The Other Side of the Linoleum

The puke green linoleum was starting to up heave on the dusty corner of the kitchen floor. Puff, blow. Small little dragons began to roam, only to be swept away suddenly by a gust of wind from the noisy rotating fan. Wait... for a very important date, she thought, some passage from a childhood story that used to scare her bad she'd pee in the bed. Wait, said the cobwebs in the window sill. Wait, sighed the refrigerator (you better go catch it). Puff, blow. More dragons, doomed for disintergration. A sweaty chill, rush of nicotine. Gazing off into infiniteness; the only way to concentrate is if things become all blurry. What would she say? The usual condolences? The sorries. They were empty, pointless, rude. No, she needed something better. Something would give her depth and at the same time make everything okay. She always came first; people would have to begin to understand that. She was top priority and everyone else was just french fries. She reflected for a short moment that perhaps that characteristic was what had gotten her into this mess, but refused to take the blame for anything and quickly crushed the dragon maker in her hand. She stood up, acknowledging the dull ache in her back, and headed for the door. No thoughts now, she said, nothing to block the intensity. Out the door, up to the car. The car, which seemed to be, yes, eating something... yes, eating him. Good, she thought. Eat away. Need a napkin dear? I'll get one. He took his head out of the car's mouth and spoke to her. This single act, so mindless, so routine, made her neck stiffen and her jaw set tight. How dare he ask me for a wrench! She angered. She casually picked up the tool and her arm began to scream. Throw it, Whore! Throw it right at his stupid little head and watch it shatter while you smoke another fucking cigarette!

But don't worry. That didn't happen.

She handed him the wrench, deep down inside all full of anger, but on the outside she managed a smirk and lightly placed the tool in his greasy hands... hands that later that night and a million nights before and after would caress her naked body, lying on dirty sheets, lying on a small twin bed, lying in a small cramped room, lying in a trailer in a trailer park behind Hefty Harry's Stop 'N Shop. That, too, lying in a small town, next to a bigger town in a small county on the poor end of the state. South, as it usually ended up. She wouldn't be able to do it... not now. Not ever, as it seemed lately. To leave him, helpless as she thought he was. Some motherly instinct? No. But her character naturally demanded that she take care of people. I think this was a little conceited on her part... that she thought she was capable of taking on this task, when, as it seemed, she did a pretty shitty job of taking care of herself. Don't get the wrong impression though, about our heroine... she's not a wimp. Not a whiny bitch. She just gets irritated that people don't live their lives the way she thinks they should; therefore, she takes on the "responsibility" of them. Maybe it is just motherly instinct and I'm full of shit. Maybe she's not as complicated a creature as I make her out to be, but you'll never know. Who's telling the story here? Anyway, let's get back to our heroine... the literary kind... not the shit that kids sniff or shoot up or whatever the hell they do with it.

...to be continued.


Section 1 Perhaps the sentiments contained in the following pages, are not yet sufficiently fashionable to procure them general favor; a long habit of not thinking a thing wrong, gives it a superficial appearance of being right, and raises at first a formidable outcry in defence of custom. But tumult soon subsides. Time makes more converts than reason. Thomas Paine Common Sense

In this land is a refuge for a man from wrongs, for one fearing scalding hatred, a place to withdraw. -Arabian Ode in "L" "You're not even human fucking beings! You're nothing but unorganized, grabastic pieces of amphibian shit!" -Full Metal Jacket	Warning The contents of the following pages are the expressed property of the author. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the author and creator of this page.
	Parental Warning This contents of the following work are of a sensitive and intense nature, and may not suitable for children. They contain some profane language and sexual situations. Please be advised.

linoleum The puke green linoleum was starting to up heave on the dusty corner of the kitchen floor. Puff, blow. Small little dragons began to roam, only to be swept away suddenly by a gust of wind from the noisy rotating fan. Wait... for a very important date, she thought, some passage from a childhood story that used to scare her bad she'd pee in the bed. Wait, said the cobwebs in the window sill. Wait, sighed the refrigerator (you better go catch it). Puff, blow. More dragons, doomed for disintergration. A sweaty chill, rush of nicotine. Gazing off into infiniteness; the only way to concentrate is if things become all blurry. What would she say? The usual condolences? The sorries. They were empty, pointless, rude. No, she needed something better. Something would give her depth and at the same time make everything okay. She always came first; people would have to begin to understand that. She was top priority and everyone else was just french fries. She reflected for a short moment that perhaps that characteristic was what had gotten her into this mess, but refused to take the blame for anything and quickly crushed the dragon maker in her hand. She stood up, acknowledging the dull ache in her back, and headed for the door. No thoughts now, she said, nothing to block the intensity. Out the door, up to the car. The car, which seemed to be, yes, eating something... yes, eating him. Good, she thought. Eat away. Need a napkin dear? I'll get one. He took his head out of the car's mouth and spoke to her. This single act, so mindless, so routine, made her neck stiffen and her jaw set tight. How dare he ask me for a wrench! She angered. She casually picked up the tool and her arm began to scream. Throw it, Whore! Throw it right at his stupid little head and watch it shatter while you smoke another fucking cigarette! But don't worry. That didn't happen. She handed him the wrench, deep down inside all full of anger, but on the outside she managed a smirk and lightly placed the tool in his greasy hands... hands that later that night and a million nights before and after would caress her naked body, lying on dirty sheets, lying on a small twin bed, lying in a small cramped room, lying in a trailer in a trailer park behind Hefty Harry's Stop 'N Shop. That, too, lying in a small town, next to a bigger town in a small county on the poor end of the state. South, as it usually ended up. She wouldn't be able to do it... not now. Not ever, as it seemed lately. To leave him, helpless as she thought he was. Some motherly instinct? No. But her character naturally demanded that she take care of people. I think this was a little conceited on her part... that she thought she was capable of taking on this task, when, as it seemed, she did a pretty shitty job of taking care of herself. Don't get the wrong impression though, about our heroine... she's not a wimp. Not a whiny bitch. She just gets irritated that people don't live their lives the way she thinks they should; therefore, she takes on the "responsibility" of them. Maybe it is just motherly instinct and I'm full of shit. Maybe she's not as complicated a creature as I make her out to be, but you'll never know. Who's telling the story here? Anyway, let's get back to our heroine... the literary kind... not the shit that kids sniff or shoot up or whatever the hell they do with it. ...to be continued.