Because after the steel rusts...

daegunkoh @ 2007-10-14T23:51:00

2007-10-15T04:56:22Z

I always write something sorta sad, I guess. So, the other day I compiled a list of things I love. Viola!

...being called 'hun,' 'sug,' and 'babe' by coffeeshop girls.
...running into old friends and knowing you're still friends.
...looking up and being surprised by a full moon.
...mid-day rain without a cloud in the sky.
...Humphery Bogart.
...a good story well told, regardless of medium.
...the humor of the situation.
...the Barenaked Ladies.
...bad memories at the right time.
...accidently reliving good memories.
...catching obscure references.
...meeting people who share a dirty pleasure.
...being too afraid to talk to someone.
...remebering how to write.
...the concept of Socialism.
...a great idea from anyone.
...surprising myself, in a good way.
...knowing "she" is out there.
...finding out "they" miss me.
...coffee and cigarettes.
...good conversation, be it deep or human.
...reading the dictionary.
...reading anything.
...lists.
...fall breezes.
...the occasional momen of silence on a busy day.
...abandoned country highways.
...old music.
...finding that object I was looking for.
...twisting archtypes.
...realizing that each day brings a chance for it all to come together.

daegunkoh @ 2007-10-14T23:43:00

2007-10-15T04:50:52Z

But that, my lad, was a lifetime ago."

I look up at the old man with a strange mix. This man before me survived cancer, smoking the entire way through. He stood up to an unjust system, was a detective, lived on the coast. He, in many ways, is everything I want to be. White haired, his mustache lends well to his kindly face. I get coffee enough to know him on at least some level. Pretty much everytime I walk in, which is pretty much every day, he's there. Consistantly lighting the next one, wearing his sunglasses, drinking coffee for the umpteenth time that day. Jim. His name is Jim.

We talked a bit about my Asian mom. It was light conversation about how a Korean woman will always win.

He asks me about Vietnamese women. I'm honestly unsure.

He reveals a broken heart I almost thought him too mighty to have.

His last love lasted years. The split has been less time than the relationship.

I'm only twenty, I think for a moment. My heartbreak is acceptable. Expected. At my age, I'm supposed to yearn and regret and get into all the nasty habits I'll curse about later all in an attempt to run from problems that happen to everyone but only to me.

My Asian mom once said, "You're not a man until you've had your heart broken."

It's with this thought that I realize, Jim is still every bit of what I want to be. A true man is not one who can walk on. A true man is honestly encumbered by himself. He's just as lovelorn as he was in highschool, but he's still here damnit. And he'll be here a long time after they leave.

He deserves better, but everyone does.

Be you twenty or immortal, a man will always buckle at the knowledge that they lost that one that made them smile.

daegunkoh @ 2007-09-29T23:14:00

2007-09-30T04:16:17Z

Do you think that songwriters and performers ever realize just when and where their songs will be heard? How many times an out of place song is the backdrop for arguments, fights, horrors and victories? When someone is yelling at someone else to Jethro Tull or when someone confesses love to Tenacious D? Ever notice that stuff? Weird, huh.

daegunkoh @ 2007-09-29T01:36:00

2007-09-29T06:49:32Z

and you're my Elsa. I was always looking at you kid, but you didn't wish you loved me so much. You simply didn't. We were two strangers who fell in love, and I'll always have Paris but, thinking like you do, all you'll have are the memories of Casablanca. We both knew what you had to do but we were both surprised you had the strength to leave me twice. Now I think twice before sitting with the customers. One woman hurt me, and the world suffers. I'm not the first, I'm not the last. But, once you land, you'll understand, it was all for the best. I will too. The problems of three little people in this world don't amount to a hill of beans. So, just try to remember our Paris and I'll begin that beautiful friendship.

(Yeah, half of these words aren't mine. If you don't get it, watch Casablanca already. Seriously.

Not for the Meek.

2007-09-22T07:12:29Z

I realize only now how much I have seen.

There is no sadder sight and sound, no more earth-shaking experience than seeing a little girl quiver and sob through the Lord's Prayer over her father's body.

There is no fear like cowering in a closet, clutching your younger brother as your neighbor lies bloody and beaten, dying in his own home. No terror like when the door flies open. No relief like when your father stands before the light-filled doorway, pistol in hand.

There is nothing that jars you more than knowing that your own mother was a possible target.

There is no sense so sickening as the realization that your proud papa has defeated himself, even though the rest of the world could not despite their efforts. No mixture of hate and horror as having him ask for you to kill him.

There is no saftey like a loved one's arms after your father finally rests.

There is no sense of strength nor weariness than holding back tears so your family can lean on you.

There is no escape from the past.
There is no pity expected, though the gesture is so gratefully accepted.
There is simply the realization that you've seen more than your twenty years should, that there is much more to see, and that you have to gather yourself up and do what's right for family before all.

I don't write this for pity. I write this because I have to record this moment, for myself, to remember that I remember. Please, please, don't think I wrote this for any other reason. And remember, I'm fine. I promise.
"As long as I know how to love, I know I'll be alright." -Gloria Gaynor (Written by Freddie Perren and Dino Fekaris)

daegunkoh @ 2007-09-09T08:35:00

2007-09-09T13:46:02Z

It's too late and we don't understand that. Anymore, being Liberal means the want to retreat. It's all about Iraq, which isn't the complaint. The complaint rests in the idea that we must decide one way or another. Pump troops in or take them all out. Moving in means you are Neo-Con, withdrawing means Neo-Hippy. But, it's too late for both. Our military is stretched far too thin: with Iraq, Afghanistan, presences in South Korea, Africa, moving troops to guard the Mexican Border, and those who've already fought and need to rest. In the end, however, this cannot be handled with troops. This does not mean withdraw. The consequences of withdrawing have been proven with Korea, Afghanistan, and parts of Eastern Europe. The United States provides a measure of security and stability that war-torn countries need. Yet, the true war is in the hearts of the people. We need cultural measures, not military or political, to achieve any sort of true peace. If we cannot understand who we are defending then how do we know we are defending? What is the true problem, the mobilization of enemy troops or the rising tensions between religious factions?

To withdraw would simply leave the region in more unrest. We would essentially be adding fuel to the fire and walking away, hoping we don't get burned. We have the resources, though, to slow down the Hate Machine we created. Anthropoligists have been wanderign what to do with degrees since the field was founded. Our allies have been pulled into a war and quickly leaving when they realize it's not a conflict that any bullet can prevent. Since the Cold War, we've forgotten that people cannot be divided amoung the "Us" and the "Them." This God-driven tension is only because we have all forgotten what the Divine say. People are people, no matter what the zeal, and to ease pain a soldier truly needs to be able to offer an open hand.

