MisterSuperBetterMore
Bluelighter
Introduction:
The stuff I'm going to be submitting to this forum, doesn't fit as appropriately as maybe it should, but it is writing... and I'm a writer (or trying to be). Some of its good. If you're reading my work you obviously have way too much time on yer hands. I hope you enjoy it. I enjoyed writing it.
This Piece:
This story is just a twist on lust. It was written in one night on stimulants and edited the next. I identify with the main character very strongly.
This piece is also seeing publication in the "Wit" (a HS literary magazine).
What I'd like:
I want some feed back, some direction on where to go (don't just tell me to "go home!"). Tell me what you like, what you didn't. What worked, what doesn't. If you have ideas about where i should go with this or where i shouldn't... Do ya get the idea? This story i'm pushing through the local writing seminars and eventually submitting it for serious contending in national contests. Think that's too optomistic? Please comment, say something anything, bump it whatever! Tell a friend.. i dunno... Eat ice cream it's good!
Here it is... (thanx for stopping by)
A Dirty Old Man
by Vaughn Blair
He takes another bite of his Eskimo pie, before he discards the half-melted desert treat into the green wire mesh garbage receptacle. He likes ice cream. There’s something timeless about to him, something that endures even as his body ages. He’s earnestly thankful that he’s not a diabetic.
He gently rests his tired body on the park bench releasing great wheezes as joints and muscles comply in what becomes an awkward, essentially simple, motion requiring quite a bit of effort. He smiles; (He smiles everyday he doesn’t use a cane). He sees age as more of an inconvenience than a friend. It takes longer to do everything: longer to use the bathroom, longer to get dressed, longer to find his keys, and longer to walk to the park. But, what has he got to be done in such a rush anyway? He couldn’t answer you, at least not in a timely fashion, and not a response that would garner any appreciation from someone of your age. He’s not pathetic; he’s just apathetic to this whole plight (mostly).
A trembling hand reaches up to rub a tired eye. He doesn’t mind the wrinkles so much. He knows he went out style. But he laughs anyway, “Sure, I went out of style, but it took them long enough!” The comment isn’t even registered in the faces of the hungry, bloated pigeons that have gathered at his feet waiting expectantly, “Buzzards, the lot of ‘ya. I’ve nothing for 'ya, see? Nothing. And you’ll have to wait a bit longer to pick these bones clean! Ha, ha…har… harumphh…,” he sighs from behind his wire rimmed spectacles, “…crazy birds”.
The red beady eyes of the pigeons stare back in resentment, and the laughs lines and wrinkles in his face slowly cascade downward. “You, too, eh. Well buggers to all of ‘ya. Ain’t got no shame, not for you, and not for them.” The joggers in their Adidas jumpsuits slow to a fast walk, as they move past. And he recognizes the disgust in their eyes. He can see it, because, in bygone days, he had it inside him, too.
He sits waiting for a breeze to tell him to go home, but the breeze never comes, and so he waits, there on his sun bleached park bench. He watches the day go past him. He watches the people walk to work grudgingly. He watches the children play. He watches hot dog vendors sell their wares. And he watches as the day dies. He watches the people come home from work with tired feet, but wider smiles. He watches it all from his bench and occasionally they look back.
As he sits at his post dutifully observing the day move toward the evening, he spots a small figure approaching from the distance. The closer the figure gets, the more his eyes adjust and clearer the image becomes. It’s a young woman. First year of college by the look of her, disheveled auburn hair, baggy sweatshirt, blue jeans, and natural curves. This is no store bought beauty, masked in Maybeline and designer clothes. She’s an image of perfection. And all he can do is stare in awe and admiration.
