FRI. O19, 2007
- Untitled V, by Corey Patrick
- The Angel on The Bridge, by Tanya Landry
Untitled V
By Corey Patrick
After we slept together for the first time, all those years ago in my rattrap apartment on Third Street between C and D, I awoke to her not in my bed and was sure she had sneaked out while I slept. I sat up in my loft and wondered if I’d ever see her again. My eyes caught the brief flick of orange on my fire escape. “She’s still here,” I whispered to myself, stupidly. I climbed off my loft as quietly as I could and crept up to the window. Watching her smoke, I knew I was in real trouble. There was no way this little thing with the ten million dollar ass was going to stick with me for long and I would die when she left. I poked my head out the window; “Hey.” She jumped and dropped her cigarette. It bounced off the stairs as it fell the four stories to the sidewalk. “Shit, you scared me.” She was laughing. I could see she had been crying. ”Sorry. You wanna be alone?” ”I don’t know. No.” “You okay?” ”I don’t know. Yes.” She looked me in the eye for the first time since I’d been there and put her small hand on my cheek. “Hi.” I put my hand on hers. “Hi.” ”Come out here.” “Okay.” I headed back into the apartment. ”Where are you going?” ”I’m getting a shirt. Hang on.” “No.” I poked my head back out the window. “What?” ”Don’t put on a shirt. I want to touch your chest,” she smiled. “I like the fur.” “Okay.” I crawled out of the window and looked for a place to sit. She was sitting on the window ledge; it was too small to accompany both of us. The fire escape stairs seemed too far away. I sat down on the metal grate planks at her feet and nestled up next to her. I stretched out my legs and my feet and ankles dangled off the building idiotically. She started laughing. I was falling in love with the laugh. ”That can’t be comfortable.” ”It’s very comfortable.” I craned my neck up to see her. “I think it’s important to place myself below you when there’s an opportunity. Switch up the dynamic.” ”Doesn’t it hurt your back to sit like that?” ”No.” It did. It hurt quite a bit. She put her hand on my head and rustled my hair in slow, gentle fashion. Her fingers grabbed my hair and pulled deliberately. I closed my eyes and gave her control. I heard the flick of the lighter as she lit another Parliament Light. It was June and the New York air was sticky. A light breeze came down Third Street from the West Village and gave me goose bumps. “This is nice.” She took her hand from my head and wrapped her arms around her knees. The cigarette looked out of place as it dangled in her lips. She was never a good smoker. I put my hand on her knee. She looked at me with a sad smile. “I don’t know if this was a good thing to do.” My hand went numb. “What do you mean?” “I don’t know what I mean. Don’t listen to me.” She took a long drag of her silly cigarette and sighed through the exhalation. “I just have so much going on and I don’t want treat you badly and think I probably will.” I took my hand away. “I’m a big boy. You treat how you treat me and we’ll deal with that but don’t say this wasn’t a good thing to do.” ”Don’t be mad.” ”I’m not mad.” I wasn’t. “I know this was a good thing to do and so do you. You don’t want to treat me badly, then don’t.” “We’ll see…” “I’ll take it.” We didn’t say another word while she finished her cigarette. I stared at the building across the street and tried to stay calm, wondering if she knew who she was to me. My then future crying wife thought about whatever it is she has always thought about when we sit in heavy silence. There have been so many heavy silences since then that it is hard to remember that magic and beauty of that first one. We sat, me in boxers with my head on her knee, her in one of my wife beaters and a pair of my high school gym shorts, and thought-separately together-about what we had done. We thought about what we had started, what had come before, old lovers, former loves, lives past. We thought about who we thought we’d be when we got where we were and who we had become. A bottle shattered on the street below. The NYU kids were figuring out how late they could stay up, testing common sense. “Come get back in my bed. Let’s sleep.” ”I should go home.” “Don’t. Worry about everything tomorrow. Sleep now.” She looked at me, her eyes shiny from unwelcome tears, “Okay.” We crawled back in through the window. The sight of her climbing back up into my loft that night is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. “I’m so tired.” She nestled into my shoulder. “Sleep now.” “I’m just so tired.”
