1.
Through the tears she cries
The words that led to her demise
Lies dripped, torn from the lips,
Striking heaven's chords to sip.
With Fingertips drawn across the line
Worn Gray by forgotten time,
Over Signed in ink, blood, and rain,
The splattered soul no words could tame.
2.
Silk curtains overlook the dawn
Once seen by you and I.
Passed the sky between the lines
Night gone with each sunrise
But from these little fingertips
Came these city lights.
Washing away what once was here.
The evening shadow's night.
3.
Eyes of the world will fall with sun
As darkness blankets the western seas
Where light is dim and sight is seized
And shadows creep across
The furthest horizon.
Night to end with the new day begun
As life resumes to play
With the sun, comes the light of day
And the night's turn
To run away.
4.
Innocent eyes stare back at me
Through the glass wall in the cage.
With twisted lips she turns away,
These are her final days.
But, "I'm sorry sir, your love is dead,"
Won't heal the fucking pain.
They took her life and ripped her soul
And threw her in her grave.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Scott: The Short and Sweet of it
I stare into pools;
turning in the quiet dark;
Sounds: just breath. And beat.
turning in the quiet dark;
Sounds: just breath. And beat.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Anthony: Untitled
Therapy is like doing your laundry. At the end of the day, you got a lot of dirty clothes that sit in a hamper, folded, worn, and hidden in a closet. You put some change into the machine, dump it into the washer, and everything is supposed to be clean. The whole fucking problem is, my laundry fills fast, my clothes keep fading, and I just never have enough quarters...
Mike: Glimpses of A Man - Parts I and II
I'm currently writing short entries revolving around the same character. He's basically my experimental way of getting back into creative writing. I'll update here as I write.
Part I
Fragile-
That's the word I'd use to describe him. Not in the sense that he was a cripple, or he'd break if he fell or some shit like that. The kid was broke...like broke in the head. You know, up here...
*************
The flow of the street was manic. 9:30am. Strange mix of people. Strange. Half the people running like dogs trying to get to work, not realizin' they're already late and that extra five minutes won't buy their bosses affection- or respect. Runnin' ain't worth shit at this point. Late.
Then you got the other half, the lazy fucks. The one's with nowhere to go. Walkin' around with their heads half up their asses proud of themselves for staying one-step away...or maybe ahead of convention. No job. Nowhere to go.
Look at this one. Nicely pressed suit, mirror in one hand, lipstick in the other. Red. Her pace, accellerated beyond the norm. Two inch heels clinging to fleeing feet, until one snaps - caught in the sewer grate. She walks a fine line. I could touch her as she pauses and curses under her breath clutching for the absent heel shaved clean off the torn sole. She's so close. I taste her frustratingly heaving breath, as she lopsidedly - yet hurridly - saunters away. She smells... like roses.
*************
Locked down-
He ain't heard shit in years. I mean, he listened. He listened real good. His eyes could pierce you like a knife. He'd stare, and listen, real close, so you could feel his breath climb up your nostrils. But, like i said, he ain't really heard shit in years.
=============================================
Part II
A realist calm swept over him.
He stepped backwards with a slight stutter, carefully avoiding the line of ants weaving their way through the perilous cracks in the pavement.
A pause-
He lifted his foot and rested the sole softly on the leader. A slight crunch as he shifted his weight from left to right, lips twisting slightly as his eyes trained on the ensuing scurry around the murderous obstacle. They disappeared into the cracks. His cigarette was burned to a nub. He threw it toward the insect’s remains
after salvaging a last breath, stomping on both a little harder this time – charring the body as the smoke wisped away. He let off another smile as he turned his back and started away.
---------------------------------------------
Grizzled – it’s such a cliché to describe a man that way. Half the time they aren’t, and the other half they’re only halfway there. Grizzled, usually connotes imagery of rough looking celebrities- the one’s that walk down the street and get two looks from every girl that passes – first there’s the “eh not bad” look, then the “on second thought dot-dot-dot, double-take.” This faux-grizzled man walks nonchalantly by knowing what transpires behind him as he callously walks away.
