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The Bilson = Jayhawk Love
6,884 Posts
Discussion Starter #1
Any of you write stories?

I am writing a really depressing one right now about a former all world high school sports star in a small town who screwed up and did something bad (haven't figured it out yet, maybe rape) and has to go home 20 years later to help his mother. He is reliving his pain.

Moderator/Head Decepticon
7,624 Posts
I could write short stories, but I doubt I could get any of them published, which would be my goal for writing them in the first place. :D

BTW, JG, It'd be cool to see any short stories you've written. Post them if you have time. :)

4,584 Posts
Originally posted by <b>Devestata</b>!

BTW, JG, It'd be cool to see any short stories you've written. Post them if you have time. :)
Yep, the only problem is that they are all in portuguese. I could translate them but it would take a good amount of time and I'm not sure if I am able to translate without messing up with the quality.

The Bonafied Legend
3,933 Posts
Originally posted by <b>JGKoblenz</b>!
I write stories as well, nothing profesional, just for fun. I want to write a book in the near future, but I will probably never have the time. :D

thats about tha same with me......

Our Sentence Is Up
40,250 Posts
This is my latest, it's going through the revision process right now, before I try and get'er published.

It's about Love, the Bush Doctrine, drugs, sex, russians, Velvet's longish, maybe to read in this format. But feel free to comment.


The thirty-sixth sign that the end is really ****ing nigh is televised fishing. President Bush II once went on a fishing show with his dog. I don’t think he knew that the target audience for fishing shows are horrified early morning slacker junkies. And my phone rings.
She asks me if I did it. She, being Nicole. It, being offed myself, as per the suicide letter I must have sent her last night before passing out. It’s a ****-****ing obvious question to ask. Can I chalk that up to just being in shock? Well I look around at what used to be the white carpet floor of the upstairs living area of my mom’s house. I say used to be white carpet floor. Now it’s nowhere near ****ing that. It’s painted in oranges, reds, little chunks of white—some blue in there. No the whiskey made me throw up the sleeping pills, I tell her. I try to explain it in further depth but my tongue just lolls around in my mouth and my throat is raw from the whole vomiting experience, which barely even seems real right now. Just two fishermen sitting on a lake. Dog in the middle. She can’t understand me, Nicole, the worthlessly concerned ****, she just makes me promise not to do it again. Cut to, is that a trout, what the crock do I know about breed of fish—**** all, but it’s in the boat now.
Nicole and I go way back. Way back to years and years of trying to cram my still beating heart down her occipital lobe, whatever the **** that is. And basically she says her piece, I make sounds, and she hangs up.
Our children would be deranged mutant flying monkeys, blue skin, cold black piss—the bane of our existence. Pay no attention to your dear old dad kids, she’d say. The spider monkey.
Nicole’s long blonde hair accentuates her perfect lack of a human soul.
I watch the floor move beneath me. I bend down closer to examine one of the vomit stains. There are these little red arachnids, kind of what I think bed bugs are supposed to look like, but I’m not entirely sure. Basically mean little discs with spidery legs crawling about in droves. Blood ants feasting on my splayed innards. The phone rings again.
It’s Nicole’s roommate Lindsay. She is royally pissed. There’s no *****-brained half concern here. She legitimately wants to **** me up.
Why did you do it? She is asking me. And I’m trying to slur out some explanation of the nature of loneliness. And I can tell Lindsay would cry at the funeral. You need to ****ing get help, Andrew, she says. All of this time, I’d been trying to gouge the one in the uterus with ol’ peter piper, and here was the roommate the perfect peck of concern. Well it’s ****ed now. That’s what it is. Because the blood spiders are done feasting on the bits of my throat on the floor, and have begun to send scouts up my legs.
My concern in this whole thing is about what to do when, as they are doing now, they dig their heads into my flesh and start to sucking—the dilemma of how to remove them without getting their heads stuck in me. Are you going to get help? She asks me. Sure, why not. I’m going to get maybe the help of this here lighter and burn these satanic leaches back to the hell they came from. Or maybe some tweezers. But where would I get tweezers? My mom might have some. Lindsay, do you have any tweezers? What? She asks. My tongue is still doing that thing in my mouth. Yes, yes, I tell her. She tells me how she’s going to call later that night to make sure, just in case I don’t tell my mom. So proactive. But Lindsay, what about the bugs between now and then? She hangs up. The thing is, I never wanted to send suicide notes in the first place. But I had mentioned it in passing a few months before, and Nicole stressed how she would want a suicide note—to quote unquote see what was going on in my head.
Well I’m alive now. Beat down. But alive. God’s own prodigal unkillable son. The mark of Cain etched across my forehead. I’ve got to escape this horde of violent mites. The dog jumps out of the fishing boat. Maybe they were bass fishing. My grandpa used to take me fishing in a canoe for catfish. I would paddle us in circles for hours while he threatened from the other side of the canoe to throw me overboard. I know no fear now.
I stagger off the couch right through a paddle of my own vomit. Trying to get my sea legs. I’m going to need to escape the house. Probably call in pest control. Fumigation. Bombs. Counter-Terrorism measures. But those plans are going to be next to impossible in my current state of come down. I crash into my closet door pulling it down on top of me from its hinges. That will bruise. I dig another blood mite out of my thigh. Push the door off of me.
Find my shoebox of fixings. Mirror. Blow. Dollar dollar bills, yo. Yee-hah. I am ****ing Superman you illegitimate carpet munchers. I scrape another bug off of my forearm leaving a trail of blood down my arm.
The decision has now been etched in stone. Passed down from on high. There will be exterminational tactics taken by this one here. Kerosene. We will burn the bejeezus out of these hell spawn. Agent Orange style. Right out of the carpet. Sacrifice, sacrifice. I throw on some jeans and a hoodie. Grab the wallet. The cell phone. Roll down the stairs. Take the keys. Stroll out the door like I own the place.
The fresh air is amazing. The sun is toned down behind some clouds. Tut tut Christopher Robin. I check my wallet, maybe not enough to get kerosene. But I do know what I have enough money for. And it’s only a hop, skip, and a jump away from the house. Jesus can sort out you vampire arachnids. The place I know that sells the best smack in the city. And I’m not just talking smack when I’m talking about smack—you can be getting high on a lot of things from this place, beyond the obvious. Mother****ing Frank’s. Frank’s Comics and Collectibles Record Store blank damnit. The only place I know of where you can get cheap drugs, Brian Eno’s Another Green World on vinyl, and the latest issue of Detective Comics all in one location.