The Angel on The Bridge
By Tanya Landry
LATE ONE NIGHT
Nicki stood at the railing listening to the water rushing beneath her. The stars looked especially bright out here away from the city, and they twinkled on the river below like a Christmas tree she remembered having as a kid. She tried to lift her leg over the rail, but the alcohol was working against her. “Figures,” she mumbled as she let her limbs collapse at her sides. “You’re supposed to be my friend!” she yelled at the near-empty Wild Turkey bottle. Lifting the bottle near her face, she whispered, “I’m sorry birdy. I still love you.” She planted a sloppy kiss on the label then began laughing. “Cocka doodle doo!” she screamed into the darkness. Suddenly she realized that she needed a cigarette, so she felt around her pocket to find a box of Marlboros. She shook the box a few times with her one free hand until it magically opened. Using her teeth, she slid a cigarette out before tossing the pack onto the ground. After a few slaps to the hip, she found her lighter in her pocket. The struggle to light her cigarette nearly made her fall over, but she leaned against the bridge’s support column. She took a deep, slow drag, and she imagined the nicotine traveling to all parts of her body. She thought to herself how smoking would probably be the one thing she’d miss, and all at once she became angry. She flicked her cigarette to the water below, and she could see the orange glow spinning in circles in the darkness. That didn’t look so painful, she thought to herself. She turned the bottle up to finish her drink then dropped the bottle on its side so that it began to roll down the bridge. She took a deep breath and hoisted herself onto the rail. For a moment, she wanted to be a child again and pretend she was walking a tightrope, but she knew that she would unceremoniously plummet. She needed to concentrate; she wanted this to be the one thing she could finally do right.
Suddenly, she felt herself falling – no, being pulled – backwards onto the bridge again. She wanted to focus, to see what happened. Finally, she was overwhelmed with curiosity, so she mustered the strength to focus a single eye on the most beautiful man she had ever seen. “My angel…” was all she could say before blacking out completely.
6 WEEKS LATER
Nicki looked around the room at the others. None of them really liked the group sessions, but she felt she hated them the most.
Normally, Nicki would spend her time imagining ways to attack the doctor. He always seemed too condescending to her, and she hated the way he doubted everything she said. It reminded her of how her mom always thought she was lying and of the resulting estrangement, but there was nowhere to run here; she had tried many times unsuccessfully. And there was no way to attack Dr Simmons as numerous failed attempts proved. She was stuck, under lock and key and watchful eyes in the Adams Mental Unit.
Today, she felt different. She knew that she was going to be saved. She decided to tell everyone off. Nothing mattered anymore – her angel was coming.
After smiling and nodding at everyone, Dr Simmons put on his glasses and looked at his notes. “Who’d like to start? Hmmm?” He said without looking up. “Um, how ’bout Nicole?”
“Nicki” she said through clenched teeth. “I have told you that countless times. Ok, Dr Smith? Oh, that’s not your name is it? You old fart. Put it on your notes. Nicki. N-I-C-K-I. You know what? Don’t bother. Today’s my last day here anyway.”
“Oh, really? And where are you going?” asked Dr Simmons as he peered over his glasses.
“My angel is coming to save me again. I know it. I talk to him all the time, and he loves me more than any human could.”
“Ah, the angel. Look, Nic…Nicki, we specialize in helping patients deal with reality. We need to first get you able to socialize in this world, deal with real people, before we go marrying you off to angels.” The patients snickered.
“What the hell kind of doctor are you? You’re not supposed to make fun of me. I’m going to prove you wrong. My angel is more real than any of you losers. Especially you, Doc. Where’d you go to school? What school told you to make fun of your patients?”
“Nicki, this will be the last thing I say about this. The motorist who helped you during your attempt saw no one. You are under close surveillance, cameras in your room, and no one has seen any angels. We see you, alone in your room, talking to space. On the days we sedate you, you supposedly see him. The night of your attempt, you were stinking drunk. Do you realize you see angels only when you’re intoxicated? Try to look at this as an outsider. Does your story seem plausible?”
Nicki didn’t answer. She turned her eyes to the window so that no one could see her face. She didn’t want anyone to see the tears rolling down her cheeks. She knew she appeared crazy, but she knew the truth. She finally had someone who cared deeply for her, but she couldn’t prove it to anyone.
The fact was Nicki had been visited many times by her angel. He must have just been standing out of camera shot, she thought. They had talked many times about many things. She had confided so much in him, and he soaked it all in like a sponge. No criticisms, no judgments. This, she told herself, was what unconditional love was supposed to be about. She knew that he would save her, and she knew how. He had told her how he couldn’t touch her or hug her. He had told her how others couldn’t see him. She concluded that she’d have to meet him in his world.
