Tag: short stories based on songs

Between the Lines: ‘Cocaine Blues’

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It was Christmas Eve. A silent snow blanketed the yards in South St. Louis while occasionally one could hear boots crunching along the sidewalks in the darkness. Henry and Larissa sat together around the coffee table, looking down at the bag of cocaine and the money — single dollars — ready to be rolled into tubes. This is how far they had strayed, like terrible horses, on the night of the birth of Christ, some calling him Lord, worshipping Him at midnight mass. A terrible feeling of hunger, worry, and rebellion hung around the air in the apartment. Snow began to fall, white and soft, and it did not stop until morning. Henry began to wonder if this would kill him. His heart raced, his brain felt ill. Larissa — no novice to the drug but certainly no aficionado — watched the snow outside through the windows, and occasionally shed a tear, missing desperately her mama. A lone SUV sailed down the icy street like a great, pale hull sliding along the moat where a fire hydrant had burst and stopped and frozen. The vehicle went running on and disappeared.

Earlier that evening, Larissa met her connection at a bar downtown. A few skeletal men sat coughing and drinking at the counter. She undid her scarf as she entered and shook out the snow from her blonde hair. The dealer was a dirty, bearded man who sat in a back booth and signaled to her without seeming to look up from his paper. Something about Tangiers. Something about the history of the Straits of Gibraltar. Some picture of a great, colorful boat on the cover that didn’t seem to fit the coldness of this heavy season.

“Well, as I live and breathe. It’s my love, my heart, Miss Larissa,” Randolph muttered, still staring at the paper with its boat. “You get around, don’t you? Something on the brain?”

“I feel sick even doing this,” she said. “Here.” Larissa put down a hundred dollar bill and waited on a gram. He pulled it from his great coat and laid it on the table.

“You know,” said Randolph, “they say this kills you but not when.” He laughed and pushed the bag of white toward her.

“At least you’re quick,” Larissa muttered. “I might even say efficient.”

“How was your morning?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean how was it? What did you do?”

“I woke up. I woke up and jumped out of bed and felt pain in my legs due to all this damn cold around us.”

“Well, this should help with all of that.”

“No. None of this is any damn good. What a Christmas.”

“It ain’t for men.”

“What does that mean?’

“None of this — the cold, the season, that — none of it’s any good. But you be careful. Bye now.”

He looked back into the paper and rolled the hundred in his fingers, absent-mindedly. As Larissa opened the door to the bar, the cold roared in and the skeletal men looked up abruptly from their beers. They coughed and looked back down. Her breath hung in the air like smoke. The car seats were as cold as the man who’d sold her the cocaine.

She went into the apartment and could spy Henry then, sitting nervously around the glass table. He was reading the Bible, some verse about the day being sufficient to the evil thereof.

“Do you want to start?” she asked Henry.

“Not really. Not tonight. I’m frightened for some reason.”

“I paid rent today.”

“It’s not the money,” said Henry. “It’s the feeling I have that this is not the right night for it.”

“When would be a right night?”

“I don’t know. Not now, though.”

That evening their Christmas tree flickered with lights as Henry and Larissa held onto each other in their cold bed. They made love and then got up to eat a late breakfast at one in the morning. They went back to bed. Larissa prayed while Henry slept, muttering something about disappearing and life out West and a better time of things. They didn’t open anything, any of the gifts that sat silently beneath the boughs of the pine. It was over.

Story based on "Cocaine Blues" which was written by T.J. Arnall and recorded by Johnny Cash, Townes Van Zandt, Woody Guthrie, and others. Photo credit: amseaman / Foter / CC BY-ND.

Between the Lines: ‘Pretty Pimpin’

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I woke up this morning, and didn’t recognize the man in the mirror. Feeling more like the boy who played outside my window during those summer days … pretending to skateboard, lighting off firecrackers in the streets when he thought nobody was looking, sharpening wooden knives on the pavement and placing them in his red wagon for sale next to his driveway.

Those younger years were spent looking forward, never backward. I gotta say, back then, all I wanted was to just have fun. I was living my life like a son of a gun. When the fellas asked how you were doing, it was always “I’m pretty pimpin.” They were a different bunch. All I ever wanted was to be a man. I laughed more then. Now who’s in the reflection? Oh, silly me — that’s just me. Age has a way of sneaking up on me, it seems. I proceeded to brush some stranger’s teeth, already forgetting that they were my teeth, feeling weightless from the morphine stream that was moving through me.

