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Literature Please come visit. People get upset, write poetry about it, and post it here. Sometimes we also talk about books.

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Old 02-13-2012, 01:39 PM   #1
FistsofFury
 
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Join Date: Jan 2012
Location: Detroit, Michigan USA
Posts: 102
Short Stories I've done

This is the latest one, more are coming.

-------------------------------------------------
She asked: “Why Bother?”
by R.E. Bearlee

Where is the right place to look for love? Most will say at concerts, the gym, bookstores, church or the supermarket. Although many will argue over the proper places to accept relationship applications; everyone can agree on which places are the wrong ones. Some top baddies are rehab facilities, strip clubs, casinos, the race track, your stock broker’s office and family reunions. Yet most places in this world are pretty neutral. The places don’t speak potential volumes about the participant/occupant/customer’s character, past or baggage.

Constance Montreax likes to think of herself as someone who can see past the surfaces of things. She’d date a man she met at the casino as long as he wasn’t a liar. She even decided she’d date a man who gambled a bit too much; as long as he only gambled his own money, did not lie about it or anything else remotely substantial and won every once in a while.

Our dear heroine Connie Monti refers to herself as easy to please but hard to satisfy. She swears there is a big difference between the two and I am inclined to agree. As someone who hates lies and the lying liars that tell them Connie knows she has to be someone that can handle the truth. She knows that her family, friends and boy toys must know this about her as well. Constance Montreax has been telling people in her world her policy many times but she feels it hasn’t sunk in. She feels she must go harder.

############################################

Connie M. stepped out of the shower with a sign of relief. As the steam hovered around her she made long deliberate strokes with her drying towel. Her afro had gotten a bit lopsided under the water; and after looking at her hair in the foggy mirror a quick giggle echoed off the cream colored bathroom walls.

As she combed her hair she thought of her friend Sara. Sara that was so concerned about Connie’s dating life she suggested going out with a distant friend of hers. “I know you like the lame ones now” she joked as they talked about it a few weeks ago. Constance found herself agreeing to talk to the guy out of a sense of ‘why not’. She found herself agreeing to the date out of that same feeling. Now it was happening and it felt like a chore. Constance rid her mind of such thoughts and exhaled deeply. She was not lame and did not like lame ones. She was going to have fun if she had to squeeze it out of the date. She was going to put on an outfit that made her feel powerful.

############################################

Constance looked at herself one last time before she got into her car. In the full length mirror she saw her curly black hair tied back into a bun. She saw her stud earrings and traces of eyeliner. She made kissy faces with her lipstick on. She liked her white long sleeved blouse and her knee length black skirt without frills. She liked the dark stockings that seemed to make shadows of her legs. She dug the black flats with the silver buckles. She would be downtown so walking was anticipated. She didn’t want to dress like a floozy so she ended up being dressed like a businesswoman.

She nodded at herself in the mirror and walked out of the door. She stopped abruptly in the driveway and pondered on whether to bring a jacket. After deciding against it with a turn of a key she was off. A block away from her house she realized she forgot to put on perfume.

“It just attracts bees…” She murmured as she flipped through radio stations.

############################################

Constance’s eyes darted around her surroundings as she looked for somewhere to park. The movie didn’t start for another 15 minutes yet Connie had a slight anxiety tingling in her peripherals. The sky was blue and vibrant and the clouds were seldom. She had met Fred once so she sort of knew what he looked like and she didn’t see him yet. After finding a space she eased into it as a saxophone solo kicked off on her radio. She put her car in ‘park’ and shook her head, as if to wring the anxiety from her hair. Before turning the key she looked out her windshield and saw Fred absent mindedly ambling across the street. He did not look lame. Connie burst from her car quick footed and smiling. Fred had not seen her yet and was approaching the doors to the movie theater. She locked her door while walking to meet this Fredrick Jackson, her date for the afternoon. She left her jacket in the trunk. The air was cool but the sun was out. The breeze was limp and seldom. The sky was a pale blue and the clouds looked like costume cobwebs spread too far apart.

Fredrick Jackson was a young man that liked to live in the moment. He enjoyed punctuality and highly valued keeping his cool. He was an even 6 feet tall and on the skinny side ‘medium build’. He was a black man with a sharp nose, attached earlobes and a slender face. He hair was cult close but he did not have waves on his beach. With bushy eyebrows, no sideburns or goatee he looked old fashioned and he knew it. That is why he recently incorporated a finely trimmed thin moustache. He wore khaki slacks with a white collared shirt that was tucked in. He wore black socks and cheap, dependable brown loafers. His skin was the color of tilled fertile earth, dark brown and warm. The tone was even throughout his body except for his lips; which were a bit more red. Why brown loafers instead of black ones you ask? Because the black ones were nice, uncomfortable and muddy anyway. With a black sport coat and no tie, with no jewelry and too much cologne Fred appeared satisfactory to society and to Constance as they briefly hugged in greeting while a large screen behind and above depicted an explosion in high definition.

“How are you doing today Connie?” Fred asked in a low voice. He made a mental note to limit his grinning throughout his date. He didn’t want to seem too excited.

“I’m fine can’t complain. How are you Freddie Jackson? Do you get people singing those songs at you all the time?” Connie had a grin on her face also, with engaging eye contact and an upbeat tone of voice.

“Oh I’m good! I don’t know much about Freddie Jackson so when those old school folk start talking to me about him I just sort of blank out.” Fred shrugged and Connie psshted. As she began to speak she quickly looked around the movie posters and wondered which one she could like, or more importantly watch right now.

“Aw come on! ‘Rock Me Tonight’…’You Are My Lady’? No?” Connie successfully resisted the urge to sing the chorus from each song on the sidewalk in front of the flashing movie theatre lights. Downtown among a thin crowd that usually walks very briskly.

“Nope. He had his time. And it wasn’t mine.” Fred stated it with venom. A light breeze then laughed abruptly when he realized the rhyme. Connie frowned briefly then gestured to the doors of the film palace. Fred did not notice the frown but skipped forward to grab the door for Constance Montreux, his date for the afternoon.

############################################

“So I got tickets already. We can just go in.” Fred smiled as he pointed to a doorway across the hall. Connie looked around quickly for a clue to the movie she was seeing. She looked around and saw laughing, idling faces. She blinked, shook her head and decided she was being dumb.

“What movie did you get tickets too?” She asked cheerfully.

“Oh its called ‘Boquita De Cereza’. Its about a Spanish flamenco dancer who falls in love with a Chilean bullfighter.”

“Matador.”

“He’s not a matador. Matadors are from Spain.” He paused with a stone face. Connie looked at him expectantly. Then a moment later he laughed with a geeky snort for a conclusion. Constance couldn’t help but giggle herself.

“We’re at number 7.” Fred fought the urge to take her hand as they weeded through the slow footed crowd. He wasn’t hyped to see the movie but he bought tickets for but from conversations with Constance (“Oh I love foreign films”) he figured it would be a date winner. Fred didn’t have anything against foreigners he just didn’t like reading and watching simultaneously. To him a bulk of those films felt like a joke he wasn’t in on. As Fred followed Connie through the doors he hoped he didn’t overdo it on cologne.

In the dim lights the two walked to the middle of the stands. The air conditioning was crisp. The stairs on the sides of rows free of sticky liquid. The cushioned tan seats packing comfort and cupholders. Connie sat down at the end of the row next to the steps and Fred sat next to her. The silent advertisements for local businesses flicked on the large screen.

“Are you hungry yet?” Fred leaned in and whispered.

“I will be after this. You hungry?” Fred was still leaning so Connie did not tilt her head as she spoke softly.
“Yeah…I’d better go get some popcorn…”

“No…let it build.”

############################################
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Old 02-13-2012, 01:42 PM   #2
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(PART 2 of She Asked: "Why Bother?")

He suggested Greek food….Connie frowned in response while smiling. She held her purse by the straps with a slack right arm. A schoolbus rolled past them, the shouting kids like an auditory blur.

“Alright what about Arabic food?” Fred looked directly into Connie’s eyes as he asked, searching for clues as to what to suggest next. Connie gave him an encouraging nod but responded: “I would but I just had some last week. Kabobs are my shit.”

“Damn girl! What about Indian food? Are you high maintenance or what?” Constance flashed Fred a glance of malice but it was too quick. As the lights dimmed a cough rang out from a corner in the back. Connie took another last look around at the melting pot audience all staring ahead, the obsolete carpet and the 70s lamps. Most of the crow looked subdued but enthused. A group of riff raff in the corner quickly passed around a metal flask, tipping their heads back and smacking their lips once they faced forward again. Riff raff is a subjective term. Eitherway everyone was quickly enclosed in shadow.

As the trailers began Fred felt the urge to hold the hand of Constance Montreux. As Fred looked at Connie’s face he felt lucky. He felt a warm feeling build as he studied her nose, her chin and her cheeks amongst the shadows. He studied her brown eyes staring intently at the flickering screen and felt foolish for having such an attraction. He clasped his hands on his lap and dutifully turned back to the bouncing animation. Gentlemen are not overeager. A preview for a children’s movie lit up the screen. An outsider kid discovers a portal to a magical world. He meets new friends and finds his destiny….the same old story.

############################################

As the protagonist trained with the comic relief Connie wondered why she felt anxious at all. Yes Fred seemed nice and he wasn’t ugly. Connie wasn’t knocked off her flats but she reminded herself not to think like the movies. She hadn’t been wrapped up in a guy since she was an immature young adult. Connie had to admit to herself that even though she only liked Fred a little…she wanted him to like her.

In the dim light Connie speculated to herself about where to go and what to eat. As the matador proved himself to the townspeople Constance wandered to thoughts about work. She abruptly snapped out of it and re-focused on the film. It seemed like it was wrapping up.

############################################

The film ended with an unexpected outcome. The matador did not come out on top in the tournament but he received the praise and respect of the townspeople. Which seems to made the hero happier than winning.

“Foreign films are so quirky…” Fred murmured as the still shot of the hero smiling among the celebrating crowd began to fade. Connie did not know how to feel as the credits began to roll. She couldn’t identify with the characters and she attributed it to her attention being focused inward.

“Yeah the movie was alright.” Connie stood up as the Flamenco intensified. Galloping acoustic guitars with clapping that tempted to entrance. A deep voiced woman sang with striding tones. As they stood watching the line from the seats to the lobby shuffle along Fred got the urge to touch his date. Maybe a hair flick or a shoulder grab. But he decided against it. They walked to the doors, weaving in between blocks of standing people, turning sideways to fit through narrow gaps in the milling about crowd.

############################################

He had briefly turned his head to look around storefronts and street signs. When Fred returned his gaze to his date she was smiling brightly.

“There aren’t any Italian places downtown. At least none I can think of. You want to look for one?” She raised her voice an octave to be cute. She didn’t know why exactly, she just knew she preferred this Fred character to be relaxed.

“Uh…sure. Hold on.” Frank fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He moved his finger around the screen with a look of concentration. Connie suddenly felt the tug of Newport cigarettes.

“No no put that away! I mean let’s really look for one. Like walking you know?” She put her cute voice back on and wondered why as the sounds starting coming out of her mouth. She knew there wasn’t an Italian restaurant nearby. She knew she didn’t want to stand on the corner any longer either.

“Alright sure which way?” Fred smiled big as he put his phone away without taking his eyes off Constance. Connie wordlessly pointed and together they walked side by side. A bitter faced teenager passed them after a few strides. The teenager turned his head back to see what Mrs. Montreax was working with and smiled. I guess he was too young to be subtle about it.

############################################

Constance was on the lookout as they walked, scooping for a particular Coney Island that she was fond of. Fred walked with a confident stride and a slight smile. The day was clear with thin wispy clouds on a background of pale blue. Connie was glad she wore flats.

“So I told the guy…listen you gotta work out to lose weight. It isn’t about what you eat it is about the energy you burn through activity.” Fred went on and Connie let him even though she was half listening. She was looking at the cracks in the sidewalk. She was looking at the closed storefronts and the thin crowd of glum faced people. A city with a population a little less than 714,000. A quarter of the people gone in 25 years and the empty space never refilled. A city losing talent like a rusted out bucket.