Summary: War not working. Withdraw will not help. Realize true problem is cultural. Make it happen, Cap'n.

daegunkoh @ 2007-08-21T11:41:00

2007-08-21T16:51:48Z

my room, just planning on looking aruond. Status update, I suppose. The red walls are unchanged, the posters and decorations of old black and white movies are as straight as will concern me. I know there's nothing new on the computer, but I check it anyways. I have always hated walking into a room with no noise, so I always have music playing. I know I hear it, but it doesn't seem to register. However, the second I sit down, for whatever reason, it hits me. I've had Belle and Sebastian on repeat for days now. There are periods in which I'll listen to one group; Barenaked Ladies, Simon and Garfunkle, whatever. This month has been Belle and Sebastian. So, obviously, I've heard the song at least twenty times. For whatever reason, though, the instrumental segment of "I Love My Car" seems to get me. My heart knows a memory that my brain doesn't. The very moment I hit the leather seat my mood shifts. It's like I remember the feeling of past but none of the memories. It's a stange experience, to be sure, but one I'm glad to be able to have.

...Yeah!

daegunkoh @ 2007-08-14T22:58:00

2007-08-15T04:12:18Z

Literal explosions in the sky as an orb streaks white and disperses blue. Celestial orbs stripe the sky, a gold cut through a noonless night. I promise that if we wait, we'll see three more. I count four.

We speak as if the world is on the tip of our tongues while earnestly admitting ignorance. The next statement will brung us a step closer to enlightenment. Never once has the goal been complete knowledge. We roll over conversations, clips of statements reworded and given new contexts. In everyday conversation, the truth seems rarely the subject. On this bridge, lost in the dark, the truth is all that is said. Not simply in the base facts, but in the desire of what must be said, eventually. All the things that bother us as individuals finally come to light under the stars.

(Then I had a cigarette)

daegunkoh @ 2007-08-12T10:10:00

2007-08-12T15:22:32Z

...connected. Every once in a while, an individual may step back and examine the smallest bit of the web that links every soul and every decision and see how the most minute becomings of a single instance. Unfortunately, this is nearly always in hind-sight.

This is even furthered when one may be able to admit mistakes. The ability to accept one's own failures and appreciate the hand played in a situation long past.

Regrets are human and should never become frowned upon. Without that overriding regret, the mistake is moot.

The other night, I went for a walk. It's been a long time. With the oppresion of heat, I found it hard to keep at it. Even for the hour, the sound of highway traffic drowned the distinct burning of my cigarette. For some reason, that soft, steady crackle always soothes me, even before I smoked. As I wandered, all I could think of was the idea that the undercurrent of sadness and loneliness I had seems to have fizzled. That one thought rippled, making me curious as to the question of my own existance. Have I changed the fiber of my being by accepting that old pull at my heart? Was the distant solitude, and the disdain for that solitude, a factor that was William? Perhaps it's one step closer to the ideas of Taoism. Understanding, accepting, losing deep societal connections in place of true human ones. However, in essence, I always felt that perfection of the Sage is a matter of transforming an individual to the most perfect self. Perhaps it's one step further from who I am. The lose of pain that kept me up, kept me looking around, may have taken me away from becoming a truer William. Or, perhaps, I have simply matured beyond that, have grown and become a new William, and must now attempt to perfect this new person.
The stangest bit is, I miss the past tugging. For some reason, without it, I hardly feel that I feel enough.

daegunkoh @ 2007-06-10T18:10:00

2007-06-02T16:20:38Z

It's not much. Not nearly as much as it should be. Either she's really forgetful, or some Diviner or Enchanter did a damn good job. I put her through a volley of tests and questions that make even me think I'm being cruel. Every question has an answer, every answer shows up clean. No answers make sense. I'm not Sharn's most worldy individual, but l'Yelur rings no bells. Not even a the faint tinkle of a servant's silver call. But, like I said, I'm not the Korrenberg Collection of Nobility.

The notes I write up weren't worth the trouble. I find her name again. She's been in Breland since the Treaty of Thronehold was signed, back and forth between Wroat and Sharn. She's being taken care of by a General ir'Leral, who claims to be her uncle. She truly believes she's from Cyre, and has the look to back it. She also truly believes she was at Making. And she understands the rumors behind it. Making, a city run by House Cannith, the Dragonmarked House of Making, is said to be the point from which the entire thing sprang. The grey mists that took Cyre bubbled from the lake, eating an entire country and leaving nothing but wastes. The Mournlands. With the given track record of Cannith, it's no huge surprise. Creating ways to enslave Elementals for Airships and Lightning Rails, developing new ways to kill more people, molding life through the 'Forged. Eventually, even mortal hands reach too far. And when that happens, Cyre pays. But, the trouble is worth two things. It's weight in platinum, for one, and the fact that she's honest. That there's actually something underneath it all.

"Well, M'lady l'Yelur, I charge twenty-five gold a day, plus expenses. If I find out that you're doing something illegal, don't expect me to cover it. If it is, just take your money and walk out the door. I haven't seen you in my life. We'll call it a favor."

She's offended, which is a good sign. She scoffs, but stays standing.

"Good. Now, is there anyone you suspect knows? Outside of your uncle, of course."

"Mr. Taliak, if I had assumed someone else was aware of my situation, I would have, at the very least, informed you of this during your interigation."

"So, allow me to recap."

"I couldn't stop you if I tried, it seems."

I let the comment roll off me like water from a tower. "You are not, indeed, Lady l'Yelur. You are, however, from Cyre. Making, in fact. You have lived with your uncle, who is The General ir'Leral, The Bear's Fang, in Wroat and Sharn since. Now, you're sick of the lies they they're spoon-feeding you and want to know the truth. Am I about right?" Only a small nod of acknowledgement. "Stay in town, check Sivis messaging stations often. If I stumble upon anything, you'll be the first to know. Most importantly, though, do not let anyone know. People don't like speaking to the watch, much less a guy with twice the questions and exactly none of the authority."

"...I understand, Brother...How long?"

"With what you've given me?" I take a moment to let it set in, let her reconsider, as I pull the final bit of usable smoke into my lungs. "Forever is a good bet. I'll call on you."

I watch her leaving, wishing I was twenty years younger and three years happier.

Continuing D&D Deliciousness

2007-03-30T06:41:30Z

...and especially after the war, cases like this aren't rare in the way that they don't exist, but in the way that you never hear about it. I haven't been back to Cyre since the Day of Mourning, and I have no plans on returning unless I have to. No point in looking over memories that die but don't decay, right? But, because of this, I've only heard stories of the effects. Noted, it's normally things like they're missing limbs or they have glowing eyes or their dead. But, I assume that losing a name may certainly be given to that.
"You've got my attention, sister. Please, by all means."

She nods slightly, just enough to shake up that long honey hair of her's. "I am Oril l'Yelur. No, that is what I am called. I live with a man, who wishes me to believe that I am his niece. Like yourself, I am from Cyre, he says."

I chew on my bottom lip, fingering over the small orange and grey octagon at my side like it was her story in my mind. "Where were you, Lady l'Yelur, on the Day of Mourning." Any true Cyrean knows this. Lost memory or no, you damn well better.

"Making." She says this delicately. She knows full well what's implied, and full well how outrageous it is.

