#67

dissipating colors, petals thrown over the side of the earth, melting slowly down, bursting into blue black flame.
warmth and the laughter and the day.
fighting, pulsing through pinholes, rolling over earth, folding into ocean.
mystery and tenderness and night.
balloons let loose to the sky, a wash of scent in the heat.
anger and fear and touch.

wide-eyed, watching the repetition, feeling the awe at the passing of time.

as if you aren't the day.
as if you aren't the night.

#66

the train blew the final whistle, let out a slow, apathetic groan. breathing heavily, like a weight lifter on his final set, it inched slowly forward, aching. its passengers jerked, then settled back, eyes on newspapers and magazines, a few squinting through the dirty windows, looking for a reason to stay.
a pair of eyes on the platform, bleary, wet and smokey, searching for two brown, shaded eyes, long since buried in text and dull from lack of hope.
the tracks shuddered, a race of goosebumps following the cars, subsiding into the distance.

#65

most of the time, he had projects haphazardly thrown across the house. a broken stereo, purging itself on the living room table, obscure tools occupying chairs and stools, tired graphing paper labeled "blueprint ideas" crumpled near the trashcan.
prodigy. brilliant. genius. these words excited him as much as tying his shoelaces in the morning. they were dead by now. words that denote nothing.
potential. a word worth discovering.
like his crumpled papers, like his marriage, like the sonata he began 10 years ago... it was all unfinished.
for all his knowledge, a thought, an idea, had never taken him full force, left him rushing and gasping, left him sleepless with excitement.

#64

He had looked something like the Campbell's soup kid in his youth. Chubby, ruddy cheeks, short swatches of patchy blonde hair, thick wrists and a soft tummy. And he had been happy- always giggling- never making jokes, but never the brunt of them either.
Of course, it was sooner rather than later that societal stereotypes got to him. He lost the soft ruddiness, the awkwardly boyish smile, straightened the crooked teeth. A personal trainer, GQ Magazine subscription, and 4 types of diet pills later, he looked nothing like the boy she grew up with.
As his popularity spiked, she watched his agonizing decline.
For two years now she had followed this friend-turned-stranger in the magazines and tabloids, watched stories she hoped weren't true. Looked through the accompanying pictures she hoped were staged.
she had loved him, of course. Loved him unknown and chubby and poor and happy.

#63

she didn't know why, but all day she had been plagued by a feeling of vague apprehension. beating quickly at irregular intervals, her heart prompted heavy exhalations and rapid fire gasping, clinging to oxygen, the veins standing up, pulsing, cheering for more MORE.
and just as strangely, the return to calm, to peace.
she'd heard that stress could kill a girl, but a girl like her? Strength. it was her motto.

Scream it from the mountain tops, but sometimes mottos are how you want to be percieved and not what you really are.

#62

i was nervous to take him to my mother's 60th birthday party. two thousand miles puts damper on regular visits home. it's not that i was worried about her. my mother loved everyone with a fanatical loyalty.
he was a different story. embarrassingly wealthy, he had become another doctor in a long line of prestigious family members. it was difficult even now, to think about that first visit to his parents' home. when i walked in the door, i didn't take off my shoes; didn't think of it- my mother had always welcomed people into the home quickly come in! come in! and she specifically bought carpet that wouldn't show dirt and stains. the visit went downhill from there.
and here we were, my brilliant and beautiful doctor, ready and willing to meet my mother, two-time high school junior who earned her GED at twenty-two years old.
we parked far down the street; it was already full of cars and our front yard looked like we should have salesmen showing us great deals on used vehicles.

through the fanfare and cheap party balloons, he said to me that he was envious of my childhood. his parents never had 5 people they could call true friends. "i would give my whole education to have love in my life that she does."
i hugged him and looked towards my mother, who was beaming at a new "welcome" sign she had recieved. "yes. it is rather decadent isn't it?"

#61 (oops, i had two #58's)

pretty red ribbons circling the post, trimmed in flashes of silver tinsel. light washed over the balcony, false daylight from the house within.
across the road, an orange and green palm tree made of bulbs strung together with translucent cords. a cry for warmer weather, perhaps, surrounded by heavy laden evergreens.
air filled likenesses of song subjects, swaying back and forth in the wind, electricity running through them.
all false displays of cheer, all missing laughter. all missing the point.

#59

a guardian angel branded in tarnished silver rubbed against copper portraits of lincoln and smooth-edged jeffersons.
it couldn't buy a stick of gum, but it was always there, and sometimes a hand reached down, cleared the other coins away, eroding it a little more, rough fingers to smooth surface.
before this pocket, it had traveled from a factory, to a store where it was purchased with lots of lincolns and jeffersons, by a little girl. not long after, it traveled to a soft patch of grass and a quick running stream.
there was a flash of a photographer's bulb and it was picked up again, soon to be dropped near a waiting cab on the sidewalk of st. paul.
it was picked up again, looked at curiously, and thrust into this pocket. this new pocket belonged to a man who lived in a perpetual state of monotony. he didn't even believe in guardian angels. but for some reason, it helped him to know that somewhere, someone did.

