crabwax - Tumblr blog

crabwax · 9 years

Text

The Woman at the Cave

Death was a woman and she lived in the cave at the start of the creek. Her cave was a dark crack that ran through a rock, and from the crack came a trickle of fresh water that cascaded downwards, forming a stream than down the side of the mountain. Death wore a simple white gown and she had long white hair that hung down to her waist and she could sometimes be seen sitting next to the water washing her hair in the running water. I grew up in a house near the creek and when I was very young, I would play in its cool water. The side of the mountain was forested and full of life. It was filled with ferns and insects and moss covered rocks and wildflowers. For a child it was a playground, and all of my afternoons were spent there. The cave at the start of the creek was a place that I knew of but that I never went to. Sometimes I could see the woman with the white hair sitting where the water started and I would wonder what was inside of her dark cave. Near the mouth of the cave the grass underfoot gave way to sand. Soft, cool sand that was interrupted by the occasional sharp rock. Silver strands of spiderweb hung everywhere, clinging to the rocks, draping like tattered banners in a ruined palace. As you got closer you could see that there weren't any spiders in the webs. If Death ever spoke, she could have told you that there never had been. If you had walked in that place barefoot your feet would have bled. Webs would have stuck to your face. As a child, it was a place that terrified me, and I kept away from it.

The first time I saw Death leave her cave was when I was a boy. My friend and I were climbing a tall tree that curved over the creek. My friend was the gardener's daughter. Her and her father lived in a small cottage on the edge of my father’s property. She was about my age and when we were not in school we would come down to the creek to play. From the tree we had climbed, the creek must have been 20 feet below us. From this high up, we could see Death’s cave at the start of the river and I noticed that she was walking downstream. This was odd. I had never seen her leave her cave, but I payed it no mind. We were so high above her that I was sure she would not see us. We were edging out onto the branch, moving farther from the trunk, daring one another to see who would go the farthest. It was my friends turn to take a few more careful steps out onto the shaking branch. She moved carefully, but under the weight of her body the branch snapped and she fell. She landed in a standing position in the water, but the water was not deep enough to cushion her fall. Her legs crumpled beneath her, as she hit the shallow water. I sat in the tree, shocked, unable to move. But the woman with the white hair approached her. She moved across the water and she stopped where my friend had fallen. She picked up her body and she pressed it against hers and she kissed her on the mouth. Not in the way that mothers kiss their children, but in the way that lovers kiss, deeply, with mouths open. It was a terrible thing to see and my friends skin went white and cold at the touch of her lips. When the kiss was over she picked up my friend and she carried her back up the creek towards the cave. As death climbed from the water I saw that she stepped carelessly through the sand though she was barefoot. As her feet were sliced by the sharp rocks that were scattered through the soft sand, I saw that she did not bleed. She seemed to walk through the webs. She disappeared with my friend into the darkness inside of the cave and It was then that I realized the woman was Death.

For a long time I avoided that place. I wanted nothing to do with it. It wasn’t until many years later when I was a teenager that I saw Death again. It was a hot summer day and I had descended the path that ran from my house to the creek, to walk alongside the trickling water. I had been walking for about ten minutes when I saw her. She was sitting outside her cave. Seeing her, I realized that my childhood memories of her had not served me well. Now that I was older I saw how beautiful she really was. She had smooth pale skin and a shapely, womanly body. Her lips were a pale pink, her nose was thin, her eyes were a cold grey and above them sat two perfectly placed white eyebrows. She always wore the same simple white gown. Though her hair was white her face showed no sign of age. She looked young but she also looked old. Not old in the way that a grandmother is old, with greying hair and wrinkles, but old as a soldier coming home from war is old, old as a mother who lost a child is old. Her age showed itself in bleak wisdom and in terrible beauty. Her face was without flaw and the effect was discomforting. She was beautiful, but she was inhuman, and she was terrible to look at.

A moment later I saw the man. He was wading through the creek. His clothes were ragged and torn and his sleve was stained with red. His face was twisted into a grimace. I knew the man though I barely recognized him. He had been rich and wealthy once. A successful man. A man who wore expensive clothes. But recently he had lost all of his money, and he had taken to living on the street. He who had turned up his nose at beggars now sat with a bowl, his clothes in tatters, asking for money. I wondered if the man knew what he was doing here. The creek behind my house was many miles from the town. The man walked through the water of the creek carelessly, splashing it every which way. He didn’t notice my presence, but he did see the woman sitting by the cave. As soon as he saw her the pain faded from his face. Death looked straight at him.He stared at her open mouthed for a moment, as if he was in a trance, and then he ran to her. She stood up to receive him. As he climbed up the rocks to the cave where Death sat he sliced his palms and his feet on the sharp rocks. His red blood trickled out into the sand. As soon as he was close enough to touch, Death reached out her hand and held his face. She pulled his lips to hers and she kissed him. The life came out of his body then, and he fell. And she caught him. She held his body in her arms and she carried it with her as she went into the cave. The last glimpse I caught of the man’s face showed a gentle smile, an expression of peace.

My father died when I was a young man, but I never saw death take him. I had been traveling, and I was very far away from the cave where the water started. When news of his death reached me, I came home, to take care of my mother and to take ownership of the house. I brought a woman with me. We married then, in our house by the creek, and the years following were good ones. I only saw Death a few times in my adult years. Once, when one of the servants in my house went into labor I saw her climb from her cave and walk downstream to the place where my house stood. She walked through the door to my house and into the room where the woman was giving birth. She sat down next to the woman. The woman turned her sweaty head and saw her and there was fear in her eyes. Death did not kiss the woman, though, she merely sat and waited, her face as expressionless as always. The woman suffered all through the night, and stared at Death’s face, refusing to close her eyes. It wasn’t until morning when the child was safely delivered that Death reached over and kissed the woman, ending her pain. Death then picked her up, as easily and gently as she were a baby, and carried her out the door and up the hill to the place where the water started.

I saw her again when one morning, through my window. She was walking down the stream, her gown trailing in the water behind her. I followed her, curious. Death never noticed me when I followed her, or if she did she never said anything. She was only ever concerned with the next person she was to meet. She followed the stream all the way into the town, into the lumberyard. In the lumberyard men were at work cutting and stripping logs. She stopped in front of a man who was working a large circular saw. He was carefully running wood through it’s teeth. Behind him several men carried a large log. One of the men tripped and the log fell into the man working the saw, pushing his head into the spinning blade and ending his life. Death was upon him in a moment. She kissed his bloody disfigured face and she carried him away. As she left the town the men from the mill went to break the news. At the doorstep of his home they were greeted by his wife and his child. As they told what had happened to her husband, she began to cry. The three year old daughter in her arms stared into the distance. She was too young to understand what had happened, but down the street she could see a woman with white hair carrying her father. She wondered where she was taking him to.

Years later there was a war in our country. It never affected me for by that time I was too old to fight in the army. When it approached our home my family and I locked ourselves inside our home with enough food to last for weeks. The battle took place only two towns away. We could hear muffled gunfire and the shouting of men’s voices. We sat inside and held each other and waited for it to end. Through the window I could see death moving and up and down the stream carrying the broken body of a soldier on the way up, and carrying nothing at all on the way back down. She made trip after long trip and even after night had fallen and the noises of battle had stopped, she continued to travel up and down the creek, the clear water lit silver by the moon, a new soldier in her arms each time.

It was years after the war had ended that a traveler came to my door and asked if he might have a place to sleep for the night. In my younger days I might have turned such a man away, but as I had grown older I had grown kinder and more gracious. I told him that he would be welcome and I set up a bed for him in the barn and had my wife set an extra place at the table for dinner that night. The traveler wasn’t well. I realized it at dinner when I saw that he barely ate and that his face was abnormally pale. As I led him into the barn that night he began cough. A great ugly, heaving cough. I asked him if he was alright and he shook his head. I asked him if he wanted me to call a doctor and he shook his head again. I opened the gate to the barn and inside was Death, sitting on his bed, looking directly at him. The man was already pale but he went as white as ivory when he saw her. He knew who she was and he feared her. He turned and ran, coughing and gasping, moving as fast as his feet would take him. Death rose calmly and followed him, walking at her own steady pace, not stopping to look at me as she passed me by. She followed the man into the woods, and this time I didn’t follow her. I knew that It didn’t matter how fast he ran. She would catch up with him and she would have her way with him. I went into my house to where my family was and I slept.

One morning I was walking alongside the river and I saw Death washing her long white hair in the water that flowed from her cave. It was a good day when she was washing her hair. It meant that there was no one for her to visit. I stood and I watched her and after a moment she turned and she looked at me. She had never looked at me before but I had always known that someday she would. I went inside my house and I put on my traveling coat. I kissed my wife and my family and I told them that there was a trip I had to make. I waved to them as I walked out the door.