Scratching of wood and stone echoes against the floor as I stand, holding the octagon in my palm. I've laid down the large Hearth years ago. This is my holy symbol now. Convenient, subtle, and easy to hide. "This is an interesting case, indeed. But, to get to the bottom, you start from the top, correct? I just need you to relax for a moment, real calm and easy like." My hand grasps around the token and I close my eyes. Under my breath, I mutter a few words to the Lady and wave my hands. I always feel especially daft casting spells like this. Gotta do what you've gotta do, I suppose. My eyes open slowly and just around her form, wisps like heat rise from the noblewoman. "Again, where were you?"

She's not stupid. She knows exactly what I did, and the confidence swells in her chest. A chance for a believer. "Making." The aura doesn't even twitch. She's telling the truth. She was at the source of it all.

"M'lady, losing your name seems the last of your worries." Maybe it's just an excuse not to go in there, but in the end, it's the Host's honest. When you're at the middle of a cataclysm that ends a country and a century-long war, a bit of amnesia almost seems unfair. "You've been to..."

She doesn't let me finish. "Jorasco? Of course. Medani, their investigative magics were no help."

Of course she goes to the Houses first. Who's to blame her. "The Church?" A shot in the dark.

"Who do you think sent me?"

I turn my head to hide the swearing. Bantel, you little gnome rat. "A Gnome priest of the same Goddess, I assume?" She nods. Yes, it's Brother Bantel. You help a person out of trouble a few dozen times and he thinks it's a good idea to spread around the word. At least it's work, but he probably promised a discount. "Look, lady," it's not about respect, this time, "I'm not an adventurer, I'm not some sorta heavenly Voice of the Host, I'm a guy who sits around and spends the little coin in his purse on smoke-leaf and cheap Dwarven Firewater. I know some people always looking to put their life on the line for platinum, but I've seen enough death to know I don't like it." I replace the Holy Symbol with another roll and mutter the same incantation to light it. As soon as I get a good burn, I walk around the desk and start to jot down names on a scrap of parchment. I try to avoid eye-contact. A pretty thing like her has no place in my office. The clanking thud of wrapped metal is enough to make me look up, however.

"And this should be enough to kill you quick, Brother Taliak." She's not going to beg. She isn't near tears. She's just plain pissed. The anger tints her high cheeks perfectly. And the small mountain of platinum pieces makes her all the more beautiful. I resign myself to my seat and pull my notepad from my desk. No magic, like those show-offs dealing with kidnappings at the top of Menthis Plateau. No, I do this old-fashioned. My tongue taps the end of my quill, I perch the roll in the corner of my mouth and nod for her to begin.

A bit o' D&D goodness

2007-03-27T17:17:28Z

Background: I actually took up D&D a while back with a few friends. However, as I got into it, I realized it actually helped with my writing. It gave me a character to make with templates, a world to work in, and so forth. So, here's my latest creation. Here's the brief history. A great kingdom spanned the realm, magic was technology, life prospered, yeah, yeah. The last king died and the heirs, each governor-princes', decide they're the best pick for next in line. Enter 100 years of war. The campaign picks up right after the war ends. The character is a cleric who's losing his faith in humanity. After being a front-line healer, he's turned to criminal investigation in Sharn, the largest city in the world. Let's take a peek!

...the room, smelling of sandalwood. Either a Church go-er or has enough gold to drop into my lap. With the Guard cracking down on Lower Dura, the only business that's good is for House Jorasco, those greedy Halfling healers. It doesn't hurt that they charge for the casket if they can't heal. I turn my attention from the small alter to Boldrei, Goddess of Community that I was only thinking about praying at.

"Welcome, my lady, to Taliak's Investigation Services. How may he be of service?" I grin a bit, rolling Talenta Smoke-Leaf in a bit of paper. She wants me to follow around her late-night visitor or find her lost gloves, something like that.

She has the look of nobility. Her gloved hands are clasped together over her chest, just the way a proper lady in distress should. Actually, those gloves are familiar...haven't seen any like that since Metrol, before the Day of Mourning... The rest of her garb fits. The lilac silk of her dress is cut to free her shoulders, sleeves opening wide and ending at her wrist. The belt holding at her waist is mithral chains, probably dwarven made. A small dagger hangs from it, a pearl handle hiding the blade in an ebony sheath. Probably made by the same dwarf. She is a Daughter of Cyre. My sister in distress, I suppose.

"Brother Taliak, I was told that you were the one to speak to." She leans towards me and hasn't even taken a step inside.

"For the Purple Jewel and the Rightful Heir of Galifer." I wave her in with roll between my fingers. She walks slowly, cautiously. Not many in Sharn, or anywhere, would speak openly the praises of a lost country. I let her ponder that as I mutter a short incantation, using the Divine Powers of the Goddess of the Hearth to light the paper. "I'm afraid I didn't catch your name."

She sits delicately in the wooden chairs and waves a hand at the smoke. "My name, sir, is exactly what I'm looking for..."

I snuff the embers against my armour and rest my weight against the desk. She's suddenly disgusted, and then I remember. With a thought, the fabrics of my clothing waves, distorts and fades away, showing the silvery glint of my protection, complete with black singe.

"Your name, you say?" I'm intrigued.

Depending on how well-recieved this is, I may continue.

daegunkoh @ 2007-03-09T22:51:00

2007-03-10T04:50:04Z

http://www.cube-creative.fr/html/nt/nt_lc/akoa_H264.html

Thought some people might enjoy this!

Chapter Three...Engage

2007-03-09T22:52:34Z

from the chipped, sky blue doorway into the streets squinting into the late morning sun. It's thursday. Tokyo Rose day. A pleasant bite of the breeze beckons me away from my car, and I hoof it along the cracked sidewalk. The cement path wraps around the apartment complex, passing the six identical complexes, built with brick and shingles to pull memories of more trusting eras from pocketbooks. Outside the black bar gates, the quaint feel abruptly mutates. The concrete is the very earth, the oceans of black tar and the cityscape springs from it., rising on all sides, a canyon of steel and glass.
It's an easy enough stroll, with crowds at a low, everyone either at work or sleeping through it. As the buildings begin to choke the eye, the trees, once lining the walkway, thin out, eventually disappearing completely. I light a smoke and can feel the eyes of the few passersby. Even without a fedora, I can only imagine what they'll say at the dinner table.
"Honey, guess what I saw downtown today! A time traveler, from the 40's!"
"Amazing," she'll say, scooping more mashed potatoes onto the good china.
Echoing across the street-level restaurants surrounding the source, laughter erupts from my chest, probably making the scene of the time traveler crazier.
Yes, people of the future, your ways have driven my primitive senses from me.
With images of the wry past amusing themselves with modern stiffness, I nearly pass the wooden stand. The small things is an image from any gangster movie, made of lumber and hoisted on a single axle, complete with giant, spoked wheels. Painted a quaint pastel blue and yellow, vines crawl up the stands keeping a sign solid. Homey, delicate red paint is practically English caligraphy, spelling out "Thuy's Flowers." It's the simplicity that probably caught my eyes first, if not the petite woman behind the flora. With her cropped hair pulled back, sheen fading under sun and dirt, she throws a clump of dirt and root a direct hit against my cheek.

