MonsterA Story by Analgesia
Thin long legs. Not graceful, twigs and rubber bands. Stilts that fumble and prance away from lions and tigers and mad men oh my, my, my. He could see her, buck ten maybe, strapped to the hood. Neck tilts just so. Another goddamn damsel. The car fed on them. Growled and purred, spat and shook in all the right places. Then the top came down like a tightening jaw; the powerful shoulders of a big cat loading the fatal spring. The kill. The regurgitation. Echoed like “F**k You,” in a church. Hard to blame them, but he did. He wasn’t a monster.
He wasn’t. She idles in the parking lot. She. Like a f*****g pirate ship. Undercarriage dripping, rusty flecks like fur. Safe inside with the warm crinkle of fast food wrappers, subtle rustling receipts, empty canisters of oil and beer, discarded tissues, socks. She idles in the parking lot. She. Cigarette scissor fingers, surely imagining some French curve to her lips, kisses every trail of smoke. Doesn’t. Neck stretches, keeps her hair from kindling. Women. Flammable. She looks so cold in the sweater weather, with it’s shivering oranges, plucked by the tender fingers and beguiling gusts of lovers blowing kisses across oceans. Across a parking lot. A poet now? All Pariahs. Self righteous. I am self righteous. His hand on the wheel, mind perched over some carcass thought. Gorgeous. Gorge us. Need a cigarette. Light a cigarette. S**t. Harsh. Crush it into the upholstery. Can’t get a grip. Think in rhythms, think of wind chimes and metronomes and all that s**t. Get your act together. Get a job. F**k- That. Just ease into it. No. He taps the steering wheel, deep breath. Deep breath. Deep breath…It’s too much. Sweating-maladroit, fingers, the key thrust abruptly to the ignition, the motor revs. She notices. They always do. © 2014 AnalgesiaAuthor's Note
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1 Review Added on November 20, 2011 Last Updated on May 7, 2014 AuthorAnalgesiaFLAboutI've settle into a routine: I'll stew in my own words for a few months, then, when there's been enough rumination I'll dispatch some sort of half cocked pile of context riddled with pretension and lov.. more..Writing
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