Thursday, November 01, 2007
Tommy's gun



There was a gun on the table. It was an updated six shooter, the sort butting out of a cop’s utility belt. I’d never seen one like this before. It was just there: still, calm, all potential and no bang. I was horrified by all of that potential. Like staring down into the ocean from a cruise ship, with no idea how to swim. Get anywhere near that sea of tranquility and you’ll run out of air pretty quickly. And a shot is even quicker than a gasp. So I asked her, “What is that doing here?”

“It’s a fancy paperweight. Try and disturb my shit and bang!” She cocked both hands into the shape of a Tommy gun and began to mow down imaginary attackers with invisible bullets. They sounded more like drops of rain than bullets though, “Pewpewpewpewpewpewpewpew!” Was this really a grown woman’s kitchen I was sitting in?

“A normal rock would suffice, don’t you think?”

“A girl can’t be too careful. Don’t worry, it’s all legal. Got the papers right over there.” She pointed to a stack of papers sitting in the next room. Bills, magazines, junk mail, if it was there, she was doing a fine job of keeping it securely hidden. Wish she’d done the same with the gun.

posted by ezruh sellof at 1:44 PM 1 comments
1 Comments:
Blogger MertMengelmier said...

Have you heard that song Janie's Got A Gun by that band Aerosmith? Perhaps the greatest song ever? Jes.

10:08 AM  

Post a Comment



Friday, September 21, 2007
Maybe another time.


painting by Anthony Goicolea, Wallflower (bloody nose), 2005

If you really want to know, there were song birds singing and there was a scent of lavender in the air.

It's a lovely story, really, but it ends with a punch in the nose. Maybe another time.

posted by ezruh sellof at 5:55 PM 0 comments
0 Comments:

Post a Comment



Thursday, September 13, 2007
Dick's day off.



Richard, Dick actually, no one called him Richard (especially the people who didn't like him), was late for work. It was 11:37 am and he had not yet gotten out of bed. Since his alarm first went off at 7:30 am that morning, he had, on average, rolled over once every 2 and a half minutes, flopped from belly to back every 5, and grunted sporadically during these futile attempts to fall back asleep.

At around 9:00 am, Dick stopped his alarm from buzzing by tearing it from the wall socket and chucking it across the room, knocking a copy of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea into his fish bowl. Charlie Chaplin, his goldfish, didn't seem to mind. As many times as Dick grunted that morning, Charlie was surprised to find a new addition to his 8" by 10" fishbowl. This was not an unpleasant experience.

Dick hadn't slept well until around 4:30 am when he finally fell into a deep sleep. At that point, the exhaustion was too much even for his coffee reinforced nervous system. He'd finally powered down. So when he was woken up only three hours later, he felt a great sense of indignity and decided to play hooky, even if it meant a day of restless shuffling around his queen sized bed.

At around 10:00 am, he unplugged his phone. It only took a couple of rings for him to recognize the danger of leaving that line of communication open. There would be no one to stop him from rolling and tossing and turning and grunting and shifting. He could even flip and flop and fold and curl if he was so inclined. It was his day, and he didn't need anyone else to give him a reason to be uncomfortable.

It was liberating.

posted by ezruh sellof at 12:08 AM 1 comments
1 Comments:
Anonymous sweepstakes said...

word.
(didn't have anything much more specific to say, i enjoyed reading the story, just felt like leaving a comment so you knew that someone read it.)

also: my own blog site is being born right now. no more myspace blog bullshit for me. more info when the baby is out of the hospital.

1:11 PM  

Post a Comment



Thursday, February 01, 2007
Commuting #4



The fans overhead were loud, making conversation difficult. More frustrating was the dense awkwardness which had settled on our shoulders, clenching invisible fingers around our throats whenever we tried to speak. To be sure, not much was said standing there under Grand Central waiting for the 7 train to Times Square. Even after the train arrived and we sat kitty corner to each other in the less noisy, yet crowded subway car, the prior moment's silence seemed to resonate, continuing to smother conversation. So we settled on smiling and raising our eyebrows. Half smiles, like toothpicks were raising our cheeks. A couple of times I pointed to funny subway ads. Another crooked grin, followed by some noncommittal nodding - yeah, that's funny, I guess, if you like that kind of thing. I tapped my feet, she pulled on her sleeves.

A few minutes later when we reached Port Authority she went south and I went north. Across the platform from each other, we waved goodbye before my train took me uptown. After I pulled away, she must have breathed a sigh of relief. I tapped my feet some more in time with the rattling subway door.

