you don't pick your best friend.
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Posted:Mar 6, 2017 1:24 pm
Last Updated:Mar 14, 2017 11:00 am
12531 Views
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My friend weezer and I spend a lot of time pissed off. It’s been a tough year for us because we’re both activists, both worked for campaigns, both sat through all the debates yelling expletives at the tv and because we’re older went to sleep the night before assured we’d wake up to the first female president of the United States of America.
We see each other at least two times a week, more usually. A lot of the time is spent organizing, some spent training younger people how to be passive resisters. She’s a lesbian and we started doing the training thing about 10 years ago when GLAD got into larger civil actions. At first we were just groupies, but then they figured out we had Vietnam experience so they put us to work. Now we're working with Warren.
We also go out to the theater, grocery shop, watch stuff like the Man in the High Tower, OA, weird things we find because we both have rokus, dig binge watching stuff while eating near a bathroom where we can yak about what is just so WRONG with this damn world and not have anyone tell us to be quiet.
I met weezer the first day I started working at this place that fed people who were homebound with AIDS. she was an IT person who was fixing the computers. that was over 30 years ago. She’s a bitch of the first water, yelling at everyone like she owned the place. We hit it off right away.
She should be a serial killer, she’s that smart, that vicious.
Some people you meet and you think, wow that person had a shitty life and look how nice they are. Not weezer, she had the worst fucking life….and damn, she is the poster for what that can do to you. She is fucked up. trust issues, identity stuff, hell, she had half her bowels taken out at age 7, thanks to daddy. She has every reason to be pissed. i met daddy once, told him what I thought of him and was escorted from the hospital for my eloquence while that pig got to stay. He's dead now. No, I did not kill him. A lot of people that are nice, well they sort of stick in my craw. But weezer, she’s someone I can understand. She’s full of anger, sure, but she’s there every single time I need a friend, fearless, not giving a damn what anyone elsee has to say. And there were times, smh, when other people walked, but not her…nope, not the weezer.
She loves forever. I couldn’t get rid of her if I wanted to. She’s the same with my , my dog. Not so much my lovers, though she’s better than she was, okay not a lot better but a little better.
We’ve shared most of a life now. It will break me into pieces when she passes. The only person I hold more dear is my . She is such a rare find, an honest human being with an exceptional mind, a warrior, my best friend.
Watch out though, the bitch WILL cut you.
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13
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Symposium: Stranger in a Strange Land
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Posted:Mar 2, 2017 2:18 pm
Last Updated:Mar 12, 2017 3:20 pm
10811 Views
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Pressed back against the wall, she stood watching the dancers as the music filled her head and her body moved despite her best intentions to remain still, inconspicuous. Born of coffee shops and poetry readings, she was lost in this throbbing neon flashing. The sunburn on her shoulders from the long day, the burn of the bourbon in her belly, the comfort of the nicotine in her lungs, she closed her eyes, letting sensation carry her off.
The sudden silence startled her. Everyone had turned toward the raised platform, constructed that afternoon, barely functional, now surrounded by men in black. She moved forward, wanting to see, needing to hear.
The man was not nearly as tall as she had imagined, but there was something in his eyes. Something fierce, something that held you. She raised the camera. He straightened as if knowing she were there. She was here because no one noticed her but somehow, he knew. He spoke for just a few minutes to utter silence, finished to thunderous cheers, left immediately. The music filled the room again as she moved quickly to the door.
She grabbed a ride with one of the other spotters back to headquarters handed off her film, spent some time, typing out the statements of those that had been beaten during the protest, coding them to the photos. Two of the Panthers walked her to the subway, rode with her for three stops then got off. She went on to the Village, walking down Christopher Street. One or two people stopped her, asked her about her day but she was tired and just shrugged.
She wanted sleep, quiet, denial.
The next day, the Voice carried two of her shots. She went to work at the coffee shop, made 27 dollars in tips. This would be a tight month.
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12
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Hey Scarecrow..........
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Posted:Mar 1, 2017 1:48 pm
Last Updated:Mar 5, 2017 12:14 pm
9597 Views
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[blog doe_ra_me] is Back! [Crotch Critter Olympics]
he's back, I tell you.......though he won't let comments in so I can't tell him i'm so glad to see him.
so I hope he sees this.