He isn’t that, he’s grizzled– in full. His cheek bones, high, meet facial hair, not a beard. Beards require shape and thought. He didn’t have time to think about beards. He shaved when he remembered; at this point it was 4 days. He didn’t get any single takes, or double takes. He blended in, as need be.
-----------------------------------------------------
He watched his feet as they paced the pavement, one foot over the other – repetition in a dizzying fashion. He walked quickly, as to avoid falling into pace with another, no need for unnecessary awkward moments. A group approaching in the opposite direction caught his attention and he refocused his eyes. They walked with a maddening pace, all of them probably in their early twenties. He jammed his hand into his coat pocket as they past. Their varying scents challenged his nostrils as his fingers grasped for a cigarette.
“You got a light?” he turned toward the group as the words ejected from his lips. His voice– unsurprisingly hoarse from under use. The group paused in unison, as if instantly confronted with the edge of a cliff. A necessary awkward moment. The shorter of two girls turned, digging through her purse and after a few moments retrieved a small box of matches. It was one of those boxes found, and often taken from a hotel, inside the drawer of the bedside table.
A harsh flame ignited as she focused on the cigarette perched between his lips, being careful to burn only the end. He inhaled softly as a few bits of charred paper and tobacco fell on his hand. He inhaled. She smiled. She flicked the match with precision into a puddle, trapped between the curb and the street.
“Hiss,” she pursed her lips and walked back to the group, and in unison they resumed.
Part I
Fragile-
That's the word I'd use to describe him. Not in the sense that he was a cripple, or he'd break if he fell or some shit like that. The kid was broke...like broke in the head. You know, up here...
*************
The flow of the street was manic. 9:30am. Strange mix of people. Strange. Half the people running like dogs trying to get to work, not realizin' they're already late and that extra five minutes won't buy their bosses affection- or respect. Runnin' ain't worth shit at this point. Late.
Then you got the other half, the lazy fucks. The one's with nowhere to go. Walkin' around with their heads half up their asses proud of themselves for staying one-step away...or maybe ahead of convention. No job. Nowhere to go.
Look at this one. Nicely pressed suit, mirror in one hand, lipstick in the other. Red. Her pace, accellerated beyond the norm. Two inch heels clinging to fleeing feet, until one snaps - caught in the sewer grate. She walks a fine line. I could touch her as she pauses and curses under her breath clutching for the absent heel shaved clean off the torn sole. She's so close. I taste her frustratingly heaving breath, as she lopsidedly - yet hurridly - saunters away. She smells... like roses.
*************
Locked down-
He ain't heard shit in years. I mean, he listened. He listened real good. His eyes could pierce you like a knife. He'd stare, and listen, real close, so you could feel his breath climb up your nostrils. But, like i said, he ain't really heard shit in years.
=============================================
Part II
A realist calm swept over him.
He stepped backwards with a slight stutter, carefully avoiding the line of ants weaving their way through the perilous cracks in the pavement.
A pause-
He lifted his foot and rested the sole softly on the leader. A slight crunch as he shifted his weight from left to right, lips twisting slightly as his eyes trained on the ensuing scurry around the murderous obstacle. They disappeared into the cracks. His cigarette was burned to a nub. He threw it toward the insect’s remains
after salvaging a last breath, stomping on both a little harder this time – charring the body as the smoke wisped away. He let off another smile as he turned his back and started away.
---------------------------------------------
Grizzled – it’s such a cliché to describe a man that way. Half the time they aren’t, and the other half they’re only halfway there. Grizzled, usually connotes imagery of rough looking celebrities- the one’s that walk down the street and get two looks from every girl that passes – first there’s the “eh not bad” look, then the “on second thought dot-dot-dot, double-take.” This faux-grizzled man walks nonchalantly by knowing what transpires behind him as he callously walks away.
He isn’t that, he’s grizzled– in full. His cheek bones, high, meet facial hair, not a beard. Beards require shape and thought. He didn’t have time to think about beards. He shaved when he remembered; at this point it was 4 days. He didn’t get any single takes, or double takes. He blended in, as need be.