‘So how do you feel about it?” Fred’s question jerked Connie out of her inner thoughts. She tried not to look startled.

“I find people that don’t take care of their bodies to be taking them for granted. If you don’t care enough to stay in shape I can’t help but wonder what you care about. Is that harsh?!” She briefly judged his positive reaction to her statement then continued looking out for her restaurant. The breeze kicked up and played with a tattered newspaper page in front of them.

Connie suddenly smiled big when she saw the diner she was looking for. She playfully tapped Fred’s shoulder and pointed across the street.

“I want to go there.” She said matter of factly.

“Whatever you want Shorty.” Fred gave her a creepy smile and Constance rolled her eyes in response. Did he think he was being charming?

They briskly crossed the street while steam billowed from a manhole. Ruby’s Diner was an ordinary building surrounded by a dry cleaner, a pawn shop and properties for rent. The white sign had no picture, just ‘Ruby’s’ printed in black capital letters.

“You like to keep it simple huh? That’s what’s up, me too. And what you said aint harsh.” Fred held the first door open for Connie and she returned the favor for the inner door. The place was small and uncluttered. Ruby’s was clean and unpretentious. The booths were burgundy and over a decade old. The floor tiles were grey and swept. The few plants were real, big and green. Light poured in from unobstructed windows. There were framed pictures of Chuck Berry, Miles Davis, Thomas Jefferson, Frederick Douglas, Barack Obama and Martin Luther King Jr on the walls placed at eye level if someone 6 feet tall was standing up looking at them. In the front of the diner near the newspapers and gumball machine were framed autographed pictures of local news anchors and retired sports personalities. The air smelled slightly of cooking oil and coffee.

“This place is so small they must have good ventilation.” Fred absently noted as he passed by a standing sign that read ‘sit where you want. Someone will be with you before you know it.’ The sign was handwritten in black marker. Connie lead Fred to a corner booth where she sat with her back to the wall and the entrance in her field of vision. Malcom Little stylee. The restaurant wasn’t half full.

############################################
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Old 02-13-2012, 01:45 PM   #3
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(PART 3 of She Asked: "Why Bother?")

“So are you a gambler?” Connie asked Fred in a coy manner, playing with him a bit with a flash of her eyes and a tilt of her head. Fred just began to sing the chorus of that Kenny Rogers’ song. Yeah he didn’t get it but what was there to get? She was asking if they guy took risks often. Luckily Fred only sang two lines of the chorus. The lines he knew for sure.

“I don’t go out on a limb often if that’s what you mean. Better safe than sorry is my motto.” Fred shrugged as if he knew she wanted to hear something more dangerous. Connie was still smiling.

“You gotta know when you’re risking too much.” She nodded matter of factly.

“Oh yeah. Chasing the next best thing is a bad habit to get into. You aren’t totally sure its better. There’s no way to tell how the future is going to go.” Fred’s eyes were scanning the room as he spoke. The ceiling fans were dully humming. The news on the television in the corner was being drowned out by a mediocre smooth jazz instrumental of ‘Smooth Operator’.

“Wait are you being specific about something? I don’t quite follow you.” She looked at him with an expectant gaze that hinted “I think you’re bullshitting but go on”. He returned her glance with a confused but unapologetic smile. A hint of “I don’t know how to explain it to you” as their eyes reflected each other. Then they both burst into laughter. Genuine laughter that made the approaching waitress smile too.

“Hello. My name’s Via, how are you two today?”

“Fine and you?” Connie said as she took a menu.

“Alright and yours so far?” Fred asked as he was handed a menu.

“Pretty good can’t complain. So what will it be for the lovebirds?”

“Oh. Um…we’re not-” Connie stammered

“I’ll have a glass of water and a plate of chili cheese fries please.” Fred smiled as Via the waitress looked down at her scribbling notepad trying not to giggle.

############################################

While Fred promptly took Connie’s 10 dollar bill and walked to the front counter Constance cleared her throat and took a sip of water. As she swallowed the cold liquid she thought about how her chemistry with her date was lukewarm. As Fred chatted with the owner (Ruby)’s brother and received his change Connie rationalized that what some would label lukewarm chemistry others would call a subdued vibe. As the grinning Fred strolled back to the booth Constance renewed her commitment to giving the nice guy a fair shake.

“What is 15% of $20?” Quizzed Fred.

“$3. We should leave at least 5. Via was nice to us.” Fred was surprised she remembered the waitress’ name as he stood fumbling with his wallet. Connie took one last long gulp of water and stood up.

“I’ll take care of the tip.” Connie slipped a folded $5 on the table and put her empty glass on top of it. They ambled toward the door with Fred in front. Fred turned slightly behind him to say:

“The tip will be all wet.”

“It is just water.” Connie answered matter of factly.

Fred held the door open as Connie walked out into the street stretching. “So did you like the place?” Connie was yawning as she finished her stretch but she decided to not quite end the date and continue talking.

############################################

Is your car far?” Connie asked as they walked.

“No just the next block. Why, you want me to take you home?” To your house or mine? I mean-” Fred stopped himself once he realized he was overthinking. It took Connie giggling.

“No I just want to talk and walk some more. My car was closer to the theatre.” As she looked out over the tops of buildings she was glad the sun had not set yet.

“Shouldn’t I be walking you to your car? We’re downtown you shouldn’t be alone.” At this point Connie’s giggles erupted into full laughter.

“Thank you for being so considerate Fred but it is a short walk.” She decided not to lecture him about how she knew the area, about how it was still daytime and about how she wasn’t fragile. They walked on, their shoes clicking in rhythm on the pavement.

“No problem it was my pleasure. When will we go out again?” He asked innocently. As soon as the sound left Fred’s lips Connie’s eyes narrowed. She straightened up her face while inhaling a lungful of air; deciding to be honest.

“I’m pretty busy…we’ll get together later and figure it out.” Connie noticed Fred’s excitement didn’t wane and she liked that.

“Of course. I’ll call you sometime!”

“Yes.” She exhaled slow and long as relief spilled over into her tense frame draped in business casual attire. She felt ready to leap to her car. She felt bursting with energy just beneath her neatly composed surface.

“Fred you’re sweet. We will get to know each other. I want you to take things slowly though. Alright?”

“Sure…yeah!”

Anxiety rose in Constance, as if the words she chose not to say caused her fingertips to tingle. She wanted to tell Fred that she didn’t think she could like him ‘like that’. She wanted to grab him by the shoulders, look him in the eyes and warn him not to go gaga with romantic hope. She did not do these things because she felt they would be unfair. Her opinions of Fred had barely begun to form and there was no need to overreact. Ladies do not overreact.

He reached out for an intimate goodbye calmly, slowly unfolding his arms with a slight smile. Connie felt relieved as she hugged him in a short but eager embrace. The hug felt like punctuation. They separated and she gazed at him with a slight smile and titled head.

“Have a good night!” He waved and slowly walked towards the parking lot.

“You too!” She stood still watching him until he had gotten to his car. Once he opened the door she turned and briskly walked toward her own automobile.

############################################
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Old 02-13-2012, 01:48 PM   #4
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(PART 4 of She Asked: "Why Bother?")

As Connie walked she congratulated herself for being a good sport. She wrote her own ‘certificate of participation’ for dating again. After all she did not have a bad time. She held her purse tucked in her slack arm and walked swiftly towards her car that would be soon within view. The sky had darkened a bit but the clouds remained thin and seemed to form cliques. Sitting on a low stool was a young man of regular chocolate complexion, playing a big hand drum. As she got closer the man didn’t seem like a hobo. Hobos don’t wear skinny jeans. Hobos do not have signs next to them reading “I’m just playing for fun” with little hearts, bats, and dollar signs drawn on them. As she got even closer she scolded herself for generalizing while the man looked up and blinked. His eyes quickly looked Connie up and down, then glanced across the street and all around before settling back on the smartly dressed woman. Connie knew the guy. Sitting on the stool in tight pants and a fantastically out of date checkered sweater was Reginald Brown 2. He sat crouched over his drum playing a steady and minimalist series of thumps. Connie walked up to him and stopped. She stared him blankly in the face with her standing up and Reg sitting down.

“Hi Connie how are you tonight?” Why are you so dressed up?” The skinny drummer struggled to hide his surprise.

“Hello Reg. I’m fine…just coming from a date.” Connie muttered her piece with an odd quickness.

“What are you doing here?” She said the next question with a peculiar slowness.

“Playing this djembe of course!” Reginald Brown’s exclamation was so enthused it seemed sarcastic. Connie stood silent, waiting for a better explanation. Stating the obvious is not a serious attempt at humor. He promptly resumed the flat tone of voice he usually had.

“I was downtown anyway. I put the djembe in the trunk in case there were other drummers around but there aren’t any this time. Its fine…” Reg looked down at his crappy sign and shrugged.

“So I walked around jamming. Then I made the sign. Like the hearts? It is because I love to play.” On his last sentence Reg’s voice jumped alive as he smiled big. As Connie smiled back Reg stood up.

“Know who you’re going to vote for yet?” Reg asked with a sneer. Connie’s mind instantly provided a jaded remark concerning American politics ready for use but Constance just nodded while smiling that secret smile, that grin that somehow lets another person know that they get they unspoken assumption. Yet Ms. Montreux’s insider smile was pointless; Reg had been looking downward furiously scribbling into a tiny notepad.

“Don’t be surprised if Michigan goes to Romney. He is from here.” Connie stated flatly, annoyed at the drummer’s inattention. She began to look for her keys in her purse.

“I was convinced he’d lose in 2008. Barry that is.” Reginald closed the notepad with both hands and slipped it back in a average looking drum bag. A breeze limply wafted between them and Connie noticed the clouds seemed thicker.

“So I bet you’re shaking in your boots now huh?” Connie teased while they both began walking toward Connie’s car. Actually Connie stuck her foot out in a long stride and Reg followed her in an instant. He quickly slung a thick rope over his shoulder to carry his djembe and bounced forward to continue talking. He did not know where Constance was going.

“I wasn’t trying to be funny about the outfit. You look nice….like a librarian. But not a frumpy librarian!” He bent his knees and kept his back straight to pick up his sign instead of bending over with straight legs. Preoccupied with the signage he did not notice Constance frown. Frumpy or not she wasn’t trying to look like a librarian. As Reginald grabbed his stool Connie remembered that he had an odd manner concerning compliments. To him he was paying her a pretty good one.

“Are you going somewhere?” Connie asked blandly.

“I thought of walking you to your car.” Reg glumly admitted. In a split second Connie’s eyes widened, then narrowed to viper-like slits.

“My car is right there! I don’t need you to walk me to it. I don’t need a fucking escort through life!” She yelled louder than she wanted to. She didn’t mean to yell at all. After the outburst she stared at Reg’s face of silent confusion and felt a sting of shame.

“I’m sorry-”

“My legs were falling asleep. I wanted to move around a bit. I’m not trying to limit your freedom.” Reginald’s monotone at this point was exemplary. A car horn blared in the distance.

“Its nothing…I’m just tired…the date was long.” She trailed off as she looked at the ground; then abruptly resumed the brisk walk to her car. She was sure she didn’t need to explain more. Reg followed beside her; at first walking too quickly and then too slowly.

“So the date was stressful?” He genuinely looked concerned as he glanced at her.

“No. I don’t think I could really like him. But how can I say that? I just met him!” She sighed and then threw her hands in the air as her automobile grew ever closer.

“Sometimes you just know.” Reginald’s voice hinted at closed memories. They walked in silence after the exchange for a full 7 seconds. A soap opera level pause.

“Other times you need to withhold an appraisal of someone until you get to know them. Not rush to judge. Ugh I hate dating.” They were almost there.

“Hated dating. That’s why I avoided it. But God it gets lonely.” Connie was surprised at her admission. Surprised such hidden feelings came out so easily. She sighed again as she pulled out her keys.

“We all get lonely. I’m lonely too! Since we’re both oh so lonely…we should go out sometime?” Reg smiled as he looked at her; a timid and hopeful smile. Connie did not know how to react and her blank face said exactly so. By now they were right up to Constance Montreaux’s automobile.