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8
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Mother of God
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Posted:Feb 28, 2017 12:40 pm
Last Updated:Mar 4, 2017 11:52 am
10772 Views
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My Da’s mother was a witch of a woman, mean as a snake. She wore those old floral housecoats with snaps, cap sleeves, her flappy mottled arms crossed over her front, she’d stand in the door to the kitchen when we went to take care of Bubby, watching us.
My sister said she was brown in her soul. I don’t know. I just know I hated her. She’d ask if we wanted orange soda, then laugh and say she didn’t have any, if we said yes, please. Who does that to ? Once when mama was bathing Bubby, she took her teeth out, chased us until the sainted one screamed, then popped them back in.
Nanny had taken to her bed. Da said it was because she was too mean to do anything. The room smelled something awful, like feet. Mama said we had to stay til she got back. Nanny had a picture on the mirror of a heart with thorns around it and it was bleeding. And under that a candle that was lit. And statues and a cross with dead Jesus. The room was like a nightmare.
One day, mama had to take Bubby to the doctor. She left the Sainted One and me there to bring Nanny stuff if she needed stuff. We sat on the couch. I don’t think we breathed at first. It was forever. Then, we heard it. Like a ghost moaning thing. The sainted one and me, we got behind the couch, held onto each other and refused to hear it, we did not hear it. It got louder.
There were times in my life when I wanted to be an only . This was one of them. I was little. I was not supposed to have to do this but the sainted one said we had to check, see if she was okay. She dragged me with her
We edged towards the dark smelly room. We could see the candle flickering on the bleeding heart, our faces reflected in the mirror, Nanny’s too. The Sainted One, voice all wobbly asked if she needed anything. Like some terrible twisted THING, Nanny rose up, her hands searching reaching. I fell back, scrambling on the floor. This sound, this hollow deep sound from HELL, with the smell of death, reverberated through the room.
“Take me now, blessed Mother………..”
The sound of my sister’s scream, her retreating feet, me crawling faster than I had ever run. I peed myself. . We were a mess. But we were a fast mess. We were down the stairs and on the front lawn, holding on to each other, sobbing.
My mama and the neighbor pulled up in front with Bubby at some point. He pulled us into his arms, while mama ran up to check. We looked after her, she was a GOD. Da was just coming down the street from work. Yeah, sure, now.
Oh, Nanny was fine, laughing up a storm. Mama was not fine. She told Da she was D.O.N.E. and hoped Da could spell. He said he could spell just fine woman. It was awful quiet on the walk home.
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11
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Saturday Night.....
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Posted:Feb 23, 2017 12:59 pm
Last Updated:Mar 12, 2017 3:18 pm
9861 Views
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Drugged to the gills, she giggled as she shambled forward down the walkway. Gills would be cool, then she could swim underwater forever, be a mermaid for a waterpark. No for Disneyworld…oh yeah. Wait, Charon told her you had to be a virgin to work at Disney so that’s not gonna work but would they check, they can’t check can they..geeze that’s disgusting, shame on Disney, I need something to drink before my lips falls off.
There you are, you lovely 7.11 you…come to mama. Pushing the door with her hip she entered the neon world of 3AM convenience and danced the aisles searching for something her stomach would not reject, aiming for the Slurpee machine. Blue or green or red. Oh the decisions that she had to make sometimes were overwhelming. She stared at the lava flow blurp, pushed a button remembering seconds later a cup was necessary. Sighing heavily, she yelled cleanup Slurpee and headed out…not at all willing to take part in THAT discussion.
Ooh, a diner, god she loved Davis Square. A bliny. Just the thing. Plonking down at the counter, she tumbled the contents of her purse out for all to see, all being no one except the waitress who glared at her venomously. There it is………..the world. She grabbed on to her phone, sighing contentedly.
“A bliny and a chocolate frappe.”
“Dieting?”
“Oh god, do I look fat to you?” eyes wide.
