It is fall. And I am sitting with an18 year old girl on the steps of a church across from Macdonald's. We are shareing a cheese burger. It is damp out side and the streets look cold and unforgiving. Even the golden arches look sinister in the mood of the street. which is a shame and a reality.
“you know what I think the best part of getting high is.” says the girl in her customary spaced out way.
“no.” I say with a trying sympathetic tone. “I don’t get high. Really.”
“Well it is not the not eating. And it is not the not sleeping. I love both of that stuff.” and she looks at me, and smiles. I smile back. “it is the act of it. The smoking of it.”
“don’t do it too much.” I say. “puts holes in your brain.”
“lots of things put holes in your brain.” she outlandishly offers. “everyone is so dead set against meth.” she adds in a sarcastic mockery of these people who think crystal meth is an evil—I am one of these people. I am being mocked.
“I was talking to a guy that was a meth head for a long time and he said that he found it hard to talk and shit after he quit—said that his brain started to liquefy or something like that.” she offers me some cheese burger. I take some.
“ever wonder why they call it Jib?” she asks. Thinking she is schooling me.
“because if you do it long enough you only talk gibberish?”
“yah.”
we sit watching the mist of the night come across the park. I blow my nose into a napkin and she nestles her head into my chest. I am thinking the whole time what a sad scene what a sad state of affairs . And the more you dissect and plunge into the depths of the situation the more sad and daunting and mocking and rabid it becomes—gnawing and tearing the city to shreds and turning a generation into a hopped up bunch of dead at 25’s.
****
meth head girl
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Axanderdeath
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meth head girl
thus spoke G.A.P.
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Axanderdeath
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h
sorry for slowing things down on here--I though it was creative--I hope the upper and lowwer case stuff does not turn anyone off the read--litkicks was discusted by it--thanks for reading--this one means somthing--think about it.
thatnks for reading
thatnks for reading
thus spoke G.A.P.
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gypsyjoker
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Well, yeah, you know I am a litkicks reject from the litkicks free style writer's workshop, that's my excuse, they would not let me attend for some reason.
Wll so much for ranting...
Story read good like Cecil said. A couple of typos and miss spells, but who am I to complain about that?
What do you mean slow things up?
Wll so much for ranting...
Story read good like Cecil said. A couple of typos and miss spells, but who am I to complain about that?
What do you mean slow things up?
Free Rice
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'Blessed is he who was not born, Or he, who having been born, has died. But as for us who live, woe unto us, Because we see the afflictions of Zion, And what has befallen Jerusalem." Pseudepigrapha
Avatar Courtesy of the Baron de Hirsch Fund
'Blessed is he who was not born, Or he, who having been born, has died. But as for us who live, woe unto us, Because we see the afflictions of Zion, And what has befallen Jerusalem." Pseudepigrapha
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Axanderdeath
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Doreen Peri
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It's just a slow site.
People come when then come. They post when they post. And when they don't? well, they're not here and nobody's posting and it's slow. *shrug*... what can ya do? I think it's great everybody has a real life! I'm trying to get one myself.
I liked the piece, too, Geoff.
I'd call it a kodachrome moment. Can't spell it but that's what I'd call it. Why? Because it takes a picture of a moment... in vivid color... pulls the reader into the conversation. The dialogue is real and the characters breathe. I can hear it and see it. It's a movie scene.
Thanks.
People come when then come. They post when they post. And when they don't? well, they're not here and nobody's posting and it's slow. *shrug*... what can ya do? I think it's great everybody has a real life! I'm trying to get one myself.
I liked the piece, too, Geoff.
I'd call it a kodachrome moment. Can't spell it but that's what I'd call it. Why? Because it takes a picture of a moment... in vivid color... pulls the reader into the conversation. The dialogue is real and the characters breathe. I can hear it and see it. It's a movie scene.
Thanks.