Her accent's gotten better since we met. I'd loev to take credit for it all, but I know it's a byproduct of haggling and swearing with customers looking for an easy deal. Instead, they got the Gorgon of Saigon. They got Tokyo Rose. If only I could count the horrified scoffs and raised eyebrows that well up from nickname. I called her that the third time I came by. She didn't know what I meant, was more shocked that I thought she was Japanese. Yes, I knew she was Viet. Now, though, I'm not sure if she's still so oblivious to the title's meaning. There's more behind her eyes than a simple peasant girl.
"Who even said I was coming to see you!" I pull vegetation from my hair.
"You are so full of it."
Wait...did she just say 'shit?'...Nooo...
"We both know you come down to see me. Now come here."
Buster. I obey. "So, Tokyo Rose." I get her reactionary giggle. "How close are we?"
Her families' still in Vietnam; and, for the last year, she's been working on getting them over.
"Close. Maybe, I am two-thirds."
As I survey the flowers, I nod. It's a shame, people with money try to talk her down while she scraps together money for a family. I point at a bunch of orange. "We'll have those today." She spouts out something in Ratin, histories, facts, other words that bounce off my skull. I just keep nodding, working to prevent my eyes from glazing over by counting petals in the face of her encyclopedic knowledge. I pry cash from my wallet, pay, and enjoy the ding of her aged register just as much as the first time. Behind my back, I switch the bouquet between my hands and offer them back to her.
"I bought these for you. From a crazy old lady who calls herself Tokyo Rose. I think she's Chinese or something."
"I am not old!" Her grin contradicts her glare.
I have no idea how old she is, now that I think about it. That's the problem with Asian girls, though.
As I turn over the dilema of asking, she lunges. The large needle damn near peirces my chest cavity. "Here. For luck." The sunset blossom pinned to my coat just leaves me confused. Since we met, I've done this. Well, the first time I threw them away a block down, but the verbal lashes quickly ended that. But this? This is new.
"Yeah, um...thanks...?" I'm not one for luck, but I accept it. "Well, T.R., I have important things to do."
"Like what? You work from your home."
"Shut up." I mutter
"Well, have fun with your important things."
I wave from behind, "Always do." The walk of shame is enough to get me swearing at myself, wishing I brought the car.
----
The coffee shop is dying, bleeding out the morning rush. I seat myself at an unbused booth, fishing smokes and matches from coat pockets. A few moments, alone, awake without something to push me. Tokyo Rose has a way of runing my center. She also has a way of being right. I roll a finger and thumb over a petal. Roll it around in my head. Sometimes she does strange things to keep me on my toes. Or to mess with me. Either one. But, everyone once in a while...Once, about seven months back, she had me hand a bundle to the girl behind me, this cute little kid. Maybe twelve, with red pigtails, shouldn't have been out alone like that. She practically breaks down in tears, crushing to flowers between us in a hug worthy of any vice. Turns out, her mom's sick in the hospital a few blocks down. I walk her back and get clamped in another hug by her aunt. The girl says she wanders off looking for some flowers that weren't the dying giftshop roses. The kicker? Later that day, the catch this flasher around the corner.
Could this be the same thing? C'est posible. A dab of sugar and a metal spoon go into the coffee.
When the hell did they clean the dable?
And I didn't even say thanks!
Damn
Anyways, could she be right this time? ...Maybe.
I switch my attention to a strike-anywhere. A few days ago I stumble into this army surplus place, out west. Manage to find this rare catch and buy 500 of them. I try twice to ignite it against my thumbnail before running it against the jagged glass of an ashtray and watching the flame eat the wood.
Then she walks in. Twice in a row, two days. Now I just have to wonder about her mental health. Noted, I've been coming here every day for a few years, but I'm not sure about me, either. She seems almost disappointed that her table's taken. Already marking her territory. I can relate. There is a certain joy of having your spot open. She looks around for seconds before striding towards me. I move my things closer, making room.
I am a douche and she sits a booth away. In the booth next to that, there is a kid eating a pickle like Smeagol would a fish. "I almost burnt my head off!"
Kids. Precious.
She's about a third into her book. Good progress. I focus my head down to avoid staring. Coffee, ashtray, sugar, veil of smoke, coffee, ashtray, sugar...
"Excuse me, sir?"
Ho-ly Shit. She's talking to me, right. Yes... Wait, sir?
"I'm only 27." And already losing it.

...at her unlit cigarette with the innocence of a nicotine-addicted child. Flustered, I dig into my coat, pulling out a fistful of matches. First try, I spark the white tip. The black wisps tangle from the flame before I offer it up. This time, I'm sure I can smell it. An herbal smell, something foreign. That or it's the scent of a match-stick victory. Then I catch her staring at my....chest. I know I'm a bit out of shape...
"Oooh, nice choice in foliage."
...Ooooh..."Yeah, it's my favorite?"
"Really? Mine too. I've been looking all over for some."
Quick! Opening! Tell her that...it's a coincidence because she's reading one of your, mine? Anyways, your-mine favorite books. Tell her that, with so much in common, you should get married and have kids and have the white picket fence and live long, happy lives. Tell her you lied, that you like orange and that prompted the purchase.
"So, yeah, thanks for the light."
Shit. I let my mind wander much too far...
"Oh! Hornby? Liking him so far?" Eh, better than the marriage thing.
Cigarette perched between her lips, she deliberates, weighing the literary qualities like smoke on her tongue. She French inhales, takes a sip of coffee and responds in a slow, thoughtful tone. "Yeah...I'm not sure I completely get it. Definitely a guy book."
"I think every guy should read it at least once. Little Red Book style." Maoist references get all the ladies.
Surprisingly, she does get it. Or, at least, is kind enough to humor me with a grin.
"Oh yeah, I'm Will." Will? I haven't introduced myself as Will since the fourth grade.
"Ah, William, if I can call you that? You don't strike me as a Will."
She's either a mind reader or British. I nod dumbly.
"Well, if you aren't gonna ask, I'm Kay." She offers her small hand, unafraid.
I take it, horribly afraid. "I'm not a sir yet."
She tilts her head at this. I tilt mine. What did I say and why?
"You called me sir, earlier. I'm not a sir, yet."
"Well, again, if you aren't going to ask, I'm 25. But, aside from that, you should be happy with what you're given."
I must say, I'm impressed. Despite the aura of niceties, she's got an edge. Self-satisfied, she grins, enjoying the fact that I'm off-balanced. I raise my mug, toasting her wit.
"A lesson in gratitude?"
"As well as humility." I could swear she winked as she lifted her mug in toast. "So, Sir William, what is it you do?"
Now, I could tell her how I make money, but writing manuals is just plain lame. "Oh, I'm a writer."
"Poetry?" She looks hopeful. Now-a-days, everyone is a poet, but it doesn't affect the stigma of a good poet being worldly and sensitive. I couldn't rhyme myself through a door.
I suppose my abilities are just poor.
I groan aloud. "No...prose." I can feel the disappointment in her "Oh."
"Yeah, I was published a while back." Met with mixed reviews from the few critics who read it and piss-poor sales, but published.
She perks up slightly. That got her attention.
"So, yeah, what do you do?" I smile a bit, finally having some sort of foothold.
"Me? Oh, I work with a bank. Loans and things."
Wow...okay, unexpected. My turn to be disappointed. I wasn't thinking of anything in particular, but I was certainly not thinking that. Maybe, bookstore or...hot-girl club or something.
"I'm working on a degree in Poli-Sy so, if I'm lucky, it's just a thing to get me through."
That's more like it.
Then all thought evaporates. What now? Maybe telling her I dreamed of her would fulfill some sort of romantic fantasy, as misguided as that may be. Or I could exit dramatically, giving her my number as smooth as you could ask and go tell Jon like a school girl yammering about her first manicure.
"Welps, I should head out. Here..." I scribble my number down on a napkin scarred with coffee and hand it over. Leaving three bucks on the table, I turn towards the door. "Call me, if you ever need, ya know, a coffee mate." Yes, if you ever need a creamer, call me.
Wait, metaphor. Hilarity.
She stares at the paper, deciphering meaning, motive, her own plan of action. Neat and business-like, she folds it, placing it into her little pockets.
"Just a second." Knowing glimmers in her eyes. "Was there something you wanted to say to me yesterday?"
Busted.
"Yeah, just that the book was good."
Smirking, she smothers smoldering embers like she did it for a living.
"Oh, and then nature called, eh?"
Blunt. Amazingly so.
"It happens. Weak bladder. Old war wound. Call me and I'll tell you about it." Yes. Mystic. Perfect.
"You know, Sir William, you are an absolute liar."
"Yeaaaah."
"I'll call you later." Again, with the wink. I think.
There we go. I have created rhyme.
Concentrating on the singular task of not looking back, I make a brisk pace towards the exit. I can feel my feet slow. There is a disturbance in the force...
Smokes.
Head lowered, I return to the table. I can feel her chuckling a bit, watching and dissecting the white-knuckle grip I have on the flimsy pack.
"Yeah, so, later."
She nods, amused.
The Winds have changed. Literally. Instead of the nice, moist bite of fall, the cold refresh of spring whips around the dead branches. It's a rare feel in the end of autumn and I take a moment to soak it in before taking a seat behind the wheel. A few pumps of the gas and the car rattles right up.

