“Why should I follow her?”, Cathy wondered, peering around the corner at the rapidly retreating figure. She — the rebel, the crook, the shameless pirate — would only lead her into ruin. But Cathy didn’t hesitate a moment longer and rushed after her, breathless with adrenaline.
“I want to explain this to my constituents, George, I don’t want to look like a crook!” he shouted, slamming his fist on the table. “It’s too late for that, sir!” his spokesman replied, obviously stressed. “The story is out there, we can’t pull it back in!”.
“But it’s not true!” Daley roared. George stared at the floor, afraid to look his boss in the eye, and also ashamed to. “This is politics, sir, the truth”, he shrugged his shoulders, “is sometimes not as important as it should be!”
There was a crowd of people surrounding me and all i could think is that I was alone and that i just got scammed by a crook at the car dealership. His greasy ways should have given him up, always inching for me to buy more things and constantly saying that the beat up 86′ volvo was truly a “gem”.
‘I am not a crook.’ The final attempted deception in desperate plea of the thief caught with hands in ink. How curious the imperative urge we brim with to preserve the oasis dancing across our faces amidst the tempest tossing away facades from the flesh of thighs.
A set of crooked teeth bit into her neck. blindfolded by mysterious hands, she shook with terror. she wondered the sultry red liquid dropping from her bitten neck was a promise of strange death or eternity.
The guy looked exactly like a stereotypical bad guy. Black hoodie, clownish thick black mask around eyes, dark robes and clothing, Hitler mustache, evil laugh.
One blink and he was gone, replaced with a shiny white angelic lady.
Another blink and the guy was one foot tall and green.
There we sat in my publisher’s office. On the tv set a man proclaimed, “I am not a crook.” He was under the gun for quite a bit, there was the milk lobby, something about a burglary at Watergate, issues of funds being misused, and whatever else. I was only half paying attention anyway.
“So,” Roman interjected, catching my eyes before handing me a cup of coffee prepared just as I like it, “what are you working on now?”
“Mmm,” I said willing my focus away from the screen. “Sorry, I just foresee this one resigning.”
“Oh, no, I’m not making a wager with you.” Roman said, turning off the TV before taking a seat next to me on the couch in his office. “And that’s not why I asked you to come in, gifted as you are.”
“Well, I’m glad you’ve come to recognize, or perhaps believe in my talents enough to not let me swindle you out of another hefty sum.” I smiled, and took a sip of coffee. “Shame, though. I was kind of hoping you’d let me out of arrogance or affection.”
Roman rolled his eyes.
“Oh, alright. I’m writing about the Turquoise Lord this time. He’s bit of a dual creature, a myth I’m recasting in the fires of creation as it were. And I’ve an axe to grind with new and old Sun, the Black Sun, really, and all those embodiments of theirs that would become flesh. And the flesh is where the transformation I intend takes place.”
“Will I be able to publish it for the masses or we talking niche market?” Roman asked, taking the weirdness in stride.
“Niche,” I smiled, “but who knows, like fire, it might be catching.”
The nail on the plank was crooked. And I wonder, imagine that probably years or decades ago, some awkward kid of six years old was trying to mimic his father who was a carpenter. I imagine him bent and concentrated on the work, taken up with what was then the Spectacular Now. I wonder and try to remember when was the last time I fixed my eyes and mind on the present, rather constantly worry about either the past or the future. I couldn’t.
“No, honey, he’s a crook,” she whispered in gentle Southern accent. She looked at me from under her thick, false eyelashes and quickly turned her gaze to the door. I knew she was right of course. No self-respecting lady would leave with that kind of man at the end of the night, but he was so devilishly charming. “It’s hard to find a good man in these parts, Dolly,” I sighed. The life of sequins, rhinestones and feathers was a fun one, but underneath all the glitter, there was nothing but rust.
He bent down against the table, leaning forward and exhaling with bad breath.
“I know you want it,” he wheezed.
She pushed back against her chair and shook her head.
“I don’t want your jewels,” she said. “I know real sapphires when I see them.”
He smiled at her, flashing his gold-plated teeth.
“If you say so, ma’am, but you’re missing out on a damn splendid treasure.”
What a crook! The dirty scoundrel has made off again. Thieving into the night, like a slimy toad. He’s lucky that I have better things at hand to worry about. Such a loss is trivial, anyways, in the grand scheme of things…
One day I was wondering around the house, I walked up to my bookshelf, I found a crook in the shelf and so I went to buy a hammer and nails, to fix the crook in the shelf. I fixed the crook but then a day later the crook broke again, so I went and fixed it again but still it did not fix.
