I am vaguely afraid of whatever little tangential crevice of my brain created this. Even I am not entirely sure what the fuck I'm talking about. But, I wrote. Go me. 
Writer's block is a mother bitch.
At a bus stop, under a narrow awning, three strangers wait in the rain. Dark and light fight for a moment, but, the sun is smothered out and the sky drops pieces of the curious ocean onto land that is dry, except for today. Sometimes even Lady Pacific gets restless and needs a change in scenery.
One girl sits on the transit depot bench, blinking her eyes against blackness. But, open or shut, she cant see anything at all. She hears the heavy sky tremble with the effort of lifting rain and sun simulatenously. She hears the ecstatic birds, calling to each other in relief, Its baaack. Its baaaack.
She shivers against the selfish ocean that snuck through the fibers of her socks when she walked outside for her morning cigarette. She gives herself permission to remain bitter that the birds celebrate every morning because they are only blind at night.She taps her red-tipped cane against the sidewalk, impatiently and exhales smoke in the general direction of the boy she knows is sitting beside her. Though, she pretends she doesnt.
The smoke doesnt bother him anyway. He loves the chaos of the morning sky, cracked wide open. Two inches of rain falls on Los Angeles and the evening news on every network declares a Storm Watch. Even sensible adults in responsible tweed suits turned into helpless pussies in the rain. He tries to wear an earnest expression so that delight wont crack his face wide open.
He loves the way they cover their heads with newspapers and sprint to their cars. He loves the way they drive 3 mph and still smash their cars against guardrails and their skulls against their steering wheels. He stares at the pale, blank pools in the blind girls eyes. But, he pretends that he doesnt.
I watch her ignore him as he watches her. I watch an overweight, undergroomed man chase a departing bus.
Holduh bus, he pleads through thick lips, flailing an arm over his head to catch the drivers attention.
The brakes groan and the bus hesitates, unfolding its doors like arms offering a reluctant embrace. The fat man steps inside and takes his time stomping rainwater off his soggy shoes and smoothing drops from his forehead with his sleeve.
Two of us watch and one of us listens, were all the same but with different faces. The driver taps his fingers on the dashboard. He wants to say Hurry up fat ass, but he pretends he doesnt.
The man feeds crumpled bills into the fare deposit box and a brown skinned woman with a thick, black, braided rope of hair bounces a baby on an impatient knee, unimpressed by the wasted time taken to Holduh bus. She presses her lips to her sons forehead, Apurese grosero, she wants to say to the man. But, she pretends not to notice him.
The Japanese boy that sits between me and the girl with the cloudy, not-seeing eyes is trying hard to subdue a flickering half smile. He takes a red, digital camera from his backpack and draws a circle with the lens, around that fat man and that driver, framed by those still open doors.
Click.
I want to ask him what made him take that picture. I want to ask him what he will do with it. But, I pretend I dont.
Trapped in that camera is the image of Holduh bus. Captured, but likely to be forgotten by all those who lived it. Just a glimpse, quick-passing, of the mundane I couldnt see why. But, she couldnt see at all.
Run DMC Faces
Were all the same but with different faces.
Writer's block is a mother bitch.
At a bus stop, under a narrow awning, three strangers wait in the rain. Dark and light fight for a moment, but, the sun is smothered out and the sky drops pieces of the curious ocean onto land that is dry, except for today. Sometimes even Lady Pacific gets restless and needs a change in scenery.
One girl sits on the transit depot bench, blinking her eyes against blackness. But, open or shut, she cant see anything at all. She hears the heavy sky tremble with the effort of lifting rain and sun simulatenously. She hears the ecstatic birds, calling to each other in relief, Its baaack. Its baaaack.
She shivers against the selfish ocean that snuck through the fibers of her socks when she walked outside for her morning cigarette. She gives herself permission to remain bitter that the birds celebrate every morning because they are only blind at night.She taps her red-tipped cane against the sidewalk, impatiently and exhales smoke in the general direction of the boy she knows is sitting beside her. Though, she pretends she doesnt.
The smoke doesnt bother him anyway. He loves the chaos of the morning sky, cracked wide open. Two inches of rain falls on Los Angeles and the evening news on every network declares a Storm Watch. Even sensible adults in responsible tweed suits turned into helpless pussies in the rain. He tries to wear an earnest expression so that delight wont crack his face wide open.
He loves the way they cover their heads with newspapers and sprint to their cars. He loves the way they drive 3 mph and still smash their cars against guardrails and their skulls against their steering wheels. He stares at the pale, blank pools in the blind girls eyes. But, he pretends that he doesnt.
I watch her ignore him as he watches her. I watch an overweight, undergroomed man chase a departing bus.
Holduh bus, he pleads through thick lips, flailing an arm over his head to catch the drivers attention.
The brakes groan and the bus hesitates, unfolding its doors like arms offering a reluctant embrace. The fat man steps inside and takes his time stomping rainwater off his soggy shoes and smoothing drops from his forehead with his sleeve.
Two of us watch and one of us listens, were all the same but with different faces. The driver taps his fingers on the dashboard. He wants to say Hurry up fat ass, but he pretends he doesnt.
The man feeds crumpled bills into the fare deposit box and a brown skinned woman with a thick, black, braided rope of hair bounces a baby on an impatient knee, unimpressed by the wasted time taken to Holduh bus. She presses her lips to her sons forehead, Apurese grosero, she wants to say to the man. But, she pretends not to notice him.
The Japanese boy that sits between me and the girl with the cloudy, not-seeing eyes is trying hard to subdue a flickering half smile. He takes a red, digital camera from his backpack and draws a circle with the lens, around that fat man and that driver, framed by those still open doors.
Click.
I want to ask him what made him take that picture. I want to ask him what he will do with it. But, I pretend I dont.
Trapped in that camera is the image of Holduh bus. Captured, but likely to be forgotten by all those who lived it. Just a glimpse, quick-passing, of the mundane I couldnt see why. But, she couldnt see at all.
Run DMC Faces
Were all the same but with different faces.
VIEW 21 of 21 COMMENTS
dookiejones:
hi Del.... 
......your all that is rad.
......your all that is rad.
funktion:
