Story

Had he been able to distinguish a normal person from a nutcase, and a nutcase from a REAL nutcase, he would’ve run a mile when he saw me.
     But he didn’t.  He sat himself down beside me and offered me a cigarette, from a new packet out of the pocket of a not-so-new long leather jacket.  I accepted silently, gratefully, and allowed him to light it with a small orange lighter from a different pocket.
     “It’s bad for you, you know,” he mentioned as I inhaled deeply and the pack and lighter disappeared back within the jacket.  I raised my eyebrows at the street in general.  The street continued to grind on its grey way, and he merely leaned back in the seat and crossed his legs.
     “Don’t you smoke?” I queried after a moment.  There was no interest in the question, but when you have no life you talk and smoke, that’s the way it goes.  And I’d done neither yet that day.
     He shook his head, almost as if to shake his long hair out of his eyes.  “Not what you’re smoking.”
      “Then why the pack?”
     “Old family heirloom?”
     I barked out a short, dead laugh.  The street shuddered.
      “Why are you angry?”
There was no basis for the question.  I almost didn’t understand him, like he was speaking a different language.  When I gave him a question-mark look, he nodded and rose to his feet.
     “Will you help me buy matches?” he requested, holding out a hand.  He was beginning to seem a little odd, but I told myself I was too far gone to care, and let myself be pulled up and along the repetitive street.
     “So where are we going?” I asked between smoky breaths, after we’d crossed two streets.  He smiled at me, a sweet sort of smile, stirring in me the feeling of dark rooms and guitars.  “To buy matches.”  He stopped to press a traffic-light button, and we crossed.  “I smoke cigars, and I always light them with matches.”
     “Why?”  My hand was still in his as we came to a slow halt in front of a white brick building.  Presumably it was a shop, because he left me, and returned with matches.  In a matchbox.  Funnily enough.  
     He continued the conversation as though he’d never gone anywhere.  “Lighters are cold flame.  Dead.  Mechanical.  Once you get past the first part of a match, it’s real fire.  Burning wood.  Do you dance?”
     I jumped.  “Me?  No. No, never.”  As I stared at him, nonchalantly lighting up a cigar, I thought to myself that he was a bit of a pretentious wanker, with all this “cold flame” shit.  What am I doing with this guy? I stared down the street, trying to look through the blankness in my mind to some excuse for going home.

Unfinished.  Begun November ’06

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Welcome…

This blog is the collection of my poetry and prose, in chronological order from most recent to oldest.

Constructive critique is actively encouraged!

I am usually singing words as well as writing them, and make lots of other art. You can find me & my other art at any of the below links. x

Latest quick update…

  • I have pretty horrendous heart pain right now, @JohnMayer is helping me through it. Like, his music, not in person. But that’d be cool too. tweeted 16 hours ago

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