On this day in 1934, John Dillinger was shot and killed outside the Biograph Theater in Chicago, as federal agents tried to arrest him. Dillinger pulled a weapon and attempted to flee but was shot four times. He was 31 years old. During his criminal career, Dillinger and his gang robbed two dozen banks and four police stations, and Dillinger escaped from jail twice. He served as the impetus for the creation of the FBI.

On this day in 1934, John Dillinger was shot and killed outside the Biograph Theater in Chicago, as federal agents tried to arrest him. Dillinger pulled a weapon and attempted to flee but was shot four times. He was 31 years old. During his criminal career, Dillinger and his gang robbed two dozen banks and four police stations, and Dillinger escaped from jail twice. He served as the impetus for the creation of the FBI.

Spoken word of my poem, What we learn from monarchs.

The Pick-up

gibsongrand:

They undressed in silence.  George looked around for a place to hang his suit.  The room was empty but for a couple of milk crates filled with clothing and books, and a mattress in the corner.  He folded his clothes and gently placed them on the floor by the door.  The boy quickly shed his t-shirt and jeans and stood before George, naked.  The room was dark but for the faint light cast from a street lamp outside the window.  The boy’s chest glistened with perspiration.  George’s mouth began to water as he admired the boy’s wiry frame and smooth, hairless skin.  Although his I.D. had passed the less than diligent inspection of the bartender, George figured the boy was no more than eighteen or nineteen years old.  Standing in his boxers and dress socks, George felt self-conscious, imagining the boy’s disappointment at the sight of his flabby stomach and greying pubic hair.

The boy stretched out on the bed.
“So what are you into?”
George blushed, his mind racing.
“The usual stuff, I guess.  Nothing too extreme.”
“Whatever.”
The boy spoke with a thick, Long Island accent that was familiar to George.   There was a listlessness in his response that he found disconcerting.  It wasn’t that the boy didn’t have any opinions about what George did to him rather it was as if he knew nothing he said would change the outcome.  It was a resignation borne in hours spent outside a 7-11, five and diming for cigarettes and beer.  It was the indifference of hitchhikers, bartering blowjobs for gas money and the indignity of bathing in public restrooms.  For a moment, George felt an urge to hug the boy, to reassure him that his voice mattered to someone.  But it didn’t, really—at least not to George.
“Just turn over,” he said.

© 2014 gibson grand

I need some writing advice. I am writing a story about a woman who is half vampire and half angel and it was going really good at first. Melanie was so easy to write it was like it was writing itself. I was so excited at first. The thing is, the novel is getting longer and I stopped writing a week ago. My friends are getting emails from Melanie and the passwords on my accounts are changing. I am pretty sure she is sexting my husband. What should I do?

erotiterrorist:

This happens to everyone. Experienced writers know when a character starts “writing itself” in the story, it is time to delete the story before it gains full sentience. When it reaches the point your’s is at, the only cure is to burn the story. If it is a document on a hard drive, burn the hard drive and the hard drives of any computers that has appeared on it.

if you uploaded the story to a cloud, I am so sorry and I hope you survive.

It’s really unfair that it’s only 9 am and Shon has already won the internet today.

The Pick-up

They undressed in silence.  George looked around for a place to hang his suit.  The room was empty but for a couple of milk crates filled with clothing and books, and a mattress in the corner.  He folded his clothes and gently placed them on the floor by the door.  The boy quickly shed his t-shirt and jeans and stood before George, naked.  The room was dark but for the faint light cast from a street lamp outside the window.  The boy’s chest glistened with perspiration.  George’s mouth began to water as he admired the boy’s wiry frame and smooth, hairless skin.  Although his I.D. had passed the less than diligent inspection of the bartender, George figured the boy was no more than eighteen or nineteen years old.  Standing in his boxers and dress socks, George felt self-conscious, imagining the boy’s disappointment at the sight of his flabby stomach and greying pubic hair.

The boy stretched out on the bed.
“So what are you into?”
George blushed, his mind racing.
“The usual stuff, I guess.  Nothing too extreme.”
“Whatever.”
The boy spoke with a thick, Long Island accent that was familiar to George.   There was a listlessness in his response that he found disconcerting.  It wasn’t that the boy didn’t have any opinions about what George did to him rather it was as if he knew nothing he said would change the outcome.  It was a resignation borne in hours spent outside a 7-11, five and diming for cigarettes and beer.  It was the indifference of hitchhikers, bartering blowjobs for gas money and the indignity of bathing in public restrooms.  For a moment, George felt an urge to hug the boy, to reassure him that his voice mattered to someone.  But it didn’t, really—at least not to George.
“Just turn over,” he said.

© 2014 gibson grand

(Photo by Gene Bednarek)

"He recognized her voice as the voice of his people, flat, nasal, with hard r’s, a voice that had drifted down into Jacksonville, Florida, out of the pine flats of south Georgia.  It made him inclined to like her.  But she had trouble—he could feel her full of it—and he did not like trouble.  And certainly not other people’s.  His own blood carried as much trouble as the thought he could deal with because the trouble in his blood reached back through his dead mother’s and father’s and crippled brother’s, who was not dead but ought to be.  He ought to kill his brother.  The thought would come to him sometimes in the dark of a sleepless night.  He ought to kill him.  He would have done it for a dog.  But the release he would have given to a dog he would not, could not, give to his brother.  No wonder his hatred for the world made it so hard, so very nearly impossible to live in it.

Harry Crews, Scar Lover

#haikusaboutyourbutt

#haikusaboutyourbutt

Wanda Jackson.

Wanda Jackson.

(Source: best-frozen-treats, via beatnikdaddio)

Laurie Anderson’s Panties

gibsongrand:

Laurie Anderson’s Panties

An epic story from the Dirty Boys Reading Series, February 2014.

© gibson grand

https://gibsongrand.files.wordpress.com/2014/07/laurie-anderson.mp3

View On WordPress

gibsongrand:

In the space between pressed lips and fingers entwined sits that moment when memory is discarded like ill-fitting clothes leaving only daydreams and naked possibility.
(c) 2014 gibson grand
#poetry

gibsongrand:

In the space between pressed lips
and fingers entwined
sits that moment
when memory is discarded
like ill-fitting clothes
leaving only daydreams
and naked possibility.

(c) 2014 gibson grand

#poetry