I was a dreamer, going to bed every night with big plans. Then I woke up one morning in panic — it was a Monday, no a Tuesday, no Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Questioning my existence and reasons for everything. It wasn’t til the proverbial Saturday came around that I left my panic behind with the rest of the world before the next episode.

Unless you come from money, it’s hard to have any personal space in this place. There is one bathroom for every four tenants in this “not a hospital for old people.” About every other day, I find myself asking, “Who’s this stupid clown blocking the bathroom sink?” or “Maybe this is the last time I’ll have to listen to the muttering on the other side of this curtain.” When you hit half a century, I think feeling lonely starts to correlate directly with becoming senile. At least that’s the messaging I’ve started using on my kids to get them to visit me more often. Asking outright never was my style. I’m more of a Catholic guilt guy.

My oldest son is the only one that comes regularly. I know he misses me because he’s sporting all my clothes. All he ever wanted was to be someone in life that was just like his dad. I think he’s gotten a little crazy in his 40s, though. For example, during our regular debates, he says the strangest things like, “I could be 1,000 miles away but still mean what I say.” I couldn’t tell you what the hell it was supposed to mean. Anyone would agree he was always a thousand miles away, while still standing in front of your face. Fortunately, he was a little too cute to be admitted under marbles lost, his idiosyncratic hyperbola makes me smile.

For how self indulged I’ve been, it's funny, I’ve always looked outside of myself for the truth. Only now, when my doctor has given me an expiration, do I see the pace at which things have come and gone. The opportunities, memories, friends, senses, values, promises, dreams. They never seem to last as long as I want them to, but it reminds me how far I’ve come and what I’ve discovered.


Story by Kris Orlowski based on "Pretty Pimpin" by Kurt Vile. Photo credit: Diego3336 / Foter / CC BY.

Between the Lines: ‘Easy Money’

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I never would have guessed in a million years we'd be caught up in this way of surviving.

She put on her coat. I put on my hat.

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, glazing over my eyes, only seeing the outlines of who I'd become. A thief. A thief in unassuming demeanor.

She put out the dog. I put out the cat. I lit my last cigarette and threw the empty pack on the kitchen table.

“I see you put on your red dress for me tonight honey,” I said to my partner in life and crime, attempting to add what little warmth I could to an otherwise cold-blooded way to live. Despite any attempt to romanticize the night, I am left with only the comfort of a pull from my last cigarette.

“We’re going on the town now,” she said while opening the garage door. “Looking for that easy money.” Offering me that stone cold tone of confidence and of manifest destiny … a tone one could only hope for coming from your accomplice.

The last patron had stumbled out of the saloon, and I knew the only one left in there was “the boss.” At least that's what they call him. I’ve been staking the place out for about a month, and I know if he escorts the last person out and locks the door, the next scene is he's counting the profits — not only from his liquor sales, but from the dirty deals he's doing out the back door. Twenty minutes later he's headed home with a bottle and a briefcase.

The last light inside the saloon is shut off. We walk arm-in-arm giving illusion that we are merely a couple arriving a little too late for their night cap. She reaches her hand into mine and whispers close, “There’s nothing to it, mister. He won’t hear a sound when his whole world comes tumbling down. And all them fat cats, they’ll just think it’s funny.”

With the last boost of confidence and blood in my stare, I watch him step outside and lock the door behind him. Clockwork … a bottle and a briefcase.

“Oh hey, any chance we could …” I say only to be interrupted by him now facing toward us half-annoyed,

“Closed for the night, come back tomorrow.”

We walk closer to him with one arm still in each other's and my other hand in my jacket pocket.

“Mister … sir. I don’t think you understand. I got a Smith & Wesson .38. I got a hellfire burning and I got me a date. Got me a date on the far shore where it’s bright and sunny.”

With my .38 pointed at him, and my other hand now free, I finish where I left off: “Dirty money stays dirty. Now hand over the briefcase. You can keep the bottle. We're going on the town tonight, looking for easy money.”

Story by Daniel Rodriguez of Elephant Revival based on "Easy Money" by Bruce Springsteen. Photo credit: Vince_Ander / Foter / CC BY.

