February 13, 2010

Two Lovers

gun


Two lovers. 


A baby.


There are always two lovers and a baby. And she cheats. And he forgives. And they live, slightly fragmented, together.

And the baby resents. And grows. And resents.


Choice.

It can either be great, be nothing, or murder. 


And then, then everyone dies. And someone else writes another story about two lovers and a baby.


*

I had an idea for a story. I was sat on a hill, on the top of a busy hill. People who scoffed at irony puddled the grass. I sat, pad in hand, masterpiece on the tongue. A woman. An abortion. A foetus. A woman. A birth. A boy. A tragedy. Pow. Pow. Pow. And awards and glory and money, so much money. Splashed, no, drenched by the puddles. And I will be a flood. 

Then I threw my pen. No. I stabbed the ground. I planted my pen. My gold pen. It has more worth. I cannot make an ache. I cannot carve a star out of my too-thin strings of arms. I can chop. I can reduce. I cannot, I cannot make and make.


And I walked. And I danced because. And I made friends for months and drank strawberry milkshakes on chewing-gum benches. And I wrote essays about dead people.

Present tense.

*


Two lovers.


A gun.


There are always two lovers and a gun. And he kills. And she cries. And they live, slightly fragmented, together.

And the police find them. 


Choice.

She can take the blame, cover for him or visit him. And cheat.


And then, then everyone dies. And someone else writes another story about two lovers and a gun.


*



You know how this carries on.

You know how this carries on.

Write it yourself.


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