Debut(s): Girl From Class and The Ice Road
Sunday marks the start of twitter and tumblr revamps, as well as groundwork for "The Capsule" blog, as well as possibly signing a contract with Sports Media 101.
You’ve seen her somewhere before, outside the café smoking, like, Old Golds or some hand rolled shit. Maybe she’s one of those chicks who kills herself crawling into jeans Thursday nights, or she might be the type to call her dad every morning and ask the scores of sports she don’t care about---it’s hard to say with the back to black Aviators swallowing her whole. She could be sentimental. She could be.
Give her a second.
She’ll take them off and stare out at space so you can better guess what’s up; is she just waiting on the bell or worried about walking home this time of night---the Portuguese neighborhood smells like good cooking but the dudes enjoy too much the way she walks.
Huh?
She could be humming “Teenage Dream” or be a dispossessed Bowie freak---those black yoga pants they all wear don’t tell you nothing. That pink shock of hair, what’s that about?
Try and think if she’s let anything slip raising her hand…nah, you just know she don’t like The Office because it makes her dizzy. The way she touches her lips when she talks makes you think she’s nostalgic, gets a drink in her and wants to dance to “Bills, Bills, Bills” and calls Nicktoons for Categories.
She bent over for her bag, you missed it! Shit she rocks those tights.
If you ever brought her home you’d show her to mom, never to dad. He wouldn’t get pink hair either, (hopefully) wouldn’t say anything about her being black. Don’t even think what Nana would (definitely) say. Dad might hassle you later about the space between her teeth---What’s the deal with that?---and then she’d be ruined. Mom would be cool. Mom would ask her about school, about family, yes about her hair but she’d be nice.
Forget it.
You don’t have to think about a chick like this because you don’t even dream of a chick like this. Look at her smiling. Hah! This girl has style. She’s wrapped herself in like seven silks. This girl is shining, talking about Feminist Theory like it’s a riddle on a popsicle stick. And this girl is fine. Thin enough to fit through a hole in the fence, legs enough to stand at the top of the world, fit to kill on the cover of magazines.
Sign up for yoga. Maybe you’ll see her there.
Just forget it. Forget it and get out of the room and position yourself with a nice view of her leaving. Don’t fret too much, don’t wonder or worry, that shit is wasteful, just keep planning brother, for that one day, but now she’s walking away.
Seth Moran’s car slipped across the ice-slicked bridge, fourteenth of February. ‘Quiet Things’ live on the radio. An effusion of stars patterned the windshield, turning the blonde cap of Annabelle Belacqua--dreaming now, tears caught fresh on her cheeks--into an hoary nest of moonflowers. Seth wondered if she might freeze.
A deadly sequence of weathers had transformed Bridgetown into the Larsen Ice Shelf. Roads shone like diamond. Teams of dogs sang in remote yards. Seth traveled nine miles per hour, his dogged Impala doing what it could to negotiate the miles between his and Annabelle’s beds. He hummed to himself:
“Though our kids are blessed
the parents let them shoulder all the blame.”
Under the bridge drivers on the parkway threw headlights against the dark. A lamp blinked overhead, dousing the car Industrial Sunset. She shivered. An hour ago, her pert, sallow body propped against his stereo, the smell of wine uncoiling words like I never meant to….
Seth eased on the breaks, the car slid down the bridge into the wilds of Bedford, past the middle school, the tennis club, past the shop shaped like a milk bottle where Annabelle’s boyfriend worked. Seth murmured like a prayer:
“I---lie---for---
only you.”
When she stirred he thought she was talking in her sleep. “Whatever you decide, don’t stop singing.” She drew toward him with the felicity of a newborn, red and breathless. “I had an awful dream.”
“You seemed pretty pleased with yourself, the look on your face.”
Annabelle adjusted to the ice world, unsure of herself, eyes fixed on houselights rolling by. She cast hair over her shoulder, tried again. “Take a left here, and mine is second on the right.” It was an old game they played, leading one another to places they knew intimately. Seth nodded.
In the driveway he kept running the car and did not look at her as she sat still waiting for him to look. “Whatever you decide….”
“You said that.”
She winced. “I know I can’t, but I don’t want you to think about anything but me.” She’d come so close the hairs on his neck touched the soft spots of her freckles.
“Now I say something.”
“Don’t be like--”
“I’m just like this. Anthony, Gloria, Sid, Nancy, you know.”
“Can’t you have a normal conversation? Can you even be nice?” A chill arm reached through the windows. Annabelle apologized, remembering…she apologized and threw herself searching desperately for his hands. He instructed her, coolly, to go.
It took several minutes for Annabelle to steer herself to the door of her house. She paused, a slight figure shaking in the dark. It started to snow.
The way home seemed haunted, laboring up hills, across glaciers. He’d lost the signal and could not remember the words. No dogs called, streetlights fluttered out. Still, it was easier. Despite the threatening strike of midnight the ice seemed friendly, fit for a greeting card, intending to thaw at the first sign of morning.
