She sees him and begins to shake. Her hands are nervous, betraying the smile she has pasted across her face. She sets down the coffee mug on the counter so it doesn't slosh over the side, but the sugar is spilling from the packet and entirely missing the coffee, such is the gyration of her limbs.
Every nerve ending is pulled taut and vibrating, like a violin the moment before the first note is struck. Her body screams his name, repeats in her head, through her steps, traipsing across her dreams.
She wants to be wrapped in his arms, then things are ok. Then things are safe. She knows that the way things are is wrong. His ignoring her. Their not speaking. The pain they both carry like children, snuggled close to the chest. It is a deep and abiding pain, felt in every muscle, in every smile, in every breath.
The way he looks at her is still the same way he did. His head too close and ducked down a little. She always felt she never could really look him in the eye. This is her problem. His eyes were always wide open. She just didn't see it.
She rides her bike around the city. People see her and yell, or wave. She doesn't see them. Headphones in, head down, focused on the cadence of her pedaling. His name repeating with every stroke.
There has to be a way out, but the city's walls are high.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
A Weight You Couldn’t Lift
He hated her. She had seen him at his most unguarded and for this he hated her.
She always wore those purple pumps. They never matched anything else she wore, but she never seemed to notice. She was standing on the corner, in the rain, the day he pulled up next to her. He rolled down the window of the car and nervously stuttered, "How much?" She smiled and replied, "Well, take me someplace nice and we'll see."
Her body was built for comfort, for the mitigation of misery and the receiving of supplicants. She was round, soft. Her every movement seemed to be a study of stillness.
She opened the door to the car and sat inside. The bottoms of her shoes were muddy. They left prints on the floor mat. He pretended not to notice. She pretended to be interested in his halting, pointless conversation. He drove to the hotel, obeying the speed limit and coming to a complete stop at all intersections. We are always the most lawful when committing illegal acts.
She stepped into the room and pressed the light switch. One small lamp on a bedside table illuminated the layers of grime defining the edges and surfaces of the room. She sat down on the bed, ignoring the possibility of disease. He kneeled beside her with the same indifference. His hands clasped around her waist, he pressed his face deep between her thighs. He breathed in the multiple layers of scent, her fleshy, cloying perfume, and stale cigarettes from the previous tenant. This is when he lost control. This is when he gave in to the pressure that had been building inside him like a storm. Like a storm, he broke. The sobs came in alternating waves and pulses. She smoothed his hair back from his forehead and whispered, "Shhh. Shhh." She held him close and rocked back and forth.
This is the best and worst that a woman can offer, to be a mother, a comforter, a confidant. This is what men need. This is the reason they force women into submission, why they degrade and defile them. There is a need deep in the DNA for this ease, these sounds, and this warmth that is closest to regaining the womb. It is deeper and more intimate than sex. It is worse and more insulting than refusal. This is when a man reveals his weakness. This is all a woman can do.
They stayed that way for several hours. He stood, tears and saliva dried and caking on his face, on her skirt, like so many other stains. Her legs were numb. She had difficulty standing, but still managed to walk to the door with some dignity. He shoved the money into her hands with great disdain, crumpling the bills in his frenzy. He watched her walk down the hall, wobbling a little on her uneven purple heels.
He hated her. She had seen him at his most unguarded and for this he hated her.
She always wore those purple pumps. They never matched anything else she wore, but she never seemed to notice. She was standing on the corner, in the rain, the day he pulled up next to her. He rolled down the window of the car and nervously stuttered, "How much?" She smiled and replied, "Well, take me someplace nice and we'll see."
Her body was built for comfort, for the mitigation of misery and the receiving of supplicants. She was round, soft. Her every movement seemed to be a study of stillness.
She opened the door to the car and sat inside. The bottoms of her shoes were muddy. They left prints on the floor mat. He pretended not to notice. She pretended to be interested in his halting, pointless conversation. He drove to the hotel, obeying the speed limit and coming to a complete stop at all intersections. We are always the most lawful when committing illegal acts.
