Image for the poem Quadrants


Iím so fucking pissed. Disgusted. Bored. Ambivalent. Sitting at the large, practically empty table. No music, just the hum of the electronics and sunshine. Itís not night time, in fact, itís only 3:41pm on a Saturday, plenty of time to get something done.

A bus drive by, cars drive by, I sit hunkered in with a furrowed brow. Iím angry at the world for not screaming at the system. Iím angry at myself for not starting a riot. Whoíd join me, a 50 year old suburban white woman with a bad sense of style and uncontained grey hair.

Thereís no glass of wine. No cigarette. Not even a glass of water. A subliminal punishment that if you wonít get off your fat ass, you canít have anything.

The bed is made but the room is hot. This is no time to sleep even tho every bone in my body is exhausted from doing nothing. There are electronic invitations to go to clubs and parties - none of which I want to do because right now, I am hating everybody. This world I put myself in lacks the drive and excitement that my destiny holds hostage.

The political climate has made it impossible to consider having a safe outing anywhere. The election is approaching and while my candidate is obviously the best and swag fills the room - it seems the rest of the world is happily entertaining destructive bliss.

My head in my hand, eyes squinting out the afternoon window. Cars pass by without a sound bc the windows are closed. Itís too hot. All you can know is someone is sitting, contemplating, not happy, not crying and nothing is getting done but the air is thick with concentration.

The computer clamshell already open, the intense typing begins. It starts and stops and the attitude and the feeling does not change. Not until the sun becomes less strong, and my head begins to nod back and forth in disgust and annoyance. Then my hand reaches for the top of the clamshell and slams it closed without logging off. An abrupt standing position, pushing the chair out quickly, like an enemy, then tugging at my shirt, wiping the dread off my face. Slipping on a pair of well worn flip flops, grabbing my bag and my phone, swiping the keys off the hall table, opening the door just enough to escape and pulling it close behind me. All you can hear are the keys locking the door and footsteps descending.

The room dissolves into pixels.
Written by bimbammit
Author's Note
opening scene
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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