flash wednesday, blood on the court, ten minutes to prove or disprove a point or lack of point from previous distraction entry in Flash Friday
- Feb. 12, 2014, 5:04 p.m.
- |
- Public
Blood on the court
“It was me, I wrote random numbers on your walls.”
“I’m on fire.”
“I’m glad.”
“I love you too.”
And they embraced among the cacti, miles away a Joshua tree clumped and north, impossibly far north, myrtle gnarled and sighed. I wasn’t there but I heard about it. She called.
“Hello, Jake?”
“Sorry wrong number.”
“Who is this?”
“It’s me.”
“Oh, I said I painted random numbers on his walls, he said he was on fire …”
“Numbers are never random.”
“May I call you again?”
“No.”
I don’t even give a fuck about cacti or Joshua trees, it’s not like I’m hostile towards them, i wouldn't berate someone over liking them, I just don't give a fuck. I knew a myrtle, her roots were exposed to the open sky until wild roses entwined. The roses, those roses, bloom late in the year and their petals are the last to fall.
My bus leaves soon. I have three t-shirts, two jeans and a book inside a guitar case. It’s just a detail, not significant. This guy gave it to me. He had watched the movie pay it forward and cried when the kid died. That’s what he said. I’ve never seen it. Nobody ever told me ‘If someone offers you a guitar case accept it with grace.’ I probably won’t tell anyone either.
If you don’t know what to do when some stranger gives you something, I envy how uncomplicated things must be for you. I could be wrong but it’s not like you’d care; I’m a wrong number. Not a random number, just the wrong one.
Sionnach Amekarasu ⋅ February 12, 2014