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L.A. Fisher - Torches and PitchforksChapter 4.
The large black nurse with the enormous tits called my name from her little clipboard. She looked younger than she probably was, with that timeless skin that darker people are often times blessed with. Her clothes weren’t low cut, but her cleavage didn’t seem to care and shot out of her shirt anyway.
“Hey there, Sugar!” Those eyes had not once shuttered at my appearance. As much as I hated this place, I was ever so thankful for those eyes. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you in here. How’ve you been, baby?”
My smile was genuine. I wiped the bloody drool from my chin and followed her through the hospital.
No matter how long the line in the waiting room, there is another fifteen-minute wait on top of that which is standard in every hospital from Arkansas to California. I’ve spent more than ten hours total in this little ro
Double EntendreLove is just a game to you
I am just game to you.
Your voice a double entendre
You say what you say
And something else.
I feel hunted
on the animal preserve,
The home I once felt comfortable in
It has become a free for all
You with your rifle
Me with my reflex.
I do not act based on calculation
rather I react on instinct
I move quickly.
Any moment you can fire
Any moment you can take me home
I have to be quick-witted
Or else you'll take advantage
of my mortality
I'm the stag already captured
I make a mess of the living room while
Your stag is at home
but you hunt anyway
You've done this before
said that before
worn that before
But now it drapes over you in a way
it has never draped over you before
This very moment.
Strip it away!
Figure that I've seen
so many times before
Everything about you is different.
Not today though...
The Dance: Ram thaiรำไทย
the purloiner of my diffidence,
has stripped my insecurities
and taught me to dance with all
Children bounce around at my feet
as I twirl my love
on the dance floor
I'm not in shape
My hips have never moved like this,
My feet step to a beat they've not yet
pant with the rhythm they've longed for.
And my knees keep banging into yours.
Your body is perfect
Your moves are precise
No woman will ever come close to you
I contend with every man in the room
yet you have chosen me
for this dance.
Your self-confidence fills me with life
I'm the only ginger in the room
I trust you.
And I prove it by standing in the forefront
Revealing my identity
Just as you promised
they dance alongside me.
I have come to understand that nobody
really expects anything of me.
I could sit in the corner and be the
one left out
or I could get up and join the fray every
once and a while.
Doorframe without a DoorI stand in the doorless doorway,
Where your life used to be.
I stare across your empty room,
Where all that's left is me.
And I know it goes against a lot of things you have said
But something deep inside of me just wants that bastard dead
For everything he did to you and taking you from me.
I can't let it be... I can't let it be...
I hear about you less and less,
And all I want is more.
I stand here with a pain in my chest,
In a frame without a door.
I never said what I wanted. I never said goodbye
I want you back so damn bad. "Move on," they say, "just try."
Everyone slowly turns away, I don't know why they can't see
I can't let it be... I can't let it be...
Eat'em: Chapter 2CHAPTER 2
“Rise and shine, Jake!”
My Uncle Patrick.
Uncle Patrick much preferred to go by his middle name, Valentine. He flat refused to respond to uncle anything. He was actually two days younger than myself, a fact my parents both resented. Not much takes the wind out of a mother-to-be’s sails like the grandmother-to-be sharing the same news. My dad swore up and down my grandparents did it just to spite them. He even believed my grandma intentionally postponed labor so Patrick Valentine would be the most celebrated of the two newborns. A picture of Val right out of the hospital has him in a ‘World’s Best Uncle’ onesie. It hung proudly over the thirty-two inch plasma screen in our single bedroom apartment.
Val flipped the light on and I cowered deeper into the cushions of my parents’ old leather couch.
“Seriously, Baby-Jake!” Val’s chipper, Every Morning is a Good Morning, tone tended to conquer any other noise polluti
Parenting for Sex AddictsThe half-day.
We are not those folks that need an occasion to try. And that’s what they call it, too. Trying. As if the very idea of it is taxing. It’s not taxing and we are not those people.
No. We do not go by some magical calendar. Schedules aren’t really our thing in general. That’d be too organized. Too stuffy. Too… I don’t know… too planned. And we’re not the type of people whom plan.
If we could—plan—our lives would be much different. I think. It’s hard to say because this is how we’ve always been.
Our very togetherness is a result of impulse. I’m almost certain that the amount of time it took us to decide to move in together was significantly shorter than the amount of time it took us to remember each other’s names. We might have had our first conversation moments after that first… what I mean to say is we didn’t plan. Because planning would have been much t
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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