I followed the path that ran alongside the stream. I followed it for miles and miles until the stream widened and became a river. Then I followed the river. I never turned to look behind me, I never stopped to listen for footsteps. They were there and I knew it. I didn’t hurry. I walked at my own pace. The river grew wider and wider as the sun sank lower and lower. When night fell, I did not stop to sleep. I kept walking. It was cold and I was hungry, but moving kept me somewhat warm. Sometimes there were towns or boats. I passed them all by. Their glowing lights passed me as I walked. As it was becoming unbearably cold there was light in the east. The light widened and grew and eventually there was the sun. With the sun came warmth. My legs were tired but I knew that the journey was almost over now. The river was very wide and it moved straight. Already I could see seagulls in the sky. I walked for several more hours and began to feel uncomfortably hot. The sun shone on me chapping my lips and burning my face. I was sweating now, a thick wet sweat. My body moved slower than it used to. It didn’t have much left to give. I pushed it onwards. At last, suddenly, there was the sea. I went all the way to the water's edge and there I stopped. I wanted to sit down but I didn’t. The water stretched all the way from my feet to the horizon. It was endless. Turning my back on the water I looked behind me. There were dunes of sand and green hills and mountains and there was Death, descending the last dune of sand to where I stood at the water's edge. Her hair and her white gown blew in the wind. She looked directly at me and she stopped when she was only a few feet away. Her face was without flaw and was perfect and terrible. Her eyes were cold and grey. My face was old now, and covered in wrinkles. She looked much younger than me, but she also didn’t. She looked ancient. Ancient and ageless. I reached out my hand and I touched the side of her face. Her skin was soft and hard at the same time. She was cool to the touch. The warmth of my hand did not affect the temperature of her skin. I was exhausted and feverish but she was here and she was strong and cool. Leaning forward I kissed her, gently, and the touch of her lips was relief. I was falling and I could feel her arms wrapping around me. She would carry me home.

#magic realism #shortstory #neil gaiman #Death

2 notes · View notes

crabwax · 9 years

Text

Pre-Warmed Clothes

To my Child: It's five thirty in the morning and I’m sitting here at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in my hand and the rain pattering on the roof above me. I’m still sleepy, but the coffee helps with that. It’s good strong coffee. I’m never up this early but Alan always is. I wonder if he is already awake, if he is already getting dressed in whichever hotel his work put him up in. He probably is. Alan always gets up early. In the background I can hear the tumbling of clothes in the dryer, the very clothes you picked out last night when I asked you what you wanted to wear tomorrow. You chose Jeans and your pink sweatshirt. I can hear the zipper on the sweatshirt now as it spins round and round, tapping against the metal surface of the dryer. Your clothes have been warming from some time now and you are still asleep. When you wake it will be because I have thrown open the door to your room and shouted, “Good Morning!”, just as my mother used to do to me. You will squint and frown and stir beneath your sheets in the way that you do, and I will make up for the cruelty of forcing you from your bed at this hour by presenting you with pre-warmed clothes from the dryer. My mother used to do that for me as well. There's about five minutes to go until that moment. My coffee is half finished and the chores for the morning are all done. Breakfast is sitting on the stove but I will wait until you are with me to eat it.

I can hear the rain on the roof like fingers tapping impatiently. It is sunrise, probably, but the light isn’t visible yet. All of the windows in this apartment face west. This time of morning makes me think of your father. The day after we were married he woke early and he made me breakfast and he brought it into our bedroom. After I had woken up we sat and ate it on the bed. The next day he did the same thing. And the day after that, and every day. I asked him if he planned on making me breakfast in bed every single day. He responded by asking if I planned on staying his wife every single day. And even though we both had to go to work as soon as soon as breakfast was over, it made such a difference to start the day like that: In blankets, with each other, with eggs and bacon, witch crumbs in our sheets. Each morning, when I felt him wake early and climb from bed to make me breakfast I thought that it was a chore for him. I thought it was something he made himself do. I would always tell him that he didn’t have to do it. And of course he did it anyways.

But today I realize that it was no more of a chore for him than it was for me to wake early for you and to put your clothes in the dryer. I see now that it's nothing like a chore at all. It’s a gift. It’s a privilege to be able to wake early and to serve the ones you love. It’s a joy and it only becomes a chore if you do it for yourself.

Sunlight is creeping through the western window and my coffee has gone cold. I’ve let it sit while I’ve sat and thought. The dryer will be beeping any minute now and it’s time that I went to wake you up. The rain makes for lonely mornings. Only a week until Alan gets home. Then we will have breakfast in bed again. I wonder what he will bring for you. He always brings you something when he comes home from his trips. I’m standing in your doorway now and it seems a shame to wake you. You look so peaceful in your sleep, in your dreams. But wake you I must, and I know that it isn’t truly a shame, not so long as there are pre-warmed clothes.

#short story #shortshortstory

1 note · View note

crabwax · 9 years

Text

The Pinball Machine

The rulebook was born on the first day of my sophomore year of high school when our principal opened his beginning of the year speech with the words, “These are the best years of your life”. I was so mad I threw my biology textbook at him. I was aiming for his head but I hit him in the knee. I guess I threw pretty hard because he wore a cast over that leg for the rest of semester. Anyways, I got dragged down to the office and given an out of school suspension for “assaulting a teacher” But I wasn’t even upset. I was awash in the romantic fervor of having been punished for an act that I felt was just. I mean, highschool had better not be the best years of our lives. From that moment on I resolved to throw something anytime someone said something about how great high school was. That's the first rule.

The second rule was created in Mr. Stanley’s classroom. Mr. Stanley is the U.S. History teacher here at clearview high, and he is without a doubt the only qualified faculty member employed at this school. I knew I was going to like him right away because he offered our class free coffee. “See that coffee maker?” he said, pointing to to his desk, “ Every day I brew two pots. One in the morning, one right after lunch. You kids can help yourselves so long as I’ve already had a cup.” Several of the students, me included stood up to have some.

“Don't you have any cream or sugar?” protested a group of girls in the back, “Then we could make lattes.”

“What do I look like, a Starbucks?” Mr. Stanley roared. “I drink Folgers dark brew and I drink it black. If you don’t like it you can get your coffee elsewhere.” That shut everyone up. Everyone but me.

“Mr. Stanley, this coffee tastes just like crude oil.”

Mr. Stanley grinned. “But it makes you feel alive doesn’t it? That’s the whole point.”

It did make me feel alive, I realized. And so I resolved to always drink as much coffee as I could get your hands on. Because of this I average three cups a day and I always seem to have shaky hands and chapped lips. But it’s never not worth it,

Rule number three: Steal other peoples random stuff. This mostly ties into rule number six, but sometimes I do it just for kicks. More on rule number six later.

The fourth rule gets me into more trouble than any other rule. It states that whenever things get boring, I have to do something to make them interesting again. I know this sounds like quite the commitment on my part, but really, it's something I do anyways. One example of this is the time my English teacher spent forty five minutes of class talking about the new wheat free diet her doctor had recommended. I responded by writing my Huckleberry Finn essay on the new all ramen diet I had adopted (Beef packed for breakfast, chicken packet for lunch, pork packet for afternoon tea, and come dinnertime I mix all three flavors together - and I’ve never had more energy in my entire life!). Needless to say she failed me, but who cares? If Mark Twain was my teacher I would have gotten an A+. Another example of this rule is the time that Mr. Stanley lectured on the lunar landing. I swear. We learn the exact same stuff every year. I’ve been learning about the lunar landing every year since kindergarden. I only barely managed to cut through the mundane lecture by faking a nervous breakdown. “Lies!” I screamed, “It’s all lies! Propaganda! The lunar landing was faked and president kennedy was an alien! The NSA is watching us, and the only way to protect ourselves is to wear little tinfoil hats. We should all move to Canada. This kind of shit doesn’t happen there!” Mr. Stanley responded by throwing a whiteboard eraser at my head, which is exactly what makes him so cool. Any other teacher would have gotten butthurt, and tried to prove why I was wrong. Mr. Stanley knew that I knew I was wrong.

If you're wondering why I need a rulebook to tell me to throw things and drink coffee, it would be because you are a normal person. Being a normal person, you probably see the world as a big round place, full of people and mountains and cities and roads and cars and stuff like that. Not me. When I see the world I see a pinball machine: a collection of swirling lights and spinning wheels. I hear loud clanging sound effects that boom from miniscule speakers and I watch circular bumpers that smack shining silver balls in random directions. I see a maze of twisting paths that always change, never lead the same way twice, and all too often deposit you in the gutter: the inevitable destination at the end of the game. For me, the rulebook is a strategy. It's a way to make meaning from the chaos. It’s a method that, if followed, will lead me to highscore before I hit the gutter.

All this brings me to my point, which is the fifth rule: Always be building the pinball machine. Pretty early on in my high school career I realized that If I didn’t find some way to express myself I would lose my mind. I would paint, if I was capable of creating art, but I’m not. I would write songs, if I could write songs, but I can’t. The only thing I am really good at is pinball. And so, I decided to build a pinball machine. A pinball machine so great it would capture the entire suckyness of the american high school experience. I constructed the frame in my woodworking class last year, much to the chagrin of my shop teacher (“Can’t you just build a bookshelf like every other kid?”). Now it sits in my bedroom at home, where I slowly add objects that seem to encapsulate the agony of high school. So far I have a packet of ramen noodles, a used condom, pawns from a chessboard, the quarterback’s letter jacket (stolen from his locker during P.E.), a cracked cell phone, a hardcover copy of Lord of the Flies, a blueprint of the high school, a pad of tardy slips (stolen from the receptionist while she was pretending she couldn’t hear my excuse for being late), about six pregnancy tests in various states of completion and finally, the cast from my principal’s leg (Also stolen. Don’t ask how). I nail them to the plywood case where they sit, frozen in time, waiting to be pummeled by a tiny silver ball.

It's almost done. Almost. It’s still missing some things. But by the time I graduate from this prison, I will have finished it. Immediately following the graduation ceremony I will leave the pinball machine in the middle of the school cafeteria. I won’t be around to see how it is received. By that time, I will be halfway to Canada.

Third period is Biology and I have never been on time once. That's the sixth rule: Always show up late to third period. My teacher is so used to me being late that she marks me tardy before I even show up. Never absent. Just tardy. The Lady at the front office prepares my tardy slip ahead of time. She leaves it on her desk for me to pick up. She used to ask me why I was late. I gave a different answer each time.