“Really? You’re going to ask me out after I just came from a date? You’re asking me out after I just said I hated dating?!” Reg’s smile evaporated as Connie’s voice sizzled with annoyance.

“Yes! I am that clueless!” Reg shouted with an oddly placed glee. He knew she was mad and he wanted to feel her anger. He said how he felt and he wanted an authentic response to it. Reginald stood awaiting her tirade with wide hungry eyes and an asshole smirk. Then Constance got really mad.

“Oh so you know you’re clueless?! Great! Do you know you’re pathetic too?! You’re always reaching and grasping…going gaga, head over heels for women that don’t give a fuck about you! How can you like them so much when they don’t give a fuck about you!? Tell me!” She shouted and knew she was shouting. She wanted to shout more because the clueless bastard in front of her was still smiling.

“I perceive intensely.” The clueless one stated flatly.

“You imagine intensely.” Constance responded flatly.

“Some of them give a fuck about me! Just not like that!” Reg yelled. It was more like a whine.

“Even worse! You can’t appreciate them as friends?! You just gotta know what it is like huh? Reaching! Like I said! Reaching for shit that isn’t there! That isn’t real!” Constance was screaming now. With fists balled at her sides and the will to tell a fool about himself.

“Don’t you think I know that!? Don’t you know I want to turn it off?! A wide net? A big heart? I hate metaphors like those….Fuck you! You’re telling me shit I know already! I can’t turn these feelings off! Fuck you!” Reg hollered but didn’t gesture. Connie’s anger cooled into a thick emotional exhaustion.

“I walked you to your car. Have a good night.” Reg muttered bitterly before turning to leave.

“Don’t do that shit. You always just leave when you’re hurt. Stand there while I think of a good way to say this last thing.” Connie demanded. Reg slowly turned back around with a stonefaced expression. Connie inhaled deeply then spoke:

“I get it. Just don’t get carried away.”

“I don’t get carried-”

“Let me finish. The silly flirtations make you seem cheap. You are valuable. All the searching and reaching make you seem weak. You are strong enough to continue to build your life alone. You’ll know when that lady truly digs you……you’re good at perception for a clueless guy. Besides you grew up alone this isn’t something new for you.” Connie’s voice was now warm and soothing. Reginald was frowning but said nothing.
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Old 02-13-2012, 01:49 PM   #5
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(PART 5 of She Asked: "Why Bother?")

“It isn’t a big deal if no one comes along for a while. We’ve both experienced it…years without significant others! It isn’t so bad right?” Connie shrugged. Reginald looked at the ground for a moment and then also glumly shrugged.

“Yes! Normal is normal for a reason! Average, consistent…satisfactory and predictable! These are good things!” Reginald had cast his gaze to the horizon and it rendered his faze glum and distant. Connie did not know what in the world Reginald was talking about so she didn’t say anything.

“I didn’t think you’d say yes…I just wanted to try. I’m practicing taking risks.”

“So you didn’t want to go out with me?” Constance glared at him with a tilted head.

“I did not say that! It doesn’t matter anyway!” Reginald’s said it with an awkwardly loud voice and he said it too quickly. A car drove past them with bass so heavy the license plate rattled. The song was by the Georgia rapper Radric Davis, also known as Gucci Mane.

“At least you’re a talented artist right?”

“Lady I’m firmly among the ranks of striving amateurs. Goodnight Ms. Montreux.” Reg glumly waved and then awkwardly waited as Constance got into her automobile. As she turned the ignition he ambled off further down the street.

As Constance set her purse aside she looked up. The sky was a blurred collection of pink and orange. The buildings just grey boxes being swallowed by approaching shadows. As she pulled away she wondered what she had gotten so worked up about. It was just a date. One of many. The important thing was taking risks. As the businesses on the streets became houses and she drove farther uptown Constance Monteux confirmed inwardly her appreciation for trying new things. She did not go out of dates a lot because dating was not a major priority for her. As she merged onto the freeway she thought about intangible things she was certain of. She was not looking for someone to complete her or any other manufactured myth about love. She knew she wanted a love based on values and respect. She knew the regret of inaction was more painful the dagger of betrayal. She knew relationships could fizzle out for no reason and people that were once ‘perfect for each other’ could grow apart. She knew when to quit: when the mutual respect was gone. So what was there to be afraid of? As she drove she felt clueless about love. She was happy that she didn’t care much for love anyway.


#######END-_-
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Old 02-15-2012, 08:12 PM   #6
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The Secret Side by R.E. Bearlee

::4:38 AM::

Paul Jones opened his eyes and in an instant he was pulled back to full reality. The night was still the same night he left when he slipped into slumberland. The shadows were the same but his body position was not. As he sat up and looked at the clock he wondered if he dreamed anything. He was grateful that at least some time had passed. In the darkness he filled his lungs with air and sunk back under the covers. He held the lungful in as he drew the sheets over him. In the haze of the almost sleep he felt like he was layered in darkness. He felt like a mummy; an out of place creature. He lay perfectly still with his legs straight and together. His feet pointing toward the ceiling, they were two little hilltops side by side among the waves of fabric.

He did not get out of his bed; deciding that it would set him back on his march to restoration.

(((((((((

::11:21 AM::
Paul felt the tug in his mind, the gentle suggestion that whispered ‘you could get up now ya know.’ In his own voice but so much softer.

A dreamless sleep. One remembers brief moments of being awake, for Paul it was brief moments of re-adjusting in the dark with red numbers in the background. Paul sighed or gasped depended on what the red numbers said. The sound of a persistent fall breeze ruffling trees usually lured Paul back into sleep. The winter wind howling through the freezing, the rattling of windows it could causet; his too could lure him back. Now however there was no going back to the blissful nothing that was a dreamless sleep. Now he had all the somethings of the day to dance around and he felt he must wind himself up. As Paul slowly stirred and ran his hand through his hair he reminded himself that today was all his. Paul’s eyes slowly moved like great wooden gates as he scanned his room. The morning light cast a soft glow on the sack of dirty clothes in the corner and cast a kind light on the stack of quarter read through books on the dresser. Paul had responded to the tug, the mental cue but still he was not up yet. He let his head drop back on the pillow and closed his eyes, determined not to hold on to any thoughts flowing through his head for just a little while.

(((((((((

::11:31 AM::
Paul stumbled a few feet into the bathroom and the silence upstairs jarred him awake just a bit more. His sister must be gone and his father was either downstairs or gone too. The tan bathroom floor tiles were cold as Paul strode across them with bare feet. Paul stared at himself in the mirror and felt vain as Nero. If you asked him to describe himself he’d say:

“I’ve got that olive toned skin and a big nose. My eyes are green and my hair is black. I’m not fat and I’m not short. My grandmother always told me I looked like Clark Gable.”

Which would be pretty spot on. His face was slender and his nose very ethnic. Angular, sharp and beautiful. He had the languid slender frame that screamed I do not play sports. His hair was wavy. It was a black curtain that stopped at his eyebrows and where his ears ended. The cream curtain slid up to reveal two green irises surrounded by the redness of an uneven sleep

As Paul bent over the bathroom sink brushing his teeth he thought of maximizing his free day. He thought of squeezing enjoyment out of the day he wasn’t reporting to the place of employment. As Paul spat he looked up at himself in the relatively clean mirror and wished all his days were free. They were but why didn’t it feel like it?

(((((((((

::12:05 PM::
Paul slithered down the steps blinking and scratching as he smelled his mothers fresh coffee. He heard the distant chatter of a television. He took slow steps into the kitchen wondering what mood his maternal unit was in.

“Good morning.” The voice he heard was pleasant and alert. His mother was on the couch with her mug and robe that had cute cows all over it. Paul thought to get a glass of milk while he answered his mother.

“Good morning!” He tried to replicate her enthusiasm but his voice came out husky and still asleep.

Mrs. Edith Jones didn’t ask her son if he was hungry because she knew he never had an appetite in the early morning. She continued sipping coffee with her long straight hair tied behind her. The expression on her moon face was one of quiet anticipation as she watched her show. A few pictures of venerated relatives were the only ornaments on the white walls. No pictures of the saints because the Jones family was lazily Protestant. No silly sayings because Mrs. Jones thought of things like that as clutter. The kitchen floor had been swept and the dishes done the night before.

The television in the living room broadcasted a nonfiction murder drama; just the kind Mrs. Edith Jones liked to watch. The kind that were 30 minutes or an hour with mug shots and re-enactments. With chilling background synthesizers and that zoom in on a still picture documentary style shot. Paul sat down with his bowl of Captain Crunch. Mrs. Edith Jones sat on the couch while Paul sat at the kitchen table behind her munching away.

“Where did we go wrong?” Mrs. Jones said without looking behind her.

“With what?” Paul liked to drag out his own torture, handling it like a status quo diplomat in between bites of sweet nothing.

Paul swallowed with closed eyes as the television yammered on about how the police found the body.

“Paul a lot of your classmates have graduated and have good jobs now. They are successful. Don’t you want to be successful?”

Conversations like these used to end up in passive aggressive snark fests. As Paul chewed he was grateful he had grown up somewhat. As the camera held on the face of a retired officer describing the condition of the body Paul thought of the most appropriate response for his mother.

“I need to cultivate successful habits. Success is a result of having integrity, regular practice and finishing things you start. That’s why I haven’t graduated yet. I didn’t have successful habits before.”

Paul spoke with a blank face and his words were flat through his monotone. The moment he finished he gathered a heaping spoonful of crunchberries. He was also trying to hold back the wave of sadness washing over him.

“Well what you’re saying sounds really good but it is just talk. You’ve wasted our time and my money. Your cousin Susan is 3 years younger than you and she’s about to start medical school. How do you think that makes me feel?”

Paul cleared his throat as he watched the alleged killer squirm in the interrogation room. All the muscles in his body felt dormant and heavy. He thought about how silly he could be with the conversation he was having. He thought about how indignant and snotty he could have been at this moment; how he used to be at moments like these. He knew he had already decided to be nothing as he silently tipped his bowl back to drink the delicious remaining milk from his cereal.

“We should not measure ourselves by other people.” He stated with dull eyes as he set his bowl back down and smacked his lips.

“Then how should we measure ourselves son?”

Paul didn’t say anything as he got up with his empty bowl and spoon and walked over to the sink. He hoped his mother’s loaded question would wither away unanswered.

“We just wanted so much for you Paul. We had high hopes for your success.” Mrs. Jones voice was subdued and resigned. It carried the weight of words said so often one’s voice was lowered along with the speaker’s spirits. Paul stood at the sink trying to re-direct his train of thought. He didn’t know what feelings were appropriate when his mother spoke of him as if he were finished. The anger he felt was dull and cold above his stomach when his mother spoke to him as if he were washed up. He was past being angry with the hidden tone of death. He only felt a distanced sorrow for something vague he knew was missing in so many people.

“I’m not dead! It isn’t over!” He wanted to holler at her. As Paul stared at the white kitchen walls he missed the fruit basket wallpaper he grew up seeing. As the television rambled on about a pattern of prior convictions Paul wondered what Lucy was doing at the moment. He wondered how you could be washed up before you even really started.

“Don’t you want your father and I to be proud of you?”

Paul winced as he sat back down in time to see the grainy overhead camera footage of a stammering interrogation room confession. Paul felt like a criminal that could not recall his crimes. He was in the dimly lit room of his mind; with men in moustaches and ties pointing at pictures that he couldn’t make anything out of. Paul then felt foolish for relating himself to actual criminals.

“I think you could be proud of me for being a decent person. I’m not a saint but I try to do right by people.” The words came out like how he felt: drained. Soggy conversation leftovers. He wondered if no one saw his merits did they still exist? He knew they did but why did it feel like a lie?

”I’ll see you later mom. I’m going to spend time with my friend.” Paul hated all the things he left unsaid during these conversations. He had come to learn with certainty that silence hurt everyone the least.

“Are they doing something with their lives? Are they headed in positive directions?” She asked as Paul walked toward the garage.

