peachmangofuzz
10-30-2012, 10:18 AM
critique and enjoy.
Laney made teary eyes at the sight of papa’s goings. It was weekend travel, field work for the many he supposed. Before jetting to the car seat, his wife Petunia came scurrying over, she seemed disheveled and muddy from last night’s sudden snowfall, barely managing her ill-kempt hair, swaying fuzzy robe, and midnight kitten slippers. She looked good despite the house wife vestige.
“Take your damn hooker’s panties, they aren’t mine and stop convincing me otherwise!”
“You better watch your mouth Petunia, or you’ll get it one day.”
“Bite me, Jacky-boy.”
He drove bitterly out the front drive way, in to the slush and road and went north. The radio ran its weather report. 4 to 6 inches of snow it says, he doubted it. Along the free-way Jack spoke aloud. “Why oh why is it always me? The thieving, conniving moron never has the faintest idea that maybe I’m innocent, maybe I actually give a crap.”
Nothing was to be seen through the haze of iced crust on the wind shields except for the radiating office lights of Patchmen and Co. He was never too thrilled working there, especially now that he’s expected to speak at a conference center right near it for his leisurely days.
Renting a room was a first priority he supposed, and he went for the quickest fix he could grab... “Uhh, yeah can you guys just give me two nights, also is there a continental breakfast?” curiously fixated on stuffing himself with cinnamon buns and coffee flavored water. “Yes, okay thanks (hangs up). The Aurora Inn it is then.”
Morning came and went, it was close to three and he was getting hungry, it was that special odd hour of the day. With a 1993 Ford bronco, Jack stopped by a local smoothie energy shop, he had a special fruity, almost yogi nature inside of him despite his less gauntly idiosyncrasies.
Walking in the Groovy Blue berry, Jack seemed unfit for the environment. There were too many Green-Peace collegiate in the corner sipping on the latest enlightened flavor and of course avoiding the listed price, opting for a more adequate based-on-smoothie-ness rate. A dirty tambourine boy bounced and walloped according to his vivacious technique, and a blind ancient poet hummed while his pet companion rolled on the kaleidoscopic marijuana leaf rug.
He siphoned a couple of dollar coins out of his rear pocket, and he managed to get the exact price, it really saved a couple of seconds staring down at that beautiful yet intimidating counter girl with the gold lip piercing transposed on that pink puffed up labia.
Sipping on a blackberry, wheatgrass, and almond concoction, he began to recall how George Harrison (the spiritual- Beatle) once believed in everything being attached to everything else; it was how he discovered a weeping instrument. He couldn't feel further apart from the transfixed world and the ungainly rash he’d given his wife on that fateful night. He heard the swallows flapping their loveless wings and felt incomplete at the break of silence. A car rang its horn and Jack realized his position on the road. The front lights faced the Wallkill River, and he was just by the bridge when he peevishly began flirting with fate.
Against his wife’s wishes, against his family, or for whatever he knew, Jack pressed on the gas. The tires screeched while the vehicle accelerated forward. Perched on an inclination, however, a mother had fallen asleep while waiting for the local transit. The mother was also holding on to her baby boy’s carriage. It rolled faster than his Bronco, and just in the nick of time, Jack almost felt responsible.
Laney made teary eyes at the sight of papa’s goings. It was weekend travel, field work for the many he supposed. Before jetting to the car seat, his wife Petunia came scurrying over, she seemed disheveled and muddy from last night’s sudden snowfall, barely managing her ill-kempt hair, swaying fuzzy robe, and midnight kitten slippers. She looked good despite the house wife vestige.
“Take your damn hooker’s panties, they aren’t mine and stop convincing me otherwise!”
“You better watch your mouth Petunia, or you’ll get it one day.”
“Bite me, Jacky-boy.”
He drove bitterly out the front drive way, in to the slush and road and went north. The radio ran its weather report. 4 to 6 inches of snow it says, he doubted it. Along the free-way Jack spoke aloud. “Why oh why is it always me? The thieving, conniving moron never has the faintest idea that maybe I’m innocent, maybe I actually give a crap.”
Nothing was to be seen through the haze of iced crust on the wind shields except for the radiating office lights of Patchmen and Co. He was never too thrilled working there, especially now that he’s expected to speak at a conference center right near it for his leisurely days.
Renting a room was a first priority he supposed, and he went for the quickest fix he could grab... “Uhh, yeah can you guys just give me two nights, also is there a continental breakfast?” curiously fixated on stuffing himself with cinnamon buns and coffee flavored water. “Yes, okay thanks (hangs up). The Aurora Inn it is then.”
Morning came and went, it was close to three and he was getting hungry, it was that special odd hour of the day. With a 1993 Ford bronco, Jack stopped by a local smoothie energy shop, he had a special fruity, almost yogi nature inside of him despite his less gauntly idiosyncrasies.
Walking in the Groovy Blue berry, Jack seemed unfit for the environment. There were too many Green-Peace collegiate in the corner sipping on the latest enlightened flavor and of course avoiding the listed price, opting for a more adequate based-on-smoothie-ness rate. A dirty tambourine boy bounced and walloped according to his vivacious technique, and a blind ancient poet hummed while his pet companion rolled on the kaleidoscopic marijuana leaf rug.
He siphoned a couple of dollar coins out of his rear pocket, and he managed to get the exact price, it really saved a couple of seconds staring down at that beautiful yet intimidating counter girl with the gold lip piercing transposed on that pink puffed up labia.
Sipping on a blackberry, wheatgrass, and almond concoction, he began to recall how George Harrison (the spiritual- Beatle) once believed in everything being attached to everything else; it was how he discovered a weeping instrument. He couldn't feel further apart from the transfixed world and the ungainly rash he’d given his wife on that fateful night. He heard the swallows flapping their loveless wings and felt incomplete at the break of silence. A car rang its horn and Jack realized his position on the road. The front lights faced the Wallkill River, and he was just by the bridge when he peevishly began flirting with fate.
Against his wife’s wishes, against his family, or for whatever he knew, Jack pressed on the gas. The tires screeched while the vehicle accelerated forward. Perched on an inclination, however, a mother had fallen asleep while waiting for the local transit. The mother was also holding on to her baby boy’s carriage. It rolled faster than his Bronco, and just in the nick of time, Jack almost felt responsible.