Yeah, I know, I wrote another story about writing already. Get over it. You try living with these freaks for a week and see what choice you have.
These people around me--every last clichéd one of them--crawled from the notebook like Athena from Zeus’s head. Even though I know exactly what each of them is thinking, where they’re from and where they’re going, I can’t put them back into the pages.
Gina wipes the counter with a towel that smells like fermenting piss and rolls her eyes.
“Just twenty more minutes,” she mumbles.
She wants a shower to wash the stale smoke of tired conversation from her hair.
Tommy sits on the last stool at the corner of the bar, his brown cigarette crackling as he sucks the fire into his chest and feels the smoke coat the roof of his mouth. He imagines blowing it into Gina’s mouth, a hot kiss of breath and pollution, but she won’t let him kiss her on the mouth, even though they’ve tasted each other’s blood.
The glasses and bottles stacked on the shelves halo her in green and blue.
He can’t bear to look, so he eyes the room instead--a dangling red pump, a tie at half-mast, ice collapsing in a dead highball, everyone dying and blissful in their attempts to draw it out. He wants to slide into the booth full of chortling dorm monkeys and whisper the secret, point to each one in turn and bestow a prophecy on each rotting head. He knows what the future holds for each of them, and he wonders why they bother.