#58

"selfishness is necessary to our very existence as a society." as he took a drag of his cigarette. "sine qua non." smoke escaped with every vowel.
"every business ever built was for personal economic gain. or social gain that leads to it. the very internet we all worship and adore for being ubiquitous, universal. all for someone to get ahead. nothing is linear. you need a car to get a job, you need a job to pay for the car." ash fell to the tray without prodding.

"what about aid workers? that's pretty selfless, don't you think." she brought another rum and coke.

"to look good. to feel good about themselves. there's no real compassion. aid workers, missionaries, all of them- the greatest paradox you'll ever see. maybe not the usual style, but it's about them." the extinguished cigarette lay crumpled in a sea of its own refuse.

he threw a dollar to her. "the most gratuitous thing in our world today."

#58

marrying someone who is both manipulative and dependent is probably the most socially acceptable way of destroying your life.
how else could your family and friends celebrate your imminent downfall.
clapping and cheering to start a life that was meant to be so much better. was meant to be so much more.

was not meant to be with someone so fake.

he looked at the ring in his hand.
she looked at him anxiously, waiting to see if her words would take effect.
shifting quickly from carefully weighing her words to indignant anger, he walked away from her.
it wasn't that she wanted to upset him. she wanted to save his life.
she had to try before he made his choice.

later that night, she got the news. with sickness rising, she forced a congratulations from the pit of her stomach.
suicide it is, she thought.

#57

another photo box. a bigger one this time. so many photographs to organize.

the sepia toned couple outside of the bistro. the man was dark-haired, arrogant and handsome, in a James Bond by Pierce Brosnan kind of way. he said something to her and looked to his menu and she looked at his downturned face, hurt and sadness creasing her laughlines in an irregular way.
a young girl in a pretty yellow dress, squatting on the dirty sidewalk to pet a stray cat. her mother never looked.
reading a well-worn letter, a camoflaged and clean cut army private sitting at the bus stop, no one taking note of him.

all these pictures, waiting for the box. he made his purchase and as he walked away, took another snapshot of the store clerk as she greeted the next customer.
this was his adrenaline rush, this was his defiance. no one noticed, no one knew, but he held these memories, made them his own in the dimming light of his room. he stole these memories, no one would know.
he stole these memories and now they were his.

#56

splashing and bubbling, the cool water running fervently down the creekbed, unearthing stones, taunting and swirling algae over to the calmer edges of the water.
day to day it flowed differently, sometimes so tranquil a butterfly could land on the crystal surface.
today it burst wildly over the sandy earth below, shooting streams of cold mist upwards, concealing grateful salmon until the next time it slowed and proved itself a feeding ground yet again.
tempestuous and moody, never dependable, never predictable. but beautiful in its anger, agonizing in its calm.

#55

the baby was crying again. she covered her ears. every time she heard that familiar wail, she wanted to throw a fit and cry herself. no one came to comfort her, and it was tiresome to go to someone else.
they had always said it would be different when it's her own. patronizingly, your motherly instinct will kick in, then looking at her with a mix of disdain and ill conceived sympathy, they would go on to tell the joys of parenting.
she was grateful to her own parents, and now, she would protect her baby with all of her might.
and though her sense of morality, her sense of duty, would always outweigh her bitterness, this unwanted child would always carry that stigma.

#54

he was getting ready to leave. the one before him left too. and the one before that.
she watched him pack and her heart ached. it always happened this way with her. the initial attraction, the first date, the part where she allowed herself to get a little too attached. then came the job opportunity. a "can't pass it up" deal. travel.
every one of them had been right, of course. they had all been fantastic opportunities, chances she would take, if she was in their shoes.
she was never in their shoes.
again today, she stood watching him, bent over the bed, clumsily folding a shirt.
loneliness had settled in before, but loneliness for company. any company at all.

today it was something else.

today it was abandonment.

#53

i know i was never literary enough for you. it didn't matter how much schooling i had, it never mattered how many books i bought and devoured and dogeared and underlined.
moby dick sat on my nightstand for two months and it was drudgery. the whole book went downhill right after "call me ishmael" but i read it, i read it because you love it.
maybe Hearst was the original journalistic genious/asshole, but someone had to invent yellow journalism. but you always stick to the facts now, don't you?
don't think i cannot see you roll your eyes when i order a medium latte; i never could remember "grande." they all sound big to me.
so i guess i'll leave you to your trendy scarves and square framed glasses. you were always more passionate about pointing out every pretentious remark of your self-proclaimed nemeses than what might be happening in my heart.

