Thirtytwo

Rainwater drips from the roof onto her face. She looks towards the sky. It stopped raining only minutes ago, but the sky was alight and the sun was on fire. She twirled her keyring around her finger, metal strips of melody. Everything was alight and on fire.

Thirtyone

The stars here don't look much different, except I can see them. I can still see them in the city.

Isn't that something.

We talked about temporary things like yesterday and we talked about permanent things like right now, and how everything that happened happened right now and everything that will ever happen will happen right now, and there was no one there.

#36

he kept pictures of his hometown in his suitcase. everywhere he traveled he sent postcards to his family, his friends.
they were not of buffalo in wyoming, nor were they, later, of the castles in england, the eiffel tower, the glory of water in a mideast desert. rarely did he even remember his camera in these places.
they always arrived with slightly crinkled corners and scrawling cursive on the back. red and yellow sunsets, the long, winding road out of town, the mismatched houses of the west side of town, a shoe left on main street.
he traveled to learn, to grow, to feel, but he always knew he would never find anywhere that would change him concretely, so painfully, so poignantly as that place he knew as home.

#35

garages were always her favorite places. she could be anywhere. as a girl, they were caves, they were mountains, her neighbors garages were grand adventures of derring-do.
she got older and hung a hammock, spend days reading, climbing those same mountains with the characters; it became china, it became switzerland. she thumbed through the pages, surrounded by cool concrete walls and she was in the rainforest, the jungle, tiptoeing through a herd of lions while on safari.
in college it was endless guitars, resonating from the walls, sweaty girls and boys and cheap drinks. the walls held the effects of vibrating guitar solos, even after the crowds went home.
there was no room for imagination anymore.
he told her to park her car in the garage.
it was clean and neat.
nothing stacked arbitrarily with a blanket thrown on top. no mountains.
5 blue plastic tubs, 3 drawers and a tall cabinet. white walls and a tall ceiling. no stains on the floor from junker cars.
she longed for the days of adventures.

#34

they were always heralded as great pieces of writing. "the most alluring piece of fiction i've read in a very, very long time." another wrote "i was hooked from the first sentence. it seems she has thought of everything that has never occurred to mere mortals."
and her pseudonym rose up on the tower of successes, hit the peak and refused to move.
and she too, refusing to move, battered herself with words, obsfucting them into fiction, while still remembering, still feeling every story so acutely.
"the greatest fiction writer of our time!"
and if they only knew.

Thirty

He wasn't in class again today. Usually once a week, his chair is empty. I hear the other kids telling stories about how he does drugs in the bathroom, but I know that's true. How boring would that be. That's not a question.

Whenever he wasn't in class, he was sitting in the shadow where the west staircase bends against the window outside. He'd sit there, and I'd sit there, because he was too terrified to be anywhere else.

Twentynine

The water burned the inside of her nose, into her throat, and she coughed the way an emphysemic coughs. An epic, earthshaking cough.

She struggled onto the beach, and made deliberate and exaggerated footprints in the sand. And she laughed the way a lover laughs. The kind of laugh that creates worlds.

Twenyeight

He closed his eyes, and passed the rings of Jupiter. A lifetime away, but not his lifetime.

I do not exist. I am only accidental.

A cry, "death! death!" but he screams "life!" to the echo. To anyone who would listen. To only himself.

I closed my eyes, and passed the rings of Saturn.

#33

it made him feel relevant, deliberate. it wasn't the words he was searching for. they were words attached to feelings that rarely visited.

a penny, usually dirty, such a film of dirt that he couldn't see the date. he laid it carefully on the tracks, positioning and repositioning, making it just right. the train was coming. he ran back and laid down, ear to the ground, hearing and touching and feeling, counting cars by vibration. it passed and he crawled to the tracks, searching for his penny, a stretched out caricature of lincoln. the dirt was scraped away in places, revealing shiny, beautiful copper. the prettiest coin, he thought.
he would drop it somewhere on the way home, letting someone else find it and wonder.

