Writer's Block: Coast Range
Uh, I'd live in Vancouver. Where I live. Surrounded by... mountains. And the ocean.
Of course, I'd also choose to have my cake and eat it too, so go figure.
The channel changes viscously.
"So, here's how it's going to be, my little Kikio," she says, scratching me behind my ears. The surgery that gave me slightly fuzzy, slightly pointed, ears and hyper-acute hearing left me able to hear a fly fart from three blocks away, and a little itchy around the edges of the scars. "We're gonna burn this place down to ashes on our way out the door."
She's calling herself Dirty Mary these days, after my favorite song. It's got like 899 plays on my portable personal music device. That's practically a loop for 18 days solid. She's been bored for too long now, and that means something bad is going to have to happen. I'm feeling slow, like I've got long links of heavy chain wrapped around my mind, pulling my thoughts down to the dirty floor. It's always a struggle to keep up with her, especially when she's unarmed.
"I've completed drawing up the perfect plan in my head," she told me triumphantly. "Except for one fatal misstep, which is that the pick-ax is still in the back-seat of the car." We had to leave it there though, because Klaus, the bartender, hated it when we got cop blood on his once-clean floor. Once clean as in, "once, back in the late 70's..."
Who else was there with us? I don't even remember. There was the tall girl, who had those eyes that looked like she wanted to eat your teeth. There was that other girl who always hung out with her, the smaller one with the big scar up her face from when she bounced off the partially paved roadway at some sixty miles an hour. She wore it well though, like a badge or a big "fuck you" at the world. Oh and that guy was there, Keith. He wasn't bothered by anybody though, he was just playing pinball in the back. The collar of big leather jacket was up high, making him little more than a dark brown skull poking out of a mound of black biker accessories.
"Lets burn this mother out," Mary says to me.
Reality hits me like a bad dream. I don't know where I am, what I'm doing. Everything spins. Clearly I shouldn't have stood up so fast. "I need a plot," I shouted out, just as I began to tumble back down to my mind. "I need a direction! I need some background notes!"
But there's never any time for background notes in life. Just hindsight. Most people's hindsight is 20-20, but mine is laser-sighted, night-vision equipped, and deadly accurate. My hindsight can kill a memory or a dream, running, from over 1,000 feet away.
Of course, I'd also choose to have my cake and eat it too, so go figure.
The channel changes viscously.
"So, here's how it's going to be, my little Kikio," she says, scratching me behind my ears. The surgery that gave me slightly fuzzy, slightly pointed, ears and hyper-acute hearing left me able to hear a fly fart from three blocks away, and a little itchy around the edges of the scars. "We're gonna burn this place down to ashes on our way out the door."
She's calling herself Dirty Mary these days, after my favorite song. It's got like 899 plays on my portable personal music device. That's practically a loop for 18 days solid. She's been bored for too long now, and that means something bad is going to have to happen. I'm feeling slow, like I've got long links of heavy chain wrapped around my mind, pulling my thoughts down to the dirty floor. It's always a struggle to keep up with her, especially when she's unarmed.
"I've completed drawing up the perfect plan in my head," she told me triumphantly. "Except for one fatal misstep, which is that the pick-ax is still in the back-seat of the car." We had to leave it there though, because Klaus, the bartender, hated it when we got cop blood on his once-clean floor. Once clean as in, "once, back in the late 70's..."
Who else was there with us? I don't even remember. There was the tall girl, who had those eyes that looked like she wanted to eat your teeth. There was that other girl who always hung out with her, the smaller one with the big scar up her face from when she bounced off the partially paved roadway at some sixty miles an hour. She wore it well though, like a badge or a big "fuck you" at the world. Oh and that guy was there, Keith. He wasn't bothered by anybody though, he was just playing pinball in the back. The collar of big leather jacket was up high, making him little more than a dark brown skull poking out of a mound of black biker accessories.
"Lets burn this mother out," Mary says to me.
Reality hits me like a bad dream. I don't know where I am, what I'm doing. Everything spins. Clearly I shouldn't have stood up so fast. "I need a plot," I shouted out, just as I began to tumble back down to my mind. "I need a direction! I need some background notes!"
But there's never any time for background notes in life. Just hindsight. Most people's hindsight is 20-20, but mine is laser-sighted, night-vision equipped, and deadly accurate. My hindsight can kill a memory or a dream, running, from over 1,000 feet away.