#54

he was getting ready to leave. the one before him left too. and the one before that.
she watched him pack and her heart ached. it always happened this way with her. the initial attraction, the first date, the part where she allowed herself to get a little too attached. then came the job opportunity. a "can't pass it up" deal. travel.
every one of them had been right, of course. they had all been fantastic opportunities, chances she would take, if she was in their shoes.
she was never in their shoes.
again today, she stood watching him, bent over the bed, clumsily folding a shirt.
loneliness had settled in before, but loneliness for company. any company at all.

today it was something else.

today it was abandonment.

#53

i know i was never literary enough for you. it didn't matter how much schooling i had, it never mattered how many books i bought and devoured and dogeared and underlined.
moby dick sat on my nightstand for two months and it was drudgery. the whole book went downhill right after "call me ishmael" but i read it, i read it because you love it.
maybe Hearst was the original journalistic genious/asshole, but someone had to invent yellow journalism. but you always stick to the facts now, don't you?
don't think i cannot see you roll your eyes when i order a medium latte; i never could remember "grande." they all sound big to me.
so i guess i'll leave you to your trendy scarves and square framed glasses. you were always more passionate about pointing out every pretentious remark of your self-proclaimed nemeses than what might be happening in my heart.

#52

the first time he saw her, she looked like the heroine on an 80's B-list movie poster. Wavy, glossy hair, red lips perpetually holding a cigarette, curves like a mountain pass. her wide-eyed gaze passed over him, as expected.
he knew the type- wild and seductive, with just enough morality to make a man beg. to make him crazy.

he'd had clients like this his whole life. jealous lovers, rich playboys who live to be wanted. they'll wine and dine every fish in the sea, but there's always one. always one who he can't bear to see with anyone else.
that's when he gets the call. he always agrees because the money's good. half now, half when the job's done.

she was in his sight now, and for the first time he thought twice before pulling the trigger.

#51

the old house creaked as she leaned against the front porch post, chipped paint, which had been crisp white, now weathered through. hair fell in long curling pieces of ribbon around her face. skinny now, almost gaunt, yet still beautiful.
she finished the last drag of her cigarette and he photographed her in colorless tones.
black and white would not fade as she had.

#50 (see, i made up for the double forty-six)

he stared at the painting, wondering. each brush stroke placed so carefully on the canvas, and he was offput by it's unsettling aesthetic.
even so, it was intriguing. strangely alluring.
and he wondered about the artist, a woman. would he view this differently if it were a man? would it cease to fit within his narrow mindset? if it were his sister, his girlfriend, wife or daughter, would he find it so intimidating?

so...

I wrote 2 different #46's.

and i am too lazy to change it.

over and out.

#48

he'd done it again. somehow managed to rile up the status quo. his mother always said not to talk politics or religion unless you're ready for a debate. probably a lot of mothers said the same thing.
there just wasn't much very interesting to him aside from those two subjects.
the problem wasn't that people were against delving in to the subject matter. it was that people only want to discuss it if you agree with their opinions.
in his head, he could be swayed by a well-presented arguement. he just couldn't help playing devil's advocate or, more often, setting up such a satirical viewpoint that none could argue for lack of logic.
he didn't intent to make enemies. his entire social life reflected Poe's law. which is to say, no one ever invited him to a second party.

#47

the moment before the picture held the truth. the beatles' most famous picture in the crosswalk. who saw them a few seconds earlier? who witnessed them adjusting their jackets, moving stray hair from their eyes?
grade schoolers lined up for picture day, the boys roughhousing and throwing paper wads, the shy girl in the back, holding her head down quietly, then grinning widely to show 2 missing teeth.
these are the moments he longed for. they were the moments he wondered about.
he saw these pictures, he kept them in an album, full of pictures of people he never knew. he hoped that maybe someone would find a picture of him and wonder. he hoped they would imagine stories of his life. that somewhere, in the mind of a young visionary, he would be alive and vibrant; his life would be extraordinary.

#46

everyone said she had talent, she knew her songs were great. but something about the stage, the lights, the heavy makeup and heavy breathing fans leaning over the monitor... she was never intended for fame. and maybe her songs were better left to herself.
she was torn between acknowledgement and anonymity. the self-absorbtion of needing to be commended for her accomplishments. the calm of careless abandonment.

#46

it was there when she got home from work. the wind blew her skirt around her legs, playing with escaped pieces of hair. she didn't notice how bright the moon was already, already visible above the sunset. looking down, as she always did nowadays, she put her key in the mailbox. the gray door swung open and she reached in for the usual bills, junk mail, the occasional "10% off your next purchase over 50 dollars" offer. something was different this time. she looked down, intrigued.
scrawled handwriting that she hadn't seen for years. the return address printed more clearly than hers.
dropping everything from her hands, her purse scattering its contents on the concrete, she tore open the letter. it was a picture. it was bent. "please forgive me. i miss you." written on the back. she turned it over.
the moment was vivid in her mind. her 12th birthday. his skinny arms around her shoulders, protectively, the way every parent hopes a big brother will be. she was beaming, safe and happy. only two years later was when...

clutching the picture to her chest, tears dripped to her cheeks, her chin, fell on her sweater. had it been 15 years? more since the trial started. she couldn't visit him there; it was easier to forget, to leave.
looking at the photograph, she knew those children would never be so innocent again. but she would go home now. she would take back a scrap of what it felt like to be a child.

#45

she was leaning over the edge of the boat. he cautioned her and pulled her back towards him. music floated from inside the ballroom and he took her to the middle of the deck. moving in time with the notes, he smiled. she looked angelic- recreated candlelight shone through the windows and reflected her dewy skin. she wore her hair long and wavy. her dress fell lightly on her thin shoulders, across her hips, barely touching her feet.
they spun and a laugh trickled from her lips.
his thoughts quickly turned to the box hidden in his pocket. and inside...
he loved her. of course he loved her. was he in love with her? he was her knight. he was endlessly romantic and she wanted to desperately to be with him. he knew that.
could he take a lifetime of that?
she was so beautiful.
and so dependent.
she wasn't right for him. he knew there were women better suited for him. more spontaneous. quicker to laugh. more independent, women who he would truly be happy with.
she was just a girl.
she would be devastated.
but he could not be her happiness. not any more. finally, he knew, he would make the right choice. the box weighed heavy in his pocket. he would rid himself of it. and of her. and for the first time in years, he would feel free.