“No one is positive all the time Ma.” The garage door groaned open and Paul stepped into the weak sunshine. He fumbled for his keys confused about the vague thing he felt missing inside. Can you miss something you never had? He attempted to think about something else and ended up thinking about the girl he liked as he opened his car door.
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Old 02-15-2012, 08:15 PM   #7
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[The Secret Side PART 2]

He frowned as he looked inside because there were candy wrappers and compact discs everywhere. He smiled a second later as he thought of friends of his that left food and other gross shit in their cars. Contentment through comparison! The old ‘I’m not as bad as ____’ that satisfied so many losers for the entire history of mankind.

“I gotta clean this up before she gets in.” Paul muttered to no one as the sun half assed his job.

(((((((((

::3:03 PM::
“It’s like I’m full of life you know and I want someone to have the same vibe as me I guess. Yeah that’s it. I have a full throttle vibe-”

“But you usually go in half cocked.” Paul felt a tinge of rudeness on his part; it felt similar to the cool breeze blowing through them on this cloudy day. The two of them sat on metal bleachers watching the clouds darken and swirl. Paul and Lucy. She almost ignored what Paul said.

Lucy had a ton of curly red hair that she usually straightened before going out. At will it could have been a veil or a halo. Her eyes were a pale green and she always looked like she had a delightful secret just behind her smirk. She always looked like she would not tell you no matter how much you asked, smiling all the way through.

“No I don’t! I can read people. Like I was saying though…you have a different vibe.”

Lucy reached out and put her slack hand on Paul’s knee. Paul felt like she only did this when she had something she thought the listener would find unpleasant.

“I like it don’t get me wrong. I feel like you calm me down. I just want something else too. I need passion!”

As Lucy’s hand slid away peacefully Paul remembered he had never seen her perform these moves on anyone else. He felt special; in an ‘I’m honored you picked me to be your sucker’ sort of way. Like she were treating him as if he were fragile. He carefully held in his grimace as a kid got hit in the shoulder by a softball across the field.

“You cant see my passion?” Paul was inclined to say more but he decided not to make a deal out of it.

“I don’t doubt your passion for all that stuff you do. But listen to me-”

Lucy paused to stroke the side of Paul’s fade. She felt the stubble of an irregular shaver and she felt the warmth of a person that cared for her beneath it. Paul’s heart fluttered and his thoughts stuttered but his quietly expectant eyes never left Lucy’s calm ones. Her face looked as if she were going the extra mile of tenderness. As if she were choosing the words that only pricked a personality instead of stabbing it. Paul could appreciate but he took slight offense. He was not a child, a madman or a dull headed coward. As Lucy pulled her hand away and looked at the sky Paul wanted to tell her that she could never hurt him with the truth. He decided to save the proclamation for another time.

“We are very different. I enjoy it but if we rush this between us the whole thing will fall apart very quickly. I’m not saying I don’t like you. I’m saying those feelings don’t develop as quickly for me as they do for you. Give it time you bum!”

Laughter exploded from Paul. Genuine head tilting squinty eyed laughter. It did not last long but Lucy laughed at Paul laughing. A kid playing softball turned to look at them and missed catching the ball that would have outed the player whizzing past the base he was supposed to protect. His teammate scowled at him but the kid wasn’t looking in that direction.

“I understand!” Paul exclaimed with a giant grin. As he nodded with the nodding Lucy he thought about how she really was too beautiful.

“I’m thirsty. Let’s get out of here.” She stood up and fixed her plaid skirt.

“We should get something to eat.” Paul stood up and stretched his arms. An involuntary yawn made a rhythm with the metal thumps.

“I’m not trying to spend money.” She shot him a phony fierce glare and stepped off the stairs unto the grass. Her arms swayed with her hips, of course Paul noticed.

“Who said anything about spending money? I’m going to whip us up some rice and broccoli.” Paul sprang off the bleachers to catch up.

“No chicken with it? Seems like chicken would be the perfect addition.” She turned and looked back at him while she walked. Paul couldn’t completely read the look she was giving him but the smile was enough.

“You don’t like meat!”

“But you do!” She laughed again. Paul’s heart fluttered again.

“Doesn’t mean I want to eat it all the time.”

(((((((((


::4:45 pm::
The “Well I guess Id better be going now” from Lucy triggered the throat clearing and the dishes being placed in the sink from Paul. As he washed his hands Lucy picked out her jacket from the closet and put it on without removing the hanger. The hug on the porch was polite but hurried; well meaning but restrained. There were no neighbors milling about on the street or the street across. The clouds seemed thinner than before.

“I had fun today. With you.” Paul didn’t mean for it to sound funny but he smiled when Lucy chuckled. The chuckle was faked.

“I had fun too.” Lucy’s phone beeped once somewhere in her giant purse as she spoke. As she reached into her multi-colored bag Paul cut things short.

“Have a good day! Ill call next week. Or in a few days.” Lucy mumbled something in agreement as she strode down the steps and walked toward her car, hips still swerving and eyes still in her purse.

Paul turned and opened the door, his mind beginning to focus on the mindless chores ahead of him. He was wondering whether to clean the bathroom upstairs first or sweep the kitchen when Lucy stopped suddenly and turned.

“Bye!” She shouted, smiling big and blowing a kiss. The hand that blew the kiss transformed into a hand that waved goodbye. The other hand held a phone that was rising to her ear.

Paul turned and waved from inside the house. As he closed his front door he heard the door open to Lucy’s seasoned sedan.

“Yeah?” Lucy tossed her purse somewhere in the empty passenger region as she sat. She looked at her reflection in the rear view mirror. Then she checked on her teeth (no food in between) and her hair (still in place). While she did this a voice booped in her ear in fast flat tones.

“I’m just leaving Pauls house. Yeah that weird guy.” The car started without any trouble. Lucy swept a bit of hair behind her ear as her friend complained about something.

“Hey don’t be a bitch. He’s a loser but he’s not an asshole. It’s obvious how lonely he is and I like to keep him company. He’s a nice guy ok you haven’t met him.” Lucy’s friend has not met Paul but she remembered all the things Lucy said about him. A plush cat smiled eternally in the back window against thick grey clouds.

“Oh, will Raul be there? Really that’s what he said?” Lucy smiled big as she put her car into reverse. Inside the house Paul heard Lucy drive away and sneezed while washing dishes. Now that she was gone Paul anticipated his upcoming nerd spree with a silent glee. Hey that rhymes.

(((((((((

::5:21 PM::
Paul’s eyes scanned the shelves of new releases. Here in the comic book store, the walls covered in posters and individually preserved issues displayed in skyscrapers for filing cabinets. The ceiling was high and the windows were big but cardboard hero cutouts blocked a significant amount of the available sunlight. Besides comic books there were action figures both frozen in worn boxes and devalued. There were ancient video games and trading cards. The pornography section was in a dark corner and it had curtain from the 1970s over the doorway. Paul wasn’t here for any of that. As he scanned the comics section he saw the same old stuff. There was the usual parade of inappropriately costumed female heroes. There were books that had the urban gun toting hardass; the trench coat seemed optional for the archetype these days but the cover lettering was consistently gritty. He glared at the million X-Men issues and the countless Wolverine rags while yawning internally.

“Yeah Wolverine’s cool and all but Marvel has halfway played him out. Too much attention I figure. He has too many books and why did they have him join the Avengers?!”

The voice Paul heard behind him was low and familiar. Paul turned around and faced a lanky young man with dreadlocks in his face. He was the kind of guy that never rubbed the wrong way because it wasn’t around long enough to properly annoy. He was the kind of guy one heard so little from it was assumed the friendship/relationship/partnership/coven was polite, shallow and over. It was Reginald Eric Brown, II and for him it was never over.

“You should say hi or something first I didn’t know you were behind me.” Paul was annoyed with the idea that anyone could sneak up on him like that. He turned back around and continued looking at covers of lesser-known, generally more interesting alternative comic books.

“Hello Paul! It is I your pal Reginald.” Reg chuckled as he reached out a brown hand to pick up an issue about maladjusted young adults with little guidance concerning powers they can’t control. He was a genuine chocolate face; wearing khaki pants and an ugly stripped sweater.
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Old 02-15-2012, 08:18 PM   #8
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[The Secret Side PART 3]

Reg grimaced at the cover of some Punisher issue; bored with the naked aggression, trench coats and guns. Why couldn’t the Punisher be depicted napping peacefully for once? What about a cover with Frank Castle feeding a litter of kittens?

“Do you read Young Liars anymore?” They slowly strode the aisle not looking at each other only staring at the nerd fodder. At the counter 25 feet away a customer was arguing about how he should get more money for his action figure because it was in mint condition. His voice had a stereotypically nasal quality to it.

“No I stopped after it got too crazy. Then broke down a couple months later and got the last few issues. I liked how it was a one shot deal.” Reg frowned as he answered. “I can dig people losing their memory and having fake memories instead. I can deal with secret alien invasions. I can’t deal with someone having their head chopped off and showing up next issue as if nothing happened. And with no explanation either?! What the fuck. I can’t support that.”

They continued talking about comic books and briefly about video games as they strode the earth toned carpet of the comic book store. From floor to ceiling there was geeky shit everywhere. Action figures older than half the customers were still sealed in their packages. They were displayed out of reach but then again so was most of the stuff in the store because there was simply too much of it. You don’t care about this part of the story.

(((((((((
::5:46 PM::
Reg held the door open for Paul and as they both stepped out of the dim, fragrant nerd stronghold and back into the cloudy grey skies of their particular urban autumn. The Midwestern sky was still grey and self-depreciating. The door creaked and clanged shut as Reginald the younger fumbled in his pocket for his Malboros.

“I can’t believe I used to smoke Camels.” Reg said with his eyes turned toward the concrete.

“I can’t believe you haven’t quit smoking yet. Can I get one of those from you??” Reg wordlessly handed him a cigarette and passed the lighter after lighting his own.

“Paul take a walk with me. Just around the block. It’s the fee I charge for bumming death sticks.”

“Corellian death sticks? What you got some??” They both snickered at the Star Wars reference. Fucking nerds. Paul noticed that the clouds had gotten thicker and darker in the few hours since he had really looked last.

“Let’s put our stuff in the car first.” Reg said, as if something tragic was likely to happen to new comic books during the brief stroll. If you asked him he’d say it was just because he didn’t want to carry them. Paul thought about Lucy as the car door shut. Her saw her annoyed expression in his mind for a brief flash and wondered what she was doing at that exact moment. He scolded himself internally and instead thought about the nicotine in his brain. They began walking down the sidewalk puffing on hell fume.

“I would like to quit eventually. I can feel the damage this stuff is doing already. But hey…that’s what they all say.” Reg muttered as he took a short drag and exhaled it immediately. In someone’s house near them a toddler was crying with a real enthusiasm.

Paul got to the point, inspired by the neatly mowed lawns surrounding him.

“1 in 4 smokers get some kind of smoking related illness! Odds are you’ll die of something else before the cigarettes catch up to you. Eitherway you’re going to die anyway.”

Paul took a long drag from his free cigarette and held the smoke in his mouth for a few seconds. Then he let it roll around in the long tunnel in his chest. He could certainly feel a weight sliding off of his body. Maybe just his head.

“Stop it. Just because we’re going to die anyway doesn’t mean its a good idea to gallop toward the grave. I used to think like you about this when I was stupid-”

“Most of us gallop in some kinda way. The best part of life is risking it!” Paul flicked ash on the concrete and smiled smug and crooked.

“The ‘me’ now has his priorities straight more often than not. But not always lucifer knows.” Reginald thought it was clever to replace ‘God’ with some form of ‘the adversary’ when he said those meaningless phrases, those conversation toppings that needlessly involved the infinite father. He thought of it as his way of keeping a low profile. Reginald has been an atheist for years. He pussies out and turns agnostic when things are going miraculously well.

Both of them were talking too loudly; a female senior citizen shuffling toward her mailbox glared at them from across the street. She had her mind on the property values.

“We’ve got a lot of life left Reg. You and I. Who knows what wonders we shall behold!” Paul smiled as he took a short drag and held in the smoke.

“You’re assuming a lot. Who knows what regrets we’ll accumulate as the years pile up. Who knows how many fun get togethers we’ll miss because we’ll be at work.” Reg grumbled as he exhaled through his nose. A fat man getting his mail waved to them as Paul and Reg walked. They waved back because Paul and Reg are nice too.

