Even dead, she was a better person than us.
This is a writing post by the person A was talking about earlier when she posted a bunch of crap sketches from my computer. It is a conglomeration of stuff by me and other people found on my computer. All of these are really short (one is only one sentence long.) Well, okay, here.
The rain opened up over his head on Tuesday. He felt like singing. It was his favorite song; his favorite part was when the drums and the vocalist started in alone together and it was loud. He felt like singing that part, over and over again. He couldn't because he had to go to school, but for a second, everything like that was suspended (he didn't have to think about it yet) and then his song did the thing that he liked, and then it ended.
He was on his way to school, where things would happen. They would probably be neither good nor bad. He didn't know what to think. There was another song playing, but he didn't notice. He also didn't notice this, but in that second it was all about him. He thought about himself, his shoes and his music and his coat and his hands. He began to notice the song he was playing for himself, which was pretty and sad.
When he arrived at the bus stop, the world enlarged. It wasn't all about him anymore. There was a woman--she didn't always take the same bus as him, only when he ran early, as he did today, a rare occurence--he noticed her. It was okay. He wasn't scared of school, because it was a dull day, because it was rainy and he liked that, because there was a woman he didn't know at his bus stop, and because it was going to happen-- and then, it would stop, and he would go home, just like this.
His name is Killian. He is not usually such a self-centered boy.
He asks the woman, “Do you know how many minutes until the bus gets here?”
She looks at him edgewise. “Just five or so,” she says quietly. She is in her thirties and she is wearing a black fur-trimmed coat, and lipstick, making him want to know where she is going and what her life is like. She is smoking a cigarette that is burning very slowly, but he doesn’t mind the smoke. Her name is Esmé. Killian learned this one day before, last fall, when she had a phone call and somebody loud kept saying her name, screeching into the phone, “ESMÉ! GET AHOLD OF YOURSELF!” They always used to wait together at the bus stop. Esmé puts out her cigarette eloquently on the cement but doesn’t step on it, leaving it glowing red there until it dies.
The bus doesn’t pull up to the curb for several minutes, and when it does it is full of loud and raucous people on their way to work or school. Esmé and Killian step on to the bus.
/
One day a boy with his tear stained faced was riding in a broken down 1958 Mustang that barely even ran. He was wondering himself why he was crying. His step father that he barely even liked died. His mother... his mother was acting like she was about to drive into the lake. His mother started to look at the lake, with a demonic look. Almost like she was possesed. She stared to turn towards the lake. Acellerating- faster she went, then faster. The boy started to scream, yelling at his mother to stop. She wouldn't stop. The tears on her face started to flood even more then the usual. The boy begged. She wouldn't stop. Then they plunged into the lake. The boy stared to scream. Panicking, he didn't know what to do. So he sat there. Then he drowned. THE END.
(EDIT from L.: This is most certainly not by me. I'm offended you would credit that to me. Who wrote this?)
/
thought provoking meaningless life influence too much yelling words that drip help me help me clothes fads cover up your mind, trains of thought crashing eventually.
/
people don't understand each other
the cycle consumes them, wearing off the sharp edges.
our moods change with the weather.
summer days and nostalgia are all we have together anymore, it seems
But my ship crashed, I lost my anchor.
My feelings pile up, I must expound
What keeps me here?
shove me away, tell me
please how
can I be alright.
old poetry by me. what the fuck.
/
His parents think it's weird how he is so private. They are into the politics in their community.
/
//////
The rain opened up over his head on Tuesday. He felt like singing. It was his favorite song; his favorite part was when the drums and the vocalist started in alone together and it was loud. He felt like singing that part, over and over again. He couldn't because he had to go to school, but for a second, everything like that was suspended (he didn't have to think about it yet) and then his song did the thing that he liked, and then it ended.
He was on his way to school, where things would happen. They would probably be neither good nor bad. He didn't know what to think. There was another song playing, but he didn't notice. He also didn't notice this, but in that second it was all about him. He thought about himself, his shoes and his music and his coat and his hands. He began to notice the song he was playing for himself, which was pretty and sad.
When he arrived at the bus stop, the world enlarged. It wasn't all about him anymore. There was a woman--she didn't always take the same bus as him, only when he ran early, as he did today, a rare occurence--he noticed her. It was okay. He wasn't scared of school, because it was a dull day, because it was rainy and he liked that, because there was a woman he didn't know at his bus stop, and because it was going to happen-- and then, it would stop, and he would go home, just like this.
His name is Killian. He is not usually such a self-centered boy.
He asks the woman, “Do you know how many minutes until the bus gets here?”
She looks at him edgewise. “Just five or so,” she says quietly. She is in her thirties and she is wearing a black fur-trimmed coat, and lipstick, making him want to know where she is going and what her life is like. She is smoking a cigarette that is burning very slowly, but he doesn’t mind the smoke. Her name is Esmé. Killian learned this one day before, last fall, when she had a phone call and somebody loud kept saying her name, screeching into the phone, “ESMÉ! GET AHOLD OF YOURSELF!” They always used to wait together at the bus stop. Esmé puts out her cigarette eloquently on the cement but doesn’t step on it, leaving it glowing red there until it dies.
The bus doesn’t pull up to the curb for several minutes, and when it does it is full of loud and raucous people on their way to work or school. Esmé and Killian step on to the bus.
/
One day a boy with his tear stained faced was riding in a broken down 1958 Mustang that barely even ran. He was wondering himself why he was crying. His step father that he barely even liked died. His mother... his mother was acting like she was about to drive into the lake. His mother started to look at the lake, with a demonic look. Almost like she was possesed. She stared to turn towards the lake. Acellerating- faster she went, then faster. The boy started to scream, yelling at his mother to stop. She wouldn't stop. The tears on her face started to flood even more then the usual. The boy begged. She wouldn't stop. Then they plunged into the lake. The boy stared to scream. Panicking, he didn't know what to do. So he sat there. Then he drowned. THE END.
(EDIT from L.: This is most certainly not by me. I'm offended you would credit that to me. Who wrote this?)
/
thought provoking meaningless life influence too much yelling words that drip help me help me clothes fads cover up your mind, trains of thought crashing eventually.
/
people don't understand each other
the cycle consumes them, wearing off the sharp edges.
our moods change with the weather.
summer days and nostalgia are all we have together anymore, it seems
But my ship crashed, I lost my anchor.
My feelings pile up, I must expound
What keeps me here?
shove me away, tell me
please how
can I be alright.
old poetry by me. what the fuck.
/
His parents think it's weird how he is so private. They are into the politics in their community.
/
//////