The bell rings, signaling my entrance. One of Frank’s hired goons looks up at me from the counter. It’s not my drug habit I’ve come here to stroke today my good man. And I make a b-line for the comic book section. What would you do if God gave you a second day to muck about with? Who in the **** cares what you’d do? Make mine Marvel. Excelsior! In the past maybe you’d want to steer clear of the marvel books, maybe hit up some of the vertigo books. But if you notice, and I do, many of the guys who used to write on the bathroom walls at DC/Vertigo are now whoring their trade over at Marvel—so momma did not raise no fool.
Aren’t you a little too old for kiddie books? I hear a voice question, creeping into my divine almond joy level of bliss. I follow the voice to this smallish girl with pretty brown hair—green eyed lady—and she’s holding a copy of We Can’t Be Stopped—Aren’t you a little too white for the Geto Boys?
My name is Magda, she says and she extends her hand. You come here often stranger. Oh what the ****. I was only kidding about my Geto Boys crack. We all love Bushwick Bill. Isn’t there a little degenerate psycho-killer midget in all of us? Or is that little people? I don’t know. I know that I tell her my name is Andrew. And I know it comes out reasonably well. I know this because she tells me she likes that it’s Andrew and not Andy. The miracle healing powers of cocaine. **** Sally Struthers. I’m sending my funds to Escobar’s kids. Out there in this cold Columbian world without their dear Papalito, who those crooked CIA agents did bad things to because they were bigger, because they were badder, who stole the show? But still Pablo’s kids struggle on. Bringing the heat with some fine *** cocainia. **** the police, Fred. I’m so sexy it hurts.
What kind of name is Magda? It’s the kind of name that belongs to the kind of person, who asks me up to their apartment—after only minimal banter—for what promises to be an afternoon of drugs, sex, and violent southern hip-hop. I would later chalk this up to Magda being European. Apparently some sort of trusting foreigner. I once asked her, what if it hadn’t been me there? What if it was someone ghastly and dangerously perverse like Tom Delay there that day shopping for his heroin fix? Someone with an awful dug out pit in their basement. Nightvision goggles. And it puts the lotion on its skin, or it gets the hose again. But she says the point was that it was me and no one else. None of this is going through my head right now though. Just how damn fine a day it’s turning out to be. I probably won’t even have to use the AK.
Magda buys her record. Frank’s minion looks hurt that I won’t be parting with my fool earned cash today. He paws at the disastrous boil on his face. Will that be all? You’re goddamn right it will be all. God rest our souls, my good man. Magda and I leave to the chime of bells. This is all I need. Andrew gets his wings.

