“Yeah, I’m looking at a few places. You’ll just have to trust me.” Brian said into the phone. “No, I don’t wanna live there either. I’m looking. Right, I’m on the same page.”
On his laptop, Brian scrolled through apartment listing after apartment listing. The coffee shop he’d chosen at random, the drink was good. He’d ordered a vanilla latte, and it came with a pretty swirly design on top. Drinking it, he felt only a little pretentious. Setting it next to his book on existential philosophy, he felt very pretentious.
“I can’t believe you had this ridiculously easy job for so long…She’s great. Exactly, exactly.” He laughs, “She’s still stressed.”
Brian was under a little pressure. His lease ended soon and he’d need to find a place. He had called his roommate to discuss apartments.
“I’m glad you’re doing good, dude. Surprised you haven’t killed yourself yet. It’s fun? Yeah, I believe you.”
He looked up from the laptop to glance out the large open bay windows. He saw something that startled him, made his heart skip a beat.
“Greg, lemme call you back.”
Brian quickly packed his laptop away in his backpack and got up. He ordered a small iced coffee to go and left the cafe.
He sipped his iced coffee and walked a block behind the the shuffling, preoccupied figure until it turned a corner. Brian ran to the corner and peered around. The figure was a few steps ahead, only to turn around and make eye contact.
Brian knew and at that moment they both took of running. It was that fucking jerk who he’d loaned 200 dollars to.
“Erik. wait I want to talk to you.”
“I don’t know you” he shouted back, “I don’t know you!”
Brian could see this getting weird or ugly. His lungs ached as he took after Erik. But eventually the chubby kid slowed down, panting and turned around. He gave up.
“What the fuck do you want?” he panted
“Well, my money for starters.”
“Some stuff happened, my mom got real sick.”
Brian grabbed that greasy haired motherfucker by the collar. He felt in his fist all the stress and inconvience he’d caused. His mind raced with moral justifications of violence.
“Jesus. Don’t hit me. I’m sorry I’m sorry. I had go to back home. You know how things go, bud
“so you don’t have it.”
“My two hundred bucks.”
“Bud, I’m sorry.”
Brian tighened his grip on Eriks collar and racked his fingers into a fist. “You know when Niztche said ‘God is dead’ he was really talking about the morality that came from it.”
“He meant that the rigorous Christian morality was dead. He meant that we are free to make up our own rules on what is right and what is wrong.”
“So, you’re gonna hit me over 200 dollars?”
Brian had never actually hit anyone before.
“I want to.” he said, “but I won’t.” He lowered his fist and let go of the wreck of a twenty something’s dirty collar.
Erik dusted himself off, “Well I’m glad you’ve come to your senses.”
“I need that money, Erik. I was late on rent. I was really under the gun, man. You screwed me over. I could really use that money.”
“How is she doing by the way?”
“My—oh, she’s doing much better, full recovery. Miraculous even.”
Then he kicked Brian right in the shin. As hard as he could and Brian crumpled to the concrete and took off running again. All Brian could do is lay there and watch the chubby kid huff and pant away from him.
“You stupid greasy hair motherfucker, goddamnit.” Brian yelled, “fool me twice.”
3:58 pm • 22 September 2014 • 1 note
This is a rough mix of the first song off my new band’s demo.
9:36 pm • 7 September 2014 • 2 notes
ONLY DOGS GO TO HEAVEN, a collection of poems by Kendall Sharpe written between 2011 and 2013.
Click here to read/download the collection!! For free, as always.
Thank you, Kendall!!!
The amazing Be About It Press has put up a collection of my poems. Please go follow them and read their other releases, and then if you want go read mine. They’re doing great stuff.
6:07 pm • 21 August 2014 • 22 notes
I’ve been bouncing around the idea of doing an acoustic Bad Religion cover EP for a while. I’ve heard that most Bad Religion songs are written with just an acoustic guitar and a voice, the songs work surprisingly well in that format. This is an iPhone recording of me playing Bad Religion’s Suffer. Excuse the iPhone recording, and my weak voice.
4:53 pm • 1 August 2014 • 1 note
But, perception is important
the moment set aside and realized.
Be safe, good luck
this game is full of corpses
a clean surface
to air tripped on the train at
high noon mashed brains an iron,
taste dripping power lines
diagonal angry skies
i felt an empty crack escape in mine
fell out of my mouth
I get a hazy picture and misinformation
I get my head split
as if I wish. there’s love inside
there’s blood inside. I want
the sun but I stay inside.
I can’t help my “self” but deceive
i exist on breath alone
there’s something brittle in my bones
better in bed my barren bed burned my bed
the floor falls under me
i think i hear my neck snap
worst things are happening
3:40 pm • 1 August 2014
I’m nothing but a bored matador waiting for the horns.
all those times I should have died. It’s concrete, I can’t change
gored, adored; my fate laid at my feet
victory or the jaws of defeat?
It’s so easy to leave
it’s a motive, I deceive
it’s so easy to leave
it’s a motive, I perceive
you can’t take me anywhere
a bull in a china shop
1:33 pm • 24 June 2014 • 1 note
Anonymous said: I just stopped by because I had read your story "On the Road" in BROKEN CITY and I thought it was excellent. It was honest, interesting, and with excellent metaphors. I thought, when I read it, "now HERE is a writer." I'm sorry you missed your graduation and even sorrier to learn why. You are that special snowflake. Really.
Wow. That means a whole lot!
9:57 pm • 1 June 2014 • 1 note
Anonymous said: You are a beautiful writer.
Thank you very much.
2:17 pm • 23 May 2014 • 1 note
The internet is a vast and endless echo chamber, so much so that it seems pointless to even attempt to connect earnestly with someone, anyone though a personal essay. With the faceless masses so eager to criticize, with everyone so hype to validate themselves even the most heartfelt attempts at catharsis can be construed as a desperate cry for attention. I’m skeptical about personal narratives and how effective they can be.
I didn’t go to my college graduation and I regret it. I didn’t go for a number of reasons, first off the idea terrified and bored me. Why would I want such a massive metaphor thrust on me— especially on a hot day in May? Why would I pay $70 dollars for a bed sheet and a hat I’ll only wear once? Why would I want to watch Bill Cosby (of all people) ramble incoherently about a college he once attended and a city he was so terribly out of touch with? Was there really anyone who needed to see me symbolically walk across a stage? Rhetorical questions, the answer to everyone one: I dunno. But there was a big reason I didn’t go: and it was because I was afraid.
What I was really afraid of was that my college graduation would become a repeat of my high school graduation.When I graduated high school I was immediately kicked out of my house by my father. Literally immediately, I had yet to even remove my cap and gown before being made to exit his life. The catalyst is kind of funny lemme set the scene: 18 year old Kendall and his grandmother sit in the back seat, while his father and step mother sit up front. Kendall is asked where he’d like to eat for lunch. Kendall suggests Red Lobster. For a reason I still cannot understand this threw my father into such a fit of rage that he hurled epithet after epithet at me, and began to berate me about a number of my prior failings, most notably a flat tire I had gotten a few weeks prior. I spent that entire summer before moving to Philadelphia living in my grandmother’s house.
9:54 pm • 19 May 2014 • 3 notes