#52

the first time he saw her, she looked like the heroine on an 80's B-list movie poster. Wavy, glossy hair, red lips perpetually holding a cigarette, curves like a mountain pass. her wide-eyed gaze passed over him, as expected.
he knew the type- wild and seductive, with just enough morality to make a man beg. to make him crazy.

he'd had clients like this his whole life. jealous lovers, rich playboys who live to be wanted. they'll wine and dine every fish in the sea, but there's always one. always one who he can't bear to see with anyone else.
that's when he gets the call. he always agrees because the money's good. half now, half when the job's done.

she was in his sight now, and for the first time he thought twice before pulling the trigger.

#51

the old house creaked as she leaned against the front porch post, chipped paint, which had been crisp white, now weathered through. hair fell in long curling pieces of ribbon around her face. skinny now, almost gaunt, yet still beautiful.
she finished the last drag of her cigarette and he photographed her in colorless tones.
black and white would not fade as she had.

#50 (see, i made up for the double forty-six)

he stared at the painting, wondering. each brush stroke placed so carefully on the canvas, and he was offput by it's unsettling aesthetic.
even so, it was intriguing. strangely alluring.
and he wondered about the artist, a woman. would he view this differently if it were a man? would it cease to fit within his narrow mindset? if it were his sister, his girlfriend, wife or daughter, would he find it so intimidating?

so...

I wrote 2 different #46's.

and i am too lazy to change it.

over and out.

#48

he'd done it again. somehow managed to rile up the status quo. his mother always said not to talk politics or religion unless you're ready for a debate. probably a lot of mothers said the same thing.
there just wasn't much very interesting to him aside from those two subjects.
the problem wasn't that people were against delving in to the subject matter. it was that people only want to discuss it if you agree with their opinions.
in his head, he could be swayed by a well-presented arguement. he just couldn't help playing devil's advocate or, more often, setting up such a satirical viewpoint that none could argue for lack of logic.
he didn't intent to make enemies. his entire social life reflected Poe's law. which is to say, no one ever invited him to a second party.

#47

the moment before the picture held the truth. the beatles' most famous picture in the crosswalk. who saw them a few seconds earlier? who witnessed them adjusting their jackets, moving stray hair from their eyes?
grade schoolers lined up for picture day, the boys roughhousing and throwing paper wads, the shy girl in the back, holding her head down quietly, then grinning widely to show 2 missing teeth.
these are the moments he longed for. they were the moments he wondered about.
he saw these pictures, he kept them in an album, full of pictures of people he never knew. he hoped that maybe someone would find a picture of him and wonder. he hoped they would imagine stories of his life. that somewhere, in the mind of a young visionary, he would be alive and vibrant; his life would be extraordinary.

#46

everyone said she had talent, she knew her songs were great. but something about the stage, the lights, the heavy makeup and heavy breathing fans leaning over the monitor... she was never intended for fame. and maybe her songs were better left to herself.
she was torn between acknowledgement and anonymity. the self-absorbtion of needing to be commended for her accomplishments. the calm of careless abandonment.

#46

it was there when she got home from work. the wind blew her skirt around her legs, playing with escaped pieces of hair. she didn't notice how bright the moon was already, already visible above the sunset. looking down, as she always did nowadays, she put her key in the mailbox. the gray door swung open and she reached in for the usual bills, junk mail, the occasional "10% off your next purchase over 50 dollars" offer. something was different this time. she looked down, intrigued.
scrawled handwriting that she hadn't seen for years. the return address printed more clearly than hers.
dropping everything from her hands, her purse scattering its contents on the concrete, she tore open the letter. it was a picture. it was bent. "please forgive me. i miss you." written on the back. she turned it over.
the moment was vivid in her mind. her 12th birthday. his skinny arms around her shoulders, protectively, the way every parent hopes a big brother will be. she was beaming, safe and happy. only two years later was when...

clutching the picture to her chest, tears dripped to her cheeks, her chin, fell on her sweater. had it been 15 years? more since the trial started. she couldn't visit him there; it was easier to forget, to leave.
looking at the photograph, she knew those children would never be so innocent again. but she would go home now. she would take back a scrap of what it felt like to be a child.

#45

she was leaning over the edge of the boat. he cautioned her and pulled her back towards him. music floated from inside the ballroom and he took her to the middle of the deck. moving in time with the notes, he smiled. she looked angelic- recreated candlelight shone through the windows and reflected her dewy skin. she wore her hair long and wavy. her dress fell lightly on her thin shoulders, across her hips, barely touching her feet.
they spun and a laugh trickled from her lips.
his thoughts quickly turned to the box hidden in his pocket. and inside...
he loved her. of course he loved her. was he in love with her? he was her knight. he was endlessly romantic and she wanted to desperately to be with him. he knew that.
could he take a lifetime of that?
she was so beautiful.
and so dependent.
she wasn't right for him. he knew there were women better suited for him. more spontaneous. quicker to laugh. more independent, women who he would truly be happy with.
she was just a girl.
she would be devastated.
but he could not be her happiness. not any more. finally, he knew, he would make the right choice. the box weighed heavy in his pocket. he would rid himself of it. and of her. and for the first time in years, he would feel free.