“I miss knowing for sure that someone I cared about cared about me.” Paul stated with an uncommon gravity. This seemed jarring to Reginald because he blinked in confusion one instant, then sighed the next.

“You never know for sure idiot. We can’t crawl into each other’s heads yet. I miss Ashley.” Reg let his finished cigarette slip off of his fingers and didn’t look to see where it fell. Paul noticed that his chocolate friend suddenly looked sad. Reginald looked sad because this Ashley was one of the good ones that he had dragged into his hell.

“Ashley? Hrm….the girl from the Upper Peninsula?!?” Paul made sure to toss his cigarette butt into the street and he tried not to have such a mocking tone of voice. He was just surprised at the mention of something so long ago.

“Yes. Ashley Chromsage from Calumet, Michigan. The one I must apologize to. Keep referring to her in that tone and I’ll kick your ass up and down the front of this elementary school.” The smile Reg had on returned as Paul laughed. Genuine laughter.

“Lucy’s a good girl.” Paul stated it like he had accomplished something. As the two rounded a corner they realized they were on their way back to their cars.

“I’ll be the judge of that, your perception’s fucked up. Are you sure the whore isn’t just toying with you?”

“Speak of her like that again and I’ll waterboard you on your birthday.” Paul had a stern face but he wasn’t serious and his friend knew it.

“My birthday is in March you’ll forget by then.”

“Keep fucking around like this Reg. You’ll end up with a heart of stone.” Paul was looking over Reg’s head to the kid on a bike across the street.

“Don’t worry comrade. I have a heart of ice, not of stone. It melts occasionally but it always re-freezes. Wanna know why?” The kid on the bike was talking to himself, immersed in his imagination as his metallic rocket exploring the rings of Saturn. Paul and Reg felt more than a little bit of jealously simultaneously but neither mentioned it to the other.

“I wanna know why you called me comrade.” Said Paul but Reg ignored him.

“Because it is so cold in the D.”

“Shut up Reginald.”

Reg was always so late with certain things. After all that internet video had been out for over a year. Both of them knew the walk was over when they re-approached the comic shop parking lot. They watched a female exit the shop; what a rare sight! After the metal clang of the door Reg broke the brief silence.

“You don?t understand. She was there with me when I really needed someone. She kept my soul fed when I was hanging on by a thread. Hey that rhymes.” All the color had evaporated from Reginald’s voice and he was left with a low deadpan as he watched Paul get into his car.

“Do you think she still thinks about you?” Paul asked trying not to sound condescending. Reginald would have ignored it anyway.

“I don’t know. Probably not. I’ve been looking for her…I never changed my cell phone number just so maybe one day she’d call…and she hasn’t called. She never had a cell phone and I never knew her address in the U. P. I saw it once on a package. You don’t know how I’ve kicked myself for not writing it down…but whatever.” Reg seemed to get farther away by the second as he stared into grey skies with a face of stone.

“You don’t know how much I’ve…..she probably thought I was a lying asshole. I was messing with her when I hadn’t completely ended things with my girlfriend at the time. I was just a fool. I want to find her so I can see how real it was. I want her to see how much I’ve changed! Above all that horseshit I just want to say sorry! I have to apologize to her. I should hire a private investigator….” Reg was adrift at this point and it made Paul feel uncomfortable.

“Hey man….I’ve gotta go.” Paul knew he sounded phony as he started his car. He didn’t know how to deal with the awkward pity he had for his friend. Reg snapped to the present and turned his eyes back toward Paul through the driver’s side window. The electricity behind his eyes had returned.

“Have a good day!” He shouted with a faked zest. Paul reversed out of his space and turned back to look. Reg was still standing there. He weakly waved goodbye as Paul drove away leaving Reginald to sail the dark ocean of regret; where the grey skies and black water went on forevermore. At least it felt like forever.

(((((((((

::8:50 PM::
Paul stared at the computer screen, his eyes scanning the virtual pages of text he had written years earlier. His face was blank in concentration as he reached to his left to turn off the shuffling music player.
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Old 02-15-2012, 08:20 PM   #9
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[The Secret Side PART 4]

The disco was distracting him as he sat in his dark bedroom. As he shifted in the metal folding chair he heard the groans in his mind as he read his previous work. An inappropriate comma here, a skipped over word there and a sentence narrated in the wrong tense. Stiff dialogue with shitty descriptions about unnecessary background objects. An entire paragraph that flowed like drying cement and misspelt (haha) words. Paul was here editing his long story so he should be glad he caught the errors; but as usual he was overanalyzing. He had an intense urge to shut off his computer and ease into bed. He had to remind himself that those actions counted as abandoning one’s post. Fleeing the scene of an accident one caused. Being a pussy.

As Paul lightly sighed and clicked he did not want to run away. The compulsion to polish this turd would never go away until it was done. Hell, the word processing program held his damn hand the whole time anyway.

Paul set the pen down and wondered what was worse, her not wanting him and trying to be polite about it or her just not knowing what she wanted because her mind changed so often. As he closed his notebook and slid it back under his bed he was thankful she could inspire him. Paul hopped out of his metal folding chair to close the door to his room. The lights went out with a short click and for Paul everything seemed to go quieter in an instant. Paul stared at his Sesame Street comforter on top of a decently made bed and felt boring. As he slid back under his warm covers he lamented internally over how rarely he got the inspiration that came from satisfaction and how frequently the inspiration born of confusion swirled through his mind.

“I don’t want a creative career fueled by feeling foolish.”

He said to no one as he stared at the ceiling. He thought to write down what he had said but shook it off deciding it wasn’t worth the effort. This feeling never left it seemed infinite; there was always tomorrow for those kinds of things. At least he had work tomorrow.

(((((((((

::2:21 AM::
As he sighed and pulled the shirt off his body his mind clarified; he wasn’t a bore to himself (most of the time) but he could understand how others could call him boring. As the springs of his mattress creaked Paul wondered how long it would take before he really fell asleep. Then he questioned about worrying over falling asleep making him less likely to fall asleep. As he turned his head just in time to watch the digital numbers flash a red ‘2:22’ thoughts shifted back to the deep black waters of skewed self examination. He hadn’t yet pulled the sheets over himself as he stared at the ceiling, counting his failures written in ink only he could see. Paul always had to remind himself that all he could do now was focus on the present and plan for the future. As he repeated the truism soundlessly he felt unready for the business of living. He smiled again as he pulled the familiar comforter and cozy grey sheets underneath it close to him. He smiled because in his heart he knew so many others had to re-affirm the old truism when they were alone in the dark. He felt less alone in misery and for now it felt like something.

But he was alone with himself. The monologue between his ears and behind his face no one could eavesdrop in and the same was true of everyone. As Paul turned his head to look at the still pen and closed notebook he wondered why he had such a desire for a closeness he could never achieve. As his gaze rolled around the room to a guitar case propped against the wall he wondered how he fell so hard for women who so didn’t give a fuck about him.

“I go for the wrong ones.”

The sound of his own voice was a slight surprise, in the 4 hours or so since he had last used it he had briefly believed it sounded better.

How did he go for the wrong ones? Was something destructive about his taste? Did he subconsciously seek challenge? What could he do to fix his eyes and heart? His heart that loved ice fishing for romance. His eyes transfixed on gypsies and witches.

(((((((((

::3:01 AM::
As Paul was strangled by kiddie insomnia he couldn’t think of anything he pretended to be. Anything except pretending to be happy. Paul was fine with it for now because he knew he was not alone. He wondered how many years would go by before all the nothing became too much. He wondered how people dealt with it on an individual basis, intoxicants not counting.

Paul studied the way the blinds cut shadows in the dim light with his head slightly turned and blank. He lay in bed shirtless with his outstretched arms palms up and slack. The shirtless in bed thing was a recent trend within in the last couple years. He stared at the urban zebra stripes with his body above the covers. He wondered how he could make such big deals out of such small things. He thought of going to work the next day. He successfully resisted the urge to look at the clock and count the hours.

(((((((((

::3:57 AM::
Paul lay in his bed under warm childhood covers and let his mind freely imagine. In everyday life his impulse to think of wild situations was always something to be leashed. Something that went places he did not want to go. A runaway imagination that eventually stopped at cruel reminders. Paul did not wish to be someone with his head in space. Paul did not want to be someone that planned into thin air only to horrify himself later at all the inactivity. This time he let a train of thought float off the tracks gracefully and quietly. As it sailed above unreal barns and polka dotted cows Paul imagined a big party to throw in a ballroom. He thought of regal neglected ballrooms deep downtown with cobwebs in the chandeliers. Paul wanted to dust off all of it and see the sparkle. Paul wanted to gather a team and put safety shit on and fiercely beautify. As the train passed withered cornfields below Paul thought of all the people that he hadn’t seen in too long. All the folks he hung out with separately he could bring together! Of course they’d stick around and get along. The rest would sit there with silent wasted faces as the disco ball glitter stirred the scene. The dance floor would have just enough people on it at a time and the no one’s drink would get knocked over because everyone would leave their drinks on a table like real people.

Paul smiled big in the dark as he train in his mind rubbed elbows with the tops of radio towers. He didn’t feel lonely because there was so much coming up. He didn’t feel doomed because every day there was a nice chance to naturally slide into the way of heaven. A big party where Paul plays the hits and no one’s shit gets stolen.

A merry good time. An impossibly great time. A comforting fantasy.

::END!-_-
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Old 02-17-2012, 01:43 PM   #10
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I rather enjoyed these.
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Old 02-19-2012, 12:44 AM   #11
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Café De Marquis
By
R. E. Bearlee

Café de Marquis. Fuck that sweet little small business a couple streets off of a main street in the downtown district. Fuck that place. Fuck that second ring suburb it resides in. It is because of that hellhole, that portal of Satan that life sucks right now for me. It is where I met her and where I met that weird bum. It is where I waste little bits of money consistently and even more time. It is where my hard drive crashed and why my clothes reek of cigarette smoke and brown beans. It is that stupid coffee shop that I wind up in when I don’t even plan on it. It’s that fucking-

Really it is not the café’s fault. It just attracts assholes or something. Must be the low low prices. Must be the good drinks and the nice relaxed atmosphere. There is something to look at everywhere and no one shoves you out of the way to get to the door. So really, actually the café is fine. It is a pretty good place. It is my favorite coffeehouse in the area. I really go there too often. A comfortable environment goes a long way. A clean, well-lit place goes a long way.

The café is where I go to get work done when I am not in a hurry. I’ve found it best to stroll through my assignments; giving my mind room to wander. It helps me come up with better ideas. At least I get more ideas to turn over and inspect mentally. I’m certain I am more effective with a long leash. In the café I let my eyes scan around the museum of a small business. When I spot a 19th century dageurotype of an extensively bearded man I feel free to leave my seat behind and examine it further. Here the clock doesn’t leer over me. Here idle minutes do not feel like wasted potential. Here I eavesdrop on the conversations of fellow patrons greedily, like I don’t wish to stop myself. Making sure not to turn and face the subjects. Making sure not to display outward reactions to outrageous, disgusting or hilarious anecdotes.

Heather. She is the reason. Like that stupid song on the radio. She was the reason why I thought I was ok. I would rationalize it in a “If I’ve got a girl like that I can’t be too big of an asshole” sort of way. She was an element on my life that I felt I had a grip on. Shit for a while she was the reason why I shaved. She never knew because I never told her. I never told her because I didn’t know either. I can’t worry about that now though.

I think of her at the oddest moments. While in the break room taking that tentative first sip of coffee, wondering again what Heather puts in hers that makes it so tasty. Tasty like a dessert. Earthy and sweet. Sweet like her.

“If he doesn’t have the decency to call you back after you call him then he isn’t worthy of your attention girl! Calling him a bunch, chasing him like he’s something special gives him the feeling that he’s the best you can do!”

“Two young professionals behind me last week. It seemed for women the relationship game was a power struggle. A contest of worthiness hidden behind planned smiles, little favors and reading a million little cues correctly. Secret character pop quizzes. Last week while listening to the two ladies I concluded for men the relationship came was about finding treasure. For me it was about holding on to my treasure in a foreign marketplace full of whispering pirates. For some of my friends it was a mission to feel her insides before she found out too much about the explorer. Of course she had to know something about the person to consider them worthy and that was the game. To be a marksman, aiming for the spot between knowing enough and knowing too much.