The waitress kept walking. A question such as this left unanswered was likely to tilt her world into madness. She snapped several selfies, sending them off with FAT? underneath, nervously waiting for whatever came first, the bliny or a YES? Her very existence hung in the balance.
“You LOOK anorexic.”
Calm settled over her. Okay, okay. Not fat.
“Oh, gosh, thanks so much.” She slurred around the straw as she sucked down the frappe. Her phone now forgotten on the counter. God, she really had to pee. “Watch my stuff?”
The waitress looked at the pile of tissues, stray lipsticks, random detritus, and returned to filling ketchup bottles. When the diner filled with bar closing people, she hustled. At last, a few seconds of peace, she headed back for a cigarette. The door to the alley resisted but a good strong push and it opened.
Fuck. Slipping back inside she spotted the phone on the counter. Hit send. Hopefully this time someone would answer. Then she turned to the cook.
“Call 911, will ya?”
“Why?”
“Gimme the phone for chrissakes.”
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6
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a good ol' boy
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Posted:Feb 21, 2017 12:40 pm
Last Updated:Apr 15, 2017 5:33 pm
9787 Views
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[image]
The shivered in the cold but couldn’t move, his hind quarters frozen to the ground. The lady that smelled like the little boy came out the back door and talked low and gentle to him. She had a big pan of water with her. His thirst was fierce and he pushed his head into it, spilling some of it. She called the man with the white hair on his face. He held the close under his front, while she poured the water behind the dog.
He felt the warmth first and then his legs loosened and he could move. Stumbling, too cold to walk, he pulled himself along and licked the lady’s hands. They lifted him then, wrapping him in something that smelled like sunshine and took him up the stairs into a room that simmered where the little boy was dancing around, trying to touch him.
A bowl with water, another with food. He didn’t move, just stared up at them. They moved them closer to him. Soft voices, a touch on his shoulder, the boy dancing around him, finally scooped up into the man’s arms, held there ‘til he calmed. The lady, sat beside him, her fingers dipping into the bowl, offering her hand to him. If he could weep, he would weep. He licked her fingers, licking long after they were clean. His tongue lapped the water, until it was gone. He couldn’t stop himself. He shrank back waiting for the kick. The bowl was gone, then back, full again then empty. He fell asleep.
When he woke for the second time, he was warm. He felt a weight on his back, smelled the lady. She was on the floor beside him covered in something, making a rumbling noise, her arm looped over him. What should have felt uncomfortable brought him comfort. The smell of the food was nearby. He inched towards it on his belly. In three mouthfuls it was gone, but so was her hand and he missed it. He turned to find her. She was awake, sitting, looking at him. She stood then, refilled the bowl with dry food, set it next to his bowl of water, sat back down leaning against the wall. He ate, drank.
He had to go. She held the door open and he left, looking back with longing. When he was done, he stood there. The snow was already seeping cold into his bones. She opened the door and his body sprang forward, back into warm, back into safe, back. She rubbed his head and gave him a hard thing that he chewed up quickly. She rubbed his ears, over and over, sending him back to sleep.
The sun was on his nose when he woke next, the little boy was holding his tail in his hand so he twitched it, watching the boy fall over, listening to the sounds he made. As the boy kept trying to catch the tail, the lady watched, her face was in the sun too.
His bad Man came to the door many sleeps later. He stood outside yelling. She stuck out her tongue. he stayed in the room with the sun until the lady came back, rubbed his ears.
They named me buddy. They say I am a good ol’ dog.
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9
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mon cabanon et Rene
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Posted:Feb 19, 2017 11:21 am
Last Updated:Mar 12, 2017 3:10 pm
10953 Views
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As a young woman, when I lived in France, I knew a much older man named Rene. He was a businessman who knew the artist with whom I was living, the photographer who lived a village away, the owner of a hotel in St. Tropez, so many others. Rene was a tall man with a broad frame, dark hair beginning to silver, a thick nose, eyes the color of the sea on a stormy day. He was deeply tanned, almost always without shoes, with long spatulate fingers that smelled of gauloises, sunshine.