“The hottest girl I have ever met just mugged me.” “My house caught on fire.” “I just wanted to say hi, see how you were doing.” “I fell out of the school bus this morning. I just now got here.”

“Yodeling convention.” My parents made me go.”

She doesn’t ask anymore. She leaves my tardy slips on the counter, hoping I will take them in silence, but I give her excuses anyways. The real reason I am late is because I am in Mr. Stanley’s room, pouring myself a second cup of coffee and waiting for the tardy bell to ring.

Rule number seven states that I only have to tell the truth about things that everyone else lies about. I fulfill its duties with statements such as, “yeah I pick my nose, you can see a booger stain on my pants right here”, or “There are two kinds of people in the world: people who pee in the shower, and liars.” or, “I watch porn at least once a week. Usually more.” My peers usually respond to these statements by saying that I’m just trying to get attention, and that if you ignore me I will stop. But the reality is much more terrifying. The reality is that when I’m all alone, even when I’m locked in my room with nobody to hear me except the walls, I still say that I watch internet porn multiple times a week. The walls in my room never respond. I don’t think they care.

The thing about the truth is that it usually isn’t what you want to hear.

The other day I was in Mr. Stanley’s room, sipping my fifth cup of coffee for the day, when I asked, “Is high school going to be the best part of my life?” I was preparing to throw something if he gave the wrong answer.

“The hell if I know.” He said, as he loaded a PowerPoint on the projector. “Wasn’t for me. It probably was for some people. But I think it’s dangerous to say that anything is the best part of life. Life is different for everybody.”

Mr. Stanley was absolutely right, and I had to admit it even if I didn’t want to. It made me realize that life really is like a pinball machine. Not because you have to fight to understand how it works and to get a high score, but because every pinball machine is different and the only rule that really matters is this: It doesn't matter how you keep your ball from going down the gutter, so long as it works.

The hardest rule to follow is rule number eight: I can't let myself drive to Canada until I graduate. I graduate in two years. I’ve got two more years of this. Some days, the vast amount of days before I’m actually allowed to go to Canada kicks in and I find myself heading north on the interstate instead of going to school in the morning. I always manage to pull myself back into reality and drive to school instead. One time I was determined to not go to school. I had been driving towards Canada for about an hour and a half. I had a full tank of gas, and a backpack full of ramen noodles. I was about two hours away from the border when I realized that my third period teacher was going to mark me late, trusting that I would show up. What would it do to her when I didn’t show up? I mean, people need constants in life. Ms. Gleason seemed like a relatively stable person, but you never know…

I turned around at the next exit and drove all the way back to the school. By the time I arrived there were only five minutes left in third period. But I wasn’t absent. Not yet. I raced into Mr. Stanley’s classroom. “I’m very sorry to interrupt your class, Mr. Stanley”, I shouted, “But damn it, I really need a cup of coffee.” Mr. Stanley rolled his eyes and continued to lecture. I poured myself a steaming mug of tar and raced out of the room.

Next stop was the front office. My tardy slip was still waiting for me on the receptionists desk. “I was abducted by a race of aliens that draws their energy from incredibly attractive people. I barely managed to escape.” I explained even though she didn’t ask. I ran out of the front office and up the stairs towards my Biology classroom.

Only 3 minutes left. That was enough time for me to put in earphones and blast my very favorite song which is “Pinball Wizard” by The Who. I took a long gulp of burning hot coffee. It was bitter. I could feel it burning down my throat. By the time I reached biology, I was feeling pretty darned great about myself, which is probably why I tripped as soon as I opened the door. I face planted into the linoleum floor, and sent my coffee mug flying across the room. It shattered against Ms. Gleason’s desk creating an explosion of steaming brown liquid and shards of ceramic. I was on the floor tangled in my ear buds. “I’m here Ms. Gleason. I’m here and I didn’t ditch your dumb class!” I shouted. She walked over to me, and took the tardy slip from my outstretched hand. “You may go to your seat,” she tried to say, but she was interrupted by the sound of the bell. Class was out. The students rose from their seats and filed towards the door. I was on my hands and knees gathering the broken pieces of my mug. It would make an excellent addition to the pinball machine. As they passed, some of the students laughed at me. Some looked away. Some sneered. One stopped to remark that if I really didn’t care I should consider just not showing up. But this time, I wasn’t bothered. They needed me, I realized. As much as they hated to admit it, they needed me. They needed someone to act on the impulses that they themselves ignored. They needed someone to refuse to care so that they could continue caring. And because I was still here, and because there was nothing better to do, I was more than happy to oblige.

#young adult #pinball #pinball wizard #high school #short story

3 notes · View notes

crabwax · 9 years

Text

The Deserter

By Christian Cox

The young man stood at the crossroads and waited for a car to come. In front of him was the road, and behind him were the rolling hills of tall yellow grass. The sun was high and white against the blue sky and it beat down upon the young man. In the distance was a small brown shack. The young man was tall and handsome looking, but if you had seen him, the first thing you would have noticed was his leg. His leg was wrapped crudely in bandages and blood was seeping through them, coloring the cloth red. He supported himself on a large stick that he had found in the woods. He wanted to sit but he knew that it would only hurt his leg, so he stood instead and looked at the road and hoped that a car would come soon.

He reached into his pocket to see if he still had any cigarettes. He didn’t, but when he pulled his hand out from his pocket, he held a crumpled photograph of Mickey Mantle. It was a baseball card. He had been saving it for a friend, but had forgotten to give it to him. He threw the baseball card on the ground and tried to forget about it.

He had been saving the card for a man named Daniel who was a soldier in the army. The young man had been a soldier with Daniel, and he had come to love him very much. Daniel loved his son. He was always talking about him. His son was also named Daniel and was ten years old and collected baseball cards. Anyone who had spent any time with Daniel, learned these things. All of the soldiers wrote letters, but Daniel seemed to write more than all of them. He would write his son asking him about the cards he didn't have and then he would talk to the younger soldiers who still collected baseball cards to see if he could trade for the ones his son wanted.

“The sooner we win this damn war, the sooner I can see my son’s baseball card collection,” he would say, “I’ve only seen it it in pieces, and I want to see the whole goddamn thing.”

Daniel died in his very first battle. He was shot by an enemy soldier in the chest. The young man was standing only a few feet away.

In a rage the young man had shoved Daniel’s killer to the ground and pushed the barrel of his gun into the soldier’s throat. But as he was beginning to press the trigger, he saw the soldier’s face and realized that it was the face of a child. The soldier couldn't been more than ten years old. He pushed the barrel of the gun hard into the child's neck, his finger on the trigger, but he couldn't pull, he couldn't pull, he couldn't pull. It could have been an hour that the young man stared at the child, trying to find the will to kill him. It could have been a minute. In that moment, time stopped being time. Eventually the young man lowered his gun and dropped it on the ground, his hands covered in sweat, his body shaking. And when the man looked at the child’s face he saw only disgust. Disgust that the young man had been too weak to shoot him.

He knew that he could not return to the fight and kill after he had refused to kill. So he ran. He ran from the battle into the nearby woods. And as he ran, the child whose life he had spared picked up his gun and shot at the man, hitting him in the leg.

The man slept in the woods that night, and the next morning he stole a set of clothes from a farmhouse clothesline and used his old uniform to patch his leg. Now he was heading to the ocean, to find a fisherman who would sail him far away from the war. He was behind enemy lines and he wanted to avoid people as much as possible, but he knew that his leg couldn't carry him all the way to the ocean, so he decided to risk hitchhiking. He had arrived at the crossroads at two in the afternoon. It was now three.

The young man sighed and looked at the road and wished he had a cigarette.

In the distance there was a figure walking up the road. He carried a large bag, swung over one shoulder. As he got closer the young man could hear him whistling. Once he was a few feet away, he spoke.

“That does not look good.” He said, pointing at the young man’s leg. The young man laughed aloud. Saying that his leg did not look good was an enormous understatement.

“No. It does not. Tell me, do cars ever drive down this road?”

“Not very often. But listen, I am going to the bar to drink.” He pointed at the wooden shack behind the young man. The young man had assumed it was deserted. “My friends will be meeting me there. I am sure one of them will give you a ride to wherever you need to go.”

“Thank you.” The young man was relieved to know that he would not bleed to death on the side of the road.

“Will you drink with me?” Asked the stranger.

“I have no money.”

“I will buy.”

The young man laughed. “I would be grateful for a drink.”

So they walked into the bar, the young man limping and supporting himself with his stick.

“I do not know your name.” Said the young man, once they had their drinks.

“Damien. And yours?”

“Mark,” Lied the young man. “Do you often meet your friends here for drinks?”

The man called Damien smiled. “ I am meeting my friends here for a goodbye drink. I am going to the war. Today is my last day at home.”

“You are being drafted?”

“Yes.”

“Do you wish to fight in the war?”

“No.”

“Then why do you go?”

Damian sighed and drained the rest of his glass.

“You ask a lot of questions.”

The young man did not want to fight with his companion, so he changed the subject. “Why didn’t you ask me how I hurt my leg?”

Damien smiled. “Because I already know how you hurt your leg.”

“How did I hurt my leg?”

“You ran from the war and they shot at you.”

“I was not in the war. I am a traveler, hiking through these mountains. My leg is from a hiking accident.”

Damien was looking out the window. “That is a good story,” He said, “But nobody from around here will turn you in. And there are many fisherman who will take you across the ocean.”