-----------------------------------------------------
He watched his feet as they paced the pavement, one foot over the other – repetition in a dizzying fashion. He walked quickly, as to avoid falling into pace with another, no need for unnecessary awkward moments. A group approaching in the opposite direction caught his attention and he refocused his eyes. They walked with a maddening pace, all of them probably in their early twenties. He jammed his hand into his coat pocket as they past. Their varying scents challenged his nostrils as his fingers grasped for a cigarette.
“You got a light?” he turned toward the group as the words ejected from his lips. His voice– unsurprisingly hoarse from under use. The group paused in unison, as if instantly confronted with the edge of a cliff. A necessary awkward moment. The shorter of two girls turned, digging through her purse and after a few moments retrieved a small box of matches. It was one of those boxes found, and often taken from a hotel, inside the drawer of the bedside table.
A harsh flame ignited as she focused on the cigarette perched between his lips, being careful to burn only the end. He inhaled softly as a few bits of charred paper and tobacco fell on his hand. He inhaled. She smiled. She flicked the match with precision into a puddle, trapped between the curb and the street.
“Hiss,” she pursed her lips and walked back to the group, and in unison they resumed.
Scott: Woefully Poor Sci-Fi from 2005 (read: untitled Schlock)
“The thing about New York City that no ones seem to mention when they talk about it - that little fact that slips the mind of every tourist; every native, when they describe the wonders of the sprawling metropolis...New York Stinks.
It’s not just the smoke pouring out of every factory, or the trash piling up on every street corner, no, at the end of the day, New York smells because of the food.
Business people, street workers, and the cosmopolitan crowd all lined up, waiting on street corners and in diners, pressing against a mass of impatient bodies to get their cup of coffee, or their egg sandwich on whole wheat bread. The old ‘have-it-your-way’ mentality. The guy in front of me has a pancake - me? I’ll take a steak kebab please. All those smells, those aromas get swept up into some ancient ventilation system and mixed around until even the sweet scent of a slice of lemon becomes a putrid assault on the nose.
It’s no wonder that the entire city is built vertically - because down here, at the base, the very core of the city, where all the drugs, crime, and poverty happen, at the end of the day, you go home smelling like a sinner.
Yeah, New York Stinks.”
The bartender had been talking non-stop since she stepped into this dive, going on and on about ‘simpler times’ and ‘old-fashioned values’. It was almost enough to make Emma burst; explode into a tirade about the kind of old-fashioned values he thought he was talking about. Were they the values that allowed a father to rape his sixteen-year-old daughter while his wife lay sleeping in the next room? Were those simpler times he reminisced about the times when a young girl would quietly cry herself to sleep at night, afraid to say anything because of what her father would do to her? She wanted to slam her glass onto the counter-top and yell at the self-indulgent bastard. Let him know that times were no longer simple, and that values were dead and that a little girl from Virginia who used the last bit of money in her piggy bank to escape from hell was not interested in conversing about the past. She wanted to open her mouth and scream.
Instead, she sipped her glass of water and nodded.
There was a dull scraping noise as the bar stool next to her was shifted around. She didn’t even bother to turn her head as a man eased into the seat and ordered a drink.
He motioned over to the bartender, “And get this young lady some fries and a soda - whatever you’ve got in the kitchen.”
She still hadn’t turned to look at him, but she could just tell he was smiling, all the men she had ever known all smiled when they wanted something.
“I’m sorry, you just looked like you could use something to eat is all.” The man offered.
“No thanks, I’m ok. I was just about to leave.”
She started to move in her seat.
“Leave and go where?” the man asked simply. “From the look of your clothes, and no offense the way you smell - you’ve been out here on the streets for a couple of days, am I right?”
Emma stopped moving, and moved her hand through her hair as she cast a glance at him. He was a well dressed young man, maybe in his twenties, with soft green eyes and a concerned look on his face...
She shivered uncontrollably and snapped her eyes away from his, burying herself in the pasta that the bartender had just placed in front of her.
“A week.” She muttered.
Out of the corner of her eye, Emma could see him shaking his head.
“Thanks for the food,” she said curtly “I really have to go.”
“Wait, wait!” the man returned, and he placed his hand on her shoulder.
She jumped back and threw the man’s hand off her “Don’t touch me!” she snarled.
