Wednesday, October 27, 2004


Rain drips from the eves like tears.
The sun is setting, hiding its face from sorrow.
Why do the drops sparkle in the fading light?
Don't they know the pain here?
They twinkle white.
Rain tears.
Why do they have to be so beautiful now?

I don't write poetry. Exsept when I do. I don't think I could if I tried, and the stuff scares me, so I don't. Exsept. This time I was sleepy, sitting in the dark, listening to sad celtic music, and chatting online with a sad person. So like, yeah.

Monday, October 25, 2004

Grey-Blue Lounge

“I got done talking to Manuel; the plane’s fueled and ready to go by sunrise.”
“It’s eight hours till then.”
“How do you want to spend it?” Michael grinned.
“We could sleep, most people do that.”
“Eh, I did that last night. I don’t know how you got into this game - thinking like that. A guy can only take so much boredom. There’s a decent little bar around the corner. Let’s go.”

After an hour of sitting in a smoky bar, watching a Latin girl sing backed up with fragments of a jazz band;
“You consider this fun?”
“No. But it’ll do.” Michael said, lighting another cigarette.
“You have problems with disturbing dreams don’t you?”
“Shut up! No. I don’t know how you make it in this game saying stuff like that.”
“That’s why I’m in it. I can see the truth.”
“Whatever. Shut up. Yer ruining the atmosphere.” The tip of Michael’s cigarette glowed red.
“I don’t think it’s fair to leave Manuel out of his share of the gold certificates.”
“Never talk about business in public!!!” Michael hissed.
Dusty stayed silent a while. He then picked up a coin at his elbow and twiddled with it, twirling it and dropping it on the counter.
“That’s mine.”
“Um humm.” Dusty flick-threw the coin towards the singer, it hit her silk wrapped breast with an audible smack. She stopped with a yip, the band’s song fell a part a moment later.
“What’s your problem?! You said everything was fine!”
“I’m sorry; I told you how I work.”
The furious lady stormed towards them.
Dusty leaned against Michael, removing Michaels’ auto as he whapped his arm around his partner. With a shout of Yeah-ha-haaa! Dusty fired a half dozen shots into the ceiling. He then shifted back to his own seat and slumped forward on his arms; dead asleep from all appearances. Angry voices and people overran the singer, crowded hands grabbed Michael.
“I didn’t do nothing!! He did it, you saw him!”
“He has been sleeping there all evening senior. You are going with us to the police!”
“You there! You were looking at us! Tell them! Lady, you saw! I was just sitting…” Michael saw their eyes. They didn’t believe him.
“Dusty! Dusty! Dammit; take him for questioning too!”
The mass of locals and travelers hanging on to Michael moved him toward the door, telling him to shut up and leave an innocent man alone. They where carrying Michael now; he was looking back, shouting at his partner.
Dusty looked back at Michael.
Dusty spoke, his quiet words seemed to project through the crowd and noise. “I’m sorry; I told you I follow orders. You never specified whose or what skills not to use. I’m sorry.”
The last thing Michael saw of Dusty was human features melting to dark grey fur, solid black eyes and muzzle.

In the morning Dusty was still asleep when Manuel flew the plane a different direction.

This story is 495 words long. I wrote it in less than an hour, which was surprising to me. It was inspired by instermental music I heard on a Winamp internet radio station: Secret Agent: The soundtrack for your stylish, mysterious, dangerous life. For Spys and P.I's too! It's listed under the genre of 'Downtempo Lounge Spy'. It's not a station I frequent. Let me know what you think.