#44

she found it on her bedside table. it looked as if it had been folded over and over. it was not a new note, but she had never seen it before. she cried as she read it, but wasn't sure if it was relief, guilt, or sadness. whatever emotion it was, it took hold of her. she sat very still for a very long time.

"Dear Helen,
you kept teling me to stop. You said if I love you I would stop. You should know that your right. I dont think I can love anything. Maybe god didnt' give me the capabillity of love. I gess you know now that you married the wrong guy. Maybe you can tell the kids I'm in the army now or somthing. I'll find a way to get money to you. I'll try. You know I always tryed.
I dont' think its a diseese like some people say. I just dont' have the will-power. Im not a strong man, but I gess you know that too.
I love you- at least as much as I know how. If there was anything about me that was good, it was you. Thanks for seeing somthing good about me. I dont' think youll see me again unless they stop making booze. but maybe.
take care of youreself.
Jon"

#43

they told her she could say a few words. she didn't have anything written but this didn't catch her off-guard. nothing ever did. emotion wasn't something she awarded herself. not anymore. not for the last, well, not for a long time now.
so she sat in the front row. it was reserved for family members only. only three seats in the whole row were taken.
during the eulogy she scratched some thoughts down on paper. they told her to "say a few words." of course the eulogy was canned. what was there to say about him?
they motioned for her to come to the stage. she looked at her paper.
pretentious, it said.
a sketched clock, a heavy slash drawn through it.
i didn't break my leg falling out of the tree, it said.
nothing was good enough, it said.

she looked at the expectant mourners. most of them were there out of civil duty, respect (for who?), maybe a photo op leaving the funeral home with the mogul's only child.

"everybody has their secrets." she crumpled the sheet. "and my father had his too. you keep your memories of him, whatever they are. every one of you in here had something to gain from him. i don't think a single one of you was ever a true friend." she motioned to the casket, dropping her crumpled paper inside. "this is a man who has died without a single friend at his side. but i guess that's not a secret to any of you."

walking out to the sunshine, her secrets too, were gone.

#42

She'd always been told "a time and a place for everything." and on the less religious end she heard the same sentiment that "all good things must come to an end."
Getting up in the morning was difficult, not because of exhaustion, but because she couldn't bear to let him go, to leave his side, even for a minute.
With trepidation she realized that she was happy. Truly, one hundred percent happy.
With any kind of luck, religion and sentiment would fail.

Thirtythree

As she slowly walked down the dark hallway, she knew which floorboards she could step on, and which ones were off limits. Slinking in a zig-zag, on the rug, off the rug, almost to the staircase. She had made it a little game for herself. Everything's easier when it's a game. At first it was difficult, but she loved her daddy so she wanted him to be able to get better so he needed his rest so she didn't want to floor to creak so loudly when she'd go to get herself a glass of water.

For the last month, the game had been just a game. It wasn't needed, but she did it anyway. When she gets older, she'll know that this was her heart breaking, step by step.

#41

he hadn't been in church since he was 5 years old. and that's the longest he'd ever been in one place.
the sermon was on death.
apparently, church folks found the word "death" in the Bible to be synonymous with "separation."
all the towns, all the women, all the well-meaning community organizers, the support group leaders, the schools of thought, the growing number of everything he consistently separated himself from.
the multiple deaths he brought upon himself.
what a special brand of masochism.

#40

the band played on.
couples danced around him, the foxtrot, the waltz, the samba. wind swept across his face, he could see the flash and shadow of light through closed eyes. once in awhile, a brush on his arm as someone came too close.
slightly upturned lips.
in his mind, he tapped his toe with the beat of the band.
and he held his hands up, fingers wrapped around her imaginary waist, remembering her laughter at a misstep; her awkward movements.
behind him, a request for the dance. he nodded, his eyes still closed. in the middle of the floor, she released the brakes on his chair. he was spinning now. they laughed at the awkward movements.
and they danced.
the band played on.

#39

"every relationship is just an elaborate con."

"that's a cynical way of viewing life."

"think about it. we all have needs. emotional voids, intellectual voids, monetary voids, the desire to feel beautiful, wanted, smarter, faster, stronger. find someone better than you, who needs to feel that they are useful. they're your savior. they will 'make you better' and that's their weakness." he downed a shot of tequila. "or," he paused dramatically, "find someone below you and they will be grateful and give you everything they possibly can. either way, you're both just cons. you're both just getting what you want from the other."

"you don't believe in love?"

"i've lived too long to believe in anything." he stood, and headed toward the restroom, his voice trailing behind him. "everybody's a con man. you'll learn. you, me, that guy, your parents, everybody."

half an hour and one unpaid bill later, he was nowhere to be found.

#38

the manuscript was finished. only a few more things to do. thank you's. always those- mentioning the obligatory God, parents, editors, best friend from first grade.
the next page read this:

"a note on the text:
the views presented by the author in this narrative are not affiliated with the author, nor do they in any way reflect the views held by the author."

the end.