We swam together almost daily. His laughter was sonorous, rich. He ate with his fingers, feeding me bits of things I’d never dared try, laughing at my moue of disgust, licking grease off my lips. On the beach one day, a man was selling jewelry. Rene bought me a necklace but placed it round my belly instead, watching it slide up and down as I breathed.
He sent my artist to Paris with his paintings to see a gallery owner. When I returned from the market that day, the women told me there was a message for me at the bar. Of course, they accompanied me, stood there as I opened the missive, observing me carefully. The note was in English, how disappointed they were, straggling off.
That night, I stood outside my cabanon, no lamps lit within. I never heard his approach. I felt his breath on my neck, his fingers twisting into my long curls, the pressure and sting on my scalp as he pulled my head back, his other hand roaming my body, spreading my legs, lifting an arm, sniffing my skin.
I knew it was my choice. Nothing would happen or everything could. To feel such power is a heady thing. I was unsteady as His hands released me. I turned, taking a step back.
In the dark, I was still able to see him perfectly, his body relaxed, yet somehow poised, ready. I pulled my camisole off, stepped out of my skirt, pushing it aside. He watched me, eyes hooded, unmoving. Not knowing if this would be the moment when he would turn away, I went to my knees in front of him.
His hand, a benediction, on my hair.
“Ah, tu comprends. Merci ma petite soumise.”
And so we began our week. I knew nothing about bdsm. He knew everything. I learned the basic positions; more because he enjoyed protocol, than because they played a major part in our time together. Also because he adored the female form and the positions show it such good advantage. When I knew it was time for Him to arrive I would kneel, back straight, knees spread, my bottom resting on my heels. He preferred a modified position. Not one with my hands palm up on my thighs He preferred my hands behind my neck so my breasts rose up, the rest was the same, head slightly lowered so my eyes were looking downward..
He would tip my face up by my chin, always with a compliment, a smile, hold out his large hand, for my small one once inspection was complete, lift me to my feet. Did I mention I was naked? I was always naked when He was with me. Sometimes we ate together at restaurants, sometimes he would take me to parties. He chose my public outfits carefully, my body always accessible to Him.
But mostly, mostly we spent hours in the cabanon….the heat intense. There, the lessons were part of the warp and weave of the day. The slightest pressure on my shoulders sent me to my knees. A hand at the base of my spine adjusted my body’s curvature. He could read me, knew when I was too far out, when I drifted, when I was on the cusp. If my words were gone, He read my body, my eyes, my breath, like a maestro, blending everything together, from cacophony to cohesion, building to the crescendo. My safe word was cadeau. I never used it.
After, He would wrap me in his arms like a tiny beloved thing, soothe me, allowing me time to return, His voice never stopping, a sort of constant call to home. When I finally moved, his laughter would fill the room, while I grinned up at him. Then, if I was lucky and there was more time to be had, we would talk. Stories of submission, of Dominance, question after question always probing to see what it was that I wanted, needed. I whispered things to him that I had never said to anyone, his smile a sonstant reassurance.
He never once made me feel anything but beautiful, desired, womanly. Over time, I sent a friend to Him; she stayed with Him for two years. His Jean Baptiste came to stay with me for a summer. We danced in rain puddles, sat up until dawn talking. He was his mother’s .
I saw Rene four more times before he died. The last time I saw Him, he was nearly crippled with RA, his hands gnarled, in pain. I was in first position when he entered my apartment. His eyes scanned quickly, he used his cane to spread my knees further apart. I was a puddle on the floor when he left.
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12
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amuse bouches
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Posted:Feb 17, 2017 11:27 am
Last Updated:Mar 12, 2017 3:07 pm
8944 Views
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She felt
As though her skin would burst.
Waiting for the cane to strike, her eyes trained on the floor, she breathed as she had when she was giving birth, a rolling breath that kept her body nearly motionless. Now as then, she reveled in her fecundity, the deep urge to moan, to push, she wet her lips, the ache nearly unbearable.
It was Not the cane. Hands tightening around the suede extenders, her sharp intake of breath marked the moment as the leather marked her thighs. Again, higher up and she went to her toes. She heard his soft huff. What to give Him, when? His hand pushed down on her back, her arms now stretched to their limit. He pushed her head down roughly.
