(Inspired by the Trumps - idea for a story. Broken lives and archetypes, each one looking to resolve their presentation - to finish what their card represents...)
I will never be more than a feast to folly. I was born, and I will die, and I will never understand.
The others know, and somewhere deep inside, I'm jealous. I've seen them, and they're broken, each and every one. I'm lucky, and I know it. And yet...they know. They're sure.
If there is one advantage to the curse, it's that you never need to doubt. You are. It is. And it knows you.
But I'm different. I'm privy to the show, and another player in the game of cards, but...I'm not bound like they are. I'm allowed to stumble, given the gift of doubt and anticipation. I've seen what they can do.
Even I can't be sure what I might be doing next.
I'm sorry, I suppose, for all the others. It's arrogant to feel that way, when I have my own weakness, but I do. Never being sure, never being ready, never being done...doesn't that just mean my story's never over? The rest are just waiting for their card to be drawn, for Fate to set them into motion.
My gift is freedom. My curse is the precipice. I'll never know when my steps are sure. They'll never know anything but the paths long since set before them.
Call me Lucky. Pick a card. And let the games begin.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Trigger
A cigarette flew out of nowhere, struck the ground. It was the last, worst luck that found her that night. To her, it was the end.
To the story, it is not the beginning, but certainly at least the first rising action.
She didn't drink - drinking didn't sit well with her medication. Neither did certain sugars, certain lifestyles, the significant amount of stress that she was under, and most of all, these drugs did not play very well with others. Least of all with the smooth white pill dissolving in her glass of water.
She didn't earn the first drink splashed on her. She might have earned the second - she didn't try to be a bitch, but getting soaked by some drunk idiot struck her as proof. Why be nice if you'd get the blunt end anyway? And so she said a few unkind words that didn't matter much, except to turn her from damp to doused in short order.
Now she was sure. Fate or hubris, it didn't matter. This was set to be a bad night. So when the nice young man asked her about her long and involved sleeves of red tattoos, she blew him off. He was trouble with a pretty smile - of course, she was right.
Fate had nothing to do with it, unless you believe in self-fulfilling prophecies - but it was one more thing. The smooth white pill, swallowed down in one smooth gulp that she'd forgotten by the time her glass hit the counter.
It took twenty minutes to get in and out of the bathroom, around and through the crowds, and out to fresh air and a smoke to ruin it with. Of course, her lighter wouldn't work. And no one else to save her, but the same bitch that she'd told off just a short time ago. She'd forgotten; the bitch had not.
She was tired, angry, and wet. She wasn't looking, just reacting and ready to leave. She didn't even see or smell the leaking motorcycle gas tank. The bitch was too drunk to know or care.
The gas should not have lit, but the vapor had a good, long time to rise up. There'd been a lull - the perfect song was playing.
She asked the bitch for a smoke. The bitch smirked, tried to look as nice as she could fake - and then she tossed her butt towards the woman's face.
She missed, but that was worse.
Everything was flashing light and sucking air. Vapor flew to gas, to climb up alcohol and fabric. Her hair caught like a firework and sure enough, her cigarette caught light.
And everything exploded.
To her, it was the end. The fire hurt, down into her bones. She closed her eyes.
But she was far from dead. The night was far from over.
And fate was far from done with her.
To the story, it is not the beginning, but certainly at least the first rising action.
She didn't drink - drinking didn't sit well with her medication. Neither did certain sugars, certain lifestyles, the significant amount of stress that she was under, and most of all, these drugs did not play very well with others. Least of all with the smooth white pill dissolving in her glass of water.
She didn't earn the first drink splashed on her. She might have earned the second - she didn't try to be a bitch, but getting soaked by some drunk idiot struck her as proof. Why be nice if you'd get the blunt end anyway? And so she said a few unkind words that didn't matter much, except to turn her from damp to doused in short order.
Now she was sure. Fate or hubris, it didn't matter. This was set to be a bad night. So when the nice young man asked her about her long and involved sleeves of red tattoos, she blew him off. He was trouble with a pretty smile - of course, she was right.
Fate had nothing to do with it, unless you believe in self-fulfilling prophecies - but it was one more thing. The smooth white pill, swallowed down in one smooth gulp that she'd forgotten by the time her glass hit the counter.
It took twenty minutes to get in and out of the bathroom, around and through the crowds, and out to fresh air and a smoke to ruin it with. Of course, her lighter wouldn't work. And no one else to save her, but the same bitch that she'd told off just a short time ago. She'd forgotten; the bitch had not.
She was tired, angry, and wet. She wasn't looking, just reacting and ready to leave. She didn't even see or smell the leaking motorcycle gas tank. The bitch was too drunk to know or care.
The gas should not have lit, but the vapor had a good, long time to rise up. There'd been a lull - the perfect song was playing.
She asked the bitch for a smoke. The bitch smirked, tried to look as nice as she could fake - and then she tossed her butt towards the woman's face.
