deeptheatrics

    “Get out,” she said, curled up on her right side, one knee pulled up to her chin.                “Baby,” Rachel whispered, played with her hair, “Baby…baby…baby…”                Rachel, with her bone fingers, chewed off on the tips. With her ashy blonde hair and her fleshless jaw, an angler fish on the girl’s water bed.  Rachel, who strung her room with yellow Christmas lights and candles and never turned on the light switch.                  “Get out. Of. My bed,” she said again, firm and calm and not remotely sincere.                  “No, baby. No, no,

You know who you are. You're that boy who thinks he's enlightened. You've read an awful lot of Thoreau and aren't you just your very own little road scholar. You're mysterious, I know. I'll just bet you have a manifesto. Bet you keep it under your pillow. Or under lock-and-key, safely hidden on your hard drive. Don't worry. No one is going to try to steal it, I promise. I bet you have a vision for the future. And you're gonna get shot for your radical beliefs too, I'm sure. You spout sarcasm like it's the second cumming of Christ. Your vocabulary is outrageous. When you don't know what a word means (which is pretty damn often, admit it), you

I can't sleep, so I won't let you sleep either. On the crumbling edge of a ghost town, there is an old slaughterhouse. It used to belong to Dean Ringlein, but he's dead now. They used to kill animals in the basement. Heat rises, so the basement was the coldest place in the building and therefore the most desirable place to work, despite the smell. It reeked of cattle blood. That smell will never go away. Some things are impossible to scrub off. Ringlein's factory is now home to rats, cats, mutts, and other various forms of putrescence, like the Boy. He lives in the basement where it's cool. Dank. He hasn't lived there for very long and he w

She was staring out the window. The wind came up and down in confused, cold-looking gusts. Outside, the yard behind the old house was silky black, lit only when lightning streaked through the rainy air. She wished the light would make up its mind, either stay here or stay away, and never come back. Or that she could pull the dusty red curtains shut, but she was frozen to her spot. Every time the light came back, she could see it sitting there. It was three feet left of the eroded birdbath. It shouldn’t be there; it shouldn’t have even been able to get past the gates. Those yards, almost miles of gates, cutting them off from any kind

The streets in Wolfen are narrow and black. Supposedly, they're gray in summer. I never saw summer. Winters in Wolfen are rainy, and the streets are slick and cold. They don't follow my typical grid pattern. The roads snake through the small neighborhoods, with sharp turns making it dangerous to drive even when there's no fog, which is rarely. On the positive side, all the rain makes everything green. Not the yellow that I was used to. But it makes the trees grow. And grow. Until the forest is pressing in on the narrow black streets and choking the few streetlamps, placed on every other corner. The sky in Wolfen is always gray, dark gray, or

He smiled serenely as the lace of her dress slid down her shoulder. His eyes traced the fine, ivory curve of her neck, up to her cheek. Her face was clean, seeing as all the makeup had rubbed off on her pillow while sleeping only moments ago. Even without makeup, she was ethereal. He wondered why she wore it at all. She was staring up at him with sleepy, half-dreaming eyes. It was like just hours ago, on the deck of the ship. He was finishing a story; she was leaning over the edge to see how close she could get to the dolphins. Seawater blew up into her face, and just as she turned, she beheld this interesting young man. He had long features

I saw the most gorgeous creature. Sitting in some Greek-style cafe. It has bronze and pale green walls, with flowers I couldn't even begin to name sitting in elborate, blue-stained vases. The shelves were almost all off-kilter. The ceiling was stucco. It smelled like grilled tomatoes. There was a spanish-sounding guitar in the background. Maybe he was reading some over-done, over-hyped philsophy book. Completely engrossed. Times like that, I believe in gods. Couldn't just be a fluke of nature. The gods had some hand in it. I couldn't help staring. He had long, sandy blonde hair, and baby-pinch cheeks. Ethereal. Angelic. Some people just beg