She stepped into the room and pressed the light switch. One small lamp on a bedside table illuminated the layers of grime defining the edges and surfaces of the room. She sat down on the bed, ignoring the possibility of disease. He kneeled beside her with the same indifference. His hands clasped around her waist, he pressed his face deep between her thighs. He breathed in the multiple layers of scent, her fleshy, cloying perfume, and stale cigarettes from the previous tenant. This is when he lost control. This is when he gave in to the pressure that had been building inside him like a storm. Like a storm, he broke. The sobs came in alternating waves and pulses. She smoothed his hair back from his forehead and whispered, "Shhh. Shhh." She held him close and rocked back and forth.
This is the best and worst that a woman can offer, to be a mother, a comforter, a confidant. This is what men need. This is the reason they force women into submission, why they degrade and defile them. There is a need deep in the DNA for this ease, these sounds, and this warmth that is closest to regaining the womb. It is deeper and more intimate than sex. It is worse and more insulting than refusal. This is when a man reveals his weakness. This is all a woman can do.
They stayed that way for several hours. He stood, tears and saliva dried and caking on his face, on her skirt, like so many other stains. Her legs were numb. She had difficulty standing, but still managed to walk to the door with some dignity. He shoved the money into her hands with great disdain, crumpling the bills in his frenzy. He watched her walk down the hall, wobbling a little on her uneven purple heels.
The Last Night of the Fair
It was a trinket, small and mostly plastic. He won it for her at the state fair, on their second date. They had walked around eating corn dogs and cotton candy. She had tied his gift around her neck with a string. The string was taken from a post next to the world's smallest sheep, which really didn't deserve that title. They had their picture taken. In the picture it looks silvery blue and gleams with a metallic flash. It was really just cheap blue plastic, that tiny straight razor. It seemed to be something you would get in a gumball machine. Though who would distribute plastic straight razors to children? He won it in the ring toss.
She had a choice between a spider ring (one of the cheap ones that didn't connect all the way in the center and always pinched your fingers, no matter how small they are) and a straight razor. She chose the latter because it amused her that it was a prize, and it reminded her of the one she kept at home. It had been her grandfather's.
One of her earliest memories was the sound of him sharpening it in the mornings, summers when they would stay at his house. A sharp rasping sound as the blade glided back and forth across the leather strap. She would watch in awe as he lathered the soap, and then his face. He shaved recklessly, carelessly, and never seemed to cut himself. He used to joke that the blade was a fake. She knew that it was real though. Her jaw still bore the scar from the day she had played "barber" with her two cousins. She had never seen her granddad as mad as he had been that day. There was a stunning fury lighting his eyes as he spanked them each in turn.
Her new necklace brought back these memories, as she laughed and smiled at the fair. They were obvious, intrinsic. She could not help her synaptic connections. One inexorably led to the other. Her date kissed her good night at the door. He was a gentleman, handsome and kind. She thought he would make a good husband, and a good father, one day, for someone.
She was tired. A siren wailed outside her window. "Not for me," she thought. "Too soon." Her eyes closed in anticipation of the first cut. It didn't hurt. The blade was sharp. Her grandfather had taught her well. Razor to wrist, pining, pining, she clutched her necklace and finally slept.
It was a trinket, small and mostly plastic. He won it for her at the state fair, on their second date. They had walked around eating corn dogs and cotton candy. She had tied his gift around her neck with a string. The string was taken from a post next to the world's smallest sheep, which really didn't deserve that title. They had their picture taken. In the picture it looks silvery blue and gleams with a metallic flash. It was really just cheap blue plastic, that tiny straight razor. It seemed to be something you would get in a gumball machine. Though who would distribute plastic straight razors to children? He won it in the ring toss.
She had a choice between a spider ring (one of the cheap ones that didn't connect all the way in the center and always pinched your fingers, no matter how small they are) and a straight razor. She chose the latter because it amused her that it was a prize, and it reminded her of the one she kept at home. It had been her grandfather's.