That night, as she lay in bed just starting to nod off from the medications, she could see her angel appear in the darkest corner of the room. “Nicki,” he whispered. “Are you sure you want to be with me? Are you sure this is your decision?” “Oh, yes” she whispered back. “It’s the only way. I need to feel you. I need to be with you.” ‘Well, have you left a note?” he asked. “I did. I hid it from view, but it will be found.” “You’ll find your medication is especially strong tonight. You will also find a bottle of bourbon in your bathroom. I’ll meet you there in a minute.” “Ok, but make it quick. If I’m gone too long, they’ll come looking for me.” “I know,” he responded as he slid back into the darkness.
Nicki walked into the bathroom, making sure to not seem too conspicuous. She could feel her legs shaking, and she wasn’t sure if it was the medication or her nerves. For a brief moment, she felt panicked, but she took a deep breath while pushing the door open. She didn’t immediately see the bourbon, and as though a sixth sense came over her, she knew to look inside the toilet’s tank. Sure enough, a bottle of Wild Turkey was there waiting for her. She noticed some pills, presumably sleeping pills, in there, too. Nicki filled her mouth with the pills and turned the bottle up to wash them down. She could feel the alcohol burning a hole through her stomach, but she felt as though she didn’t care. It must be those meds they gave me, she thought. I don’t normally get wasted so easily. She leaned against the wall allowing her feet to slide out from under her. She began to realize someone was in the room with her.
“You’re here. I wanted you to be here. I’m a little nervous. I wish you could hold my hand.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m so happy that we’ll be together. I’m glad you’ve saved me.” Her words began to get harder to form. She tried to focus on her angel. She could see his dark hair and his beautiful white smile. His body seemed to glow white. Her mind began to wander as though she were beginning to dream. She started to imagine his glowing body as a white robe, like the angels in movies. Then she started to realize her angel actually was in a white robe. Her mind started screaming out to her, but her body felt paralyzed. She wanted to ask what was happening, but the words would not come. “Who…? Who?” was all she could say.
The angel knelt down next to her. “Are you an owl? ” He laughed. “Who am I? I work here silly.”
She turned her head toward him, but her eyes started rolling back in her head. “Save me…angel.”
“Save you? But you don’t want to be saved anymore, remember? This is your decision, Nicki.”
“Bridge…angel…” she tried to gather her mind.
“Oh, gosh! You thought I was an angel? Really? You really thought I was an angel saving you from jumping? Heck no!” He stood back up and folded his arms. “No, Nicki. I’m definitely no angel. No, I’m more what you’d call a necrophiliac- who can’t swim.”
As her soul began to drift above her body, she heard him say, “But now we can finally be together!”
FRI. O12, 2007
- They Were Gentle, by thepoetryman
- Through the Eyes of Manuela, by Freida Bee
They Were Gentle
By thepoetryman
They tiptoed into my sleep wearing dusty clothes and no shoes. They tried to not let me hear them, but the little girl put forth a giggle and the boy laughed, too. Soon the whole room teetered in merriment. A while passed and a hush fell around us; a silent prayer, save for the short breaths of the children; petite puffs in search of a throat. There were nearly twenty in the group. They had been searching for years but were always met with sideways glances, and oftentimes violence. They smelled like sand. They were gentle. I sensed they’d come for my help, but knew not what I could do. The looks on their faces; the pain, the anguish, the truth. The little boy now began to cry, followed soon after by the little girl. Then, like rain, we all began to weep. Our crying grew into an unexpected howl; a sorrowful choir of wingless angels… A great wall of water crashed down upon us dropping from the shattered roof of heaven.
Through the Eyes of Manuela
By Freida Bee
Sometimes during lunch, Manuela would come to, as it were, to her plate of food that looked overly processed and all too familiar. Usually, gagging or waking up would be the jolt that did make her snap to awareness. She did not quite recall what she had been doing or where she was in her mind before that point, but often that was preferable to recalling that she had a diaper on her, once, smoking’ pussy. She thought about her husband and was sure he was out in the yard. She recalled the motorcycle trips they took, after their kids had grown, in their summers as teachers.
They camped in every one of the forty-eight contiguous United States and she remembered that Bill would go on and on about the history of whatever state they were in, ad nauseum to a math teacher. That was one of the things she loved about him, actually. She figured he complemented her and she benefited from his tolerance of her differences as well. Though she did not feel like it many other places, especially in a classroom of raucous seventeen year olds, Bill always bragged and told people that she was so smart to know so much about math as she did. He would tease her about her lack of common sense at times, but joke that it was due to the absence of calculus that the matter didn’t interest her. She hadn’t considered calculus in a while and thought she would get up and look at a textbook to refresh herself on the integral tables as she did from time to time as not to forget it.
