the best songwriting you've never heard
at the end of the longest day she can remember, mrs. kelly pulls into the parking lot of the children’s hospital. it’s been years since she’s been here. thirteen to be exact.
she’s tired of being exact.
she starts to climb out before she’s turned off the engine. the car bucks forward and hits the low cement bumper. she couldn’t be any more frazzled than she already was, so she takes it more or less in stride.
“don’t move. i’ve almost got your left eye.”
kevin does as he’s told, watching rachel scribble and erase, scribble and erase.
“are you almost done?”
she focuses on the sheet of paper in front of her, “every time you move, you make it take longer.”
Continue reading “monday song #59: rachel rides the short bus”
“not again.”
max sits on the couch, a news bulletin has interrupted his basketball game.
his roommate looks up from facebook.
“what is it?”
“another guy killing defenseless people.”
think of the millions of cars on this planet.
the millions driving around. the millions rusting in wrecking yards and standing on blocks. the millions that exist only in the memory of humans long dead.
so many goddamn cars. why would he ever think he could possibly make it to work on time?
another unfamiliar bed. although this one is oddly familiar.
she stares at the institutional acoustic paneling on the ceiling, looking for patterns in the tiny holes, stringing together constellations, waiting for the transition between one unreality and another.
the credits run out and the lights come up. everyone else has left the theater, but they’re still not ready to return to reality.
Continue reading “monday cover #2: the band: the moon struck one”
he’s hungover.
he stares in the mirror. his face is fleshy, somehow misshapen, as if viewed through a wide angle lens.
he swallows a handful of aspirin and starts the shower. hot water only.
she turns off her phone after the third call in an hour.
she smiles at her date. she has to say something.
“my sister wants to know how it’s going.”
she’s certain her smile isn’t coming off correctly, that he picks up some sign of discomfort.
she adds, “it’s been a while since i went out with someone new.”
william holden is face down in the swimming pool.
the police arrive followed by the press.
flashbulbs pop. questions go unanswered.
gloria swanson creeps down the stairs. an elderly spider, patient, arms held at unnatural angles, ready to dance or cast a spell. her head tilts off center; her once lovely face pulled tight by a humming tension. her moment, her final scene, the climax.
when his mother told him a month ago that they were moving to south carolina he was pissed off. beyond pissed off.
“next year is senior year! are you kidding me?!”
his mother’s tears killed his protest in an instant.
he had never seen his mother cry before.