#37

since junior high that's what they told him he was. so that's what he became.
savvy, overconfident, almost arrogant. funny.
he hated being funny.
every time he was introduced to a new "business associate", a new contact for networking, it was his name followed by "and he is so funny! He always has us in stitches."
so he became funny. and charming. and smooth.
he drank rimmed cocktails and worked the room.
and at home, alone finally, he read a depressing book and fell asleep, dreaming of places void of expectation.

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.

#16

he droned on. something about disassociation or repression. one of those clinical words that come a dime a dozen. she remembered her last bill. okay, maybe more like ten dollars a dozen. either way, they meant nothing to her.
he had been recommended to her. he was the best in town. after this appointment, she would decide for herself. after all, she'd already been to all the others.
more talking. she thought about newspaper awards. they always give crappy pieces of paper away that read "best burger in town", or "best place for a manicure." and each establishment would place it in a black frame from the dollar store and the manager would point it out to new customers and walk around with his chest puffed out for a month. and 3 years later, on the verge of being shut down by the health department, the sign still hung in the lobby.
"...and it seems to me," she snapped back to the present at the harsh tone of his voice. "It seems to me that you have layers of repressed memories that we need to dig through. Go ahead and make a few more appointments on your way out."
she nodded and left. remembering the bill again, she breezed by the receptionist on her way out.
a young man, maybe 25, dressed in black grunge clothes stopped her. "you got a quarter? i want to get drunk tonight."
she gave him a dollar, smiling, and thanked him for his honesty.

Fifteen

The truck radio gets horrible reception out here. He usually just hangs his arm out of the window and taps the outside of the door with his fingertips, a beat of his own making. After only a few self-composed tunes, the city lights fade. If the clouds weren't so oppressive, he could see every star. Maybe mortals aren't meant for such things as they willed.

A half-worn sign tells him the next town is thirty-seven miles. Maybe they have all the stars.

#15

the music. it sprouted from him and grew. sometimes in waves, big, glorious swelling, full of agonizing violins, bony fingers holding the bow, almost shaking with tenderness, holding each whole note as long as possible, reaching out to grasp the final bits of sound fading away.
those songs would make him ache, from the innermost part of his being, every song a story, every song more than a story.
his eyes would close, involuntarily, and the music would continue, like a cold fast wind across his lips, taking his breath away and carrying it. maybe to the next town, maybe north, to an even colder and faster wind, and maybe someday he would breathe in that same breath. and it would hold the same music and he would remember and he would be full again of that same aching tenderness.
and it would all be more than a story.

Fourteen

There were always people to greet him at the train station, but he often wondered what it'd be like if there weren't. He knew that one day, enough people would forget, or be too busy, or think they wouldn't be needed, or wouldn't be welcome, and others would better take the place. Small mysteries are all he had left to occupy his thoughts. A number on a billboard reminded him of a math problem reminded him of its application in the observation of nature reminded him of botany reminded him of planting a sapling in school reminded him of that dusty library reminded him of Aristotle.

Who was picking him up at the train station?

Thirteen

Campfires only provide so much heat. Too big, and the forest goes with it. Too small and it goes out. Just right is too small.

Their eyes met, but not in the way they used to. Love gave to despair, as happens when tavern stories become eulogies. And eulogies are never long enough, or honest enough; it's a silent agreement everyone makes.

The tree line and tents set to deflect the wind racing across the plain were thankfully effective, a small comfort in the face of days ahead and weeks behind.

Twelve

The room was dark, darker than it was outdoors. No moonlight casting shifting shadows through waves of leaves. No sparkling cobblestones or stray pennies or cats' eyes. Only the occasional glow of a lit cigarette. He waited.

Quiet, too. Only breath and heartbeat and a creaky, ancient ceiling. Sometimes he'd mutter to himself.

He waited for her, but he knew she wasn't coming back. They only came back in movies. Bad ones, usually.

#14

It had been sitting on her dresser for awhile now. Crumpled when she got it from the postman. Half of the envelope flap was ripped open before she even pulled it from her mailbox.
It stared at her, the flap still only half open. Already she had held it up to the light to see if any words would shine through. She peeked into the opening to see blue paper. The color of the sky on muggy summer mornings, tinged with a little git of gray- or silver- depending on how much the observer likes muggy summer mornings.
Some days, curiosity almost got the better of her. Slowly crossing the room she would pick it up, weigh it carefully from hand to hand. Once, she even had her index finger tucked under the fold. She felt the crease on her fingertip; rubbed it slowly, back and forth, till finally she shook her head and laid it safely back down.
Part of her already knew what it said inside, the rest of her didn't want to know. If it was certain, if she knew, if she read it for herself, what would then be left to live for?

Eleven

The soles of her bare feet sported near-permanent stains. Grass and dirt and years. Not many, but enough. It's something she didn't even think about anymore, now that she didn't get tiny cuts from walking across the lawn.

