"He has think skin."
"You mean he can take a joke?"
"No, I mean his skin is really thick. You'll need a bigger knife."
9.30.2008
Snake, Typewritten
We must move quietly. Stay low to the ground, man. Hands and knees are necessary, to be sure. Hunch over the keyboard, placed on the ground. Focus only on the keys, not the screen. A typewriter would be a more critically useful tool at the moment. Machine-gun punctuation.
*
Cats loom over the bed like, owls? Something that looms, menacingly. Little marble eyes reflecting my terror.
*
You’d think his fortress would be delicious, but it’s actually quite dangerous.
*
Now there are two of them, looming. Menacing me into the corner. I will escape under the bed. Freedom/Victory is only a crawl away. Now, if only I could fit. Need to be something like seven inches tall to get through these parts.
*
Pull the blanket down over you. Make your cave of bass sounds. Perhaps there are some Oreos in the refrigerator that need attending? Perhaps there are several tasty delinquents locked up in the refrigerator's iron-bar belly.
*
Slink away from the keyboard, or screen, rather. It’s can’t know you’re here. “Don’t mind my hands. They are just typing. They are alone in this caper; Special Forces acting in guerilla typeface."
*
I smell peanut butter. My god, what doesn’t smell like peanut butter? I am the peanut butter Keeper. You must go through me, should you want a spoonful or so.
*
I’m pretty sure various shadows are becoming cats. When I look they know to act like shadows, but when I don’t look they creep, menace. When they open their eyes and look at you, you know you’re in trouble. Acknowledgment, in this case, means instant death. No way out of it this time. Maybe if you had a horse.
*
I am positive there are Oreos that need to be eaten. What good do they do in their package? They are not fulfilling their destiny when they are not eaten. I must eat them, to complete them. To complete the circle. One needs purpose, and they are chock full of that. Now, time to make their purpose realized.
*
Forgot about those fans. Now we have battery power, though the lights are off. It makes it easier to avoid the fans.
*
It’s getting very loud now, but I don’t want to relinquish the volume. I’d have to fill its place, yeah? Might as well be with good volume, controlled volume. Maybe we should Dance? Or return to the refrigerator? But I’ve had so much chicken.
*
Will me phone vibrate with text messages proclaiming great love and willingness to copulate? God, I hear it vibrating, but it doesn’t move. I’m the one doing the vibrating, here.
*
I remembered where the peanut butter is, I’VE FOUND ITS CASTLE! I’m letting this happen.
*
How can I hope to explain, then? Relationships become too magnetic. Magnetic in the sense that it takes great effort to separate. I push my head into the side of the bed, expecting to make contact, but instead I keep leaning until I’ve become a snake eating its tail underwater.
*
Cats loom over the bed like, owls? Something that looms, menacingly. Little marble eyes reflecting my terror.
*
You’d think his fortress would be delicious, but it’s actually quite dangerous.
*
Now there are two of them, looming. Menacing me into the corner. I will escape under the bed. Freedom/Victory is only a crawl away. Now, if only I could fit. Need to be something like seven inches tall to get through these parts.
*
Pull the blanket down over you. Make your cave of bass sounds. Perhaps there are some Oreos in the refrigerator that need attending? Perhaps there are several tasty delinquents locked up in the refrigerator's iron-bar belly.
*
Slink away from the keyboard, or screen, rather. It’s can’t know you’re here. “Don’t mind my hands. They are just typing. They are alone in this caper; Special Forces acting in guerilla typeface."
*
I smell peanut butter. My god, what doesn’t smell like peanut butter? I am the peanut butter Keeper. You must go through me, should you want a spoonful or so.
*
I’m pretty sure various shadows are becoming cats. When I look they know to act like shadows, but when I don’t look they creep, menace. When they open their eyes and look at you, you know you’re in trouble. Acknowledgment, in this case, means instant death. No way out of it this time. Maybe if you had a horse.
