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Showing posts from May, 2005

For Winston

George Martin, a banker, was sitting in his living room in a well-to-do suburb of Boston reading a local story in the newspaper headlined "Barking Dog Saves Family of Five." But this is not the the story of George Martin. Or of banks. Nor is it the story of a dog who saved five lives.
However, this is indeed, a story of a dog.
A brown dog.
A brown dog with rather large brown eyes.
Who did not live in Boston.

The brown dog was sitting on the floor, facing the front door. He was staring straight ahead. He had been sitting there for over an hour. The brown dog was just waiting.
And thinking, too, for brown dog really wanted to smell something new. And the newest thing the brown dog knew of was the fat, gray cat that had been living in his house for close to a month now. But the fat, gray cat hated the brown dog. Or so the fat, gray cat let on. She would arch her blobbed back, her hair straight as arrows; thick as a well-kept lawn. She would open her mouth and her sharp teeth…

Punks-The Tuesday After Saturday

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high.
Minnie never slept anymore, so Minnie was high a lot.
It was 6:30 in the morning and she could hear her father awake, moving in the upstairs, from room to room. She could hear the drag of her mother's feet following him. And she could hear her mother crying, whimpering.
But everybody knew it was going to happen this time.
This time, her father had not changed his mind. This time he had not given in.
Minnie could feel the hate wrench in her stomach, could feel that same hate in her eyes and across her mouth, as she took the last toke off the joint. She did not care anything for her father.
Minnie tried to care for her mother.
She heard the sudden thump and patter of Teddy and his seven year old feet upstairs. Minnie tossed the roach into her ashtray, lit, and got up off her bed; quickly, to cross her basement bedroom floor. She climbed the stairs, into the kitchen, where her parents now were.
"...fucking m…

Eight Years Old

It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and Tommy was sitting outside. On the front lawn and under the maple tree. It was raining; had been raining all day. Drizzle and five-minute breaks of fat and fast and rolling rain. Tommy's legs were in shorts, knees gripped to earth. He was wearing his jacket. And the maple tree was old and thick and full.
Tommy could hear Momma from the house sometimes. The windows were open and there were no curtains hung up yet. Momma was still unpacking.
Momma was swearing.
"Fucking piece of shit," she would say, and Tommy would repeat it back, whispered into his chest.
Tommy had not spoken to Momma all day.
Nor had he spoken to Aunt Lynn the two times she had already been over.
Nor had Tommy ate breakfast that morning.
And Tommy had not went into the new house for lunch.
Because he did not care if it was pizza. Or who had paid for the stinking shit.
In fact, the only person Tommy had spoken to all day was the friendly delivery boy, bearing …