“It is not just a story, it is the truth.”

Damien was still looking out the window. There was silence.

“I go because my wife told me I must go.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I go to the war because my wife told me I must go.”

The young man laughed.

“I was not joking.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“When I was drafted, I did not want to go. My father fought in a war, and I have seen what war can do to a man. I wanted to take my family and flee the country, but when I told this to my wife, she told me that I had to go. ‘There are wars that need to be fought,’ she said, ‘not all men can run away.’ ”

“But what does a woman know of war?” asked the young man.

“My wife is the smartest person I have met. If she believes that this war is worth fighting, then I do too.”

“What if you didn’t?”

“Even If I was believed she was wrong, I would still go. If someone who loves me asks me to suffer, how can I refuse? If they truly love me, they would not ask me to suffer without reason, and If I truly love them back, I would not refuse to suffer.”

There was silence then, and the young man thought for a long time. They had both finished their drinks and the sunlight was shining through the window casting a square patch of sunlight onto a dark floor.

“There is no honor in war.” said the young man.

Damien looked into the eyes of the young man and was very afraid. “I know this.” He said softly.

It was at that point that the man’s friends came into the bar. They were loud and happy and they bought lots of drinks. Before too long the young man and Damien forgot their conversation, and let themselves enjoy the drinks and celebration around them. They were there for many hours and as night fell they finally said their goodbyes.

“You ready to leave, Mark?” asked one of Damien’s friends. The young man nodded that he was ready, and so they climbed into his car and drove west, towards the ocean. As they drove away from the bar, the young man saw Damian walking on the side of the road, each step taking him farther from the life he had known. And even above the noise of the engine, the young man could hear him whistling.

Sitting in the car, the young man felt terribly alone. And as the rolling hills of yellow grass slid past the window, he hated himself. He hated his own weakness. And he hated that he had never suffered the insufferable for a person who loved him.

#short story #shortstory #deserter #war #modernism

2 notes · View notes

crabwax · 9 years

Quote

We are two trees that grew together, and from our high intertwined branches we look down at our separate trunks and are grateful that our troubled pasts were only leading us to each other.

1 note · View note

crabwax · 9 years

Text

On the long, cold, weary bus rides between towns the old man would count his cigarettes. He would sit sideways with his back to the window, turn out his pockets and run his fingers through every corner of his luggage, dropping each cigarette he found into his lap. Then, he would stick a cigarette between his lips, light it, and count the others. Today he had eleven cigarettes. He also had a bus ticket that would take him from Denver to Wichita, and a handgun carefully hidden in his duffle bag. All these things made him nervous.

He counted again just in case he got it wrong. He hadn’t. He sighed, checked the time, and huddled in his coat. The bus was scheduled to leave at eight, and it was seven fifty eight. The bus door was wide open even though it was stupidly cold outside. It was a cold winter. It was February and it was supposed to be getting warmer, but it wasn’t. If anything it was getting colder. There were only four people on the bus. There was a small blonde girl sitting in the back. She looked like she was twenty something. She had pimples scattered across her face. She had hoped they would stop after puberty, but they hadn’t. She clutched a backpack to her chest. There was a strict looking woman with a pinched face and hair pulled back so tightly that it looked painful. There was the bus driver, Ernie, who had a beer belly and so many acne scars that his face looked like a bowl of oatmeal. And there was an old man with grey hair who had just finished counting his cigarettes a third time only to discover that he still had fourteen. He wondered if that would be enough. He decided to buy an extra pack before the bus left, but as he stood up the doors shut and the bus started moving. ourteen would have to do. He sat down and prepared for a long ride.The heater started working, and it smelled like piss. But nobody complained because it was better to be warm and smelly than not warm at all. The old man had a brother to visit. He would smoke his way home.

The old man lit a cigarette. 10 left, he thought. He was burning through them fast, but Christ, it was cold. There was a pounding on the side of the Bus.

“Hey!” shouted a voice. “Hey! Stop the bus!” Ernie pulled over to the side of the road. The bus doors swung open. In stepped a skinny man with a tangled grey beard. There were wrinkles around his eyes. “Hello, Everyone!” he shouted. “My name is Jack!”

Nobody said hi back. They just stared at him.

Then Ernie said, “Do you have a bus ticket?” Jack fished through his pockets and produced a crumpled bus ticket which Ernie punched and handed back to him. “Sit wherever you like,” said Ernie and he put the bus into gear and pulled away from the curb.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” Jack asked an empty bus seat. Apparently, whoever he was talking to didn’t mind. He sat down, pulled out a tattered magazine and laughed hysterically at every page.

It was a long ride. For the next few hours there was nothing but the bleak, winter landscape outside, and the sound of Jack laughing at his magazine. The old man smoked more cigarettes than he would have normally. He was down to eight. Jack looked at him.

“Smoking gives you cancer,” he said. The old man ignored him. Jack made cat noises and then laughed at himself.

“You’re dead meat!” he said. “We are all dead meat! You, me, the cat.” He meowed and then cackled with laughter. The girl in the back looked terrified.

The old man stared out the window and watched as they passed a sign welcoming them to Kansas. This was his third time trying to go home. The first time was only a week after his brother died. He was going back for the funeral. He was going to speak. He scribbled speech after speech in a notebook during the bus ride home. Each speech was shorter than the last. They grew smaller and smaller until they were blank pages without anything on them. He ran out of words. He didn’t even make it to Kansas. They had the funeral without him. Nobody said anything.

Jack was still making cat noises. Ernie was the first to crack.

“Hey, Jack?” he said with strained politeness. “I think everyone would appreciate it if you could read your magazine a little bit quieter.”

“I will be quiet, it’s no problem, I will be quiet.”

“Thanks.”

A moment of silence then another cat noise. A high pitched meow. The vein on Ernie’s forehead was glowing bright red.

“Jack, what did I just ask?”

“Wasn’t me. I’m being quiet.” He said it with such innocence that everyone knew he was telling the truth. The meowing noises continued and everyone looked around trying to find the cause. The girl in the back clutched her backpack to her chest and desperately wished she were somewhere else.

“Is there a cat in here?” asked Ernie.

The girl gave in.

“I have my cat in my bag.” she said. “I know its against the rules but I didn’t have another way to take him with me. Please don’t make me leave. I just need to get home.”

Jack laughed as if it were the funniest thing in the world. Ernie sighed. He wished he had a different job.

“I don’t care.” Ernie said impassively. “there’s only five of us, so long as nobody tells and I don’t get in trouble he can stay.” He looked over his his shoulder. “Is everyone okay with that?”

The old man said that it was. The woman with the tight face looked like it most certainly wasn’t okay, but she didn’t say anything. Jack reassured Ernie that he didn’t mind. The girl looked relieved. She reached into her backpack, pulled out an angry looking tomcat and set him in her lap. He was black with white patches, and he looked glad to not be in a backpack.

The old man watched as they passed the town of Mcpherson. He smoked and smoked and smoked. The second time the old man tried to go home he brought his guitar. He had learned to play after his brother died. Song after song. It helped. He sat in the back of the bus and played every song he knew. He played past aching fingers, and a sore throat. He played until he was only four towns away. And then he ran out of songs. Now he was on his third and last attempt. This time he brought cigarettes. To smoke his way home. And a gun just in case he couldn’t. He was at five cigarettes and they had passed Mcpherson. This was the closest he had ever gotten to home.

The cat sat in the girls lap for a while but soon became curious. He jumped off her lap and wandered through the back of the bus sniffing and staring.

“What is the name of your cat?’ Asked the man, feeling he had to say something.

“Sylvester.” She said. “Like from Loony Tunes.” The old man nodded.

“Thats a good name.” He put a cigarette in his mouth and offered one to the girl.

She smiled sheepishly.

“I don’t know how to smoke.” she said. “But I’ve been meaning to try.”

“I’ll show you.” said the old man. He grabbed two cigarettes and went to the back of the bus, leaving three in his bag. He sat down next to her and showed her which end you lit and which end you put in your mouth and how to light it with your hand cupped around the flame to keep it from blowing out.

Jack watched the old man walk to the back of the bus.

“Smoking gives you cancer.” He muttered under his breath. While the old man was teaching the girl how to smoke Jack looked through his bag. He found the three remaining cigarettes and he tossed them out the bus window. “He’ll thank me later. Smoking gives you cancer.” He giggled and returned to his seat.

“Well?” asked the old man, “what do you think?”

She let a cloud of smoke leave her mouth.

“Its kinda relaxing. I thought it would make me cough.”

“Depends on the person. Some cough some don’t.”

“I kind of like it.” she laughed and took another drag on her cigarette. Doing something forbidden felt nice for a change.

“Where are you traveling to?” He asked.

“I’m going back to Wichita to live with my mom for a little bit. I used to live in Denver. With my boyfriend. But… well, we broke up. He’s an asshole.” She added.

“I’m sorry”

“It will be okay.” She said. “That’s what I’m going to start saying. It’s not okay right now, but it will be soon.” She smoked her cigarette. “Besides, I still have Sylvester. I know he’s just a cat, but he helps a lot.” she paused. “He’s been there for me through everything. My parents divorce, high school, everything. He’s like the brother or sister I never had.” The old man looked out the window and thought.

“Ive never had a sister. But that’s what having a brother feels like.” Sylvester was standing on top of a seat looking out a window they had opened to let the smoke out. He looked proud and mighty; like a cat much bigger than himself.

“Maybe we should shut the window. He’s making me nervous.”