*
I am positive there are Oreos that need to be eaten. What good do they do in their package? They are not fulfilling their destiny when they are not eaten. I must eat them, to complete them. To complete the circle. One needs purpose, and they are chock full of that. Now, time to make their purpose realized.
*
Forgot about those fans. Now we have battery power, though the lights are off. It makes it easier to avoid the fans.
*
It’s getting very loud now, but I don’t want to relinquish the volume. I’d have to fill its place, yeah? Might as well be with good volume, controlled volume. Maybe we should Dance? Or return to the refrigerator? But I’ve had so much chicken.
*
Will me phone vibrate with text messages proclaiming great love and willingness to copulate? God, I hear it vibrating, but it doesn’t move. I’m the one doing the vibrating, here.
*
I remembered where the peanut butter is, I’VE FOUND ITS CASTLE! I’m letting this happen.
*
How can I hope to explain, then? Relationships become too magnetic. Magnetic in the sense that it takes great effort to separate. I push my head into the side of the bed, expecting to make contact, but instead I keep leaning until I’ve become a snake eating its tail underwater.
9.23.2008
Too Much Blood
I have too much blood so I bleed.
I bleed blood like syrup,
blood like melted wax,
blood like butter,
blood like a subway train under my fingernails.
Title=teh suck. Short, pointless, fulfilling assigments. I think I've used some variation of 'melted wax' in something like 37% of the poems I've written in the last year.
I bleed blood like syrup,
blood like melted wax,
blood like butter,
blood like a subway train under my fingernails.
Title=teh suck. Short, pointless, fulfilling assigments. I think I've used some variation of 'melted wax' in something like 37% of the poems I've written in the last year.
Man on the Moon
When I go to the moon, it’s alone.
Pale oceans, all white rocks, alone.
When I go to the moon I fly there,
my apartment the vessel,
one hallway like the link between
command modules.
When I go to the moon it’s cold.
When I go to the moon I’m not sleeping.
Atmosphere burns past my windows,
casts pink glow on living room control pannels;
television screens and radios.
Color evaporates,
pin-prick stars shine through the dark curtain.
When I go to the moon it doesn’t take long.
When I go to the moon it’s quiet.
When I go to the moon it’s my apartment,
exposed lonesome walls,
lights like ceiling suns suspended.
Vaccumed silent.
Pale oceans, all white rocks, alone.
When I go to the moon I fly there,
my apartment the vessel,
one hallway like the link between
command modules.
When I go to the moon it’s cold.
When I go to the moon I’m not sleeping.
Atmosphere burns past my windows,
casts pink glow on living room control pannels;
television screens and radios.
Color evaporates,
pin-prick stars shine through the dark curtain.
When I go to the moon it doesn’t take long.
When I go to the moon it’s quiet.
When I go to the moon it’s my apartment,
exposed lonesome walls,
lights like ceiling suns suspended.
Vaccumed silent.
9.18.2008
Hey Man, Slow Down
Stuffed into a desk like over sized carry-on baggage-
sweating and vibrating dangerously
like Duke and adrenochrome.
"Yes! Fantastic! Finish the fucking story man-
what about the glands?"
Creaking in a chair,
fingers tapping furiously the Formica desk,
feet dancing wildly to the unheard rhythm of some song.
Eyes swelling, bulging, about to burst.
"Yes! Fantastic! Finish the story-
what about the glands?"
Clenched fist tension, sweating, though it's cold-
is it hot in here?
Lips bleeding from being chewed and tongued too long.
Skin on the top of the hand rubbing raw abrasive stubble.
Are you certain it's not hot in here?
Teeth grinding molar on molar,
boiling blood steam powering anxious scribbles.
"What about the glands?"
Sweating, sweating, sweating-is it hot in here?
No, it's just me.
sweating and vibrating dangerously
like Duke and adrenochrome.
"Yes! Fantastic! Finish the fucking story man-
what about the glands?"