#32

they arrived late for the interview, but that was no surprise.
his girlfriend sat primly in the chair, a sour look on her face. that was no surprise to me. it's the expression she wears anytime the cameras aren't flashing.
she has great hair, she really does. and take a look at her parents. both thin. she's genetically gifted to eat cake and never gain a pound. actually, that's what most of her days consist of. breakfast around noon, hair and makeup, shopping, more hair and makeup, barking orders to her personal assistant, and a night out of eating and drinking too much.
she's the most specious person i've met to date.
he stood, a little uncomfortably, probably embarrassed for her and because of her.
they were together now, had been for 2 solid months, which is practically married by hollywood standards.
of course, he's no angel himself. everyone knows it. but it's all about the angle you take. you can destroy or exalt someone's life in the period of a 300 word "breaking infotainment" news story.
how did i become the pundit on torrid Hollywood affairs?
that's an interview i'll never conduct.

Twentyseven

"Just think about the fish!"

He'd always say, "just think about the fish."

The summers of my youth were punctuated by weekly fishing trips to the pond near my grandfather's dairy farm. My father was always so excited about these trips, and I was as well, though for different reasons. He told my mother it was all about the 'quality time' he got to spend with me. Only, even in adulthood, I don't see the quality he told my mother about. We'd sit in absolute silence.

And that's why I was excited.

I would tell him I was thinking about the fish. I was, but not in the same way he was. Same words can mean differently. I don't know how many, at six, grasp the duplicitousness of language, the easy lies of it all.

#31

wait. is that? yeah, i think it is!
ooh ooh! over here! look, look at me! i should've worn heels. julie was right. always wear heels to a bar or no one will see you. maybe i should shout?
hooray! i think he saw me! he's coming this way. i'm glad i didn't have to jump up and down.
what will i say to him? it's been so long!
"hey there."
oh no. no no no no. "um, hi."
"i saw you checking me out from across the room." he swirled her drink.
"uh, well, actually, i thought you were somebody else. i thought you were my friend josh."
"baby, i'll be anybody you want."
ew ew ew. just don't touch me. "no, really. i thought you were someone else."
"don't worry. i get it."
please leave, please leave. "oh good. thank you. sorry to bother you."
"because when i'm done with you, you won't need nobody else." he turned with a wink. "i'm gonna need something special for the lady here."
*sigh* is there a back door to this place?

Twentysix

The freeway reflected oncoming headlights. It had been raining for almost two days straight now.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and blinked his eyes forcefully to clear away the blur. Eleven fifty-seven.

Her plane from Tel Aviv was almost an hour late. They hadn't spoken since they left the airport.

#30

she read the back of the pill bottle.
"take at meal time with a full glass of water"
she looked at the clock. it read 2pm.
she took the pill.
"avoid prolonged exposure to sunlight"
she laid on her balcony, in full view of the sun, a glass of wine by her side.
slowly, the sun highlighted the scars on her legs, her arms, her stomach. watching them slowly contrast, the dark skin, the white tissue, still showing tiny dots on either side. sutures, staples. a drain.
she rolled to her back, wincing at the bruise on her hip.

she never was very good at self-preservation.

Twentyfive

The scars were healing nicely. Well, as nice as such things do. She still wore the bandages, simply because she hadn't come up with a better story to tell people when they asked. Talking about scars is much more socially acceptable than talking about gaping wounds.

Twentyfour

This bus trip takes 22 minutes. For 3 of them, every day, roughly, I do the sudoku in the newspaper. Some days it takes me only 1 if the solution is obvious. Then, I will close my eyes and pretend to sleep so that no one will talk to me. When that happens, it usually ruins my day. I know people don't mean to do it, but they do it anyway. Some of the worst things that happen are unintentional, I think.

Today, he gets on my bus. Today, I can't concentrate on pretending to nap. Today, everyone looks at him like they look at someone they recognized from high school, but haven't seen in a while, and didn't really like when they saw them every day. He hasn't been on the newspaper cover in months, I almost didn't recognize him.

Why was he riding the bus? Couldn't he afford a private limo or helicopter or jet plane to take him wherever he needed to be?

I would bet that at least three people on this bus are taking inventory of their possessions to determine what could be used to deliver a fatal blow.

#29

new sketch
she's writing a letter. dull pencil, pressed softly between her fingers, solid lines across the page, forming letters forming words. hair pulled back. erase. hair down. falling around her ears? no, her shoulders.
next page
at the creek this time. shoes off, socks on the embankment. rolled jeans or a skirt? skirt. a long skirt; she has to hold it up, gingerly, it makes her laugh. the water rolls away as her toe breaks the surface, barely touching.
she resembles a tiny girl, first learning about the world, first reaching out to discover the unknown.
next page
a mug of coffee. steam rising to her closed eyes. feet tucked up to her chin, a blue striped blanket keeping her half warm, then falling around her on the chair. the familiar smile. fading light from the nearby window, hung with sheer curtains. long earrings full of stars.
next page
hands together. one slight and feminine. the other calloused, knobby, dirt around the nails. they are clasped, not tightly, but serenely.
this one is not yet done.