One of her earliest memories was the sound of him sharpening it in the mornings, summers when they would stay at his house. A sharp rasping sound as the blade glided back and forth across the leather strap. She would watch in awe as he lathered the soap, and then his face. He shaved recklessly, carelessly, and never seemed to cut himself. He used to joke that the blade was a fake. She knew that it was real though. Her jaw still bore the scar from the day she had played "barber" with her two cousins. She had never seen her granddad as mad as he had been that day. There was a stunning fury lighting his eyes as he spanked them each in turn.
Her new necklace brought back these memories, as she laughed and smiled at the fair. They were obvious, intrinsic. She could not help her synaptic connections. One inexorably led to the other. Her date kissed her good night at the door. He was a gentleman, handsome and kind. She thought he would make a good husband, and a good father, one day, for someone.
She was tired. A siren wailed outside her window. "Not for me," she thought. "Too soon." Her eyes closed in anticipation of the first cut. It didn't hurt. The blade was sharp. Her grandfather had taught her well. Razor to wrist, pining, pining, she clutched her necklace and finally slept.
Darling
Hattie carried the opera glasses everywhere. They were not in the best condition. One lens was partially cracked and the pin that allowed them to swivel from side to side was rusted nearly to the point of disintegration. Also, when she was bored, which was often, she would absentmindedly flake the precious mother-of-pearl coating from the sides, admiring the way it made her fingers sparkle in the sun. She would tuck the glasses into the waistband of her pants or place them carefully in the bottom of her orange and white vinyl purse. It made her feel so adult. She also carried two sticks of gum, sixty-seven cents, a partially eaten kit-kat bar and the dried husk of a long dead ant. The ant was not an intentional inclusion, but had so far gone unnoticed. Hattie used the opera glasses for looking at birds, or stars, or the bees and flowers in the field next to her house. She called them "binoperlurs." She was still at the age where ignorance is charming. It wouldn’t last.
Hattie carried the opera glasses everywhere. They were not in the best condition. One lens was partially cracked and the pin that allowed them to swivel from side to side was rusted nearly to the point of disintegration. Also, when she was bored, which was often, she would absentmindedly flake the precious mother-of-pearl coating from the sides, admiring the way it made her fingers sparkle in the sun. She would tuck the glasses into the waistband of her pants or place them carefully in the bottom of her orange and white vinyl purse. It made her feel so adult. She also carried two sticks of gum, sixty-seven cents, a partially eaten kit-kat bar and the dried husk of a long dead ant. The ant was not an intentional inclusion, but had so far gone unnoticed. Hattie used the opera glasses for looking at birds, or stars, or the bees and flowers in the field next to her house. She called them "binoperlurs." She was still at the age where ignorance is charming. It wouldn’t last.
not winners
As For Me, I’ll Stay Inside
He ran because they were chasing him.
Just a few days ago, life was simple. It was the same thing day after day. Wake up. Go to work. Come home. Watch TV. Wash your hair. Brush your teeth. Feed the dog. Sit at your desk and eat peanut butter m&ms. Feel your gut expand. Feel your waistband constrict. Feel your muscles wither. Feel your bones atrophy. Normal life. The life he had known for 31 years. Now everything was different.
It began slowly. There were rumors circulating on the Internet, tales of the reanimated dead in foreign nations. They had mostly been debunked as strictly rumor, until the stories started appearing on the news, late night television. Things not fit for prime time. Then another jump, interrupting regularly televised programs. Shown during suppertime. Mike couldn't believe it at first. It was the beginning of April after all. This had to be just a bad joke gone horribly wrong. Some true stories were very difficult to believe, but zombies? That had to be false. There were no such things as zombies. He knew that. Doctors knew that. Everyone knew that. So why was it there, on his television, in his morning paper, interrupting Lost?
At first he shook his head at the easy belief of most people. The stories kept coming, reaching closer and closer to California. Stories broadcast from the East Coast, apparently related to freight from Europe. Then as the reports came in from the Midwest, news from the East stopped. Mike couldn't decide which was more terrifying, the horrible news reports, or no reports at all. Most of Mike's neighbors and coworkers laughed it off, preferring their small lives to thoughts of imminent destruction. Mike felt otherwise. He tried to prepare. There wasn't a lot of time. The epidemic seemed to be spreading faster than anyone could have predicted or anticipated. Although there had been many tongue-in-cheek books written about the zombie apocalypse, no one really had any idea where to begin.
