Sunday, July 11, 2010
She's been walking for an hour or more. Her shoes are uncomfortable and she feels her heel cracking. Wandering down an accidental red light district, a t-section lurks ahead. She hopes it will be a street name she recognizes. It is - in such a large city, wandering aimlessly, she's managed to plunk herself directly in front of the pub Jim goes to every night. It's closed, thank god - her eyes scan the area nervously for his tethered bike; the sense of panic and a desperate feeling of shame and being seen overwhelms her. Dashing off to a Tube station, she swallows her pride, digs for some evasive shrapnel and hops onto the train wth a syncopated limp. There will be other nights to prove she has a sense of direction.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
His Elven name was Celdrick. From his blond head to his Birkenstocks he gleamed with the mica-like sheen of Middle Earth. His hair hung in a thick braid down his back. He smelled of Ivory soap. He smiled a lot and wore a leather jerkin. It was obvious he used his powers for only good, never evil. Still, he had enough prehistoric pets in glass boxes to go seriously Mordor on your ass.
"Mom," my son said as we were leaving, "I think the lizard guy likes you."
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
The snitch shifted his weight from foot to foot and stared at the scarred and dirty linoleum between his scuffed Chuck Taylors. He hunched his scrawny neck into the collar of his satin jacket. Sweat pooled in his armpits in the stifling heat of the precinct lobby.
The sergeant behind the desk gave him the hard eye from beneath the black patent leather brim of his watch cap.
"What's your business?"
"I need to see a detective," the snitch said. "Homicide."
The cop eyed him again, up and down. The snitch tugged at the frayed and grimy cuffs of his jacket. He'd wanted to stop at Johnny K's for a quick beer before he came in, but one beer had a habit of turning into ten and he didn't want to forget to come, or to come in reeking of booze.
He waited for the detective. He'd never been in the cop house before without a heavy hand on his shoulder. But he couldn't not come. Not this time. The crazy bitch wanted to kill a kid.
The colors are sappy and the perspective is all wrong. She smells the burnt coffee and wonders how a place can keep customers coming back with crap like that. Looks into her own mug and a drowning fly doesn’t notice. Flags down the waitress and orders a replacement…noting the lipstick on the rim, just in case they try to give her the same cup again. Flies, dirty things. She returns her gaze to the wall and smiles. Noting her hand on Simon’s head, remembering the feel of his unwashed hair between her fingers. Getting angry at him (even now) for not keeping himself clean. Pulling the hair sharply, jerking his head, his silent wince, water at his eyes. Her warning glance. The soft gasp of the vendor. Not caring. A dirty kid is a dirty kid. He should know better. The goddamned vendor frowned, but sold her the apples. She remembers THAT. Made the best damned apple pie in the world that night. She stares at the mural, and wonders who the artist is. He caught her on a good day - her apple pie was a fucking hit.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