Magda and I make our way down the sidewalk towards her apartment. A proper description of Magda would mention her hipster chic-ness in dress. Clothes no doubt pulled from low dollar bins, for high dollar effect—how someone can look low rent but classy is her answer to the question nobody asked. I don’t eat animals, she says, you should know that right off the bat. The look in her diamond shaped face begs to be chopped up, cooked in a spoon, then injected right into the vein. It is that damned important. That’s okay, I tell her. People have things, I say. This isn’t one of those things, this is important, she says, I also believe zoos are wrong. I agree with her. I was instantly attracted to your compassion for all living things I tell her. In addition to being beautiful on the outside, I knew you were also special on the inside, I tell her. That seems to shut her up and the clouds start to sprinkle lightly.
The neighborhood seems to be going—yes…wait….there it goes. It’s becoming clear the longer we walk that I may have overestimated the fashion statement made by my finely toned companion’s dress, and perhaps underestimated the practicality.
My roommate is a little off, she says. Her name is Dilya. She’s from Poland too. Did I mention I am from Poland? Magda asks. Well she’s actually Russian-Polish. It’s actually amazing we get along as well as we do. But we’re here together. And she’s completely mad.
I’m looking around flinching at every loud noise. We’ll surely be mugged at any moment. Is that a dead body in the alleyway? There’s good speed to be scored down these ways. Does Magda run a meth lab? Will I be sworn to secrecy? Do I look like a NARC? Did she invite me into her lair to deal with me polish mafia style? How many poles does it take to dispose of an American body? Where is Tom Ridge now?
Suddenly Magda stops. Here we are, she says. She points into her apartment complex. Follow me. Yes. You’d like that wouldn’t you. ****ing no good this is. I should have known. George Bush and his homeland security have made me weak. I’ve been looking out for all of these Arabs and it’s these perfectly white European girls who are going to be doing the deed. What is this world coming to? Watch out for the white girl suicide bombers.
I’m working up a sweat, but there’s no way I can turn back now. There is such a thing as being in too deep.

