and with that, mark renton had fallen in love (lawsuitdiamonds) wrote in same_oh,
and with that, mark renton had fallen in love
lawsuitdiamonds
same_oh

happy new year

beggar
fire
clock
forest
nightingale
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Like a beggar asking for change, I held out my hand. "Good bye, good bye," she said, so sweetly, voice like a nightingale, "good bye, good bye." I tried to speak. I tried to beg her to stay. But my throat was sore, hot as fire, and the bells of the clock were a thunderstorm in my ears. "Good bye, good bye," and she was gone, my hand still held out for hers: a statute with a broken heart, a snap shot of a forgotten man, a child lost in a forest pausing only a moment to take in the full gravity of awaiting death.
(it's been a loong time, but let's see if I can knock the rust off)

There was half a beggar, there -- down in the lane, between the Major's and the where Mae Parsons used to live. Paul Fitch found him and rocked him over three times with a foot, until he could tell which side was "back" and supposed to have hair, and which side only had hair because of the physics and the circumstances of what must have been a particularly violent death. The beggar - he, it, the nothing thing he had become - was dust-covered and dirt-bound, rolled up in a blue sweatshirt and a vinyl banner for a local radio station. "HOT! HOT! HOT!," it said in blocky, thick-legged letters, eight, nine inches high. The gradient from red to yellow to a half-red orange meant that the words themselves had caught on fire; meant you could expect your radio to burn with...whatever burns on adult contemporary radio.

Of course, we didn't know he was a beggar then. He could have been anyone at all or any one of us and never would have known the difference. When Paul Fitch called us, one at a time, to announce that what he'd found tucked into the curb, was half a drifter, half a vagrant, half of nothing no-good-at-all, no matter how you sliced it, I wasn't surprised or vindicated, just a little bored with the entire affair.

By the time Paul did call, Courtney was in her jogging pant pajamas, with an off-white tank and a Forever 21 locket stuck to the sheen of perspiration just above her cleavage. It was a sad eyed nightingale, hinged at the top of its wings, with a green glass eye and flaky gold paint. We were half asleep and one of us might have just kicked when the phone buzzed its way across a particle board end table. It was late three ways by then - for us, for phone calls, for the miserable shitcake world we barely, barely living in.

I hung up the phone and nothing had changed. The walls were an inoffensive bulk-paint color. And the clock on the kitchen stove just blinked - twelve oh oh...oh oh...oh oh.