#28

he offered her a cigarette when she came outside. she accepted, touching her lips to it. adjusting. lighting. taking the first drag, breathing out but allowing the paper to stay on her mouth. her lips were bare, they looked soft and fleshy, slightly too big compared to her other features.
she came out here every day, a styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand; the other, searching for a cigarette- she never had more than two or three left in the pack.
her eyes blinked slowly, and he watched, as he always had, wondering why she always looked tired. was it just life? or an insatiable lover? he imagined her, perpetual cigarette in hand. he imagined her with tangled hair and flushed skin. he imagined her...
her lips rolled all around the cigarette, burning slowly.
he didn't say anything to her. not that day.
he'd only started smoking last week.
one step at a time.
one day, he would press against those lips.

#27

she walked in my office and peeked her head out from under her umbrella. red lips and smoky eyes. she shook her head and touched a few curls back in to place. to hell with the rain. she was impeccable.
she was trouble. they all are.
she was the kind of dame who could travel the world with a tube of red lipstick and a slight swing of her hips.
why was she here?
mixed up with a bad guy maybe. usually. they say that dames love the bad boys. i have my own theories.
it's not the danger they're looking for; it's the sob story behind the man. they want a man they can save. a man who needs love. those men don't really want love. they just want women.
and that's when they come to me. they waltz in with their red lips and black high heels, letting out a tear or two, dabbing them away with one gloved hand.
they're all trouble. she's gonna be a special kind.

#26

he'd never been there before. this city was so big, you could go out every day and never run in to the same people. of course, he didn't know that. it was a rare occasion for him to step foot outside. after she died it just wasn't worth it.

two days after the funeral, he moved away, silently, without fanfare. how could he stay? the whole town was gray and lifeless. everywhere he walked, it was memories of her, the way she covered her eyes to squint down the road. how she hummed down alleyways half to hear the echo and half because she was always nervous in alleyways.

so he moved, and here he was, and he couldn't stand to leave his 10th floor apartment. what was the point? she had never seen this place, it did not carry her joy, her laughter never rang off the windows, they had never seen that green skirt brush the soft backs of her knees.

but today he was out. just for today he was charming and chatty, making shopkeepers laugh, passing news about the weather while standing in line.
he bought grapes, her favorite, and a mango. he window shopped until he grew tired, and the sun retired behind the buildings. he returned to his apartment. for a week this time, maybe a month.

not usually, but sometimes, it was fun to pretend that he was alive; that she was alive.

#25

there was always something sitting on that park bench. no one ever took their trash from it, their personal belongings. one day there was a small purse, a dark red with black trip and a tiny strap... so small it was hardly worth putting one on.
another day, a travel mug, still partially filled with tea. for a few hours it smelled of herbs and sweet flavorings, but the sun turned it to another piece of rotting liquid.
there was a shoe.
last week a paperclip.
each day, each week, each month, new belongings left behind, and why? who were the people leaving traces of themselves behind? a burger wrapper, so close to the trash bin. was it laziness, a subconscious effort to leave a memory? were they distracted- and by what? sickness? love? indifference?
a man in a long, brown coat.
headphones this time.

Twentythree

The rock skipped across the surface of the lake four times before dying heroically with a plop.

"Where do you think they go?"

"Duh, under the water."

"But after that?"

"I don't know, sinks to the bottom?"

"And after that?"

"Probably lays there forever, and no one will see it again."

"Oh."

The boy thought for a few moments. "You mean like grandpa?"

Twentytwo

The silver dollar was warm from his pocket. The writing on its surface has been warn to illegibility, the face reduced to non-specificity. It felt heavy in his hand, something solid against wrinkles and weakness. He had found this particular coin on the ground when he went to New York for the third time. Or fourth. 

It used to have memories attached. 

#24

she liked to take pictures to document her day. the lighting stayed how it was. no effects, no dimming. the shadows fell as usual. sometimes the pictures showed herself. feet shoved uncomforatbly into dress flats, pale skin contrasting shiny black and sensible brown. a collection of photos showed her ipod, migrating to different points on the desk- near the phone, by the keyboard, resting against the tissue box.
a window with trees outside, a few rays of light still shining through the branches. this picture was taken from far away, across the room at least.
then, a door, slightly open.
this was the last picture in the camera.

