May 13, 2005
Stacy : Dysfunction
"Your shadow's in the shot," she said.
He shoved his hands deeper in his pockets, moved silently to the left.
She glared at him then turned back to the camera.
He eyed her surreptitiously, wishing they'd hurry the hell up before he froze his nuts off.
She heaved a great sigh, stepped dramatically back from the tripod, flipped her hair.
He hunched his shoulders tighter, waiting for the inevitable criticism, surely his very aura was now impinging on her framing of the shot.
She glared at him again, then stepped back to the tripod.
He moved silently to the right.
May 15, 2005
Stacy : Enough
The red haze grew before her eyes as she watched the flames lick hungrily at the walls of her home.
"I should get up," she thought, "get the hell out of here."
But she just sat there, consumed with black hatred for those who pursued her. Who had pursued her entire life. Who would continue pursue until she was dead. Her hatred was a live thing, urging her up, out into the cool, night air.
But still she sat there, even as the flames began to sear her skin, hair and clothes. "Fuck destiny," she thought, and closed her eyes.
May 16, 2005
The small, grizzled man huddled in a corner of the alley I'd chased him into. His thin chest heaved as he gasped for breath, his wispy hair flew around his face.
"Please," he begged between gasps.
I just looked at him, remembering what he did to that little girl. Wonder if he remembers her begging, her pain, tears, fear. Wonder if he regrets anything.
"What did I ever do to you?!" he screams, half rising against the crumbling wall.
"Nothing," I say, squeezing the trigger on the Glock until the slide hangs open on an empty clip.
"Nothing at all."
May 17, 2005
Stacy: The Transporter
I drive too fast down the rain-slicked road, smears of street-lights flashing in my water-faceted windshield.
From the trunk I can hear the noise, over the sound of the tires on the wet road, Guns N' Roses in the CD player. Every thump reverberates through the car, creating knots of tension in my spine.
Thump, thump. It’s louder now, against the back of the rear seats. I glance wildly in the rearview, see nothing.
Why had I agreed to this? And why is so much damned noise coming from my car...when Rollo has the rest of the body in his??
May 18, 2005
My blood makes a whirring sound as it rushes past my eardrums. My skin feels like it's being winched tighter and tighter by tiny sadistic machinists.
Colors swirl around the colorless floor, leaving imprints on the interior of my eyelids when I blink, first one eye, then the other.
My body clenches into a fetal position, then relaxes a bit. My earrings begin singing to me in a high, Franki Valli-esque falsetto. 'Bi-iig girls, do-hon't cry-ay-ay-ay...'
The tile is ice cold where it touches my skin, and gradually the effects of the drug wear off.
Never drinking Darth Dew again.
May 19, 2005
Stacy - Entrepreneurs
"Three hundred thousand for that?" she squeaked.
He sighed, sweaty from the afternoon sun, tired of trying to convince her. Did she want to be stuck in an office job her entire life, punching a clock, working towards someone else's dream?
This was their chance for something different, to be the masters of their own destiny. To create something lovely and memorable...and charge others exorbitant amounts of money for the privelege of enjoying it.
She turned to face him, breathed deeply, pushed her hair back. "Ok. We'll do it. But there's no way in hell we're calling it Skinoonie Ranch."
May 20, 2005
Dealing with mental preadolescents every day is enough to make you want to overwrite your primary drive. Or, you know, theirs.
The whinging tones come through loud and clear, even via electronic format. The complete lack of reading comprehension is astonishing in (apparent) adults, causing the chewing of fingernails, obsessive consumption of caffeine, and other nervous habits endemic to my kind.
They want help and yet they are ill-equipped to deal with it, having a lack of both mental acumen and the will to help themselves. Needless to say, this does not endear them to us, despite our basic programming.
May 23, 2005
Stacy: So Married
"Have you seen this cabbage soup diet? Says you can lose 10 pounds in 7 days!"
"That'll be nice, dear," came the voice from behind the newspaper. "We’ll be able to heat our house forever on all the methane you’ll produce."
She grinned. "You know women don't fart, that's a very common misapprehension."
The newspaper vibrated slightly. "Neither do they snore, I know," came the slightly muffled reply.
“Of course we don’t,” she said calmly, cream cheesing her bagel. “We simply breathe rhythmically.
The newspaper rattled. She threw her bagel at it, scored a direct hit on the sports section.
May 24, 2005
She stared in the mirror, amazed at the haggard lines on her still-young face.
"It's those stupid photographers," she thought. "Their lights are too bright, and they take pictures of me all the time."
She preened briefly at that thought, then grimaced again as she noticed the bags under her eyes.
"I'm only 20," she mentally whinged, "why do I look like I'm 55?"
She poked experimentally at one sagging cheek with one ragged fingernail, remembered she had both a manicure and facial scheduled for today.
She finished cutting the last line of coke and picked up the rolled hundred.
May 25, 2005
"Come on, honey, smile for the camera."
She scuffed her feet in the dirt, looked down, didn't feel like smiling.
"Come on," he said again, in that disgusting wheedling voice he always used. The one that made her want to throw up, gave her nightmares.
Katie said she knew where her Pa kept a knife. Katie said she could get it, easy. Katie was her best friend, her only friend.
She would do it. He would dare come to her room again one night, and she would cut him until he died. Screaming, she hoped.
She looked up, and smiled.
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