Find Magdalena

FADE IN: two surfers.

“I found this note on my phone that I never wrote.”

“What do you mean?”

“A notepad-note-thingie that said, ‘Things are getting interesting.’ Like, what the fuck?”

“Ok…”

“I feel like I’m getting my identity stolen.”

“You would know if that was happening. You also get shit-faced a lot, so there’s that.”

“Yeah. There’s this guy in the music business who sent me an email with a legal document attached that said, ‘You better get yourself a good lawyer, see you in court.’ Like, what the fuck did I do? It haunted me. I got off Facebook, Twitter, everything.”

“Don’t let ass-fucks like that get in your way. Fuckin’ idiots, the lot of ’em.”

“I don’t know. There’s like, some darkness inside, you know.”

He rubs his chest.

And then: “Do you believe in Jesus?”

“As a religion?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Jesus seems like he was a cool dude. Not sure about his father. Look man, you might need to speak to someone.”

“Yeah. You think that’s stupid though?”

“Not in the least. I’m sure Jesus had someone to talk to, wasn’t it that Magdalena chick? Hot redhead at the table? She looks like she could’ve listened to some heavy shit.

“Yeah. I try to deal with it myself but sometimes it feels like surfing and running don’t cut it.”

“That’s cuz you’re running away.”

“Yeah. And it’s catching up to me.”

“Then find a Magdalena, dude.”

FADE OUT.

Done (pt 3)

POPS the club

I am crying
over things that shouldn’t cause so many tears.
I am clutching
to things that everyone else can let go of so easily.
I am ripping
away at my own brain
because the darkness only hurts me more.
I am pushing
because my whole life that’s what I’ve been good at.
I am killing
myself over people
who wouldn’t do the same for me.
I am holding
back from the things that should help me succeed.
I am wandering
through broken pieces
that I shouldn’t have to put together in the first place.
I am over
everything.
I am so
done.

___
Done by Iona Scott, Before There Were BarsPOPS The Club

what will you see?

I haven’t seen you in 15 years.
To think. I bet you look exactly the same.
I find myself slipping back into a daughter role, aching for her father’s attention and approval.

Oh, approval.
God, I wish I was… I was… so much more.
I want to impress you.
To be a statue, shining its significance into your daily brain.
Like a quality stamp not worth much but in a book.
Permanent (which nothing is), all powerful (we all know everything has cracks).

What will you see?
What will you say of me?
What will you want from me?
How will I be?

what do you see?

I feel shame.
Weird, why the fuck shame?
Shame and guilt?
If only I could be something more.
Socially powerful. Socially revered.

What will you see?
What will you say of me?
What will you want from me?
How will I be?

Stupid. He knows this takes time.
Well, not for her and him and her and him?
Things came nimbly, things came quick.
Stop it.
He gets it.

What will you see?
What will you say of me?
What will you want from me?
How will I be?

 

Done (pt 2)

POPS the club

And of those who say they’ll stay,
who will go?
I am anxious
to be happy, genuinely.
I am hoping
things will only get better.
I am clinging
on to things that stay the same.
I am spiteful
for things that change.
I am giving up
on the things that slowly drift away.
I am grabbing
on to the stuff that hurts me most.
I am trying
to grasp on to stuff that I shouldn’t.
I am losing
my sanity oh-so slowly.
I a starting
to realize ow unfair life is even to those who wait.

__
Done by Iona Scott, Before There Were Bars, POPS The Club

Read Part 1

explode like a motherfucker

explode like a motherfucker

I ache for silence.
I yearn for space, for quiet.
The A/C blares, this’ll help for now.
I push the Creator up and out, write!
Hurray! We don’t have time.
An old voice.

Headache.
Late night indecision based on waiting up for love and hoping to finish that podcast.
Jackie, quiet and sleepy.
Thank God. I feel tension release when I see this.

What’s yearning for space about? What’s this silence I seek?
I know there’s more to this.
Go deeper…

No music. A good thing. One step closer to silence.
Even though those two over there chat away.
Shaded table.
Darjeeling tea brews, honey at the ready.
I wait for her.

No, wait.
I wait for direction.
For me to explode like a motherfucker.
Liza Fernandez

get milk

 

got milk?

FADE IN:

He: Well, it’s like a pyramid.

She: Don’t talk to me about pyramids. That guy? That fuckin’ Bernie Madoff? Have you seen the movie with Michelle Pfeifer and Robert DeNiro?

He: That’s not what I mean —

She: — Well, it’s fucked up. And everyone said the movie was shit but I liked it. Anyway.

He: This pyramid is different, Auntie.

She: Different, how?

He: You put your life’s goal at the top and then you backward map.

She: A map?

He: Backward Map!

She: Well —

He: — If you gotta go down the street to buy a carton of milk, what would you do to get there?

She: Is this a game? Like, do you want an answ —

He: — I’m trying to explain what it means. You would put your shoes on, get your jacket on, find your purse, look for your keys, get your wallet, make sure you have enough money to buy milk —

She’: Yeah I know, milk is getting very expensive —

He: — AND THEN. And then you have to cross the street, pass the school and head to the corner store. Backward mapping is the reverse. You start with the carton of milk in your hand and you map out how you got there.

She: Gotcha. So, what does milk have to do with your pyramids?

Sigh.

He: Nothing, forget the milk. I’m trying to tell you that I got the gist of how I’m going to get to university.

She: Oh that, how? Selling milk?

She giggles. He sighs.

FADE OUT.

cali teen

bless you

Red tank.
Short denim jeans.
Orange hair growing out from a collision of blonde shades.
Black socks squeezed into matching flip flops.
Old rollie. Used and reused.
Sweet, classic Cali teenager.

Thirteen? 14? 16? No more than that.

She looks nervous, diverts her eyes.
“Can I share the table with you?” I ask.
Thumb in mouth ripping at skin, she nods with eyes drawn away.
Staring off in the distance…

She looks passed the line of impatient coffee addicts, through the back wall, as if waiting to get caught.
A father? Boyfriend? Cousin? A dysfunctional mother?
No one loved me enough to stop me.
My mind goes wild with horror stories.
Too much television.

I sneeze.
She doesn’t say anything. I clock this.
A woman essay-typing 2 tables down turns, “Bless you.”
“Thank you,” I tell the woman through my nod.
Bless you, I say under my breath.
Yes you, sweet Cali teen, creating potholes in your thumbs.
Don’t you know you are blessed?

Not sure what trip you’re taking – be it bus, train or side streets.
You are blessed.
You are blessed.
Your are blessed.
Do you believe it?
Hell, do I?