In the café I feel like a cup being filled. That is how I chatted so effortlessly with Heather about chakra alignment the first time we met. I didn’t know anything about chakras and I blamed it on growing up protestant. I was able to infer and mime knowledge based on the information she casually dropped and crap from tv. I wish I could on this ‘empty cup mode’ whenever I wanted. I wish I could turn myself off more often.
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Old 02-19-2012, 12:47 AM   #12
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<Café De Marquis PART 2>

At this café I am filled with my surroundings. If I sit in the right place long enough I smell like roasted beans on the elevator home. Here I can wonder why there isn’t a coffee bean cologne and not feel childish.

“I’m telling you I loved Laura man! It just felt like…it just felt like deep down she didn’t love me ya dig? I know she was really busy and yeah she said she did…”

Two guys in front of me yesterday. One asian guy with the back of his bowling shirt to me. He was wearing wearing cargo pants and bowling shoes. A black guy sitting across from him looked young in his t-shirt with cartoon skulls on it. He was the one talking, looking at his friend squarely while gripping a multicolored mug still on the table. The man of Philippine descent is tapping his funny shoed foot with his arms crossed under the table. The black guy gestures passively with his free hand.

“Sometimes it didn’t feel real. Sometimes it felt like the love of a past life…so many times! Curled up next to her in bed…ah. When we held hands in the dark…oh. Our personalities were in step it was eerie. Most of the time though…more often than not it felt like she was playing a role…concerned girlfriend ya know? Like her heart wasn’t in it half the time….Like I was just filling a spot. But damn it she was just busy!! Nothing excuses what I did.”

“Fuck no it doesn’t! I’ve figured you all out! You see a problem in your relationship that seems deeply rooted. You ignore or explain away this problem until it becomes too big to ignore. Then once that happens you take it as a sign the love affair was doomed!” The bowling shirted man gestured angrily with both hands and I wished I could have seen his face. The black guy frowned and listened with crossed arms.

“Now with the self indulgent knowledge that things weren’t going to work out in the end anyway you promptly shoot your relationship in the head! You kill it by cheating. Then you use the mop of fate to clean it all up. Of course you can say it was bound it end while you are ending it! Of course you can say “I couldn’t see a future with so-and-so” after you stop caring about how you make them feel. You make me sick! Laura was great! You are a loser!”

The bowling shirted one must have smiled because the skull shirted one whimpered some sad ‘yeah you are right about this one’ chuckle of agreement. Then he dropped all pretenses; staring at a plank in the floor with a faraway face while his friend leaned back in his chair.

“But there is hope-”

I’d finished my tea by then and had enough scribbles in my notebook to tell myself that I had worked without any inward objections. I got up to leave. I tucked my chair in behind me and gathered up crumbled napkins. I didn’t want to think about whom I’ve made cry and signs of doomed love affairs. I was clutching my treasure chest with both arms.

============================================

I remember the day I met him. It was a cold spring day; the wind had more bark than bite and the clouds just wanted to pout in the grey sky. When I woke up that day I could hear the wind through the windows as I stared at the ceiling. I was going to Café de Marquis of course, I had a few minutes to kill and a few bucks to toss away on some overpriced chai tea. I always felt better after tea and after breaking up. I was going to do both that day.

“Such a good day isn’t it?” The bum was looking directly at me as I passed by him on the narrow walkway so I couldn’t ignore him. I held my gaze on him, his navy slacks and yellow collared shirt that used to be white. The tan trenchcoat he was wearing wasn’t just damp from the rain it was dirty. His duds looked like they used to be new and nice. Of course everything used to be new and nice once. His thick handlebar moustache covered his top lip but his bottom was full and moist. His gaze was curious and I’m not one to judge a guy too harshly. Especially a guy I’m only going to interact with for a moment. I decided to humor him for a few minutes.

“Yes. The wind isn’t bad at all.” Change from my pocket clinked into his bucket.

“How are you doing? You look like you’re about to make some…changes in your life.” He had this shit eating grin on his face that made me uneasy. After thinking about it a moment longer I generalized that the guy was sauced. His hair was short and not too messed up under his baseball cap. The black cap he was wearing bore the symbol of the San Jose Sharks. Under that grey sky I was beginning to feel really out of place. I played it safe. I faked it.

“I’m fine, and yes I am. The world is always changing and you have to change with the times just to make it.” I’m so good at small talk. What I said is so shallow it is not meaningful. It isn’t like the average person listens much during small talk anyway. Small talk is a game to impress, wow, confuse and dazzle. I enjoy my turns at it.
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Old 02-19-2012, 12:50 AM   #13
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<Café De Marquis PART 3>

“True. But some things need to be preserved.” The bum was good at small talk too. Circles of bullshit; we both have the soundtrack.

“Here hold this.” The bum handed me a worn metal flask while he tended to his black briefcase of artifacts. I never noticed the briefcase until he pulled it out. It must have been behind him. The flask felt very dirty right then as I inspected the drag marks and tiny dents. Right then I also knew I thought this way because I assumed he was dirty. He didn’t smell, and he seemed nice enough. But the flask felt very foreign; I had to fight an urge to drop it and jump away as if it were a hot coal. To shout “No thanks see ya old man” and dash off towards the general direction of my meeting. But of course I was still holding it. I couldn’t just drop it like that…he asked me to hold it for him. It was on the sidewalk of a downtown bustling with on the go citizens. I wasn’t trying to be a disturbance.

“Don’t let her go.”

“Oh I won’t.” I wondered what he kept in the flask. He looked like a vodka man to me, but I didn’t feel comfortable enough to ask or check.

We stood there for a few moments in silence, me holding the flask of a complete stranger while car tires strode through puddles still in the street. It looked like it was going to rain again, but it always looks like there’s about to be rain here.

“Don’t let her go.”

“Here you can just take it back.” He seemed done fumbling through his belongings so I gave him back his flask of fire water. He took it from my hand slowly and it disappeared quickly beneath a layer of a navy blue vest. The bum then just stood there, staring out at the sky as if it were the only thing worth watching. He wasn’t moving so I just stared at him. I felt like he was done with me. I wanted to grab my change back, but I didn’t. How much did I give him again?

“Have a good day.”

“Thank you. You too.”

The guy said nothing more, so I gave him a passive wave goodbye and headed to Heather’s apartment.

============================================

“This isn’t going to work for me.” Her voice was flat, the flattest I’ve ever heard it. I remember picturing her rehearsing that line before I got here, gathering up the nerve as she paced in front of the huge mirror she has. She probably had a shot of cappuccino; she always used it to loosen up. Not that Heather was an uptight person. Not that Heather had issues speaking what she felt. She could speak her mind effectively; one just had to wade through pleasantries. Most of the time she was subdued, scanning a crowded room while the spotlight was one someone else. Listening to the conversation and commenting mentally but not being a part of it in reality. I’ve always had to fight the urge of the spotlight. The ‘gift of gab’, I could turn it on and off like a switch. Most of the time I just left it on. I had no problem running in circles as long as there were people to watch and approve.

“What?” I just wanted to make it harder for her. I wanted to see her pause, look down and hear the slight panic in her voice. Old timey jazz was in the background on her stereo. I turned away from her to look around awkwardly; all of her books were either in the bookcase or stacked on top of something above her head. While she sighed and inhaled I noticed she had barely eaten her chinese food on the table. She had been nervous for a while.

“This relationship is not going to work for me Gary.” Her voice was still strong and composed and it hit me then, the sense of rejection. The sense of loss. The severing of a knot. It started at the center of my very being and just floated outward, a wave of tingles that inched through every corner. I’m sure my mouth hung open. I’m sure I looked dumbfounded. I’m sure I just stood there with a blank face. After all, I came to break up with her. I had my speech planned. I was going to drop the bomb (we’re too different/we have different goals/we’re heading in different directions), mention something about being friends and make my exit. My plans washed away. I was being broken up with to Benny Goodman. There was no relief.

“I never felt like you gave a damn about me or about us. And…I’m tired of trying to make you care. I shouldn’t have to persuade you to care about me you know? I shouldn’t have to convince you.” She looked directly at me with her head to the side slightly.

“You know I care about you. You’re my sugarplum…my honeybee. You know I’ve been at work and shit listen we can work through it. You know I care about you!” Running off at the mouth again, me in my nice slacks and collared black shirt. I came to break up with her….that is the part I still don’t get.

“Sometimes. Sometimes I’m sure I’m only there because I want to be and you don’t care either way. The inconsistency leads me to believe that what we had wasn’t real. It it was real then it was unhealthy. I can do better than that.”
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Old 02-19-2012, 12:52 AM   #14
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<Café De Marquis PART 4>

Her eyes were pleading with me not to contest, not to beg and not to struggle. I wasn’t near that gigantic mirror but I bet my eyes were wide. My fists were balled for sure, struggling not to bullshit her just to keep her around. I thought about things…for a moment. I decided to shut up. I let her let me have it. She started slow, listing a few instances of my bad behavior. From backing out of dinner plans to being a little too friendly with the waitress. She hollered about how I would shut down when my core values were challenged. I just wanted to talk about that shit after sex. I would have loved to talk about that shit all night after. But of course not talking about that kind of stuff makes her not want you. Cycles man….hindsight is a bitch.

“I know.” We were not improving. How I loathe being put on the spot.

“Is there someone else?” I blurted it out, I said it without looking at her and in a voice so flat I wondered if it really belonged to me.

“Do you want the gifts back?” All I could manage was talk of possessions.

“You can keep them. And I’m keeping yours.”

By this point my hands were deep in my pockets and I was looking at her old, tan carpet. My body felt cold and foreign, a suitcase for my soul…all that mortal coil stuff we heard someone read in high school English. Pretty bad shape for someone who intended on demonstrating his control over the elements in his life. Being the one who hurt instead of getting hurt; the one who made the clean breaks every time. She eventually kept talking but by they I was far away; inspecting my suitcase for damages. It doesn’t really matter what she said after anyway. She did what she needed to do…mission accomplished.

I couldn’t stop the tingles jumping through my body, I couldn’t stop the sinking feeling coming in waves. I didn’t know what they meant so I ended up just feeling generally uncomfortable. Which made my feet do that stupid shuffle thing. Which made my eyes look for something to look at besides her face. Which made the words stay behind my teeth and my hands in my pockets.

I eventually crawled away from her apartment, she watched me leave from her window and felt satisfied. She had told the truth, just like the man on the bench told her to.

I walked home in the rain and the bum didn’t say anything to me as I passed him by.

============================================

Here we are…sitting in this same damn café but this time we are ignoring each other. This time the hodge-podge of styles in the café don’t feel comfortable and warm, but tacky and not oddly glitzy. I’m just projecting my own feeling on the café again. This time I caught myself doing it. This time there is a wall that isn’t coming down. It is over. What we had is over and I feel like it didn’t even matter to her at all. She got her clean break and I am just torn and frayed. This tea is terrible and I regret paying for it. I regret even coming here. I wasn’t even thirsty. Just my luck I happen to run into the person I want to see the least in my favorite place.

She sits with her back to me, reading a book with a half empty blue smoothie resting on the table. Her fresh pack of cigarettes lay beside it. Heather always liked this place because she could smoke here. I’m sure there are other reasons but that is the main one. I wonder did she even see me when came in, did she even look up. I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t.

It is probably for the best. She is better off without me. I was distant and fake to her. I’m distant and fake to everyone. It was how I played the game. I just did poorly this quarter. After a time out I’ll be fine. I look up from the paper just in time to watch as my ex girlfriend gets up to leave, taking slow but sure steps out of Café de Marquis.

‘Don’t let her go’
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Old 02-19-2012, 12:56 AM   #15
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<Café De Marquis PART 5>

The words spring to the forefront of my mind, in the bum’s voice but nothing else. Why am I thinking about that creepy bum right now? Heather’s walking away. She’s leaving me and the café. She’s finishing her clean break. I threw it away. I dropped the ball.

