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Ghost Story
Oct. 15th, 2004 09:16 amThere is a bridge.
There is fucking always a bridge.
There is always a bridge, and it is always a misty night, maybe that still hour about three AM when there is a sleep laid over the land and even the cops have retreated to the bright safety of diners. It is always autumn, and the leaves are always wet so they squish instead of crunch.
The bridge is always out. Out. Another word for broken, for incomplete, for we ran out of money or maybe interest and we forgot to make the bridge go anywhere.
And there is always a kid sitting on the rusty end of the bridge, bare feet dangling not six inches from some jagged metal.
The kid's been drinking. The kid's been drinking since midnight and there are four cans of Rainier next to the kid, all empty. There's just the mist and the bridge and the kid, and the kid's not paying any attention.
Note here that the kid is not drunk. The kid's never fucking drunk. The kid's been drinking for ten years on misty nights on this bridge, and the kid has yet to get even slightly buzzed. The kid hates this, this waiting, this drinking. Oblivion never comes.
Rounded shoulders, one last swig.
The kid doesn't hear. And after a few minutes, the kid jumps.
It's a long way down for someone without wings.
Take a breath inward. Scream.
(10 ccs of munalin. Are the monitors still hooked up? Good, good.)
(Try it again. Maybe the next time's the charm. Fucking monkeys and their fucking dreams. I swear they don't pay me enough for this. Why can't it ever have a different dream?)
There is a bridge.
There is always a bridge.
There is fucking always a bridge.
There is always a bridge, and it is always a misty night, maybe that still hour about three AM when there is a sleep laid over the land and even the cops have retreated to the bright safety of diners. It is always autumn, and the leaves are always wet so they squish instead of crunch.
The bridge is always out. Out. Another word for broken, for incomplete, for we ran out of money or maybe interest and we forgot to make the bridge go anywhere.
And there is always a kid sitting on the rusty end of the bridge, bare feet dangling not six inches from some jagged metal.
Get up.
You'll catch your death.
Come home.
You'll catch your death.
Come home.
The kid's been drinking. The kid's been drinking since midnight and there are four cans of Rainier next to the kid, all empty. There's just the mist and the bridge and the kid, and the kid's not paying any attention.
Note here that the kid is not drunk. The kid's never fucking drunk. The kid's been drinking for ten years on misty nights on this bridge, and the kid has yet to get even slightly buzzed. The kid hates this, this waiting, this drinking. Oblivion never comes.
Rounded shoulders, one last swig.
Come home, come home,
please hear me, come home,
please come home,
please please please please please
please hear me, come home,
please come home,
please please please please please
The kid doesn't hear. And after a few minutes, the kid jumps.
It's a long way down for someone without wings.
Take a breath inward. Scream.
(10 ccs of munalin. Are the monitors still hooked up? Good, good.)
(Try it again. Maybe the next time's the charm. Fucking monkeys and their fucking dreams. I swear they don't pay me enough for this. Why can't it ever have a different dream?)
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There is a bridge.
There is always a bridge.
Written for the Strange Machine:
