Post by JESSE RYAN WOOD on Apr 8, 2010 23:21:05 GMT -5
JESSE RYAN WOOD
SEVENTEEN, JUNIOR, DAMON ALBARN
[/font]SEVENTEEN, JUNIOR, DAMON ALBARN
THIS WON'T HURT
YOUR GUY SIDE[/center]
MORE THAN A PINCH
YOUR GIRL SIDE
YOUR GIRL SIDE
SO JUST POUR A DRINK
YOUR APPEARANCE
YOUR APPEARANCE
LET'S TALK IT OVER
YOUR EMBARRASSMENTS
YOUR EMBARRASSMENTS
I'M BACK AFTER
YOUR HEALTH
YOUR HEALTH
ALL THESE YEARS
YOUR TRAVELING
YOUR TRAVELING
DON'T BE AFRAID, MY DEAR
YOUR EXPERIENCES
YOUR EXPERIENCES
NOW I'M OLDER
YOUR RELATIONSHIPS
YOUR RELATIONSHIPS
CAUSE PEOPLE CHANGE
HONESTY AND CRIME
HONESTY AND CRIME
CAN'T YOU SEE MY EYES
DEATH AND SUICIDE
DEATH AND SUICIDE
ARE THEY NOT THE SAME
MATERIALISM
MATERIALISM
AFTER THE LIES
RANDOM
RANDOM
I KNOW I'M LIKE A MACHINE
THE PUPPETEER
THE PUPPETEER
[/b] years old. you can contact me through pm me
yo! the name's sam and i happen to be fifteen
[/color] or through my other characters, n/a[/color]. i've had five years under my belt, i know what i'm doing. oh one last thing, i just wanna say any last words[/color], now i'll show you what i really got.[/color][/size][/blockquote][/blockquote]Fidelity, Illinois - a two bedroom apartment on Marquette Avenue. A burly man stumbles into the front room, a thick scent of alcohol permeating the air as he enters. On the rust colored couch sits blonde woman, Carolyn Cooper, her youth masked by the presence of dark circles and wrinkles carved into her face. Next to her lies a sleeping, curly-headed blond boy of two – her son, her pride and joy, Tommy. The only noise in the apartment is the laugh track on the Roseanne rerun playing on the cheap television just a few feet away from her. Her husband's shift ended three hours ago - he's home late, after he promised he'd be there. This isn't an unusual occurrence - it's becoming more and more orthodox as each week passes. Today, however, she's going to take a stand. Determined to set her husband straight, she's practiced her speech for hours on end in the bathroom mirror today. She’s not about to let this marriage go to shreds, not with their financial state and another child on the way.
"James?" she questions cautiously, her voice rising just above a whisper. The man grunts in response. "Where have you been?"
Next to her, the boy stirs from his sleep, his eyes slowly widening. He squints up at his mother and asks in a feeble, confused voice, "Mommy?"
"It's okay, baby," she murmurs as she absently brushes ringlets of hair from his face. "James, where have you been?" She's still facing forward, not daring to look at him. No - she has to look at him. Her plan's disintegrating, and with it, this relationship. Her head turns sharply, glaring at him.
"Bowling," he grunts, ambling to the table and setting his car keys down. He staggers toward the fridge, grabs a Miller Lite bottle, and cracks the lid off without hesitation, froth spilling over the top and onto his hands.
She stands up and lilts over to James. He leans away as she draws near him, but she manages to sneak in a peck on the cheek, her lips grazing his coarse whiskers. "Well...James, baby," she begins, her voice smothered with a rural inflection, "you promised to be home right after work."
"Too late for that."
"And this isn't the first time it's happened, you know." She seems to ignore his last statement as her voices increases in volume and speed. "Last Thursday you said you'd be home before nine, and you stayed at Weston Tucker's house ‘til two, nearly three in the morning! And Tommy's always asking why you're never here. He - he needs a father."
