Just start to laugh, and God says no...

((

))

So this is how it comes about.

I've used it many times, but never has it seemed so proper.

"I grow old, I grow old,

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled"

Prufrock's lament to the passing of time, his previous impotence when it came to doing what he wanted. The inability to digest even the simplest of fruits.

So maybe that's why I've always loved this poem. Aside from the indigestion. A mirror to me.

Behold, for I am Gabriel Conroy, grabbing for the lame and useless words to comfort those around me. I am the jealous and ineffectual man who sits at the head of the table and makes a frightful ass of himself.

Twenty fucking five years.

Twinnyfife.

By this age most people have already set out about on what they would most like to do upon the earth.

But screw those guys right in the ear I guess?

Twenty five years of experience. What has that gotten me so far?

A hippie disposition.

An awesome dog.

When life gives you lemons, fine a guy with a bottle of vodka and throw a party.

Unfortunately that guy is usually myself.

So, here's to a quarter century gone, halfway to 50.

25 more and maybe I'll have a decent grasp on personal opinions.

Where the livin meet the dead....

((

))

The sound of bone against flesh reverbrated against the walls of the warehouse as Martin let his fist cut across Robby's cheek. Blood flew from the fresh wound onto the concrete floor in small droplets.

"Where the fuck's the money" asked Martin, rubbing his sore hand.

"What money" countered Robby, wincing at the pain of speaking.

Another sickening thud as Robby's teeth loosened from another right hand to his jaw. His face burned with pain as the dull ache in his ribs began to flare up at his labored breath. The single bulb hanging above them in the warehouse illuminated a small circle on the floor, displaying proudly the blood that had been shed over the past few hours as if it were a masterpiece. His eyes caught the bright yellow gleam on on the blood before his vision was rocked in the opposite direction as a left hook crushed against his temple.

"Tell me where you put the fucking money!"

Robby spat out a wad of phlegm and blood towards Martin. The green-red combination clung to Martin's blue tie, sullying the fine silk tie that swayed on top of the guido's muscles. Robby shook the concussed feeling from his head and tried to focus his eyes on his assailant.

"This is a bit cliched, is it not?"

Reality began to unwind.

And I know, that you'll see...

Fuck the rest of the story. Here's a bit of fiction I wish I would have worked harder on.

F:

I roll wherever I go. Just tuck your head between your knees, grab those ankles and make sure whatever you need to get to is downhill from you. It doesn’t matter what the time of year is. In the spring I get to see a world surrounded by flowers and baby birds. Not just on the ground or in the air, but both for each! In the summer there is warm grass for my face to smush up against. I do have to stay away from the pavement, though, since it burns a little bit if I don’t make that tumbling a bit faster. Then there’s the fall, the best time to roll wherever I go. The crunch of the leaves below my feet, knees, neck and back sound so sweet, like the ripping of wrapping paper. I’m opening up a whole new world for myself. And in the winter I get to bundle up, a little bit of cushioning against the ice below. And there’s not so much rolling as there is of slipping and sliding, but I suppose I get a few good seasons of rolling in, I can afford to spend a few flopping around in the snow.

My parents hate it though. It’s always ‘When are you going to stop ruining your shirts?’ this and ‘Oh how are we going to get the motor oil out of your hair?’ that. Dad’s the worst of the two, always saying how my brothers never rolled like I am and how they have enough sense to use two feet to get around. I tried to explain that when rolling, the feet are the most important of the circle. They alone decide whether or not you’re going to finally stop, and that’s pretty important, especially when you’re down by the river. But as usual, he just sighs and shakes his head while I roll off into the kitchen to get some juice. Mom just smiles and fusses at me, but I can tell from the way she looks at me that she knows I’m going to keep on rolling. And she’s right.

So I roll on my way to school, the books in my bag pressing against my back with every revolution. I speed across the crosswalk, passing by the other kids who are laughing and pointing at me at a rapid pace. I smile against my knees because I know I’m getting somewhere faster than they are. While approaching the next crosswalk, a car’s brakes begin to squeal. I see a few whirling images of a red car blocking my path and slap my feet down as soon as they come around. Mr. McChutney leans out his window, his big mustache flapping in rhythm with his jaws as he tells me what a fool I am and how I’m going to get hurt one of these days. His face is starting to get redder as his rant goes on, almost as red as his car.

“Yes, Mr. McChutney, smeared across the road, uh huh, I understand. Thank you, sir, but I need to get going.” I smile and wait until he drives across the intersection, giving me the ol’ stink eye the entire way. I think I can still see his face hanging out the car window. Oh, I hope he doesn’t hit that car in front of him. I smile and continue to roll on, that familiar ‘thump-thump thump-thump’ vibrating through my bones. The land begins to level out and I begin to slow, but its different today. I’ve lost way too much momentum to get through the front doors and find myself stopped on the sidewalk, scuffed up shoes pointing directly where I want to still be going. Mr. McChutney’s diversion must’ve thrown me off a bit today. I couldn’t move without a little boost from someone, but they all just walk around me. A river of kids flow around me, the rock in the middle. I sigh deeply and look up at the doors as they swing closed on the last of the students. The bell rings. I sit and wait.

The weather begins to change and dark clouds fill up the sky. Another minute passes. Then the rain comes, beating down on me and my book bag. I feel the water begin to soak through my shirt, my skin prickling up with goose bumps as the rain continues to fall. How did I get into this situation? I’ve never lost speed like that before. I always gained it back, tightening my knees and back up just a little to give me that edge. Why today? In my little shell I begin to think of just why this was happening. I couldn’t come up with an answer though.

Then I hear the roar of an engine, accented by the crashing thunder rolling across the sky. I peek out from beneath my legs, and see the red car scream down the street towards me, its windshield wipers beat away at the glass, clearing away the water and revealing Mr. McChutney’s grinning face. He must have taken off for his lunch break. The car speeds towards me, swerving slightly, and crashes into the small lake forming against the curb and the road.

The wave of water spreads up and over the sidewalk, I see it crash towards me and hold my breath. The water pours against my already soaked shirt and knocks me forward. I hold onto my ankles and keep my breath in my mouth as I feel the ground start to spin beneath me. My feet hit the steps to the school entrance and leave the ground, twirling through the air. Only to stop, face first into the glass doors. I slide down and feel my feet catch the ground underneath me. They buckle for a moment and my hands catch on the cool, metal handle of the door. I push the door open and felt the cold air rush against my face, chilling the cold clothes clinging to my skin. I look behind me to see where I had been sitting the whole morning. Just a short little distance away, travelled with ease each day. The chilly air from inside the school presses my clothes to my skin a bit more firmly, reminding me of the rain, the cold, and Mr. McChutney’s face smiling maniacally at me from behind the steering wheel of his cherry red automobile. I don’t think I ever want to go through that again. What a miserable day. I take the first, shaky step inside.

R: Screw First person present.