Magda opens the door to her apartment and I follow her in. The clouds have completely taken over and the rain is starting to come down hard. It makes the room pitch black on account of for some reason the windows being all covered up. Let me find a light, Magda says. I hear a noise. But it’s too late. I’m shoved to the floor. The lights come on, and sitting atop me is this vision of dishwater blondeness with dark sunglasses, who crams her nose into mine, trying to make our eyes touch through her sunglasses it seems—and in a slight but unmistakably Russian accent, she asks me, what has she told you? We have ways of making you talk; you lazy American, so fat, so lazy—did you bring us drugs? Never mind that, we have our own. Good quality methamphetamine.
This must be Dilya.
You’re goddamn right, Yankee doodle. She pulls off of me slightly, but before I can get up, she shoves me back to the ground—how did you know that?! I point to Magda. Yes, Dilya says, she does have a soft spot for you weak spirited Americans. I, on the other hand, will crush you.
Magda pulls Dilya off of me. It is clear that sudden movements must be kept at a minimum here. Your hamster finally died today Magda, Dilya reports. I left him there in his cage until you got back. He must be given a proper burial. But not before, she skips across the room and into the kitchen, opening a drawer—not before we all have a snort. Are you in on this American? Will you become one of us?
I went from a suicide victim to a probable homicide victim in the span of mere hours. Dilya’s death white arm is too close to a hastily laid out kitchen knife, and she knows it. I can see the mania in her smile. How long ago did the cold war end? We are allies now. Cowboys and Russians. Russian cowboys. Putin and Bush, you scratch my back, I scratch yours—never mind the nukes. Old hats, old friends. It was fun while it lasted.
I stand up. Magda leaves the room to check on her hamster. Sure, strange Russian girl I will do all the crank you want me to do with you. Whatever makes you happy. We are all vagabonds in the kingdom of fear. No reason to use that kitchen knife. No mam. I walk across the room. Very carefully. So as not to appear threatening. Dilya begins to separate the speed into lines. One for me, one for her, and Magda in the next room is crying, oh my hamster Kacper.
All I wanted was some sex. Take the edge off my day.
I take Dilya in fully for the first time. A long body, dangerously slim, the madness of casual beauty lost in a foreign land—God only knows why—she says I can go first, and I snort the line, poor man’s coke, but you’ll see no complaints from me. Dilya does her line. Magda enters the room, Kacper in hand, tears in her eyes—does her line.
There’s a knock at the door. I’ve been set up. This much is clear. God’s plan to **** me over, I’m not out of the woods Pooh Bear you fat fink. We should have never pulled you out of that rabbit hole you no good traitor. Dilya grabs me by the arm and motions to Magda to clean up as we go hand-in-hand to the doorway. I like the way her hand feels. She has hands like stegosaurus plates played by silk ribbons pulled out to Nosferatu-level extremes. I play with the ring on her finger. The ring is loose enough that I wonder if I took it off her hand. . . Would she notice? And somehow that prospect makes the moment even more perfect. You will talk, she says before opening the door.
Two very wet, very well dressed men stand at attention. Could be feds. Could be Jehovah’s witnesses. Hello sir and madam. Sorry to bother you at home like this, the tall one says. There’s always a tall one and a short one. Jones and Smith. Good cop, bad cop. The short one has a large briefcase. Probably has a hacksaw in it. There’s enough room in that briefcase for our bodies if they cut us up properly. And if there’s not, the acid they can use to dissolve us in the bathtub will do the trick. I picture Dilya’s body and mine melting into each other in a burning purpled goo of entwined flesh and bone. Probably stripping the sides off the tub into our shared ooze. Reverse evolution. Love eternal in the last grand acid trip of the new millennium. Bring me the head of Sir Lord Baltimore.
We’re from the local Kiwanis Club, the short one says nervously. I look back at Dilya. She’s taken off her sunglasses to eye them with these marvelously insane hazel eyes. Yes, Dilya, you are the one for me. Forget Magda. Transition, transition. I need danger. Edge. Insanity. You are the girl for me. We’ll burry that useless gangster rap listening **** Magda with her hamster. I’ll take you to Texas. We’ll start a ranch.