She is petite, very thin, with small breasts (probably a 36 B), but he can tell she is intelligent, just by the way she carries herself. He can picture behind the stacks at the library or in coffee houses correcting professors with a casual toss of her hair. He imagines how she must make love. Shy at first, building slowly inside her, reticent and quiet, until she can restrain it no longer and it comes rushing in waves of moans and piercing screams of pleasure as her partner is subdued by the force of her thighs and pelvis, and can only watch in amazement as she thrusts and gyrates as if commanded by physics, itself. He can see her naked flesh glistening with sweat in the dim light. He can picture the sheets ripped from the bed and tossed about the room wrinkled and white. He can picture her lover’s gasps for air and endurance. He can picture the violent bounce of her small untamed breasts, highlighted by two pale pink nipples. He can see her throw her head back accompanying each banshee wail of delight. He can see it so clearly.
And he witnesses all this from his bench.
As she passes he looks up, but keeps his head lowered in reverence. She returns his gaze with the same repulsed stare he has come to know all to well. And the shame floods him.
His eyes fall to the ground, and barely audible above the traffic and noise he poses the question, “When did I become such a dirty old man?” and the shame weighs heavy in his heart.
He pauses. “That’s what I am, aren’t I? That’s what they see. That is what they say to themselves just as I say it to myself now, ‘what a dirty old man’. But how can I be blamed? Is this not the fate that awaits us all?” his voices rises up in protest, “Is this not what is expected of me? And How may I ask can one expect any less? That is to say, when I was young I ran and danced with young girls, I kissed them in the back seats of blue Chevrolets. And I day dreamed about the contours of their bare bodies. And as I aged. the beauty of that age did not fade with me. For even though now I sit wrinkled and old like so many like me, the beauty of teenage girls does not elude me, not for a second, it inspires me, it infuses in me that vitality and passion. Those primal instinctual impulses engraved into the genetic face of all men. Tell me this: At what point was I to turn my head from their perky breasts and bouncy smiles to the haggard sagging bodies of women ‘my own age’? When was this transition to occur, and was it announced? What warning did I have? What choice?” his fervor fades into the air. “And now, What am I left to do, What am I left to be?”
------------------
"There is time in minute,
time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse"
(from the Love song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot)
The stuff I'm going to be submitting to this forum, doesn't fit as appropriately as maybe it should, but it is writing... and I'm a writer (or trying to be). Some of its good. If you're reading my work you obviously have way too much time on yer hands. I hope you enjoy it. I enjoyed writing it.
This Piece:
This story is just a twist on lust. It was written in one night on stimulants and edited the next. I identify with the main character very strongly.
This piece is also seeing publication in the "Wit" (a HS literary magazine).
What I'd like:
I want some feed back, some direction on where to go (don't just tell me to "go home!"). Tell me what you like, what you didn't. What worked, what doesn't. If you have ideas about where i should go with this or where i shouldn't... Do ya get the idea? This story i'm pushing through the local writing seminars and eventually submitting it for serious contending in national contests. Think that's too optomistic? Please comment, say something anything, bump it whatever! Tell a friend.. i dunno... Eat ice cream it's good!
Here it is... (thanx for stopping by)
A Dirty Old Man
by Vaughn Blair
He takes another bite of his Eskimo pie, before he discards the half-melted desert treat into the green wire mesh garbage receptacle. He likes ice cream. There’s something timeless about to him, something that endures even as his body ages. He’s earnestly thankful that he’s not a diabetic.
He gently rests his tired body on the park bench releasing great wheezes as joints and muscles comply in what becomes an awkward, essentially simple, motion requiring quite a bit of effort. He smiles; (He smiles everyday he doesn’t use a cane). He sees age as more of an inconvenience than a friend. It takes longer to do everything: longer to use the bathroom, longer to get dressed, longer to find his keys, and longer to walk to the park. But, what has he got to be done in such a rush anyway? He couldn’t answer you, at least not in a timely fashion, and not a response that would garner any appreciation from someone of your age. He’s not pathetic; he’s just apathetic to this whole plight (mostly).
