- It's blogfest time! Yippee-ki-yay! THANKS KRISTINA from KayKay's Corner for hosting this great blogfest!
- I'm posting the beginning of an untitled work in progress of mine. It's a little vulgar in places, so please brace yourself!
- Oh yeah, and it's a short story about a boy who sets out to teach a kid how to live a little, while discovering he's the one who doesn't know what it means to really "live."
Martin’s fat. That’s why he won’t leave the house. I see him peeking out the blinds once in a while trying to get a taste of real life. He doesn’t get it though, not while he’s in there, where his mama’s greasy fried chicken probably uses up all his taste buds. I’ve even seen the kid, his arms folded on the basement’s window ledge, watching the shoes of us uninhibited pass by, wondering where we’re headed. He’s a dreamer, all right, in a pathetic way. I’m just the type of guy who can’t stand people who dream about things they never have the guts to do. Don’t ask me why.
I ring the bell at the Shelley house. Martin’s robust mama opens the door. She’s holding a glass of lemonade like it’s her lifeline. On a hot day like today, I’m surprised she made it to the door so fast. Through the screen I see a bead of sweat slip down between her breasts.
“What you doing here, Stan?”
“Is Martin home?” I ask out of politeness. Of course, Martin is home. I see him chicken dancing into the kitchen. I know it’s the kitchen because my house, the nicer one across the street, is just like theirs. Same layout and everything.
Martin glances around the doorframe. With his body half hidden like that, he almost looks regular sized. Too bad he’s not. In another life we might have been amigos. That’s the word for friend in Mexico. Maria told me so last night when we were watching the stars in the bed of her father’s old Chevy. Amigos. I like the way the word rolls off my tongue.
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