Rolling My Eyes

Friday at Almost 6 p.m. Lice lady The high school has a basketball net. It was the first thought Edward Julian Watson had, when his eyes rested upon the basketballs stuck in the large cage. Edward Julian Watson was in the sports department of the K-Mart. What Edward Julian Watson really wanted to purchase was a pair of kneepads. He liked to wear them when he scrubbed his white kitchen floor. So, Edward Julian Watson bought a blue pair of kneepads, along with a basketball. He was the last person to leave the store; an employee, of some-sort, locking the door behind him. Edward Julian Watson threw the kneepads, towards the couch, when he walked into the front door of his house, and Edward Julian threw on his sneakers, immediately after. He had not played basketball in a good five years. Along with his sneakers, Edward Julian Watson also wore a what-the-fuck-does-Larry-Byrd-have-on-me-? attitude, when he ran back out his front door, towards his blue Datsun. Edward Julian Wa...

Earlier That Day It was eleven-thirty in the morning. Edward Julian Watson always woke up on Saturdays, at eleven-thirty in the morning. Edward Julian Watson was in a white bedroom. It was Edward Julian Watson's bedroom. Edward Julian Watson had a elbow-ache because he was on the bed, in his white room, and it was a white room because Edward Julian Watson had not painted it. He rubbed his elbow and that is when he noticed he was wearing the same clothes that he had on the night before. Then, he noticed his watch on the pillow beside him. Edward Julian Watson could taste the grit on his teeth, soured salsa and hamburger. "I have to go," Edward Julian Watson said, out loud. "Okay," his body answered him, weary and aching as he upped himself onto his carpeted floor. Edward Julian Watson always did his weekly groceries and then met Bob for lunch, at noon, on Saturdays. Becki was running through the downtown streets, the same streets she walked everyday...

Later That Day Edward Julian Watson took things for granted. Edward Julian Watson was on his way home from Saturday lunch, driving in his blue Datsun. The oil light was on, flashing red. Edward Julian Watson would stop at the gas station, close to home, he thought, as he ploughed through the streets. But the gas station close to home was closed and he did not understand why. The gas station was always open. So, Edward Julian Watson just drove his blue Datsun home. And watched the baseball game on the television. Becki was standing staring at the bank teller. In her yellow skirt. “I cannot give you advice on this,” John, the man behind the desk, said to her, as he handed her the green folder back; fast. “Thank you, anyway” Becki smiled up at John. “You deserve some help,” John replied. "I will call over to the main branch. I am sure they can help clear this up for you." And Becki smiled at him, again. But she wondered what it was she was so deserving of this h...

The yellow bike was everything. When Tommy was four years old, riding across Chapel Park, he had looked down and back, watching his training wheels cut through the grass and molding the dandelions to the earth. Tommy had felt happy, when the weeds did not pop back up. Now Tommy was six years old and Tommy was racing himself. Up and down the sidewalk, in front of his house. Where Momma was having the yard sale. Tommy would switch the gears on the yellow bike often. Tommy liked doing that best. He did not understand why he could pedal backwards and the bike would still go forwards. He felt like he was from a different planet every time he switched the gears, so Tommy would pretend that his skin was green and that he had yellow eyes, to match his yellow bike. Which was really his spaceship. Tommy was a well-liked alien on the planet Earth because Tommy The Alien could go fast. Tommy was pedalling fast around the corner, head down, crushing down the sidewalk, up along the side of his ...

My Roommates moved out. And left their cat. My Roommates said they would be back. I do hope they meant for their cat. Not that My Roommates' cat requires much, to be honest. Besides a open Front Door once in awhile and my front lawn to roll all her grey fur upon; Smokie seldom even eats here. And although The Grass is starting to yellow in spots, I do my best not to blame Smokie. Indoors, Misty is my lovely cat. Misty is approaching five years old. Misty was unsure that she was a cat. She would growl if someone knocked upon my Front Door. In fact, I am certain Misty really had no clue what she was. Even after living with Lucy, for a year, back three years a go. (Don't you mean Lucifer? The Voice is laughing at me, over my shoulder, as I type this. And I will let you all know that I only turn to glare at The Voice, for Lucifer was indeed Lucy's real name.) My Roommates' cat has a most lovely growl, as well. Accompanied, usually, with a tremendous hiss. The spittin...

James cut the engine and slammed his hands on the steering wheel, gripping and wanting to shake it, as the boys leapt at the car, happy and reaching in to pat him on the back. Fucking third ,he thought. The boys were thinking the same thing, but with exclamations points. The boys were happy. It was their best finish all season. And that is what pissed James off. He took off his helmet, felt the dirty sweat gripped to his head like ooze, and got out of the car. He did smile at the boys. He just looked at the sky and ignored everything else, but the smell of burnt rubber, always dirty in his nostrils. And he thought of the word dirty, and he thought of Jews and he thought of Niggers, and he knew dirty was a bad word, had been back as long as his goddamn mind could remember. And if what he smelt was goddamn dirty, why the fuck was he doing it? I am 36 years old, his thoughts just continued. 36 years old.