#23

she noticed these things. they were private, but maybe they were commonplace. that, of course, was infinitely more interesting to her. those things which were almost universal; those things she wondered aloud when he was not at home, what she noticed about herself with doors closed.
in the evenings she would stand sideways and bare in front of the mirror looking at the spot on her ribcage. it stared at her darkly, a purplish brown spot, made permanent by the seam of her bra rubbing daily, constantly. she would touch it, feeling the indentation, stretching the slight pain of the skin, more aware of her many imperfections.
she wanted him to notice without her telling him. for him to kiss her mouth, and kiss the permanence of her bruise and tell her that he loved her.
she needed to know that he also saw these things. these private, these commonplace things. she needed to know that he loved them.

#22

She was tired. She could not remember a time when she was not tired. A life full of giving more pasion than she had ever recieved had left her with dark eyes and sunken cheeks. She reached to the cupboards to pull down a glass. Its finish was scratched but cleran, cared for, but knocked down long ago, perhaps, by a pair of rough and careless hands. She poured with last of the tea and the liquid barely filled to half. Raising the glass to her lips, she suddenly clenched the countertop and took a stumbling step forward, then fell, pitching the glass to the ground.

At the funeral home, viewing the long, elegant lines of her mouth, he laid a rose across her hands. It was the first act of returning what she had always so freely given.

Twentyone

His toes scraped the cold cement. Familiar. His hair, matted with sweat and dirt, cloaked his face. This used to annoy him. Somehow, he remembered all his previous lifetimes in this depressing cell. Everything had gone wrong, apparently, because "right" certainly doesn't end here.

But, it always ends here. It has, it does, and it will.

What if, next life, nothing went wrong? What if everything he spent all his lives searching for was found?

His heart sank as, deep in his gut, he felt the concussion of a neighboring cell door slamming shut.

#21

he turned his phone off the minute it registered that the message was sent. no replies, no worried parents, no one tense and practical ready to throw advice at him from all sides. it's not like it was the first time he'd done something stupid. that other people said was stupid.
it's not that he didn't appreciate his life. it was pretty good, actually. his girlfriend was loyal to him, even though he left her for months at a time with no real destination. his parents at least cared about him enough to try and give him advice.
it wasn't that he wanted to die. or that he necessarily wanted to live either. his indifference toward either gave him fearlessness. too much affinity for life or death made one tense. made one scared. lack of emotion was freedom.

a hundred miles away, a phone chimed in with a message. "plan to call you in 4 hours. after 5, you probably won't hear from me again. no worries. love."

Twenty

The deli that used to be across the street here, they had the best turkey club. There's still plywood and yellow tape covering the front windows. I've apologized profusely and repeatedly, but never to anyone. That morning, the ashes mixed with the snow, white and gray and white. It was beautiful.

I suppose it's sad, really, that the thing I miss most in my life is their turkey club.

#20

he woke up a minute before the alarm. reaching over and shutting the alarm off, a smile spread across his lips, a comforting happiness that the screech of the clock wouldn't jolt him from a dreamlike state.
as his arm reached out, a cold draft grabbed him and slid down his arm under the covers. quickly, he pulled the blanket up under his chin. he was torn between the need to get up, to get ready, to go, and the ache to stay there, underneath the soft covers- warm and soft like a baby still in the womb, not ready to open his eyes to the harsh world.
eventually though, he rose, and went to the window. it was covered in mist and steam and he brought his fingertips up to the glass. they pressed lightly and released, and the condensation dripped as teardrops down, down, down.
this is the only chance i get to live this day, he thought. today he felt more dramatic, sadder maybe, but more honest, and emboldened, he felt suddenly youthful and he reveled in the thought, tumbled in it, and tasted it, as if today he had stumbled upon a second chance for all the years that had passed.

