Poll: who goes through?
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View poll results: who goes through?
1 13%
3 38%
5 63%
0 0%
Voters: 8.
MULTI VOTE. 5 days. Top one plus ties go through.

We stopped into some no-name Mexican cafe just outside of town. They ordered the soup, I got something else. The soup was delicious. Our waiter spoke poor English and didn't come by very often. I liked him.
I said 'Excuse me.' They motioned to me. The bathroom was small and cramped and old. It felt like the sort of place you might get stabbed in. I kept look-out over the low stall door while i pissed.
When we had finished the meal, our waiter fought through his broken English to ask if it was good. I said that the soup was delicious, and we left.
The sun was hot and the failing AC added to the discomfort. I was heading home. I felt like i was heading to another funeral. The rest of the ride was as uneventful as something could be, short of just never having existed at all. This town might as well not.
We arrived at my mother's house just before the noon heat really set in. The sun had emerged from hiding. It was going to be another burning day. The door flew open and she rushed to greet us. She hugged me and my brothers, and asked us if the drive was okay. I said that it was as good as it could of been. She said she was glad to see us, and that she'd missed us, and that we should come more often. We all agreed and laughed.
We followed her into her new home, and she fixed us some tea. It was bland and tasteless, but i hadn't been with her or my brothers in a year, so i thought it best not to spoil the reunion with complaint.
'Your new house is grand, mom. It's really nice. Big.' my older brother said.
'I know, it isn't as expensive as it looks, either. The recession and all, you know?' She replied.
'Oh yeah, it's a buyer's market. Hey, where's dad?' my younger brother chimed in.
'In our room napping. He'll be up later. While he gets his beauty sleep,' we all laughed, 'lets go and finish up the Christmas shopping for the kids. How about it?' We all agreed to it.
A certain sort sickness has come over me these past few years at Christmas time. It isn't like any kind of flu or common cold, it's more like a cancer that eats away at me like the Winter air. I never much liked shopping.
'I am going to go. I have something to take care of.' I said. They knew what i was talking about.
'Bring a coat. A cold front is coming through, it'll get chilly in a few hours. Make sure you are back in time for dinner. Your sisters are coming over with the kids.' I shook my head to mean something like 'Yes' and i went out to my car.
The drive was long and cold. It took me to a small cemetary right outside of town. The evening air cut my eyes. I didn't try to stop it. It felt good. It was the one concession of Winter that I still appreciated. I went to her grave, like I have every year since, and I sat down with her. I read her her favorite story, and I told her that she had to be good while her dad was away. That she was special. That she was an angel. I hope she heard me. I don't think she did. She never talks back.
I started to lose my composure, and thought it might be better to leave. I wouldn't want her to see me like this. I got in my car, chilled to the bone. I felt hallow. Just then, a thought struck me, something genius. I knew a little place near here, some no-name Mexican cafe, which made me feel like i was home again.
I drove into a small, unmarked parking spot, and stepped out of my car. The lights were on, and it was the day before Christmas Eve. I went inside and sat down. Ordered the soup. I had never tasted any like it. It warmed me up faster and deeper than any fireplace I'd ever shared during Christmas.. The waiter recognized me from before, and told me that they always expect a second visit. For the soup.
I finished up and paid my bill, with a larger than normal tip for the waiter, who i liked even more than before. I needed to piss, but i decided against using their restroom. No sense in ruining this warm embrace with the feelings that that small, cramped, old bathroom gave me.
I took up my coat and exited the building, and walked to the back to do my business. It was the night before Christmas Eve, and well after dark. No one would mind it. I zipped up my trousers and started back to my car. Infront of me, the waiter stood, with a shine in his hand. It was a knife.

I asked him what he would do with it. He told me, as best he could, that he needed my wallet. He said that he was a killer. I told him that it didn't matter if he was a killer, and that i knew he wasn't going to use that knife on me. I told him that it was Christmas time and nobody is happy during Christmas time. I don't know how much of it he understood. He told me that he'd killed a man before. I said that it didn't matter if we die now or later, we're all dead men. There was a flicker of light and a thud in my stomach, and another and another. I saw stars.
In my dream, I was at her funeral again. My baby girl was dead again. My wife was gone again. I was freezing in this damned Winter air, again. The priest gave his condolenses and left. My brothers, sisters, and mother followed. I stayed at her grave, not ready to give up on her. I don't know what i expected. That is a lie. I expected God's hand to come down and to push life into her, and i expected her to stay with me, and to grow old. I wanted to hold her close to me as she aged, I wanted to send her to college, I wanted to hold my grandchildren like I held her, and I wanted her to bury me one day.
I wanted all these things, and I knew that it didn't matter what I wanted. She was dead, and I was dead. I put her photo in my wallet and left. It was the last part of her that I had to hold onto. As i turned, i caught eye of a man walking towards me. No doubt to give his condolenses.
'I heard what happened to your girl.' He said. I didn't say anything. 'I won't offer an apology. I know you don't want it. But, I will give you something that my father's father gave him, and he gave me. It's the one thing that ties us together.' He handed me an old revolver. 'This gun is the only thing i have left from my pop. It's got four bullets left. I've used two. I put blood on it.' I looked at the gun. I didn't see anything. 'You're my last chance to make peace with God. Maybe you could do better in life then your old man did in his.' That was that, and with a tear in his eye, a man that i never knew walked out on me for a second time.
I woke up in the hospital. The light was blinding. My stomach hurt a little and the room was spinning. I moved the covers from my stomach and I could see that it was wrapped around. Blood was coming through in four deep red circles. I must have been on painkillers.

