Tag: dream
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MLK the Oompa Loompa Way

- by Typewriter Fox

It’s a shame how it always ends up with a walk away. I had been doing okay. Minding my own business. At least as much as the demons, and the state of a bank account skinnier than a tweaked out meth-head squatting on a ham sandwich behind a Q.D. dumpster, would allow. Overall, I was doing… better. Piss bottle collection was under control. And briefly listed on Neighbor Net. For a city in which I’ve never actually lived. At least until they yanked the ad–”Guaranteed to help you fail your drug test! Paternity hormones extra. Local pick-up only.”   The horrible smell in the bathroom was finally traced to the worn out silicone sex toy under the sink. The one with what appeared to be the moldy …

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Old Town Blues

- by Typewriter Fox

Lightning flashed bright above the skeletons in a strange city. Cold October rain ran down the back of a neck collared in high-viz blues. An inhospitable wind blew in west from the big lake, carrying with it the last kisses of those warm weather collisions. But I stood alone in the rain that hollow Saturday night. Felt the shift of the seasons on a greying face. The one turned over towards the river. And there, amidst the blustering of that storm, I felt myself hurting for her. Rows of Old Town brick houses stood guard over a spot that was special only to us. Because it was once the place where we just couldn’t bring ourselves to say goodbye. I will never forget that day. We …

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🦊+1 = WTF

- by Typewriter Fox

It shouldn’t really be a surprise that I have never written about her. Because foxes sometimes need to keep their secrets, too. She is the one story I want to keep pure; she is the one secret I could never bring myself to fully reveal. Because reveling in those memories still makes me happy. And it seems somehow cruel to heartlessly release them out into the wild for others to consume.  I would never want to be accused of exploiting past glories for the potential of gaining future shenanigans. Some considerations are meant for more gentle captivity. And I have been trying my best to respect those boundaries. Even though I would embarrassingly crawl on my hands and knees across 127 miles of broken glass just …

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Probing Uranus

- by Typewriter Fox

I am not sure I will ever understand why things tend to get weird around this time of year.  Maybe it’s the turn in weather away from the arctic nothingness. That seasonal pivot towards the mushy in-between time. Maybe it’s the fact that the days are getting noticeably longer. Or perhaps it’s the lingering threat of springing into some as yet unknown direction. But something is triggering all this seasonal uncertainty. There are too many variables left lurking. Too many unanswered questions; too many chances to take another wrong turn. Too many tests still left to take. And too fucking many important things yet to be said.  So I have to be careful. It had been a typical mittened Monday night spent kicking uncooperative 517 metal …

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My Immortal

- by Typewriter Fox

“Please, Fox. Don’t let me fall.” Her voice nearly broke in six words. She sounded small. Somehow younger. It was almost like I blinked. And in that fractured splitting of a second, the fearless powerhouse of a woman with whom I was so familiar had morphed into a defenseless little girl. The worst possible magic trick imaginable. And I didn’t know what the fuck I was I supposed to do with that request. It triggered a familiar “soldier mode.” That almost clinical shutting down of emotion. Because at that moment, she needed me to be brave. And I refused to disappoint her. The entirety of her tribe wants her to fight. To accept the invasive treatments not guaranteeing anything beyond maybe a little more time. And …

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The Fox

- by Typewriter Fox

I woke up in a panic. It wasn’t the usual, had the same fucking dream, kind of panic that I’m used to facing when eyes crack open.  But rather, it was the variety I only experience when I’m on the road.   I glanced at the bluffs overlooking the Ohio outside my balcony window to help ground me.  And for once, I can honestly say that I was thankful for the existence of Kentucky. After hastily getting dressed, I zombied down to the lower level after a detour to the parking lot.  I needed some smoke to help chase away the fog.  As I sat on the ledge overlooking the hilltop entrance, I couldn’t help but miss the convenience of immediate self-destruction. But I guess those days …

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The Escape

- by Typewriter Fox

It was a foggy start to the break.  And for once, I’m not talking about the usual, self-inflicted hangover variety. A thick blanket of actual fog obscured The City, a fact noticed immediately after my two asshole cats woke me with the pointless insanity of their morning zoomies performed right across my face.  A first glance out the window made me think it was time to maybe change my contacts.  Those daily disposables that I habitually wear until they decide to plop themselves off my eyeballs all on their own. But no, it was just Mother Nature in her white robe.  Bringing a rarely displayed layer of modesty to The City.  Because for a brief moment, if you squinted just the right way with stale contact …

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Sunday Coffee

- by Typewriter Fox

Blue Owl S. Washington The days all seem to start out the same way. Same intro; same cup of coffee. Same view of the same people. Admittedly, there is some comfort in that familiarity. But change is more fun. I guess maybe that is why there is always that push. Because laurels aren’t meant for resting. They are meant for pasta water—we just call them bay leaves when we do that. So let’s get something cooking, yeah? Maybe even incorporate that low hanging literary fruit I just picked. Mash it up. Let it ferment into a higher proof. Or like me, decompose slow at the back of the fridge, forgotten and unpalatable. Mix up the metaphors. Shaken, not bacon. Squeeze out the gooey center. Because that …

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The Opening Part Two: The Closer

- by Typewriter Fox

Eerybody has been asking about the status of the second part of the story.  But honestly, I debated even writing it.  She did say that Part One was a lovely opening to an experience that had left her mind reeling.  As admittedly mine had been, too, ever since the taillights of her green Subaru faded south, leaving The City to feel that much more empty in her sudden absence. My weiner was starting to feel a little peculiar about it all, too.  Not sure about how hers was feeling.  Things not meant to cling were starting to get sticky.  Weird, but in a way not entirely unpleasant.  Like going to the gym drunk. But I still found myself hesitating. And it didn’t really help literary matters …

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The Opening: Part One

- by Typewriter Fox

She walked right into the story, just like she had always done before. And exactly when I fucking needed her the most—funny how we always seem to work that way.  Through a string of ridiculous occurrences, a significant collection of my doodles ended up on an actual art gallery wall. In an official show. In all their quirky, unrepentant glory. Such was my excitement at the stupid shit I drew garnering some actual attention, I broke the cardinal rule of “coolness” and showed up early for the opening celebration, rather than fashionably late. And I cannot help but blame that faux pas on the nature of my day job. Which is actually a night job. One demanding a strict adherence to time if we are going …

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