ditto
still kicking :)
This is just gonna be me posting some things that I write-- probably small exercises and that jazz.
Other • Assorted Written Thingies •
- Thread starter ditto
- Start date
ditto
still kicking :)
E x e r c i s e
november. 14. 2020.
november. 14. 2020.
He had come to the point in his life where he found that he truly cared nothing for this world. Certainly, there were some things within this word that he enjoyed— why, what absolute fool didn’t appreciate the way that the sun shines through the heavy clouds after a large storm, and what moron did not find the way that yellow flowers sprung up from the white snow in the dead of winter?— but he did not enjoy this world in and of itself.
One could ask, “What sense does that make?”. He would, naturally, reply, “What sense does what make?”— to which one would reply, “Well, what sense does being unconcerned with world but caring about things in it make?” He would ruffle his hair, bid a small smile, and give a shrug. After all, he’d no need to explain it to you, for you surely would not understand it.
If he must explain it— if you, for example, insisted that explain it— then he would give you a small shake of the head and give a soft laugh. “You can like a person, yes? You can enjoy everything about their person— their lovely looks, the way that their laugh bubbles from within them, their contagious personality…but you can still not get along with this person, yes?” To this, you would surely reply, “Why, yes”— and he would laugh, and he would say, “Exactly. That is I to this world. I like this world, but I do not care for it.”
You would, at that point, find it most beneficial to shut up and walk away, and if you chose not to, then you would be rather foolish, because he would simply shake his grey head and smile with the few, rotting teeth that he had left protruding from his gums, and he would say nothing.
One could ask, “What sense does that make?”. He would, naturally, reply, “What sense does what make?”— to which one would reply, “Well, what sense does being unconcerned with world but caring about things in it make?” He would ruffle his hair, bid a small smile, and give a shrug. After all, he’d no need to explain it to you, for you surely would not understand it.
If he must explain it— if you, for example, insisted that explain it— then he would give you a small shake of the head and give a soft laugh. “You can like a person, yes? You can enjoy everything about their person— their lovely looks, the way that their laugh bubbles from within them, their contagious personality…but you can still not get along with this person, yes?” To this, you would surely reply, “Why, yes”— and he would laugh, and he would say, “Exactly. That is I to this world. I like this world, but I do not care for it.”
You would, at that point, find it most beneficial to shut up and walk away, and if you chose not to, then you would be rather foolish, because he would simply shake his grey head and smile with the few, rotting teeth that he had left protruding from his gums, and he would say nothing.
- ditto
ditto
still kicking :)
A n o t h e r E x e r c i s e
november. 14. 2020.
november. 14. 2020.
His bandages were wrapped so tightly around his wrists that he figured that his hands may begin to turn purple soon, and he laid his head down on the dirty bar and sighed softly.
Was this really what he’d meant when he’d told his mother that he was headed out to chase his Frontier dream?
“Ya lookin’ ratha lonely theya, Mister,” said one of the showgirls, sitting herself down on the dusty barstool beside him. Her lips tightened when she sat, as if she hadn’t expected the old, scratched thing to be dusty, too. “Ya still ain’ moved from that spot?”
“I’ve had a word in with your bossman,” he said shortly, turning his head to lay on his right ear so that he could see the woman. “Hey, how many days’s it been?” He was paying rent to stay, so he really needed to know.
She gave a nasal giggle. “Too many, if yai’nt havin’ fun.” She put her hand on his arm, and he cried inwardly in pain.
He pulled it away. “I’m too young, Miss. Plus I ain’t got that kind of money.”
“I can give ya a discount,” she said, putting her hand on his arm again.
“I’m injured,” he said bluntly. “Cut up real good by some guy who used a knife on me instead of a gun.”
“Oh.” Her eyes read surprise as she took her hand away. “So’s that what ya’re doin’ here? Healin’ yaself?”
“No. I’ve gone through much worse and still kept goin’.” He sighed softly and lifted his head. He looked at his empty glass and pulled it to sit closer to him again. “I just…I dunno. Left home. Somehow ended up here. And now I’m waitin’ for something.”
“Somethin’? Som’n like…?” The pretty woman’s attention seemed genuinely piqued.
