"Eff off rain! I want a tan, not for my green shirt to get wet!"
"I feel boxed in," she said.
"I'm sorry?" he replied, not quite understanding.
"Well, the basic thing is this: the image is quite boring, and the color scheme is obnoxious, a weird, misguided attempt at the painterly surrealism that Richard Linklater's Waking Life first presented in film. Add to that two gigantic butterflies, and the whole thing just falls apart. But despite the silliness of the painting, however, there's really no room for absurdity. Characters can't wave pistols around or smoke cigars or get hit in the forehead with boards. I'm boxed in. I have nowhere to go. It's too...
The water was clear. "I cannot be stopped, I shall continue."
The stone was implacable. "I am stone, I have been here for millions of years, not some come by night dribble. And I shall not be moved.
But the water was clear, the water would be moved, eventually. Through ten seasons and ten seasons more, the water made it's argument, and every drip, every gush, every freeze, its argument was stronger, and one season, the water continued, and the stone was nothing more than ten thousand grains of sand, each with its own mind, no longer implacable. The stone...
Dust obscured the dim lighting above. Clutching a paper bag, the girl lurched to the elevator. Old, worn doors opened, and she descended.
Outside the building her suitor waited wearing a tattered tweed jacket and chipped bifocals. In his hand, a pair of freshly cut daffodils.
She opened the envelope and screamed. Sweepstakes? Her? She never dreamed it could happen, but there it was, after countless magazine subscriptions to periodicals she never intended to read: Guns and Ammo, Creative Quilting, Fantasy Football Insider. Piles of these damned things lined the hallways and rooms of her small, two-bedroom house.
She didn't intend to read the magazines, but at the same time, she couldn't part with them, just in case, just in case one day she could sell them or donate them or look something up in one of them that might, just might be of some importance...
Wine. The worst nights always began with wine. We never stopped to put two and two together. Mornings after, needing to shave our tongues and send our stomachs through the car wash.
No matter how clean the apartment had been the night before, once the cork was pulled, and the wine dribbled down our chins, the dishes would pile up on the counter. The hamper and washing machine would explode, spewing filthy clothes all over the floor. Ashtrays would overflow, sending half-smoked butts and burnt filters flowing away like lava from a volcano.
We'd hold our heads betwen both hands...
We are there. We are in the shadows, in the gaps, in the spaces between words. We are in every moment where you pull away, where discretion replaces narrative, we are there.
We are there in the knowledge that you do not write all things that happen, we are there, waiting in the wings, filling in the gaps, in the spaces.
You did not write us - you never write us, nobody writes us (and who would read us, who would read every banal moment, every second, what soul could stand the painful inevitability of one moment following the next...
Ridiculous. That's how I feel. Every time that I look at my phone.
I know the sodding thing hasn't gone off. Of course it hasn't gone off. I put it in my line of sight so that I will know when it lights up and it's on my desk, I will hear it vibrate when it goes off and yet, ridiculously, I still press the button to check, just on the off chance that I've missed the buzzing and the flashing.
And why? What am I waiting for?
Do I really still expect him to text me when he's been...
654 SYH. She sighed. "What the hell is this?"
"The plate," he said, the self-satisfied smirk on his ignorant face.
"Goddamn it." she said. "Mark, you are the most worthless cop ever. Just WRITE THE NUMBERS DOWN. Don't actually TAKE THE PLATES OFF OF THE CAR. That defeats the WHOLE POINT OF LICENSE PLATES."
His smile slipped a little. "Oh," he said, apologetically.
"I really can't understand how you can be so incompetent," she said. "If you were close enough to the vehicle for long enough to REMOVE THE PLATES, why the hell didn't you make an arrest?"
"Well, I...
"Pull!" Erin directed us. We pulled.
"Argh, it's no use!" Ted lamented. "He's never getting unstuck."
Paul's head and chest might as well have been fastened to the tree by some kind of industrial-strength Krazy glue.
"Dammit," Erin said, winded. Even the three of us, with our combined strength, had no hope of dislodging our companion. "Whose idea was it to bring that stuff to our picnic, anyway?" she demanded, scowling at the wicker basket full of the white adhesive.
No one said anything. In truth, we'd all agreed, even Paul and Erin. We thought we needed it to keep...