At the sound of his name, the boy looks over the back of the sofa. His mother and father fight often, but he's confused now: mommy never fights with daddy when he comes home like this. There's an overwhelming tension in the air, almost as thick as the summer's moist.
"Screw the kid. You're the one who got knocked up, not me," James remarks, an expression of apathy drawn across his sunken face.
"What is this, James?" Carolyn shouts. Ignoring her, he begins to stumble towards the bedroom, but she grabs his wrist and attempts to pull him closer. "You can't just do this. He's your son, too, you can't just - you can't just escape with booze and - and I know it's not bowling, James, you're fucking anything with two legs, and it's obvious to me and everyone in thi-"
Her rant is interrupted by a swift jab in her face, courtesy of her husband's fist. She shrieks and grabs frantically at her face, tears welling up in her eyes, then falls back into a kitchen chair. Blood starts to trickle out of her nose, and she's sobbing, louder now as her husband exits to the bedroom. The little boy stares at her, his hero, wounded in a valiant effort to defend them. She glances over at him, and as he spots the crimson stream coming from her nose he begins screaming and crying, scared to death, the sound of his shrieks drowning out her sobs.
And then he woke up. Tangled up in a thin, paper-white blanket, his fists clenching the sheets below him, a sixteen year old Tommy picked his head up, panting heavily, and loosened his grip on the sheets. He could feel his perspiration all over, the sweat dripping out his pores. His hair, in a rare state of untidiness, felt as though it were drenched as he grazed his trembling hand along its surface.
"Jesus – oh, Christ," he murmured, pulling the blanket off of him. Gingerly, so as not to awaken his roommate, he stood up and tip toed towards the window, tentatively seating himself on the edge of the window bed, back to the stars and moon. He gazed down at his feet, still trying to catch his breath.
What the hell was happening to him? The nightmares had occurred sporadically over the years back at home, but they were now becoming a nightly terror for him. It was always the same scene: a toddler Tommy, watching from the couch as his mom tried to defend him and consequently getting knocked around for it. He always woke up the same way, with balled fists and feeling asphyxiated, as if the dream had evolved into something human - something sinister that crawled through the shadows and wrapped its tiny tingling fingers around his neck as he slept...
Now his imagination was getting away. It was a dream, nothing more, and stupid of him to think of it as anything but. Why couldn't he just realize it was a memory from a long, long time ago? It was old, null and void. He'd escaped from that barren wasteland of corn and rednecks and whisky stains and lipstick traces and now he was here, his own little have.
Shaking his head at his own perceived stupidity, he twisted around to look out at the sky. Scrutinizing the stars, he tried to find the invisible lines that formed constellations. Tommy adored the sky - the whole universe, really. The stars, planets, moons, galaxies...he'd love to get lost in it, in the infinite inky sky, to just float away and maybe watch the earth without him in it. He’d watch a happy Carolyn and a happy James who never married because, well, the impetus wasn't there. What a beautiful life they would have lived with no Tommy.
"James?" she questions cautiously, her voice rising just above a whisper. The man grunts in response. "Where have you been?"
Next to her, the boy stirs from his sleep, his eyes slowly widening. He squints up at his mother and asks in a feeble, confused voice, "Mommy?"
"It's okay, baby," she murmurs as she absently brushes ringlets of hair from his face. "James, where have you been?" She's still facing forward, not daring to look at him. No - she has to look at him. Her plan's disintegrating, and with it, this relationship. Her head turns sharply, glaring at him.
"Bowling," he grunts, ambling to the table and setting his car keys down. He staggers toward the fridge, grabs a Miller Lite bottle, and cracks the lid off without hesitation, froth spilling over the top and onto his hands.
She stands up and lilts over to James. He leans away as she draws near him, but she manages to sneak in a peck on the cheek, her lips grazing his coarse whiskers. "Well...James, baby," she begins, her voice smothered with a rural inflection, "you promised to be home right after work."
