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old lettersI’ve broken my feet on these stony delusions And torn my clothes on these dreams so sharp, Writing you letters, thinking I knew you Follow you fully, give you my heart- that You took, and let me believe in my weakness You were who I thought and I wished you would be You never pretended to play - though my fantasy Never ran out of imagining things.old letters
And you were there always, writing me letters, In my own hand, with my signature. But Looking back now at them, trying to know you, You sure seemed younger, and more immature.
by ~balan
the 3rd searchlight - part 33the 3rd searchlight - part 3
The tiny back seat of Rich's black, `92 Honda hatchback had a horrible smell. Jack had to sit sideways with his knees protruding into the front seats while the rest of his legs were stuffed into the floor behind Rich's seat. Worse, it was loud. Jack tried in vain to participate in the sporadic, giggling conversation of Alisa and Rich, but monotonous dance music beat a continual click of drum patterns into his ears and stifled his attempts with merciless bass. He rested his arm across the grey plastic panel underneath the back window, under which, somewhere in the trunk, a two-foot cylindrical subwoofer exploded rhythmica
by ~balan
the 3rd searchlight - part 22the 3rd searchlight - part 2
Jack stood in front his short closet, standing to one side to let the single pole lamp in his room expose a shadowed row of hanging clothes. Startled by the time, he made a noise of complaint, pulled a few items randomly from their shadowed hangers, dressed quickly, pulled his leather wallet and keys off of the tall bureau, and left the house in a rush.
On the other side of town, the Tarpenton house sat comfortably under a steep, curling driveway on Morning Road. At seven o'clock, Jack's rusted beige car made a hesitant left turn into the driveway, paused, then rolled slowly, head-first down the hill, e
by ~balan
the 3rd searchlight - part 11the 3rd searchlight - part 1
A newly paved intersection wrapped its arm around a square parking lot, where a tan stucco building wore a broad skirt of green awnings and blushed in the late morning sun. The building was marked on all sides with the word "Marinara’s" which hung heavy on the walls in block red neon. Accordion music rose faintly through the silence from speakers hidden in the flower beds at the entrance. Through the tinted front doors one could see the silhouette of a young man with a clipboard, rocking on his heels and watching a group of pony-tailed waitresses gossip around a table to his right. To his left, in a section hidd
by ~balan
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I'd like to read your work as well, and I'll add you to my watch
There's a few art houses/indie theatres around Atlanta, if you're interested:
Lefont Garden Hills Cinema
2835 Peachtree Road 404-266-2202
United Artists Tara Cinema
2345 Cheshire Bridge Road 404-634-6288 [link]
Madstone Theaters Parkside
Sandy Springs
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