October 29, 2008

Ooh, Too Raved, Page 207.

I tried to ignore Hattie's conversation with Charmagne as we continued along our route -- first to the park, then the mall, then another mall -- but the pathology of her injury was too fascinating: the way the rot was systematically moving through her vocabulary, infecting words, leaving them shapeless lumps. Her mother was a thing. The bus stop was a thing. The world was a thing. I was a thing.

Posted by dean at 12:51 AM

October 26, 2008

. . .

Posted by dean at 05:52 AM

October 20, 2008

Thread-Dropping With Mr. Puckerie.

'When I was a young man, I had aspirations to become a Professor and teach Poetry 101 at an all-girls college. To me, it seemed to be the coolest job in the world; that, or being the guy who wore "the suit" in a Godzilla movie.'

Posted by dean at 07:26 PM

October 19, 2008

She Was Having An Affair In A Nylon Camping Tent.

I sat with him.

We ate a junkyard picnic as he tossed a surprise-bomb into my lap.

'I've had a baby,' he said.

'I named him after you,' he said, lighting the fuse.

He said the tent wasn't warm.

It was holed out by a bullet in the flap.

All I saw was the explosion.

Posted by dean at 06:05 AM

October 15, 2008

. . .

Posted by dean at 02:37 AM

October 10, 2008

Ooh, Too Raved, Page 80.

McCrae let something flap out of his hands. It rushed at me, beating its wings against my chest and neck. I grabbed it, and saw that it was a baby loon. How McCrae had managed to catch the bird, I don't know. Attached to its leg was a luggage tag, one of the slips we tied to the cadets' duffels when we shipped them in or out. Cunt, it read in McCrae's lefty handwriting.

Posted by dean at 01:52 AM

October 08, 2008

Thread-Dropping With Dr. Video Games 0081.

'World history was always more interesting than U.S. history in middle-school and high-school cuz I'd exoticize the fuck out of the countries I was reading about and imagine living there, I was a lil' history book imperialist.'

Posted by dean at 01:49 AM

October 05, 2008

All I Have Is One Way Left To Talk To You, And I Don't Know If That's A Good Idea For Either Of Us.

My legs are bent and sore.

The briefcase is open now, spilling out its guts off the building.

A white rain of reports and W-2s.

I need you to listen.

Just listen.

Posted by dean at 04:41 AM

October 02, 2008

Ooh, Too Raved, Page 75 + 76.

It's funny how a hit like that can be all it takes to knock you off course. Hardly more than a tap or nudge, and suddenly you find that you've become someone entirely new, some dark version of yourself you never thought possible. One minute you're a boy with promise, you're an honors student, you have friends, a future; and the next you're twenty-nine and living in the basement of your cousin's house. Where has your chance at happiness gone? You don't know. Whenever people talk about how the neighborhood has gone downhill, it feels like they're talking about you.

Posted by dean at 02:17 AM