Between the Lines: ‘Diggin’ on the Mountainside’

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The top of Cardigan was bald, it had burnt 20 years before, and nothing grows fast on New England Mountains. We sat on a wide, smooth rock. He pointed to a spot halfway up across the valley where several large patches of trees had been cleared. “That’s our new work site.” He shook his head. “Rich folks digging on a mountainside.”

“Did they come to build their castles?” I asked.

“Way up high.” He handed me a water bottle from the little backpack we had taken turns carrying.

“We just finished one on the other side that you can’t see from here. Those people won’t even live in it except on vacations, but it’s bigger than three of our houses. A log cabin with a ballroom. Those people were born to see their silver shine.”

I finished rolling the joint of mellow brown weed I had bought from a kid we’d both gone to high school with.

“They aren’t going to live in it?” I asked.

“No. Till these folks, they’re coming in from out of town.”

I looked across the valley to the bare spots, where they had cleared the timber. I had just dropped out of college. I was home for a visit before I moved out West with a friend. My car was parked in my parents' driveway, the back seat filled with camping gear and art supplies.

He lit the joint. It was burning straight … I had learned something in college. “They strip the ground, too. Good luck to all the folks living in the bottom of the valley. Those wells are going to be all mud by next year, is my guess, but they keep building higher and higher. The roads just keep going up. On into the sun they climb. The ones you see there aren’t even the highest.”

I’d known Paul most of my life. We had grown up next to each other, but I had never really sat and looked at him. His skin was so smooth — he had dimples, curly sandy hair, and green eyes. When he smiled, he was really cute … classically cute. There was a reason he had dated the field hockey players in high school.

He took another long drag off the joint we had lit.

“It’s just like in the days of old,” he began again.

I snorted. “What did you say? In the days of old?” I laughed, and he did, too.

“Okay, okay. But it is like when they first came to look for gold or coal or whatever they can dig to make them richer. Now they dig foundations and new roads. Seems they’re never satisfied.”

“I don’t get it, Paul. You’re 22. You don’t have to be here. You can go anywhere, and you definitely don’t have to build for those people.”

He didn’t look at me. He was more torn up than he was letting on. He was feeling something in his chest he wouldn’t show on his face — his smooth face with the deep dimples. I had struck a nerve.

“Yeah, still…” Paul loved this valley. He had never left. “I help them move their dirt. I hate it. I tell the boys I hate it, but I need the work. I pay my debts and I close my eyes.”

He looked at me for that last one. That’s when I knew he liked me. He liked being with me, and he cared what I thought, and he hoped I wouldn’t judge him because he put on his gloves and told himself it would only be until he got ahead.

“What kind of debts?” I asked. He took a deep breath and stood up. I noticed there were some dark circles under his eyes. Too dark for a 22-year-old with dimples. He offered me a hand, but he didn’t answer me. He turned around in a circle on top of the peak. “If I could just climb mountains, I would. I fucking love being on top of a mountain. There should never be a road to the top of a mountain. If you want this, you should walk.”

I wished he would kiss me, but I didn’t know how to tell him.

“I guess there’s nothing that the past can do.” He was facing away from the clearcuts, to the valley on the other side. The trees were just beginning to change. They were still green, with tips of crimson and gold.

“What’s that mean?” I asked.

“It’s something my mother says.” His pants were still dirty from work site. Even after a wash, the dirt leathered the knees of the canvas. “She probably means what’s over is over and it can’t hurt you anymore. But you can look at it the other way, too. The past is kind of helpless. It can’t defend itself.”

“Oh.“ I turned away from him. I didn’t mind the seriousness. This was a good moment. As soon as you notice it, a moment will stand still for you. Time likes to be admired. But it always moves on. The present is always gone too soon. The next day I’d be putting my Bob Dylan tapes in the car stereo and trying not to cry when I said goodbye to my mother. He would be putting his head down and climbing onto a backhoe.

“What is next? What’s in the future, Paul?”

“The future is a bullet, and it just flies.”

“You are high.”

“Well, yeah.” We both laughed.

“I’ll be back.” I still wished he would kiss me.

“I’ll be here.” He wanted to kiss me, too, but he wouldn’t do it.

Story by Jes Raymond of  the Blackberry Bushes based on "Diggin’ on the Mountainside" by Town Mountain. Photo credit: etharooni / Foter / CC BY-ND.

