Banking the Rain
17 October 2008 00:04![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skonen_bladesShe doesn’t understand the roiling hurricane of broken parts that flourishes in her. A rabid zombie dog bent on breaking spines and eating, eating, eating. It’s a four-in-the-morning car crash right outside a bedroom window.
The bottom of the paper grocery bag is wet and ready to break. She hears the money-counter machine in the bank taking seconds to count a few hours of her life in a fluttering, card-shuffling riff. It’s exclamation-point acupuncture. The money she makes is spent before she makes it. It’s hard to be positive when all her accounts are in the negative.
The bank teller smiles a smile that goes nowhere near his eyes and hands her the receipt. Brick-oven repression bakes the words not said into whips, a fire alarm shrieking in her heart, the final impact at the bottom of the long flight of stairs. It’s a pocket watch that winces and whimpers with each tick.
For the first time ever, she has a job that’s making good cash but she’s so deep in the hole that she feels like she’s in a well. When she sees red, it’s debt, and it's all around her. It’s going to take at least two years at the exorbitant rate they’re charging to get back on her feet. She looks back and wonders again how she got here. All the puzzle pieces have sharp sides and short memories. She’s glued the mirror back together and she’s hoping no one notices the difference. Maybe she’ll get one year of bad luck off.
Like anyone who’s good at puzzles will tell you, start with the edges.
She walks out of the bank into the pouring rain, heading to the apartment. At least she’s not homeless anymore. Things could be a lot worse. She sighs and the whisper of a grin brushes her lips. She’ll be alright, she thinks.
The bottom of the grocery bag gives out. Two weeks of all the food she can afford until she gets paid again hits the wet pavement.
It’s almost enough for her to….but no. She collects whatever isn’t broken and does her best to construct some sort of carrying receptacle and stuffs the rest in her pockets. A broken jar of cheap mayonnaise bleeds white into the wet pavement. No one helps. She is beyond shame when she gets on the bus. Some teens laugh at her but she honestly doesn’t get what they’re laughing at.
She must be strong. She must not have hope. She must live.
tags
The bottom of the paper grocery bag is wet and ready to break. She hears the money-counter machine in the bank taking seconds to count a few hours of her life in a fluttering, card-shuffling riff. It’s exclamation-point acupuncture. The money she makes is spent before she makes it. It’s hard to be positive when all her accounts are in the negative.
The bank teller smiles a smile that goes nowhere near his eyes and hands her the receipt. Brick-oven repression bakes the words not said into whips, a fire alarm shrieking in her heart, the final impact at the bottom of the long flight of stairs. It’s a pocket watch that winces and whimpers with each tick.
For the first time ever, she has a job that’s making good cash but she’s so deep in the hole that she feels like she’s in a well. When she sees red, it’s debt, and it's all around her. It’s going to take at least two years at the exorbitant rate they’re charging to get back on her feet. She looks back and wonders again how she got here. All the puzzle pieces have sharp sides and short memories. She’s glued the mirror back together and she’s hoping no one notices the difference. Maybe she’ll get one year of bad luck off.
Like anyone who’s good at puzzles will tell you, start with the edges.
She walks out of the bank into the pouring rain, heading to the apartment. At least she’s not homeless anymore. Things could be a lot worse. She sighs and the whisper of a grin brushes her lips. She’ll be alright, she thinks.
The bottom of the grocery bag gives out. Two weeks of all the food she can afford until she gets paid again hits the wet pavement.
It’s almost enough for her to….but no. She collects whatever isn’t broken and does her best to construct some sort of carrying receptacle and stuffs the rest in her pockets. A broken jar of cheap mayonnaise bleeds white into the wet pavement. No one helps. She is beyond shame when she gets on the bus. Some teens laugh at her but she honestly doesn’t get what they’re laughing at.
She must be strong. She must not have hope. She must live.
tags
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no subject
Date: 17 Oct 2008 14:06 (UTC)and
"The bank teller smiles a smile that goes nowhere near his eyes and hands her the receipt. Brick-oven repression bakes the words not said into whips, a fire alarm shrieking in her heart, the final impact at the bottom of the long flight of stairs. It’s a pocket watch that winces and whimpers with each tick."
and
"All the puzzle pieces have sharp sides and short memories. She’s glued the mirror back together and she’s hoping no one notices the difference. Maybe she’ll get one year of bad luck off.
Like anyone who’s good at puzzles will tell you, start with the edges."
I'm not sure if the ending feels finished to me. I like the piece, though. It has great... movement? I think that's the word I'm looking for.
no subject
Date: 17 Oct 2008 17:54 (UTC)I liked it's flow and movement as well. It's got a rhythm to it. I'm sensing a new voice starting to flow through these pieces but it's hard to define.
I'm glad you liked it. See you on Monday.
no subject
Date: 17 Oct 2008 14:56 (UTC)i think i've seen this lady in wilmington. i don't know if the pundits have called it a recession or whatever, but here, i think i've known more homeless people and people scraping at the bottom than any other time in my life. this is definitely accurate to an unnerving degree.
no subject
Date: 17 Oct 2008 17:51 (UTC)no subject
Date: 17 Oct 2008 16:31 (UTC)Your words always flow so beautifully.
no subject
Date: 17 Oct 2008 17:49 (UTC)