Creaking in a chair,
fingers tapping furiously the Formica desk,
feet dancing wildly to the unheard rhythm of some song.
Eyes swelling, bulging, about to burst.
"Yes! Fantastic! Finish the story-
what about the glands?"
Clenched fist tension, sweating, though it's cold-
is it hot in here?
Lips bleeding from being chewed and tongued too long.
Skin on the top of the hand rubbing raw abrasive stubble.
Are you certain it's not hot in here?
Teeth grinding molar on molar,
boiling blood steam powering anxious scribbles.
"What about the glands?"
Sweating, sweating, sweating-is it hot in here?
No, it's just me.
9.16.2008
(insert title here)
Open wider inside the day,
paperclip inside colored sky.
So I, a paperclip bag,
shining on black mirror asphalt,
on road fields as mistakes come around.
I, body in desert, sunpicked, outside
the tapes of some television.
Home, key out,
until space pushes into reach.
As you can see, the poem is essentially the same; turns out it sounds better backwards. I'm not sure what to call it, though. It also feels unfinished--there is a new direction emerging, all I have to do is figure out where it wants to go. I think it wants to stay on the road...
paperclip inside colored sky.
So I, a paperclip bag,
shining on black mirror asphalt,
on road fields as mistakes come around.
I, body in desert, sunpicked, outside
the tapes of some television.
Home, key out,
until space pushes into reach.
As you can see, the poem is essentially the same; turns out it sounds better backwards. I'm not sure what to call it, though. It also feels unfinished--there is a new direction emerging, all I have to do is figure out where it wants to go. I think it wants to stay on the road...
Salt
He never would have started the barfight if he knew he was going to lose. An honest tombstone, if not a bit terse and macabre. Peter John Quistgard, Esq. Aug. 23, 1987-Aug. 23, 2008. He never would have started the barfight if he knew he was going to lose. What bothered Morgan most was the grammar. Particularly the word barfight. It should be two, he thought. Bar fight. But now was not the time for linguistical musings. Now was the time to be serious. There was work to be done.
The shovel made a satisfying tearing sound as Morgan lifted it out of the ground. Had it been early in the day Morgan might have noticed the stark contrast between the fresh, green sod over Peter’s grave and the brown, long-dead grass surrounding it; a coffin shaped rectangle of life floating in a dead sea. It wasn’t early in the day though, it was late, just after midnight. The perfect hour for necromancy. Or so Morgan though. He’d always fancied himself a necromancer, though he never had any experience in the field until recently.
There was a dull thump when the shovel struck the lid of the coffin. Morgan hurried to clear the dirt away from the top third of the coffin, exposing the part of the lid that closes over the body’s torso and head. Fantastic, Morgan thought. He knelt down and dug through the dirt on the side of the coffin with his hands, trying to find the latch to open the lid. He found it and struggled to engage the mechanism. When the latch gave way Morgan stood up, took a deep breath, then bent down to open the lid. The cool metal felt heavy in his dirty hands. Morgan lifted the lid, closed his eyes when it reached it’s apex, counted to three, then opened them and looked down at his friend’s corpse. The corpse looked up at Morgan, cold eyes gleaming from across the void of death. The mortician had forgotten to close Peter’s eyelids, which made for an awkward funeral three days ago.
“Hello, Peter.” Morgan said. He got down on his knees and leaned close to the pale face. “All right, so I’ve never done this before, but give me a minute and I’ll see if I can’t make it happen.” Morgan leaned away from the corpse, produced and small black book from his jacket pocket and flipped through it’s pages. “Here we go, page twenty-seven.” Page twenty-seven was titled, in Morgan’s own bold handwriting, Reanimation. Morgan scanned over the page, squinting to read in the dim light of a waxing moon. “Ok, so, uh, business time, I guess.” Morgan stood up, the book open in his left hand, his right hand stretched high into the night sky. He tilted his head back, looked deep into the dark heavens. “Yea, for thou art in thy business of terror, thine fists full of stacks. Seekest thou thine unholy umbrella, for mine rain be cast upon thee.” Morgan’s glance creeped down to the corpse. Silence. “Uh, Pete?” In the distance a solitary cricket chirped. “Oh come on.” He flipped through the book again, stopping at page thirty. Plan B, he thought. He kneeled down on the ground, leaned in close to the body, screamed “WAKE UP, ASSHOLE!”, leaned back and slapped the corpse-face, hard.
