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An Excerpt From A Story

September 28, 2009


“It was 4:00 am and everything was outlined boldly.  Karl threw the cigarette in his mouth as he walked away from Paris.  The cityscape had grown dull and muted.  His bright palette unanswered.  The yellow sunflowers drew him to the south countryside.

He came across a beautiful young girl named Brooklyn.  She was from the States and full of naive dreams.  Karl had a fury for Brooklyn.  Obsession had consumed his mind.  He could hardly work or compose a sentence without vividly imagining Brooklyn’s lips pressed against his cheek.  Brooklyn’s words danced around his canvas and her touch slipped on his palette knife.  Finally, Karl grew drunk and decided to confess when he met her at a cafe.

“We should talk more often,” he said enthusiastically.

“Well, it’s very difficult, Karl, I have a fiance back home and…not to be rude…but you are a little bit weird.”

“I can’t stop thinking about you.  It’s just torture!”

“It’s good to want things, Karl…”

He couldn’t believe she had just muttered these painful words so easily. He loved her.  In this moment, rejecting him, as the smoke rings left her toxic lips, as the bar noise grew confusing.  He loved her.  The whisky was swirling through his sky and she was the moon, the sun, the stars.  He leaped forward and kissed her.  Drove his tongue right at her.  Dangerously, but the girl humored him with a long delicious kiss.

“You must be crazy,” she gasped through the kiss.

Everything in his body awoke.  He had to have her…now!  Brooklyn slapped him and that’s the last he saw of her.

He stole a half-empty bottle of whisky from the bar and headed up the hill.  At this point, any prostitute would do!  To draw or to screw!  No hope!  He plopped down on a hard patch of dirt and watched the south go beddy-bye.

And then he wept…

The crickets were jarring his head and a dog lye sniffing his breathe as he awoke to the dawn.  A few cafe workers were already attending to their daily chores.  Karl felt like shit and the thrash around him was unrelenting.

He threw a cigarette in his mouth and headed down the hill.

He grabbed his head as to hold it on tight.  He was descending on a plan.  Descending on pessismism.  Descending upon another gratifying deep drag of his cigarette.  The dew on the morning hill spoke of life to come.”

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