Mike bought guns. He bought ammunition. He stocked up on food and water and bought two by fours and sturdy nails to barricade his doors. Modern culture really knew nothing about the dead, what they thought or felt. Mike thought, "This is certainly going to redefine a lot of ideas of heaven and hell, should anyone survive to think such things." He knew now that death was just a disease, a virus that cannot be contained. Thanks to modern science and an explosion at a nuclear research lab in Uzbekistan, now everyone knew that death is not a permanent condition. The dead were on the move, and they were hungry.
Contrary to popular mythology, the living dead didn't want brains, nor did they want blood. They were after souls, spirit, that thing inside each of us that keeps us going, motivates us to get out of bed and stick to our routines. That is what fed the living dead. That is what made them hunt us, that quintessence. People who were confined to hospitals with breathing tubes and machines living for them were spared. People who were confined to bed with the bleakest desolation were spared. What world was left to them though? A decision to rejoin the living would be signing their death warrants. Suicides increased by the hundred thousands.
When they arrived at his door, Mike wanted to fight. He managed to put holes in a few of them, but that only slowed them a little. His barricades were worthless against their super-human strength. That was how most of the people were being killed. After the aptly named “Zombie Kiss” sucked the vitality out, the heads were simply torn from the bodies and tossed aside, like husks. Mike escaped through the back door and ran, crashing into trashcans and trees and cars and clotheslines. He ran blindly, terrified. The thought repeating in his head, branded there through countless late night movie viewings was "Zombies don't run. Zombies don't run." He wanted to find the guy who came up with that theory and punch him square in the mouth. Not that he could have known. Not that anyone could have known.
Mike had never felt such exhilarating fear. His muscles screamed. His mouth burned with the acid taste of adrenaline. He slid down the drainage ditch on the side of the highway. He hoped that the bristly scrub grass would provide some cover. On the way down he passed the strata of debris tossed, intentionally or otherwise, from the cars that would race past. He saw a skateboard, missing a wheel and cracked in half. He saw a baby doll with one blue eye and a hole that was now a home for varieties of beetles. Her long blonde hair sullied with dirt. He thought there must be a lesson in this. The things we lose, stay lost. Or perhaps that we build our entire lives around the missing spaces where things once were, aching from their continued and mostly forgotten absence. Mike slipped on some gravel. He went down hard. Breathless from the fall he stared into the night sky. He calmly thought, "I have never seen so many stars." He stood, brushing dirt from the back of his pants, and savored the breath drawn into his lungs. "I am alive." He ran. The hunt continued.
He ran because they were chasing him.
Just a few days ago, life was simple. It was the same thing day after day. Wake up. Go to work. Come home. Watch TV. Wash your hair. Brush your teeth. Feed the dog. Sit at your desk and eat peanut butter m&ms. Feel your gut expand. Feel your waistband constrict. Feel your muscles wither. Feel your bones atrophy. Normal life. The life he had known for 31 years. Now everything was different.
It began slowly. There were rumors circulating on the Internet, tales of the reanimated dead in foreign nations. They had mostly been debunked as strictly rumor, until the stories started appearing on the news, late night television. Things not fit for prime time. Then another jump, interrupting regularly televised programs. Shown during suppertime. Mike couldn't believe it at first. It was the beginning of April after all. This had to be just a bad joke gone horribly wrong. Some true stories were very difficult to believe, but zombies? That had to be false. There were no such things as zombies. He knew that. Doctors knew that. Everyone knew that. So why was it there, on his television, in his morning paper, interrupting Lost?