A man who steals. A person slightly on the off sense of right and wrong. Those who steal either real or imagined things can still be one. I am a crook you can be one too. In my mind we are all at least in some way a crook
Some called him a crook; others a ‘kill stealer’, but most called him a leech. He didn’t care what they called him so long as some poor newb kept falling for his “I’m very strong AND can heal” speech followed by a pretty spell show, he continued to get decent loot and not have to do a thing.
Lying here, dying here, consciousness fading with every drop of blood that pumped from my weakening veins onto the cold, undeserving concrete, would almost be bearable if you were here to hold me in the crook of your arm and tell me you love me one last time.
Don’t write about the Skeleton King. Don’t write about the Skeleton King. Don’t write about the Skeleton King.
So the Skeleton King had a hook for his hand. Captain Hook the Skeleton King. He would fly over the ocean and steal certified lobster traps without permission. That’s the kind of crook the Skeleton King is.
In the crook of his arm the shepherd held it, like a glossy sort of egg, like a too-large marble, a globe unhinged and placed there as gently as a child. It hummed like a midnight tune as he rocked it softly. His eyes glowed as green as its lush surface, as blue-swift as its rivers and oceans. It was his world, his darling blessed world, his beloved sphere.
You entranced her with your words like heroin; she thought you were her hero. You poisoned her, tarnished her, stole her. You crook. How dare you steal her from the wonderful person she was becoming?
crooked. not straight. never elected to be great, but rather broken. crooked. never straight. alone in an infinite magistrate of subconscious doubts deemed to never set the bar .. not here nor there close nor far, the record will never be straight.. but maybe crooked is like tony the tiger… great.
in the crook of her neck he fell in love for the first time. the way her hair fell gracefully onto her shoulders, a controlled waterfall, a cascade of follicles.
I was the crook of his arm that got me. I couldn’t help but touch him there. Soft bending crease that made my skin tingle even after he pulled away in shock. I guess I should have said hello first before touching.
Se encogió lentamente, preguntándose cómo las cosas habían terminado de esa forma. Estaba torcido, despreciable. Una cosa deforme y sin nombre.
“Torcido”. Formó una mueca con los labios y se encogió más aún, tratando de abrazar sus rodillas y pegarlas al pecho como había hecho tantas veces antes del incidente. “Torcido”, sí.
Crook in his neck. Or something like that. Words were difficult, especially with the pain shooting through him. It would be nice to die, that is what he was thinking. But he was alive, for the moment at least.
I went on and I saw a crook on the mountain, I swear I saw it, please, believe me. I’m not crazy, my love. Just look through my eyes and you’ll see it…
The crook of his nose was an unwelcoming sight. He was a very crooked man from his nose to his smile to his stance, and even to his shirt collar which was slightly off center. Sadly, she had to ignore his mischievous glare and accept his invitation into his rundown house. No matter how uncomfortable she felt, she had a job to do.
He’s got the air of a crook. Not a lowly one, who steals cars or deals in drugs. Perhaps women, but his sort of crime is the high end type. Perhaps embezzling money from the government, but she doesn’t think that’s his game either. If she had to bet, she’d place all her chips on espionage. The kind that could make the worlds come crashing down.
I could be a crook for you but instead you broke into the most private places of my heart and became a crook yourself. I often thought what did I do to entice this behavior, or was it just in your nature to take things and create fantasies. I was a victim of your charm to which I never ever knew or thought of as harm. I could be a crook for you but you beat me to the punch a time or two. Never knew what hit me; it seems. Sent spinning and then feigning for your regime. I need it, but most of all I want it. Take me to places of extreme pleasure then flaunt it. You were always the crook and I was always your muse, left brokenhearted and confused.
They call me a crook while I rot behind these bars. They can see the bones threatening to burst through my almost translucent skin. They can hear my breaths getting shorter and rougher as I struggle to push through another day in this hellhole. They must notice how sunken in my eyes have gotten, like rocks disappearing slowly into the grit and mud of a shallow creek bed. And yet there they are, screaming for my murder. I figured they would have eaten their fill of my suffering yet. Guess I’m wrong.
Shit. Audrey turned out to be a crook of the highest order. Fuck this, he thought. How this happened, he will never know.
the goddamn bastard
a lying schivel
the apple stealer
the cookie mealer
i love food
but i hate the crook more
“Why should I follow her?”, Cathy wondered, peering around the corner at the rapidly retreating figure. She — the rebel, the crook, the shameless pirate — would only lead her into ruin. But Cathy didn’t hesitate a moment longer and rushed after her, breathless with adrenaline.
