tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60297862011-04-22T02:11:28.070+01:00crooked framemiscellaneous fiction and things.paulnoreply@blogger.comBlogger171100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029786.post-1121175435943259462005-07-12T14:36:00.000+01:002005-07-12T14:37:15.950+01:00"house," (fiction)I live with my godmother and her husband- my uncle- in a house bigger than the one I was born into. The building itself is surrounded by trees- large, mountainous oaks filled with birds and squirrels and whatever else hides in the darkness.My bedroom is in the loft, looking out onto the front of our house. The dirt path leading to my uncle’s truck, the unkempt flowers and grass.paulnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029786.post-1120518393874818342005-07-05T00:05:00.000+01:002005-07-05T00:06:33.880+01:00"before night fall," (fiction)I’d never try to attribute blame, not for that.Movements and decisions, that’s all. I only remember flashes, myself.I just remember hearing a shot, and I didn’t know where. Just something behind me, almost directly behind me. The noise just echoed and throbbed. We all turned, I think.My eyes half closed.I had held mine, there- poised in front of me and my arm raised paulnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029786.post-1115594872934044722005-05-09T00:10:00.000+01:002005-05-09T00:31:03.223+01:00"untitled religion," (poetry).What becomes of our internet pornstars?Our children's faces, once brightso fleeting.Fuck me with your medicine.Make things right that once were gone.Science is our new religion.Word is god. Word is god.Hold me by your convictions;judge me with your morals.You prophet, scholar.Interpret my actions andmeasure my movements.Your hands hold me back,scissors cutting away paulnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029786.post-1109470119930100632005-02-27T02:08:00.000Z2005-02-27T02:08:39.940Z"about a girl," (fiction)I buy three CDs and a t-shirt that says 'fuck' in the three different colours. Three times three is nine. I buy a magazine and an energy drink and some cigarettes and a pack of skins. The shopping centre in which I stand is filled with scattered rubbish and mothers who scream at their children for doing the things that children like to do. "Are you trying to show me up?" paulnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029786.post-1109470072568445662005-02-27T02:07:00.000Z2005-02-27T02:07:52.573Z"there is no fucking god," (poetry)Her shoes are still in her wardrobe. Her dresses are still ironed and pressed. Her pictures still hang on the wall. Communions, christenings, confirmation. Pledging our future to words from a book. Holding myself towards Him. "My life in Your hands." We used to say grace before dinner, my daughter and I. We used to skate every winter. We both held each other thepaulnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029786.post-1109470014120939922005-02-27T02:06:00.000Z2005-02-27T02:06:54.120Z"flying ants," (fiction)"What is the life cycle of ants?" Cerys asked, and I didn't really know anything about them, so I couldn't say. We fell into a lull until we reached the peak of the hill, and there it sat before us: a maze of hills and green and homes we would never enter. I lit a cigarette and she drank coffee as we sat on the bonnet. My feet rested on the bumper. Then we left. A bug flewpaulnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029786.post-1109469961760769212005-02-27T02:04:00.000Z2005-02-27T02:09:16.563Z"moral debt," (poetry)Our Tokyo decadence will drive us insane,these flickering lights straining my eyes.Regression is a tool of combat.Remove their power,remove their base."All of your bases are belong to us,"said the miser to the peon.Communist angster Computer God speed recordingsof her voiceplayed low, bass turned high.Fuck all that applies.I've beaten you into touch before.Our butchery is paulnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029786.post-1107811072334533732005-02-07T21:16:00.000Z2005-02-07T21:17:52.333Z"sergei and the furious green" (fiction)
I'd been in Albania for just three days when I first met Sergei. I came back to my hotel late in the afternoon to find him arguing loudly with a chambermaid in scattered Russian and French. The Albanian chambermaid, younger than the scars on Sergei's face, seemed to speak neither. I bought potato vodka and sat and watched the charade drag out to some paulnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029786.post-1107810916555709242005-02-07T21:13:00.000Z2005-02-07T21:15:16.556Z"i can see the streetlight blur" (poem)
And, of course, our ending is nothing of the sort.