We’re selling flags, the tall one says with a quiver in his voice. Flags? I ask. But why? He tells me that in this post 9-11 world, where anyone can be the enemy, loyalties must be declared. By purchasing an American flag and attaching it to your house, and another probably to your car, you can help assert your patriotism. We can be sure that no one with an American flag on their possessions could possibly be a member of that awful Al-Queda. No we haven’t found Osama yet. But we can be damned sure in this era of competing ideologies, where liberty is at stake, repeated for emphasis: liberty is at stake, with the addendum that they hate our freedoms—we can be sure that that lowlife rat ******* would never, and we have this on good word from the C-I-A, that that scum, would never hide himself under the good ol’ stars and stripes. It’s like hanging garlic outside your window to ward off vampire, Dilya says. The two men both nod trying not to notice her accent. We take all that you have, she says. Pay the men, she says. She turns and marches back into the kitchen. I pull out my wallet. Memories of Agent Orange, of the Fantastic Four, and how a fool and his money—you know the saying. The tall one tells me that my meager sum won’t even buy one flag, and they have at least fifty in that suitcase. The short one is disappointed in me, I can tell. Magda appears, hamster in hand, large sum of money in the other—will this do? She asks. Yes it will. Thank you kindly madam. He gives me the suitcase of what I assume to be flags and scampers off.
Well done American, Dilya my future wife to be yells from the back room—yes I will follow you to the ends of the earth Dilya. They do not make American women such as you. Buy foreign. Where did you get that kind of money, Magda? Why, silly Andrew, where do you think? Oh but of course. The meth lab. Yes, Dilya yells, the meth lab—isn’t America wonderful? Andrew, what a pretty name. Can I call you Andy? Andy. Yes Magda, the powers have shifted. But you knew this. You brought me here for your roommate. You will never admit this later on, when I try and blame you for Dilya, the insane **** that she is. But what can we do in the face of such power?
We bury the hamster under the coating of drenching rain in a patch of grass outside the apartment complex. Magda says a prayer in polish. Dilya sings what I take to be a hymn. I try my best to look solemn. The rest of the afternoon is spent listening to records. For being Polish and Russian, these two girls are incredibly in touch with American music from the seventies or thereabouts—it turns out that Magda in spite of her current predilections towards classic southern rap groups, and it is quite the predilection, as I hear way too much about DJ Screw, UGK, MJG, and Outkast—but in spite of that we spend the afternoon listening to The Velvet Underground, Television, Richard Hell, The New York Dolls, and for kicks, The Ramones. Dilya bakes some of the speed into these chocolate covered marshmallow things. My cell phone rings twice, and I let it go, this is the world I want to be in. As night creeps in Dilya is curled up on the couch next to me and Magda is passed out in the middle of the floor in front of me. We should go to the club, Andrew. I want to dance, she says. With Magda completely unconscious at my feet I have unexpressed doubts. Shiny Shiny, I say.
We will throw her in the shower. That will clean that pollock right up. My people used to do it all the time with these despicable pollocks. I hate the club, I say offhandedly to direct the conversation elsewhere. Loud music. Stupid drunk people doing stupid drunk things. Just say you can’t dance, she says. But I like the scantily clad girls, I tell her. But who doesn’t, this is America after all, she says. Why can’t the library be the happening place to be? Everyone can quietly look sexy. Periodicals can be the ****ing jump-off. You stupid American, she says. We go to the club. Now help me pick her up. Dilya is dragging Magda by her ankles towards the bathroom, a trail of drool snailing its way across the floor. I follow the slime and help lift Magda into the bathtub.
Dilya hits her with the cold water. Wake up stupid *****, she says. She sprays her again. Wake up. You will not escape us so easily. The factory needs workers and even one so useless as you has hands. Workers unite. She sprays Magda again. Magda’s eyes open. We go to the club. The club? Magda asks in a daze rising out of the bathtub like one of Romero’s undead. Booty poppin’, I add. Dilya slaps me across the face. Stupid American boy. And she kisses me. Magda falls back into the tub.