"Too late for that."
"And this isn't the first time it's happened, you know." She seems to ignore his last statement as her voices increases in volume and speed. "Last Thursday you said you'd be home before nine, and you stayed at Weston Tucker's house ‘til two, nearly three in the morning! And Tommy's always asking why you're never here. He - he needs a father."
At the sound of his name, the boy looks over the back of the sofa. His mother and father fight often, but he's confused now: mommy never fights with daddy when he comes home like this. There's an overwhelming tension in the air, almost as thick as the summer's moist.
"Screw the kid. You're the one who got knocked up, not me," James remarks, an expression of apathy drawn across his sunken face.
"What is this, James?" Carolyn shouts. Ignoring her, he begins to stumble towards the bedroom, but she grabs his wrist and attempts to pull him closer. "You can't just do this. He's your son, too, you can't just - you can't just escape with booze and - and I know it's not bowling, James, you're fucking anything with two legs, and it's obvious to me and everyone in thi-"
Her rant is interrupted by a swift jab in her face, courtesy of her husband's fist. She shrieks and grabs frantically at her face, tears welling up in her eyes, then falls back into a kitchen chair. Blood starts to trickle out of her nose, and she's sobbing, louder now as her husband exits to the bedroom. The little boy stares at her, his hero, wounded in a valiant effort to defend them. She glances over at him, and as he spots the crimson stream coming from her nose he begins screaming and crying, scared to death, the sound of his shrieks drowning out her sobs.
And then he woke up. Tangled up in a thin, paper-white blanket, his fists clenching the sheets below him, a sixteen year old Tommy picked his head up, panting heavily, and loosened his grip on the sheets. He could feel his perspiration all over, the sweat dripping out his pores. His hair, in a rare state of untidiness, felt as though it were drenched as he grazed his trembling hand along its surface.
"Jesus – oh, Christ," he murmured, pulling the blanket off of him. Gingerly, so as not to awaken his roommate, he stood up and tip toed towards the window, tentatively seating himself on the edge of the window bed, back to the stars and moon. He gazed down at his feet, still trying to catch his breath.
What the hell was happening to him? The nightmares had occurred sporadically over the years back at home, but they were now becoming a nightly terror for him. It was always the same scene: a toddler Tommy, watching from the couch as his mom tried to defend him and consequently getting knocked around for it. He always woke up the same way, with balled fists and feeling asphyxiated, as if the dream had evolved into something human - something sinister that crawled through the shadows and wrapped its tiny tingling fingers around his neck as he slept...
Now his imagination was getting away. It was a dream, nothing more, and stupid of him to think of it as anything but. Why couldn't he just realize it was a memory from a long, long time ago? It was old, null and void. He'd escaped from that barren wasteland of corn and rednecks and whisky stains and lipstick traces and now he was here, his own little have.
Shaking his head at his own perceived stupidity, he twisted around to look out at the sky. Scrutinizing the stars, he tried to find the invisible lines that formed constellations. Tommy adored the sky - the whole universe, really. The stars, planets, moons, galaxies...he'd love to get lost in it, in the infinite inky sky, to just float away and maybe watch the earth without him in it. He’d watch a happy Carolyn and a happy James who never married because, well, the impetus wasn't there. What a beautiful life they would have lived with no Tommy.
BUT I STILL HAVE DREAMS
THE CREDITS
hey, hey, hey, this app template was made by SASS ATTACK ?! aka AJ at CAUTION 2.0. and you all know she'll eat your face if you try and remove the credit. the lyrics are from one day robots will cry by cobra starship and the template was inspired by a facebook survey.
[/size]THE CREDITS
hey, hey, hey, this app template was made by SASS ATTACK ?! aka AJ at CAUTION 2.0. and you all know she'll eat your face if you try and remove the credit. the lyrics are from one day robots will cry by cobra starship and the template was inspired by a facebook survey.
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