“I want to explain this to my constituents, George, I don’t want to look like a crook!” he shouted, slamming his fist on the table. “It’s too late for that, sir!” his spokesman replied, obviously stressed. “The story is out there, we can’t pull it back in!”.
“But it’s not true!” Daley roared. George stared at the floor, afraid to look his boss in the eye, and also ashamed to. “This is politics, sir, the truth”, he shrugged his shoulders, “is sometimes not as important as it should be!”
There was a crowd of people surrounding me and all i could think is that I was alone and that i just got scammed by a crook at the car dealership. His greasy ways should have given him up, always inching for me to buy more things and constantly saying that the beat up 86′ volvo was truly a “gem”.
‘I am not a crook.’ The final attempted deception in desperate plea of the thief caught with hands in ink. How curious the imperative urge we brim with to preserve the oasis dancing across our faces amidst the tempest tossing away facades from the flesh of thighs.
A set of crooked teeth bit into her neck. blindfolded by mysterious hands, she shook with terror. she wondered the sultry red liquid dropping from her bitten neck was a promise of strange death or eternity.
Bitter smiles exchanged in the dark
Hands holding onto something invisible
Grasping for a love that isn’t theirs
Mine. Mine. Mine.
They whisper
Tapping at her head
Knocking on her door
She slammed it shut
Hiding from the world
Hiding from everything that gave her pain
Oh silly thieves
Leave her alone
The crook in her arm had a trickle of sweat running down, as she sat in the sun for a moment resting from her hard work of mowing.
The guy looked exactly like a stereotypical bad guy. Black hoodie, clownish thick black mask around eyes, dark robes and clothing, Hitler mustache, evil laugh.
One blink and he was gone, replaced with a shiny white angelic lady.
Another blink and the guy was one foot tall and green.
“Happy Halloween!” he said for no reason.
There we sat in my publisher’s office. On the tv set a man proclaimed, “I am not a crook.” He was under the gun for quite a bit, there was the milk lobby, something about a burglary at Watergate, issues of funds being misused, and whatever else. I was only half paying attention anyway.
“So,” Roman interjected, catching my eyes before handing me a cup of coffee prepared just as I like it, “what are you working on now?”
“Mmm,” I said willing my focus away from the screen. “Sorry, I just foresee this one resigning.”
“Oh, no, I’m not making a wager with you.” Roman said, turning off the TV before taking a seat next to me on the couch in his office. “And that’s not why I asked you to come in, gifted as you are.”
“Well, I’m glad you’ve come to recognize, or perhaps believe in my talents enough to not let me swindle you out of another hefty sum.” I smiled, and took a sip of coffee. “Shame, though. I was kind of hoping you’d let me out of arrogance or affection.”
Roman rolled his eyes.
“Oh, alright. I’m writing about the Turquoise Lord this time. He’s bit of a dual creature, a myth I’m recasting in the fires of creation as it were. And I’ve an axe to grind with new and old Sun, the Black Sun, really, and all those embodiments of theirs that would become flesh. And the flesh is where the transformation I intend takes place.”
“Will I be able to publish it for the masses or we talking niche market?” Roman asked, taking the weirdness in stride.
“Niche,” I smiled, “but who knows, like fire, it might be catching.”
The nail on the plank was crooked. And I wonder, imagine that probably years or decades ago, some awkward kid of six years old was trying to mimic his father who was a carpenter. I imagine him bent and concentrated on the work, taken up with what was then the Spectacular Now. I wonder and try to remember when was the last time I fixed my eyes and mind on the present, rather constantly worry about either the past or the future. I couldn’t.
“No, honey, he’s a crook,” she whispered in gentle Southern accent. She looked at me from under her thick, false eyelashes and quickly turned her gaze to the door. I knew she was right of course. No self-respecting lady would leave with that kind of man at the end of the night, but he was so devilishly charming. “It’s hard to find a good man in these parts, Dolly,” I sighed. The life of sequins, rhinestones and feathers was a fun one, but underneath all the glitter, there was nothing but rust.
He bent down against the table, leaning forward and exhaling with bad breath.
“I know you want it,” he wheezed.
She pushed back against her chair and shook her head.
“I don’t want your jewels,” she said. “I know real sapphires when I see them.”
He smiled at her, flashing his gold-plated teeth.
“If you say so, ma’am, but you’re missing out on a damn splendid treasure.”