“What the fuck? Morgan!” Peter yelled.
Morgan screeched like a barn owl, fell backwards and frantically clawed his way to the top of the hole he had dug. He pulled himself out of the hole and jammed his hand into his pocket, which was full of salt. He took a handful of salt and sprinkled it in a circle around himself, terrified. Meanwhile, Peter wormed out of his coffin.
“Morgan, what are you doing? Is that salt?”
“Peter? Holy shit, it worked. Yes, it’s salt.”
“Why are you standing in a circle of salt?”
“Protection. The book says a ring of kosher salt will protect those inside from the dead.”
“You thought I was going to hurt you?”
“Well, I didn’t know what to expect.”
“Asshole.” Peter said, and punched Morgan in the shoulder.
“Ow, shit. See? I was right. The book was wrong, though.”
“No, the book was right. I’m not dead, idiot.”
“Where are you going?” Morgan asked, still standing in the ring of salt. Peter walked past Morgan, stretching his arms and legs as he moved.
“I’m going to get a drink of water. I’m thirsty.”
***
“So, what’s it like, being dead and all?” Morgan asked. They were sitting in the living room of his single-bedroom apartment, Morgan perched on a barstool he dragged in from the kitchen, Peter on the couch, flipping through channels on the television.
“Um, fine, I guess. I don’t know. You’ll find out sooner or later.”
“Yeah,” Morgan said, awkwardly. “So, look, I need to tell you something. It’s kind of important to me, but I need you to promise you won’t get angry.” Peter shifted his head towards Morgan slightly, but his eyes and attention remained affixed to the screen. “Right, so, do you remember anything about dying? I mean, before you were dead?”
“Not really. I remember we were at a bar, right?” His voice trailed off. Morgan took the opportunity to interrupt.
“Peter, I killed you. I hit you in the head with a beer bottle.” Morgan said, his hand fiddling with the salt in his pocket. “Seven times.”
“Son of a bitch!” Peter yelled. Morgan leaped off the barstool and ran into the kitchen, sprinkling a ring of salt around him on the linoleum.
“Back, you fiend!” Morgan threatened.
“Again with the salt.” Peter wound up and punched Morgan square in the jaw. He stumbled backwards, arms swimming wildly.
***
Morgan sat across from Christie at the dinner table.
“So you’re telling me that you killed Peter? Peter, my boyfriend? Peter, your best friend?” She said. She was not happy.
“Twice, actually.”
“Why, if I may ask, did you do that?”
“Well, ‘cause I thought I could bring him back. And I did. But then he freaked out on me, in my own kitchen I might add, and I had to stab him a couple of times and he kind of bled to death.” He said.
“I want him back, Morgan.” Her voice was stern and controlled.
“Look, I’m trying, but this shit isn’t easy, you know. How many people have you brought back from the dead?”
“I thought you had done this before. I thought you knew what you were doing. What did you call yourself? A necrophiliac?”
“Necromancer. It’s necromancer. And I never actually called myself one.”
“I don’t care. I want him back.”
“Jesus, you tinker with a few cars and no one calls you a mechanic, but you raise the dead just once and all of the sudden your a necromancer.”
***
“WAKE UP, ASSHOLE!” Morgan slapped Peter across the face, but he didn’t respond. “Okay, shit. Umm, let’s see here.” Morgan flipped through his black book. “Aha, page ninety-four.”