Between the Lines: ‘I Should Live in Salt’

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“Don’t make me read your mind. If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

I don’t answer him right away. It’s hard for me to put my thoughts into words and I want to do my best to get it right. He bites his lip when it takes me too much time.

“I’m thinking,” I manage. “You should know me better than that.”

He sighs. “I should know you better than that.” He looks angry and sad. “You’re not that much like me, you know? People always say we’re so much alike, but it isn’t true.”

I nod but say nothing. He’s right — we are very different, but that’s not what I wanted to say. That’s his point, not mine.

“Can you turn the TV down?” I ask. He blinks a few times before standing up and walking over to our shabby old TV. Everything we own is old and shabby. The news is on and I can’t stand it. It’s always something heartbreaking these days. You tell yourself it’s only noise, but there’s too much crying in the sound. He pushes the power button harder than necessary and the screen goes black. I can still see the outline of the faces that were there only a moment ago, delivering our daily dose of depression through plastic smiles. Or maybe I can’t. I don’t know.

“Look, maybe we should try something else? Maybe you should try writing down what you want to say?” He’s calmer now. He’s been doing his exercises. Deep breathing, counting to 10, all that stuff. He grabs some paper and some pens, walks across the living room and puts them in front of me. I look at him with doubtful eyes.

“Just try,” he says.

“I don’t think I can.”

“Why not?”

I hesitate.

“Why not?”

“There’s no room to write it all.”

“No room?” He’s mad again. “No room? What are you talking about? When did you start to slide outta touch? Why do you have to be so …“ He takes a deep breath and clenches his jaw. After a few seconds of silence, he starts again. “I should leave it alone, but you're not right. You know you’re not right. There’s plenty of room. If you run out, I’ll get you more paper. If you can’t write it there, then write it on the damn wall, for all I care!”

He slumps down onto the couch and puts his head in his hands. It’s quiet for a few minutes. I like quiet. It’s easiest for me to think when there are no other sounds.

I don’t understand how people can use those ocean sounds to help themselves fall asleep. I could never do that. I need it to be absolutely silent. I guess we have different enemies. Mine is noise. Apparently, everyone else’s is silence. I think they should all learn to appreciate the void. “Please.” His head is still in his hands. “Please, just write something.”

I pick up a pen and push it to the page. It takes me a long time to think about something so much and the words aren’t coming out right. I start and stop several times. I can see him biting his lip again. I finish writing and put the pen back down. He stands behind me and reads the words out loud. “I should live in salt for leaving you behind.” He sounds confused. He looks from the paper to me and back down. “You should live in salt? What’s that supposed to mean?”

I’m quiet again. It doesn’t sound right when he reads the words out loud. I put my head down on the table and close my eyes.

“For God’s sake. Salt? Leaving me behind? What that hell does that mean?”

I say nothing.

“You get these ideas in your head. You tell yourself these things and then you just sit there in silence and I’m supposed to figure it out? Why does it have to be so difficult with you?”

I say nothing.

The table is cool and feels good against my skin.

“You should know me better than that.”

Story by Joshua Hyslop based on "I Should Live in Salt" by the National. Photo credit: / Foter / CC BY.

Between the Lines: ‘Karma Police’

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The announcement came over the crackling precinct speaker. The double tone. The emotionless voice: “Karma police. Battalion L to quadrant 3. Arrest this man.”

“Ah hell,” you said from the cot beside me. “Again?”

I sat up. Started strapping up my boots, groping for my club.

You looked over with hollow eyes, asked me what it all was for.

I ignored you. Holstered my taser.

“Think I can sit this one out?” you asked.

“Keep your voice down. They hear everything.”

The target’s description flashed on the monitors: He talks in maths. He buzzes like a fridge. He's like a detuned radio.

I knew the type. Intellectual. Humanitarian. Not sanctioned by the regime. I put my helmet on. Another double tone.

“Karma police. Battalion L to quadrant 2. Arrest this girl.”

The monitors lit up again. Something about her Hitler hairdo, the way she walks. Probably an artist. I was only half looking. Mostly worried about you. I knew what happened when you started questioning. I’d been there. Years ago.

Finally you got up. Helmet in hand. Hair disheveled. Holster empty. “This is all making me feel ill.”

“Just wait ‘til we have crashed her party,” I said. “You’ll feel better then.”

You absently buttoned your vest. “I’ve given all I can,” you breathed. “It’s never enough. Whose side are we on?”