It is decided on account of my just-rolled-out-of-bed clothes that we are going to the low-end scum club. Like low rent whores, Dilya proclaims. We hop in Dilya’s car and begin our drive. Magda and I sit in the back. Andrew, I know you’ve fallen for Dilya, she says quietly. I know you’ve forgotten our time at the comic book shop. And I want to tell you that it is okay with me. I understand. You have my blessing. She puts her arm around me. Besides, the ***** hasn’t got long for this earth. She’ll kill you both soon. We both know this Andrew. And you let her call you Andy. I heard that. Such a shame. But you and I shall be friends till the end. That’s all I’m saying. I like you Andrew. I will always remember what you said to me. I try to remember what she is garbling on about. About the animals, Andrew, and me being a caring person, she reminds me. It’s so true, she says.
It’s clear this girl’s mind has been completely blown. Her last circuits have been fried. In less than a minute she will be crying. Something must happen. The car screeches to a halt. The Club! We are here, Dilya announces. She springs out of the car, rips our door open, and drags us both out of the car toward the club entrance.

The girls hit the dance floor and I go to order some drinks. Though I can still taste the death memories from the hard liquor of the night before, like some bad acid flashback—my buddies facedown in their own vomit, half eaten sleeping pills, a jug of orange juice in a sad attempt to cut the whiskey. Nothing doing. Limbs useless and staggering. Their eyes madly empty. Desolation angels mumbling their hymns into poorly conceived but still bitter all the same suicide emails. This grand idea of one final long sleep-in. A poster of Bardot. One of good Serge’s faithful *****es. Useless pedophiles always get the women. Histoire de Melody Nelson.
Carrying the drinks back to our table, I bump into a familiar face. Think twice about dousing her in beer and throwing the match at her you fool, think of the consequences. At this would be sad sack monk. Protest? Thou doeth it too ****ing much. It’s Nicole in all her platinum blonde headed beauty. Those eyes that stretch back into her skull for miles. Makes you think she’s got the wisdom of sages pouring out her overly glossed lips. Those lips that ask me accusingly, what are you doing here? As if I shouldn’t be asking this worthless whore the same exact question. And yet, I kid you not, this is my best friend in the whole world. Or was. When my father died, she was there to talk to. When my stepfather ran out on us and my mom lost it for that week trying to figure out what next, always what next—she put her arms around me. The **** that told me to write her a suicide letter, but here she is partying it up. Here I am partying it up. We’re not even the same people anymore. I don’t see Dilya and Magda sneak up. You want we should kill her boss? Dilya asks. Just say the word, Magda adds. Nicole is a bit taken a back by my drug-addled cohorts. This is Dilya and Magda, I tell her. What are you doing here? Is all the response she can muster. Boss, I have moral objections about killing the mentally retarded, Dilya tells me. Well I hope you’re having fun, it looks like it. I’ll leave you to it. And that’s all Nicole gives me. The last I see of her. I must have said some gross things in that suicide letter. Or maybe that’s just the way it is. They’d tell me later in the psychiatric ward about how it’s not really my fault for things being the way they are. But if it’s not my fault, then that implies it is someone else’s fault, or at least that’s what I was thinking at first. But I think what they were getting at is that it’s really no ones singular one fault. But then someone flies the planes. People’s lives do get destroyed. It just goes round and round down the great toilet, is this the way the universe contracts? Right place wrong time to be a fleck in God’s anus.
Of course I’m not thinking this in depth at the moment. Right then. There. In that **** *** club with the **** *** music—at least if we had gone to a country western club there would have been a mechanical bull—but this club, right now, I’m mainly just watching Dilya on the dance floor, and talking to Magda about **** knows what. As if it even mattered. I may have mentioned my childhood; she may have mentioned her family dog and harsh polish winters. He used to shiver so much. Finally one day my father came home drunk and angry about losing his job. There was no food for my mother to cook, she says.
She proposes a walk down the beach for all of us to cap the evening off. I look at my cell phone. Three calls now. One from Lindsay. Two from home. Sure, let’s go. Let’s go gather our filthy chum from the dance floor and we’ll make out like bandits from this place, rapido.
We are in the parking lot. Almost to Dilya’s car when it happens. Drunken ***, clumsy butt, high heeled for the occasion Magda trips and bashes her knee right into most vicious upturned rock in the lot. She howls in pain as blood flows out everywhere. It looks like a can of dark tomato soup has been opened up and gushed out into the pavement. Dilya’s frozen. Magda’s writhing on the ground bleeding all over herself like a stuck pig, screaming polish epithets. I tell Dilya to go get the car started. She just looks at Magda. I yell at her again. That’s probably going to leave some stains, huh Andrew? She asks. I threaten violence on her and she runs off for the car. I pick Magda up off the ground and pile her into the backseat. To the Hospital, Dilya. What we have here is an emergency. You think when they fix that knee they might find the drugs in her system, Andy? Dilya asks. Just drive.

After much shouting and debating somehow our drug addled minds come to the conclusion that it is best if we just dump Magda at the ER and make ourselves scarce. Magda through her screams of pain, once she has finished cursing our mothers in some gypsy tongue. . . Pretty much has no say in the matter. Who cares what she has to say, Dilya says.

The car is quiet again. The drugs are wearing off. Dilya’s coming down. I’m coming down. Two pretty unhappy people sharing the passing houses, buildings, trees, and playgrounds that maraud through the Indian landscape outside the car windows. Dilya has the radio on low. It’s a country station. Old stuff. Hank Williams Sr. is pouring his heart out, and that doesn’t help things. We’re so goddamn American right then. Tall and Smith would be happy for us. Or was it Jones and Short?
I begin to tell Dilya about the whole day. About the night before. Where I’m coming from. About Nicole. About Lindsay. Stupid American, boy, she says. They hate me for it, I tell her, at least that’s the impression that I get. Well, Andy, I’m glad you’re a failure. **** those dumb American *****es. Yes, I tell her, but I should probably be getting back to my home. My Mom and all. Things to deal with. Help to get. I understand, Andrew.

