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Untitled first attempt at prose
Started working on this today, I have about 2,000 words done, but here's the first 900 or so words worth...I write stream of conciousness, so this is going in its own direction, telling itself as I write it.
Brice sipped his coffee again like the last time he fucked that woman; slow and shallow. The taste was the same as her labia; hot and bitter. Wonder filled his head again at her position now in life, where was she and where could she be? Were her daughters finding pieces of themselves strewn about the floors of some amateur porn site’s couch, being filmed the way Brice had filmed their mother so many times before? Could everything Irma given him be enough? He knew the answer, he knew better and he hated himself for it and so like a curb check he had dumped her on the side street of his depression to fend for herself. Thirteen long years of fooling themselves fooling him into believing she was the one. There was no one. There was only one and he knew it and that was himself. He would have it no other way now, and so he stared at the woman across the diner’s table wondering what she felt like inside.
Did she slip over his body like a wetsuit or would his touch make her so cold she would dry up like the discarded husk remnants of smashed pumpkins a month after Halloween had passed; candy long defecated out in bursts of energy in eight year olds? Their time together would be like a band aid pulled off too fast that leaves a faint red mark where the skin once had hair, now pink with the excitement of a pain burst. Half-heartedly he smirked at her as he set his cup down on the table and reached for his wallet. Karma was smiling back at him with the glow of a firefly ready to extinguish itself by swallowing his member so far down she would gag. The thought of that only made him want to fuck her more.
The waitress sauntered off with his ten, five, three ones and change and saddled up to the register to complete the transaction. Karma said some words but Brice didn’t hear. He was too preoccupied with the way the enameled nails, pink, of the waitress, danced along the lip of the register drawer. She was chewing bubble gum and thinking things only he could imagine – syringes and daffodils spread out upon a floor of glass. The words of Karma finally broke through his dream that day. She spoke of unpaid debts and too many drugs that they weren’t doing, things she hoped for and things he hoped she would just shut up about. In his mind her face broke like a jigsaw bashed with the tire iron of his phallus, in his heart she sucked him dry like the inside of his mouth after the inhalation of the cigarette he had just lit. His dualism was his strength, it was why women wanted him. He spread like a Cancer on a cusp, hiding twins within his belly.
The nurse waitress returned to clear off the table and collect her unspent devious tip left as Brice and Karma eased off the Naugahyde booth seats and out onto the street. The cold hit like the blast of a furnace; there were icicles everywhere. She shivered and Brice ignored it. Somehow it felt good to ignore what she needed. He would hold onto that feeling for at least six seconds until she started speaking again, turning his thoughts back to stuffing her mouth just so she would shut up. The conversation of her sentences and his one word replies continued all the way to the car. Twenty feet never felt more like a thousand miles when you are walking through two inches of snow strewn about the parking lot by the loss of your one true love. Her yellow deviation lines, separating the parking spots, had long been covered. The two soon to be horizontal mamboers left footprints in that frozen water, smashing down the memory of Irma from Brice’s mind.
The car was cold, but the heat warmed it quickly. There was just always something about a nineteen eighty-six Toyota that could blast the hell out of you with its heater. Confusion set in as he wondered if he was really warm, or if that hot air was just the memory of when he was small, when he was safe in his mothers arms in the backseat of the car resting in the womb as she listened to Bob Dylan with the man she married for only one reason. That reason was not enough it turned out, and the man was gone. The man had fled like Brice had fled. He was instructed well and had done what all good students do; he put that knowledge to use in the destruction of all he worked his whole life to build. Like his father spending those two hours building a spaceship model for the four year old Brice, only to have the child throw it into the wall crashing down in the lost hopes of a father just realizing his son would never be what he wanted – a girl.
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