“Watch.”
“Sir?”
“Watch your body.”
His bare foot pushed her legs further apart and she could feel her lips open, the moistness no longer trapped inside, drops falling to the floor, which He slurred with the belt. He changed his stance, as she saw the black leather snake snap between her legs, bite her belly, her cry feral as it disappeared, bit again, each time closer. Her legs shook but not from fear, from need, watching the snake descend, her moans deeper, more guttural.
His feet disappeared, she registered that, her panting so loud now, it made her wince. Where had He gone? She screamed. The cut was sharper than she’d imagined possible. She choked back the second cry, the leather raising a long weal on her other cheek. The blows came quickly then, a staccato beat as she half mewled, half groaned, moving through purple, cobalt blue, raging orange to an icy white flame so cold, so hot so blissful as the belt wove its way across her body to her breasts, striking the soft white skin, her nipples so taut.
The snake, wet, oily, now only 10 inches long, wrapped tightly around his hand. She watched it inch up her thigh, her legs shaking, mesmerized. His feet were back between hers, a hand pressing down on the small of her back. The snake was stiff, inching upward, she pushed back, her need primal, the feel of the snake entering her eliciting a sigh of relief as He twisted the belt inside her, pushing it deep. She groaned as it came out, covered with creamy whiteness, her body bucked.
He slid three fingers deep inside, hooking her, pulling her back towards him. Releasing her hands, He placed her at the edge of the bed, heels on his shoulders. “Pull yourself open, now.”
As she did, the belt slapped down on her swollen clit. she arched, eyes wild. “You are so ready to come. What do you think, one more slap?” She nodded, her eyes begging for release.
“I’m hungry. Shall we eat?
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10
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L'aperitif
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Posted:Feb 13, 2017 11:54 am
Last Updated:Feb 16, 2017 2:21 pm
9230 Views
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The room was painted a deep flat green, over the bed a ceiling fan, a bronze shaded lamp sat on a black lacquered table to its side casting the dimmest of sepia light. A large mirrored vanity was to the right. His hand swept across the carefully placed items.
He took off his travelling clothes, slipping into light jersey pants, adjusted the heat to 75. He stood, savoring the moment.
She walked in, barefoot, wearing a kimono. He could smell the scent of her hair, then her perfume, then her. She was aroused…He tried not to react. He wanted to throw her on the bed.. but the other part? Oh, the other part, wanted to make her wait, make her plead, make her beg….
She assumed the first position. He smiled. When she licked her lips, He reached for the bed post, seeking the control He would need.
He moved to stand in front of her. He could feel her breath through the soft jersey of his pants. His hand rested on her hair. He could feel her trembling, as he opened the robe, exposing her body.
“High kneel presentation”
She moved into position with her hands locked behind her neck. He moved the kimono back, using the tie to hold it behind her. He picked up a long bamboo caning rod, running it through His hands, hardening when he heard her breath alter. Now behind her, he allowed himself to smile. Unhooking her arms, he pulled the kimono loose, tossing it aside. Her body reacted with a quake. The silence in the room lengthened.
“Stand”
He held out a hand, she took it, rose, feet apart, and hands by her side, eyes lowered.
“Have you arranged a place where you will be able to hold on securely?”
She closed the bedroom door. He smiled at her ingenuity.
“It’s a bit tight”.
“The dresser rolls back Sir.”
Ah, good. He placed her hands into the apparatus, pulled her body away from the door, settling her legs, spreading them wide.
His hands moved under her body, roughly over her nipples, down her belly.
She was ready. Dinner would have to wait.
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7
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purple hat
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Posted:Feb 11, 2017 1:49 pm
Last Updated:Mar 4, 2017 11:52 am
8822 Views
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pimping two must reads - i don't know how to link so you're on you own on getting there but do try.