“Hurry up, Morgan, it’s getting cold.” Christie was standing behind Morgan, who was kneeling over Peter’s corpse.
“Page ninety-four, Bloodless Reanimation. You know, we wouldn’t be in this situation if Peter could hold his liquor.”
“Morgan, you hit him in the head with a beer bottle when his back was turned. You also stabbed him.” Her voice quivered in the cold air.
“Right, but the bottle thing was for his benefit. He was in over his head, I was just trying to keep things from escalating too far. And the stabbing thing was total self defense. He has a temper, you know.”
“You said you killed him on purpose, so that you could try this necrophiliac shit.”
“Necromancy shit. And it worked, didn’t it? I mean, the first time.” Morgan was scanning the pages in his book. “Right. Bloodless reanimation. Slap first, then...” His voice trailed off, but he continued to mouth the words he was reading. When he finished he reeled back and slapped Peter across the face, this time with his other hand. “GET UP, DOUCHE!”
Peter’s eyelids rolled up like window shades. “What the fuck, Morgan!” He stood up quickly and pushed Morgan, who was fleeing the scene. Morgan fell to the ground, his hand already in his pocket, grabbing salt.
“Peter, wait, I can explain.” He pulled his hand out of his pocket and sprinkled a ring of salt on the ground.
“Jesus, again with the salt.”
Not too attached to this one, but it was an assignment and I was locked in to the first sentence. I think the narrative gets lost right around the time Pete is first resurrected--the whole story switches almost entirely to dialogue. I was very non-psyched to finish this story, perhaps that is why the voice got out of hand. Oh well, next time.
The shovel made a satisfying tearing sound as Morgan lifted it out of the ground. Had it been early in the day Morgan might have noticed the stark contrast between the fresh, green sod over Peter’s grave and the brown, long-dead grass surrounding it; a coffin shaped rectangle of life floating in a dead sea. It wasn’t early in the day though, it was late, just after midnight. The perfect hour for necromancy. Or so Morgan though. He’d always fancied himself a necromancer, though he never had any experience in the field until recently.
There was a dull thump when the shovel struck the lid of the coffin. Morgan hurried to clear the dirt away from the top third of the coffin, exposing the part of the lid that closes over the body’s torso and head. Fantastic, Morgan thought. He knelt down and dug through the dirt on the side of the coffin with his hands, trying to find the latch to open the lid. He found it and struggled to engage the mechanism. When the latch gave way Morgan stood up, took a deep breath, then bent down to open the lid. The cool metal felt heavy in his dirty hands. Morgan lifted the lid, closed his eyes when it reached it’s apex, counted to three, then opened them and looked down at his friend’s corpse. The corpse looked up at Morgan, cold eyes gleaming from across the void of death. The mortician had forgotten to close Peter’s eyelids, which made for an awkward funeral three days ago.
“Hello, Peter.” Morgan said. He got down on his knees and leaned close to the pale face. “All right, so I’ve never done this before, but give me a minute and I’ll see if I can’t make it happen.” Morgan leaned away from the corpse, produced and small black book from his jacket pocket and flipped through it’s pages. “Here we go, page twenty-seven.” Page twenty-seven was titled, in Morgan’s own bold handwriting, Reanimation. Morgan scanned over the page, squinting to read in the dim light of a waxing moon. “Ok, so, uh, business time, I guess.” Morgan stood up, the book open in his left hand, his right hand stretched high into the night sky. He tilted his head back, looked deep into the dark heavens. “Yea, for thou art in thy business of terror, thine fists full of stacks. Seekest thou thine unholy umbrella, for mine rain be cast upon thee.” Morgan’s glance creeped down to the corpse. Silence. “Uh, Pete?” In the distance a solitary cricket chirped. “Oh come on.” He flipped through the book again, stopping at page thirty. Plan B, he thought. He kneeled down on the ground, leaned in close to the body, screamed “WAKE UP, ASSHOLE!”, leaned back and slapped the corpse-face, hard.