“He won’t fall out. He’s a smart cat.” The cat jumped onto his hind legs and put his paws on the edge of the window. He was leaning his head out the window, his fur shimmering in the wind. And then he was gone. Sylvester screamed, as only a cat can scream, as he fell out of the window and landed on the icy highway. There was a soft thud as the bus hit his body and then left it behind. The girl gasped and looked out the back window. Sylvester’s corpse was visible just long enough to see the car behind them hit his body. And then he was gone. Someone was laughing in the front of the bus. It was Jack. He was laughing his head off. Splitting his sides. Rolling on the floor.

“What happened?” shouted Ernie. Nobody said anything. Ernie put two and two together and stopped talking.

The old man went back to his seat. Jack was still guffawing.

“Hey Asshole!” shouted Ernie, “Shut your face.”

But that just made him laugh harder. He was crying, he was laughing so hard.

“I told you!” He said between giggles. “I told you.” And then he made cat noises. He screamed like Sylvester had screamed, and then he shouted, “WHAMO!” And laughed harder than ever.

“That’s it,” said Ernie. He swerved the bus to the side of the highway, cutting across three lanes. Everyone fell to the right. Jack fell hard against the side of the bus and hit his head, but he was still laughing. Ernie slammed hard on the brakes and stopped the bus. “Get out.” Jack was more than happy to oblige. He hopped out of the bus, still giggling, and took a bow as the bus pulled back onto the highway. And then Jack was just an image in the back window, dancing in circles on the side of the highway. It was -5 degrees and he was already shivering.

“We have to go back.” Said the strict looking woman. It was the first thing she had said the whole trip. “He’s going to freeze to death.”

“Lady, I ain’t turning around. But you are welcome to join him.”

The lady was silent.

The girl didn’t say anything. She just cried. She leaned her head against the window. Tears rolled out her eyes and down her cheeks. She didn’t sob or make noise. She just cried. And she looked horribly, awfully, sad. Like she had lost everything that could ever be lost.

They traveled in silence. The strict looking woman got off the bus at the next stop. The girl and the old man were the only passengers left on the bus. The old man stared out the window and tried desperately not to think. He only had three cigarettes left. If he could make it through this bus ride then he could buy more in Wichita. He reached into his pack to count his cigarettes, to calm himself down. They weren’t there. He checked again. And again. Then he stood up and emptied his pack into an empty seat searching through everything. And they weren’t there. He had run out of cigarettes. Just like he had run out of words. Just like he had run out of songs. And just like he had run out of every goddamn thing he had ever lived for. He put everything back into his bag, zipped it up, sat down, and waited for the next bus stop. He hoped that the girl made it to Wichita. She deserved to make it. If anyone ever deserved anything, she deserved to make it to Wichita. He got off the bus in a small town that he didn’t know the name of. He stood at the bus stop until the bus was gone. Then, he walked behind a gas station and shot himself. He was only three towns away from his brother.

The bus was silent for the last two hours. The girl cried and cried and cried. The bus arrived in Wichita. The girl was the only passenger left. As she was leaving Ernie touched her arm.

“I’m sorry.” He said. And this time she didn’t say that it would be okay. She didn’t say anything. She just nodded, buttoned her coat, and stepped into the cold.

Cigarettes

8 notes · View notes

crabwax · 9 years

Text

Icarus (a two scene play)

Cast of Characters

Logan: A sophomore boy in high school with a laid back personality and a love for mythology.

Ms. Davis: An uptight English teacher who probably shouldn't be teaching.

Drew: A sophomore boy with some kind of learning disability, is obsessed with the video game, “Super Mythology Smash”

David: A sophomore boy. A druggie coasting through high school.

Heather: A sophomore girl. Enjoys reading, “The National Enquirer”. Has recently lost most of her friends to drama of some sort.

Scene 1

SETTING: A classroom. Students sit at desks.

On a projector screen at the front

of the classroom is a powerpoint that reads, “Mythology, Day 1: Daedalus and the Labyrinth”. Four desks sit facing the projector screen.

LOGAN:

(stands at the front of the stage, monologuing)

People are made of feathers and wax. Thats what I learned from my mythology class this year. And surprisingly enough, its made navigating this labyrinth a lot easier. I signed up for mythology class because I love mythology. I thought it would be a piece of cake, because I already knew all of the myths. That wasn’t the case.

(LOGAN sits in a desk and the scene comes to life)

MS. DAVIS:

(with feeling)

This class is all about application.

(she slams her books down on her desk and lowers her voice for dramatic effect)

It has nothing to do with regurgitation. In this class we will study the hopes and dreams and bad dreams of the ancient world. Put together they are mythology. That’s what we will study. Mythology. This class won’t always be easy. There will be homework. If you don’t think you can handle it, let me know and you can drop the class.

(DAVID raises hand)

We can meet after class to change your schedule.

DAVID:

Actually, I was just wondering if I could go to the bathroom.

MS. DAVIS:

Which brings me to my next point!

(She passes out pink slips of paper to the class).

If you need to go to the restroom, then you must bring this sheet to me so I can punch it.

DAVID:

There’s only 4 punch things. What if I need to go to the restroom more than 4 times?

MS. DAVIS:

You’re in school to learn not to have fun. Alright. For your first assignment, please take out a blank sheet of paper.

LOGAN:

(to the girl next to him)

Can I borrow a piece of paper?

HEATHER:

Sure.

(hands him a piece of paper.)

MS. DAVIS:

Please write a letter addressed to me explaining what you hope to gain from taking this class.

(she sits at her desk.)

LOGAN:

(to the kid sitting on his other side)

Can I borrow a pencil?

DAVID:

Why don’t you ask her for a pencil?

LOGAN:

I asked her for a sheet of paper.

DAVID:

I only have one.

LOGAN:

You can break it in half and I can sharpen one end.

DAVID:

But then I don’t have an eraser.

LOGAN:

I have an extra. Here you can use this.

(pulls out pink eraser)

DAVID:

...Why don’t you ask her for a pencil?

MS. DAVIS:

I should hear writing not talking!

(LOGAN looks on the floor and finds a crayon. He picks it up and starts writing his letter. He turns in his chair and reads it aloud.)

LOGAN:

Dear Ms. Davis, My name is Logan. I am new here, so I don't know very many people yet. My favorite myth is the Labyrinth. I love it because most days I feel like Perseus, wandering through a maze, trying desperately to find a way out. Anyways. My goal for this year is to read some stories that I haven't read before and to better understand the ones I have already read.

HEATHER:

Dear Ms. Davis, There are many goals that I would like to meet this semester. First, I would like to learn about ancient myths. I would like to learn about these because I think they would make me smarter. Secondly, I would like to understand why these myths were important. I would like to do this because it will build my knowledge of the world. As you can see, there are many goals I would like to meet this semester.

DAVID:

Dear Ms. Davis, My goal this semester is to pass. I just want an English credit so I can graduate.

DREW:

Dear Ms. Davis, My favorite mythology creature is a centaur. If I could be any mythology creature, of all of them, I would be Charon the centaur because he trains all of the famous heroes and I think training the heroes is almost as cool as being a hero. In my favorite video game I play as Charon, and I have a kill rate of 50. It took me lots of practice to get that good.

MS. DAVIS:

Times up!

DREW:

I have to stop writing now because you said I'm out of time.

MS. DAVIS:

For our first lesson we will study the story of Daedalus and the Labyrinth. Please listen carefully as I read the story aloud.

Illustrations will be provided on the projector screen.

(She begins reading)

Daedalus was a highly respected and talented Athenian artisan. He was known for his skill as an architect, sculptor, and inventor, and he produced many famous works.

(DAVID raises his hand)

Yes?

DAVID:

How come you covered them up with those black bars?

MS. DAVIS:

Our curriculum is devoted to the study of mythology, not pornography.

LOGAN:

Isn’t it considered art though? These paintings?

MS. DAVIS:

You may consider it what you like, but it will not be taught in this classroom! Any more questions?

(silence)

Then I can continue.

(continues reading aloud)

King Minos called on Daedalus to build a Labyrinth to imprison the dreaded Minotaur. The Minotaur was a monster with the head of a bull and the body of a man. Minos was shamed by the birth of this horrible creature and resolved to imprison the Minotaur in the labyrinth where it fed on humans, which were taken as "tribute" by Minos and sacrificed to the Minotaur. Minos, fearful that Daedalus would share his secrets, imprisoned Daedalus and his son, Icarus, in the labyrinth themselves.

(LOGAN raises his hand).

Yes Logan?

LOGAN:

You missed the part about the birth of the minotaur.

MS. DAVIS:

That portion of the story is not needed.

LOGAN:

But it’s important! If King Minos was faithful to the gods then his wife never would have given birth to the minotaur and he never would have needed a labyrinth in the first place.

HEATHER:

Wait, the queen gave birth to the minotaur? How?

MS. DAVIS:

If you have any questions about the human reproductive systems, I suggest you direct them to our health teacher.

LOGAN:

One of the gods cursed the queen to be in love with a bull. She hired Daedalus to build a wooden cow that she could climb into and… well...

DAVID:

Wait, so this guy builds her a giant cow sex doll?

HEATHER:

Eww. Thats disgusting.

LOGAN:

Basically, except she can climb inside, and thats how she is able to give birth to the minotaur.

(DAVID Laughs loudly)

MS. DAVIS:

Enough!!! Logan, go to the hallway.

(LOGAN leaves class and sits just outside the door. There is an awkward silence.)

MS. DAVIS:

(continues to read)

Daedalus conceived to escape from the labyrinth with Icarus by constructing wings and then flying to safety.