The stains were truth. Or, more, an absence of falsehoods. The truth of the oneness of herself and the earth and everything on it. It was all she could do to stave off the loneliness a little longer.

#13

"all of your writing" he stated, "is about relationships. one on one relationships." he pointed to her third entry of the semester. "this one has some children in it, but it's a vague reference. It’s ultimately about the progression of the same two people." he seemed slightly concerned, "why do you think that is?" as if he expected her to divulge some angst-ridden tale of unrequited novel-worthy affection. there was no such tale.
she gave him a processed answer along the lines of "relationship dynamics are interesting for readers."

the truth was that she never have enough time to create her own relationships.

the truth was that she took ideas from overheard conversations for her writing. That she disguised a bit of herself in all her protagonists and called it fiction so that no one could feel sorry for her.

the truth remains that she had never loved anyone well enough to be worthy of a novel.

#12 (Sunday)

the whole house smelled of roasted chicken and the spices of sidedishes and finally the table was ready for dinner. every room in the mansion was spotless, like an advertisement for interior design.
quickly she ran upstairs to change. she was still wearing the worn out jeans and bleach-spotted t-shirt she had donned early in the day. her hair hung lifeless and she quickly pulled out the curling iron to see what she could do.
her son ran in the room. "mama, what else should i take on vacation?"
"just what we packed this morning, honey. but remember, we might not take a vacation, so don't say anything to daddy. it will be our little secret okay?" she tousled his hair.
he stood up on his tiptoes. his kiss missed her cheek and touched her chin. "i love you mama. i love you most." he smiled at her, a chubby-cheeked, innocent smile, and galloped out of the room.
she finished dressing headed to the dining room. the front door opened and as he entered she was pouring a glass of his favorite wine.
he gave a disapproving look at the table of food. "what's all this mess? what's that get-up?" he asked, motioning at her.
She looked down at her blue honeymoon dress. Finally she could fit in it again. "I thought we could have a nice dinner together. Talk. Relax a little."
"I'm playing poker with the guys again tonight."
She threw her arms wide, an image of dying Christ.
"But we..."
He turned and headed out the door.

She called to her son, "Honey, we're going on vacation."

#11 (saturday)

she scanned the headlines every day, fervently. clicking on the links, she placed the images into photoshop, magnifying the faces, comparing to the faded and crumpled picture from her wallet.

arrests, convictions, rapes, unthinkable schemes and crimes that only the most insane could conceive.

in walmart, she joined the other shoppers in dismissing the pictures of kidnapped children. but when she passed the most wanted, without fail, she leaned in close to the posters, so close that her breath fogged over the scowling eyes, the downturned lips.

one of these days, she would find him.

her son.

Ten

He liked to spin his grandfather's old globe, slapping it until it reached blurring speeds. And then, a sharp poke to bring it to a halt. Wherever his finger landed, there he would wonder what the people being crushed by his pointer were like. How did they dress? What do they eat?

What do they call their parents?

What music do they listen to?

Oops, water.

That country isn't there anymore.

#10

bright lights flashing, flashing

the crowd undulating, coalescing with the steady movement of music

bright lights flashing, flashing

brief seconds of eyes, open-mouthed faces, hair and sweat, arms raised, hands touching
unified, no thinking, no questions, no inhibitions
smeared lipstick and eyeliner, the smell of hair dye and cigarettes, musky cologne.

bright lights always flashing

a single girl, an anomaly of sorts, huddled to the ground, black fingernails clasping pale skin

stop the lights from flashing, flashing

Nine

"You always say it's going to be fun."

"I know."

"But it never is, it's always awful."

"I know..."

"I wish you'd stop trying to make me 'meet' your friends."

"It's good for you!"

"THIS? This is good for me? I could be at home, not half drunk, not already having spent twenty-seven dollars. And it's not even helping me relax!"

"Well, maybe that's your problem."

"What is?"

Eight

Fifteen years ago, "no bars" meant "dry town."

The outgoing calls would ring once or twice and then silence and then beep.

She noticed the rain was strangely arrhythmic, bouncing off of brick and car hoods and gutters. The toothy scowl of a homeless man reminded her of the oak trees in winter, and his skin of the dried up riverbed in the summers back home.

Finally, an answer.

"Oh God! I'm so glad you're home! I hope you can hear me, it's raining pretty hard, I just needed to tell y-"

Beep.