A trembling hand reaches up to rub a tired eye. He doesn’t mind the wrinkles so much. He knows he went out style. But he laughs anyway, “Sure, I went out of style, but it took them long enough!” The comment isn’t even registered in the faces of the hungry, bloated pigeons that have gathered at his feet waiting expectantly, “Buzzards, the lot of ‘ya. I’ve nothing for 'ya, see? Nothing. And you’ll have to wait a bit longer to pick these bones clean! Ha, ha…har… harumphh…,” he sighs from behind his wire rimmed spectacles, “…crazy birds”.
The red beady eyes of the pigeons stare back in resentment, and the laughs lines and wrinkles in his face slowly cascade downward. “You, too, eh. Well buggers to all of ‘ya. Ain’t got no shame, not for you, and not for them.” The joggers in their Adidas jumpsuits slow to a fast walk, as they move past. And he recognizes the disgust in their eyes. He can see it, because, in bygone days, he had it inside him, too.
He sits waiting for a breeze to tell him to go home, but the breeze never comes, and so he waits, there on his sun bleached park bench. He watches the day go past him. He watches the people walk to work grudgingly. He watches the children play. He watches hot dog vendors sell their wares. And he watches as the day dies. He watches the people come home from work with tired feet, but wider smiles. He watches it all from his bench and occasionally they look back.
As he sits at his post dutifully observing the day move toward the evening, he spots a small figure approaching from the distance. The closer the figure gets, the more his eyes adjust and clearer the image becomes. It’s a young woman. First year of college by the look of her, disheveled auburn hair, baggy sweatshirt, blue jeans, and natural curves. This is no store bought beauty, masked in Maybeline and designer clothes. She’s an image of perfection. And all he can do is stare in awe and admiration.
She is petite, very thin, with small breasts (probably a 36 B), but he can tell she is intelligent, just by the way she carries herself. He can picture behind the stacks at the library or in coffee houses correcting professors with a casual toss of her hair. He imagines how she must make love. Shy at first, building slowly inside her, reticent and quiet, until she can restrain it no longer and it comes rushing in waves of moans and piercing screams of pleasure as her partner is subdued by the force of her thighs and pelvis, and can only watch in amazement as she thrusts and gyrates as if commanded by physics, itself. He can see her naked flesh glistening with sweat in the dim light. He can picture the sheets ripped from the bed and tossed about the room wrinkled and white. He can picture her lover’s gasps for air and endurance. He can picture the violent bounce of her small untamed breasts, highlighted by two pale pink nipples. He can see her throw her head back accompanying each banshee wail of delight. He can see it so clearly.
And he witnesses all this from his bench.
As she passes he looks up, but keeps his head lowered in reverence. She returns his gaze with the same repulsed stare he has come to know all to well. And the shame floods him.
His eyes fall to the ground, and barely audible above the traffic and noise he poses the question, “When did I become such a dirty old man?” and the shame weighs heavy in his heart.
He pauses. “That’s what I am, aren’t I? That’s what they see. That is what they say to themselves just as I say it to myself now, ‘what a dirty old man’. But how can I be blamed? Is this not the fate that awaits us all?” his voices rises up in protest, “Is this not what is expected of me? And How may I ask can one expect any less? That is to say, when I was young I ran and danced with young girls, I kissed them in the back seats of blue Chevrolets. And I day dreamed about the contours of their bare bodies. And as I aged. the beauty of that age did not fade with me. For even though now I sit wrinkled and old like so many like me, the beauty of teenage girls does not elude me, not for a second, it inspires me, it infuses in me that vitality and passion. Those primal instinctual impulses engraved into the genetic face of all men. Tell me this: At what point was I to turn my head from their perky breasts and bouncy smiles to the haggard sagging bodies of women ‘my own age’? When was this transition to occur, and was it announced? What warning did I have? What choice?” his fervor fades into the air. “And now, What am I left to do, What am I left to be?”
------------------
"There is time in minute,
time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse"
(from the Love song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot)