DREW:

(hand raised, holding his pink bathroom pass)

Ms. Davis?

MS. DAVIS:

Yes, Drew?

DREW:

Can I use the bathroom?

MS. DAVIS:

(signs his pass)

You may go to the restroom.

(Drew leaves class and stops next to Logan in the hallway. Ms. Davis continuous to read and her voice slowly fades out.)

He built the wings from feathers and wax, and before the two set off he warned Icarus not to fly too low lest his wings touch the waves and get wet, and not too high lest the sun melt the wax.

DREW:

(to Logan, in the hallway)

Have you ever played Super Mythology Smash?

LOGAN:

What? No.

DREW:

Sometimes I play as the Minotaur… When I’m doing stadium battles. He’s probably my third favorite character, but I also like the Cyclops. The Cyclop-

LOGAN:

(annoyed)

That’s great dude.

DREW:

I didn’t know that part of the story you said. How the minotaur was born. I thought it was funny.

LOGAN:

I wasn’t making it up or anything, that’s actually how the story goes.

DREW:

Yeah. I believe it. Mythology is weird. But cool too.

(He turns to go to the bathroom)

LOGAN:

Hey, how come you’re using your bathroom pass on your first day?

DREW:

I had to go.

(BLACKOUT)

Scene 2

LOGAN:

(stands alone monologuing to the audience)

So a few days later my mom checked my grades and saw that I had an F in Mythology. Ms. Davis gave me a zero on my letter and added a comment saying that she refused to grade assignments written in crayon. “How can you get an F in mythology?” asked my mom. I tried to explain, but she didn’t really care that Ms. Davis was teaching the stories wrong. “You don’t have to agree with her,” she said. “You just have tell her what she wants to hear, and let her give you a good grade. You can believe whatever you want.” This was good advice, and once I started following it things started changing. My grade got better almost immediately, and Ms. Davis went from hating me to treating me like a child protege. It made me realize that by telling people what they wanted to hear you could make them like you. You didn’t have to lie, you just had to keep your opinions to yourself. I found that I was doing this a lot, and kids who wouldn't normally talk to me started talking to me. It was nice.

(Class starts in Ms. Davis’s room and Logan takes a seat.)

MS. DAVIS:

Alright everyone! Our final will be next class, so today we will spend the period in small groups studying. (She sits at her desk)

DREW:

Hey Logan, Do you want to work with me?

LOGAN:

Um, Hang on. I’ll let you know.

HEATHER:

(Sitting with DAVID)

Hey, you can work with us if you want.

LOGAN:

Sounds good!

(to DREW)

I’ll work with you another time, man.

DREW:

(disappointed)

That’s fine.

(LOGAN sits by HEATHER and DAVID. DREW sits alone.)

Heather:

Hey so how do Daedalus and Icarus escape the labyrinth?

LOGAN:

They build these wing contraptions and fly out. Except Icarus flies too close to the sun and melts the wax on his wings causing him to fall into the ocean and drown.

DAVID:

God, how do you even remember this stuff?

LOGAN:

I don’t know, I just do.

DAVID:

You really like this crap don’t you?

LOGAN:

not really, I mostly just want to pass.

(to HEATHER)

What are you reading?

HEATHER:

It’s the National Enquirer. My history teacher lets me read them when she finishes them.

DAVID:

Hey does anyone want to smoke with me after class? I am done with finals week.

HEATHER:

Yeah, I’m in. Logan?

LOGAN:

Um…

HEATHER:

Shut up, it’s Drew.

(DREW approaches their table)

DREW:

Hey, have you guys ever played Super Mythology Smash?

DAVID:

No.

DREW:

It’s pretty fun. The other day I was playing, and this hellhound comes up from behind me and I didn’t know he was there-

HEATHER:

(demeaning)

Hey Drew, we are kinda trying to work. Could you just tell us later?

DREW:

Okay, I’ll tell you after class I guess.

(leaves)

DAVID:

God, I hate that kid.

HEATHER:

So are you in Logan? No pressure or anything. You don’t have to.

LOGAN:

I guess I’d rather not.

DAVID:

Thats fine, but would you mind watching for us? Like making sure that no one goes back where we smoke.

LOGAN:

I guess not.

DAVID:

Thanks man. So just meet us in the back stairwell after class.

(Bell rings. Everyone packs up and walks out of the classroom.)

DAVID:

Thanks for coming man. Just wait here and if someone comes, knock on the door, and we’ll split.

LOGAN:

Okay.

(DAVID and Heather disappear behind the door. Enter MS. DAVIS)

MS. DAVIS:

Hello Logan. Have you seen Drew anywhere?

LOGAN:

(knocks on the door awkwardly)

No, I havent. Why?

MS. DAVIS:

He didn’t show up to his next class. Is everything alright?

LOGAN:

Yeah everything is fine. Why?

MS. DAVIS:

Finals week can be a stressful time for students. If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here for you.

LOGAN:

Okay.

MS. DAVIS:

You don’t need to pull away from people, Logan.

LOGAN:

(anxious to leave)

Okay! I won’t. If I see Drew I’ll let you know. Bye!

(exit LOGAN)

LOGAN:

(Monologuing)

So after that, I went to class. I had warned them and everything and I didn’t really feel like standing guard anymore. It was nice that they would talk to me and everything but I felt kinda used. The next day, the principal called me down to his office during first period and asked me if I knew anything about Drew. Apparently, he never showed up at home and no one had seen him since mythology yesterday. I remembered what he said about telling us about his video game after class, and I had a feeling that Heather and David knew something about it. I had my first period class with Heather so I decided to ask her about it.

(HEATHER sits at a desk reading the National Enquirer. LOGAN sets his backpack down on the desk next to her.)

LOGAN:

Hey, do you know what happened to Drew? No one can find him.

HEATHER:

Ohmygod. Someone let him out right?

LOGAN:

Huh?

HEATHER:

He’s still in there. I mean, ohmygod. I’m gonna get in so much trouble. You can’t tell them I did it, okay?

LOGAN:

Wait, what happened?

HEATHER:

Well, after David and I got high yesterday, Drew came up and tried to tell us about his stupid game, and he just wouldn't leave us alone and David got so pissed that he shoved him in a locker. We figured someone would let him out…

LOGAN:

How did you think that was a good idea?

HEATHER:

I don’t know, why didn’t someone let him out?

LOGAN:

Why did you lock him in there?

HEATHER:

It wasn’t me, it was David.

LOGAN:

But you could have said something.

HEATHER:

So? David’s one of the only people who still hangs out with me…

LOGAN:

What locker is he in?

HEATHER:

The one at the bottom of the stairs. Right next to the doors. Just don’t tell anyone I was involved. I could get in so much trouble.

(LOGAN leaves the class and the set changes to the stairwell. Logan runs up to the locker next to the door.)

LOGAN:

Hey Drew? Are you in there?

DREW:

Goddamn it.

LOGAN:

Are you okay?

DREW:

Goddamn it.

(shouting and kicking the side of the locker)

Nobody cares about this stupid video game but me!

LOGAN:

It’s okay Drew. When you get out, I’ll play it with you if you want.

DREW:

...You mean it?

LOGAN:

Sure, I mean, I’m not super into videogames, but I like mythology. How bad could it be?

DREW:

You don’t have to. Nobody ever really wants to.

LOGAN:

No I mean it. I want to.

DREW:

Okay. Does this mean we are friends?

LOGAN:

Yeah. But hey, I’m going to get someone to cut the lock so you can get out. I’ll be right back.

LOGAN:

(Monologuing)

So they let Drew out and he was fine. They sent him home for the day. And later his mom called me and invited me over after school. I decided to go. At first I didn’t want to, but I couldn't stop thinking about Drew asking if we were friends and how I told him we were. I think that’s a terrible thing to tell someone if it’s a lie, ya know? I don’t know. I don’t need to hang out with him all the time or anything... It’s just, I know what it’s like to want friends and to have people not care unless you change yourself. Drew is kinda obnoxious, but he is himself. If I was myself all the time, people would probably find my obsession with mythology just as annoying.

Oh yeah, and ironically enough I failed my Mythology Final. When I got to class David asked me for a pencil and I gave him mine. I couldn't find another one in my backpack, so I picked up a crayon from the floor and instead of taking her test, I graded her test. I didn’t answer any of the questions, I just circled every problem where she changed the stories or left parts out. I gave her a 60/100 because she grasped the basic concepts, but wasn’t expressing them truthfully.

I guess there’s a time for telling people the things that they want to hear: If you didn’t it would be hard to get anywhere, but like most things in life, Its a balancing act.

(BLACKOUT)

#play #playwriting #script #short story #short plays #highschool #young adult #icarus #mythology

1 note · View note

crabwax · 9 years

Text

Killing my Old Man

There was a time when girls would flirt with me, but that was before I stopped taking showers.

Those were the good old days. Back when I folded a new fortune teller every day and my eyes would dance through red and black type finding hope in every word.

The pre not showering days I call them.

And boy do I miss them.

The other day I got a paper cut and when I looked at it it was grey, like it was made of dust. So I stuck my fingernail down into it, and I peeled it right off my arm and up my body and down my legs until I had peeled out of my own skin. Underneath, I was a different person.

One who didn’t shower.

But also, one who was unspeakably old.

I had shaky hands and crooked teeth. A bent back which kept me from going anywhere fast. A face lined with the bad kind of wrinkles: the ones that decorate your forehead, not the corners of your mouth. I had a hearing aid that was never loud enough for me to listen, and spectacles that were never strong enough to see. And it didn’t matter where I went or what I did because all I could see and hear were my own memories.