#19

he'd done it before. you meet a girl online. "what a great guy" she'd say "just so nice, and we talk about everything!"
then they met. what else was there to talk about? true to the female nature, she would sit uncomfortably, racing through scenarios in her head, wondering if he thought her dress was too loud, or did her armpits smell, assuming that he hated her hair, second-guessing herself- should she have ordered a salad? and he would become bored, annoyed with the female psyche, wishing she would know he was happy to be out with anyone at all.

this time, he would get it right.
she fell for him, she was involved, so interested, but they had never met. it was right where he wanted her. she was invested, wanted to meet him, on the verge of thinking she could be in love... but not there yet.
he went to the restaurant an hour before they were supposed to meet. he was not wearing the color of suit he had suggested. his hair was not blonde and he was actually taller than 5'11".
He watched her enter. She scanned the room nervously and finally accepted a table. the waiter brought water. then lemonade. then something a little stronger.
finally, he made his move.
"excuse me, are you alone?"
"no... well, yes. I was waiting for someone." she played with the napkin in her lap. "i don't think he is coming."
"not coming? he must not know what he's missing. may i sit?"
she agreed, and thus began his plan. he knew it would work this time. the online man would be another one to chalk up as a loss. "but!" she would tell her friends. "even though i got stood up, I met the most amazing man." and her imminent heartache would be reversed by this mysterious stranger.

he knew a woman could never really fall in love unless she felt she had been saved.

Nineteen

This was the third morning in a row he had been awaken by ceaseless banging in the apartment upstairs. His usual anger fled as he realized, this morning, that no one had lived in that apartment for months. Old Man Saunders died there two months and three days and seven hours and three minutes ago.

You've got to be kidding me.

He grabbed a short broom from the closet near his from door, thinking it a suitable weapon against whatever interlopers he may find in the dead man's home. The stairs creaked mournfully as he ascended despite his attempts to stifle their protests. Saunders' door was shut tight, as it had been for two months and three days and seven hours and five minutes.

It took his shoulder two tries to open the door, even though it wasn't locked. This was not surprising to him, though, as most of the doors in the building were stubborn. Shifting walls or shifting foundation or somesuch.

Empty. There was no one there. His mind raced through every bad ghost story--

A woman entered, wearing a decade-old business suit that had a nametag over the chest pocket. "Oh good, did those damn movers finally get that ridiculous dresser out of here? Are you my nine o'clock showing?"

#18

I noticed her when she walked in the door, which was a major strike against her. Her hair was brown, deliciously chocolatey brown and I was disgusted with myself for thinking it. She sat directly in front of me and I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. Her shirt was thin, and I couldn’t tell; was that a tattoo on her shoulder? I kept looking, staring, half knowing I looked like a creep.

She was exquisite and that pissed me off.

I was blissfully indifferent and easily overlooked and I liked it that way. I figured that most people worth talking to were the ones like me, though I had never met any of them. If you want attention, be cheerleader, join a theatre group, or amuse yourself in the bathroom. Otherwise, you’ll be better off listening to my advice. Anonymity is the slacker's best friend.

It had never occurred to me that someone might realize that I exist.

Eighteen

The plate smashed on the tile floor with all the fury four feet of gravity could muster. Scrambled eggs lay like a corpse in the heap of shattered ceramic.

Their shouting would worry neighbors not used to it. He accused, she deflected. She reprimanded, he maintained innocence. A cruel and ridiculous game of tennis. Angry footsteps, and a door slams.

Sometimes, a clear conscience is the best revenge.

#17

she fixed herself a mojito, a usually celebratory drink, heavy on the rum.
okay... maybe just a little heavier.
he wasn't coming home tonight. she cranked black flag on the stereo and let henry rollins voice her anger and frustration at people, at the man, at her own inability to retain the independence she had worked so hard in earlier years to establish.
in the bathroom she curled her hair in tight ringlets and took care to blend her makeup perfectly. she studied her own reflection in the mirror, added a little more lipstick, and went to find the camera.
she had on her favorite dress, the little blue one with black lace peeking through in all the sexiest places. she had never worn it out yet. picture after picture, she posed in different places around the house. at the end, she looked through each photo, each shot... and deleted every one.
her face scrubbed clean, she fell asleep on the couch in her beautiful blue dress that no one ever saw, happy with mojito, angry with love, purged with punk rock.

Seventeen (with apologies to PT)

A torn sheet of newspaper danced down the empty street. It's bottom edge charred and soiled, it paraded gleefully along the curb, proclaiming last month's headlines. It's amazing to see how far we've come, but more so to see how far we haven't.

Sixteen

She claimed to know the truth about herself, but she did not. I did not either, but I wanted more than anything to. Why aren't a thousand half-truths worth one? What about a thousand half-brave faces I know she carries? Add a little charisma, and I'd know the answers.

There are faint freckles around her nose, but you'd never notice without getting really close, but I could never see them.