The city William Tell of Ollie Reed, Charlie Dicken and Tommy Steeles. Too many of them writhed in shallow water, as if there was nowhere else to anchor. Too shoal for safe swimming, stuck in apathy forever.
I yearned to box in at least one. Junkie, alkie, deadhead stowaway tripulant borrower, hooker. It boxed me up every afternoon as I ran to the grilling room downtown. Mike won’t be pleased to hear that! I can already shillings and pence his North and South wide open in disbelief. At least once I’m on the winning side of the flipped coin.
About the Creator
Mescaline Brisset
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
so you want to be a writer? – Charles Bukowski
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A Call
I was flapping my wings as fast as I could. They were spinning at high frequencies like the broad and bulky blades of windmills in a field that I always passed with the greatest curiosity. What were they doing there and why? I could never guess or enter this place because the price for this knowledge was too high. Besides, you don't need to know if you're a bird, and the only limit is the sky.
By Mescaline Brissetabout a year ago in Fiction
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