You’ve seen her somewhere before, outside the café smoking, like, Old Golds or some hand rolled shit. Maybe she’s one of those chicks who kills herself crawling into jeans Thursday nights, or she might be the type to call her dad every morning and ask the scores of sports she don’t care about---it’s hard to say with the back to black Aviators swallowing her whole. She could be sentimental. She could be.
Give her a second.
She’ll take them off and stare out at space so you can better guess what’s up; is she just waiting on the bell or worried about walking home this time of night---the Portuguese neighborhood smells like good cooking but the dudes enjoy too much the way she walks.
Huh?
She could be humming “Teenage Dream” or be a dispossessed Bowie freak---those black yoga pants they all wear don’t tell you nothing. That pink shock of hair, what’s that about?
Try and think if she’s let anything slip raising her hand…nah, you just know she don’t like The Office because it makes her dizzy. The way she touches her lips when she talks makes you think she’s nostalgic, gets a drink in her and wants to dance to “Bills, Bills, Bills” and calls Nicktoons for Categories.
She bent over for her bag, you missed it! Shit she rocks those tights.
If you ever brought her home you’d show her to mom, never to dad. He wouldn’t get pink hair either, (hopefully) wouldn’t say anything about her being black. Don’t even think what Nana would (definitely) say. Dad might hassle you later about the space between her teeth---What’s the deal with that?---and then she’d be ruined. Mom would be cool. Mom would ask her about school, about family, yes about her hair but she’d be nice.
Forget it.
You don’t have to think about a chick like this because you don’t even dream of a chick like this. Look at her smiling. Hah! This girl has style. She’s wrapped herself in like seven silks. This girl is shining, talking about Feminist Theory like it’s a riddle on a popsicle stick. And this girl is fine. Thin enough to fit through a hole in the fence, legs enough to stand at the top of the world, fit to kill on the cover of magazines.
Sign up for yoga. Maybe you’ll see her there.
Just forget it. Forget it and get out of the room and position yourself with a nice view of her leaving. Don’t fret too much, don’t wonder or worry, that shit is wasteful, just keep planning brother, for that one day, but now she’s walking away.
Seth Moran’s car slipped across the ice-slicked bridge, fourteenth of February. ‘Quiet Things’ live on the radio. An effusion of stars patterned the windshield, turning the blonde cap of Annabelle Belacqua--dreaming now, tears caught fresh on her cheeks--into an hoary nest of moonflowers. Seth wondered if she might freeze.
A deadly sequence of weathers had transformed Bridgetown into the Larsen Ice Shelf. Roads shone like diamond. Teams of dogs sang in remote yards. Seth traveled nine miles per hour, his dogged Impala doing what it could to negotiate the miles between his and Annabelle’s beds. He hummed to himself:
“Though our kids are blessed
the parents let them shoulder all the blame.”
Under the bridge drivers on the parkway threw headlights against the dark. A lamp blinked overhead, dousing the car Industrial Sunset. She shivered. An hour ago, her pert, sallow body propped against his stereo, the smell of wine uncoiling words like I never meant to….
Seth eased on the breaks, the car slid down the bridge into the wilds of Bedford, past the middle school, the tennis club, past the shop shaped like a milk bottle where Annabelle’s boyfriend worked. Seth murmured like a prayer:
“I---lie---for---
only you.”
When she stirred he thought she was talking in her sleep. “Whatever you decide, don’t stop singing.” She drew toward him with the felicity of a newborn, red and breathless. “I had an awful dream.”
“You seemed pretty pleased with yourself, the look on your face.”
Annabelle adjusted to the ice world, unsure of herself, eyes fixed on houselights rolling by. She cast hair over her shoulder, tried again. “Take a left here, and mine is second on the right.” It was an old game they played, leading one another to places they knew intimately. Seth nodded.
In the driveway he kept running the car and did not look at her as she sat still waiting for him to look. “Whatever you decide….”
“You said that.”
She winced. “I know I can’t, but I don’t want you to think about anything but me.” She’d come so close the hairs on his neck touched the soft spots of her freckles.
“Now I say something.”
“Don’t be like--”
“I’m just like this. Anthony, Gloria, Sid, Nancy, you know.”
“Can’t you have a normal conversation? Can you even be nice?” A chill arm reached through the windows. Annabelle apologized, remembering…she apologized and threw herself searching desperately for his hands. He instructed her, coolly, to go.
It took several minutes for Annabelle to steer herself to the door of her house. She paused, a slight figure shaking in the dark. It started to snow.
The way home seemed haunted, laboring up hills, across glaciers. He’d lost the signal and could not remember the words. No dogs called, streetlights fluttered out. Still, it was easier. Despite the threatening strike of midnight the ice seemed friendly, fit for a greeting card, intending to thaw at the first sign of morning.