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Post by Deleted on Sept 4, 2013 9:10:53 GMT -5
the vagabonds He never minded having her around. It was like setting a saucer of milk out on the brick stoop expecting a vagabond cat to show, watching from a hidden place, holding the breath in to keep from scaring it away. Despite her complaining that he never had any good records to play, he could always fire off an unstoppable paragraph or two on the typewriter just having her around. Just having her shoes at the door and the way she smelled. And that familiar cigarette taste when he kissed the girl.
'You don't have anything', she'd say, sorting through faded covers with pealing edges. 'You always like the one about the man and his dog', he'd say, dabbing the white-out. 'Play that one', he'd say, looking at her, face warming when he'd get her to smile. She'd fingertip the vinyl, drop the needle, light another cigarette when the voice greeted the guitar. He'd type with the downbeat, following her mournful eyes to the water streaking against the window of her nest, outside so, so cold.
Once again, very nice, Phil. I truly, truly like your style of writing. Only I didn't exactly understand that ending (in bold, emphasis being on 'nest'). Was I supposed to interpret it, assumingly, like the others? With Respect, Michael
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Post by phil on Sept 7, 2013 9:24:16 GMT -5
Only I didn't exactly understand that ending (in bold, emphasis being on 'nest'). Was I supposed to interpret it, assumingly, like the others? First of all, thanks for your kind words, Michael.
I forgot to mention she removed her wedding dress at the door with the shoes.
But I always wondered - during a violent storm - where do the little birds huddle when they vanish from the feeder outside my window. I suppose they wait and watch from their safe house.
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Post by phil on Jan 21, 2016 23:54:27 GMT -5
Unwritten 'round Midnight The man can't write anymore. There was a time. I would think of the girl, chew the inside of my cheeks spewing a synopsis, face the blank unlined page, and launch. Now it was like those black and white creased Polaroids of a blue Marilyn you see from time to time, pale face turned away, palm up blocking the flash that turns her hair white, surrender and invisible tears. Give her a pouting script, diamond fishnets two sizes small, a reason to laugh again. Leave her stranded at a bus stop, yell action, and we'll take it from there. Give me Winona once more. Mustn't lose my grip and make a bee-line for the gutter. There's a saxophone sitting on the cardboard case in the corner begging for me to take it for a stroll to Charlie's Club. A secret: If you show up at the door wearing an untied bow tie they'll know from whence you came. Perhaps from your own gutter. We play that way. A stage full of men, dangling ties, C minors and B flats with sparse percussion. The sunny side of the street, yes. Just had a flash. I saw the raven-haired girl again. She's selling beauty now. There must be a good story I can brew from the beauty mark on her orb. I'll just walk past tonight. Maybe knock on the glass and salute once up and down the scale. Ignore the sound of a knife fight in the distance, stop by the bus station and look around for a lost soul before heading home.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 27, 2016 1:17:10 GMT -5
I have to tell you something, the man could write again if he wanted.
Any man (hmm, wait).
However, technically, there’s time. And one could still spire-in that just-right spew (after all, I do like that word) of a synopsis. Even if, the unlined page, itself, is seemingly now, somehow not in view. Apparently, just a bit of staunch, before the launch, they would all say.
And now I’ll tale you something very different:
The Polaroid
A blur of darkness flies low towards her on a pure white frozen landscape. The light-blue-skinned woman, with her never-surrender stare, holds up the fish net, ready for capture. As the fury of the black orb closes-in, the surviving heroine releases all her adrenal will upon the intrusive alien drone….
And…
Yes, it’s beautiful Winona there once more. Promoting Velvet Noir lashes for her Pal Joey, as if she really needed it.
Oh well, at least it’s Noir.
As, I, myself, finally tried to grip up from my own gutter, I realized all those loud buzzing-bees made it to her before I did.
Next, a strolling cardboard saxophonist, drowning out most of the bees, starting started playing a new song sequel by Louis Armstrong’s ghost, What A Wonderful Life, Get One. And then I had a momentary life-changing epiphany that made me … change course.
Anyhow, while trying to escape that hoopla, a few shady squalors down into Rioters Lives Matter land I happened upon a neon lefty-extremists club where the admittance was one very proud neck tie.
Any would be acceptable, but it had to be tied, as well.
Thank God, I had none of them.
And if I did, I would consider hanging myself with it, I amused.
After the local C & B taxi I was dragged by, from the last-second back bumper grab, it thankfully got a minor flat in it’s right rear tire (okay that was crap, I know).
