His back leaned against a wall while his dust ridden face peered down at the ground. His eyes darted from one cigarette butt to the next, and finally, made a triangle with a crushed beer can. Counting the butts and the cans, he slowly peeled his foot off the wall and languidly marched down the street.
"Spare chang'?" he mumbled to a passerby, reluctantly looking into their eyes. No verbal answer came except for the heavy footsteps gaining speed as the man in a white collar shirt passed him.
"Spare chang'?" he grunted again to a group of young twenty-somethings...
Running around the edge of an event horizon, static crackling, I never reach the black hole, or it's pulling me in ever so slowly.
After I met them, I thought I'd meet you. It seemed logical, even mathematical, that I would. But I didn't.
And now they're gone with only the echo vibrating, its waves ever-widening, seeking an elusive purchase.
My tastes widened for a while. I found brotherhood in loneliness, soon sought the sun, from one point in the universe to another.
Eventually I heard their songs through the static as a new black hole waltzed my way.
The...
Christmas parties at work. Always held during the day. I lift my head from my desk, shuffle to the lunch room, punch out.
No booze, no music. A potluck. This close to Thanksgiving in a soup kitchen. The owner of the company is a well-known philanthropist and a lesser-known miser.
The meal's adequate. Warm soda floating in the ice of a wet cooler. Outside, the rain falls. The ground's as soggy as the bread slices set beside the ranch dressing.
Merry Christmas. Back to work. I see Caesar in the hall and thank him for his salad.
Mal says, "Don't think this'll pass, and I'll cool down and think the chill of my loneliness can be warmed by blanket of your love. Your love is a cold, salty bar rag."
"I waited by your side for months until you healed. No one else ever came to see you," cried Layla.
"Yeah, well, who asked you? Maybe I put myself in that coma for a moment of peace. Christ, you can't take a hint. And get that kid outta here. Wasn't mine, even in theory.
"And neither were you."
Leaving was the easiest decision to make, and the hardest action to take.
Clearly, it was better not to have to work for such a person. But on the other hand, if he left, he'd be leaving his co-workers to face her incompetence and maltemper himself.
What was he supposed to do? He had "Assistant Manager" on his resume now, it'd be easy for him to find other work. But over the past 6 months, he'd become good friends with a lot of his employees, who were all fun, smart people.
But, but he looked for another job. And he...
I'm dead. Really dead. Not in the "there'll be a twist at the end and I'll be saved" kind of way. Just dead.
It occurred a while back, and while I was living, I thought it was pretty unfair. Most people get 60, 70 years of life. Enough people got 30 or 40 years of life.
I got 25. By the time you're 25, you're only finally getting your last degree, your first bit of experience, stepping over that last big stone in your path before you enter the real world. The one where you earn enough money to do...
I jumped off of a building once, and landed on the next one. I had to. The building was crumbling from the foundation up because one tiny sliver found its way across the massive concrete block and decided it was hungry. So it expanded and soon enough, the building was shifting, leaning on the right and then switching, crumbling more and leaning on the left.
It was a leaning tower and I had to jump from the sinking building if I wanted to live peacefully. Not all of jumped, though. Some wanted to stay, saying it was their home because...
Turning the copper penny over and over between his fingers, Miguel slowly let out a long sigh. He stared at the penny that rested upright between his middle and pointer finger, perfectly round, and now perfectly worn, so much so, that one could barely distinguish Abe Lincoln sitting in that giant chair, save for honest Abe's long beard.
Miguel walked on through the dusty streets of a town that sat on the border between his country and the golden land of opportunity. The burning sun started to set, slowly making its way down the flat horizon, setting fire to everything...
He counted the cards in his hand, five: an ace of spades, a king of spades, ten of diamonds, nine of diamonds, and a two of clubs. His lips were terse and his eyes sunk deep into his head, staring at the hand he was dealt. Clearing his throat, he bunched the cards up, fanned them out, and bunched them up again, lightly tapping the small deck against the table. The game was poker, ace high, and John only had his land to back him up. John thought that if a man didn't have any money, well, at least he...
"The river's on fire," said my son. The river did seem to be on fire, if you were only looking at the river.
"No, the sky is," I told him. A reflection from above. He shrugged his shoulders.
He didn't ask why the sky was on fire, just bowed his over over the rowboat's side and continued looking for fish. Small, darting, the color of the river bed, the fish beneath the fire, the river beneath the fire.
My eyes toward the sky, waiting for the fire to come down.