It doesn’t make the kind of
since I am use to. The type that connects to the last moment, or is a reaction
to the last moment, or working up to the next moment. This moment. This next
moment. A storyteller is a dream maker. Unless you are never released.

The door opened wide and I
bolt with a question, “What will you have?”
“I won’t drink.”
“Obviously you do, what will
you have?”
The bar-back was so thin I
heard some one out there say she could be used as a weapon. I looked past the
tender to the images on the walls. The glass coverings were chipped in the
corner and smeared with lipstick and grime. The fingery haze of smoke began to
tighten my throat.
“I’ll have sky-pie.”
A slice was handed to me as
the heavily anise lased aroma hit between the eyes. I took a bite and mentally
backed away from the intensity as my mouth went numb with the intense flavor.
Arguments ebb and flow in a
chaotic mess. I wanted to yell that the bat was on his way, even through the
cacophony was too loud to have been effective. For sure, he and I had never
been seen in the same room … kinda use to make ‘em wonder … but I could no longer play that card since the
Batman died. Insults were flung in my direction. If that where true I’d
have to say, it’s none of your business, but since it isn’t, I’ll just say
you’re on your own. I mentally wrote the abuse down to use
later, but I have never been good at the memory game. Then I was hit by something exposing deep secrets.
I shot back with,
“Impossible, I do not know you,” and exited out of back door number two...
Ah... hmm...
ReplyDeleteI'm confused. Different people? There's a plethora of ponderous quotes here but dying for something cohesive to come out of it.
ReplyDelete