the short story project


Alon Shmilovich

Pulp Graffiti 


She was a winter’s sunlight, Greyish and cheap.
“She didn’t really shine” I write on every lamppost I can find. On one of them, someone replied to me with a flaming red marker, saying: “That bitch must have shone from your ass”.
I twisted a smile. He understands, he really does. After she left, I have found comfort in lampposts, backside benches, abandoned bridges, and canceled bus stations. In fact, in every place you can think your mind out with an ink. It could be my auntie’s bathroom too, if it fits. Any place is too empty for thoughts.

Although humans, for instance, are much more complicated. I can’t just write on their face with a black marker what I think or want, we must speak. We must get our hands dirty. Exchange a small talk or two, For the sake of some sick unknown protocol. Street lamp is a far better listener, you can puke yourself all up on it and it’ll be fine. No matter the color, or the way you puke it out.
But lampposts are stuck in their place, and time. And maybe in a few moons I’ll ran up to a sentence in bridge that I forgot I wrote. What if I’ll think its phony? And if someone had the motivation to climb so high to write this, he should jump too.
So one day I jumped.
When I woke up at the hospital, they asked me if I want the bad news or the tribble news. I chose not to choose and closed my eyes, hoping that one time someone else will make a decision about my life. I’m tired of it all. Maybe the doctor will decide for m –

“For who?” Im suddenly drawing on a car by the city sewer. I felt like I woke up from a dream, or a nightmare. It’s raining, and I realized I’m not in the hospital anymore. I felt the Heavy wind and the blue neon lights of the city coming down on me. I ran, instinctively, to my beloved abandoned bridge. It’s worse than a mosquito bite. I must spray my mind out. Must unload all these blinding thoughts.

When I walked back to the hospital, I asked myself why every crooked parking pole reminds me of her standing, with her orange sunny skirt. I couldn’t squeeze any answers. Every Image of her is right, and true. Even when she screamed at a mad driver on the highway, I loved her. When I looked at her, I couldn’t find any holes. But I knew every ship must have one at some time.
Yes, the Neighbor’s daughter turned out to be a dazzling, burning mistake.

A back of an empty street sign seem to wink me, he calls me to vandalize him with some perspective. There’s a hot parking asphalt that feels like a long-long canvas. Everything is waiting for me to spill some color with a thought. I was addicted to you, and I became addicted to the walls and their friends. The empty paint cans in the corner of the room, reflecting my continuous sleepless nights. And if I’m awake in the day too, dreams can’t have a place in my mind. Only in the walls, or in crooked parking holes with skirts.


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