Literally, a combination of notebook scraps. Not so much a story as prose.
Mary pretended to read the newspaper dispenser while Mae rifled through the garbage can. Or perhaps it was Mary with her hands in the trash. It's no longer clear who is who. Don't you act disgusted. Be classier than that. Nice people can avert their eyes with subtlety.
Mary sang Patsy Cline, just like she did as a little girl, when her mother showed her off like a new doll. A doll that does tricks. Maybe she doesn't even enjoy singing. Could be she's been on the wrong path ever after, still chasing a carrot they've long since stopped dangling.
Mae has meticulous and fully ignored plans for the future. She has never been so tired and hungry and hopeless. Sometimes your blood just gets agitated. Sometimes it wants out. Sometimes you stare at your wrists with your jaw slack and your eyes daydreaming.
Mary and Mae met when they were singing with Fairport Convention. They really used to be something. Don't you be surprised. Be smarter than that. Smart people are never surprised by ill fate.
Mary or Mae holds a stinking prize up to the sunlight. Her companion smiles. Sometimes you have to ignore the stink and accept life's scraps.
2 comments:
good point, and well said.
funny how profound scraps can really be.. it seems as if i constantly need to be reminded of this these days!
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