“What the fuck? Morgan!” Peter yelled.
Morgan screeched like a barn owl, fell backwards and frantically clawed his way to the top of the hole he had dug. He pulled himself out of the hole and jammed his hand into his pocket, which was full of salt. He took a handful of salt and sprinkled it in a circle around himself, terrified. Meanwhile, Peter wormed out of his coffin.
“Morgan, what are you doing? Is that salt?”
“Peter? Holy shit, it worked. Yes, it’s salt.”
“Why are you standing in a circle of salt?”
“Protection. The book says a ring of kosher salt will protect those inside from the dead.”
“You thought I was going to hurt you?”
“Well, I didn’t know what to expect.”
“Asshole.” Peter said, and punched Morgan in the shoulder.
“Ow, shit. See? I was right. The book was wrong, though.”
“No, the book was right. I’m not dead, idiot.”
“Where are you going?” Morgan asked, still standing in the ring of salt. Peter walked past Morgan, stretching his arms and legs as he moved.
“I’m going to get a drink of water. I’m thirsty.”
***
“So, what’s it like, being dead and all?” Morgan asked. They were sitting in the living room of his single-bedroom apartment, Morgan perched on a barstool he dragged in from the kitchen, Peter on the couch, flipping through channels on the television.
“Um, fine, I guess. I don’t know. You’ll find out sooner or later.”
“Yeah,” Morgan said, awkwardly. “So, look, I need to tell you something. It’s kind of important to me, but I need you to promise you won’t get angry.” Peter shifted his head towards Morgan slightly, but his eyes and attention remained affixed to the screen. “Right, so, do you remember anything about dying? I mean, before you were dead?”
“Not really. I remember we were at a bar, right?” His voice trailed off. Morgan took the opportunity to interrupt.
“Peter, I killed you. I hit you in the head with a beer bottle.” Morgan said, his hand fiddling with the salt in his pocket. “Seven times.”
“Son of a bitch!” Peter yelled. Morgan leaped off the barstool and ran into the kitchen, sprinkling a ring of salt around him on the linoleum.
“Back, you fiend!” Morgan threatened.
“Again with the salt.” Peter wound up and punched Morgan square in the jaw. He stumbled backwards, arms swimming wildly.
***
Morgan sat across from Christie at the dinner table.
“So you’re telling me that you killed Peter? Peter, my boyfriend? Peter, your best friend?” She said. She was not happy.
“Twice, actually.”
“Why, if I may ask, did you do that?”
“Well, ‘cause I thought I could bring him back. And I did. But then he freaked out on me, in my own kitchen I might add, and I had to stab him a couple of times and he kind of bled to death.” He said.
“I want him back, Morgan.” Her voice was stern and controlled.
“Look, I’m trying, but this shit isn’t easy, you know. How many people have you brought back from the dead?”
“I thought you had done this before. I thought you knew what you were doing. What did you call yourself? A necrophiliac?”
“Necromancer. It’s necromancer. And I never actually called myself one.”
“I don’t care. I want him back.”
“Jesus, you tinker with a few cars and no one calls you a mechanic, but you raise the dead just once and all of the sudden your a necromancer.”
***
“WAKE UP, ASSHOLE!” Morgan slapped Peter across the face, but he didn’t respond. “Okay, shit. Umm, let’s see here.” Morgan flipped through his black book. “Aha, page ninety-four.”
“Hurry up, Morgan, it’s getting cold.” Christie was standing behind Morgan, who was kneeling over Peter’s corpse.
“Page ninety-four, Bloodless Reanimation. You know, we wouldn’t be in this situation if Peter could hold his liquor.”
“Morgan, you hit him in the head with a beer bottle when his back was turned. You also stabbed him.” Her voice quivered in the cold air.
“Right, but the bottle thing was for his benefit. He was in over his head, I was just trying to keep things from escalating too far. And the stabbing thing was total self defense. He has a temper, you know.”
