futile attempts at literary genius

Bannon’s beginnings

wailin — Mon, 24 May 2010 14:13:06 +0000

Michelle Bannon washed dishes. They were not hers, only her responsibility as a dishwasher. She puffed a white curl from her face and tried to blink stinging sweat from here left eye. Up to the elbows in suds, she thought about home. It had been months since she arrived on the Qadesh Hub Station, fleeing the boredom of a small family farm of a small moon of an inconsequential planet of a backwater system.

feeling our feelings

wailin — Fri, 23 Jan 2009 04:34:45 +0000

It was cold. Not the kind of gentle, autumnal, light breeze kind of cold. It was the kind of cold that made you lift your collar to block the gusts of wind biting at the nape of your neck and threatening to burst into your ill-fitting (yet quite fashionable) coat and show you what winter was really all about. You’d pull your knit cap down over your ears in an attempt to keep your eardrums from freezing, then shattering at any sharp sound that happened. It wasn’t cold, it was COLD.

The girl helped, keeping him distracted with conversation about attacking hedgehogs, nearly tumbling into deep holes, and just stuff in general. He should have sipped his coffee more slowly before leaving Starbucks, he decided. This coat was not made to keep hands warm in pockets, and his jeans (also fashionable) did not afford much room in the pockets for things besides cell phone and cigarettes. Gloves would be nice to own.

The park, any park, was the destination. Despite the cold they were attempting to make the night last as long as possible. There were no awkward silences, really, but hanging in the air was the dangerous truth of “I fancy you, a bit. Perhaps we should call this a date, and get on with things?” But that seemed unreal, really. So they walked, and talked, and ventured forth into the blustery night leaving things unsaid for the moment.

The park was not much more than a few slides and swings when they arrived. He smoked, they talked, and swinging they came closer to saying that which they did not. Past histories were revealed, details of their lives that may be important should they come clean about feelings. Pains, happy times, and general information regarding bad habits one might have to deal with.

Things blurred together fast, until they found themselves sitting, well more like huddling for warmth. Neither complained of the closeness, and closer they became, physically and mentally and emotionally. It still felt dangerous to him, 10 years her senior and her a Senior in high school. It also felt good and fun.

i know a girl

wailin — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 16:45:14 +0000

I know a girl
She drinks her coffee really sweet
And thinks HTML’s really neat
And sometimes she drinks too much wine
But that’s just fine with me…

I know a girl
She drives like she’s really old
She’s never warm, she’s always cold
Doesn’t know what she wants to be
And that’s fine With Me…

I haven’t known this girl too long
But I’m writing her this song
Because she thinks I’m really swell
I don’t know how she could tell
But that’s fine with me,
Cause she is too

birds take wing

wailin — Mon, 04 Aug 2008 13:14:19 +0000

The birds were flying. That’s always a good sign on a day like today. Awake with a start and sweating hard, she wasn’t sure if she should leave the house. Then she heard them outside, chattering and chirping to each other. So calm, just sitting ont hat wire outside her bedroom window, basking in the sun. As one they took flight into the sun, still blazing orange on the horizon.

Today would be a good day.

suspense

wailin — Tue, 29 Jul 2008 01:04:40 +0000

Cigarette in hand he sat watching the door. He waited on the door. A knock. Perhaps it would just open. Shadows may be seen through the crack at the bottom. He waited until the cigarette burned itself down to the butt, then he lit another and waited some more. The TV was on, but he didn’t know what was playing. Didn’t care. He was waiting and nothing could deter his focus on the lock. Clicks. He wanted to hear the click of a key forcing the tumblers to fall. His coffee was cold, but he didn’t care. It was better the next day anyways. The window was open, but he ignored the breeze and light and sounds of life outside his tiny apartment. The window doesn’t matter, only the door does.

backseat

wailin — Mon, 28 Jul 2008 02:47:21 +0000

It was cold. It was night. What it was not was a cold, rainy night. Just cold and night. The car provided shelter from the wind, but the frigid air could not be held at bay completely. The blanket helped, but Jake was not feeling sleep anytime soon. Amy was cuddled up to him in the back seat of the old vehicle, long out of gas and no longer working. Nothing mechanical worked anymore. The world stopped working a while back.

Jake didn’t really stop to ponder why or when, only hoped he could sleep before the sun greeted them, signaling time to start walking again. It’s not like they knew where they were going, just getting away from the things that go bump and growl and bite in the dark. If they could get away.

another one about coffee

wailin — Sat, 26 Jul 2008 04:18:34 +0000

Did you ever know that drinking coffee with you was a little slice of heaven? That simple brew, tan in my cup like your hand on my arm, was more than I knew life had to offer? Sweetness not only to the tongue, but to my heart? The feelings linger like the smell on my breath of that Colombian bean ground finely and roasted to near perfection. Eventually the cup is tossed out, the heat gone from my belly, and all is a memory left to the wayside, waiting for the garbage men of time and age to steal it away to a landfill far away in the past. The taste lingers for a long while, mixed with smoke and flattering mirrors, but I hope I never forget the way it felt to be sitting in the sun with you and two cups of coffee between us.

midnight text messages

wailin — Sat, 26 Jul 2008 04:12:54 +0000

Late night tones wake me
Dreams can not be created
Stop texting so late

i can’t sing

wailin — Sat, 26 Jul 2008 04:10:28 +0000

Steel strings sing a song
Fingers pluck the melody
My voice has no words

AC

wailin — Sat, 26 Jul 2008 04:08:26 +0000

Chill air forcing me
To hide under a blanket.
Turn down the AC.