All posts filed under: 2001

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Road Dog | A Double-Drabble

{ 200 words } Various instruments crowd the back of the cargo van-turned-tour van.  His legs are cramped.  He’s gotta piss, but there’s no rest stop for god knows how many miles.  As the miles become more miles, his hunger becomes aching, tiredness becomes weariness.  He’s horny, sure.  But he sincerely misses her for all the right reasons.  Thinking of her does him no good.  Not here, in the middle of nowhere, this far from home. Saying good bye was the hardest part. A major complication to this job, this love, this life. Endless regret. Yet the chance to leave indefinitely was relished despite the unresolved affairs and promises postponed. Farewells cut short are best. Say your heartfelt goodbyes Wipe away tears from forlorn eyes Temporarily sever ties The road’s the devil of promises and lies Now sunsets don’t mean quite the same as they did back home.  Without her, even the music and cheering of fans don’t mean quite what they should.  Although it sometimes soothes, having casual sex with other women is a …

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The Road Is My Map | A Work in Progress

{ 756 words, began Aug 3, 2001 } It’s funny how I got here. The first ride I got was from a car full of guys. They were of the ripped jeans and faded rock t-shirt variety, blaring classic rock and heavy metal in an old muscle car that was much older than me.  Only the cutest one of the boys flirted with me and I got the impression he was the only one of them not a virgin because all of his lines were smooth and confident. Had I not flirted back I may not have managed to get him to buy me a pack of smokes.  They dropped me off at the rest stop off I-70 without trouble. From there I got offered a ride by a kind elderly lady who had taken one look at my dingy clothes, windblown hair and the most pathetic face I could put on and felt sorry enough for me.  She got me here and was reluctant to let me out in the middle of nowhere, but …

I’m Not From Around Here | A Poem

Driving fast down sun-baked country roads Countless tiny towns are silhouettes in my dust I dare not stop for fear of the unknown I have this little suspicion they don’t like my kind – The kind different from them The kind not of their own It’s not that I blame them, really It’s not their fault that they’re wrong – My destination is clear No place in particular Just enjoy the scenic route Before night claims the scenery – There’s a fork in my roads of chance My front tire takes the brunt of it I pull over to the soft shoulder My good luck having failed me – Rear view mirror, another driver is nearing A big red pickup, a good ol’ boy pulls next to me Sweat beading on my brow now, I’m unsure of his intention I ease out of the car, though I’m thankful for his attention – “You’re not from around here,” he says, I think he’s a fast learner I say, “No, I’m from the city,” Not that it’s …

Makin’ a Livin’ Makin’ a Killin’ I: The Company You Keep | A Dribble

{ 50 words } They’re not exactly what you would call your friends.  More like associates.  They come with the profession, the rules – the lifestyle.  They wear expensive suits with black as the base color, matching the iron hidden beneath their suit coats.  Fair-haired women sometimes accompany them, dressed to impress, smiling uncertain smiles. Written: December 29, 2001. Originally published in February 2010 by blink-ink [defunct]. Copyright © 2001 – 2016 by Brandon L. Rucker. All Rights Reserved. brandonrucker.com | RuckerWrites | @RuckerWrites Amazon | Smashwords

Makin’ a Livin’ Makin’ a Killin’ II: The Other Life | A Dribble

{ 50 words } Sundays, his off day from the job, he is a practicing Catholic. At Mass his wife and young daughters accompany him. He looks over at his darling little ladies; both of them yellow-haired like their mother. He wants to provide a good life for them. And crime certainly does pay. Written: December 29, 2001. Copyright © 2001 – 2016 by Brandon L. Rucker. All Rights Reserved. brandonrucker.com | RuckerWrites | @RuckerWrites Amazon | Smashwords

Makin’ a Livin’ Makin’ a Killin’ III: For a Day’s Pay | A Dribble

{ 50 words } A man on his knees, begging for his life, mercy, anything as light glints off the pistol aimed at his sweat-beaded brow. Loud, bass-heavy music blares from the stereo as a cloud of smoke from marijuana and crack-cocaine lingers in the air. “Delinquent, again. We’ll have to consolidate your debts.” Written: December 29, 2001. Copyright © 2001 – 2016 by Brandon L. Rucker. All Rights Reserved. brandonrucker.com | RuckerWrites | @RuckerWrites Amazon | Smashwords