Finally (the part some of you were waiting for, for exit reasons) at the end of a Dali dark night I finally made it to a Tim Burtonish motel/bus station named Home for Lost Souls. Oh, but they did promise a three o’clock wake-up call, a fruity kebab continental breakfast and trip to the sunny side of a reality I had never experienced.
Who knows, maybe even I could get inspired there.
---
Again, Be Good, As I Should
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Post by phil on Jun 30, 2017 23:00:24 GMT -5
strange on the set Had this remote control box held in both hands. Kind of like a child's Speak & Spell from the 80s. 'Run' in colored sparkling lights took seven takes. I kept spelling it wrong. Usually I can handle one-syllable words, seeing how I come from the Midwest. 'Ran'. Then I did 'Runt'. My hands were sweating. Profusely. She was less than five yards from me, my frantic heartbeat kept reminding me. Even with whitened shock-theater face powder left over from Plan 9 From Outer Space, her features were marvelous. Her pupils were like black marbles. 'CUT' yelled the director. I apologized. He cursed. She just calmly lit another cigarette and sat on the edge of the couch. Humming sweetly. Makeup waddled up and tried to fearful whiten her brow a touch more. She smiled and waved her away. She sat there, exhaling, following the smoke, spiraling up. The Young Girl came by and kissed her on the cheek. Winona hugged her with one arm, still sitting, offering reassurance, perhaps the Secret Of Life, in a low tone that pleased the Young Girl. I cleared my throat noisily and spelled 'I Love You Winona'. 'You did good,' she laughed. I told her the boss was going to tell me about the rabbits again later. She nodded and crushed the cigarette, one final white smoke breath like a frigid B movie scene filmed in a grocery freezer. Just when I lit her next cigarette a new man came by, never saw him before, smelled like rusty nails in an old blue cobwebbed coffee can in your grandfather's garage. He grabbed for the lighting box. I looked at Winona. She looked down at her shoes.
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Post by Deleted on Jul 1, 2017 5:07:09 GMT -5
strange on the set Had this remote control box held in both hands. Kind of like a child's Speak & Spell from the 80s. 'Run' in colored sparkling lights took seven takes. I kept spelling it wrong. Usually I can handle one-syllable words, seeing how I come from the Midwest. 'Ran'. Then I did 'Runt'. My hands were sweating. Profusely. She was less than five yards from me, my frantic heartbeat kept reminding me. Even with whitened shock-theater face powder left over from Plan 9 From Outer Space, her features were marvelous. Her pupils were like black marbles. 'CUT' yelled the director. I apologized. He cursed. She just calmly lit another cigarette and sat on the edge of the couch. Humming sweetly. Makeup waddled up and tried to fearful whiten her brow a touch more. She smiled and waved her away. She sat there, exhaling, following the smoke, spiraling up. The Young Girl came by and kissed her on the cheek. Winona hugged her with one arm, still sitting, offering reassurance, perhaps the Secret Of Life, in a low tone that pleased the Young Girl. I cleared my throat noisily and spelled 'I Love You Winona'. 'You did good,' she laughed. I told her the boss was going to tell me about the rabbits again later. She nodded and crushed the cigarette, one final white smoke breath like a frigid B movie scene filmed in a grocery freezer. Just when I lit her next cigarette a new man came by, never saw him before, smelled like rusty nails in an old blue cobwebbed coffee can in your grandfather's garage. He grabbed for the lighting box. I looked at Winona. She looked down at her shoes. Not bad, Philsy. But I certainly could do far worse. Not just with any strange writing, but with that darn light box conTRAPtion, as well. Winona, or no Winona. So, darn all those light-box thingamajigs. Did I spell that wrong? Oh, well. And, while were at it, darn all that shock-theater white face powder stuff, fanciful shoes and all those smokey, polutting cigarettes. I'ma tell ya something - THAT last one definetly is no Secret of Life. I don't know what she's been thinking. Yep. Anyhow, again, Be Good, as I should.
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Post by phil on Oct 24, 2017 19:10:01 GMT -5
6 word story:
'No, I'm not the marrying kind'.
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Post by phil on Mar 28, 2020 10:31:43 GMT -5
Winona's smile glow like winter candle light enchanting as a Spanish lullaby
(meant to write haiku, but threw it overboard)
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Post by Deleted on Mar 28, 2020 13:43:34 GMT -5
Yeah, I feel ya man.
For the most part, I threw mine overboard some time ago.
My enchanting candle light was misleading me for quite some time.
Sad. An apparent waste of time.
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Post by phil on Jul 8, 2021 18:52:44 GMT -5
I just couldn't help myself when I saw this photo....just a slice of dry toast, please...
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