Not a real post
I've been rewriting a story, very sloppily, but relatively consistently. Anyway, I've taken to writing these quick little one line stories or snippets of dialogue, and I think they're fun but unfortunately unusable (for now). So here they are:
I wait because I am accustomed to waiting--I would wait longer if I had to--for her. I would wait.
Given a shadow of a chance he would have thrwn off the spectators that stood around him, judging, smugly pushing themselves into his face.
Give the old man a dime. Hell, he deserves a dime. He's old and he's on the street--give him a fucking dime.
According to National Geographic I owe twenty five dollars toward a one year subscription, but I never signed up for a one year subscription. I never signed up for anything--I never even got a single issue--what a bunch of assholes.
You never think the place you're at is the place you'll stay. Theres got to be something better, you think, somewhere things have got to be better.
I live just the way she asked me to live--clean life, dull job, empy apartment and her money in my pocket forcing me along.
When I thought of my mother I was left with a picture of the ocean and usual resounding beats: water on shore, water on rock, water lapping on bent hands reaching, waiting to be washed clean.
I think I like the bits of dialogue better than the melodramatic narrational snippets.
I wait because I am accustomed to waiting--I would wait longer if I had to--for her. I would wait.
Given a shadow of a chance he would have thrwn off the spectators that stood around him, judging, smugly pushing themselves into his face.
Give the old man a dime. Hell, he deserves a dime. He's old and he's on the street--give him a fucking dime.
According to National Geographic I owe twenty five dollars toward a one year subscription, but I never signed up for a one year subscription. I never signed up for anything--I never even got a single issue--what a bunch of assholes.
You never think the place you're at is the place you'll stay. Theres got to be something better, you think, somewhere things have got to be better.
I live just the way she asked me to live--clean life, dull job, empy apartment and her money in my pocket forcing me along.
When I thought of my mother I was left with a picture of the ocean and usual resounding beats: water on shore, water on rock, water lapping on bent hands reaching, waiting to be washed clean.
I think I like the bits of dialogue better than the melodramatic narrational snippets.