“Nothin’.” He sighed softly. “Nothin’ in particular, I should say, right?” He chuckled. “By that I mean I don’t really know what’s comin’. Or who’s coming. I’m not really picky.”
“So what’re ya? A cowboy?” she asked.
The nearly-boy scratch his eyebrows with his pinky and laughed quietly. “Well, I don’t haul cattle, so no, I’d figure. Unless you’d call me that.” He went quiet for a moment. “I guess you could just call me a frontiersman and leave it at that.”
“Frontiersman?” she echoed. “Whaddoyamean?”
“What? Yain’t never come ‘cross anyone who calls themselves that?”
She shook her head.
He looked down at his glass again. “Well…” A pause. “I guess…hmm…” He looked at the ceiling and stared for a moment, thinking. “I guess that a frontiersman is just…a loner. A wanderer. Someone who doesn’t belong, even if they try to. Someone who…well.” He blew out a long puff of air and chuckled, then looked at the showgirl. “I dunno. I really dunno. I just…call myself one ‘cuz usually no one asks.”
“Ya’re a funny character, Mister. Ain’t’d no one like you here in a long, long while. Most’s the people what come here usually’er the same’ns’ve ‘em. Usually residents that live in this town. Travelers that come can be interestin’, but they nev’really stay.” She giggled. “‘r, ‘least they nev’really pay rent to stay days in a bar where they won’t even touch tha alcohol.”
“I’m not good’t holdin’ it,” he said simply.
“Thought you’s too young for it. Ain’t that whatcha said?” She leaned forward and propped her elbow against the bar. “Ya don’t look that young.”
“Nineteen’s pretty young, don’tcha think?”
She snickered. “Nineteen’s pretty old, don’tcha think?”
“Really?”
“Well, I was kiddin’…but ya know, it’s not young.”
“I think it is.”
“Why?”
He blew out a long puff of air from his mouth again. “Well, ‘cuz I ain’t never met anyone my age who people call ‘brave’ or ‘wise’. Only ‘charming’ or ‘quaint’.”
“Well, that’s ‘cuz that comes with experience,” she said. “Yain’t gotta be those things to be considered not-young.”
“I think ya do. ‘Cuz whaddoya call experience?”
She put a finger on her chin. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what does experience mean to you?”
She thought for a second, and then she seemed to realize his point. “So ya think that ‘cuz only old people’re ‘brave’ and ‘wise’, ya can’t be not-young.”
“Pretty much,” he said.
She laughed. “Then ya’ll be eighty ‘fore ya become not-young.”
“Or I’ll die tryna become not-young.”
She went quiet. “That’s a pessimistic wayta look at it.”
“More cynical than pessimistic,” he said.
“Ya know, they say that cynicism comes with age, too,” she said.
“Then maybe I’m one part not-young and two parts too young, then,” he said shortly. “Shouldn’t you be workin’?”
“Probably. But mosta my point is ta be pretty for ya. Or…well, I perform, too. And I give ‘special attention’. I’m paid pretty nice for it, so I’m fine with it.”
“You look more like bad news than pretty, Miss,” he said, cocking a grin at her.
She snickered. “So ya’re a mean flirt like that, huh?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘mean’. Or ‘flirt’. Well, perhaps ‘mean’. Well, and maybe ‘flirt’.” He chuckled, and then he seemed to realize what he was doing, and he looked back at his drink with a rather serious look. “Said ya perform, do ya?”
“Singin’, yeah. That’s why the boss said he keeps me ‘round. ‘Cuz I’m a good singer. Though he means it as a joke, I think,” she said, smiling.
“You’ve got a nice smile, too,” he said. “I doubt that your singing is the only reason that he keeps you around.”
She giggled. She probably got that a lot, but she genuinely looked flattered. “Why, thank ya, Mister.”
He gave her a nod as an acknowledgment, and he went quiet.
She stood.
“So what’s your name?” he asked.
She looked at him, slightly surprised that he’d spoken up. “My…name?”
“Yeah, your name. I’m just curious,” he said, bringing his eyes up to her.
She looked away quickly and gave a smile to the ground. “Jeanine,” she said. “Jee for short.”
“Thomas,” he said.
She looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
“My name. It’s Thomas,” he clarified. “Or Tom. Figure Tom’s easier, right?”