But, then she became aware of her environment and was confused that some lady wearing far too much makeup was wiping her face. She wasn’t feeling well, tired and asked if she could go to bed. “You have to take a bath, Mrs. Rogers,” she was told. “Where’s Peggy?” she asked the woman, who she was starting to think was a transvestite. “Peggy will be here on Sunday, Mrs. Rogers,” Terry told her. “Okay,” Manuela agreed as she was pushed in a wheelchair down a hall that looked like a nursing home, she thought. She noticed other older people were there and started to get scared for a minute. “Where’s Bill?” she asked Terry. “He’s downstairs playing cards,” Terry indulged. “Oh, alright, aren’t you going to give me a bath or did you forget?” Manuela rather forcefully inquired of Terry. “Thank you, Mrs. Rogers, I almost forgot. Will you teach me more about fractions today?” “Of course I will,” she responded, thankful that students could be so enthusiastic about learning. “Of course I will.”
THUR. O4, 2007
- News Story: Earth-like Planet, by Tanya Landry
- Sky’s the Limit, by Rob Bloom
News Story: Earth-like Planet
By Tanya Landry
If you have not heard, scientists recently discovered a planet outside of our solar system which is the most earth-like planet found yet. It was given the catchy name of Gliese 581, and it is now placed at the top of the list for potential homes for us.
I have to say that it makes me nervous that scientists feel the need to constantly be on the lookout for a new home. Should I have my bags packed? I’m not sure. I have been looking at the information that has been coming out about this planet just in case – you know, so I know what to pack.
First bit of good news is that the new planet is almost exactly the same size as earth. That’s good news. It means we won’t have to have garage sales or put anything in storage because all our stuff should fit.
The next bit of good news is that the planet is about the same temperature. So I guess we don’t have to get any new clothes. Plus the sun is so far away that I don’t think we need to worry about sun block or tan lines or anything.
But the scientists aren’t too quick to tell you the bad news. I will though because it’s in the public’s interest, and I like to be the first to tell you things. We’re close like that.
It turns out Gliese 581 turns so quickly about its star that a year lasts about 13 earth days. Now I have trouble figuring out the whole dog-years thing so I won’t even attempt to do the conversion. Let’s just say it can’t be good. I would like to suggest that if we have to lose one day every 2 weeks, let’s make it a Monday. We all know Mondays suck. Or am I figuring wrong?
Another problem is that the gravity there would be twice ours. I refuse to bring a scale that says I weigh twice as much although a “goal weight” in the 300s is tempting. And maybe we’ll burn extra calories since it will be twice as hard to get your (and I mean my) giant butt up off the sofa. Maybe we’ll have to carbo load before the trip. It’s a good thing I’ve already started.
Okay, now for the really bad news: Gliese 581 is 120 trillion miles away. If we can figure out how to travel at the speed of light, it will take 20.5 years. There have been trips to my sister’s where I thought I’d lower the head-count in my van, and she lives only one hour away. Just how many times can a human watch Shrek? I sure don’t want to know. If we travel on our fastest ships now, it will take 400,000 years. Not cool! Who could afford that much gas anyway? I cry every week when I fill up my van now. I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to chip in enough for the rocket fuel to get past the moon. I guess only the richest people would be able to blast off, leaving us meek to inherit our crappy earth. Or maybe someone could use one of those claws that Batman uses to climb buildings to catch that planet and reel it in. Of course we’d likely troll in lesser planets and stars that we’d have to toss back. Gee, I guess there’s no other options…hmmmm….
Oh, wait! Maybe we could scrap the whole throwing-away-the-earth thing and try to fix our problems. How about that? Maybe we are not so far gone. There might just be something to save here. Don’t we throw enough stuff away already? I’m not trying to be some wacky environmentalist or anything. I just have a problem with throwing things away. You should see my house.
One other thing: I once heard a rumor that dinosaurs got so evolved that they invented rocket ships and left earth before we humans came along. Now what if that were true? Just imagine how bad it would be for all of us to arrive after 400,000 years only to find we picked the same planet as the dinosaurs. That would be a lot of work down the drain just to be eaten.
I guess, if given the opportunity to leave, I’d refuse. I think I’d kind of like it here with no other people. Plus my size makes me an easy target for a hungry tyrannosaurus rex, and I probably smell like chocolate.
Thanks, scientists. Try looking for something I could use – maybe just a few clean, quiet acres here in Louisiana. And try to find some within walking distance – I can’t afford the gas to drive too far.
