by Jeff Glovsky, Writing

Pieces of ‘H’

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here's some

Hung Hannah

 by Jeff Glovsky

It’s usually the cutie-pies who get me: The smiling-with-tongues-leaking-out-of-their-teeth ones; the gap-toothed-and-sunny-eyed dollop of heat ones…the sweet ones…the sad-eyed and vulnerable, meek ones…

Though sometimes, a freak ends up having to do.

* * *

Hannah was freakish, to be sure. Knees bent like a horseman, she swayed like a willow…Invited me into her heightened regime: Crook’d finger, then wagging it Mick Jagger-like…and then sshhh-shing it, crushing it up to our lips.

Smell the finger!” I thought I heard her howl.

Hannah didn’t speak like me, though; freakish Hamburg Hannah only let on she spoke German.

* * *

See Hannah: Dancing like a horseman willow…Licking on her hands and fingers, beating on her skirt to stay down.

* * *

Hannah’s left alone now with her heightened, altered dreams. She sits there snarling, like she farted; spilling wine all down herself…I ask this bird, who’s flown, “You cool?”

She snarls at me, incoherent.

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Hung Hannah

 here's some

Hind Forward

by Jeff Glovsky

She tells me she’s Moroccan, and I dig this of her.  French, some, too.  She tells me she was born in France, in fact, it’s “just Moroccan blood”.

A powerful attraction dunes…Like sands whipped up by long millennia of dueling desert shifts, it sifts…

* * *

(O)ur Dutch-bound train rolls into Belgium…sad nether lands…a cemetery.  Brussels comes, and I ask little Hind why she thinks things are so:  “It could’ve been Paris, Brussels…no?  What happened, I wonder.  What didn’t happen?”

Hind pulls a cigarette and shrugs.  “And New York is not Washington.  Or Boston.  Why, do you suppose?”

“New York, it doesn’t need to be!  But I ask you the other way:  How come Brussels, right?  Did not become what Paris did?”

“There’s too much power…”

“Washington and Boston have their own things going on, in any case,” I reason (smartly).  “But Brussels…must be frustrating!”

“Imagine being buried here,” Hind shivers.  “One’s life ends twice!”

* * *

She’s standing on her seat now, Hind…and reaching up behind her, to her bag, up on a luggage rack.  She finds it blindly, smiling at me…Tugs it so she’s got its weight and pulls it off the luggage rack…

Then bites a lower lip as the big bag with her small arm comes crashing down upon an old man’s head.

* * *

She looks down at her watch and does that pouting little French lip thing.

* * *

Our train pulls into Amsterdam.

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Hind Forward

whatever hol(y)days you celebrate, may they be merry

Happy Holidays!

JeffGlovsky November 2014


Pieces of 'H' / 'R' You ... ?
Compendium: collected short "faction" by Jeff Glovsky
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