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Mon, Dec. 19th, 2011, 09:54 pm
second love

His first love, cliché as it may be, was music-- the rag-that-became-jazz, the music that adopted his motherless white pansy ass and said, alright, boy, you want to play this you'd better be prepared to pay that piper every day of your life and endure the looks.

He had. All told the looks he got for playin' race music was easier than the looks he got for everything else.

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Mon, Jan. 17th, 2011, 02:58 am
playing santa.

Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus
Right down Santa Claus Lane--!

No snow. Not here in the Crescent, not here in this temperate balmy city where the ocean may bring rain but not cold.

Still, it is Christmas. Holiday lights wrapped around ev'ry damn thing, strewn in every wrought-iron balcony railing. Red ribbons an' shiny ornaments. Tinsel. Ellis has been shopping for presents and he has the passenger seat full of them, all wrapped in festive paper.

The radio plays carols, and he hums with them. Sings every now and then. He likes Christmas. And carols.


--standing in rows with the others, white robes, High Mass, the church smelling holy, holy, holy as their voices rise, clear and alto. Gloria in Excelsis Deo--

--the cruch of his tires on the gravel brings him back to the now, eighty-five years later, driving down the road towards the house he helped them buy.

He comes bearing gifts. For the children. And tonight he will look at Curtis Jr. and think about whether or not it's time yet. Curtis. He likes Curtis. Curtis has grown up to look so much like daddy.

Maybe later. He don't want to spoil Christmas for the kids.

Tue, Jan. 11th, 2011, 02:38 am

“So you're, what, Lucky's grandpa?” says the girl with a smile like Splenda. She's about eighteen Ellis reckons, twirling a bit of (dyed, he can see her roots) blonde hair around one finger. She says the words in that “isn't that sweet” tone that is only fooling if you don't know better, if you don't catch the little scowl hiding corners of her lips.

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Tue, Jan. 4th, 2011, 01:32 am
White (Bingo)

It is a lick of time before he gets himself to a mirror after dyin', and first glimpse he does not know himself. Things have changed.

Hair gone white as flour for one thing. Sure, he was turnin' before, his mousy brown hair getting' to mousy gray, but this ain't no salt an' pepper it's full-on white. And it don't half look odd with his skin pale as it is now too, white like a fish's belly, like he'd never done seen the sun or somethin'.

Weird thing is he wouldn't exactly say he looks older, really, not even with that white hair. His eyes got focus back, they ain't bloodshot and a touch filmy no more. That whiskey bloom has vanished with the rest of the blood. Hell, his teeth got fixed somehow, don't ask him how but they sure did, each mother's son of them back in his mouth and white as if he'd never touched a cigarette. His skin's... smoothed some, like someone took it off him and ironed it out and stretched it back over him again.

He doesn't look young. No. No, the weird health to him isn't that of a young man, it just is, it fits him like a stranger's suit but hell, he's not complaining.

There is so much he is not complaining about.

Alright, so he gotta kill folks, yeah, that mayhap ain't ideal. But you know, there are an awful lot of sumbitches in the world who mayhap deserve a killin', an' way he reckons it it ain't a black and white question, ain't like you can take an act just say it is wrong. All his life he been told a lotta stuff wrong-- doin' things with other men, stealin'-- but the first he don't see how it harms and the second, hell, iffen you hungry an' there's bread then morals goes out the window some, don't it?

He's hungry now; it's just that it takes murderin' to ease it.

All questions of red hands, all questions of black deeds, slowly fade to the bleached white of bones and forgetting.

Wed, Dec. 29th, 2010, 12:12 am

B-I-N-G-OCollapse )

Wed, May. 19th, 2010, 10:02 pm
drabble on 'return'- 1957

He comes back in daytime. Sunlight splinters in his eyes, like his retinas were scratched glass, refracting, scattering, painful glare. The dark faceplate of the firefighter helmet helps, but still he squints.

Kerosene sharp and acrid, he can taste the smell. Slip silent, quiet, around the house he knew so well. Pour. Careful, careful.

Two humans as dayguard. He knows where they'll be. Kills them.

He circles the stately old plantation house, remembering. His prison. The French windows hold elegant lace curtains whose patterns were burned into his skin. He remembers everything.

The light blurs everything. Soon, smoke does too.

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