“Oh…yeah,” she said, smiling and nodding. She looked at his glass, then back up at him. “Why’d ya ask my name? So you could call it when ya need a drink?”
“Nah, just so I’d know it.” He grinned. “It’s nice to put a name to a face.”
"Yeah. I guess it is.” She moved around to the side of the bar. “‘d ya like a drink?”
“I’m too young,” he said.
“Right. I forgot. Want some water then?”
“I’m savin’ money for rent.”
“’s on the house, then,” she said with a smile.
“Really?”
She leaned over the bar and grabbed an empty glass. “Well, 'course-- we’s friend now, ain’tn’t we?”
Was this really what he’d meant when he’d told his mother that he was headed out to chase his Frontier dream?
“Ya lookin’ ratha lonely theya, Mister,” said one of the showgirls, sitting herself down on the dusty barstool beside him. Her lips tightened when she sat, as if she hadn’t expected the old, scratched thing to be dusty, too. “Ya still ain’ moved from that spot?”
“I’ve had a word in with your bossman,” he said shortly, turning his head to lay on his right ear so that he could see the woman. “Hey, how many days’s it been?” He was paying rent to stay, so he really needed to know.
She gave a nasal giggle. “Too many, if yai’nt havin’ fun.” She put her hand on his arm, and he cried inwardly in pain.
He pulled it away. “I’m too young, Miss. Plus I ain’t got that kind of money.”
“I can give ya a discount,” she said, putting her hand on his arm again.
“I’m injured,” he said bluntly. “Cut up real good by some guy who used a knife on me instead of a gun.”
“Oh.” Her eyes read surprise as she took her hand away. “So’s that what ya’re doin’ here? Healin’ yaself?”
“No. I’ve gone through much worse and still kept goin’.” He sighed softly and lifted his head. He looked at his empty glass and pulled it to sit closer to him again. “I just…I dunno. Left home. Somehow ended up here. And now I’m waitin’ for something.”
“Somethin’? Som’n like…?” The pretty woman’s attention seemed genuinely piqued.
“Nothin’.” He sighed softly. “Nothin’ in particular, I should say, right?” He chuckled. “By that I mean I don’t really know what’s comin’. Or who’s coming. I’m not really picky.”
“So what’re ya? A cowboy?” she asked.
The nearly-boy scratch his eyebrows with his pinky and laughed quietly. “Well, I don’t haul cattle, so no, I’d figure. Unless you’d call me that.” He went quiet for a moment. “I guess you could just call me a frontiersman and leave it at that.”
“Frontiersman?” she echoed. “Whaddoyamean?”
“What? Yain’t never come ‘cross anyone who calls themselves that?”
She shook her head.
He looked down at his glass again. “Well…” A pause. “I guess…hmm…” He looked at the ceiling and stared for a moment, thinking. “I guess that a frontiersman is just…a loner. A wanderer. Someone who doesn’t belong, even if they try to. Someone who…well.” He blew out a long puff of air and chuckled, then looked at the showgirl. “I dunno. I really dunno. I just…call myself one ‘cuz usually no one asks.”
“Ya’re a funny character, Mister. Ain’t’d no one like you here in a long, long while. Most’s the people what come here usually’er the same’ns’ve ‘em. Usually residents that live in this town. Travelers that come can be interestin’, but they nev’really stay.” She giggled. “‘r, ‘least they nev’really pay rent to stay days in a bar where they won’t even touch tha alcohol.”
“I’m not good’t holdin’ it,” he said simply.
“Thought you’s too young for it. Ain’t that whatcha said?” She leaned forward and propped her elbow against the bar. “Ya don’t look that young.”
“Nineteen’s pretty young, don’tcha think?”
She snickered. “Nineteen’s pretty old, don’tcha think?”
“Really?”
“Well, I was kiddin’…but ya know, it’s not young.”
“I think it is.”
“Why?”
He blew out a long puff of air from his mouth again. “Well, ‘cuz I ain’t never met anyone my age who people call ‘brave’ or ‘wise’. Only ‘charming’ or ‘quaint’.”
“Well, that’s ‘cuz that comes with experience,” she said. “Yain’t gotta be those things to be considered not-young.”
“I think ya do. ‘Cuz whaddoya call experience?”
She put a finger on her chin. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what does experience mean to you?”
