Writing & Writers

“I’m living for the drought “

"I thought this wouldn't hurt a lot. I guess not."

It’s a motor vehicle that sound buzzing in my ear when I finally come to. There’s a lot of motor vehicles cruising by, honking. A traffic jam on Lake Shore. I don’t even know what that means. Where that is. A cigarette burns on the ashtray. Somewhere in the distance, a trumpet plays.

I can smell Carlo’s vomit. The bastard drank so much last night, he just let loose once he got into the room. Leaned up against the wall and just let it spill. I told him the bourbon might be too strong for him, but those types of people never listen. They’re artists. Writers. People who need the life experiences just write about them. So what if their work makes you tear up in the end, doesn’t make it good. Just means they know things. And those tears spilling? Well, that’s just you wishing you knew them as well.

I had that dream again. 

The world fell around them. And I just looked up and saw the mouth of god open wide. And a hand reached down not to comfort the earth, but to smash it.

All Along the Watchtower

She arranged the saints one by one on the pedestal. Each one no higher than the other. She lit her crucifix candles and held slightly prayer. She prayed to them, the angels, jesus, mary, joseph, and god. And not one of them heard her words. Like the phone was left off the hook. Or, more permanent, disconnected.

In the bathtub, she held the razor to her wrist. She laughed as she died. She’d become a cliché.


A man. A flaming bottle. A window.

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