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FFM6 - Two for One
"I'll tell you what; have a bite and see if you like it first. There's no harm in that, is there? You want to try a hobby out before you go to the trouble of getting all the materials for it, don't you?" He searched her eyes in earnest.
They stared back, empty.
"All right, bad example. But trust me on this, yeah? By the way, did anyone ever tell you, you have the most beautiful eyes? What is beauty! You can't judge a book by it's cover, am I right? Well, sure, bad example. But I'm certain that what's behind those eyes is even more alluring. You're a fine lady, a lady of depth and decision. So, how's about it?"
She stared, but her hand crept out ever so slightly. There seemed to be an uncertainty in the way she swayed on her little white feet.
This encouraged him. "That's right, love. That's right. Work with me Oh, the delights you'll experience! You can't even begin to imagine! I know, I know. Life can be so dull. But when you try new things, when you put yourself out on a
FFM4 - The Picter Man
There's a man in the town that takes photo-graphs. It's a queer fella if'n I e'er met one. Ma says it's the waters he's allus puttin' 'is fingers in fer the picters. I ain' know nuthin' 'bout that, but he's right strange if'n you ask me. He's got these big ol' spect'cles on 'is face that make 'is eyes bug out like a caterpiller's.
When we gone into 'is shop, he give us candy but none us chillun like 'im much 'cuz he's odd. Ain' got no wife ner chilluns of 'is own, an' he's allus in the shop late some nights with on'y one lamp lit. Ma says it's 'cuz he likes the dark better an' anyways it's fer the picters, but I don' know nuthin' 'bout those things. There's ropes of papers with picters on 'em like cloths strung up 'round the room back of 'is shop. I ne'er been in there, but Tommy Caldwell has an' he told me 'isself. The church ladies says he once had 'isself a wife, but she gone an' pass't an' he still beside 'isself with grief. Tommy Caldwell says he been tryin' to get a picter of her
five hour energyi suppose
last week was only an aftershock
of the earthquake you were before.
this place used to vibrate
with metal strings and melodic,
testimonies to life,
emitting coffee-scented moods
and the burn of it too.
i had memorized the
sounds of silence,
i couldn't help but relish it.
no longer had i known
the sounds of folk
and scent of mocha-
you became nothing more
than an echo of the laughter
i so desperately needed to hear again.
then the echoes got louder,
bouncing ferociously off the walls
to be made manifest
i walked into your room
expecting exactly what i found-
an unmade bed,
and an empty beer
(the one that you insisted you needed
just days ago).
i pressed my nose
into the pillow
for incense and cologne and starbucks
to penetrate my mind
and thinking fervently
i already know
what a clean sheet smells like."
how strong an aftershock can be,
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