Mood: Introspective

Posted in Two Minutes Less a Third on May 6, 2009 by jeereg

All I’ve ever wanted to do is be with my friends, kiss someone I love, and tell stories.  It is a sign of the madness of the universe that those three things seem so difficult to do.

There are, I suppose, great complexities underlying all of our desires.  An urge, a yearning, a tracing of the route in the head, and a kind of despair that maybe we won’t be able to go back.  But the truth is, I don’t want much.  I’m not asking for the secrets of the world.

Friends.  Love.  Stories.  And I can’t pay the cost.

Crackle

Posted in Two Minutes Less a Third on May 5, 2009 by jeereg

His breath comes in ragged gasps now, like the air’s being pulled through a tattered wet cloth.  The muscles in his legs scream.  There is a drum beating in his head, and beneath it: the slow crackle of the stones under the car’s tires.

It rolls effortlessly behind, matching his speed, just far enough that when he stops for air (precious air) it takes a long moment for it to creep, idling, to his knees, so that he has to run again.  The windshield is ablaze in sunlight.

He wonders what will happen when he has to stop for good.

Swagga Like, Um

Posted in Two Minutes Less a Third on May 4, 2009 by jeereg

Can’t no one match his swagga.  Boy comes correck.  He stands on the corner like issa brand new day.

“What the fuck are you doing?” says Tom.

“Fuck it look like I’m doin’, bitch,” says Hugh.

“You look like you’re being a fucking idiot.”

“Man, you bess step up off my corner, ni-”

“WHOA.  Hey.  Listen.  You need to stop this shit immediately.”

“Ain’t no shit here, muhfuckah.”

Tom walks up to Hugh and flicks his ear.  “Ah!” Hugh winces.  “What the hell, man?”

“I had to snap you out of it.”

“Snap nothin’, this here’s -”

“YOUR NAME IS HUGH.”

Let’s Get Ready To Sal-saaaa! Redux

Posted in Two Minutes Less a Third on May 1, 2009 by jeereg

Ding goes the bell, and the knives get moving, dicing onion, tomatoes, peppers.  Pans hit elements, and the temperature in the room ticks up a notch.  This isn’t Vincent’s first time in Culinaseum, but Nacho Night’s always something special.

“Cora’s got a serious hard on for habanero,” he whispers to Jason.

“It’s cute.  Look at the way her brow furrows.”

There is a quiet, broiling intensity in the room, and a smell that can only be described as Mexican.  Vincent’s mouth starts to water.

“Sometimes I wish we could just eat dips.”

“I do,” says Jason.  “It’s fucking wonderful, man.”

Let’s Get Ready To Sal-saaaa!

Posted in Two Minutes Less a Third on April 30, 2009 by jeereg

Ding goes the bell, and the combatants hit the floor in a swirl of red fabrics.  This is Vanessa’s first time at the Dance Ring; everything looks different than it does on TV.

“This is unreal,” she tells Rikka.

“Wait for the main event.”

Salvador slams a hip outward and the crowd goes absolutely insane.  She can feel the rhythm in her bones.  The closest rows are on their feet, yowling for murder.

“Wish I’d listened to my mom.  Taken dancing lessons.”

“You kidding me?  They woulda broke you in threes.”

A cross-step. Blood blooms on the challenger’s face.

Small Comforts

Posted in Two Minutes Less a Third on April 29, 2009 by jeereg

“This is as far as I can take you,” the Storm King had told them.  “From here, the storms are wild.”

He was not wrong.

The darkness came in waves, huge crashing walls of sound and water, what light there was bright and violent.  Becca’s tears were whipped into the fury, raindrops now, stolen by the storm.

“Child,” said the Sky Whale.  “You will be safe with me.”

It guided her to a crook under its fin, a shelter from the terrible night.  Becca curled up, shivering, listening to the muted chaos and the ancient rumble of her friend’s heart.

Think About How Many People Touch It

Posted in Two Minutes Less a Third on April 28, 2009 by jeereg

Thadeus’s money problems have little to do with getting it, and almost entirely to do with two things:

1. Where to put it.

2. How dirty it is.

It’s fucking gross, if you’re wondering.  He tries to sort the stacks, packing the cleanest, crispest bills into nice little boxes, and leaving heap after crumpled heap of stained paper on tables, floors, mantles.

“Is this blood?” he asks the apparently empty room.

“Maybe,” says Gloucester, who’s buried behind some piles in the corner.  “Probably.”

“That’s vile.”

“That,” says the muffled voice, “is the price you pay for not caring where it comes from.”