What a crook! The dirty scoundrel has made off again. Thieving into the night, like a slimy toad. He’s lucky that I have better things at hand to worry about. Such a loss is trivial, anyways, in the grand scheme of things…
One day I was wondering around the house, I walked up to my bookshelf, I found a crook in the shelf and so I went to buy a hammer and nails, to fix the crook in the shelf. I fixed the crook but then a day later the crook broke again, so I went and fixed it again but still it did not fix.
A man who steals. A person slightly on the off sense of right and wrong. Those who steal either real or imagined things can still be one. I am a crook you can be one too. In my mind we are all at least in some way a crook
Some called him a crook; others a ‘kill stealer’, but most called him a leech. He didn’t care what they called him so long as some poor newb kept falling for his “I’m very strong AND can heal” speech followed by a pretty spell show, he continued to get decent loot and not have to do a thing.
Lying here, dying here, consciousness fading with every drop of blood that pumped from my weakening veins onto the cold, undeserving concrete, would almost be bearable if you were here to hold me in the crook of your arm and tell me you love me one last time.
Don’t write about the Skeleton King. Don’t write about the Skeleton King. Don’t write about the Skeleton King.
So the Skeleton King had a hook for his hand. Captain Hook the Skeleton King. He would fly over the ocean and steal certified lobster traps without permission. That’s the kind of crook the Skeleton King is.
In the crook of his arm the shepherd held it, like a glossy sort of egg, like a too-large marble, a globe unhinged and placed there as gently as a child. It hummed like a midnight tune as he rocked it softly. His eyes glowed as green as its lush surface, as blue-swift as its rivers and oceans. It was his world, his darling blessed world, his beloved sphere.
You entranced her with your words like heroin; she thought you were her hero. You poisoned her, tarnished her, stole her. You crook. How dare you steal her from the wonderful person she was becoming?
crooked. not straight. never elected to be great, but rather broken. crooked. never straight. alone in an infinite magistrate of subconscious doubts deemed to never set the bar .. not here nor there close nor far, the record will never be straight.. but maybe crooked is like tony the tiger… great.
in the crook of her neck he fell in love for the first time. the way her hair fell gracefully onto her shoulders, a controlled waterfall, a cascade of follicles.
I was the crook of his arm that got me. I couldn’t help but touch him there. Soft bending crease that made my skin tingle even after he pulled away in shock. I guess I should have said hello first before touching.
Se encogió lentamente, preguntándose cómo las cosas habían terminado de esa forma. Estaba torcido, despreciable. Una cosa deforme y sin nombre.
“Torcido”. Formó una mueca con los labios y se encogió más aún, tratando de abrazar sus rodillas y pegarlas al pecho como había hecho tantas veces antes del incidente. “Torcido”, sí.
Crook in his neck. Or something like that. Words were difficult, especially with the pain shooting through him. It would be nice to die, that is what he was thinking. But he was alive, for the moment at least.
I went on and I saw a crook on the mountain, I swear I saw it, please, believe me. I’m not crazy, my love. Just look through my eyes and you’ll see it…
The crook of his nose was an unwelcoming sight. He was a very crooked man from his nose to his smile to his stance, and even to his shirt collar which was slightly off center. Sadly, she had to ignore his mischievous glare and accept his invitation into his rundown house. No matter how uncomfortable she felt, she had a job to do.
He’s got the air of a crook. Not a lowly one, who steals cars or deals in drugs. Perhaps women, but his sort of crime is the high end type. Perhaps embezzling money from the government, but she doesn’t think that’s his game either. If she had to bet, she’d place all her chips on espionage. The kind that could make the worlds come crashing down.
She is a crook. Through her cheery demeanor, and pink gloss smile it is easy to tell that murder is on her mind. No one will ever know.
I could be a crook for you but instead you broke into the most private places of my heart and became a crook yourself. I often thought what did I do to entice this behavior, or was it just in your nature to take things and create fantasies. I was a victim of your charm to which I never ever knew or thought of as harm. I could be a crook for you but you beat me to the punch a time or two. Never knew what hit me; it seems. Sent spinning and then feigning for your regime. I need it, but most of all I want it. Take me to places of extreme pleasure then flaunt it. You were always the crook and I was always your muse, left brokenhearted and confused.
They call me a crook while I rot behind these bars. They can see the bones threatening to burst through my almost translucent skin. They can hear my breaths getting shorter and rougher as I struggle to push through another day in this hellhole. They must notice how sunken in my eyes have gotten, like rocks disappearing slowly into the grit and mud of a shallow creek bed. And yet there they are, screaming for my murder. I figured they would have eaten their fill of my suffering yet. Guess I’m wrong.