Chapter 3! END!

Not Book Related.

2007-02-21T19:28:09Z

...spring rise from the feet of passerbys. Individuals beckoned outside with the banishing of Old Man Winter to his mountain top cave. People who would not have thought of stepping into the mounds of snow now happy, laughing, comfortable in the reaching of wind from under the warming sun.

I watch spring bound up trees, squirrels nearly invisible, brown fur pushing against equally shadded bark. Finally stirred by the natural knowing that it is simply time to be. To move from one part of the cycle to another.

I watch spring flutter and hop across the grass, small birds picking at nature I cannot see and have no wish to disperse. I sit, trying to enjoy even the slightest bit of the pure life energy that they partake in by acting as they do. A slow attempt to reach out from behind steel bars of buildings and cars to the nature that we reject, as the prepubesent rejects the family.

I watch spring ressurect itself from a cold grave.
I watch. I become part of. For this is the Tao.

Chapter 2! GO!

2007-02-15T23:34:10Z

...the lights on the studio, filling the cluttered room with a sad, yellow illumination. I should get more bulbs. White, this time. I ploy my way through clothes, small piles forming from the slacks, dress shirts and ties. Maybe laundry, while I'm out. After leaving the car's radio, the silence seems to have followed me through the halls and right into my room. I flip the radio on, switching around CDs until stumbling upon a forgotten Sinatra. With Frankie covering my trail, I pace the room, pouring a drink in the kitchen, staring down the computer, the usual routine. Finally, the flying toasters win and I take a seat.
I debate between work I'm behind on and the hardly touched, hardly anticipated sequel of my first novel. I open both, perusing each for the definitive inspiration. Timidly, I chicken peck a few words for my personal endeavors. Less than satisfactory. I delete what I add and turn my attention towards the assembly of cribs. Lost in the mindlessness of diagrams and lackluster wording, of cigarettes and jazz, the hours slip by. The autumn sunset burns through the slanted shades, red echoing against the floral couch and loveseat I picked up for cheap from a sweet widow. The glare against my screen becomes too much just as the CD starts to skip If I wait long enough for the sun to set and get up to change the track, it'd be fine. Instead I take the opportunity to escape, slipping out of my chair and clothes. After squirming back into basketball shorts, I let myself pace for a few more minutes before throwing myself against the queen size in the corner.
The day passes over me as I toss and turn, getting caught in the sheets. I should have talked to her. Just said "Hey, how's it going?" Or nodded and smiled before retreating. Fleeing like I did just made me creepier. Of course, that's if she noticed. Noted, I should give her so much credit. Then again, I know nothing about her. She may not even understand the book. She may not like it. Maybe, her boyfriend suggested it. Maybe her girlfriend?
"I've had too much caffeine." The declaration falls empty on the walls.
Fighting against a day of chemicals and regret, my eyes flutter between the realm of bouncing off the walls and dead. I force myself to construct a dream. Old kung-fu movies flash, Lee's and Chan's replaced by quick jerks and fluid strikes form my own limbs. Coffee-shop girl is tied up in the back, a bad, black wig done in in long pig-tails covers her scalp. She screams in a mistimed dub. A solid elbow lies another nameless rival in the courtyard. My body tenses, turning with an extended finger towards her.
"I am coming!" My mouth keeps moving as funky beats jam on.
"Ooooh-hohoho, you have beaten the students...Now...you face the master!" Red and gold arrives in front of me, glided in by very visible wires. "Your kung-fu is strong, but will fail against my Drunken Werewolf, faggot." His accent thick, beard and fu-man-chu long and cigarette still burning between his lips, Jon adjusts his stance, weaving and snarling.
"Dude...uncool. Move." The lip-sync and disco are gone, my fight killed.
"Yeah…Just one thing. You dream of me? Need I say it?"
"Gotcha. Now, step aside."
My sight is lost in a whirlwind of plum blossoms, blown in from stage right. With a gasp, a concoction of awe and the infusion of awareness. I jot up covered in a film of sweat.
Dreaming about her is...strange, to say the least. Dreaming about Jon is just plain upsetting. I check the ancient clock-radio next to the bed, one of the first attempts at a digital anything. 8:59 flames in red bars, 18:88 hidden beneath the light. I watch the clock flicker to 9:00, pausing a moment before the sound.
"Everybody was Kung-fu Fighting..."
My prophetic dream jars the sleep from my eyes. I wrestle free from the sheets and head to the kitchen enclave. The coffee-mate bubbles, spitting out hot water before it turns brown with the grounds. I let the gurgling alone, refusing to be held captive by a machine. A quick shower and a change later, I'm back, cup in eager hands. I line the bottom with ice, sugar and cream, pouring the scolding coffee over it and finishing it just as quick. Skipping the ice on the second and squirming a camel from my kitchen-only pack, I lounge against the wall and slow roast my way into the morning.
Once the post is drained, and my sleep-softened morning throat is sore, I clean the mug and throw on my coat. Inventory.
Keys, phone, wallet? All systems go, I leave.