She thought for a second, and then she seemed to realize his point. “So ya think that ‘cuz only old people’re ‘brave’ and ‘wise’, ya can’t be not-young.”
“Pretty much,” he said.
She laughed. “Then ya’ll be eighty ‘fore ya become not-young.”
“Or I’ll die tryna become not-young.”
She went quiet. “That’s a pessimistic wayta look at it.”
“More cynical than pessimistic,” he said.
“Ya know, they say that cynicism comes with age, too,” she said.
“Then maybe I’m one part not-young and two parts too young, then,” he said shortly. “Shouldn’t you be workin’?”
“Probably. But mosta my point is ta be pretty for ya. Or…well, I perform, too. And I give ‘special attention’. I’m paid pretty nice for it, so I’m fine with it.”
“You look more like bad news than pretty, Miss,” he said, cocking a grin at her.
She snickered. “So ya’re a mean flirt like that, huh?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘mean’. Or ‘flirt’. Well, perhaps ‘mean’. Well, and maybe ‘flirt’.” He chuckled, and then he seemed to realize what he was doing, and he looked back at his drink with a rather serious look. “Said ya perform, do ya?”
“Singin’, yeah. That’s why the boss said he keeps me ‘round. ‘Cuz I’m a good singer. Though he means it as a joke, I think,” she said, smiling.
“You’ve got a nice smile, too,” he said. “I doubt that your singing is the only reason that he keeps you around.”
She giggled. She probably got that a lot, but she genuinely looked flattered. “Why, thank ya, Mister.”
He gave her a nod as an acknowledgment, and he went quiet.
She stood.
“So what’s your name?” he asked.
She looked at him, slightly surprised that he’d spoken up. “My…name?”
“Yeah, your name. I’m just curious,” he said, bringing his eyes up to her.
She looked away quickly and gave a smile to the ground. “Jeanine,” she said. “Jee for short.”
“Thomas,” he said.
She looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
“My name. It’s Thomas,” he clarified. “Or Tom. Figure Tom’s easier, right?”
“Oh…yeah,” she said, smiling and nodding. She looked at his glass, then back up at him. “Why’d ya ask my name? So you could call it when ya need a drink?”
“Nah, just so I’d know it.” He grinned. “It’s nice to put a name to a face.”
"Yeah. I guess it is.” She moved around to the side of the bar. “‘d ya like a drink?”
“I’m too young,” he said.
“Right. I forgot. Want some water then?”
“I’m savin’ money for rent.”
“’s on the house, then,” she said with a smile.
“Really?”
She leaned over the bar and grabbed an empty glass. “Well, 'course-- we’s friend now, ain’tn’t we?”
- ditto
ditto
still kicking :)
W i n t e r
november. 15. 2020.
november. 15. 2020.
There was always something melancholy about winter. It was cold, dry, and painful. The snow fell upon dead trees to give them a new coat. Nature was going through its rebellious phase; man was watching it turn from him, and, even though he knew it would turn back, there was still an ache. Winter was a latent promise by a man with a terrible penchant for procrastination-- a silent prayer to a god who was far too busy to get to it right now.
His eyes studied the small patch of grass at his feet, his lips pressed into a line. Just two months prior-- hell, just two weeks prior-- there had been flowers here. What type, he could not recall, but they were yellow ones. They had been a brilliant yellow-- the kind that made the sun jealous-- and their pointed petals had greeted him every morning as he had departed from his apartment. Now, where were they? He’d no idea. They had died, and from there, he knew not where they had gone.
So was life: even the things that were most cherished left far too quickly, and one couldn’t stop them, no matter how hard they tried. Such went the flowers, such went the seasons, and such went everything else.
His eyes studied the small patch of grass at his feet, his lips pressed into a line. Just two months prior-- hell, just two weeks prior-- there had been flowers here. What type, he could not recall, but they were yellow ones. They had been a brilliant yellow-- the kind that made the sun jealous-- and their pointed petals had greeted him every morning as he had departed from his apartment. Now, where were they? He’d no idea. They had died, and from there, he knew not where they had gone.
So was life: even the things that were most cherished left far too quickly, and one couldn’t stop them, no matter how hard they tried. Such went the flowers, such went the seasons, and such went everything else.
- ditto
Users who are viewing this thread
Similar threads
