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|"Russel" (standard:Psychological fiction, 2944 words)|
|Author: Straybullet||Added: May 11 2007||Views/Reads: 1897/1169||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Visit your grandmother damn it!|
RUSSELL by the Straybullet 1 "So there we were lost in the middle of nowhere, we had already left Salt Lake City by then, and Russell so wanted to watch the Nixon/Kennedy debates. He always has liked politics you know. What year was that anyway? Hmmm? Mark? Do you know Mark?" Mark looked up at the mention of his name. Lord knows how long the old broad had been babbling. "What's that?" He asked nervously scratching his nose with his free hand. He hadn't heard her, never did and he didn't think it mattered much anyway. Not so much interested in conversation in the traditional sense, all that Alice wanted was someone to talk to. Every week the old lady needed someone to carry her groceries and to listen to her while Mark needed the money he got for being that somebody. An easy twenty and all he has to do is put himself on autopilot and walk. It beats standing out with a sign. "Mark, I was asking you if you knew what year Kennedy got elected, I was talking about the Nixon/Kennedy debates, didn't you hear me Mark?" He looked at her as she turned to face him. Tired green eyes peered out from behind a mask of makeup; her frame broad shouldered and tall especially for an elderly lady and stacked on top of it all was a ball of pink colored hair like cotton candy. After he shook his head in a response that was more ambiguity than ignorance, they returned to the walk ahead and Alice picked up the story more or less where she left off. "Oh well I guess you're a little too young to remember. Anyways my Russell, he used to be involved in all kinds of politics. Why, he even ran for the school board over in Hartford County..." The shakes were coming a little stronger now, Mark knew. An involuntary twitch ran through him. It had been two days since his last hit. He switched the paper brown grocery bag to his left arm and scratched at the back of his head. Alice, a few feet ahead of him was droning on about whatever it was she was droning on about. "Christ that lady can talk." He said to low to be heard. "I mean she could have a fucking four hour conversation about dirt. I don't know how she went from a camping trip to Salt Lake City to Kennedy and now something about her twenty-fifth wedding anniversary with Russell. Always fuckin' Russell." The three-story brownstone apartment building that Alice called home lay not too far away in a part of the city where the houses first start to have little, green lawns. Pepperwood Court is neither the best nor the worst neighborhood more of a neutral area for middle aged folks who never found their way, mild tempered young adults just starting to whittle out a living and the ones like Alice who would live there until the day they died. The first part of autumn had passed and the once fiery leaves that brightened the neighborhood had fallen slowly and died an oily brown. They now filled black bags that now lined the streets waiting to be picked up and burned. Without leaves the trees, which had been planted at regular intervals in the sidewalk, now looked completely skeletal. Winter emptiness now permeated the city, the wind swept undaunted through the streets and alleyways. A chill had settled into the very bones of the world, haunting every doorway, soaking into every crack, a seasonal depression that Mark could certainly relate to. In the belly of January it's hard to believe that spring will ever come and these things, now dead, will once again be teeming with life. With these thoughts in tow, the two trudge along, Alice with her cotton candy head bobbing lead the way, ousting a constant stream of words and Mark a few paces behind, shaking, scratching and wondering about his next hit and how soon he could get it. "Russell was never one to fight, but this guy...he really had him mad. Russell pounded his fist on the table and pointed his finger 'listen you SOB' really Mark I couldn't believe it." Mark rolled his eyes much as he did the first time he'd heard this story. Russell. Always fuckin' Click here to read the rest of this story (213 more lines)
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