contest, but first dumb stuff because

it's my blog and I'm in the mood.

The headlines today said Iconical Stuntman Evel Knievel is dead. Only I thought it said Laconical. Heh. Evel Knievel laconical? Now, maybe, but not so much before.

I have never seen an episode of Grey's Anatomy so that bloffle is right out for me, Sam. Sorry. Does Scrubs count? Because they referenced GA once. I haven't seen Desperate Housewives and I hear it'll be too late on account of a big old tornado.

The contest is fun, I loved the entries--EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM. Do you know how weird that is? Usually in contests a few make me go eww, hmmm, blah. Not this time.
Here's the down side: there isn't a lot of tension about who won.
I don't even have to go count the votes because we all know it's number two, Dean.

"So, it's been a while. Whatcha been doing?" He scuffs the pavement with a Converse All-Star.

"Nothing much." Her arms are crossed. He glances at the phone in his hands. Where is the bus? He wants the bus to come and rescue him from this. When it comes, they will get on and he will mumble 'nicetaseeya' and sit far away from her.

"Where are you going to school?" There is a textbook clasped against her breasts. "Modern Busin..." is all he can read.

"Night school," she says. Her tone closes that particular subject. In her senior year, she had been planning for pre-law.

He remembers her pale face lifted to his in the half-light of the television the last time he saw her. He remembers her whispered goodbye, the hollow ache of unresolved lust in his balls. He remembers her bare shoulders. Her naked breasts. Her white, smooth belly, so promising above the line of white cotton underwear.

"You disappeared," he said. The blood of year-old anger pulses in his face. "Said no because you were a virgin and then you just disappeared. Nobody knows where you went."

He looks up. She is wearing a short black leather jacket. Her face is mask above the textbook.

"I left for a while."

"Where?"

"None of your business."

"I loved you." He makes sure the past tense is emphasized, trying to dig the words into her.

"You're eighteen fucking years old. You were just horny." Her voice echoes from the plastic walls. Beyond her, over her shoulder, he sees the bus coming. But he doesn't want it now. He wants an answer.

"I loved you." He says it again, and this time he is pleading. "I just need to know why."

"You have no idea what love is." She gets to her feet and walks onto the bus. He follows. His bus pass will not come out of his pocket. He pulls at it, and then when it finally comes free he holds it out with trembling fingers to the driver, who nods permission.

He turns down the aisle. She raises her arms, lifting the book to put it on the overhead rack. There is rush of ice through his chest, choking him: across her exposed belly, white and pristine below the black leather jacket, there are red and purple radiating lines, marks as old as motherhood.

You like his writing, people, Go read more.
Dean. I haven't made your fancy ass blog button but the rest, it's YOURS, DUDE! Even though you live in Canada.