I direct her to my house. We sit outside it for what seems like hours. Watching the light pouring out of the living room window. The rest of the house dark. Dilya leans over and kisses me. How are you going to explain all of the blood? She points down at my pants. If you tell anything, I will slit your throat in your sleep. Like a ninja, you will never see me coming. She smiles. I think I love you Andy. Don’t die anymore. As she leans into the kiss, I hear the click of the passenger side door. I fall backwards out of the car. Sped up by her foot. I land on my back on the pavement. Dilya slams the door shut. She screams **** America out of her open window and speeds off down the road.
I open the door to my house and the first thing I see is my mom asleep on the couch. A box of tissues. The phone. Her eyes red and puffy in the orange living room light. I’m sorry mom. About the mess. About not calling. I grab a blanket and put it over her. And sit down at the edge of the couch till morning when she wakes up.
We end up going to the hospital. Which ends up getting me a nice three-week stay in the local psychiatric ward.
On my mom’s visits, she tells me about a strange Russian girl who keeps calling the house leaving threatening sounding messages. My mom says she tried to explain where I was, but the girl was incomprehensible and quite vulgar.
So when I finally got out of the hospital, it wasn’t Nicole, it wasn’t Lindsay, it wasn’t Magda—it was Dilya. Standing there in front of her car at the beach where she told me to meet her. The surf at her back. The sky cloudless and blue. The wind blowing through her hair and skirt. Her dark sunglasses back on.
We must leave this place Andy. The ****-bucket Americans have already exiled Magda, she says. For the drugs, she tells me. Meanwhile your rapist celebrity superstars, your thieving lying CEO’s—they are allowed to walk the streets without the fear of violent retribution. What kind of country is this that goes after its drug addicts, its *****s, and its hippies—while crooks, murderers, and rapists are let go? That’s capitalism, I tell her. Well, we cannot stay here any longer, Andy. I want you to come back to Europe with me. Isn’t there paperwork I have to fill out for that? I ask. Who cares? She says. We must hurry. I saw your president Bush talking the other day, and they asked him whether he was going to invade another country, and though he said no, you should have seen the gleam in his eye when they asked him. Andy. Are you a ******* Roman, Andy? We must hurry. Leave this madhouse. Before it kills us both. I love you stupid American.

The Snake
6,527 Posts
Here is a short story I wrote...

Distanced Destruction
This window is my new life. I sit in front of it every day and watch every occurence. My wife does not share my enthusiasm. She sits in the corner, her head buried in her arms, rocking back and forth. Today is no different. I am in front of this window, she is curled up attempting to escape what I celebrate.

"Honey, come and look outside, it's beautiful", I said. Initially she looked away but then spun around with an angry glare upon her face.

"How can you sit there and just watch. Our world, our friends, our lives are destroyed", she began to increase the volume of her voice, "This buttoned-down life you despised is gone and you are reveling in every single second of its ultimate destruction."

I smiled and turned back towards the window. How many days did I look out this window at the identical houses painted in identical shades of grey and never notice the beauty? The houses are still covered in hues of grey...same as before...but the ash now complements the red sky, creating that cliched version of the future I saw a million times. In those films and television shows, the world portrayed was nightmarish and chaotic. In reality, I have never felt more at peace.

Leaning back in my chair, I noticed my wife staring intently into the whites of my eyes. She arose from a position she maintained for three months and began walking towards the front door.

"Where are you going honey?" I inquired.

"Outside", she replied.

For an instance fear became my primary emotion. It faded as most things do. My wife is predictable, a coward for the most part, and suddenly she is going to turn against her natural instincts and walk into hell...unlikely.

"Honey stop trying to scare me. We both know you are not going outside", I disdainly commented.

She never bothered to reply; instead swinging the door open and disappearing from my sight. I sprung up from my chair and raced around the corner and out the door. There she was frozen looking over the horizon, now visible through the shells of former homes.

"Let's go inside", I begged.

She did not respond. So I sat there on the steps of our house, the only remnant of an eliminated era and watched my wife become hypnotized. Five minutes later she turned to me and said, "It is beautiful. Come here and share with me."

I'd like thoughts. I wrote this over a period of a couple of hours at my internship a while back. I want to be a writer but I can never find the time.
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