We move like ancient women,
beholden to our path.
We still know.
Gathering fuel in vacant lots,
your hands tremble in the cold.
I would grasp them tight
if I still felt an urge.
And I can see the streetlight blur.
The engine ticks again, again.
The distant traffic roar.
Crushing beetles paulnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029786.post-1107029516622638272005-01-29T20:11:00.000Z2005-01-29T20:11:56.623Z"detonation" (fiction)
You knew what happened from all that you could see. You could sense it from the smell in the air to the cigarette butts in the ashtray, those long white filters with lipstick on the base; a dark, blood red. And there were his, too, less noticeable in the oceans of white, perhaps, but they were there. He'd given up smoking long ago, but couldn't help but do it now.
And the paulnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029786.post-1107029064512958092005-01-29T20:04:00.000Z2005-01-29T20:10:14.743Z"first person, forest" (poetry)
This isn't happening.
You feel the leaves snap and break
underneath your feet, branches beneath you.
The autumn breeze sends shivers through your body and
your gloveless hands are red with the rush of blood to the surface.
I'm not here, you tell yourself. This isn't me.
Your mouth stays open, trying to scream
but you hear nothing.
This isn't happening.
Your eyes paulnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029786.post-1107029017772412212005-01-29T20:03:00.000Z2005-01-29T20:10:45.380Z"godmother" (fiction)
My godmother keeps her secrets close to her heart; buried deep, and silent. It is a trait I think I’ve gained- the reluctance to expose the more vulnerable elements; to hold back and never let go. She is ill, but won’t tell me. You can see it, in her. The changes, the increasing complacency. The distance from her to there.
I am watching her dice carrots on a cutting board paulnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029786.post-1107028962030266182005-01-29T20:01:00.001Z2005-01-29T20:02:55.840Z"observation" (fiction)
This dust that makes mud twirls up underneath our feet as we stand there, the wind blowing hard and the smoke rising from some fire up high in the distance. "I'm going now," she says. "I'd prefer it if you didn't ring me, either. I want no part in this."
And she leaves, letting go of my hand. I stare straight forward because I don't want to see; don't need to meet her paulnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029786.post-1107028910511551892005-01-29T20:01:00.000Z2005-01-29T20:01:50.510Z"people in a room" (fiction)
"The first time I fell in love, I didn't know what it was," I said to her, sitting on the chair looking while she lay in the bed. The layout of the room meant that there was a window just above the headboard, and I could see the rain lashing against it as we spoke.
"I didn't know what it was, and I didn't know where it came from. It wasn't even a gradual thing, paulnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029786.post-1107028867189588062005-01-29T20:00:00.000Z2005-01-29T20:01:07.190Z"uncle" (fiction)
My uncle would never eat a tomato. He'd look at it on his plate, when served, and stab it with his fork, viciously. The tomato would be flung anywhere possible, as long as it was nowhere near his food. When he lived with us, briefly, I would sneak tomatoes into his salad whenever I was making dinner. I'd cut up tiny little chunks and hide them between layers of lettuce, in the paulnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029786.post-1107028794619192202005-01-29T19:57:00.000Z2005-01-29T19:59:54.620Z"parents" (fiction)
My parents loaded themselves into a car one Sunday morning, long before the sun rose and the birds started to sing. It was September, just after the leaves had fallen from the trees. I was seven years old, almost eight.
Yes, they eased themselves into the car, trying as hard as possible to do so without making a sound. My father would have switched on the radio, paulnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6029786.post-1107028486362079062005-01-29T19:53:00.000Z2005-01-29T19:54:46.363ZI dislike introductions, and you'll never really find anything out about me anyway. This is just somewhere to post my fiction, poems, whatever.
paulnoreply@blogger.com