“You know how many would kill to be on the force?”

You weren’t listening.

“But we’re still on the payroll.”

“Like I give a shit.”

“What about the kids?”

You looked up then. “What kind of role model am I?”

“You know what happens to deserters,” I tried.

So we went out. Fell in line. Locked step. Broke doors. Kept our eyes down. We did this every night. There were no stars above, even if we’d looked up. They’d been gone for years.

We found our target. He lived alone on the 50th floor of a 70-floor cinder block unit.

“This is what you’ll get,” I hollered, busting down the door with my club, “when you mess with us.”

I nodded for you to cuff him. You didn’t move. Just shook your head. You were still in the hall. You removed your helmet. I thought it was over then. I thought I might have to report you.

So I wrenched the target’s arm myself. Pathetic guy didn’t even resist.

I shouted at you.

You worked over your options. Would you run? Was there time? You knew your decision would kick off a lifetime of consequences.

“Don’t do this. Think of your girls.”

A minute passed. I thought you were a goner. But then your jaw loosened. Your shoulders dropped. You put your helmet back on, stepped up and cuffed the target hard, yanked him up, slammed him against the wall.

“Phew, for a minute there I lost myself,” you said and kicked him. I almost told you to cool it, but held my tongue. I was just glad you were back. Glad you’d done the right thing.

Story by David Berkeley based on "Karma Police" by Radiohead. Photo credit: Tony Webster / Foter / CC BY.

Between the Lines: ‘A Horse with No Name’

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On the first part of the journey, the part before my wreck and the horse and getting lost and things, I actually got a lot of work done. I'd been out in the Mojave Desert for three days collecting samples of lizard droppings for my doctoral thesis at the University of Paducah. Late in the late morning of the fourth day, I was looking at all the life there around my camp. There were plants and birds and rocks and things, and things that looked like rocks but turned out to be some really pristine samples of male Sauromalus ater droppings. Feeling like it's best to go out on top, I decided to head back to Paducah that day. I figured I could get to Tucumcari by midnight, and home late the next day.

I collected the last specimen, broke camp, and drove back down the one-lane desert road toward the state road and I-40. I was so excited about finding that Sauromalus scat that I mistakenly took a left at the fork instead of a right. I didn't realize this for a while, when there was sand and hills, and I felt like I'd been driving in rings around the desert. The road had narrowed to a track, with a hillside on my left and a dry riverbed to the right. This is the beginning of the second part of the journey. In attempting to back the truck up the track, I hit a soft spot and went off the road and rolled down the embankment 20 feet into the dry riverbed.

When I came to, the first thing I met was a fly with a buzz, and he was right in my face. The truck was on its side and there was the sky with no clouds through the broken passenger window. The heat was hot and I couldn't see out of my left eye. The ground was dry against my shoulder. The truck wasn't running, but the air was full of sound. The sound of thunder. I unbuckled myself and climbed out of the wrecked truck, and saw my precious lizard dung samples scattered around in the sand. I looked up when I felt the first heavy raindrops, and saw that the sky was dark and moving fast. Lightning flashed, thunder broke, the wind came up, and it began to rain in hard sheets. Water was flowing around my feet. I tried to carry an armful of specimens up the slippery bank to the road, but fell and dropped them all into the muddy torrent. Very soon after, the truck and all my work and belongings was swept away by the flood.

That's when I saw the horse. He was down the road 50 yards or so, standing and looking at me. He was black, with a white blaze on his forehead. I looked around, didn't see anyone else, and when I looked back he was walking toward me. The rain had let up and there was a little blue sky in the west, and a bit of sun coming through. The horse walked up, looked down at the water, looked up at me, and kept walking down the road in the direction I'd been heading.

"Hey Mr. Ed!" I called. He just kept walking. "Trigger! Velvet! Scout!" Still no response. "Hi ho, Silver! Pharaoh! Clover! Festus!" I followed along as he walked up the track, trying every name I knew. "Applejack! Pony! Ulysses! Major! Daisy! Babe! Gypsy! Patches! Dakota…" Eventually, I was running out of names, and I realized that we'd walked quite a distance and I was completely lost. "Virgil! Moonbeam! Bocephus! Feydra! Jake!" He stopped and looked up at "Jake." I'd done it! Then I realized he'd only stopped because a jackrabbit had run by. I started to think he might not have a name.