‘Don’t let her go’

The line echoes again in my mind. I realize that it can’t end like this. I realize that I’ll go nuts if I don’t do something. Before I know it I’m out of my chair and following her, my steps are little and cautious. I’m scared. For the first time in a while I am just scared without trying to hide it. The tingling feeling starts to fan out again. I’m sure I look disturbed.

I follow he rout. I amble out into the street like a cautious deer approaching the highway; my head darting around for the dangers of reality. The street isn’t crowded but I can’t find her. I must have waited too long to follow her out. I wasn’t fast enough; on the score and on my feet. She’s been gone.

The weather is hopeful and eager, light blue skies with many thin trails of perfect white. She couldn’t have gone far. I just want to tell her I’m sorry.

My eye catches a flash of black and white polka dots that is quickly swallowed up by the strolling, shuffling, trotting crowd. A second later I see her legs in black stockings. I am no longer a cautious deer. I will be the recent past you run into on your day off. My pace quickens as I zip up my jacket. Once I’ve crossed the street I still don’t put my hands in my pockets.

She has not looked behind her once. Such a progressive lady. One foot in front of the other I get closer to her. A majority of people walking the street have such annoyed expressions. So many look distantly irked and so many seem hidden inside themselves with a default face of slight discomfort. The ones laughing and smiling, while walking hand in hand or punching each other on the arm suggest to me that I’m missing something.

My fists are clenched as the thought of calling out to her breezes past. No it would be obnoxious. If I just get in close enough I can deliver a polite tap on the shoulder. She stops and throws her arms up, her smile bright. We’re still a distance away as a tall man in a grey suit embraces her. I see at least 4 rings total on both hands. He looks Italian or something with his dark hair and olive skin like slow baked cream. The guy looks not poor due to the jewelry, buffed hair and clothes that fit like they were new and in line with his exact measurements. He looks strong and secure. They stay held in each other longer than friends do. After they hug they are still holding hands. The two of them facing each other, paused on the sidewalk to ask about one another. People glide past them as if it is no big deal. I make a sharp left, repeatedly painted brick walls of a dry cleaner assisting a successful retreat. The rock in my stomach is back. The sinking feeling has returned.

Before I know it my hands are fumbling with loose change and gum wrappers in my pockets as I progressively jog to my parked car. The sky is still optimistic.

Once inside my seasoned sedan I’m oddly still, inhaling a quick breath of air and holding it. I want to hold it until my chest goes into a controlled burn. I needed to see that. I have to reach out but only grasp empty air. It is the only way I’ll learn sometimes. I don’t think I’ll visit the café for a while. I need to train myself to go to the supermarket more anyway.

=====END-_-
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Old 02-19-2012, 01:18 AM   #16
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Question Table of Contents?

Thanks Caligula for enjoying them! If I write more bland yarns I'll post them here. I should have provided some backstory on the stories before I posted them...aw shucks.
  • She Asked: "Why Bother?"(2011):::A lady goes out on a date. I tried to be comedic.
    Fluffy words from a pal:"'She asked: "Why Bother?"' follows youth down a sidewalk, and around the confusing sidestreets that lead us to one another."
  • The Secret Side(2009):::A guy named Paul has some fun on his day off with a girl he likes...gets some comics and gets yelled at by his mom. Not in that order.
    Fluffy words from a pal:
    "'The Secret Side' is plundering why with our friend Paul he enjoys a romp among figures in mint condition, pages worn and remembered, and a dame most superficial."
  • Café De Marquis(2006):::An asshole gets dumped and beats himself up about it. He kinda tries to get his girl back, pussies out and ends up more hurt. Cool.
    Fluffy words from a pal: "'Café De Marquis' reads the same as hearing an old song for the first time; it feels alien in some respects but you still find parts relatable."
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Old 06-09-2012, 11:16 PM   #17
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Question New one

I just wrote this one for a short story competition. The limit was 1500 words.
--------------------------------
Stomp by R.E. Bearlee

The night air felt cool and fresh as I stomped the cracked cement. When I’m out in the street my eyes are scanning. I can see the problems clear in front of me. The rusted out city is my home and the vacant space still looked like opportunity. I had my leather jacket I’ve built into something that perpetuates the symbols of my subculture. I lot of people don’t like it. I heard a kid whisper ‘Swastika Man’ once. Like he knew me. Yeah I’m in the same places. Its my domain, my turf ya know? As I walked alone I thought about some people I knew. People obsessed with getting out, moving to some burg where the sun always shines and they make tons of money. Someplace where the right kind of people are and the life they’re meant to live is just waiting for them. Either they want to go to New York, California or Hawaii. They disgust me those folks. I know there’s no escape. I hate illusions. I gotta destroy all of them.

With my way of dressing I looked different. Got stares, no one really started anything though. A few ‘fuck you man’s…whatever. Life of a true skinhead right? Proclaiming one’s beliefs and all that….having pride in your people.

I was walking and I saw this guy. Beard, old grey suit with a ‘Repent Sinners’ sign held high. I felt blessed by the night. I had to check it out. He had a nice corner spot, where burnouts usually strum acoustics or lackeys just stand around starting at screens held up to their faces. I walked over there and he looked me up and down. He took in the boots with the red laces and beat up jeans. He’s looking at my red suspenders over a plain white shirt. He saw the jacket through those beady black eyes of his.

“So you’re the authority huh?” We were a few feet away from each other. His face was tight and expectant. His jaw was strong underneath a neat salt and pepper beard. His nose was wide and his lips full. Couldn’t figure out what race the old guy was, his short grey curlies were covered with a bowler hat.

“I’m not the authority, the holy book is. Are you interested in saving your soul skinhead? Yeah I know what you claim to be. I wasn’t born yesterday.” His voice was low and full, you could tell he was trying to be nice.

“What I claim to be?” I was getting ticked but I was all sugar on the outside, grins and upbeat voices. I needed more ammunition.

“What do you claim to be? Sent from heaven to clean up? Made to be a hero to the scum?” We were downtown wedged between bars and restaurants, clothing stores and properties for rent. The sidewalk was well lit and busy. People just moved around us. The man’s brow wrinkled as he calmly set his sign down next to a bench a few feet away.

“I am a servant of the Lord. I do His work out of a personal obligation. There is room for you too in the kingdom of God if you submit and obey.” It was the way he said it that made me mad. He had this smug smile when he talked, like he knew all about me and was sure I was doomed. Offering me salvation as some kind of favor to pay forward.

“That shit isn’t real. I can’t obey someone that was never existed.” My voice had gotten low and flat. Only then did I notice the few people standing around watching. Pathetic spectators.

“You obey Lucifer…but you don’t think he exists?”

“No one commands me old man! I think I’d know if the devil was whispering into my ear. Don’t you want to drop the illusions!?” I was shouting and waving my hands around. There was no breeze and the summer night was still fresh.

“Like your delusion of belonging?” The preacher pointed to the ‘SS’ patch on the breast of my jacket.

“The war ended a long time ago and your team lost. Are you even German at all?”

“The purity of the white race will always need protection. Of course you wouldn’t understand. I don’t know what you are but you ain’t white, not white enough to count at least.” The man burst into laughter. I balled my fists and quickly looked around to see if any cops were around.

“I told you. I am a servant of the Lord. I don’t need useless symbols or poisonous ideology to belong. We all have a part in His plan, so belonging is natural.”

“I never agreed to anybody’s fucking plan!” I’ll admit officer…that’s when I lost it. He was just so sure about that shit. I felt that guys like him were part of the problem ya know? So I lost it, I shoved the guy to the ground. A couple people in the crowd gasped or yelped or something I wasn’t paying attention. My eyes were on the preacher in the grey suit, getting back up way too fast for an old man. He was back on his feet in a flash and he lunged toward me. I got a look at his face and it was calm. It was a quick look. I didn’t see him pull his fist back to throw the punch. I just saw his grey sleeve coming at me and then the right hook hit. I woulda fell over if it wasn’t for the trashcan. It was the kind of punch that makes you crazy. Fuels the frenzy and really kicks off the fight. Not the kind of punch that makes you come to your senses and say sorry. I was leaning against the trashcan feeling the burn in my cheek and jaw and coming alive.

“Someone has to punish the wicked.” He stated flatly as I eased off the can and cracked my knuckles. His face was still so sure. I had to knock his smug teeth out. I came at him and swung hard but he dipped to the side and slapped the back of my head. I turned around and nailed him in the stomach but before I could hit him again he decked me in the mouth. My teeth clicked and for some reason my tongue started hurting. I reached out to grab him but he was too fast, out of range with a skip. I looked around and the group of spectators had gotten bigger. Teenagers had their phones out taking video. I heard loud whispers but as usual no one did anything. We just stood there for a bit and I looked him up and down. He didn’t look mad or sad or anything! A blank face like he was washing dishes or folding clothes or something. I heard a high pitched voice in the crowd holler something about the police so I rushed him again. I tried some UFC grapple shit but it didn’t work. A punch to the nose and an elbow in the back got me knocked to the ground face on the cement.

I jumped back up but I was still dizzy. I couldn’t avoid another right hook. I was knocked on my back and I remember hearing laughter. Spots and sparkles in my vision. Then nothing. When I woke up he was gone and so was the crowd. And you were standing over me. I know its stupid but that’s what happened officer.
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Old 10-30-2012, 11:54 PM   #18
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I attempted a SCARRRRRYYYY story for Halloween. Hope you are entertained by it. It is really scary. BOOOOOOOOOOOO

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Washed Up
By R. E. Bearlee

We’re sitting here talking and knocking em back..having a good time right? You’re a cool guy so I gotta ask you something. You believe in ghosts?

Yeah yeah the band. It was fun while it lasted, but everyone’s been so busy lately with the economy and all. Our drummer had some identity crisis when he turned 25, felt like a loser or something. He says he wants to learn a trade, get sleep at nights and grow up. The bass man..guy’s just too fucked up all the time. The singer? Too busy with his girl, job and dj gig these days. Stop asking about the Azaleas…I know other musicians you know. I got other stuff going on like you do.

The playing…not the scene is what got me going. I didn’t care much for making friends with the other bands but I wasn’t an asshole to them when we talked. Everyone’s so jealous of each other in these so called tightly knit communities. Its all just regular rock n roll anyway. But I’m not immune. Playing in dingy dive bars to handfuls of people ya know some are happy just to play while others are wondering when the record deal is coming in the mail. I was just happy to play. It can get annoying when people around you are so unsatisfied though.

I can’t get hung up on asking why the industry is how it is, or why no one’s paying attention. Those are excuses, because if you really want something you grind yourself to dust to get it. What really gets me wondering is what gets people to stop chasing their dreams. Besides marriage and kids and illness and big stuff like that. That’s some of the stuff I think about as I walking or taking a shit. What do they replace that burning desire with? All that time spent chasing it? You keep distracting me man..I’m asking you do you believe in ghosts?

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Just hear me out. It was a stupid rainy day when I walked into the pawn shop, bored on a date in the middle of the day. Lucy and I had eaten and played in the park. The only thing left was to walk around the little stores. Lucy Gigan? Yeah you know her, you’re friends with Paul right? She’s got that red hair, green eyes, and is all grunge. Beautiful girl and what a mouth right? We’re not together no. She fucked Paul sometime last year but we’re not like that. I know man, I would if I could.

‘Don’t buy anything stupid’ I remember noting to myself as I held the door open and Lucy skipped through it. Her personality…Bubbling yet sinister. The pawn shop looked decent enough walking in, brown 80s carpet, everything organized in sections and well lit. Two huge guys at the counter, one on a computer and the other yelling at somebody on the phone in a language I couldn’t understand. They had a lot of stuff. Lucy turned and went to the cds and dvds and I drifted pass the chainsaws into the musical instruments part.

When I first saw that peculiar Fender Telecaster I dared not look at it too long. I didn’t want such a pricy spell cast on me. Yeah sure $600 may not be a lot to you..but to me now and then that’s a chunk of change to think over before throwing away. The black telecaster with the mirror pickguard and maple neck…I found myself walking toward it, leaving Lucy staring at the back cover of ‘What Dreams May Come’, that serious Robin Williams movie with Cuba Gooding Jr in it. It was some heavy stuff. My 8th grade class saw it on a field trip at the dollar theatre. The guitar looked like a dream. Once I picked it off the rack I did not look at the price tag hanging off the neck. Reality could wait.

