the work.

i've tried to keep a moleskine specifically for writing in everyday. to fill a page. but i think it somehow backfired. i missed a day, so i didn't want to go back, almost in shame. i didn't know whether to fake the day and write TWO days. or to leave the page blank and X it out in the middle. to put the date in the top right hand corner and leave the page completely nude otherwise. i didn't know what's best. i'm left now with a dozen or so empty pages, screaming "failed attempt." i haven't lost a love for the work, but i've kind of lost a core of inspiration. for a long time, i wrote from a dismal sadness which transformed into a hopelessness free from subject.

i moved on from there, i started writing dark things, things that characterized the end of all things or the decimation of many.
i started writing comedy about sex and the human hunt of it. i started channeling that hunger.

i stopped for a while.
i started writing about beautiful people who may or may not exist.
i stopped.
i started writing a daily.
i stopped.
i'm here now.

i was staring blankly at the screen the other day and almost out of a dare, i threw open microsoft word just to shove myself in the right direction. i wrote the following small piece. i don't think it's great but i don't think it's awful.

i spoke with brian maybe months or maybe a year ago. it was while i was asking him to help me edit and tighten up GUNS. we talked about the way that i write, and i think we pointed out together that when i write, it seems that i'm always aiming for a killer line with every sentence i aim to deliver. and i think when i read this piece, i feel embarrassed about it, mostly because there are standard lines in there. small descriptions that aren't massive gothic arrangements. this is just a setting and a clipping. i'll try for more.

opinions are obviously always welcome but not necessary.

--

we had found the butcher and whatever was left of his mark. her body was in tact. everything was present and in its sterile state. she was tied to a chair. her spaghetti strapped, flower print dress was clean but for her sweat. she was heaving, her collarbone galloping like a guillotine.

“…”

there was no reason here, there was no process to explain how to begin to put it together without serious payroll hours dumping into this. she sat, doe eyed. this would never be closed for her. she breathed hard with her mouth in a frown. she’d never feel plain again. her pale skin in a constant opal tint.

her veins showed heavy in her skin, pushing out like tendrils. they were thin. I wanted to twist them together into knots. she was catatonic.

how does a chase end here?

he sprawled on the ground in alien alphabet. his brain was on the wall, his gun was in his hand, his jeans were on his legs, his bootlaces were undone and in their holes. he felt neither happy or sad or accomplished. was he watched? was he worried? what, just now? was he talking or speaking? was there a last word or phrase?

he became a victim and he’d robbed us of this case. he closed all the doors.

she had on soft, old jeans.

I held my hand to my stubbled mouth, stared off into whatever lay five inches ahead of me. into abyss. a song stuck in my head danced. I licked my teeth, sucked out food from my gums. “disgusting.”

I sat in a corner, squatted, triangled into the room’s elbow. hands empty. I wanted to watch this happen.

she didn’t scream or talk or cry. she looked at me once. eyes not brown.

a dead partner and a followed anonymous tip. séance. police work.

butcher down.