Editor’s Note: I found this on an old private blog where I would experiment with writing shorts. I had forgotten I had written it. It was inspired by a Clem Snide song. That’s why I used the guest author anagram.
It’s guest writer night. I’ve probably started a tradition I’m ill-equipped to carry on. I showed a friend my blog and he wanted to write something. I told him to get his own blog. You’ll get to know yourself. “I don’t want to know me better,” he said, “Just let me write once.”
Okay fine. It probably won’t be very good, which is okay because my standards here aren’t that lofty. I asked him if he was worried that people wouldn’t like what he writes. He said “Judging from the amount of comments on your blog, it couldn’t be much worse than the shit you post.”
“Besides”, he says, “I don’t write for anyone else. I write for myself.”
I am compelled to point out that writing is a form of communication and doesn’t that mean, by its very nature, it’s meant for someone else? “Fuck off”, he says.
So, go ahead. Type. Hit “Publish” when you’re done. I think I’ll go listen to some music….
A Spring Night
A post by Denice Mels
It was a crazy day. At work I got these little fucking paper cuts on my hands. They bled like a sonofabitch. It still stings. Not that this is so epic and true, but I’m not going to let a few paper cuts keep me from writing this post.
My wife and I went for a walk tonight. It was a lovely evening. Walking through downtown is always an interesting experience. Our town has been hit by a few large earthquakes over the last 70 years and as a consequence the buildings are of an assorted architecture. There’s an assortment of old brick, what I like to call artistic masonry. The brick patterns are mesmerizing. And, like most towns, we have our post-modern square “boxes”. Functional I suppose, but not very attractive. This time of night some shops are sill open. As we walked by one store we could hear Hall & Oates on the radio. A Cougar was parked out front. Those cars ooze fast. Do they still make Cougars?
There was a street person in the doorway of an unoccupied building. He had long shaggy hair and a skinny build. His clothes were tattered. He kinda looked like Jesus. He was playing a guitar and singing a song about some shooting star. We both put some change in his beat up guitar case.
We talked as we walked along. The sky was clear and the moon was surprisingly brilliant in its last quarter. We were having trouble getting the conversation going. Stupidly and, because I heard a news story, I brought up Michael Jackson, O.J., Robert Blake.
“Shit,” I said, “These people get it all. Money, fame, love and they just fuck it up. How does that happened?”
“Yeah,” she replied, “celebrities. They think they’re so beautiful and should never be made to suffer.”
The conversation shifted as we walked through town. The talk about hunger, war, and death was bringing us down. We could occasionally hear crickets chirping and they would go silent as we walked by. We talked about how we met so very long ago in the California desert. Did it snow that year? We didn’t remember. We talked about growing up. I made a lot of mistakes, but everybody does. I said I wanted to be a baseball player. She rolled her eyes at me slowly. There were a lot of things I wanted to be.
We were getting hungry from the walk. “What’s at for dinner?”
“Not much at home except sunflower seeds and ready whip”. Our refrigerator is always fully stocked.
“I think it’s ‘All You Can Eat’ at Sizzler tonight”.
We made our way through the sea of taillights to the restaurant. It wasn’t very busy. The waitress brought us ice water. It was refreshing. I could see from the corner of my eye there was a Chinese family and could hear their baby crying as the ice cube slowly melted in my mouth.
We ordered. The food was, well, Sizzler food. They burned my steak. It satisfied the hunger. Afterwards, we headed back to the house. I wanted to hook up so I put on some Elvis music. The cat was sleeping near the stereo and I rubbed her belly for luck. She’s such a slut – the cat, that is.
The first move is the big move. Once you make it you’re committed. Her tongue was soft in my mouth and we kissed and held each other tight. I told her a joke as I undressed her. She didn’t laugh. She loosened my belt. I untied her knots with my lips. I ran my hands softly down her long perfect legs and she held her breath as I finished. When I got up to leave, she asked me to stay. I whispered, “No one makes me more happy than you.” She smiled whispered back, “The foot’s on the other shoe.” I closed my eyes and fell asleep right away. This must be what they mean when they talk about love.