End Chapter 2!

daegunkoh @ 2007-02-13T12:08:00

2007-02-13T05:01:04Z

...again. “Go, talk to her. You’re the only passably straight guy I know that reads stuff like that.”
“Okay, two points. One, you’re an ass. Two, no.”
“Three, you’re gay.”
I chew on my lip for a second, swirling coffee around in it’s ceramic home. “If, and I mean if, I do this, you stop calling me gay…”
“Done.”
“And you subscribe to Vogue.”
“Dick.”
“I just know how you like to look pretty.” I stand as I speak, gulping a preparing mix of coffee and nicotine, and walk forward. With purpose, I make my way across the room and through the mangled conversations. “I’ve never seen Gone with the Wind. I should rent that.” Huh, I haven’t either. Other snippets fill my head. I allow myself to mentally respond, and attempt to excuse myself from my nervousness.
I see her bag at her feet before any other pat. Slowing my pace, not enough for her to look up, but just enough to assess, I do analyze what little I can. No ring on her finger. A good sign. I play with my keys as I close the gap. I can smell her cigarette, I think. Maybe even perfume under it. Could be imagining it. I put my hand on her table.
She looks up.
In the span of a quick jerk, I face forward and will my feet to hurry the rest of me to the bathroom.
------
The cold water washes over my face, evaporating from the embarrassed heat painted over my cheeks.
“You, my friend, are an idiot.” I pep-talk my beaten reflection. I try to think back, at the way she looked up at me. Annoyance? Hope? What was it that her eyes were saying. I looked, or ran, away too fast, but I imagine it was raw confusion. I mean, if I were a girl, which I’m sure Jon will assure I am, and a man my size in a trench coat came up and placed a mitt on my table, confusion seems the reasonable reaction. I towel dry my face, take a deep breath, and step back into the real world.
While my hands dig holes in the bottom of my pockets, I can feel my ears redden as I tramp my path back to my seat. Jon watches the entire walk, applauding my failure.
“Wow, I mean, I’ve seen some sad things, but that…was the worst.”
“I had to use the bathroom.”
“Bull. Point is, jailbait, you lose.”
“Yeah….” I let my objection die inside and just submit to the facts. “Let’s get outta here.”
He acts like he’s looking for change, but he knows just as well as I do that it’s a mime for the sake of tradition. “Oh, hey, I’ll pay you back for the coffee.” It’s a statement, not a question.
He won’t. “Yeah, I got I.“ I stand again, reaching for my wallet with one hand, groping at the table for tab with the other. “Hold on…I gotta pee first.”
He stares at me, shaking his head slightly.

End of Chapter 1.

Straight from the book.

2007-01-30T00:07:55Z

So, I decided not to update too much on my writing, and edited some of the newer stuff out of the last update, and added more. I've divided the post on two, one of the old stuff and one of the newer. Enjoy.

...were a gritty comparison to the pristine marble of the floor. People came and went, books held to the side, beaten novels and dog-eared magazines. The white stone ends abruptly at the brick walls, caked with age and the smell of rotting paper. A cool breeze of the damp call outside the library sweeps in from a window, left open by the absent librarian. I tighten the belt of my brown trench coat over my white shirt and squeak my way through the crowd of students, bums and Dewey's hierarchy.

I really should buy new shoes.

The scraping of wood and stone bites through the hushed whispers, sourced from a much-engraved chair. A kid snorts awake, The Sound and the Fury flapping ot the ground. Hair more unruly than mind looks up from a black and red grid of a cheap chess board. Over a deep blue shirt adorned with a peculiar image of white lines forming a building, crowded street and a kid spitting from the roof, the chess player wears an open, blue and green button-up. His hand pulls a bit at the holed knees of his faded jeans.

"Salutations," he says from under a leery gaze.
I shrug myself out of the coat, hoping to multitask the gesture. "Keep ya waiting?"
"Shyeah."
"My God, Jon, are you seriously still saying that?"
"Shyeah."
I pluck a knight from my side, rolling the white piece over my palm. "I hate you, ya know."
"Shut up and move."

I set the horse just outside the defensive line.
"Ug, always with those damn knights. Why?!"
His far left pawn marches forward, preparing for the rook's escape. I ready my second knight. "Dunno...They're tricky and let the important pieces stay safe."
"Ooooh, fucking noble...I'm bored..."
"You A.D.D. bastard...." I am a king surveying a battlefield. "Coffee?"

With God's hand, I clear the board, wiping away the bodies, able and fallen, fold the land and set the world in an unfurling cardboard box. "You're car or mine?"

He's already fidgeting with a Camel, brushing his thin, shoulder-straddled hair to the side. Scratching at his full mutton chop sideburns, he sets the smoke behind his ear. "Tinklebell's dying and you know it."
"Just asking, douche."

Leisurely, we stroll through the literary maze, sailor's jargon adding to the dictionaries of innocent bystanders. After we finally make it outside, lighters anxiously lick at the tips of our cigarettes, us gratefully puffing. A beat-up Cavalier sits in a handicapped spot, white paint flaking, passenger window now a plastic bag and no handicap tag. The October sun catches in the cracks of the windshield, prismed back and out.
I put a few quarters in its meter. "She does look like hell."
"Just where I pray you'll end up."
Behind a veil of white smoke, I have to grin a bit.
"Every night," he adds. "And before meals."

I look back at him, pulling keys away from lighters, matches, change and an old cell phone. "Me. Hell. Gotcha."
"Usually after meals." Times like this, I'm not sure if he's even still with us.
"And even on the toilet?" Opening the unlocked door, I slide into the '92 Caddy.
"Pretty much always."
I nod and start the car. Ten years ago, the engine would have run smooth. Now, it sputters and pops into submission.
"Armstrong isn't much better." Jon's turn to grin.
"Yeah, but my windows work." A tap on the faded white plastic switch rolls down the glass wall. The cherry of my cigarette shatters against the blacktop parking lot. I make it a point to smother it with my car.
-----
Just the whir of the smoke-absorbing fans, the clatter of eating and strange, hushed conversation trumpet our arrival. A few sleepy eyes look up, tired from years of coffee and smoke. Eyes mine are beginning to reflect.
Rows of red plastic booths and tarnished wood line the walls of the diner. Raymond's Breakfast House, or affectionately, or lazily, called Ray's, consists of an old aircraft fuselage. Gutted and stuffed, the bulk of the warrior steel now seats many old enough to have flown her. Seamless but evident, the bird connects with the back. A counter ends the rounded room and the red brick begins and abruptly ends at the kitchen, consisting mainly of a small building added to the side. The air is stale, despite the fans spread across the ceilings out-of-place wood beams. Stale of tobacco, coffee and grilled onions. Oldies ham in the background, barely ambiance. Across the middle, a station divides smoking and the barrens of non-smoking. The cash register faces off a disused jukebox, filled with the best of bad 90's pop and Clearance Clearwater Revival.

