Monday, December 3, 2007

STORY

This was something I wrote a few days ago because I aint did it in so long.






Terrence stole a bunch of silver from Jay’s house to sell for money so he could buy a something probably drugs for that methgirl or for him and that absolute whore of a girlfriend mentioned earlier. So Terrence was about to sell it but Jay went to go yell at him and maybe do more and he brought the boy along. And then Jay got shot and the boy got shot and Terrence’s girl was strung out and she threw that lamp by her mattress at the wall!! The deer lamp. Shit the ceramics was everywhere and the boy ran and Jay was ? and Terrence was probably dead from Jay who had a gun too and Terrence’s brother the cop heard about it and shit the boy had to run quickly.

But first, home. But for only two seconds. Then he had to go. Where?

Keys to the work shed, maybe for one night. No car? By foot? Six miles? No roads, no roads, have to go over the hill, not by the Meyer’s but by the broken fence and the grave of that boy and his mother. So sad, he thought, he might cry when he sees it. But it’s very cold outside and to have water sticking to the face on the cheeks was never advisable. Besides, there were enough issues and the thought of a grave for someone in that house was too much to bear because the red on his arm was pulsing in his head and thoughts were not straight.

Circles and circles and throbbing and the circle of your legs as they first hit a position on the ground, then rise, then fall again, then rise once more. Knees bent to absorb impacts, feet reaching for some texture beneath the snow to hold on to and lay on and cry and sleep on for a short time before they have to pack up and head upwards once more. Circles of cycles.


The sun was bright and warm and his legs felt it when he drank coffee but now it was cold and there was nothing to drink. He could only think of that stuff now, it was far behind or below him in his memory and footprints. All he could think about was the cold, the bitter, stupid cold. It was so dumb, he thought to himself. Just dumb. The whole concept of it just baffled him beyond belief. The weather and the skies and the events and the recordings of all of it. Everywhere, too. Recordings in the rings of stumps of trees and fuzzy in his mind and clear in the snow behind him. Following him, with every step, more and more. Oblong and organic notes inspired by rubber treads and worn geometry and athletic performance testing. Crisp, complete, masks begging to be filled and recreated and admired if it were not for the temporary nature of the snow and ice.

His tracks were so deep and obnoxious in the forest. There was no way he could get out of this, he said many many times to himself. He said it so much that the words he spelled out in the clouds in his face took on new meanings and the syllables bounced strangely in his mind. No way.

He stopped and sighed and sighed and sighed and sighed or maybe panted. He looked at his forearm, wrapped tightly in cloth and a shirt, pressed against and staining his coat. He touched the redness of the threads and wondered how such thin and graceful strings had it in their hearts to fill themselves with his blood. He promised to wash away the dye when he got safe, to rinse clean those strings and use them for more civilized purposes, like a harp or puppet or to learn how to knit. But that was ridiculous and could never happen for five or six reasons, easily, off the top of his head. He chuckled and heard himself chuckle and realized he was alive because dead things or quiet things don’t chuckle or sound like chuckling. Then he started making those obnoxious prints in that big cold white crunch crunch crunch crunch.

The office and warehouse and storage shed were about two miles away now, but that was a guess at best. The woods were unfamiliar now. People too. But there were no people, only woods, strange woods that used to be friends. It was tough to gauge. It was tough to gauge what was going to happen next or what he was going to do once he hit the shed. And it was anybody’s guess as to his bloody arm with maybe a bullet in it. It was tough to gauge anything other than one’s own movement. But his direction was sound and the building quite large so he averaged out in his head that he would find the place eventually. It was only a matter of time; oh, that one’s not so easy to gauge either. Damn.

There was a new pattern in the curtain of trees up ahead. The black and white stripes from ground to sky that had acted like a laughing scrolling jail up until now were changing. But look! Ahead it doesn’t look so bad. Wider gaps between bars.

Small goals small goals drive high schoolers but also drive the artist sometimes but mostly they drove him now in this moment in this instance to push the bones which move the cartilage but mostly everything was moved my his muscles, inward first then outward then onward for that scattered light at the end of the first pattern.

When he reached the empty snow he wanted to collapse and spread his arms and make a snow angel. Strange idea. But instead he kept up until he reached the top of the hill and just sat and watched and sat. And thought about real angels.

2 comments:

Jason said...

(*sigh* I fail at HTML.)

because I aint did it in so long.

Who died and made you Jeffrey Rowland?

You promised us pandas days ago. I may be forced to post scary photos of your mom and Bonner's mom dancing at Profe's wedding.

Andrew said...

you were in my dream last nite

second i really liked your story, it went well with my friday nite pastrami sandwich and cup of apple juice

third let me tell you what i liked
-the way you worked with memory with regards to main characters actions and his stream of conciousness
-the rhythmn you fell into that solidified itself towards the end
-the refrence to drugs and violence and trees and angels

call me up babe miss ya see ya over this break