“Hey there, are you bothering this little one?” the bartender asked, moving over to the pair.
“No, sorry - I didn’t mean to -” he waved his hand at the bartender “Look, I don’t know what you’re doing here on the streets,” he turned his attention back to Emma “but I know of a place you can stay. It’s just a couple of blocks. It’s a shelter.”
Emma started, and then moved her eyes toward the bartender.
The bartender looked at the man hard, and then looked back over at Emma “Yeah, there’s one over on first, just across.”
She stared into the man’s eyes for a moment, and then let out the breath she had unknowingly been holding. A warm shower would be more than welcome at this point. And a warm bed....
She leaned down to grab her bag.
“Fine.”
The man heaved a sigh. “Good, they’ll have you cleaned up in no time at all.”
He motioned his hand toward the door, and preceded her outside. Emma nodded at the bartender as she stepped out, and thanked him for the food with a weak smile.
They strolled for a few minutes in silence, alternatively watching their breath on the cold night air and the rare sight of a car moving along the street.
Sensing that conversation could only make the night feel warmer, Emma slowly opened her mouth and cleared her throat, forcing out a quiet “Thank you.” from between her cracked lips.
“Don’t worry about it,” The man said casually as he put a hand through his dark hair. “This is the most gratifying part of my job.” She watched him for a moment, and finally noticed an odd scent coming off of him.
“Is that,” she breathed in deeply. “Are you wearing perfume?”
The man smiled broad and shook his head slowly “Heheheh, you noticed, huh? It’s sort of a trademark I guess. Actually, I think the smell kind of suits me, don’t you?”
Emma chuckled aloud. “I guess. I really wouldn’t know anything about perfume I guess - I mean, I’ve never really had to wear it or anything.” She pursed her lips together and looked at him quizzically. “Why do you need to wear perfume as a trademark, what do you do for a living?”
The man waved a hand negligently and cast his gaze up at the night sky, his emerald eyes sparkling under the glow of a sputtering street light. “I guess you could say I do collections.”
“Collections? What the hell does that mean? You mean like money?” She brushed her hair away from her face, and cast a sideways glance at him, his handsome smile turning to a slight grimace as he shrugged his shoulders.
“I guess you could say that,” he started. “I do a lot of things. Money, merchandise, people...”
Emma stopped in her steps “What do you mean, people?”
The man cast a glance backwards, and then looked down at the street, finally putting his arms up as if to suggest his innocence. “C’mon, like you don’t know.”
And then he quickly moved forward and shoved her.
She tumbled back instantly, taking several awkward steps back before realizing that there was no building behind her. Emma fell to the ground with a thud, and the man was on top of her. He wrenched her by the hair, and covered her mouth with one hand, half walking, half dragging her further into the alleyway.
He pressed her against the wall with his body, and his free hand found it’s way into his pants
Emma tried to shriek, tears pouring down her face as she struggled, but he was far too strong for her.
“Stop moving you dirty little bitch,”he growled, his voice low and harsh. “It’s only going to make this harder for us both.”
Out of the corner of her vision Emma saw a small sliver of light at his waist, and her face went white.
He lifted the small knife up to her cheek, and proceeded to scrape her face to the bottom of her chin.She continued to weep, and her frightened eyes met his own.
Even in the darkness of the alleyway, his eyes gleamed a bright, inhuman green.
Emma’s heart quickened, and she found herself completely unable to catch her breath.
The man smiled broad again, and brought the blade up to his face, nearly wiping her blood upon his tongue. “Like I said, this is the gratifying stuff.” his smile faded, and he squinted his bright eyes - a terrifying contrast to the dark gulf all around them - into deadly slits.
He brought the knife point to the edge of her left eye, and slowly started to push. His voice was soft, almost carried away by the wind. “Now, this may sting...”
Emma choked as she tried to breath, then let out a scream. Terrified, she shut her eyes tight and slid to the ground, her back braced against the cold concrete wall.
What - oh my god - wha- happened?
Her eyes snapped open, and she glared around frantically, her memories of the past few seconds finally catching up to her.