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high. And now it was after dark, and after the stories. It was after Sissy. It was after another two joints. Minnie was so stoned, she did not realise she was rocking Lydia, in her arms, not noticing until she felt the faded yellow hair trail down her arms; Tommy with his hands, dragging down on the dolls legs; gently, until the doll broke free from her. "I didn't do it, either, Tommy," Minnie whispered, just a whisper and she did not look up. She did not stop rocking. And Tommy noticed Lydia and Minnie both had red lines for mouths. It just doesn't matter, he thought, and then their lips were touching; just like that, and it was hunger and he could taste her mouth, taste her lips and she could taste him, too. Bitter nicotine on the tip of her tongue. Tommy noticed his hands clenched to her shoulders, pushing her shirt from her shoulders. He wanted to kiss the skin there and so he did. He felt her...

...they danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and every body goes "Awww!" `Jack Kerouac On The Road

Upon the completion of the reconstruction of the un-motorised motorhome, Tim believed nothing bad could touch them again because his reason led him to believe lightening never struck in the same place twice, so why would a tornado? But as we can previously recall, all Tim's walk that fine line between stupid and idiot. Further proving our mutual knowledge, not understanding the value of money, Tim bought seven cases of beer with the cash he had saved on replacing the roof. Tim decided he was going to have himself a party. The party would be on the very next night. A Friday! But since it was Thursday and there were seven cases of beer, Tim decided he could drink one of those cases on this Thursday. And at least another on Friday! Tim was really happy. He thought it was a wonderful Thursday. But it was on this Thursday, in the night, when they were sitting outside and around the Hibatchi, roasting hot dogs with Justin, who had dropped-in, so Justin was drinking beer, too, whil...

Jill thought she should maybe write the journal. It was fast becoming her final decision. Her therapist, Johnson, said it would help. Jill knew Johnson really meant do something, anything. Don't give up. Life is good! Whatever. Jill knew she had never liked writing, but she thought about Johnson's words and she had rationalized down to: when was the last time she had wrote anything besides a grocery list, anyway? Jill knew she liked to talk and that is why Jill was a telemarketer. Higher paid than most. Her therapist was praised often, by others, who seemed sane. Jill would follow his advice. Jill thought to stop at the Wal-Mart on her way home. She needed dog kibble. She needed shampoo and a plant. And she needed a notebook, too, she reminded herself, when she walked through the doors of Wal-Mart. But Jill soon forgot, and then remembered, while she was in the checkout line. When she saw the bright orange notebooks. For ninety-seven cents. So, Jill bought one, and a bla...

February 14th Minnie, I just got home from visiting my grandmother in the hospital. I brought her some flowers. Some pink ones. I think they are carnations. She is always planting flowers. All over her bedroom. And in anything. Margarine containers. Pill bottles. She always buys me things on Valentines Day. Not just a card or some chocolate. I get that stuff, but I also get a new outfit (that is always cool) and things like walkmans and shit, too. It's kinda like it is my birthday. She usually kisses me like a hundred times. I can't stand it, to be honest, when she is kissing on me. She is always buying me shit, and I…never buy her anything. So, I went to cut a few lawns with Bobby on the weekend and bought her the flowers. Then I just sat there with her. She did not wake-up, but she is not going to wake-up, anyway. I remember the first time up there, at the hospital to see her, like three weeks a go. This nurse says to me, 'Talk to her; she will hear you....

Jack was a mighty, jolly chap. It is even what he considered himself to be. Yes, Jack was quite the fellow. Jack fancied polka-dots on his ties, only for the wearing of this type of tie, fit his definition of what it meant to be a fellow. Jack believed the world was his stage, that he was the lead actor and that everyone else on earth were co-stars, but only to each other. Jack lived his life. His way. Jack was jolly, so he was allowed to, by and large, by others. And others could never figure out why Jack was as jolly as he was, for Jack was as skinny as hunger. In his shiny black suits, to outfit his polka-dot ties. One time, Jack walked into a house and it had pale blue walls in the kitchen. White, painted polka-dots stood up from these walls, too. Jack bought the house and Jack lived in the house, although the kitchen had been the only room he fancied, in the entire house. Jack found the backyard was too big, too. But Jack was jolly, anyway. Fred, who lived next-door to Jack, ...

I started a new Everyday, just over a month a go. I was able to ensure what I always have ensured before. That most Everyday is another day that I get to open my eyes and my ears get to hear my Alarm Clock Music. Taking place at a definite 7:30 a.m. Most Everyday. This should make me smile. Except for-there is This Bird. This Bird that makes noise. Louder than all the other birds. At 7:30 a.m. I do not know This Bird. I have never seen This Bird. And I do not want to, either. I am already guilty of throwing a cup of coffee out of my bedroom window, last week. And I can blame it on This Bird, if I want to. I fear I would become Al Bundy, if I ever laid eyes upon This Bird. My new Everyday can be a lot of fun. But it is not as...stimulating as my last Everyday. And The Voice agrees. Just admit it, The Voice will say to me. You are getting lazy. When The Voice says this to me, I get mad. I tell The Voice to Bite Me. Because my new Everyday has a more...relaxed atmosphere than my las...

