It’s not your story to tell.
That’s what the voices say when I first place tingle-worn fingers on cold typewriter pegs.
Then whose story is it I always wonder. They won’t tell it. I always hide the names and protect the fragile while pianoistically climbing the little black, letter-imprinted pedals.
Tell your own stories.
That’s a cruel one. They know I’m not that brave, or that interesting.
Do journalists tell you their dreams from the night before? Do they write their mother’s neurotic idiosyncrasies?
Then choose another profession.
Profession? As if I made money at this.
You’re hoping to.
Cat, as his childhood “dice friends” had named him, waited on the brick fence with all the “wall tats”. He played with the solid gold slinky, opening and closing it, letting it bounce down his plus six-foot frame — but never touching the ground. He waited for his driver.
The maroon Tesla zipped in quietly and Cat leapt his wall and climbed in the rear. He loved the flashing computers and the tight, comfortable seat. It was a joy to evaluate each ride he took from home to Casino, from Casino to bed.
He’d never had this bald driver before.
So . . . let me see straightly . . . people don’t stop for red lights in Putridion . . . never??
The Pirate-Curly-Banged man twiddled finger into knots with his question.
“Correct”, said Millie. And they don’t wear knickers.
But how . . . does anything get done . . .?
Before the spinster, dressed to nines replied, the host swooped the gentleman, escorting him to nicer parts of the room.
“Why keep that creep?” asked the other partyist, back in their conspiratorial corner.
Because he’s curious and dumbfounded, those are my two favorite nontoxic traits!
This Story is an “Accidental Carryover” from Smillew Rahcuef’s turn of events
Which was in its turn a spinoff from J Knapps’
Why does my dad have to be so weird?
He jokes when he should be crying. Never yells, but his sarcasm screams loud enough to break every church building in town.
I’m not sure he actually loves my mother. I mean he lets her pet his head. Scratch his back. Make him dinners and lunches. Tells us to respect her.
But I know when me and my brother move out, things‘ll change.
He’ll probably start yelling. Might finally make an ultimatum — out of the spare audio parts he files and categorizes in the barn, shed, and garage.
Those meaty arms, swaying, flailing, jiggling appeals over the party dinner-table, they were saying something. I believe it was “I’ve eaten well in this life; I’ve said no to few things”.
Most fled this spirit once she started talking beyond 60 seconds. Me . . . I was interested in her strange opera. I had questions. I’m funny this way.
Why was the intellect so critical for her, her constant “have you heard of so and so’s?”, that regular declaration of their “genius among geniuses” status?
For what had she traded her rare quietnesses, those mental love affairs with so…
Nocci pushed the creaky door and held way for his companion. Inside they both applied the cups of their hands to noses and mouth. The floor and spilled tables reeked of worlds some children never see. His straggler kept fingers clamped around the tails of Nocci’s backpack, his shorter legs heavily clomping as quietly as possible among broken glass and strewn garments.
“What happens here?” asked the strange young innocent.
“Things we shouldn’t be proud of,” whispered the older as he hovered his unwooden hand above the rugged torn felt that was once just a billiard table.
“Why are there…
Lost and tossed in a forest of oxen and double-humpers, I regain bearing. The jangle of jewelry and pack strapping sings. But I care not these details; it’s the voice of their husband I strain for.
Herders materialize first amidst dust. Polite, more regal than most who lead beasts, tattling plans and stories, trips returned, rests ahead.
I’ve waited this mess of carnival and Eden a dozen weeks. The sought magistrate knows the bean I grow; he alone can make it prosper in my proximity to river. His children are the key to his time and heart. …
If you paint for me even one thing which is true, perhaps I’ll be tempted to consider two. I tell tales poetically, someone else needs to set them to music.