The pressure upon her eye increased slowly, the blade beginning to tear away at the soft whites. Tears streaming down her face, confused and panicked, Emma barely registered that the pressure was lessening now - and her blurred vision barely saw an arm reach out and wrench her attacker away....
She pulled tear and blood soaked strands of her away from her face as she caught sight of two figures.
One, eyes blazing, she recognized instantly - the knife in his hand lashing out violently before him, in a wild attempt to find his new target.
The other, his back to her, features unrecognizable in the night, moved subtly, almost casually in avoidance; slipping between the cuts of the knife as elegantly as a ballerina, and moving with a speed Emma found very difficult to follow.
The aggressor stabbed again - striking only air. Again, and Again - once, twice, three times, each swipe moments too slow to find its mark.
The other figure slid aside quickly, and grabbed the outstretched hand of Emma’s attacker. In one swift motion, he slammed an open palm into the other man’s shoulder with enough force to make the man scream. Emma could hear the sickening crack of bone as the attacker’s shoulder was crushed.
Moving behind the attacker, the stranger took hold of the man’s head with one hand, and harshly wrenched it in the other direction. There was a popping sound, and the knife -clinked- as it fell upon the cold ground.
She watched her attacker’s body go limp, and drop to the floor in a heap.
Dragging herself to her feet, Emma unsteadily pushed off of the wall with her hand, weaving back and forth dangerously as she attempted to run.
“Wait.”
She stopped dead, and, leaning against the wall for support, twisted her body round cautiously.
The man was straightening up from a crouch - he had been hovering over the body of her attacker, rifling through the corpse’s pockets. He looked at her from over his shoulder as he rose up, and strode slowly toward her, his even breath the only sound in the night.
“Wha - what do you want from me?” Emma asked, her voice quivering nearly as much as her body from fear.
He stopped, and tossed a small object to the ground by her feet, then slowly motioned his head toward the main rode.
“The shelter,” he said simply. “It’s two blocks north.”
Emma nodded obediently and looked down at her feet to find a wallet. She bent down and picked it up, her hands shaking as she reached inside. She removed a wad of bills, and then hurriedly tossed the wallet aside with a troubled flick of her wrist. She rubbed her face with her sleeve, the blood and tears around her eyes already beginning to cake and chaff her skin. She rose up to her feet, and took a long, confused look at the man who stood before her, at the same time shuffling backwards towards the alley’s entrance.
“I - uhh - than- thank you...” She said lowly.
Without responding, the man turned and began walking in the opposite direction.
Still unsteady, Emma put a hand against the wall as she left the alley.
It’s not just the smoke pouring out of every factory, or the trash piling up on every street corner, no, at the end of the day, New York smells because of the food.
Business people, street workers, and the cosmopolitan crowd all lined up, waiting on street corners and in diners, pressing against a mass of impatient bodies to get their cup of coffee, or their egg sandwich on whole wheat bread. The old ‘have-it-your-way’ mentality. The guy in front of me has a pancake - me? I’ll take a steak kebab please. All those smells, those aromas get swept up into some ancient ventilation system and mixed around until even the sweet scent of a slice of lemon becomes a putrid assault on the nose.
It’s no wonder that the entire city is built vertically - because down here, at the base, the very core of the city, where all the drugs, crime, and poverty happen, at the end of the day, you go home smelling like a sinner.
Yeah, New York Stinks.”
The bartender had been talking non-stop since she stepped into this dive, going on and on about ‘simpler times’ and ‘old-fashioned values’. It was almost enough to make Emma burst; explode into a tirade about the kind of old-fashioned values he thought he was talking about. Were they the values that allowed a father to rape his sixteen-year-old daughter while his wife lay sleeping in the next room? Were those simpler times he reminisced about the times when a young girl would quietly cry herself to sleep at night, afraid to say anything because of what her father would do to her? She wanted to slam her glass onto the counter-top and yell at the self-indulgent bastard. Let him know that times were no longer simple, and that values were dead and that a little girl from Virginia who used the last bit of money in her piggy bank to escape from hell was not interested in conversing about the past. She wanted to open her mouth and scream.
Instead, she sipped her glass of water and nodded.
