Orange with envy
Orange is bland, boring
its just a bright brown
and it is the only colors without an emotion
red is anger, yellow is happiness
green is jealousy.
But why?
why green?
green is nature
green is yellow and blue
happiness and sadness
but for me jealousy has never been sad
jealousy, red with wrath,
burning, screaming
fire, i deserved that
not them
never them
but then you feel
jea lousy
They’re your friend
you should be happy for them
you don a mask of yellow
ive never met someone who’s favorite color was orange
passed up by everyone
its too freakish, too weird, too stable
so is jealousy
its always there
so you get rid of it
fake sadness rather than resentment
But you’ll always be
orange with envy
Deal at Dennys
I check my watch. 9:36. He was supposed to be here a half hour ago. Shit. He's probably being tailed.
I should probably explain. I won't though. It's much too complicated, and I wouldn't even know where to start. I'm not one of those sappy "here's my life story" types. If there's anything life's taught me, I'm aware you couldn't give a shit about me.
He's our client. I don't know his name, and I have no desire to find out. We've been switching areas to avoid suspicion because I can't deal with cops on my ass. He must be good too. He never drops any hints. So I'm sitting in a shithole Denny's way earlier than I'd want to be. Like who meets at 9? But he always pays up.
He's not clean. Almost everyone is a mess. Twitching eyes, constantly licking their lips. Those are the signs the true addicts have given up on hiding. He calls too often to be a cop. If he did would've been brought to the Sugar Distributer Penitentiary.
King Kandy is known for his generosity. Except to normies. If he knew I was selling off my special acid trip licorice I would be dead. I know, so cliche. Yeah.
My name is Raymond Licorice. Never did forgive Ma for that one. Of course. The bad guy, getting poor innocent souls hooked on sugar.
Come on. I live in a cave. I'm not exactly rolling in dough here.
The client sits down. As always, clad in long brown trench coat, double rows of black buttons gleam like diamonds. A mask obscures his face, a hood covers his hair. Good grief, he looks like a third-grader's idea of a secret agent. He comes with a briefcase. Grey, cheap. Good. We both know it must be untraceable. He's just some rich asshole hooked on the taffy. Oh well.
"One pack RedVines, 15 grams of the black swirls" He says.
Of course I am more than supplied. A whole pack of RedVines? For a normie that could knock him out for a week. I wonder if he suspects where I get the merchandise. I wonder if he knows that I am the Lord of Licorice himself. I doubt he even knows about Candyland.
"1800" I price
He looks equally nonchalant
"1400"
He drives a hard bargain. It costs me about 10 bucks but whatever he'll fall for.
Surprised? What else would I be dealing in? Gumdrops? King Kandy changed our currency after the Gumdrop Revolution III. Whoever he can fuck over he will. Especially his dear uncle Raymond and his Gran.
"1600 take it or leave it" I reply
He nods and passes over the briefcase.
I open it. Gotta check. I watch his expression. Then I notice. He's moving halfway through him. It's like his lower body is fighting with his top half. Addicts do strange things, but this shouldn't be possible for anyone but... Gloppy.
Fuck. I'm getting busted.
And by Gloppy? He wouldn't be able to find his Chocolate Swamp and he's attached to it. (Or maybe it's him?)(Honestly, I don't care enough to ask)
"Alright fine Gloppy. You caught me." I mutter, hoping to gain the brown blobs' mercy.
"What's gloppy?" asks Gloppy, in a strangely high nervous voice that doesn't resemble Gloppy's deep, mascotish, dumb chortle.
"Take off the coat!" I yell
Slowly he takes it off. What the fuck is happening? It's two kids , no older than 10, sitting on top of eachother. He- or should I say they, shrugs guiltily.
Fuck this. And that, dear reader, is why I no longer go to Dennys.