I had to be smiling as I looked for nicks and gouges in the neck, fretboard and body. Memories came to me like the joys of playing ‘music’ in my friends’ garages and basements all those years ago. Lusting over high end shit like what I was holding in my hands. The more recent times playing to bored smatterings of Midwestern crowds that came to see some different band.

The guitar felt cold but sturdy. The strings were shot but I could tell the guitar was alright. It felt like it was up to me. It felt like this guitar would sit here forever if I didn’t buy it.

“Nice guitar. Don’t they have a more twangy sound? Are you trying to go country?” Lucy came outta nowhere, maybe I was too busy drooling to notice.

“You trying to say I ain’t country?” I looked at her all smug like and she laughed. Real genuine laughter.

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Of course I blew my money on that guitar. Playing it felt good. I stood there in the store shredding for a good ten minutes. The guy on the phone had to go yell outside. Lucy asked what stuff I was playing and when I told her I made it up she did this “really???” that made me feel cool. Owning it felt right. The rest of the date went alright. On the way home I bought another stand just for it. But it was always icy cold whenever I would pick it up. And then there were the dreams.

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The night was a regular one. I didn’t do anything special before before bed. Just messed around on the computer, practiced a little then hopped under the covers. Don’t remember being awake much after I got under the covers.

The dream though! It faded in like a movie. A night scene…in the city. I was in a club and everything seemed to move faster than I did. The club was low lit and dark bodies were shaking and moving. The pool tables had balls that whirled around and players that orbited around it. I couldn’t hear much, just constant low conversation and laughter. It did not fit. When I moved it was faster than normal too. The people were having a good time. The walls pulsed and glass bottled rattled on the counters to a tune I couldn’t hear. When I looked toward the stage I saw a band playing. They were all black guys with matching dark blue suits. I’m sorry African American males. A bass player, a drummer, a guy at the piano and a man in front playing a guitar and howling..an open mouth and gyrating body on fast forward. He was tall and had lighter skin and short permed hair that looked like a silky black wave on top of his head..clean shaven except for a thin mustache. He was playing a guitar like the one I just bought. It reflected from the spotlight and seemed to glisten as the man in the front slinked around the stage, hands flying with the rest of the band. The whole thing being so sped up felt so strange. Curvy fine ladies with giant hair and print dresses. No baggy pants in sight, the bartender serving drinks in a blur. A different time, and a slight feeling like I was out of place. I couldn’t hear any music just the low drone of laughter. Then one low voice stuck out clearly from behind me.

“Hey man can you help me out?”

In a flash I was facing him. I turned around to see the same guy that was playing the guitar on stage. I looked toward the stage and could only see darkness. I looked around and the club was gone, the people gone everything. But the low drone of voices kept going. The guy was the same caramel skinned guitarist but he looked different. His face was haggard and dark circles lined his brown eyes. He was staring intensely into my face, not anger but in confusion I think.

“My manager…he owes me. I’m Tyrone Jefferson.” He mumbled as the background noise began to grow louder and louder.

“I gotta pay back Dice real soon.” It felt like static then…fuzzy like I was getting farther away.

“Don’t you know me man?!” As it all got dim I heard him shout through the fog. Then I woke up a few seconds before my alarm clock went off. I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face. I was paler…more pale than usual. But everything was in place…after staring at all those black faces in my dream my own white face…with blue eyes and straight black hair was refreshing. Was I a black person in the dream? By the time I’d left I’d forgotten that guy’s name. Dreams are like that right? As soon as you get going in the real world you forget they ever happened.

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I got on the computer and updated my facebook status. In it I wrote: “I think my guitar is haunted?” I got 4 likes by the end of the night and that smug fucker Larry told me to pour holy water on it. Why would I pour water on electronics. My mom said “don’t be ridiculous honey’” as I ate a sandwich and Dad suggested I eat healthier as I left for the bar to hang out with my crumb bums and watch the game. My sister called me a baby and cackled something about a nightlight to her friend on the phone. Did I ever become an adult or was that a ridiculous junk food dream too?

I wonder what it was like in the old days…back when the live stuff was really in demand. When I imagine making a living off playing gigs I get pissed off. My reality is so far from that. But hey…we all have to update our skills for the 21st century yadda yadda you know. Secretaries had to learn to use Microsoft Excel, teachers have to quit whining about electronic textbooks and musicians have to adapt too. I gotta quit whining, at least I’m not dead like Tyrone, still wondering about some long lost check. Wait so do I believe it now? I never decided.

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Old 10-30-2012, 11:57 PM   #19
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Lightbulb 2

[[[[[[[WASHED UP PART 2]]]]]]]

Staring at the ceiling…I found myself doing that more. Your own room is different when you’re just laying there. I could see the band posters, the section of cut out Hustler pinups and the stack of books in the on top of the Tupperware bin. I didn’t feel like myself, but that guitar looked good on the stand in my room surrounded by all my shit. I looked at it and felt clever. Shrewd is the word. Harold Oneida the Shrewd. I don’t need to be rich. I need oxygen. I don’t want to be famous. I just want to make enough money to have my own apartment and not be roasting rats in it cause I’m so broke. Is that so hard? You know we’re sitting here drinking beers talking…is that so hard? Yeah I’m whining. Let met get back to what I was talking about.

As usual more freaky dreams came next. This one faded into a night scene. The orange streetlights glowed in fuzzy circles in a neat line for two rows. I was in downtown Detroit I know it…at the Belle Isle bridge. The 4 lanes were empty and everything seemed to be in a fog. A bridge with rolling water glistening beneath me that I was only catching flickers of in the darkness. In front of me was a man in a dark suit. He slowly turned around and looked at the city behind him. It was that Tyrone guy…I was right behind him and he was acting like he couldn’t see me. I saw him pull out a pint bottle from his jacket and take a long swig. Then he turned around and walked to the ledge. He stood up on the stone banister…just standing there.

“The rest is hard to remember.” A gruff voice said to my right. I turned to face the voice and it belonged to a man in a dripping wet dark suit. He was looking directly at me with glazed half open eyes. He could see me…and I could see the water droplets pooling on the concrete where he stood…in this dream of another time. With cold clammy skin and sunken eyes it was the same Tyrone Jefferson I saw in the other dream…the one I read about. I don’t remember what I said but I know what I said was ignored.

“I have a hit now, so I can pay back Dice. Where is Hiram Murphy?!!?” His voice sounded like a low rumble. Tyrone grabbed me by the shoulders with both hands. He held me a few feet away from him and he just stared into my eyes. His hands were so cold and wet I could feel the water getting through my clothes. My dream clothes right?

“Tell Hiram Murphy to keep his end of the deal!”

The waterlogged bluesman screamed, in a voice that sounded loud and flat. His grip was tight on my shoulders. His dark brown eyes still locked onto mine. Water dripping off his strong jaw and dark sleeves. The fog then starting creeping around us. The night grew darker..I could see the streetlights getting dimmer.

“How do I get out of here?! Tell me!” The cold overwhelmed me and I went numb. I snapped awake to find myself on the floor of my bedroom, wrapped in damp sheets. I fumbled around for a scrap of paper and pen and then after failing turned on a light. I wrote down Hiram Murphy then made a sandwich in the middle of the night. Then watched an infomercial glamorizing the disco period in a 3 disc set. Didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

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The next day I got on craigslist and put in a ad. I was full of cereal but still drowsy from the lack of sleep I just put the basic details of the guitar in the ad. Getting the ad right was really important, had to have the different angles for pictures and a shot of the serial number. In my room playing merchant it felt right, realistic. If I get rid of the guitar and the dreams go away then I’d leave it at that.

Reality hits hard. The pop culture primes us to crave fame and fortune. People don’t even know what they want to be famous for, they just know they want to be famous. Its bullshit right?

Lucy said I ought to have the guitar purified. The evil spirits cleansed from the thing. I couldn’t find any witch doctors in the area.

Tyrone Jefferson’s wikipedia page was spotty. It said he was born in Detroit and played guitar in a jazz group called The Filters which had a few small singles like ‘Baby Don’t Believe Them’ and ‘Thinking About That Lady’. After that Tyrone cut a few solo singles and had a tiny hit called ‘Stop Lying To Me’ and started a tour. Then I got to the part that said:

‘Plauged by substance abuse and gambling issues, Jefferson owed substantial amounts to elements of the city’s criminal underworld. After a performance at O’Den’s on Nov 19, 1974 Jefferson abruptly left the venue and was never seen alive again. His body was recovered from the Detroit River on December 2. The death was ruled an alcohol related accident. Tyrone Lee Jefferson never married and had no known relatives. He was 36 years old.”

You never know who is writing those things. I closed the window, turned off the computer and went outside for a cigarette. After the cigarette I left to go bum around a little before work. I got two replies when I got home. One wanted to pay much lower than I wanted to sell it for and the other guy just said he wanted it and asked when we could meet. Harold Oneida the Shrewd.

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The guy seemed legit enough. He agreed on the price which was the same price I got for it. A little lower than the average going price. His name was Vince and he was either old or nerdy…you know from the way he typed.

I met him in a crappy stripmall, still toughing it out despite the lack of a giant anchor store. The asphalt was cracked and the yellow lines were spotty. It looked like it was about to rain. The rain still gathering in the clouds or something.

I met him halfway, he lived 23 miles northeast of me. I found myself in a part of town I rarely went to. Not just because there was nothing there. I was driving through the 2nd ring suburb..crumbling and boarded up just like half the stuff in this county. No buyers because they can’t get a loan says the news. I did spot a few sports bars that may tolerate live music sometime. A Fuddrucker’s…maybe we could rock the burger joint. Probably not.

The guy was old. Like in his 50s with a potbelly and long grey hair that was thining on top in defiance. He seemed bummed out or something. When he first got out of the car to say ‘hi’ he wasn’t smiling at all his face was leaning toward a frown. Then he saw the guitar as I took it out of my backseat. His eyes lit up behind those specs and he let out a little gasp as I placed it in his hands. I anxiously handed the cursed thing to him for inspection, standing there in that empty ass parking lot. Looking back it was perfect. He wouldn’t notice how cold the thing was!

“I put new strings on it…everything works and stuff.”

He looked down at it and I was tense man…stiff as a statue. I could see the slate sky and the shadows of our heads reflected in the mirror pickguard. I remember looking around as the guy started nodding and reaching for his car door.

“This is a nice tele. Wow…your uncle’s guitar?” He was old and weird too.

“I got it at a pawn shop. Only had it a couple weeks.” The words came out too slowly. He got an envelope out of his door and handed it to me. He seemed confused that I would sell it. I could tell as he looked at me, then looked back at the guitar. Weirdo.

“I don’t like the twang! I got bills!” Shrugged as I yelled a little too loudly.

“Well thanks. You in a band? Cause me and my buddies have been messing around and we’re trying to-”

“No I’m not. If there are any problems email me.” I took off for my car and jumped in. I yelled “have a good day” while starting the engine. Yes my windows were down. I just couldn’t that time. When I pulled away I could still see that guy drooling over the black telecaster in my rearview. Freak. Oh well, not my problem. No one wants to be a loser. But limitations are good to know about. You gotta know the score now in order to plan the right moves later. I gotta learn a trade or something. You gotta feel like what you’re doing is going somewhere, whatever that means.

!!!!!!!!!!!END-_-¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡
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Old 10-31-2012, 05:53 AM   #20
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"Washed Up" was pretty good. I rather enjoyed that one
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Old 11-17-2012, 11:26 PM   #21
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Thank you BB! I hope more people comment like you did I'd really love to hear it!

Now if you'll excuse me I've gotta bump my thread over all this BULLSH*T spambot BULLSH*T

Is there some rule against cursing?
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Old 12-16-2012, 10:15 PM   #22
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https://soundcloud.com/fisty5000
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Old 04-24-2013, 10:29 PM   #23
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Out of all the threads why'd you pick mine spambot?
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Old 12-19-2013, 08:35 PM   #24
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I've put my stories on a blog now. There are a couple newer ones I didn't post in this thread.


http://rebearlee.wordpress.com/
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