Other half of this piece and other pieces in next post.
Last edited by Jammydude44 at Nov 30, 2009,
The doctor came in and said he was suprised to see me awake, and asked how I was feeling. I said i felt like i'd been stabbed. He chuckled. I asked where my stuff was. He said that it was all by my bed. I asked for my wallet. He said it wasn't there, and asked me name. I gave him a fake name and asked him what day it was and to leave. He told me it was Christmas Eve and he left.
I struggled out of bed, and into my jeans. My stomach felt wet. I worked the shirt onto my body, slowly. I slipped on my shoes, put my keys in my pocket, and left the hospital.
It was a long drive, and i was falling in and out of conciousness. I reached into the glove compartment and took out the revolver. I put it into my coat pocket, and glided into an unmarked parking spot. Only one light was still on. Inside i found an old Mexican woman who was cleaning out the register, and a young busser who was cleaning the last two tables up.
I came up the the counter, took the revolver from my coat, and set it down, my hand wrapped firmly around it. She turned to me and went pale. I could see that she was scared. I asked where the waiter was, and she shook her head. I told her that i was a killer than that this gun had blood on it. She said, in broken english, that i didn't look like a killer.
Like an extension of my body, rising and striking out of anger and pain and despair, the gun rose level to the young busser and i shot her twice. She fell down without a scream or a gasp, and she bled. I told her i was a killer and this gun had blood on it. She pointed to an apartment building across the street and said 'seventeen.' I took the end of the gun and smashed her with it. She fell limp, and I left.
By this time i could feel the pain in my stomach, and i could feel the slickness and i could smell the iron in my blood, running down in the cold air. I didn't care. I knocked on his door and he opened it and I hit him in the mouth. He fell back, with a look of such horror, you'd think he'd seen a ghost.
'I am not here to forgive you.' I said, and I hope he understood. He started off to the back of his house. The gun went off and through his heart went my vengeance. He fell down dead. I saw in his living room a Christmas tree, with three wrapped up presents under it. I took from the table my wallet, and i looked at the picture inside. She was a vision of God.

And i could hear her cry. It sounded like heaven, like Armatt. I turned. I saw a little angel, a precious little girl, cradled over her father's body. I told her that he took my daughter my angel. She didn't look up. I realized that I had done worse. I had taken her father. She would never be held by him again, never hear her favorite story from his mouth, never give him grandchildren.
I stepped out and i shut the door. It was snowing. It hadn't snowed for nearly seventy years. For the first time in four years, I didn't fight it anymore. I sobbed, deep and bitter. I fell to my knees and I prayed to God for forgiveness, though I could find none within myself for what he had done to me, what he made me do. Like an extension of my body, the gun rose. It fit nicely. There was a thud. I saw stars.

It was snowing at my funeral. My brothers showed up, each with red eyes and solemn faces. My sisters were absent, aswell as my neices and nephews. My mother was there, trapped in the bitter embrace of loss. Her face a broken storm of emotions, showing anger, hate, regret, longing and love, all in one fiery display of uncertainty and pain.

It was snowing at my funeral. There hadn't been snow on that Texas dirt for nearly seventy years. It swallowed all the graves, and it would swallow mine aswell. In time it would pass, like the memories of my life would pass. It was snowing that day, for the first time in seventy years.

six white boomers

so you want
that's winter, isn't it?
white wonderland, yeah,
and sleighbells
sleighbells and
trees and pretty pretty lights.

Well, not here, no,
not here at all.
Here we have sun, sun
and more sun.
Not as glamorous, huh?

Winter is still an end though,
a dying of trees, while autumn's ashes
are carried on the last ditch attempt at a wamr summer's breeze,
fading into a dull, dark winter of
mind, body and heart;
echoed in the way she says


my fingers stretch and
quiver with excitement
as I'm about to rip "January"
off my bedroom wall
an eye for an eye,
i think, as january
peeled off every layer
of onion skin it could find
on my superfluous body
and then some more

it revealed, well,
marching thoughts, a

tomorrow marks
the beginning of
a new stratum
in abstract concept
a tablecloth?
deprived and,
well, poor
in which I'm supposed to wake with
a sudden miracle recipe,
if I can chose I'd take
someone who can
take me as I am,
with clear eyes and
a soft touch.

my mind quivers
as my fingers rip
and tear january,
calmly put it out
with used tissues in the trash,
i believe in finality
and simplicity,
yes, I slide between the sheets
with a figurative foot
in hopeful february

The last time I celebrated winter

In cross country ski’s
Coming down Mount Hood

Lakes and fire and lakes of fire
At the bottom of the mountain

My ankles hurt, keeping them straight
I had unnaturally splayed feet

But over the next three years
You braced, kissed and bled them

And now I’m clean
So I no longer celebrate winter

And now I celebrate Summer
Because its warm and nice to be around
Uhh...you can do prose like that?
Today I feel electric grey
I hope tomorrow, neon black
Quote by Ganoosh
Uhh...you can do prose like that?

The prose does what it wants.

EDIT: Middle two pieces. The prose was interesting but not gripping imo; Red lost me with "warm and nice" at the end.
Last edited by Jammydude44 at Nov 30, 2009,
two things,
first, that big block of text next to those smaller pieces is just silly looking
second, how the voting is panning out exactly how I thought it might. In all three groups that is.
Quote by #1 synth

first, that big block of text next to those smaller pieces is just silly looking

Hey, at least you can't accuse me of textual segregation.