(Hey thanks for reading. This is my first attempt at doing an actual short story. It may get continued, it may not. )
The Man Behind the Mirror
I am the man behind the mirror
I am nameless,
loving to some
a plague for others
i show them what they dont want to see
but mostly i show the truth
i show the truths they are too afraid to accept
i am the reason teenage girls hide
ogling me
ogling themselves
because i can show them whatever i want
but i choose truth
truth is hard
everyone looks at the mirror differently
i create insecurity
i create unworthiness
i create ugliness
i become what i create
hideous
Many have seen themselves
but never me
i am but a figment of their imagination
until
a girl
her name; Madilynn
obnoxiously spelled much like her
no more than sixteen
i despise Madilynn
how can she look at me
smile
shrug
leave
no fear
no hate
shes not attractive
while harsh to say about a child
it astounds me
how
Madilynns friends all gossip
too ugly for anyone
they say
but she
smiles
shrugs
and leaves
how can she not feel pain
the pain that envelops me and all others that view my images
the fear
the insecurity
the longing for change
the jealousy
it shapes each person through childhood
wishing to look like someone else
to not look like themselves
twisting away from my creations
from the truth
taking it into their own hands to craft my creations
A desperate bid for control
while i show truth
i do make exceptions
for those who deserve it
and i make sure everyone hates me
and if they dont
i take it into my own hands
a few slight alterations
months in the gym
tens of thousands spent on surgery
all gone
its nice having self esteem in my grasp
i dont even have the freedom of a name
why not steal their identity
and Madilynn
so happy
how could she be
editing her image
nothing
no rage
no despair
no insecurity
no crying
but how?
thats when i hear
Why is she like this
and she cries
seeing her matching black eyes
once not doctored by my own manipulation
fury at someone who could withstand my wrath
gone
Perhaps i am the man behind the mirror
the man of ether
the monster under the bed
the nightmares
the horrors
the pain
the suffering
but perhaps
I can just be the man behind the mirror
a protector
viewer of the truth
Karen
We locked eyes in a Subway
although I wish we hadn’t
She was gorgeous
She ordered the Meatball Marinara special,
proving her disdain and lack of experience in deli meat consumption
Meatball Marinara!
In a fine establishment like this!
The outrage
It would have been unforgivable if she had not been so astoundingly attractive
Her clothes, a top the color of blood, a warning of the chaos she causes
her shoes, stilettos completely unpractical for the winter in anywhere but LA
Her nose, the perfect slope of y= x squared
Her eyes, the same eclectic blue of laundry detergent, although she clearly wouldn’t know
The same glint of frustration and determination of a weed whacker in an impossibly large front yard
She snaps her fingers at an employee
soft hands, un calloused neither by manual labor nor the works of life
She rolls her eyes, snarling
Like when you step in a puddle wearing socks
The employee does not catch on, or does not care, about her annoyance
He simply cuts her chosen bread and carries on
He puts peppers on her sandwich
Oh the mistake he hath made
He shalt unleash the fury that resides within
She screams, a bellow of pain, of personal attack
Why, she acts as if he has personally slew her firstborn child
She demands to be brought the manager as tribute immediately
When he reveals that he hath been the manager all along it enrages her
Her hair, the color of american cheese slices, appears in an updo resting over her head
Hastily tied up, to prepare for her battle with authority
How dare her waive her autonomy, assuming she would like peppers? She demands
She will not receive any answer
She angrily pops her bubblegum, snapping it in the face of the manager
He rolls his eyes and sighs
It is the pristine image of an old cowboy duel
The Connecticut Subway may as well be Texas in 1870s
It iss practically playing the old Western music
It is human nature to be glued to viewing this event
Unable to look or look away
Like watching a car accident on the side of the highway,
knowing someone is going to perish
The manager should not have been so foolish as to engage
When going against a Karen, the battle has already been lost
Boots
These boots were once for walking. Long ago, perhaps. Now they hold feet, attached to ankles, but no body to contend with. Alone, yet together, the perfect pair, or quadrant I suppose. But what was I meant to do? My two bestfriends. I thought I could trust them. They claimed they weren’t “together”, not now, not ever. So when I found out what was I to do? They were all I had. And they would leave me. Alone. And they insisted on those stupid matching boots. Red meant love for them, rage for me. A pair for each, obtained in our trip around the world.Then why did I not get any? Four boots doesn’t work out for three people. A pair is two, never three. Two’s a party, Three’s a crowd. I knew sooner or later they would get sick of me. Take their perfect little relationship to the next country, or across the globe. They can’t leave if they don’t have feet. So what if they’re dead? Just the three of us, together forever.