She missed, but that was worse.
Everything was flashing light and sucking air. Vapor flew to gas, to climb up alcohol and fabric. Her hair caught like a firework and sure enough, her cigarette caught light.
And everything exploded.
To her, it was the end. The fire hurt, down into her bones. She closed her eyes.
But she was far from dead. The night was far from over.
And fate was far from done with her.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Accelerate
I put the car into gear and let it fly. It barely took a touch; she danced under my fingers like a lover, and I loved every inch of tire on the ground. She purred under me, and together, we took the ride into town.
It's the quiet that gets you worst. The city is what it is - too many malls and not enough gas stations. I'd made a list, but siphoning up was hard work and time was getting shorter. My credit card got me lucky sometimes, but finding a working pump computer was getting harder. Tech support wasn't answering. No one was.
But driving got me where I needed. Back home, I had a fat stack of survival. Food, water, solar panels. It was all worked out. That wasn't the problem.
The problem was finding reasons to panic. To move. To think. I needed something meaningful, and ever since I was a little girl, the roar of Dad's 'Vette was it and everything.
As I roared down the freeway doing 90, I had lots of thrills and surprises. New cars stalled out half inside a lane. The occasional trap set by thrillers. Jumper bones from overpasses. Cracks and potholes - the bitches, they weren't even special. My Dad's 'Vette laughed and rumbled, and we blazed aside and past it all, turning the big loop into our time trial.
Once a week. One day, the gas would end. Or worse, I'd find a problem I couldn't fix. On my fourteenth tire, my fifth spark plug. My second transmission, and the last one I'd found in months. So...once a week. That'd last a while, wouldn't it? I would be different. I'd be anxious...not like the wasters in their chairs, their beds, their offices.
The new world was supposed to be happy. Instead, the new world was satisified. We'd won. No depression. No anxiety. No one was lonely...but no one was hungry, either. Tired? Sick? Dying?
I hadn't felt lonely for two months. I maxxed out the engine and let fly. I could have died. And there it was, the ache to see another person, taste their skin, and eat them up like sweet candy, to never let them go.
But I've seen the lovers. They never wake up, rotting like pretzels in each other's arms. The new world wasn't happy; it was satisfied.
So I put her through her paces. And I was never satisfied. I never felt the wind fly through my hair like Daddy used to make it whip. But that need was enough.
I wasn't satisfied, but I was still alive. The new world hadn't found me yet; I was savagely unhappy, and I kept fighting. I'm a survivor. Me and the 'Vette, we'd go on 'til the gas ran out. And then the Colt in the glove box would do the rest.
Daddy always told me, "It's when you stop wanting that life kills you." I'm still here, Dad. I'm still here.
It's the quiet that gets you worst. The city is what it is - too many malls and not enough gas stations. I'd made a list, but siphoning up was hard work and time was getting shorter. My credit card got me lucky sometimes, but finding a working pump computer was getting harder. Tech support wasn't answering. No one was.
But driving got me where I needed. Back home, I had a fat stack of survival. Food, water, solar panels. It was all worked out. That wasn't the problem.
The problem was finding reasons to panic. To move. To think. I needed something meaningful, and ever since I was a little girl, the roar of Dad's 'Vette was it and everything.
As I roared down the freeway doing 90, I had lots of thrills and surprises. New cars stalled out half inside a lane. The occasional trap set by thrillers. Jumper bones from overpasses. Cracks and potholes - the bitches, they weren't even special. My Dad's 'Vette laughed and rumbled, and we blazed aside and past it all, turning the big loop into our time trial.
Once a week. One day, the gas would end. Or worse, I'd find a problem I couldn't fix. On my fourteenth tire, my fifth spark plug. My second transmission, and the last one I'd found in months. So...once a week. That'd last a while, wouldn't it? I would be different. I'd be anxious...not like the wasters in their chairs, their beds, their offices.
The new world was supposed to be happy. Instead, the new world was satisified. We'd won. No depression. No anxiety. No one was lonely...but no one was hungry, either. Tired? Sick? Dying?
I hadn't felt lonely for two months. I maxxed out the engine and let fly. I could have died. And there it was, the ache to see another person, taste their skin, and eat them up like sweet candy, to never let them go.
But I've seen the lovers. They never wake up, rotting like pretzels in each other's arms. The new world wasn't happy; it was satisfied.
So I put her through her paces. And I was never satisfied. I never felt the wind fly through my hair like Daddy used to make it whip. But that need was enough.
I wasn't satisfied, but I was still alive. The new world hadn't found me yet; I was savagely unhappy, and I kept fighting. I'm a survivor. Me and the 'Vette, we'd go on 'til the gas ran out. And then the Colt in the glove box would do the rest.
Daddy always told me, "It's when you stop wanting that life kills you." I'm still here, Dad. I'm still here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)