“You said you killed him on purpose, so that you could try this necrophiliac shit.”
“Necromancy shit. And it worked, didn’t it? I mean, the first time.” Morgan was scanning the pages in his book. “Right. Bloodless reanimation. Slap first, then...” His voice trailed off, but he continued to mouth the words he was reading. When he finished he reeled back and slapped Peter across the face, this time with his other hand. “GET UP, DOUCHE!”
Peter’s eyelids rolled up like window shades. “What the fuck, Morgan!” He stood up quickly and pushed Morgan, who was fleeing the scene. Morgan fell to the ground, his hand already in his pocket, grabbing salt.
“Peter, wait, I can explain.” He pulled his hand out of his pocket and sprinkled a ring of salt on the ground.
“Jesus, again with the salt.”
Not too attached to this one, but it was an assignment and I was locked in to the first sentence. I think the narrative gets lost right around the time Pete is first resurrected--the whole story switches almost entirely to dialogue. I was very non-psyched to finish this story, perhaps that is why the voice got out of hand. Oh well, next time.
9.09.2008
Another Skeleton in the Closet
Skeletons march from the closet door,
slip under sheets, crawl between bare bodies.
Cool bones click against cool bones;
the skeleton hands strip her skin,
peel her flesh,
leave it like excited clothing
discarded on the floor.
Now her cold, skeleton fingers lose grip,
her breathless bones abandon our embrace,
she slides out of bed
and click-clacks away with her skeleton sisters.
slip under sheets, crawl between bare bodies.
Cool bones click against cool bones;
the skeleton hands strip her skin,
peel her flesh,
leave it like excited clothing
discarded on the floor.
Now her cold, skeleton fingers lose grip,
her breathless bones abandon our embrace,
she slides out of bed
and click-clacks away with her skeleton sisters.
9.08.2008
Paperclip
Disconnect events and I, home, key out
until space pushes into reach
the tapes of some television.
I, body in desert, sun picked, outside
on road fields as mistakes come around,
shining on black mirror asphalt.
So I, a paperclip bag,
paperclip inside color sky,
open wider inside the day.
until space pushes into reach
the tapes of some television.
I, body in desert, sun picked, outside
on road fields as mistakes come around,
shining on black mirror asphalt.
So I, a paperclip bag,
paperclip inside color sky,
open wider inside the day.
9.05.2008
Foresight
He wouldn’t have started the barfight if he knew he was going to lose.
“Those are fantastic boots” the woman was saying. He looked down at her from the bottom of an empty glass that moments earlier contained a White Russian. Moments later it would still be empty, only it would be empty and in many pieces, some of them embedded in his flesh, and she would be looking down at him.
“Those are fantastic boobs” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, do you prefer tits?” It was less a physical pain, her fist, and more a surprised shock. He thought she would go for his balls, but she didn’t. Instead she swung her left fist in a wide arc, connected squarely with his front teeth and sent him tumbling backwards. His glass fell to the floor, exploded into pieces, some jagged, some smooth. It probably hurt her hand quite a bit, but if it did she didn’t show it. She was definitely tough. He shook his head, brushed his hand to his lips, checked for blood. There wasn’t any, so he walked towards the woman and hurled his right fist into her abdomen. He felt like he was twelve, playing Mortal Kombat in a friend’s basement. Only he was twenty-six, and he wasn’t Liu Kang and she wasn’t Sonya Blade. The woman folded in half around his fist. Air rushed out of her lungs in an unattractive grunt. He retracted his fist, contemplated dropping his left elbow on her back but decided against it. She fell to her knees, one arm outstretched to the ground for stability, the other arm holding tight to her stomach. Her lungs burned for oxygen. He turned away from her, looked at the rest of the bar. A wall of glaring eyes like a glacier of disbelief surrounded him. The bartender materialized from behind the wall.
“Son, you’ve got a lot of nerve, I’ll give you that.” The bartender said, his voice harsh from years of cheap cigars.
