six lines #4.

If you've been to New York, Paris, Berlin, London or Miami, ever felt the stabbing hunger pang of needing to say something anything now, or have found yourself on the floor, late-night, in a bad, bad place, you know something of James J. Williams, III's work. Funny thing about Jimmy is that he sports an air of familiarity that makes a person think they go wayyyy back, and soon enough, they feel like they have. He is a fountain of creativity and talent, a man who can turn even the most ineloquent of us into poets, myself included.

We all anticipate the day Jimmy's heart bursts in a glorious refusal to contain all that's inside, at which point we'll pick up the pieces and have a rocking party. Or, more likely, he'll turn to politics or education and lead a bunch of bad attitude-kids into their grateful own.

[I received no title for this]
by James J. Williams, III

[Chet and Marty, roommates, come home from a long day delivering other people's mail and their routine beer at the local bar. It is closing on sunset, the light orange and purple mixed. On their center table, round, lies a revolver with a brushed chrome handle]

Marty: Oh shit its a gun.

Chet: Why is there a gun Marty? Is it yours?

Marty: It ain't mine. But this is bad Chet. Bad. I mean a gun just appears, sitting on our table, the evening light streaming across it. We can't hide it. What are you we going to do? oh this is bad bad bad bad bad.

Chet: One of us is going to end up dead. This scene is only 6 lines long!

Marty: It is inevitable. I guess all we have left to do is tell each other our deepest secrets. At least one of us can move on with a clear conscience. Chet, I have always loved you.

Chet: I fucked your mother.

[scene]