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high. She did not think Tommy noticed her in the school parking lot. But he knew she was there. She was always there. It was where they used to go together. Tommy did not know what to do, after reading Minnie's letter. So, Tommy put the red envelope into his back pocket and then he just walked away. Tommy raised his hand only five minutes after his math class had begun and asked if he could be excused to the washroom. He did not have to go. When Tommy arrived in the blue-stalled bathroom, he sat on one of the toliets and Tommy read Minnie's letter again. Then, he crumpled her letter into a ball. Tommy had felt his fist clench tightly, felt his hands weild all his mighty, Tommy power upon paper. Which somehow seemed wrong, so Tommy loosened his grip. He smoothed out the paper, on his knee; with his hand. And Tommy read the letter again, before going back to algebra. Tommy saw Minnie a lot during the rest of...

A few weeks a go, my son and I were on our way towards home, a short trip to the variety for milk. Terri poked her head outside of her front door. "You want a cat?" she asked. "No," I replied. "Well, how about a kitten?" "O.K." I replied back that time and watched a smile spread across my son's face. "You better pick the cutest one," I threatened him, as we walked up Terri's steps. And so the parade began. One unfortunate kitten had lost his paw, after birth. A neglectful mother bothered not with umbilical cords, and his own had twisted around his foot, and now the stump thumped on the floor, when he walked. Thus he was named, 'Thumper'. An ugly cat with a ugly brown circle of fur above her lip was fondly called 'Madonna"; Terri laughed, bent, as she sputtered the name. The other four were called Cat. Or sometimes, Kitty. I had not even looked over the other four, when my son held out a small ball of grey fur...

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 ...

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. "...fuc...

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, b...

Earlier That Day It was ten-thirty in the morning. Edward Julian Watson always woke up on Sundays, at ten-thirty in the morning. Only Edward Julian Watson was in a blue bedroom. And Edward Julian Watson usually slept in a white bedroom. Edward Julian Watson had a headache because he was on a bed, in a blue bedroom and it was a blue bedroom he had not been in before; at that. He rubbed his temples and that is when he noticed the crumpled green dress on the floor. Then, the rumpled, red hair and white pillow beside him. Edward Julian Watson could taste the grit on his teeth; sour rum (the real reason for his headache). "I have to go," he said, out loud. "Okay," said the red hair; the red hair that did not move. Edward Julian Watson always woke-up at ten-thirty in the morning on Sundays because Edward Julian Watson always met his mother for lunch at noon. Becki walked through the automatic opening door that brought her into the mall. Dim lights and brow...

Later That Day After finding out about lice and going out of business sale Edward Julian Watson took things for granted. Edward Julian Watson was on his way home from Sunday lunch, driving in his blue Datsun. The oil light was on, flashing red. Edward Julian Watson would stop at the gas station, close to home, he thought, as he ploughed through the streets. But the gas station close to home was closed and he did not understand why. The gas station was always open. So, Edward Julian Watson just drove his blue Datsun home. And watched the football game on the television. Becki was standing at the meat counter. In her yellow skirt. “I gave you an extra half-pound,” John, the man behind the counter, said to her, as he handed her the package of cooked ham; wrapped. “Thank you,” Becki smiled up at John. “You deserve it,” John replied. And Becki smiled at him, again. But she wondered what it was she was so deserving of? She wondered if it was important; whatever she had d...

It was not a good day, the day Gwen’s mother never came back. Her father had made her sit in the corner, close to the fire all day. A hot day. She played in the dirt and the soot, fingers opened or closed, the filth still seeped through her hands. But all too soon her hands were streaked with sweat. A hot child. She sat at the fire for a long time (three hours), before she realized the silence. She wondered why. She knew it was Saturday. And Saturdays were feast days. And feast days were always loud. Her father was with her all day long; she wondered why he was. Gwen could not see her father; she could only hear him breathe. He had grabbed her, woke her from her sleep, earlier that morning. She screamed until she saw it was him, but he had dragged her to the fire anyway. “Sit here and shut-up,” he had said to her. They were the first words he had ever said to her, so Gwen had listened. Gwen did complain when she became hungry, nor did she wonder where her mother was until nightf...

489 A.D. Everything felt new to Gryfflette, as he wandered through the thick grass; it was damp and his ankles were cold. Everything felt new to Gryfflette because in a sense, everything was new. Springtime had begun and the many rains over recent days had started the growth of life. On this day, Gryfflette saw that the sun was sometimes hiding behind the clouds; they were rimmed in grey, but otherwise white. When the sun hid behind these clouds, Gryfflette would feel horribly cold; no relief he could think of for his bare arms. But this was not reason enough for him to go back home. The wind whipped his blond curls; sometimes covering his eyes, so sometimes Gryfflette could not see. Gryfflette was not far from home. He was only twenty feet away, down the small steep hill of Benwick, and his mother knew where he was. She knew her child and her child was always wandering, wandering. Malaline was Gryfflette’s mother. Malaline had lost Gryfflette once, but only once. Just for ten...