Friday, September 16, 2011

The surprise ending is that I die alone.

It's cold all the time, here in the fork. My eyes don't seem to focus anymore.
She left one week ago from today.
I walk up harminor boulevard, on my way home from my 9-5 desk job, stuck in a cube. I open the door to my 1200 square foot home that I owe my life on.
I bought it for us, so we would have a place to live. Together.
I walk through the dirty house, papers scattered, empty bottles of rum, vodka and beer lay around the floor. I hear the crunching of broken glass under my foot, it's our picture. The frame fell off the table after she slammed the door. It's a photo of just me and Her. I pick it up and hold it in front of me, starring. My eyes water. I fold up the picture and tuck it into my chest pocket. I loosen my tie as I check the messages. It's Emily, she just got back from a two year trip around the world.
I should have gone.
She is wondering if she can come over and visit, the last time I saw her, was at my wedding, two years ago. I delete it. Look out of the kitchen window, the garden is over grown, the corn is falling over, the tomatoes are dieing, the peaches are rotting, falling off the branches, birds are choking them down. The beans are dried. The beets have been devoured by some type of animal, rabbit, raccon, I don't care.

The birds are picking out the eyes of my scarecrow.

I walk to the bathroom, trip on my old guitar, broken strings, splintered wood. I remember when I use to play. I'd play small shows, but people seemed to enjoy it, i don't know why. I remember when I went on tour to release my first album, She tagged along. I remember when I went on tour for my second album. I asked her to marry me on that tour. . .
The bathroom smells, I don't care. I don't even wash my hands after I'm done.

I head back to the kitchen. Paper is everywhere. My writing. My SHIT. How did I ever think it could be published. I pick up the only manuscript that was ever accepted. The first one I ever submitted, I read the first line.

"It's cold all the time, here in the fork. My eyes don't seem to focus anymore."
BULLSHIT! How in Gods holy kingdom did someone publish that? How did I think someone would read that. I throw the failed novel across the room. I pick up a poem, "The whore on 39th" i tear it in half. I pick up another. "Welcome happiness" I crumble it up, and throw it. I pick up another manuscript, rejected, twelve times. I throw it at the television, i picked up for  40 bucks at a second hand store. I reach for my chest pocket, looking for a cigarette, I find the photo of us, from the day she said yes. She was wearing my jacket. I pick up my keys, drop them in the sink, my car is still broken. I loosen my tie a bit more, kick off my shoes. Grab the bottle of wine that we were supposed to share today, our anniversary. I pick up my wallet, seven dollars. I walk outside, standing on the front stairs, I take a drink. Pull off my socks, take off my tie. I step onto the grass, It doesn't feel as cold as it usually does. I walk the two and a half miles to the gas station. My last seven dollars on a pack of camels, turkish gold, or as we called them , turkish loves, turkish candy. it was our brand, it was our Cigarette.
There she is, With him.
The air, the sidewalk, my skin, has never felt as cold as it does now.

I walk alone, I sleep alone, I eat alone, I drink alone, I am with nothing but the memories of failed novels, poetry no one ever read, and an old broken guitar. I die alone, holding our photo in my hand. . .


  1. Easy on the language! I like the detail, but easy on the language.

  2. The language adds the right affect!
    But i love anything that has to do with love and i'm glad to know there are some boys that have a soul. This is so good, i really loved it!

  3. I don't usually read posts this long.

    I read the whole thing and I really liked it. The last paragraph was the best. Thanks for doing your own thing with this prompt. Wicked good.

    I also liked the part where you go through past things you wrote. That's a cool idea. I want to do something like that. Titles for failed pieces of writing.

  4. This is seriously depressing.
    don't get me wrong, it's beautiful. and Beautifully written.
    When I read this, I think of a scene in P.S. I love you, where her husband has just died and she goes home after the funeral and just drinks for a good week straight, doing nothing, and she calls his phone, so he can hear his voice on the message machine, and she plays it over and over again, just crying to herself in her bed, bawling because she will never see him again. I sentence structure in this post, it's so well written and I'm glad to see someone being original in their writing. and I'm someone who can appreciate a cuss every once in a while in a write, seriously great emotion, and great writing. Nice Job!

  5. this really pulled at the heart strings. i've never known or been around anyone who has to go through something similar to this but i can feel what he's feeling because of the detail you added. nice work.

  6. Perfect post. Shows how people would honestly act if they're dreams were broken. You wouldn't NOT use extensive language if you were that depressed.

  7. "The birds are picking out the eyes of my scarecrow"
    wow. This is really good. I love how different but powerful this is. :) There is nothing more broken and painful and sad then rejection and being left and forgotten