A Collection of Dark Prose

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Internally Godzilla is welcomed. I hope for something large and brooding to be fearful of. Instead my tongue swells with grief while the sunlight wrinkles my skin. Time decays waiting for a silver cumulus to let go of the shoe and I squeeze out all of my tears until I have nothing left for the rain. What will I do when my body disagrees? I’d rather choke on the dust that I leave behind than the dust that I gathered while I was here. This peculiar illusion of control corners me like a beast at feeding time. You would think by now I’d have learned enough to bathe in the sunlight instead of the blood but this slaughter is all that I know. I cashier myself until my shoulders curve raw underneath the flag of my own war.

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Here We Go Again (Another Tango Driver)

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Oh, what a beautiful morning. Oh, what a beautiful day. I hope that things will be going my way. Not today.

Lately, I have come across some “fun” drivers. It just seems like everybody is wrapped up in their own little world or texting on top of the steering wheel while driving. STOP Signs have become optional. Apparently, so have YIELD Signs, but I’ll get to that in a few moments.

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A World of Shit Pt. 2

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The sitcom cut to a commercial and Garth picked up the pipe and a lighter. While we watched a procession of former lard-asses tout the benefits of a new diet pill, he lit the underside of the pipe’s bowl and waited for the blessed, wisps of white smoke to swirl and rise. He sucked in the smoke once it appeared, held it a few moments then blew it all out. It was a massive hit; ash-white clouds filled the cramped camper. Feeling a wave of relaxation from the hit, he pondered just how many hits of equal punch the bowl had left. After all, hadn’t Blackie urged him to smoke all he wanted?

Unfortunately, he still needed to take a massive dump.

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A World of Shit Pt. 1

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Garth hadn’t dressed properly for the frigid weather. He wore only jeans and a loose sweater over a black T-shirt. No overcoat, no scarf. He paced beside his green Nissan, waiting for Rufus. He’d arrived at Fat Dog Liquor at seven that night just as he’d promised Rufus. It was nearly seven-thirty. He fought the urge to take his money and just buy a bottle of rum to take home to Josh. Occasionally, one of the customers shot him a baffled or suspicious look. Garth considered waiting in his car but doubted his dealer would remember what he drove.

Tonight was special for Josh and him. After Josh finished his prison term for a minor drug charge, he and Garth plotted online for a time they could get together, get high and get naked.

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Lies, a Parody of Sia’s “Chandelier”

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Party Politicians love the hurt
Don’t feel anything, they will never learn
Money they push down, they push down
I’m the one “to represent you all”
Polls going up, representatives ring’ doorbells
But there is no love, there is no love
1,2,3,1,2,3 Lies
1,2,3,1,2,3 Lies
1,2,3,1,2,3 Lies
Throw the truth back ‘til we believe you

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Fizz and April

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“You’re dating a slut,” I giggled against warm lips, swaying disconnected in the dance. Mind in another world I sat back, hands shaking. Voice interrupted by breath. Savoring this touch. I scold myself for being such a nymph, sitting in the rain, leaf decorated and gasping with the throbbing veins. Rushed and silenced thoughts, clutching tight and never stopping, singing to you, mirroring your hand’s euphoria. Together like this. Maybe this glory is imagined, but I do not pause to dwell, do not let it rise up. Instead, I swell with you and perhaps you are helium I keep inhaling and my feet might not be reminded of gravity of the sensation of tickling grass again. Instead this could be my only emotion. Sweet, full exodus and jovial ritual before twilight on wet mountain tops beneath trees, dew-covered like our bodies. Heaven held in each other’s gaze.

We create our own gods. Licked nectar off lips, heads thrown back, coupling, reaching, pushing in time.

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Faded Shades of Rainbow

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A soft breeze rustled across deep green grass, perfectly cut to match its square interior. Sun settled down over small, white houses with glass screen doors propped wide open. Shadows fell over newspapers now lifted up, last relics of a world gone quiet, but the road whispered of life to come. But none never did. “Good-morning, neighbor.” “Good-morning, neighbor,” he replied as he walked to his house. “Just another day of paradise,” and the door slammed shut behind him. Sunlight streamed into the small kitchen. His wife, Lily was busy cooking breakfast. She always made scrambled eggs and bacon, his favorite, and she hummed as she cooked.

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43 Cars, 1 Long Day

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Twice per year, for a period as short as a few hours and up to about a week or so, the small town of Ridgeway, VA, gains about 40,000 visitors. Motels sell rooms that haven’t been touched in months. Campers and pedestrians line the streets and fields for miles. It seems as if it is predetermined that the clouds will shed tears at some point during the week, as race weekend here at Martinsville Speedway has become notorious for some form of bad weather. Every year, I look forward to hanging out with my father-in-law, two of his brothers, and my best friend, Greg. The Sprint Cup race and all the pre-race activities are things I look forward to every year; a day chocked full of fun, fellowship, food and fast cars.

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