There was a dull scraping noise as the bar stool next to her was shifted around. She didn’t even bother to turn her head as a man eased into the seat and ordered a drink.
He motioned over to the bartender, “And get this young lady some fries and a soda - whatever you’ve got in the kitchen.”
She still hadn’t turned to look at him, but she could just tell he was smiling, all the men she had ever known all smiled when they wanted something.
“I’m sorry, you just looked like you could use something to eat is all.” The man offered.
“No thanks, I’m ok. I was just about to leave.”
She started to move in her seat.
“Leave and go where?” the man asked simply. “From the look of your clothes, and no offense the way you smell - you’ve been out here on the streets for a couple of days, am I right?”
Emma stopped moving, and moved her hand through her hair as she cast a glance at him. He was a well dressed young man, maybe in his twenties, with soft green eyes and a concerned look on his face...
She shivered uncontrollably and snapped her eyes away from his, burying herself in the pasta that the bartender had just placed in front of her.
“A week.” She muttered.
Out of the corner of her eye, Emma could see him shaking his head.
“Thanks for the food,” she said curtly “I really have to go.”
“Wait, wait!” the man returned, and he placed his hand on her shoulder.
She jumped back and threw the man’s hand off her “Don’t touch me!” she snarled.
“Hey there, are you bothering this little one?” the bartender asked, moving over to the pair.
“No, sorry - I didn’t mean to -” he waved his hand at the bartender “Look, I don’t know what you’re doing here on the streets,” he turned his attention back to Emma “but I know of a place you can stay. It’s just a couple of blocks. It’s a shelter.”
Emma started, and then moved her eyes toward the bartender.
The bartender looked at the man hard, and then looked back over at Emma “Yeah, there’s one over on first, just across.”
She stared into the man’s eyes for a moment, and then let out the breath she had unknowingly been holding. A warm shower would be more than welcome at this point. And a warm bed....
She leaned down to grab her bag.
“Fine.”
The man heaved a sigh. “Good, they’ll have you cleaned up in no time at all.”
He motioned his hand toward the door, and preceded her outside. Emma nodded at the bartender as she stepped out, and thanked him for the food with a weak smile.
They strolled for a few minutes in silence, alternatively watching their breath on the cold night air and the rare sight of a car moving along the street.
Sensing that conversation could only make the night feel warmer, Emma slowly opened her mouth and cleared her throat, forcing out a quiet “Thank you.” from between her cracked lips.
“Don’t worry about it,” The man said casually as he put a hand through his dark hair. “This is the most gratifying part of my job.” She watched him for a moment, and finally noticed an odd scent coming off of him.
“Is that,” she breathed in deeply. “Are you wearing perfume?”
The man smiled broad and shook his head slowly “Heheheh, you noticed, huh? It’s sort of a trademark I guess. Actually, I think the smell kind of suits me, don’t you?”
Emma chuckled aloud. “I guess. I really wouldn’t know anything about perfume I guess - I mean, I’ve never really had to wear it or anything.” She pursed her lips together and looked at him quizzically. “Why do you need to wear perfume as a trademark, what do you do for a living?”
The man waved a hand negligently and cast his gaze up at the night sky, his emerald eyes sparkling under the glow of a sputtering street light. “I guess you could say I do collections.”
“Collections? What the hell does that mean? You mean like money?” She brushed her hair away from her face, and cast a sideways glance at him, his handsome smile turning to a slight grimace as he shrugged his shoulders.
“I guess you could say that,” he started. “I do a lot of things. Money, merchandise, people...”
Emma stopped in her steps “What do you mean, people?”
The man cast a glance backwards, and then looked down at the street, finally putting his arms up as if to suggest his innocence. “C’mon, like you don’t know.”
And then he quickly moved forward and shoved her.
She tumbled back instantly, taking several awkward steps back before realizing that there was no building behind her. Emma fell to the ground with a thud, and the man was on top of her. He wrenched her by the hair, and covered her mouth with one hand, half walking, half dragging her further into the alleyway.
He pressed her against the wall with his body, and his free hand found it’s way into his pants
Emma tried to shriek, tears pouring down her face as she struggled, but he was far too strong for her.
