So far I've only shown poems to draw you in. But I figure if you're still reading this you must be a pusher (maybe drugs I don't know your life). So forget the happy endings and prepare for a psychological trip. This one is a bit more tame so that I don't scare what few followers I have away.

THE COLD IN THE CORNER

The air was bitter cold; it gnawed at her lungs with each breath she took and resurfaced in a puff of steam as she exhaled.  She sat, huddled in a doorway corner, her back pressed into the depths of two adjoining walls, attempting to find any last vestiges of warmth from the sun that once graced the side of the building. She was bundled in a men’s tattered winter coat, it was dirty and had small, soft white goose feathers poking out of minute holes. She wore jeans, so worn in places the denim had faded into a pallid white. Tan leather work boots encased her feet; the only item on her body that resembled newness.

                It was past dusk, nearly twilight; the sky resembled a clotted bruise masking the stars from earth. The street lamps hummed; the only noise in the silent alley. The wall against which the woman’s back leaned was stained from years of existence: gum was stuck to it half way up the wall, the first few feet of the wall were smudged black and there were a few tattered pieces of posters still hanging on; ripped and torn. The badly cracked sidewalk that lay in front of the woman’s corner looked practically impeccable in comparison. There were only small darkened spots, the last remains of someone’s gum and a few mangled pieces of paper littered the sidewalk. The woman was the only person that sat, unmoving and alone, in the bleak alleyway. 

Horns and street cars and late night revelers could be heard a few streets over. Laughter and shouts rang out above the din of the traffic. But the woman sat, hunched, solitary in a corner that was very much her own.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and The Bullshit