Story Time

I've been writing a lot recently. I haven't posted any writing in a long time. So here they are- first drafts- to see what comes out. Suck it out the tap.

Nick lights his cigarette. The hand rolled always smoke better. He looks down the slope. It’s going to be a long day. The camera hangs off his shoulder as he fiddles with the film in his jacket. He still shoots film.

“I didn’t spend years learning to develop to throw it away.”

The cigarrete hanging from the corner of his mouth, he looks through the viewfinder, focusing on the old subway entrance. He likes shooting entrances. The air is still chilly in gusts and he’s happy to have his sweater. It had been his grandfather’s. A piece of ash catches in the scruff on his jaw and lingers there a long moment before the breeze lifts it- floating in his viewfinder’s line and then up and away. The strap snakes around his wrist, through his hand, over his fingers- welding his hand to the old tool.

            “I need a new lens for this guy- he don’t see as good as he did.”

Squinting at the station entrance again, cars pass in front of his vision, breaking his time.

            “That last one was shit, but the middle will come out allright.”

Turning, he walks down the hill.

The afternoon heat was tough to take this time of year. It was so hot and dry her hair broke brittle in her face as she leaned over the hood of the car, unfolding the truck stop map. It was hard to read with the sun still beating through the dirt packed hood, still managing to blind her with reflection. It was the first time they had stopped since they’d left last night. The back seat was piled to the head rest with clothes, shoes, a coffee pot, and some old journals. She’d put the guitar in the trunk. It had happened so fast. There hadn’t been time to think about where she was going. And here, 100 miles out side of llano, she hadn’t the faintest idea.

            “Cmon Lulu, get back in the car, we gotta go.”

Lulu ripped through the tall grass on the far side of the roadside ditch, peed on the back car tire and sat by the driver’s side door, waiting to take shotgun.

He feels self conscious when she dresses like that. And her broke down boots speak her experience like a tapestry. No, like an indian belt. It's tough work and his hands hurt at the end of the day. He had played the conversation out in his mind a thousand times, each with a different outcome. She was already there when he walked in the door. 

           "What does sublime mean?"

           "In art it was a painting that should the brutality and darkness of nature."

She hates this lipstick, it makes her feel like a whore. Lilly pops her lips together, thrusts the whore stick back into her grandmother's clutch and walks out of the bathroom. Miles had put a fresh whiskey in front of her cigarrettes. Her feet didn't touch the stool's crossbar, but if she sat up and scooched just so, her soles could rest. There was just too much to say.