“Yeah, I guess I do.” He replied. He could taste a metallic hint of blood in his mouth. Maybe she hit him harder than he thought.
The woman had regained her composure, and from her crouched stance sprung forward into the back of his knees. He tipped backwards, arms swimming through the air, searching for balance. At the peak of his struggle she stood up and dropped him on his back. She turned around to admire her handiwork; him on the ground, looking up, breathless. She moved so that she stood over him, her small stature magnified to frightening proportion. He wanted to kick at her or grab her legs, but he couldn’t summon the necessary energy to fight back. His lungs were empty and his back burned with several cuts from the more jagged pieces of glass that had earlier held his drink. So instead of fighting back he looked up at her.
Obviously, this is not finished. In fact I am 100% stuck and unsure where to go from here, which is a bummer because this story is due in a week. Anyway, my mission here was to try my hand at a fight scene, to test the waters for a future project. Does it work? I'm not entirely convinced. Also: the first sentence is not mine. Part of the assignment was everyone in class had to start their story with the same sentence. My suggestion for the sentence: "Horses, for the most part, are incapable of withstanding the crushing gravity of a black hole." Which is better? You be the judge.
“Those are fantastic boots” the woman was saying. He looked down at her from the bottom of an empty glass that moments earlier contained a White Russian. Moments later it would still be empty, only it would be empty and in many pieces, some of them embedded in his flesh, and she would be looking down at him.
“Those are fantastic boobs” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, do you prefer tits?” It was less a physical pain, her fist, and more a surprised shock. He thought she would go for his balls, but she didn’t. Instead she swung her left fist in a wide arc, connected squarely with his front teeth and sent him tumbling backwards. His glass fell to the floor, exploded into pieces, some jagged, some smooth. It probably hurt her hand quite a bit, but if it did she didn’t show it. She was definitely tough. He shook his head, brushed his hand to his lips, checked for blood. There wasn’t any, so he walked towards the woman and hurled his right fist into her abdomen. He felt like he was twelve, playing Mortal Kombat in a friend’s basement. Only he was twenty-six, and he wasn’t Liu Kang and she wasn’t Sonya Blade. The woman folded in half around his fist. Air rushed out of her lungs in an unattractive grunt. He retracted his fist, contemplated dropping his left elbow on her back but decided against it. She fell to her knees, one arm outstretched to the ground for stability, the other arm holding tight to her stomach. Her lungs burned for oxygen. He turned away from her, looked at the rest of the bar. A wall of glaring eyes like a glacier of disbelief surrounded him. The bartender materialized from behind the wall.
“Son, you’ve got a lot of nerve, I’ll give you that.” The bartender said, his voice harsh from years of cheap cigars.
“Yeah, I guess I do.” He replied. He could taste a metallic hint of blood in his mouth. Maybe she hit him harder than he thought.
The woman had regained her composure, and from her crouched stance sprung forward into the back of his knees. He tipped backwards, arms swimming through the air, searching for balance. At the peak of his struggle she stood up and dropped him on his back. She turned around to admire her handiwork; him on the ground, looking up, breathless. She moved so that she stood over him, her small stature magnified to frightening proportion. He wanted to kick at her or grab her legs, but he couldn’t summon the necessary energy to fight back. His lungs were empty and his back burned with several cuts from the more jagged pieces of glass that had earlier held his drink. So instead of fighting back he looked up at her.
Obviously, this is not finished. In fact I am 100% stuck and unsure where to go from here, which is a bummer because this story is due in a week. Anyway, my mission here was to try my hand at a fight scene, to test the waters for a future project. Does it work? I'm not entirely convinced. Also: the first sentence is not mine. Part of the assignment was everyone in class had to start their story with the same sentence. My suggestion for the sentence: "Horses, for the most part, are incapable of withstanding the crushing gravity of a black hole." Which is better? You be the judge.
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