At first he shook his head at the easy belief of most people. The stories kept coming, reaching closer and closer to California. Stories broadcast from the East Coast, apparently related to freight from Europe. Then as the reports came in from the Midwest, news from the East stopped. Mike couldn't decide which was more terrifying, the horrible news reports, or no reports at all. Most of Mike's neighbors and coworkers laughed it off, preferring their small lives to thoughts of imminent destruction. Mike felt otherwise. He tried to prepare. There wasn't a lot of time. The epidemic seemed to be spreading faster than anyone could have predicted or anticipated. Although there had been many tongue-in-cheek books written about the zombie apocalypse, no one really had any idea where to begin.
Mike bought guns. He bought ammunition. He stocked up on food and water and bought two by fours and sturdy nails to barricade his doors. Modern culture really knew nothing about the dead, what they thought or felt. Mike thought, "This is certainly going to redefine a lot of ideas of heaven and hell, should anyone survive to think such things." He knew now that death was just a disease, a virus that cannot be contained. Thanks to modern science and an explosion at a nuclear research lab in Uzbekistan, now everyone knew that death is not a permanent condition. The dead were on the move, and they were hungry.
Contrary to popular mythology, the living dead didn't want brains, nor did they want blood. They were after souls, spirit, that thing inside each of us that keeps us going, motivates us to get out of bed and stick to our routines. That is what fed the living dead. That is what made them hunt us, that quintessence. People who were confined to hospitals with breathing tubes and machines living for them were spared. People who were confined to bed with the bleakest desolation were spared. What world was left to them though? A decision to rejoin the living would be signing their death warrants. Suicides increased by the hundred thousands.
When they arrived at his door, Mike wanted to fight. He managed to put holes in a few of them, but that only slowed them a little. His barricades were worthless against their super-human strength. That was how most of the people were being killed. After the aptly named “Zombie Kiss” sucked the vitality out, the heads were simply torn from the bodies and tossed aside, like husks. Mike escaped through the back door and ran, crashing into trashcans and trees and cars and clotheslines. He ran blindly, terrified. The thought repeating in his head, branded there through countless late night movie viewings was "Zombies don't run. Zombies don't run." He wanted to find the guy who came up with that theory and punch him square in the mouth. Not that he could have known. Not that anyone could have known.
Mike had never felt such exhilarating fear. His muscles screamed. His mouth burned with the acid taste of adrenaline. He slid down the drainage ditch on the side of the highway. He hoped that the bristly scrub grass would provide some cover. On the way down he passed the strata of debris tossed, intentionally or otherwise, from the cars that would race past. He saw a skateboard, missing a wheel and cracked in half. He saw a baby doll with one blue eye and a hole that was now a home for varieties of beetles. Her long blonde hair sullied with dirt. He thought there must be a lesson in this. The things we lose, stay lost. Or perhaps that we build our entire lives around the missing spaces where things once were, aching from their continued and mostly forgotten absence. Mike slipped on some gravel. He went down hard. Breathless from the fall he stared into the night sky. He calmly thought, "I have never seen so many stars." He stood, brushing dirt from the back of his pants, and savored the breath drawn into his lungs. "I am alive." He ran. The hunt continued.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Times
Out in public. Anywhere. All these people. Pawing, grasping, clutching one another. Falling and drowning in swallowing pools of lust. Tidal, brutal, the briny scent of desire tainting the air. He can smell her. Put out his tongue and taste the edges of her scent, her secret places. This makes him sick. Nauseated, soul-crushing illness. He shakes and sweats with fever. He is three feet from her, two, one. He cannot, physically, impossibly cannot bridge that distance and take her hand. Graze her palm with his fingertips. That would be the beginning, or the end. No one is ready for that.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Please Please Please
This is such a small town. You can't believe anything you hear. Everything you've been told about me is a lie. These people. They make me sick. They pretend friendship for only as long as you're facing them. The second your back is turned, all's fair in love and war. Except there isn't any love. There never was. It's a rough and disheartening thing. Trust is a luxury we can't afford. Your secrets get locked up inside yourself. Eventually you run out of space. You have to tell someone or you'll explode. It doesn't matter, you die either way. You keep trying to trust people and they keep breaking promises.
It's why I stay at home with the cats. They talk a lot, but they only speak kitten.
It's why I stay at home with the cats. They talk a lot, but they only speak kitten.
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