I wandered through the dusty halls of my mind and passed the time with old scrapbooks and projector reels as I waited slowly and patiently to die.

Is it better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all?

Barely.

And only because when everything else is gone, you can intoxicate yourself on the dim afterglow of memories.

You can remember the first poem you wrote. How the old man who left complained that it didn’t rhyme. How you loved him for it.

How the bible burned in flames of hurt on the sidewalk outside the house. How you never picked up the ashes

How you asked the girl if you could kiss her. How she nodded.

And my days shuffled onwards like a deck of cards. I would deal myself a hand of memories and play the ones that confused me the most.

And my bones grew heavy as I forgot about reality.

And when I couldn't take it anymore, I took a shower. And I washed the age from my skin.

Because a life lived within the confines of the things I fear and the strength I feel is no life at all. Because I am not strong enough to measure my life with the things I have lost. Because I can't get to O.K on a quarter tank of memories, but I can get to Better if I’m running on acceptance. Because what I make of what I have will determine the weight of the burden I carry.

So show each dirty hand. Dare to bear an ink stained soul to an indifferent world, because this story isn’t finished yet.

My poems sure as hell don’t rhyme, but they are bringing me closer to the ashes I never picked up, and farther from the kisses I knew could end.

They are helping me to believe that every breath I force from my lungs is alive with the same force that burns in the heavens and churns in the sea.

That every weary footstep is written in some great book that will one day be read by all the people of all the ages.

That when I truly grow old and weary, and look back on my life, it would be as like the stars. My brightest moments pressed against my darkest times, blessing one another with infinite amounts of joy and beauty, over and over again.

That when I am gone, my life would be a song on the lips of the few who have loved me.

#poetry #slam poetry #inspiring #words #memory #age

3 notes · View notes

crabwax · 9 years

Text

The Fortune Teller

Remember when we were a fortune teller? Folding and shifting between colors and numbers? How the varied combinations of us were stronger than the world? How we unfolded each other carefully, Smoothing the creases we had used to hide our secrets? How the friction between us was made of the slow, aching, wonderful pain that is love? How we grew soft and faded and familiar? How I began to doubt your colors and you learned to hate my numbers? How we counted and spelled until we were falling apart? How we wore through, and fell into separate pieces? Leaving you unable to see color Leaving me unable to count to ten.

#poetry #slam poetry #fortune teller #love

2 notes · View notes

crabwax · 9 years

Text

The Springer Building (Creative Nonfiction)

The Springer Building

I was born in a storm of bricks and plywood. Pasted and nailed together by the hands of men. Glass windows decorated my face and I was given two doors. One for the man who owned me, and one for everyone else. When I was completed I sat much shorter than my brothers and sisters across and aside from me. Then, I was filled with wood, and from my belly could be heard the grinding of saws and the pounding of hammers. If you had opened my doors you would have smelled sawdust, and if you opened your mouth you could taste it on your tongue. Many people walked through my doors and they left burdened with furniture.

Life went on like this for many years. From my perch above the dusty street I could see horse drawn carts pulling people too and from my doors. If I bent my neck and looked over my shoulder I could see behind me a lake. In the summer there were the sounds of people playing on the water, and in the winter were the sounds of people skating on the ice.

During this time many more buildings were built around my street. They started as skeletons made of wood and nails but were patched together with bricks and mortar, Next to me sat the oldest building on the street. He was much taller than me. His old shingled face looked like a massive beard. If I breathed in deeply I could smell the leather of saddles and harnesses when people opened his doors. It was only a few years later when the man who owned me bought the building next door. They knocked down the walls that stood between us and filled our insides with all kinds of new objects. They hung a metal sign on our faces that read, F. N. Briggs Dept. Store.

Time Passed and I grew older than man. I watched newborn babes grown into weary old men. I watched young people fall into love then fall through to whatever was next. I watched the man who owned me die, passing me on to two new men who changed the sign above my door to read Ferguson-Morrow Supply Company. I watched them leave and and take the name they gave me with them. I cannot remember any of the names I was given after that, but I remember the people who gave them to me. Which is the same thing. I began to understand the tall shingled face that stood next to me. I understood the cracks in his bricks and the dust in his rafters.

Time passed, as it always does, and the walls that were torn down were built up again. The shingled old man went his way, and I went mine. And my way was shoes. Boxes and Boxes of shoes filled the new shelves along my sides. There were also benches and stools were poor farmers would measure their feet, and rich businessmen would polish their shoes. During this time many new people walked through my doors. It was nice to see see so many faces, especially the children. I had not known many children until this day, but now I know plenty. I found comfort in their happy faces. I found comfort in the fact that everyone needed shoes.

The world changed around me. The dusty roads beneath me were painted black, and I no longer saw horses. Instead I saw carts that pulled themselves. At first they were all black but eventually there were other colors. For a while I sold hats. And for a while I was an office, serving the business of men. The streets around me gave birth to new buildings and now I was one of the old men on my street. The old man still sits next to me. He is almost never awake any more, but its nice when he is. Its nice to have someone who has seen the same things as you. He feels this way sometimes. But he has seen many many things that I haven't.

Inside of me, men built counters and tables and I became a Coffee Shop. People walked through my doors to be with each other and not just to buy things. It was a nice change. It also made me busy. Busier than I had ever been. My tired eyes just couldn't keep up with the people who went through my doors, but I didn’t mind. Eventually they bought in big machines and freezers, old equipment the likes of which I had not seen for many years. I still gave coffee, but now I gave ice cream as well. My tables were full of children shouting and spilling ice cream on my floors. It was the happiest I had ever been. And that is where I stand today. It is Autumn. Business is slowing down and I will have time to sleep. And next summer I will be busy again. Children will play and adults will talk. My tired eyes won't quite keep up with everything that I see. But I won’t mind.

#short story #story #creative nonfiction #old buildings

1 note · View note

crabwax · 9 years

Quote

A life lived within the boundaries of the things I fear and the strength I feel is no life at all.

1 note · View note

crabwax · 9 years

Text

Cigarettes

The old man lit a cigarette. 10 left, he thought. He was burning through them fast, but Christ, it was cold. There was a pounding on the side of the Bus.

Nobody said hi back. They just stared at him.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” Jack asked an empty bus seat. Apparently, whoever he was talking to didn't mind. He sat down, pulled out a tattered magazine and laughed hysterically at every page.

“Smoking gives you cancer,” he said. The old man ignored him. Jack made cat noises and then laughed at himself.

“You're dead meat!” he said. “We are all dead meat! You, me, the cat.” He meowed and then cackled with laughter. The girl in the back looked terrified.

Jack was still making cat noises. Ernie was the first to crack.

“Hey, Jack?” he said with strained politeness. “I think everyone would appreciate it if you could read your magazine a little bit quieter.”

“I will be quiet, it’s no problem, I will be quiet.”

“Thanks.”

A moment of silence then another cat noise. A high pitched meow. The vein on Ernie’s forehead was glowing bright red.

“Jack, what did I just ask?”

“Is there a cat in here?” asked Ernie.

The girl gave in.

“I have my cat in my bag.” she said. “I know its against the rules but I didn't have another way to take him with me. Please don’t make me leave. I just need to get home.”

Jack laughed as if it were the funniest thing in the world. Ernie sighed. He wished he had a different job.

The cat sat in the girls lap for a while but soon became curious. He jumped off her lap and wandered through the back of the bus sniffing and staring.

“What is the name of your cat?’ Asked the man, feeling he had to say something.

“Sylvester.” She said. “Like from Loony Tunes.” The old man nodded.

“Thats a good name.” He put a cigarette in his mouth and offered one to the girl.

She smiled sheepishly.

“I don’t know how to smoke.” she said. “But I’ve been meaning to try.”

Jack watched the old man walk to the back of the bus.

“Well?” asked the old man, “what do you think?”

She let a cloud of smoke leave her mouth.

“Its kinda relaxing. I thought it would make me cough.”

“Depends on the person. Some cough some don’t.”

“I kind of like it.” she laughed and took another drag on her cigarette. Doing something forbidden felt nice for a change.

“Where are you traveling to?” He asked.

“I’m going back to Wichita to live with my mom for a little bit. I used to live in Denver. With my boyfriend. But… well, we broke up. He’s an asshole.” She added.

“I’m sorry”

“Ive never had a sister. But that's what having a brother feels like.” Sylvester was standing on top of a seat looking out a window they had opened to let the smoke out. He looked proud and mighty; like a cat much bigger than himself.

“Maybe we should shut the window. He’s making me nervous.”

“What happened?” shouted Ernie. Nobody said anything. Ernie put two and two together and stopped talking.

The old man went back to his seat. Jack was still guffawing.

“Hey Asshole!” shouted Ernie, “Shut your face.”

But that just made him laugh harder. He was crying, he was laughing so hard.

“I told you!” He said between giggles. “I told you.” And then he made cat noises. He screamed like Sylvester had screamed, and then he shouted, “WHAMO!” And laughed harder than ever.

“We have to go back.” Said the strict looking woman. It was the first thing she had said the whole trip. “He’s going to freeze to death.”

“Lady, I ain't turning around. But you are welcome to join him.”

The lady was silent.

The girl didn't say anything. She just cried. She leaned her head against the window. Tears rolled out her eyes and down her cheeks. She didn't sob or make noise. She just cried. And she looked horribly, awfully, sad. Like she had lost everything that could ever be lost.

The bus was silent for the last two hours. The girl cried and cried and cried. The bus arrived in Wichita. The girl was the only passenger left. As she was leaving Ernie touched her arm.

