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jkrende on DeviantArthttps://www.deviantart.com/jkrende/art/Going-to-Work-30916456jkrende

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3HoursAway

Literature

Turned Down

Jared hurried through the door of the apartment, slamming it shut behind him. He lumbered his way across to the lone kitchen chair and sat down hard in an exhausted heap, wheezing as if he had just beat Lance Armstrong in the Tour de France. Mentally, he was still in a daze; his mind buzzed around like a fly on crack that just couldn't find his way out of the blender. He hadn't expected murder to be such tiring business. Eventually, after huffing, puffing, and sweating in the kitchen chair, Jared snapped back into conscious thought. He was safe at home and thinking now would be as good a time as any for a drink. He poured a haphazard sp

Literature

Happy Birthday, You Bastard

It was a damn fine cake and Will was proud of his work. He knew chocolate would be perfect. Chocolate was Paul's favorite flavor. And this masterpiece was now three layers of moist, delicate chocolaty heaven. Three perfectly exact layers, glued together by a rich, orgasmic, next-to-black icing. The powerful scent of its sweet goodness was drawn up Will's nostrils as he smoothed out the top most layer; his tongue sticking out while he worked the surface smooth. This was the kind of cake Paul would ask for if he had to choose one last thing to eat in his lifetime. Man, that kid loved chocolate cake. Will and Paul had known each other fo

Literature

Not a Word About You

I'm not gonna write about your eyes, Cause I've said all there is to be said. I'm not gonna write about your lips, Cause there's nothing else left in my head. I'm not gonna write about your hair, Or the way you make me melt. I won't be discussing the power of your heart, Or anything else that I've felt. I'm not gonna talk about your laugh, Or the way you make me smile. I won't even talk about your intelligence, Or that I've been in love with you for a while. Most days I wake up and you make me smile, Without even being there. If you could feel what you do to my insides, You'd know all the words I won't share.

FriedPickles

Literature

Uniforming.

Hope is in the guest bedroom unpacking. It takes years to unpack in the guest bedroom. Actually, it just never ends. The mismatched pairs of socks keep multiplying, and the bed never molds to your shape. It is a slab of ambiguity that ensures that no guest ever feels at home. There's a pink cardboard Kleenex box on the nightstand and ruffles around the bed frame. It looks like a carbon copy of a Pottery Barn sample guest room. Those are dying rooms, not living rooms. Hope's brother died in the war, and they sent his armpits and toenails and nostrils back to the country in a box with a flag draped over it. He was just bits and pieces; he didn

Literature

an isosceles love triangle

If two angles of one triangle are similar to two angles of another triangle, then the triangles are similar. Recalling the memory of His geometry makes me sick with longing. That's the real reason I don't call Him every night, don't spend hours stuttering out words onto paper in some tremulous imitation of a love letter. The space I have behind conversation and human interaction is where He really lives, ready for me any time I need to remember. I don't even have to close my eyes before His own stare back at mine, revealing the storm clouds and stars that hover around His midnight-black pupils. The angles of His eyebrows, the slope of His no

Literature

emotions with longer names

"Why are you holding a camera?" Her eyes flickered to look at his. She possessed no poker face—her discomfort made him smile, even now. "I don't know," replied a disembodied voice. The sound of his words made his heart beat faster, made the memories come rushing back in some horrific nightmarish image of a carnival ride. She displayed her white teeth to him in an awkward smile, the flashing red light reflected in her eyes. They weren't looking at the camera—they were looking at him. "Talk to me," he said, loving to film the shape of her face in all that silence but knowing her awkward quirks. "I don't know what to say." Her voice was quie

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Prose and Poetry

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Literature

Christian: Not a Label

Yes, I am a Christian. That doesn't mean I'll be showing up on your front porch Waving a Bible in your face screaming "Have you heard? Heard the Good News?" Yes, I am a Christian. That doesn't mean I'll condemn you to hell for drinking that glass of wine, Telling you to treat your body like a temple and keep it pure. Jesus Christ drank wine, didn't he? Yes, I am a Christian. That doesn't mean I'll be picketing your home, your work, your friends Just because your beliefs don't agree with mine. That's a little childish, right? Yes, I am a Christian. That doesn't mean that I devote my Sundays to God, turn off the phone, TV and ligh

Literature

PROSE What Spies Do

My dad is a rock. He is solid, he is powerful. He can still pick me up and toss me over his shoulder. He is never seen to cry, he can never be swayed or damaged by opinion. He is a real estate agent, and he pushes those deals and sways those clients with confidence and experience. He flexes his arms at the dinner table when I ask him and points exactly which way it is to the beach or the gun show. He is a tree, a mountain, a thick and formidable presence in any room, in any place, against any person. “He’s late,” my mom said, and pursed her lips through the ste

Journals Literature

Literature

How to Raise a Sociopath

How to Raise a Sociopathic Serial Killer from Birth: Ages 1-3: be nurturing, it is necessary in order to raise a physically and mentally strong child. keep only one stuffed animal. anytime the child misbehaves (after the age of 2), hit the stuffed animal (or remove a limb) and say, "look what you're doing to teddy! you're hurting him!" Ages 4-8: buy a puppy and keep it until it's old. let the child become attached. whenever the child cries, beat the dog and say, "you're doing this to your puppy every time you cry!" Ages 8-10: the child reaches an important stage where love is starting to be reciprocated. this is when children start learnin

Literature

Two poems about poppy's

one: Poppy dear Oh dear poppy, where I lay my head, you are my pillow, you are my bed, born from blood, of people passed, it is here I have found, my peace, at last. two: The moment Crouched amonst the red, the green, and the yellow, I stare into the poppy's spots, I raise my photobox, and capture the moment, I am savouring the sensation, and preserving for the future.

Literature

Swallowing Stars

galaxies cling resolute to negative spaces

Going to Work

jkrende

Published: Mar 26, 2006

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Description

Getting to and from work on an oil rig is a chore in itself. The HLO is the Helicopter Landing Officer, and he's the guy who meets every helo when it arrives on the rig.

Shot with a Nikkormat using a 125 mm lens and Kodak Max 400 film, f-2.5, 500 shutter speed. It was a real cloudy day. Unfortunately the scanner has washed out some of the colors...

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1172x1785px 374.83 KB