HitchhikingMy legs ache from walking, and it's too cold tonight. It's been cold every night lately, but right now I swear I can feel my blood freezing inside me. I need a new jacket badly, maybe one without so many holes in it. Nothing in sight moves, and I sigh.Hitchhiking by ~blue-isotropic
It's always lonely standing by the side of the road in the dark like this, but I do it anyway. I need to get to Michigan, don't I? No money, no car, no family to go visit, but I travel anyway. It makes me feel free, and it's better than staying in the same city all my life. So right now, my goal is Michigan. Someone once told me it's nice there, and I don't have any better ideas. It’s a familiar process— wait until I see headlights coming through the night towards me, stick out my thumb, and hope they see me and are curious enough to stop. “Need a ride?” they always say, and I always flash them my best smile.
This time, the one who stops has a red, shiny-as-hell sports car. I expect the driver to be a middle-aged
Photographs, Cigarettes, ImmortalsPhotographs-Photographs, Cigarettes, Immortals by ~blue-isotropic
Ishiah doesn't much like paintings. Artists tend to bend the things they paint too much to their own liking for the finished product to be pure and real. He'd rather remember things exactly as they are, and cameras do that perfectly. He loves cameras, because they preserve precious memories so completely, but... cameras hate him. Whenever he tries to take a picture, it comes out terribly, and this always upsets him a little. It makes him wonder if maybe someone's trying to tell him something.
After a good while of watching him struggle with the camera and trying not to laugh, Robin will always offer to do it for him. Ishiah never lets him.
But he always keeps the photographs, no matter how bad they are.
Robin hates it when Ishiah smokes. "You should know better, you damnable pigeon. Those wretched cancer sticks never did anyone any good." He thinks that someone who looks so much like an angel shouldn't smell so much like an ashtray, but Ishiah doe
RatsWhen I was a little girl, I went to church. Our church was an illegal one: the building was unregistered.Rats by ~blue-isotropic
We would sit on the benches made from stolen floorboards and listen to a man dressed in black as he read us tales of angels coming to save righteous men from evil, their swords clean and their trumpets blaring.
The man dressed in black was old. He was sick. His Bible was missing pages.
One day in March, my mother turned to me and said clearly, "Masha, I want you to remember something for when you grow up." Maybe she knew she was dying. "God loves murderers."
I just looked up at her, thumb in my mouth. My mother was still a beautiful woman. She was young when a man at an after-riot party had given her a child inside of her, a bruise on her face, and a few kopeks for her trouble before running away forever.
So I watched the dirty gray sunlight washing through her sickly blonde hair, watched it illuminate the dark hollows of her eyes, watched her face, and asked, "Why, mama?"
July and SpiteJuly and Spite sit on the curbside and watch the gray sun fight its way through the midday smoke. The additions from Spite's endless succession of cigarettes thrown into the street mix in with it and disappear.July and Spite by ~blue-isotropic
"You shouldn't do that," July tells him. "It's bad for you."
"So?" he asks her. He gazes up into the eye of the sun. It doesn't hurt him through the haze, and he grins.
July stretches out on the curb, despite the thin layer of grime on it. "Turns your lungs black. Nasty cough, too. And cancer. Et cetera." Somewhere around the corner, through a chain-link fence, a starving dog is fighting with a monsterman. The ugly screams fall flat on the walls of the concrete buildings. They have no windows left to rattle.
"So?" Spite repeats. He wants lunch. It's about that time of day.
July shrugs, because she doesn't really care. "So nothing."
He still wants lunch. He wonders if he should announce it. "I want lunch." Spite, evidently, is a get-it-done type of person.
"Well, you can't have a