“I’m sorry.” He said. And this time she didn’t say that it would be okay. She didn’t say anything. She just nodded, buttoned her coat, and stepped into the cold.

#short story #shortstory #literature #cigarettes #bus ride

8 notes · View notes

crabwax · 9 years

Quote

All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence you know. - Ernest Hemmingway

#writing #ernest hemingway #quotes #advice

36 notes · View notes

crabwax · 9 years

Text

You really can't afford to measure your life with the things you've lost.

#thoughts

2 notes · View notes

crabwax · 9 years

Text

Lately (Poem)

“If you're struggling, struggle.”

thats what the Old Man said before he left

and that’s damn fine advice if you ask me

so I wrote it into my coffee mug

and I drink it each morning

cuz lately I’ve been,

less concerned with the direction of my feet so long as they keep walking

lately, I’ve been,

catching glimpses of different lives with 20 dollars of gas and paperback novels

lately, I’ve been,

buying smiles with cups of coffee and high scores on pinball machines

lately, I’ve been,

sleeping on my floor cuz its less comfortable

lately, I’ve been,

microwaving my own meals

lately, I’ve been,

doodling on church programs just to distract myself

lately, I’ve been,

counting my blessings without my toes

lately, I’ve been,

Hanging with friends I haven’t met, who sing the songs in my heart.

lately, I’ve been,

drinking coffee until my hands shake

lately, I’ve been,

alive in the spaces between places; under trees and in stairwells and in the car rides between school and my house.

lately, I’ve been,

tying my hands behind my back and tying my hands behind my back and tying my hands behind my back

lately, I’ve been,

painfully aware of the people I have lost

painfully grateful for the people I have left

lately, I’ve been,

living the same life I lived when we were in love,

only now we’re not.

lately, I’ve been,

scrolling through my newsfeed and wishing

that someone would say something

that I would say something

that I would have the strength to say something

that I would have strength

But if anything will teach my weary bones strength this will.

So when I climb from bed each morning, I fill my mug with coffee.

I taste the old man’s words

“If you’re struggling struggle.”

and that's damn fine advice if you ask me.

#poetry #poem #slam poetry #coffee #old man #lately #doesnt rhyme

2 notes · View notes

crabwax · 9 years

Text

“Subterranean Homesick Blues"

All the music on my ipod is by Bob Dylan. Really, it’s the only music I need. My favorite song is “Subterranean Homesick Blues” and according to my ipod I have listened to it 459 times, soon to be 460 because I am listening to it as I write this. The most useful song is “Highlands” because if I put in earphones, close my eyes, and play the song six times then math class is over and it’s like it never happened in the first place. The saddest song ever written is “Boots of Spanish Leather” which I can’t listen to in public because it makes me cry harder than anything. And not a pretty cry where tears gently fall from my eyes, but a great heaving cry where snot pours from my nose. I used to be a normal teenage girl who listened to pop music. But I have been cured. Now, I listen to Dylan. This is the story of how I discovered good music.

The first time I heard Dylan I didn't like him. I didn't understand his genius. It was about two years ago, back when I was still in prison with the skeletons. I guess you could say stuff really sucked. My mom was almost never around. She visited once or twice a week. She wanted to visit more, but her job kept her busy. Which, honestly, was okay. She only made things worse, with all her crying and praying. It was easier when she was gone. Just the skeletons and me. Some of the skeletons were okay to talk to, but I wasn't close with any of them. It was better to watch them from a distance. See which ones gave in and let themselves get fat. The more you talked to them the more you made yourself vulnerable: the closer you got to getting fat again. I used to be a girl. I used to have friends. I used to text boys and go to stupid sleepovers. But I gave that up.

I retreated into the dark place inside my stomach where I could feel myself disappearing; the space connecting my legs to my chest shrinking, melting away, every uneaten bowl of breakfast cereal bringing me closer to blissful collapse. I spent my time counting ribs and picking at peeling skin, chewing my tongue and staring at bathroom scales. When I was weak, I wanted to go back to the way things were, but when I was strong I was a freight train barreling toward certain destruction. I knew what laid at the end of my journey, but I didn't care. What was so bad about death anyways? Everyone dies.

God.

Sometimes I still miss it.

My therapist was a red-headed woman named Dr. Pennyworth. She was enormously fat; almost as wide as she was tall. She liked to say things like "You seem to avoid talking about your parents," and “I have a new project for you to work on today!”

For her latest project, I had to choose my top three songs and explain why I liked the lyrics. It was supposed to help identify potential triggers. I was determined to make sure it wouldn’t. To make sure I understood the assignment she played her favorite songs for me. “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” was a fitting choice for her; it matched her cupcake personality. Same with “Good Vibrations.” But the third song, “Blowin’ in the Wind,” seemed out of place. It started out with soft guitar strumming and was normal enough but then the voice came in: it slurred and muttered its way through the song. It sounded awful. I couldn't believe that she listened to this. I laughed out loud and my therapist pretended not to notice. All at once I knew: to insure that my presentation revealed absolutely nothing about my inner being, I would use only the music of this folksinger with a terrible voice.

When my afternoon sessions were over, I went back to my room and grabbed my laptop. I set up camp by the ice machine in the stairwell. It was the only part of the hospital I could stand, everything else was painted in calming colors and was sickeningly at peace with itself. I Googled the lyrics to “Blowin in the Wind,” and discovered the singer’s name was Bob Dylan. I kept clicking until I found this picture.

I was confused. Why would someone who can't sing and knows that he can’t sing become a musician in the first place? But based on his Wikipedia profile, he seemed pretty famous. I guess people just don’t have taste. I grabbed three of his songs and shoved them into a Powerpoint. That would do. I shut my laptop and went to the movie room with Dylan’s scratchy voice pounding through my head. Three hours of freedom before dinner.

The next day serious crap went down. My therapist walked out of the room halfway through my presentation. I sat alone in the room with Dylan wailing about the government. I waited for her to come back, but she didn’t. So I went back to my room and put on a movie. Maybe I pushed it too far. Mom wasn’t going to be very happy when she found out. But there was nothing left to do. I cranked up the volume on the T.V. and ignored my growling stomach. That night my mom busted into my room and started screaming at me. “What the hell are you doing?!” She grabbed the remote and turned off the T.V.

Silence. I was disappearing into my stomach and her voice was nothing more than an echo.

“Why won’t you try? Why won’t you give anything?!” She stared at me, waiting for me to say something. I stared back. I won at this everytime. I was invincible. I barely even noticed that I won as she sat on the bed, her face in her hands.

“I’ve been a bad Mom,” she started to cry, and I could feel myself getting pulled out of my stomach. Nope, nope, nope I told myself. Don’t speak. But I could feel my lips opening against my will.

“I don’t think you've been a bad mom,” I whispered. She cried even harder and shook her head back and forth.

“That’s not true,” she sobbed. “But thank you.” Then she hugged me hard and I was kinda freaked out. But, to be honest, it felt really nice to touch someone. I ignored the protesting voice in my stomach and hugged her back. We just sat there for forever until finally she pulled away and announced, “I’m quitting my job and moving down here to be with you.”

Oh boy. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Grandpa will help pay the bills. And I need to be here.”

We argued all night long. My mom cried, while I hid in my stomach. Eventually, we went to bed. Nothing was resolved. My mom was asleep; her sobs had stopped, but I couldn't sleep. I turned toward my bedside light and reached to turn it off, then changed my mind. I missed the way it felt when Mom and I were hugging. I could still feel where we had touched. My eyes felt like crying, but I couldn't let them. I stared at my ceiling. It was painted a calming shade of blue and it was the problem. I grabbed my laptop and snuck out of my room. The hospital was quiet and dark and the framed landscapes of rolling hills looked menacing and unreal in the low light. The only sound was the quiet hum of the building. I sat down by the soda machines. I opened my laptop and it started screaming the Bob Dylan song from my presentation earlier.

How does it feel?

To be on your own?

Like a complete unknown?

Just like a rolling stone?

I started crying. Enormous sobs rising from my chest and spilling out of my eyes and onto the floor. My stomach hurt. I could feel it cramping. For once, I wanted to feed it. I kept thinking, real people eat food, real people eat food, real people eat food. I curled up in a ball and played song after song after song. I listened to all of the lyrics and every song was beautiful and terrible; a dagger that killed me and freed me with every stab. About two albums later I fell asleep, my face pressed against the linoleum.

The next morning I made a new presentation. I used the songs on my ipod even though they were horrible and fake and autotuned. My therapist smiled at me the whole time and I resisted the urge to punch her. When lunchtime came I put in my earphones, blasted Dylan, and ate my mashed potatoes as quickly as possible. Real people eat food, I told myself.

I wish I could tell you that I stopped being a skeleton, that I left the prison and never went back. But that would be a lie. I left for a while, but I stopped listening to Dylan and things got bad and I had to go back and Mom was furious and the whole thing sucked. I have a confession to make: Bob Dylan isn't the only musician on my ipod because he is the only musician I feel like listening to. He is the only musician on my ipod because he is the only musician that is good for me.

I got a poster of Bob Dylan holding that sign that said “I can’t sing” and I hung it above my bed. Later on, I learned that Bob Dylan never actually held up that sign. Some fan edited it to say that. But to tell you the truth, I don’t mind. Now when I have bad days and I feel like retreating back into my stomach, I look at the poster.

“I can’t sing,” Dylan says.

“I can’t sing either,” I tell him.

#short story #writing #shortstory #bob dylan #ya #young adult #multi genre #fiction

1 note · View note