“Stop moving you dirty little bitch,”he growled, his voice low and harsh. “It’s only going to make this harder for us both.”
Out of the corner of her vision Emma saw a small sliver of light at his waist, and her face went white.
He lifted the small knife up to her cheek, and proceeded to scrape her face to the bottom of her chin.She continued to weep, and her frightened eyes met his own.
Even in the darkness of the alleyway, his eyes gleamed a bright, inhuman green.
Emma’s heart quickened, and she found herself completely unable to catch her breath.
The man smiled broad again, and brought the blade up to his face, nearly wiping her blood upon his tongue. “Like I said, this is the gratifying stuff.” his smile faded, and he squinted his bright eyes - a terrifying contrast to the dark gulf all around them - into deadly slits.
He brought the knife point to the edge of her left eye, and slowly started to push. His voice was soft, almost carried away by the wind. “Now, this may sting...”
Emma choked as she tried to breath, then let out a scream. Terrified, she shut her eyes tight and slid to the ground, her back braced against the cold concrete wall.
What - oh my god - wha- happened?
Her eyes snapped open, and she glared around frantically, her memories of the past few seconds finally catching up to her.
The pressure upon her eye increased slowly, the blade beginning to tear away at the soft whites. Tears streaming down her face, confused and panicked, Emma barely registered that the pressure was lessening now - and her blurred vision barely saw an arm reach out and wrench her attacker away....
She pulled tear and blood soaked strands of her away from her face as she caught sight of two figures.
One, eyes blazing, she recognized instantly - the knife in his hand lashing out violently before him, in a wild attempt to find his new target.
The other, his back to her, features unrecognizable in the night, moved subtly, almost casually in avoidance; slipping between the cuts of the knife as elegantly as a ballerina, and moving with a speed Emma found very difficult to follow.
The aggressor stabbed again - striking only air. Again, and Again - once, twice, three times, each swipe moments too slow to find its mark.
The other figure slid aside quickly, and grabbed the outstretched hand of Emma’s attacker. In one swift motion, he slammed an open palm into the other man’s shoulder with enough force to make the man scream. Emma could hear the sickening crack of bone as the attacker’s shoulder was crushed.
Moving behind the attacker, the stranger took hold of the man’s head with one hand, and harshly wrenched it in the other direction. There was a popping sound, and the knife -clinked- as it fell upon the cold ground.
She watched her attacker’s body go limp, and drop to the floor in a heap.
Dragging herself to her feet, Emma unsteadily pushed off of the wall with her hand, weaving back and forth dangerously as she attempted to run.
“Wait.”
She stopped dead, and, leaning against the wall for support, twisted her body round cautiously.
The man was straightening up from a crouch - he had been hovering over the body of her attacker, rifling through the corpse’s pockets. He looked at her from over his shoulder as he rose up, and strode slowly toward her, his even breath the only sound in the night.
“Wha - what do you want from me?” Emma asked, her voice quivering nearly as much as her body from fear.
He stopped, and tossed a small object to the ground by her feet, then slowly motioned his head toward the main rode.
“The shelter,” he said simply. “It’s two blocks north.”
Emma nodded obediently and looked down at her feet to find a wallet. She bent down and picked it up, her hands shaking as she reached inside. She removed a wad of bills, and then hurriedly tossed the wallet aside with a troubled flick of her wrist. She rubbed her face with her sleeve, the blood and tears around her eyes already beginning to cake and chaff her skin. She rose up to her feet, and took a long, confused look at the man who stood before her, at the same time shuffling backwards towards the alley’s entrance.
“I - uhh - than- thank you...” She said lowly.
Without responding, the man turned and began walking in the opposite direction.
Still unsteady, Emma put a hand against the wall as she left the alley.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Revisiting Fiction
Over the past year three of us, Myself (Mike), Anthony, and Scott have felt confined by the overbearing-ness of law school. We've been cornered by law, and it's midgetized our fictional mindset...aspirations etc. So here we will be writing, straight up fiction....no law, no analysis, nothing remotely close to what we are actually doing in life.
So enjoy.
-Mike
So enjoy.
-Mike
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