My name is Tyler Dasher
I'm a writer who draws through class
New PaintNew PaintNew Paint by ~tylr-r
Without children, you do not need a back seat, you need subwoofers. Specifically a bass amp left over from your 13 year old self’s dreams of being Queen. And it doesn’t matter that there’s a hole in the top of the fuel tank that spills on potholes and speed bumps and hills. Or that gas has gone up forty cents in two weeks, and that the 240 gets a maximum of 18 miles to the gallon. That the wheel wells are rusting and she needs new paint because the iconic burnt orange is fading to pale salmon.
Legs stretched almost completely in front of her, she shifts between buttcheeks to unstick her thighs from the low pleather seats while pushing former bangs behind her ear with her middle finger. It’s only been three months, but her hair must have grown four inches. He’s thirsty and she has to pee, so pumping the breaks she pulls into the next town’s Shell to refuel. She makes him swing back into the car as he’s almost standing to kiss her over
Ten ForwardTen ForwardTen Forward by ~tylr-r
The prompt hangs over Deanna’s half open mouth, caught mid sentence giving insight into the obvious. Would I like to watch another episode? I press continue and the soft whirr of the projector picks back up, reminding me not to burn out the bulb. I should be doing something. I feel like the last curds of cottage cheese clinging to the sides of the container, just out of reach for the long spoon I usually save for the tall coffee mugs. I’d make a mental note to pick them up before lunch, but today my memory works like an etch-a-sketch.
The damn cat steals my chair, and his low purr drones about a half step lower than the projector’s creating a dissonant chord. It urges me to move, but I can’t bother my chair mate. Instead I sit and watch as Worf, perpetually out of his element, try to direct the Enterprise in it’s daily activities. Everyone’s memories have been wiped. They don’t know who they are, what they’re doing. Worf says