Flight attendant attire, scuffed and broken shoes. Sprightly walk between offices, muffled carpet sighs. No phone works – another dead dial tone, bzzz. An email instead, un courriel. Sent, received; no reply. Another coffee, extra sugar. Another email, still nothing; no phone either. Bitten nails in the setting sun, automatic lights shut off, absent motion. Flailing arms at the sensors, but darkness remains.
i guess he’s goth now. it’s a detail I’d not considered. it may now be the case. I might just -run- with it.
puerto ricans living without power
54 days (and counting)
two lamps here and a computer with a keyboard that has another keyboard
cold water from the tap
and the free time to write
a shit book
Aaron Barker mowed lawns five days a week and in the rainy season turned over to flood drainage. In the new year of, let me say, ’97, he ruin’t his own tools and gizmos in a flood of his own, water rushin’ in his basement workshop and all, so he needed a loan from his brother. He went with his gas-guzzling pickup, effective nine-tenths of the time, hauling mowers and wheelbarrows but ugly, unwieldy, when hosting naught but one desperate man. Pulling into the lot at his brother’s place, he jerked the wheel just in time to avoid a half-foot deep pothole coulda swallowed your dog. His brother gave him the loan after a long, frank, and embarrassing conversation on the microfibre sectional, but insisted on quarterly interest. Barker found a few new clients and mowed six days a week, but the gear he replaced exceeded the value of the loan, and as the season worsened, and homes started flooding, he found himself helpless. When his brother’s entire apartment complex flooded with five feet of water or more, and Barker orchestrated the bulk of the clean-up with contractors and rented gear, his brother invested in his LLC. These days Barker mows a couple days a week and when it rains, his guys clear the pipes as he sucks on a smoothie and snoozes.
on and off and off and on and on again
at the pad
everything here is green
salt stains on the lenses
Dressed in God’s own robes, Belly Fell Fell approached the snooty saleswoman in the shoe department. “Now you listen here,” Belly said, in a voice trembling but firm. “You can’t be so rude to people, you know,” she said. “Some people might have to show you just how rude you are.”
The saleswoman took a step back, alarmed. Belly launched into a monologue about dignity, index finger wagging. Belly lectured the woman, her strength fading, for nearly forty minutes. The robes she wore kept her warm and hydrated but her throat got sore all the same. Clearing her throat, Belly concluded, “so that’s why you shouldn’t be so rude.”
The saleswoman came back to her faculties with the slow crawl of a newborn, was horrified to find Belly still there, watching her expectantly, her rant freshly completed. “I can’t help but agree,” the saleswoman said. “You’ve made many valid points today.”
Belly flushed and fled the store, the weight of the robes heavy on her broad frame. She hung it on a doorknob overnight, and that was the last she saw of it. The following day she returned to the store, and bought a vibrant yellow frock without saying a word.