We sit at our corner booth, letting ourselves ease into the padding, adjusting the table's array to our default: sugar in the center, ashtray to my left, his right, packs and silverware opposite that. A waitress raises an empty mug towards us, her face contorting into a question mark. We both nod and turn back to the table. Water and coffee all around.
"Why don't you take me anywhere nice, Jon?" I smooth out a few wrinkles in my coat before deciding to take it off and use it to cushion my back.
"Because you're always driving." Pushing me down and back into the chair, laughter rises as I light another smoke. "Is that why you always get dressy?" he continues.
"Shut up," I retort. "...I'm wearing jeans today, anyways."
He ducks his head under the table, coming back up slowly. "...Are those ironed?"
Evasive maneuvers. I jam the coffer cup against my lips.
"Answer me, Will."
I tell myself to keep drinking, eyes shifting in attempts to distract him.
"Wiiiill? Are they?" I am a child in his voice.
"I have to look respectable for work!" Hurrying through the sentence, it sounds like the excuse it is.
"You work at home. You write technical manuals..."
Caught in my web of lies.
"And other stuff…" Sure, I've been caught, but I am not without my dignity. Yet.
"Your last work was published two years ago and has since been pulled. What's next, Hemingway?"
I tell him something big is in the works, puffing smoke between lies and evaporating dignity. "We drinking tonight?"
"You paying?" Smirking, he spis thoughtfully on his black coffee, maybe even analyzing.
"You manipulative prick. And no, I'm tapped."
Instinctively, we grab wallets and throw cash in the center, follow by coin and lint.
"Twelve-fifty seven and a button." I recount, pushing the money around with a finger.
"Whiskey it is!"
Arms in the air, teeth bared in a victorious grin, he's an alcoholic were-wolf. The only lycanthrope with a problem. A bad sitcom.
I hum the jingle aloud. "It's Wiiiill, and the Al-cohooolic Werewolf!"
Jon's arms fall slowly, calculated as he stares at me. "You are an idiot."
"At least I don't have a problem and a curse." I nod, settling the argument with that and focus on the whirling discus that is the celing fan. Spinning, spinning, spinning...
"...dude..."
Spinning.
"...Dude..."
Spiiiinning.
A hand pushes against my shoulder. Jon reaching over the table, he redirects his paw, thumb pointed at the door. The image that enters probably shouldn't have. Not a place like this. Against the smoke-stained panels of the building's cap, her hair is the only real life, long, soft and blonde. Her legs tacked under her chin and everything between wasn't too shabby either. Not the hourglass figure, with hips that killed and a bust to match. Rather, her's was the slim type, with just enough curve to matter. This was not a red dress woman. Instead, she wrapped herself in khakis and a white-and-green polo. Perpetually moist, sky blue eyes peaked from behind librarian glasses. I can only sip my water to avoid gawking at her maneuvering across the aisles, skin showing just above her low-top sneakers and ankle socks. She orders, flips a smoke from a leather case and reaches into her messenger bag. Hornby, "High Fidelity."

daegunkoh @ 2006-12-19T00:19:00

2006-12-19T00:19:36Z

...were a gritty comparison to the pristine marble of the floor. People came and went, books held to the side, beaten novels and dog-eared magazines.The white stone ends abruptly at the brick walls, caked with age and the smell of rotting paper. A cool breeze of the damp call outside the library sweeps in from a window, left open by the absent librarian. I tighten the belt of my brown trench coat over my white shirt and squeak my way through the crowd of students, bums and Dewey's hierarchy.

I really should buy new shoes.

The scraping of wood and stone bites through the hushed whispers, sourced from a much-engraved chair. A kid snorts awake,The Sound and the Fury flapping ot the ground. Hair more unruly than mind looks up from a black and red grid of a cheap chess board. Over a deep blue shirt adorned with a peculiar image of white lines forming a building, crowded street and a kid spitting from the roof, the chess player wears an open, blue and green button-up. His hand pull a bit at the holed knees of his faded jeans.

"Salutations," he says from under a leery gaze.
I shrug myself out of the coat, hoping to multitask the gesture. "Keep ya waiting?"
"Shyeah."
"My God, Jon, are you seriously still saying that?"
"Shyeah."
I pluck a knight from my side, rolling the white peice over my palm. "I hate you, ya know."
"Shut up and move."

I set the horse just outside the defensive line.
"Ug, always with those damn knights. Why?!"
His far left pawn marches forward, preparing for the rook's escape. I ready my second knight. "Dunno...They're tricky and let the important pieces stay safe."
"Ooooh, fucking noble...I'm bored..."
"You ADD bastard...." I am a king surveying a battlefield. "Coffee?"

With God's hand, I clear the board, wiping away the bodies, able and fallen, fold the land and set the world in an unfurling cardboard box. "You're car or mine?"
He's already fidgeting with a Camel, brushing his thin, shoulder-straddled hair to the side. Scratching at his full mutton chop sideburns, he sets the smoke behind his ear. "Tinklebell's dying and you know it."
"Just asking, douche."

Leisurely, we stroll through the literary maze. A swat against my chest stops me, Jon beaming. "Dude, dude, dude, check it....OEDIPUS TAKES OUT HIS EYES!"
What the heeeeell? He can read my mind.
"I'm not going to sit here, meet you, and leave without style."
Now, style would be lighting up before we're outside, blowing off the opposition. This? Assholery.

A bit of what I've been hand writing. More to come.

Read the story, wait for the book, live.

2006-11-16T21:28:53Z

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=6492819

I read this at work and honestly began to tear up at the end. I honestly can't wait for it to release in the States.

daegunkoh @ 2006-10-06T08:06:00

2006-10-06T08:34:29Z

...shut the hell up!"
Apparently my screaming takes him just as much off his guard as it does me. The words settle between us, a moment of silence as the world obeys my command. I rotate on my heels, spinning towards the cold fall wind and away from him.

"...Dude..."

"No! Not this time. No 'dudes' or 'mans' or any of that. You shut up and you listen!"

Oh my god, it's working...

" 'Even Hitler had love?' Man, what the hell kind of friend ARE you?! I break my back for you, and you're all 'oooh, hey, look, I know it all!'"

I can't help it, I'm not even sure I'm doing it, but I may just be pacing.

"...Dude..."

"Noooo! Noooo! NO DUDE! All I ask for the endless shit-stream that is YOU is for you to at least PRETEND to listen, not even so much as UNDERSTAND!"

This is almost fun!

"...no, DUDE..."

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT?!"

"...we missed the bus..."