What would I tell my colleagues? That I've been through the desert on a horse with no name? They would certainly laugh at that. "Every horse has a name," they'd say. Well, regardless, it felt good to be out of the rain and I eventually gave up trying names on him. In the desert, they say because of the dry heat you can remember your name easily, but I think it's 'cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain in the ass about what your name is.

I kept following the horse, figuring he knew the way out of the desert.

We came out of the hills and down onto the plain, where there was a little grove of trees with a spring of cold water. I filled my canteen and the horse had some grass, as horses do. He then continued on across the desert, and I followed. After two days in the desert sun, my skin began to turn red because, of course, I hadn't grabbed my sunscreen from the truck before it washed away. After three days in the desert "fun," 
I was looking at a riverbed that had run dry. We had stopped in the shade of a mesquite tree to rest. I noted how wide the riverbed was, and the story it told of a river that flowed here made me sad to think it was dead, or dry at this time.


After nine days of this, I finally figured out he didn't know where he was going, as well as having no name. So, I let the horse run free, because the desert had turned to sea anyway, and I was sure I was near Encinitas or somewhere. There were plants and birds and rocks and things here, too, but different species and geology, of course. 
There was also sand and hills here, and the surf is so loud it rings in your ears. In a way, the ocean is a desert with it's life underground, or actually, I meant to say, underwater, and with a perfect disguise above. Back in civilization, under the cities lies a heart made of ground and concrete and wires and pipes, But the — we — humans will give no love to this heart/ground continuum.

I eventually made it back to Paducah safely. I sit here in my lab and look out over the leafy campus and wonder about that horse, and if anybody ever figured out what his name is.

Story by Freedy Johnston based on "A Horse with No Name" by America. Photo credit: Neil Kremer / Foter / CC BY-ND.

Between the Lines: ‘Porch Songs’

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This time of year always gets me thinking about my one true love. We were young and wild — untethered to anything but each other. We thought maybe we'd move out to the West Coast. To San Francisco. Or Portland. We didn't have much … just a bunch of dreams and a lot of energy.

We were a couple of folk singers back then. That's how we met. To head west, we booked a bunch of coffeehouse and dive bar gigs, hoping to cover our gas money. Man, every night, we'd be in the corner of some little joint with no one paying us any mind. We sang porch songs like we were rock stars trying to get somebody to listen. We wanted to look cool, but we didn't want to waste our cash, so we drank cheap beer and tried to make it last all night.

Then, next morning, it was back in the car, from the coast to the cornfields. Not sure what we were looking for. Maybe we were just looking for something else to call ourselves.

Every day, it was the same thing — drinking rest stop coffee and sending postcards back home. We took turns driving, and I remember staring out the window watching back seat scenes of strange towns flicker by. I imagined what their lives were like. I thought, “What if we just stayed in one of those towns?” But we'd just keep driving on.

One time, in the middle of the night, we took a wrong turn and ended up on a mountain in the pine trees. So we just pitched our tent and spent the night right there on the moonlit patch of earth. The next morning was just about the most beautiful morning I've ever seen. The scattered light breaking through the trees … that's a photograph in mind. All these years later, that one memory of a summer day, squinting at the sun on top of a mountain next to the girl I loved. I picked up a warm, flat stone to remind me of it all, and that I carry along for luck. Still.

Every night, we closed the bars like we were cowboys and then we wrote our names in the dirt by the side of the road so they knew we'd been there … if only until the next wind blew.

We got where we were going just as October came and the winter drew near with the cold fingers digging in under the ribs. But, even then, we made the most of it. We acted like we were campfire girls, kicking up the leaves, rolling around together like the kids we were. By then, we'd settled a little bit and we returned to our jobs with our clothes smelling of wood-smoke. And we still sang all those old porch songs. Every chance we got.

It's been a long time since our love has been like that. You know? I've been saving quarters for the toll roads. I have a jar full of 'em, just waiting for the chance. I think a change of scenery would do us some good. An adventure. We can pack the car tonight. We can leave town tomorrow and go anywhere we want. Put me on a porch swing out in Portland or put me on an F train and roll me back into Brooklyn. It doesn't matter where we go. As long as it's not here.

Story based on "Porch Songs" by Chris Pureka. Photo credit: / Foter / CC BY-SA.

