death lesson 15, p1
Once you have been down a rabbit hole, once you have chased the rabbit, you never feel safe. Through the looking glass of wonderland, there is doubt and fear of every voice other than your own.
"why did you cut your hair?" said Liam, "I think I am a lesbian," said Jolene. Liam thought he had not crossed a line so much as was drug across it kicking and screaming. Quitting the conversation he left her alone.
She was muscle, bone, and skin, though not as tall as she looked. The alien in her eyes was confidence. Desperate as it was alive, her ego could cope with the loss. Knowing that no story ends but it will go away for a time. It will be someone else and their story as long as it is there's, but sometimes when your lucky the roles you love come back for you to play.
"Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win." she put her phone down, she had forgotten who had said it and was surprised it was Steven King. A friend of Jolene had shared a meme with her. It stuck with her, though this was the first time she had instinctively searched for the quote on some level being disappointed that the words had not originated in her soul.
"have you finished up the laundry, sweety." Her mother screamed from the entrance to the stairwell. "I am folding them now mom, I will bring them up when I am finished." there was a dramatic pause that lingered longer than it should have. " you're taking an awfully long time." "sorry?" "no need to be a smart ass." then suddenly the light from the kitchen left the basement with the slam of a door.
"bitch," whispered Jolene, not crying but wanting to.
***
Jolene Irish from the inside of her head.
It was real, real as the dead get. Standing at the foot of my bed saying "your Alex's main squeeze." then mock blushing was surprisingly normal for someone missing most of there face. "so you are Alexis's past?" words from a sleeping mind are not nearly what they could be. Waking up, seeing the pattern and losing it. "yes." I think I am stuttering writing this is so confusing. It's not how I think, (though she is doing her best to capture her thoughts.) may I ask for a do-over? "No channeling the line between what is real and what is the charade is everything. That is how I must approach the past. How acknowledging the camera makes it so much more real." Yet with words, coherence does not exist unless there is an author." Oh well, I guess there is no avoiding it then.
Like some modern Pop-German-expressionism, the fascination is vital, though so is the fear. Why the little ghost? "how did you find me" My voice from a dry throat. I swallow at spit that isn't there. "I have known about you since you started dating Alex last year." His voice is soft, yet full of mischief. He is floating at the foot of my bed. everything blue from the curtain filtered sunrise. "what do you...what do you want?" I say. He speaks everything that is true with his eyes; I want what he had, what you have, I want life. Then comes the lie from his lips "I want to help my friend." my word I almost believe it "well I don't know what to do." my voice surprises me with its honesty, its cadence of there is only this moment. "That book, we make the penguin bring him back." "sarcastic-hallelujah is a novelty item they sell at hot topic. Whatever happened it has very little to do with the words of that book. It has very little to do with words at all." disappointed, he shrivels up though still floating. "come here." I say unsure of where I got the courage. I hold him in my arms, the smell of old blood feels my nostrils. The smell of mold and decay. But there he sits, I don't know why I do it. Me writing this feel like Jean Claude VanDam doing his best version of an arthouse film. It's unlike me; I don't know why I do it Because there is no money. I sit at the typewriter saying over my shoulder. "you're the author it is your job to make them believe this." but he insists...because after his absurd attempts at humor there are ghosts that are more alive then Drew Garner.
"why did you cut your hair?" said Liam, "I think I am a lesbian," said Jolene. Liam thought he had not crossed a line so much as was drug across it kicking and screaming. Quitting the conversation he left her alone.
She was muscle, bone, and skin, though not as tall as she looked. The alien in her eyes was confidence. Desperate as it was alive, her ego could cope with the loss. Knowing that no story ends but it will go away for a time. It will be someone else and their story as long as it is there's, but sometimes when your lucky the roles you love come back for you to play.
"Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win." she put her phone down, she had forgotten who had said it and was surprised it was Steven King. A friend of Jolene had shared a meme with her. It stuck with her, though this was the first time she had instinctively searched for the quote on some level being disappointed that the words had not originated in her soul.
"have you finished up the laundry, sweety." Her mother screamed from the entrance to the stairwell. "I am folding them now mom, I will bring them up when I am finished." there was a dramatic pause that lingered longer than it should have. " you're taking an awfully long time." "sorry?" "no need to be a smart ass." then suddenly the light from the kitchen left the basement with the slam of a door.
"bitch," whispered Jolene, not crying but wanting to.
***
Jolene Irish from the inside of her head.
It was real, real as the dead get. Standing at the foot of my bed saying "your Alex's main squeeze." then mock blushing was surprisingly normal for someone missing most of there face. "so you are Alexis's past?" words from a sleeping mind are not nearly what they could be. Waking up, seeing the pattern and losing it. "yes." I think I am stuttering writing this is so confusing. It's not how I think, (though she is doing her best to capture her thoughts.) may I ask for a do-over? "No channeling the line between what is real and what is the charade is everything. That is how I must approach the past. How acknowledging the camera makes it so much more real." Yet with words, coherence does not exist unless there is an author." Oh well, I guess there is no avoiding it then.
Like some modern Pop-German-expressionism, the fascination is vital, though so is the fear. Why the little ghost? "how did you find me" My voice from a dry throat. I swallow at spit that isn't there. "I have known about you since you started dating Alex last year." His voice is soft, yet full of mischief. He is floating at the foot of my bed. everything blue from the curtain filtered sunrise. "what do you...what do you want?" I say. He speaks everything that is true with his eyes; I want what he had, what you have, I want life. Then comes the lie from his lips "I want to help my friend." my word I almost believe it "well I don't know what to do." my voice surprises me with its honesty, its cadence of there is only this moment. "That book, we make the penguin bring him back." "sarcastic-hallelujah is a novelty item they sell at hot topic. Whatever happened it has very little to do with the words of that book. It has very little to do with words at all." disappointed, he shrivels up though still floating. "come here." I say unsure of where I got the courage. I hold him in my arms, the smell of old blood feels my nostrils. The smell of mold and decay. But there he sits, I don't know why I do it. Me writing this feel like Jean Claude VanDam doing his best version of an arthouse film. It's unlike me; I don't know why I do it Because there is no money. I sit at the typewriter saying over my shoulder. "you're the author it is your job to make them believe this." but he insists...because after his absurd attempts at humor there are ghosts that are more alive then Drew Garner.
Comments
Post a Comment