[This is an old draft, November or December 2011. Not sure. I believe I meant to write short clips, perhaps a short story but only managed a bit while sick.]
I am ill. Cold, three days. Brain spill, then write something.
A bucket, a bucket, a noir bucket.
All solemn and shadow in the corner.
There, filled with bits of paper and twine
sheets yellow with legality rise into the air
a charred piece rising into a vortex of wind
swirling higher while the air feeds the fire
a virtual pillar of flame
On the third day Pete laid down in a meadow and took to rest, for his eyelids grew heavy and his vision dimmed. And when he at least dreamed it was all scratches and thumping. The headaches came on stronger when he awoke.
Jameson bottle floating in the water with a wine cork in it. Dipping and bobbing with twice the wave frequency, just trying to keep up with the sea. Dip Bob, Dip Bob, Dip. And then the cork slides out, and there is a faint gurgling noise like a drowning animal trying to gasp for breath. And then the bottle swims its way to the bottom in a crescent motion, like the rocking of a cradle.
The bikes are always too much this time of the year, with all the reds and yellows and blues and vintage this, retro that, and all at once I want to collect them all and grind them right up. A mighty fine can of beans the lot would make.
A badger dog walking on the wasteland, sniffing.
Trotting like it's another morning.
Hunting for creatures, vermin,
and what other things may come.
A man whistles at the badger dog.
He's some twenty yards off now, in a sort of walking jog,
hustling over to the creature with a .32 partially under his right arm,
barrel facing the ground.
"What we got hear boy?"
"Looks like you found us a couple of rodents."
It wasn't much, but it'd feed 'em both that afternoon, enough to keep going that is.
A sound. Car.
"Shh," the man motioned to the badger dog, "shh, car."
There was a faint trail of dust rising up on the asphalt horizon.
Seconds after the dusty tail could be seen,
so could the vehicle.
A ripe nasty thing it was,
bulbous on all sides, four extra large rubber tires,
jetting out the sides like an overgrown go-cart.
There was hoopin' and a hollerin' as it approached.
They was likely to be trouble.
So I moseyed off real nice like 'round the next hill.
And that badger dog and rifle came and laid down next to me.
And we scoped out the land,
watchin' them wheels turning closer and closer.
This boy's got a nasty bite.
And then there's a quick, stifled thud
and the taste of blood in somebody's mouth.
Cat Scratch Fever!
Got my mind in a jumbled briar bush.
Feel the fever pushing up on me.
I am ill. Cold, three days. Brain spill, then write something.
A bucket, a bucket, a noir bucket.
All solemn and shadow in the corner.
There, filled with bits of paper and twine
sheets yellow with legality rise into the air
a charred piece rising into a vortex of wind
swirling higher while the air feeds the fire
a virtual pillar of flame
On the third day Pete laid down in a meadow and took to rest, for his eyelids grew heavy and his vision dimmed. And when he at least dreamed it was all scratches and thumping. The headaches came on stronger when he awoke.
Jameson bottle floating in the water with a wine cork in it. Dipping and bobbing with twice the wave frequency, just trying to keep up with the sea. Dip Bob, Dip Bob, Dip. And then the cork slides out, and there is a faint gurgling noise like a drowning animal trying to gasp for breath. And then the bottle swims its way to the bottom in a crescent motion, like the rocking of a cradle.
The bikes are always too much this time of the year, with all the reds and yellows and blues and vintage this, retro that, and all at once I want to collect them all and grind them right up. A mighty fine can of beans the lot would make.
A badger dog walking on the wasteland, sniffing.
Trotting like it's another morning.
Hunting for creatures, vermin,
and what other things may come.
A man whistles at the badger dog.
He's some twenty yards off now, in a sort of walking jog,
hustling over to the creature with a .32 partially under his right arm,
barrel facing the ground.
"What we got hear boy?"
"Looks like you found us a couple of rodents."
It wasn't much, but it'd feed 'em both that afternoon, enough to keep going that is.
A sound. Car.
"Shh," the man motioned to the badger dog, "shh, car."
There was a faint trail of dust rising up on the asphalt horizon.
Seconds after the dusty tail could be seen,
so could the vehicle.
A ripe nasty thing it was,
bulbous on all sides, four extra large rubber tires,
jetting out the sides like an overgrown go-cart.
There was hoopin' and a hollerin' as it approached.
They was likely to be trouble.
So I moseyed off real nice like 'round the next hill.
And that badger dog and rifle came and laid down next to me.
And we scoped out the land,
watchin' them wheels turning closer and closer.
This boy's got a nasty bite.
And then there's a quick, stifled thud
and the taste of blood in somebody's mouth.
Cat Scratch Fever!
Got my mind in a jumbled briar bush.
Feel the fever pushing up on me.
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