My neck cranes slowly. He's joking, right? Clouding the sky, the waves of white exhaust whisk the flaming leaves high into the air like embers against the wind.
Yes. Yes we did...
I take my time turning to face him, baby steps. Baby steps. First rubbing my hands against my cheeks, rosey with a mix of enviromental reactions and childish embaressment. Forcing me into a march, he wraps his arm around me. Every move of his is echoed with the sound of his jogging suit. I hate that sound, the scratch with every move. It works for him.

"What were you saying, man?" Coy, cunning, ambigious. That smile of his is either a work of pure innocence or the evilest god-damn thing ever. "Look, man, if you've ever gotta say something, just tell me, right? That's what buds do, we listen."
"...yeah..."

Broken leaves trail behind us, in our futile walk towards the bus.

I -really- dunno if I like this, but it's 3:30, so gimme a break. Same guys from 'Even Hitler'

daegunkoh @ 2006-06-21T00:29:00

2006-06-21T05:31:22Z

Okay, I think I know what's been wrong with my works. Not enough scenery. It's all been metaphors and puns. I need atmosphere! So, here are my options. I either re-write it and tweak it to make it all Ominpotent Singular point-of-view. It's that, or I re-write it as a script. Hmm, what to do, what to do...

daegunkoh @ 2006-06-19T23:59:00

2006-06-20T06:08:34Z

I swing from the tap. "So, I did get your key?"
It's hanging up in my room.
Bluff 2.
"Yes, William, you did."
"Good." Cleaning my mouth on my forearm, I turn back to her. "Then what brings this most welcomed trespasing?" With a swagger, I rotate to the fridge and ruffle my way around. Franly, I'm lucky I wasn't pulled in by some vengeful leftover, moreso that the least of my worries is an empty icebox. "Oh! I know, those books you grabbed from me on the way out? I was wondering when I'd get those back, but I suppose the sphincter would have tried to sound his way through. Not bad timing." It's only a very far off chance she took anything of mine.
Bluff 3.
"You asshole." In a huff, she barricades herself with her back. Still wet, my hand engulfs her arm. Clockwork. She turns. Very few souls can ignore a drenched paw against their arm.
The momentum helps dig her palm into my face. With just that, the outfit is complete. Ripped tie, glazed eyes, unwashed hair and now a red hand against my cheek. I'm the perfect picture of the alcoholic jerk.
"I sure as hell didn't come to be insulted! Selfish...selfish...ASSHOLE!"
We've been over this.
FUCK! Please tell me I didn't say that.
The reruned slap is proof enough.
"God DAMN it, woman, stop hitting me!"
Again, a hand meets sore flesh.
"It was cute when we were together. We aren't now. Never call me woman again."
I throw her arm back and catch the oncoming wrist.
"Stop hitting me." Equipped with my big-boy voice, it comes out a teeth-strained growl.
All along the length of her arm, the muscles die.
"Well, I'm sober now. What do you want? If it's a friendly chat, sorry, but I'm all out of tea and I'll see you next time."
She breaks my hold and straightens herself out, the vulnerability washing away with the wrinkles. "I came to make sure you were still alive. I haven't seen or heard from you for, what, three months?"
She's got a point, I haven't been raising nearly enough trouble, especially if it hasn't hit the top yet. I should tell her.
"You've got a point. I should stir the shit some more."
Like a disappointed mother, she just shakes her head.
"Look," I say, pulling the tie off and letting it flutter and die where it will. "I'm dying here, so you can come get a bite to eat with me or you can at least let me out of my kitchen."

Wrote most of it at work, not sure if I like it...Eh, whatever.

daegunkoh @ 2006-06-13T15:37:00

2006-06-13T23:19:00Z

It's already feeling like a long day as I pull myself from the web of sheets and pillows. If I'm the prey, I can only imagine the spider. Oldies crackle and snap through a radio alarm. How long has that been playing?
"Any trick in the book, baby, all I can find."
The thin arms twist and blur, warping time into a sleepy mess. Even if I could count the hours between set and now, there's no promise that the clock actually went off as planned. Pah, useless.
"Superman or Greeen Lan-tern, ain't got a'nothin' on me."
My back finally finds the floor. I passed out in my clothes again, and it's not some small act of god that I made it to the bed. The fall lands me on something soft, targetted dead-center on my spine. A sock. My left sock, to be exact. My right nudges an empty bottle. I can hear last night roll against the floor, nails against my eardrums. The rap of glass against wooden wall framing echos through my liquor-filled skull. I need an asprin and water, stat. I twist and turn, forcing my body to move. Rolling against the hard floor, I can feel the aches taking inventory, my muscles starved for anything with proof less than 40. I should get a sandwhich too. As I make it past the bed, my tie catches, pulling at my neck. I can hear it snag and pull, the silk fabrics ripping under my bulk.
Bastard tie.
My body wedges against the doorframe, head tilted so that the worlds takes on the blocking of an abandoned camera.
Blonde?
I blink back the grains of yellow sleep from my eyes and try to focus.
Blonde with a face.
We're getting somewhere.
Blonde with a face in a suit.
May pirates raid my booty if this is right.
Shit.
I was just joking, about that Pirate thing.
I tilt myself a bit, looking her in the eyes.
"...Kay..."
She steps forward, staring down at me. She looks like a teacher, scolding the rapscalion trying to crawl out of class. Thin wire glasses I remember her might just be my imagination, the reality being, perhaps always, the black rims of hers. Blonde hair once free in a tight bun.
"Professional, Mrs. Teacher-lady."
She offers me her hand. I roll away and force my body up, cracking and popping like a bowl of cereal. I brush past her, my first bluff.
"Whatcha need? I thought you left your key." Even through the sock, I can feel the cold floor. My left foot's numb from it. I work my way over clothes and notes, a coffee table and clothes to the kitchenette. The rattle of the pill bottle shaking my brain is damn near enough to make me stomach the pain.
"You left your door open."
"Again?" Play it cool. I swallow the pills dry and I can feel their smooth coating sticking to my throat, blocking air and spit from a downward journey.

More later. I'm finally onto something.

daegunkoh @ 2006-06-10T23:18:00

2006-06-11T06:54:56Z

and muggy. Just right for rain that won't come. My window stopped working so all I can do is sit in the AC and watch my gas leak into the air. The sound of a burning cigerette has a calming effect, flirting with the hum of the artifical cool breeze. Without a doubt, it's summer. I wear the coat for effect, I'll admit it, but with the sun's rays pulling the clouds down to sufficate the flesh, I can't even have that. Drapped over notebooks, pens and a fair share of pill bottles and garbage, the old coat blots out, even for a while, the sole fuel for my life. I like it. I try to ash out the window, needless to say without success. Ash flies over my jeans, leaving streaks of powder white as I try to brush it off. I either look like the sloppy ass I am or like a crackhead. A sloppy one at that.

I throw the car to the curb and my coat the the floor. He was a crack head. Big time. Noted, for someone in his...economic position, it's not uncommon. Hell, ghetto folks are always on crack. But not like this. Not that much. No way some guy wearing rags, and it's kind to call them that. No no no, something is, was, all wrong with that picture.
I'm an idiot.