A haiku by me:

Damned stupid entry

Why don’t you write your damned self

For me you asshole?

I do, however, have a better start on it than I did yesterday. I actually like the beginning of it; I think I’ve just run out of steam. It’d bedtime for my kid and he’s still awake and i’m pretty much passing out in the living room waiting for him to stop making noise. Might have to tell the assholes living upstairs to be a little fucking quieter, but that might just be because the upstairs apartment door needs to be shut.

But anyway, without any further bitching, here’s the start to my LJI entry:


It’s something out of a dream, almost, when I step inside the low-lit piano bar. People move about, laughing and smiling, some tipping back their beers while others clink their glasses together in makeshift toasts. Even the bartender seems a little different from usual, offering me one of his finest scotches before the request can even pass my lips.

I take the glass without a word, taking another moment to really take it all in. There’s no music; the din of never-ending conversations taking its place instead. The piano is without a player, and overly-cushioned chairs surrounding it are filled with faces I don’t recognize.

The scene shifts as I move across the room, the Others sitting around the piano hardly sparing me a glance as I take the only empty seat remaining. I lean back, my glass just under my nose as the pianist materializes in front of us, her sleek black dress leaving very little to the imagination.

The scotch burns my throat almost as much as her stare does, cold grey eyes focusing on me for only a moment before she looks away. From where I’m sitting, I can see her fingers stretch over the expanse of white intermingled with black. As I watch them, I feel them and how they scorched my skin as they recalled tunes she no longer knows.

I couldn’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve last seen her — since I’ve last felt those hands drift along my body. All I know is that it’s been too long, and that I still want those hands on me instead. She opens her mouth to speak, but the drone of the bar grows louder, drowning out her voice as her painted lips move in a mockery of speech. She smiles, her eyes fluttering closed as her fingers dance along the keys, the opening chords uplifting and pleasant.

It’s just music, I told her once. Just a piano, nothing more. Press the buttons in the right order and voila, music!

It’s more than that, she spat back, her fingers poised over the keys. Her mouth twisted and her eyebrows bunched together, her eyes screwed shut as she pressed the keys. An angry, violent noise filled the room.