but even that didn’t stop him. This confirmed our suspicions that he was sub-human, or on steroids. After sundown someone had turned on their headlights so he could see the track lines.
Soon enough everybody just got bored and went home to watch TV.
It wasn’t ‘till a month later when we realized no one had seen him out on the tracks since then. Eventually we just figured he ran away. I guess he never stopped running.
You just can’t forget something like that.
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