#9

there is an old thrift store couch. It is worn and comfortable. A glass lies on the end table- leftover from the night before. behind the glass is a picture frame. a boy and girl have their arms resting lazily across each other's shoulders and they are grinning widely. their skin is tan from summer and they are both squinting slightly- because of sunlight or because their smiles are so big.
it is a comfortable room and the window is covered by an Oriental green shade- it looks like a remnant piece from the Walmart discount fabric bin. but still... it is comfortable.
a note lies on the coffee table. the blue pen it was written with is teetering treacherously on the edge of the table, ready to fall at the slightest nudge.
the carpet still has lines running through it from a recent vacuuming. the whole room is comforting, not too new or too dirty or too formal. nothing matches very well, everything has color- it is bleeding in from the sunlight through the blinds, it still clings to the faded couch, it runs in circles over the glass frame of the clock... it is late afternoon and no one is home.
a few spots on the wall are pockmarked from old nails. the wall hangings are sporadic and unique. thrift store treasures maybe, or gifts from friends. they don't look new, but they are nice.
it is warm, and it is worn, and it is home.

Seven

The forest seemed to go on forever, but she finally reached the other side. At the break of trees, she stumbled upon a fallen branch which was not a branch at all. "Oi!" the branch which was not a branch said. "Watch where you be goin!"

The girl, she shriek, which startled the branch which was not a branch. It was, in fact, a goblin, or a passable facsimile. Large yellow eyes and large yellow teeth and large green ears and tiny little fingers.

"Who-... who are you?" Her voice wavered like the leaves 'round her feet.

"Who am I?" asked the goblin, shocked and dismayed, "why, I be your brudder and DIS be your mudder!" as he excitedly gestured at the pinecone he'd snatched from the ground.

"You don't look like my brother, and my mother is dead..."

"You should say sorry for kickin' me just there just now," the goblin announced, exalting the pinecone high. "We both know mum raised ya betta!"

#8

she checked the message.
his usual deep voice. passionate only during apologies.
the longer they were together, the more passion she endured.

excuses for wrongdoings (some she already knew, some just now coming to light) flew through the air as her phone hit the ground somewhere between arizona and new mexico.

her tires tossed dry sand behind her and she never looked back.

#7

Her father never beat her and her mother never drank. She got along with her brother, 7 years her senior, too much older to be close, not old enough to be estranged. Generally, her sunny attitude was genuine.
There was nothing, really, to blame it on. She didn't feel inadequate; she never read those skinny-model magazines, her grades were slightly above average. She wasn't great enough to feel any pressure, not poor enough to get attention.
She sought out those with problems, tried to blend in as one of them at any meeting she could find. AA, cancer survivor support groups, she drank coffee with the insomniacs and waved hello to the bulimics.
Her only vice was that she had no vices.

awkward

He had an uncanny knack for making an already awkward situation even more awkward. They used to take walks together, but he never felt the urge to just run through the dew soaked fields. This made her feel, at 21, that time was running out. He was always responsible, always made the right decisions, he was always safe. “Versatile” it said on his resume. Welcome to a world where versatile means mediocre. But she stayed with him, because it was easier to be with a safe man who loved her, than an adventurer who would always make her question.
At his family reunion she was asked how they got to know each other. She gave the stock answer and it was sweet and it was expected. But all she could think was, We never talked about him. We never talked about me. We never talked about us either. Oh, we talked, sure. But, for the life of me, I can't think of what.

Six

The coffee nearly spilled as he sat at his table. A pile of papers in imminent doom of permanent staining. He plucked one from the mire, and clicked his pen. Click. Click. Read and scribble and read and read and read and scribble. His writing made a scraping sound through the paper on the glass, so he wrote about that. He wrote about the spilled coffee that didn't spill, and he wrote about the events of the day.
The waitress brought him breakfast. He cautiously covered his scattered sheets, but thanked her for her kindness.

sunday #5

As he drives the old convertible he looks up from the road and points at the clouds. One is moving faster than the others and he tells her to look at it.
Her eyes tear up and he looks worried. She tells him the sun is too bright, and she pulls her sunglasses from her purse.
She doesn't tell him about the visit to the doctor; how after she found out, she sat in the bathtub for 3 hours and cried. She can't look him in the eyes anymore, knowing that he'll find out sooner or later, when the bills start coming in. She knows this is the last trip they'll take together, that all of the it's-been-awhiles will be her goodbyes.
Maybe it's easier for him to think she left him. It's better to make him hate her for leaving him alone, then let him think he could have saved her.

Five

STS... STS... STS.. STS...

Wet grass is a poor substitute for a bed.

STS...

No matter how much we water, it's always brown and shaggy.

STS...

Cold, fake raindrops.

STS...

Everything is a poor substitute for something.

