Her milky white midriff was thinly drawn, ribby, perhaps even emaciated… but Allie Carraig was experiencing a physical and introspective resurgence of soul, that in all likelihood would unshade the mystic margin between life and death.
As a black and comfortless sky was developing over Dock 19, actually a wasteland tagged Dock 19, the encroaching mass, now more amoeba than hominid, drifted up to the very tip of Allie’s nose.
(Written by Edward Roads)
Besides the tight rope cable around her neck, Allie wore nothing but faded black jeans, a thick cotton T-shirt, and scuffed work boots whose untied laces hung stiffly askew.
She pulled at the base of her cinereal shirt, tore a 5″ swath all the way around, and twisted up an effective tourniquet for her right arm, which was now completely numb.
(Written by Edward Roads)
Shill, the loyal man who worked this seaside immigration seat for more than 30 years as part of what you might call a welcoming committee, looked at yet another girl, with another story, with another…
“Hi, my name is Allie… I just got off that rickety damned boat and I need someone to show me a quiet place where I can think.”
(Photo: Edward Roads)
Written by Edward Roads
During the battering storm, Anna and Sadie were playing, truthfully tossing, a 99 cent Wal-Mart ball back and forth on a small splotch of saturated lawn in front of their parents coastal home.
A quarter of a mile beyond the splash zone, an old wood-stapled pub opened on time with a below average drummer setting up his cymbals on a small smoke-beaten stage.
Photo: Michael Roads
Written by Edward Roads
In this night’s nightmare, buffalos were roaming and the sky was glowing and the upside down made every unfortunate sunrise sideways.
The cramped room, which none of us wanted, was hot and without atmosphere, and that made the lack of water even more intolerable than the last sip of last night’s cheap whiskey.
Photo: Edward Roads
Written by Edward Roads
Tommy spent most of that frigid afternoon running from an obese, cigar gnawing arrogance that was $30,000 light from a day’s till of blood and muscle.
After a slippery northward drive from a lightly frozen Revere Beach, Tommy pulled into an unused gas station to park his prized possession and grab the stolen contents of it’s massive trunk.
(Photo: Edward Roads)
Written by Edward Roads
(Continued from Mytwosentences 168)
The walk toward the cab was slow, actually umbrella in the wind discombobulated, but Preston pressed on with eyes wide.
The clomp of his backward progress seemed similar to that of Frankenstein’s monster in a cool movie he watched only yesterday…then he saw the thing that would change his life.
Written by Edward Roads
(Continued from Mytwosentences 162)
Preston moved mummy-like, shock was turning his already sketchy palate to a slightly chewy dust, toward the vacant spot where unmet Mick wasn’t.
As he knelt near the lush green of his missing next door neighbor’s perfectly manicured lawn, another sound, what was this three or four now, boomed from his yet unseen backyard.
Written by Edward Roads
Over the years she grew to be the doyen of the Tuesday night crochet crew, which helps explain the homegrown red roses that were promptly placed at the old wood fence when two prom kids failed to navigate the corner last June.
As three generations of family were en route to celebrate her ninety years, a worn but aware Mrs. Rothschild looked out a spotless kitchen window and lost breath at the new chain link fence that overnight had become a horrifying cliche.
(Photo: Edward Roads)
Written by Edward Roads
Upon taking her trembling hand at the tracks, his smitten eyes grew dear, breath momentarily hugged from a heartbeat skipped and summer tanned pores fashioned exquisite runnels of exhale.
After he offered a subtle lamp of assurance, they moved in tandem across the rails and simultaneously found safety on the other side.
(Photo: Edward Roads)
Written by Edward Roads
Mick had stopped and was standing bug-eyed amidst the overgrown straw of a long forgotten front lawn when he started to feel funny.
As the sweat began to surface, he pulled a crusty handkerchief out of his back pocket and haphazardly patted his furrowed brow.
(Continued fromMytwosentences 159)
(Photo: Edward Roads)
Written by Edward Roads
Mr. Mahoney, Mick, to the nine pudgy ladies at the sallow St.Wiseman recreation center two streets over, gave a quick wave to a discombobulated Mr. Tapley who kind of noticed him, but not really.
Mick, who sees all, at least in this neighborhood, placed the warm and oft empty Coors Light can down on what nicely passed for homemade front steps, then walked across his carefully groomed lawn to initiate what would likely become an important handshake.
(Continued from Mytwosentences 156)
(Photo: Edward Roads)
Written by Edward Roads
The terminally sick farm boy, who was no more than five, impatiently prattled from a smushed back seat beset with nacho chip crumbs and a warm helping of afternoon orange/yellow sunsplash.
Without mouthing a single word, which in most circles would be considered perfectly normal, he blearily windowed the continuous zip of painted white road slashes and loosely held a hopeful grip on moist and falling apart animal crackers.
(Photo: Edward Roads)
Written by Edward Roads
There is a comforting moment nestled within an impromptu visit, beyond quasi welcoming hugs and make up protecting pecky kisses, where thumping dj beats and conversational toe taps become glad-you-are-here high fives.
Amidst this disorienting array of rapidly moving light beams, an aloof curmudgeon from two houses up the street swayed and silently lip sang while sitting on matted grass beneath the colorful flash of an old sycamore tree.
(Photo: Edward Roads)
Written by Edward Roads
(He just arrived. Inform PICKERING)
All of his adult life clothes had been a systematic repetition of perpetual insignificance, but his hair, that was a different story.
He carefully styled his hair, not so much like James Bond, more like James Dean, if James Dean spent a little extra time in front of the mirror making a possible perfect a true perfection.
(Continued from Mytwosentences 148)
(Photo: Edward Roads)
Written by Edward Roads
Mytwosentences 