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Kaleigh Jan 2018
Soft music plays from an old jukebox, it's dusted and worn.

Quiet chattering echoes around the dimly light room, my friends and I talk at the bar.

The candy parlor, a local store everyone is told to visit, though I'm not sure why.

Is it for the sweets? Or the handsome eye candy?

A boy smiles at me and hands me some taffy saying, "It's on the house young lady."

He winks and I blink, trying to conceal my blushing cheeks.

My girlfriends squeal in jealousy, that the cute parlor boy keeps looking at me.

I sip my drink, ignoring them as they all murmur and squeak.

Cars zoom past, all in a rush to get home.

I gaze out the window, watching the pink sky swirled with cherry and gold.

My seat creaks under my weight, as deep chuckling is heard from behind.

A tall dark mysterious man stares deeply at me, brandishing a root beer float confidently in his strong rough palm.

He's accompanied in a booth of equally disturbing men, I avert my eyes, not wanting to pry.

A few more sips and I'm at the bottom of my drink, the soda fizzles on my glazed lips.

"Care for a refill?" A loud voice booms next to my ear, I shutter.

All my girlfriends grow dead silent.

The parlor boy narrows his ocean blue eyes.

My voice shrinks into the back of my throat.

The man looks at the parlor boy, "One orange soda." He asks, smiling a sickening grin.

The jukebox was all I could hear, singing a sad tune.

Then, there's a loud roaring blare of an angry car engine, as the front door is kicked in.

Bystanders scream and duck, a group of bandits enter, the chime of the bell smacks into the wall crackling.

"There's that cheating *******." One of them slurs, gun shots ring like a horrible lullaby.

Each person falls like domino's, my girlfriends crying as bullets pierce their skin.

Blood splatters the baby blue walls, the parlor boy coughs, crimson red pouring from his pretty mouth.

The taste of iron burns on my tongue, soon it begins to be all I can feel.

I don't cry, I don't scream, or beg for mercy.

I fall, hard against the cold blood soaked tile floor.

The jukebox rhythm is drowned out, as my vision begins to blur.

Now people will visit, to feel the restless spirits that will linger here forever.

Blood in the parlor, can never be washed away, it stains the walls, never to be replaced.
Glenn Currier Aug 2017
[Ambiance: the atmosphere of an environment; a surrounding influence]

The smoke drifts over the audience,
the piano, the throaty singer and the sax
permeate the room with a jazzy ambiance.
My nerves vanish in the vibe, and I relax.

I enter the parlor to a flower-scent rush
there’s solemn gloom in the room for the viewing
I hear sniffles and mourners speak in a hush,
the ambiance here shaded with blueing.

The senses soak up the atmosphere.
Smells, sounds, touches, and sights
on the outside penetrate like a spear
take us down or ****** us to the heights.

Every day every inch of the way
is a new journey.  I can choose my stance,
embrace the unexpected and pray
for openness and grace in my internal ambiance.

“Internal Ambiance,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier
an angry artist wouldn't trade his inkling
for another tattoo but an ape has witnessed
a dire death formula in parlor of lies
that skins their teeth to wetness this endless summer  
as such demise in latitude will vaporize her longing
still surmised a fatherly club with a choke hold

— The End —