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Slow Burning, part one

Tell me a story?
Of who? Of who? It’s all we really do. Tell stories…
About you. About you.
Oh, there’s nothing to me. I’m boring really.

It is just summertime, mid-day, when I watched them gallop by, the climbing sun starting to glow on a blonde mop and two brown-haired little boys. The brothers are wearing matching rubber boots that are loud on the sidewalk, stomp-stomp-stomp, and their whoops and hollers match the beat of the sound. They make me laugh, hand covering my mouth, when I hear them, “School’s out for summer, School’s been blown to pieces…” The blonde throws her black backpack as high as he can in the air.
They notice me there, on my front lawn, and slow to a respectful walk. Hi, say the brothers and I smile and say, Alice Cooper sang the song you were singing. Whoever that is, says the oldest brother. That’gay, Cody, says the youngest brother. You taught me a girl’s song? No, Cody says, scowling angrily, don’t be stupid. Let’s go. And they started galloping away, stomp-stomp-stomp. But not the blonde, he reaches down for his backpack, but looks up at me. Google it, I say. Alice Cooper. Alice Cooper, he repeated back and he then he ran off after the other boys.

What are those dandelions called, the ones that grow the spikes that fit perfectly through our skin? Or are they just old dandelions? Been around for a few generations? I should look that up. What? You look at me like being a dandelion expert is weird or something. Someone has to be. You know, maybe they aren’t even dandelions. Maybe they are called Thorny Bastard Finger Lovers. Anyway, I had to buy gardening gloves and a shovel. You should have seen the roots on them! Like fucking trees. Just kept digging and pulling and digging and pulling. And honestly, once I pulled those fuckers out of the ground, I was done for the season. What? It was a lot of work. I don’t think I want flowers ever actually. Maybe the landlord will put up a porch, washed white, over top of the garden. I could have a pretty umbrella and one of those little tables with seating for two.

I thought I wrote a perfect sentence the other night. 3:38 a.m. Yeah, I know what time. How nerdy, right? Anyway, I woke-up and checked on it and it wasn’t perfect, could never be perfect, so why would I continue even trying? I deleted it. So much easier to do on a keyboard, then with pen or pencil. Now I want it back. That sentence…What?
As your friend, I must tell you that you are BOOOORING.
What? I’m boring? I told you so, but I see. You want a good story. Sure. Why not? I've got those to tell. They're mine and I can say them. How about this one?

So, before we moved here a few months ago, we lived in Kingston, remember? Grew up there amidst the brown. Seriously, that’s all Kingston is. Brown. It’s like drudgery amplified. Imagine that colour. That’s Kingston. It's probably actually worse that you can imagine. So anyway, I’m just in the kitchen, starting to think about what to make for supper and my husband texts me and lets me know he has to work late and I think great because I didn’t really want to make supper and I would rather load up the kids and go hang out with Helen, that’s my sister, and maybe her kids and my kids will run around the backyard happily enough and we can go sneak ourselves a little joint in her upstairs basement because we could still keep an eye on the kids from there. Then we would go spark up the barbeque and dole out hot dogs and chips and watermelon and popsicles and bitch about men, mostly our husbands and relive the crazy things we did when we were kids, for a few hours. Danny, that's her husband, would come home just after 8 and sit on the back deck with us and have a beer and I would take me and the kids home by 9 and watch a show, read a book, do the dishes, whatever and if Doug wasn’t home by 11, it didn’t matter to me, I was going to bed anyway. Now I never go to bed at 11. Up all night. Maybe I am an insomniac. Or just really pissed off. Anyway, that’s usually how it goes. I don’t call her or text her, I never do. She never does either. We just show up at each other's house whenever we want. And that evening, well, we walked in through her side door like we usually do and me and the kids...well, we got to see their father with his cock buried in my sister’s cunt, bent over the kitchen sink, washing up from their little supper together. Nice, huh? Oh, what did I do? I asked where my niece and nephew were and Helen told me they were at our brother’s for the night, and then I turned myself and the kids around and we went home. I let the kids eat brownies and pudding pie for supper. I gave them a banana too. You know, for some fruit, some good-for-you…Anyway, my sister got pregnant. I went with her when she had the abortion. Doug and Danny, they never knew, but I blew up six months after, so Doug knows now. Not Danny. No one is telling Danny. That's why we’re here now. Away, you know? Away from all of that.

Tell me a story. Tell me a story.
About who? About who? Wait…the neighbour next door, I will tell you her story. Let me fill you in…

Again.

And again.

And again.

Anyone. Everyone.

Wait. Wait. There's more...

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