• Posted: Sep 24, 2009 17:38:45
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"I spit on you."
"What did you say?"
"Spots, sir. You have spots on your jacket. Here, let me help."
People come back, and not infrequently. The spot's atmosphere is eery, undeniably haunting. The seeds of many a discomforting nightmare have been born here.
He was joking. When I asked where he was from, he told me "Spotsylvania".
There is no such place, . . . is there??
Garret squints through binoculars out across a vast landscape. He does that every ten minutes of every day without fail. His breathing is deliberate, steady, calm. Every so often, he spots movement. But so far, never what he fears most.
She wakes in a bright white room. There is nothing on the walls or the ceiling. The only sound is of blood coursing through her own arteries. The only movement, fuzzy dark spots roaming the whiteness, the floaters in her eyes.
Without her help, he's out of the game. He knows that. But he isn't counting on anything. He doesn't even look in her direction.
She hasn't been inattentive. If she spots him the money, he'll likely survive another day. And if she doesn't? Well, she's quite sure she'll feel it later in bruises.
Life can be a pisser.
Only two spots left. Are you gonna try out?
No. Are you?
Well, . . . I wasn't.
But now you are?
No. I was just thinking . . . that if we both did . . .
The Hamilton's are selling one of their parking spots. Do you want to grab it?
Are you OK?
Yes, just another of those trouble spots. Nary a day without them.
Don't work too hard. See you tomorrow.
I'll be fine. Have a good evening.
Distinctive, isn't she?
Absolutely. No denying her spots.
Thursday, August 13th, 2009
88.8 mm 421 mm