Miscellaneous Writings

Smoke Break

I’m on a date at a movie theater. The movie is a good one, its tense and the action scenes don’t last too long. My date seems to really like it at the very least. But I am having a panic attack. 

I need a cigarette. And I need one now. I’ve never smoked before, but I don’t have any other options and the girl sitting next to me is very pretty.

 I ask her for one. She’s pretty confused but we’re still at that phase where you don’t want to question anything the other does, so she gives it to me. I light it up and take a drag. 

I start to feel better. A guy coughs behind us because of the smoke. Or maybe because he’s annoyed that I’m smoking. I don’t blame him, I probably would be too. He probably got even more annoyed when the smoke got up to the detectors and the automatic water sprinklers started going. 

I’m no longer on a date. Now I’m in some dingy room getting yelled at by a pimply movie theater manager about how dangerous it is to have an open flame by film. Something about flammability. I probably should care since I think he called the cops, but all I can think about is whether or not I’m getting another date. 

Something tells me that’s unlikely though. 

Old Fart Begone

An old woman sits on her rocking chair on her front porch, drinking a glass of her
favorite wine, watching the sun set. Her flowers are finally staring to breach the surface of the earth, she has hydrangeas, primroses, and orchids.

She has on a brand-new purple sweater, it still has the tag on but she doesn’t mind, (she might take it back to the store if nobody compliments it in the next couple days).

Her face is wrinkled, obviously: she’s old– that’s what old people look like– but it is also strangely absent of smile lines, even though the twinkle in her eye would suggest that she loves a joke just as much as the next old lady.

There’s a scar under her right eye. She doesn’t talk about that though. Why would she; she’d much rather sit in the nice rocking chair, which is a definite step up from the rickety piece of hardware sitting empty next to her seat.

The wine tastes sweet, and its helping to fight off the incoming cold that’s following the setting sun. Her house feels empty, but it is also finally starting to feel like a home; she settles farther into her chair and looks at the skyline.

“Good riddance” she says.

Steamy Lacy

Goddamn Steve Lacy

He’s pumping through the loud speaker and I can’t fucking find a way to get him out of
my ducking ears.

I look over at Rachel. She’s crying. Steve’s gotten to her too.
At what point is it just obscene?
I don’t know. I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW. I respond.

He’s getting louder. Louder. I can’t think. I can’t hear Rachel. I can’t hear my own
thoughts. What am I saying?

– What?!

– I CAN’T HEAR YOU

– What!?

It’s overcoming me. My world is becoming Steve lacy. My identity is fading away. I no
longer know truths from lies. All I know is Steve.

I stand up, swaying. The music flows through me, I sway to the beat. I no more control
my limbs than a river controls which way it flows.

Up. Down. Side to side.

I flow through these positions, Rachel stands and joins me. We unite together in a sea
of Dark Red, paralyzed under the weight of Steve Lacy.

The music cuts out. We jolt out of our reverie. We are forever changed, lost in a world
without Steve Lacy.

We break our embrace. Forever missing the terrible weight of Steve Lacy.

We continue onwards. I am no longer the man I once was.

Rachel begins humming “Bad Habit” by Steve Lacy.

I weep.