Between the Lines: ‘On a Plain’

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I’ll start this off without any words. Well, I would. If I could paint, or sing, or run like a deer. I’m pretty clonky. So, words. A few anyway …

Yesterday, after work, I went out back of the old school. I had a tin of chewing tobacco that Uncle Mike left in the front seat of dad’s truck the last time he was here. I packed a little wad of it and put it in my mouth, way over on the side, in a ball, like I seen Uncle Mike do. After a minute, I got so high, I scratched til I bled. Just my arms. Ringold, the janitor, came around and looked at me funny. Then he saw my arms and looked at me funnier.

I started crying. The finest day I ever had was when I learned to cry on command. Remember that? We were both doing it, after awhile. Anyway, I started crying and old Ringold got all nervous and went inside.

I spat the tobacco out and went uptown and got some ice cream at the Pixie. For awhile I was all about the chocolate. Then I was on a strawberry kick. Now I’m on a plain. I can’t complain. Cools your mouth down after the tobacco.

I was gonna send you a birthday card. Oops! The black sheep got blackmailed again — forgot to put on the zip code. Oh well. Next time. Thought that counts and all.

My mother died every night. Remember? Even you heard the screams, next door. You were always like, “Your mom died again last night.” But maybe it was pleasure. At least, I hope it was. It might have been, sometimes. And if not, well, at least she felt something. (Safe to say, don’t quote me on that!)

They have a new fire engine over here. It’s not like the old siren. This one’s like, “ga-goo-ga!” Somewhere, I have heard this before. Los Alamos? In my dreams — that’s where my memories are stored. As a defense, they say your dreams are more vivid if you’re not getting any. Ha! That explains me! Heck, I’m neutered and spayed!

What the hell am I trying to say? Just this: You seem so bothered, so pressured, into spelling everything out for everyone. Not everything has to make sense. Even to you!

How about this: It is time now to make it unclear. To write off lines that don’t make sense.

Let them figure it out! Baudelaire, Rimbaud, those guys … they’d just write whatever came into their heads. You can do that, too. So can I, for that matter.

One more special message to go. Then I’m done and I can go home. Ready?

I love myself better than you.

Whew. There it is. Okay, Okay, I know it’s wrong. But what should I do? Start over? Become a monk? Take a vow of silence? Again, words! I’d give up the words, if I could make furniture, be a lion tamer.

But whatever. I’ve still got my ice cream.

Story by Dan Bern based on "On a Plain" by Nirvana. Photo credit: stevendepolo / Foter / CC BY.

Between the Lines: ‘She’s Already Made Up Her Mind’

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She had these green eyes that looked at me like no one had ever looked at me before. It's intoxicating to be looked at like that. Everything else in the world disappeared when I was with her. I knew I was in trouble right from the start. All my friends told me she was too young. I knew that myself and I tried to run. I did. I ran across seven states. But the faster I ran, the more I fell behind because she was always there with me. Like a memory of what might have been. Like a hope for what used to be. She's the dream I can't wake up from.

Still, I knew better than to fight her on it. That's a lesson I learned the hard way. Because, while there is nothing so deep as the ocean and there is nothing so high as the sky, there is also nothing unwavering as a woman when she's already made up her mind. Once she's dug in … best to just leave her be.

I did that.

Then I didn't.

That was my first mistake. Or, maybe, my third.

So now she's sitting at one end of the kitchen table and she is staring without an expression. Those green eyes of hers … absolutely blank. Like I could reach right through her and not touch a thing. I can hear the TV on in the other room and the dog barking outside as the big yellow school bus bucks and rumbles its way down the road. I can feel everything else in the world except her.

Here, in the kitchen, she's not looking at me. She is looking at the space between us and she is talking to me without moving her eyes. She's just talking. She said something about going home. She said something about needing to spend some time alone. “It's not you, it's me.” “I just need to figure some things out.” Like it was only a temporary break we were taking. And she wondered out loud what it was she had to find, but she'd already made up her mind. She'd already left without leaving.

I feel dead inside. In my heart and soul. But my body still has some life left in it. When that finally goes, my friend, carry me down to the water's edge and then sail with me out to that ocean deep. Let me go easy down over the side and let the water wash me clean, wash me away.

And remember me to her.

Story based on “She's Already Made Up Her Mind” by Lyle Lovett. Photo credit: squilla.dave / Foter / CC BY-SA.