tragicoptimist

Exiled to the rooftops, he sat contemplating the late afternoon settling on the skyline of Paris. His shoulders sore from hauling clothes up seven flights of stairs. He’d only been there two days but the ashtray already teemed with tiny butts.

The winter clouds resisted the vernal sun, but evaporated into the eager sky. The bustle of the city echoed below on the streets just above the Grand Boulevards in a neighborhood that he didn’t recognize. In another situation he would have been happy, soaking in the sense of possibility the Parisian spring always promises. As it was, he only felt abandoned.

This wasn’t the first time he had started over. When Sarah had left him years ago he’d ended up living in a van. What a long winter that had been. If nothing else he had a room now, though not much bigger than that damn Dodge. Solitude’s sudden silence hollowed his bones. » Read more «

Brooke turned on the porch and went in without saying a word. Her long black ponytail slapped her back as the screen door snapped shut. Samuel shuffled his tired legs in his seat. Nothing moved in the harvested fields, golden and brown. Silence surrounded the rickety house. The last drops of condensation trickled down his empty whiskey glass. She came back through the door with a jug in hand.
– Might as well keep it out here, ain’t no more ice anyways. Her country drawl scratched out from her prominent lips.
He held up his glass and she filled it half-empty.
– Is that all you plan to give me ? he said, hand suspended.
– Ya can’t handle this homebrew, Sam.
Samuel slammed the moonshine trying his best not to cringe. She laughed.
– A’right, pour it fer yerself then. She set the jug down beside his chair and fell back into her lawnchair in one unbroken movement. As she leaned over, he saw down her braless shirt but was met by her pale blue stare when she sat.
– Thank you, by the way, he said reaching for the jug, – I appreciate you taking me out.
She looked at him hard then turned her gaze out over the field.
– You did okay I guess, fer a city boy. » Read more «

The second pistolcrack snapped Kat from her sleep. She gasped for breath and choked on the acid still scorching her throat. Her swollen eyes opened just in time to escape seeing his body drop to the ground again, lifeless and limp. But the dead hum of the plane’s engines didn’t drown out the echo of his bones splintering in his chest under the weight of the jeep or the screams, gradually fading from her mind. She jabbed at the call button, looking behind her for the nearest flight attendant.
– Whiskey. Please. » Read more «

Łu el xera xà sentà łà fora quando sémo rivai nialtri. El jera in mexo a łe ùltime careghe de plàstega verde ingrumae in fondo al campo Santa Marghe, ciacołando co na puteła bionda e co un birin in man. Xera quaxi un boto e ła xente xera drio tornar caxa ma se vedeva che łu, inbriago, el ndava vanti a sercar de intortar ła pora fia. Andrea ne gaveva dito de trovarse in campo par tor dó spris e par metarse d’acordo par doman : xera ła festa del Redentor e ghe gavémo dito a ‘staltro de far ła spéxa parché el gaveva ła barca più granda. Gavémo sborsà dósento bei euri a testa par far un feston bueo ‘sto an. » Read more «

Out by the airport I turn on the siren, turn into a oneway street against traffic and hit a cat that is crossing. I want to smoke but I’ve finished the Camels. The whore is frozen and is staring at the windshield. I turn off the siren and tell her give me a cigarette, she takes a pack of Gauloises from her pocket and says keep ‘em. I light one and then put the pack in my pocket and I say what the hell were you thinking you stupid whore. She says I don’t know I’m sorry. I say you’re sorry what the fuck does that mean you’re sorry, then I punch her and the blood starts dripping from her nose again. She tries to stop it with her hands but it bleeds everywhere. » Read more «