Perhaps I should have introduced myself.

posted by ezruh sellof at 12:04 AM 3 comments
3 Comments:
Blogger Liz said...

Hey, I know that girl. It's me!

10:46 AM  
Blogger MertMengelmier said...

That girl is not Liz, it's me. And man oh man, what a moment we shared there.

4:52 PM  
Blogger Aziphrale said...

Nice write man.

9:15 AM  

Post a Comment



Friday, October 06, 2006
Gray Eyes



I have to write something. Their existence and power must be documented for posterity. For the children.

She had gray eyes. Who has gray eyes? Slate snow silver plains like you've never seen. Martian maybe. Thinking back, all I really remember is the color. Her eyes could have spanned from her widows peak to her cleft chin, but I don't recall enough to say otherwise. My entire thought process, every gray cell I could muster, was focused on those carbon down irises.

"Paper or plastic?" she asked. My response was delayed, simple, and all I had to say.

"Whoa, you have beautiful eyes." I was told once by a female friend accustomed to men celebrating her figure with whistles and claps that complimenting a woman's appearance is not necessarily rude or disrespectful if done properly. This was not one of those ways.

"I mean, wow, like, are they real?" Her hand snapped up, closing the the top button of her uniform. Her head titled to the side and she dropped her jaw in awe of my seemingly piggish audacity.

"No, no! I mean the color of your eyes! Really, they're just so...gray." She straightened her soldiers and breathed a loud huff of air through her nose.

"Yes, they're my real eyes," she hissed.

"They're awesome, just awesome," I responded, not picking up on her irritation. Breaking my stare, I began to feel uncomfortable at how creepy I was becoming. I began fumbling through my wallet. "Umm...how much?"

"That'll be $6.97." She passed me my purchases in a plastic bag: Astronomer's Weekly and a Milky Way. As I handed her the money I tried not to look, but was caught again by the beauty of those amazing moon colored spheres. I could take no more.

I ran: straight out of the store and into my car, driving as fast as I could to the hills at the east edge of town. When I reached the cliff, I jumped out of the car without bothering to turn off the engine. Standing on the mouth of the fall, looking down at the city, I screamed. I yelled and I hollered. I lost my voice. My emotions are under my control, I thought, no woman can take power over me. I screamed some more. It was all I could do.

posted by ezruh sellof at 1:47 AM 0 comments
0 Comments:

Post a Comment



Wednesday, October 04, 2006
The Days of Miracle and Wonder



I'm going to write a play called 'The Days of Miracle and Wonder' all about post-graduate life. It's a miracle when something goes well and it's a wonder it doesn't go worse. Paul Simon will recieve this thanks in the dedication,

To Paul - My dad loves your album.

It'll be set in Portland. Maybe it'll even be funny.

posted by ezruh sellof at 2:03 AM 1 comments
1 Comments:
Blogger MertMengelmier said...

It sounds like Kicking & Screaming, a 1995-movie by Noah Baumbach.

12:39 PM  

Post a Comment



Saturday, September 09, 2006
More Jersey nature writing


You had to be there.
Against a deep blue canvas, with soft pink-purple overtones sit two dim stars. New Jersey is an awful tourist spot for those who like to find their heavens by simply looking up. I believe heaven rests to the east; our sky is actually the bottom of the river Styx. Those two stars are torches marking the western shore. Or they are the last two anglerfish in the underworld, damned for all eternity to float aimlessly, hungry and lonely.

With such a dearth of heavenly splendor hanging above our homes we are at least comforted by the occasionally pink moon and our technicolor sunsets. Indeed, when our rotation brings the sun and moon, those heavenly bodies, within our horizon, they graciously customize their hue and shade to make up for an underwhelming night sky. Like autumn revealing Jersey's beauty, the transition from afternoon to night is our most beautiful time of day. It couldn't provide us with a happier image if Bob Ross had painted it himself. Where there's purple, there's blue. When there's blue, there's gold. If gold, then red. After red, comes pink. Next to pink is the darkest, most cavernous slate nature can muster. An astounding sight produced by pollution and haze, without help from a single twinkling celestial notable. We don't need stars in New Jersey, those glam rockers of the galaxy, those patsies of points beyond, dandies of the Milky Way. Our sky appreciates the value of considered composition. We take our time, and between day and night we get nature's charisma in a small dose before going back about our business. Who has time to spend standing still, neck craned skyward at the great up there anyway?

posted by ezruh sellof at 1:53 AM 1 comments
1 Comments:
Blogger MertMengelmier said...

Are you stoned, dude?

12:57 PM  

Post a Comment