Four

Scotch.
It’s always scotch first.
The weight of the dining room chair kept his lungs from fully inflating. It felt like running, without all the pesky motion. Facedown. The shattered ceramic vase was making tiny imprints on his face.
Sleep it off.

another one

All I could see out the window was the pelting of the same gray rain that had been falling for three full days. I knew he would be walking by my window soon. He always walks by at the same time every day. I couldn’t go the window this time. There is something inside of me that he unearths; it moves in orbit around my heart and I feel dizzy, queasy, abnormally unnerved. I wonder if he loves adventure at all; if perhaps that is what he wishes for it in the dark, with only the moon to witness the transaction between he and God. Certainly it is what I longed for yesterday, what I wish for today, and what I will still be seeking tomorrow. Single drops of rain hit my window, inch towards each other, hesitatingly at first, then they meet, take each other's from and slide quickly down, running, frantic, one. Without taking notice of myself, I am daydreaming again.
I sat with my book, reading but not comprehending, finding myself at the beginning of the same paragraph I had started an hour earlier.

late post

the pavement shone black and wet, like most pavement does under a full moon. he checked his watch. how long had it been now? his passenger seat floorboard was a heaped up junkyard of cheetos wrappers and foam gas station coffee cups. when was the last road sign?
he sighed and kept going.
nothing caught his eye, but he looked in the rearview mirror anyway.
it wasn't that the road ahead was so dark... just that everything behind him was so bright, that anything else paled in comparison. he could have made a life with her. she would have dropped everything- her fierce independence, all those plans she made and mapped out and tucked away in that brilliant mind.
so he left in the middle of the night. if anyone could settle him down, make him stay somewhere for more than a few months, it would have been her.
he was portable and he liked it that way.

Three

Tiny hairs covered his face. His son comically rubbed his own chin, “Mine’s almost the same!”
“Almost! Just.... ten years away, I’d expect!”
The boy looked down at his hands, silent counting his tiny fingers. He presented a sum, to which his father laughed. “No, no, both hands.” He held up both hands and counted from one to two to ten.
The small hands poked at the stubble. “Does mommy make you cut it all the time?”
“Yeah, mommy does.”
“Why?”
“Some mommies don’t like it, I guess.”
“Oh,” said the boy, as he rubbed his own chin again.
His wife came into the living room, somewhat confused. “I’m... I’m sorry... who were you just talking to?”

post #2

We are in the hospital amidst tissues and half-eaten carryout sandwiches, looking up from the waiting room couches (makeshift beds with scratchy cotton pillowcases) to see if a passing doctor or nurse will look at us. They never just casually glance in. I can't blame them.
Our own eyes are glazed and glossy, our cheeks red and our voices already are scratchy from tears and from holding back tears.
even her fingertips are swollen, her skin pale; blue with lymph and broken blood vessels.
The doctor takes her parents in the next room for a long time and we hear more weeping. We are sitting in the next room and holding hands. The radio is playing an Indian flute version of "Oh Christmas Tree." There is a football game on. Sometimes we stare at the screen, but we don't see it.
she is braindead
And we don't understand.
Their baby boy is brought up from ICU. Their newborn baby who she will never see. He takes their son in the room. Of course he doesn’t understand, but this is the only time he’ll ever see his mother. This was all so unexpected.

Robotically, we begin making phone calls – she’s braindead but alive (is that alive?). He absently squirts more visine in his eyes to wash away the red.

This was all so unexpected.

Two

Her children don’t speak her language. The oldest was younger than the youngest when they left home. She tells them she fled because she feared for her life, that the bad men in uniforms would come and get them and separate them from each other forever and ever. Really, she worried that her husband would discover that the youngest had a different father. Sometimes, though, shame is worse than being beaten in the street.
And sometimes she confesses her sins to them while they sleep, in the tongue of her mother. As she does, she can feel the old words peeling away, replaced by new.
All she ever taught them was how to say, “I love you.” When they say it, they giggle and crinkle their noses because it sounds silly to them.
With some luck, that may be enough.

she

suddenly she blinked her eyes. the wind felt so strong in her face. she was... running. the realization set in and her feet slowed to a walk. one of her toenails had broken in half and the soft fleshy underside was bleeding on the asphalt where she stopped.
was she crying? no... no that was the rain. it was a greasy rain; the kind of thick drops that make windshields blurry no matter how strong the wipers are. a drop crawled down her face, making a shiny, jagged line from her high-set cheekbones to her jawline. it dripped on her tshirt.
she was fully conscious now. too conscious. she was aware of everything. the arrhythmic beating inside her chest, the screech of a bat (almost indistinct through the mugginess of the storm), the slight smell of day old hair products and the clinging of fabric on her legs.

steam rose from the grassy area beside her. she imagined a bog full of quicksand and quick death.

she stepped into the grass. it felt like heaven after the sharp pinch of concrete on her bare feet. a tree shielded her from the rain. it was not a bog, nor quicksand. she lifted her face to the sky, her thick mascara matting her lashes together and coating her eyelids.

she stepped back on the sidewalk. heaven was not for her.

One

She was the kind of girl who, when she walked into the room, ruined your life. You were never the same, and you wouldn’t want to be. We used to tell each other stories of the stray smile she gave us, the time she asked us a question about calculus, the time one of the buttons on her shirt came loose and we could see her bra, the time she got dumped at the biggest party of the year, the time she ran her car onto the sidewalk and almost hit the minister, the time she smelled like cheap booze by third hour.
I remember that I absently nodded to her father at her visitation. He didn’t see me.