Optiskeptic's future imperfect. i have read this man forever. he is amazing. this is not a happy read. but boy.....it hits the nail.
and now for something completely different
40Deuce's Chapter18-The last pimpmoblie out of Lawrence, Kansas...........just read it.
my work here is done and this stupid hat makes my head itch
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4
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arrival
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Posted:Feb 11, 2017 12:21 pm
Last Updated:Mar 12, 2017 3:04 pm
9220 Views
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The airport was crowded. She hurried towards the baggage claim area, eyes flashing, searching for an old felt hat, floating above all the rest of the heads. There. Slowing her pace, she moved forward, her keys cutting into her palm. He turned, there it was, the question, the possibility.
Without stopping she placed the length of her body against His. His eyes closed. She inhaled deeply, feeling him chuckle, his hand move to her neck. Pushing up on her toes, she ran her lips across his, to and fro, a feather’s touch. A small sound, was it from her, rose up as the kiss deepened, as his arms bowed her back, as one foot lifted from the ground, as her hands clasped together around his neck.
When they parted, the passengers applauded, she tucked her head into his chest. Seven days, she thought to herself.
In the elevator, she stared at His hands. The car was parked third in. His large hands lifted her onto the trunk, her eyes fluttered, she could feel her breath quicken as he braced his knees against the bumper, pulled her forward, spreading her legs. She could feel the length of him inside his jeans, pressing against her. He pushed up her skirt. She knew he would check.
“Good girl” .
He smiled at her gently, pulled back, lifted her off the car.
“Best get moving.”
She stared at him. He looked back at her, one eyebrow raised.
She nodded and unlocked the doors. As he moved to the other side of the car, she allowed herself the briefest of smiles.
“ I have dinner for tonight.”
He turned to look at her. He laughed. She startled slightly, then realizing the idiocy of the comment, broke into giggles as she jostled for position in the heavy traffic.
“Hurry.”
She nodded.
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8
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Big John.
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Posted:Feb 9, 2017 12:57 pm
Last Updated:Feb 16, 2017 2:21 pm
8862 Views
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The first hill was a 25 degree angle and a long slope, fanning into the outfield of the baseball field. At the top was a flat surface where the parents stood, chatting, sipping coffee from thermoses, wiping noses, pulling up droopy snow pants. We called it the kiddy slope, taking the ride only to bring us nearer the goal.
On the far side of the playground, Big John. A 75 degree slope with a bump to another 75 degree run over a tar hill bottom that emptied at 80 degrees into a dead end street. That is, IF you could pitch your ride perfectly. If not, a steel fence edged the grounds. For some, bailing was the answer, for others, the crash must out.
No parents stood at the top of this hill. Anarchy ruled. No one looked to make sure the way was clear. You were ready to go, you went. Someone slogging back up got out of YOUR way. The speed would build, the bump would toss you, the speed take you, and just in that second you had to choose, bail, hit or sail over the tar hill. The day was nearly over when my brother’s friend hit the fence.
The sound stopped my trek to the top. I sat on my saucer and headed down.
His face was so white. We had to kick the fence to get his leg out. We put him on his sled, dragged him home. He cried most of the way. My brother pushed the doorbell. His mother answered the bell. She ran out, shooing us away. By the time we got home, mama was so mad at us, it took a while before she stopped talking long enough for us to tell her what happened. Longer still until we found out how he was because Mama went to help so we ended up with Da and he can’t cook so we had cereal for supper and Mama took the pie she made with her so no dessert.
He’s okay but he'll have a big cast Mama says. And no more Big John.
"what were you thinking?"
She hugged us tight then and said she was proud, then a bunch of stuff about being in the right place at the right time. So my question iwas why no more Big John if it’s the right place? She just stared at me like she does sometimes. Da set his hand on my shoulder, steered me out of the room
Sighs.
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6
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fact or fiction
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Posted:Feb 8, 2017 1:17 pm
Last Updated:Feb 10, 2017 11:15 am
8325 Views
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When I write a blog, I write stories. But I also write about my life. Yes, they are also stories but they are true and so the facts are the facts, not meant to be more or less than that.
It’s easy to tell the difference. I write in the first person if the story is about me, in the third person if the blog is fiction.
I am clarifying this so that readers may understand the difference between the two and draw from that the writer’s intent.
Thanks.
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9
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To link to this blog (wickedeasy) use [blog wickedeasy] in your messages.
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