Last edited by Doreen Peri on October 19th, 2006, 8:06 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Doreen Peri
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stilltrucking
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Geoff you can get as loopy as you want. I think you could scuffle with your writing one day the way Cecil does with his art. That is the only reason I mentioned the typos cause I know you are determined to be published. Editors care about that stuff. You know I started to run your story through a spell checker but when bill gates put that squigly red line under my most favorite line in the whole story and started suggesting nonsensical tense changes I said , screw it. Here are two I found in the first couple sentences.
an18
shareing
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stilltrucking
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Axanderdeath
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stilltrucking
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Keep on writingIt is fall. And I am sitting with an18 year old girl on the steps of a church across from Macdonald's. We are shareing a cheese burger.
May you never have the troubles of a midlist author.
I wrote a little snip about those troubles. Zlatko liked it. I am thinking about submiting it to the project
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judih
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yes, it's 'an 18 year old'. (eighteen is a vowel sound, so you need 'an')
and Still- t's right. 'sharing' and 'cheeseburger' and 'outside'
here's the piece (which is a good slice of a moment)
______________________________________________________
It is fall. And I am sitting with an 18 year old girl on the steps of a church across from Macdonald's. We are sharing a cheeseburger. It is damp outside and the streets look cold and unforgiving. Even the golden arches look sinister in the mood of the street. Which is a shame and a reality.
“you know what I think the best part of getting high is.” says the girl in her customary spaced-out way.
“no.” I say with a trying sympathetic tone. “I don’t get high. Really.”
“Well it is not the not eating. And it is not the not sleeping. I love both of that stuff.” and she looks at me, and smiles. I smile back. “it is the act of it. The smoking of it.”
“don’t do it too much.” I say. “puts holes in your brain.”
“lots of things put holes in your brain.” she outlandishly offers. “everyone is so dead set against meth.” she adds in a sarcastic mockery of these people who think crystal meth is an evil—I am one of these people. I am being mocked.
“I was talking to a guy that was a meth head for a long time and he said that he found it hard to talk and shit after he quit—said that his brain started to liquefy or something like that.” she offers me some cheese burger. I take some.
“ever wonder why they call it Jib?” she asks, thinking she is schooling me.
“because if you do it long enough you only talk gibberish?”
“yah.”
we sit watching the mist of the night come across the park. I blow my nose into a napkin and she nestles her head into my chest. I am thinking the whole time what a sad scene what a sad state of affairs. And the more you dissect and plunge into the depths of the situation, the more sad and daunting and mocking and rabid it becomes—gnawing and tearing the city to shreds and turning a generation into a hopped up bunch of dead at 25’s.
and Still- t's right. 'sharing' and 'cheeseburger' and 'outside'
here's the piece (which is a good slice of a moment)
______________________________________________________
It is fall. And I am sitting with an 18 year old girl on the steps of a church across from Macdonald's. We are sharing a cheeseburger. It is damp outside and the streets look cold and unforgiving. Even the golden arches look sinister in the mood of the street. Which is a shame and a reality.
“you know what I think the best part of getting high is.” says the girl in her customary spaced-out way.
“no.” I say with a trying sympathetic tone. “I don’t get high. Really.”
“Well it is not the not eating. And it is not the not sleeping. I love both of that stuff.” and she looks at me, and smiles. I smile back. “it is the act of it. The smoking of it.”
“don’t do it too much.” I say. “puts holes in your brain.”
“lots of things put holes in your brain.” she outlandishly offers. “everyone is so dead set against meth.” she adds in a sarcastic mockery of these people who think crystal meth is an evil—I am one of these people. I am being mocked.
“I was talking to a guy that was a meth head for a long time and he said that he found it hard to talk and shit after he quit—said that his brain started to liquefy or something like that.” she offers me some cheese burger. I take some.
“ever wonder why they call it Jib?” she asks, thinking she is schooling me.
“because if you do it long enough you only talk gibberish?”
“yah.”
we sit watching the mist of the night come across the park. I blow my nose into a napkin and she nestles her head into my chest. I am thinking the whole time what a sad scene what a sad state of affairs. And the more you dissect and plunge into the depths of the situation, the more sad and daunting and mocking and rabid it becomes—gnawing and tearing the city to shreds and turning a generation into a hopped up bunch of dead at 25’s.
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Axanderdeath
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