Tag: Randall

Playlist/Bingo: King of New Orleans

Playlist/Bingo: King of New Orleans

The cities were all the same. Oh, they each claimed superiority: cleaner streets, more opportunities, focus on virtues, but it was all crap. Randall had been drifting long enough to see the claims were varnish and lies. It didn’t matter what rules they set or how many enforcers were on the streets, people found a way to let the dark corners take hold.

Arkadi, at least, didn’t try to pretend otherwise.

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Playlist/Bingo: John Wayne

Playlist/Bingo: John Wayne

The bar was empty. Not unusual for a ghost town, but Randall has still hoped to find a stray bottle or two. The dust on the shelves was as thick as the dirt on his boots, and the cracked mirror was too grimy to reflect anything but smears of colour. Black hat, black coat, back shirt, too pale white face, and he was so fucking sick of monochrome.

“We have to move out,” Jakob call through the broken door.

“What’s the rush?”

“Place to go, things to do, shit to break.”

“Same old, same old.”

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Playlist & Bingo: Feel It Turn

Playlist & Bingo: Feel It Turn

The wide open spaces have a sorrow about them. Randall doesn’t think they’ve always had it, though propaganda would have people believe the cities were always the source of happiness. Something about the wind blowing over the exposed dirt, the back of tracks, the lack of life, doesn’t feel natural.

He’s seen the holos of deserts, of sand dunes as large as oceans with waves all their own. There’s solitude there, but not sorrow. It’s a natural space.

Thought the Corps deny it, Randall knows the dry earth he’s looking at now was once a forest. Ancient trees, wide leaves, underbrush growing in their shelter. It feels like the earth here remembers what it’s lost, is in mourning for the missing green.

He puts his hand on the ground, but he can’t feel life there — it isn’t his side of things. He feels the movement, the steady march toward whatever comes next, but it won’t be a forest again.

Not on its own.

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A Writer’s Book of Days Exercise: Offer

A Writer’s Book of Days Exercise: Offer

He sat in the courtroom and let the words blow over him. Doctors, lawyers, police officers (real ones, not a damn security force), all of them making arguments back about his future. It didn’t matter. He’d known his future, made his choice. It wasn’t his fault no one seemed to believe he was old enough to have done so. It would have saved time if they had.

But his lawyer wouldn’t hear of a guilty plea. Not for a pretty little blue-eyed blonde boy like him. It didn’t play well for the cameras. And there were a lot of cameras. They lined the back wall of the court room, at least the ones he could see. On the news the night before there had been footage shot from the front, and he couldn’t see any there.

The headline had been: 10 Year Old Matricide Headed for Death Row?

Apparently it was an important question. Which explained why it was taking so long to answer.

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A Writer’s Book of Days Exercise: Routine

A Writer’s Book of Days Exercise: Routine

Shel walked in the door and hung his coat on the second hook from the end. He sat down on the bench, bent at the waist and untied his right shoe, then his left. He sat back up, slipped off the right shoe, then the left, and bent again to pick them up from the floor before tucking them into the third cubbyhole from the bottom.

He stood, and then walked into the kitchen. Randall couldn’t see him anymore, but he knew what Shel would be doing, because he’d seen it every day for the past two weeks.

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