Sky’s the Limit
By Rob Bloom
Show of hands, guys. How many times have you been sitting in your living room, beer in one hand, backup beer in the other, watching the game (the one where the next 2.7 seconds, give or take an hour, will single-handedly determine the fate of everything you hold most sacred), when out of the corner of your eye you notice that old bookcase of yours and suddenly realize what’s been bugging you for months, maybe even years, but have never been able to articulate in a clear, succinct statement, namely: “if only I had a gigantic wooden replica of a World War 1 propeller to prop in front of this bookcase!”
And ladies, I’m sure you’ve lost count of the times you’ve finished a workout at the gym only to remark, “treadmill schreadmill! What my bod really needs is the Giddyup Core Exerciser Horse Riding Simulator!”
Lucky for us all there’s SkyMall, the catalog of random merchandise that is to airplanes what the Bible is to hotels. Along with an already completed crossword puzzle, you’ll find SkyMall in the pocket of the seat in front of you — nestled snugly among the barf bag, the crumbled pretzel package left by the passenger before you, and the safety brochure with the illustrations of people who, despite the fact their plane just made a crash landing in the ocean, are grinning like they just won the lottery. (Probably because they used SkyMall’s Escape Ladder. Pg. 59. Some assembly required.)
Though I’m a longtime SkyMall reader, it wasn’t until recently that I learned to fully appreciate the power of the catalog. And like most life-changing situations, my sudden appreciation came not from planning, but rather survival. You know, like when a father displays superhuman strength to lift a car off his son or when a brilliant collie rescues a dopey little boy from the bottom of a well (for the gazillionth time!) or, in my case, when you pretend to read an airline catalog to avoid even the chance of conversation with the passenger beside you who insists on taking off her shoes and socks, stuffing them (the socks, not the shoes) in the seat pocket, then demanding the flight attendant bring over a blanket because she’s “chilly” (Talk about someone who needs a pair of Herbal Booties. Pg. 106. Operators are standing by.)
So with the scent of feet in the air, I willingly escaped into the world of SkyMall, a glossy paradise where glossy models demonstrate this season’s must-have products. You know, the ones that help you achieve something extraordinary like a better night’s sleep, the perfect pushup, or a hunk of steak branded with your initials. Just a heads up, though. Because every product in the catalog costs roughly the same as a minor surgical procedure, be prepared to pay top dollar for your SkyMall purchases. See, a long time ago, two airline execs named Dick spent many hours huddled around a conference table trying to think of ways to capitalize on the vulnerable brains of airline passengers.
DICK: You really think this catalog’s a good idea?
DICK: You kidding?!? Folks’ll be cranky, cramped in a tiny chair, and light-headed from the smell of feet! They’ll buy anything!
DICK: While we’re at it, maybe we should keep planes delayed on the tarmac longer.
DICK: Have I ever told you that I love you?
No question, SkyMall is certainly seductive. But as I flipped through the attractive-yet-overpriced-yet-useless-yet-ridiculous products on those delightfully slick pages, I just couldn’t stop thinking about RIP, or as he’s more commonly referred to around my house, “The Skymall Disaster of ’05” (Haven’t heard of it? Try the Orbitor Electronic Bionic Sound Technology Microphone Listening Device! Pg. 85!)
RIP was a combination Microwave/Toaster Oven I saw advertised in SkyMall. He was a “Space Saver.” He was the “answer to more convenient cooking.” He was “two hundred bucks that would’ve been better spent had I invested it in something longer-lasting such as one hand of blackjack on the High Rollers table in Vegas or, better yet, a ceremonious flush down the toilet.”
In all fairness however, RIP did work great at first. Of course, a week later, he decided to stop working so he could perform other helpful tasks like shooting out pretty sparks and growling like Louis Armstrong. But like any gigantic disappointment, time and a sledgehammer to the control panel heal all wounds. And actually, I’m happy to report that RIP has mellowed in his old age and is now resting quite peacefully in a storage unit. Right beside my Flying Alarm Clock, remote controlled Dragonfly, and collection of neon flamingo and palm tree lawn ornaments.
Who is Rob Bloom?
Rob Bloom is a Comedy Writer, Screenwriter, and connoisseur of all things deli. He has written for the Cartoon Network, McSweeney’s, CRACKED, Fresh Yarn, Monkey Bicycle, Funny Times, National Public Radio, American Public Media and the Travel Channel, among others. In 2007, Rob won Screenvision’s “Short Script-Big Screen” Competition and had his original screenplay, “Suburban Bravery,” made into a short film. The film was produced by the critically acclaimed Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre and shown as pre-feature entertainment on movie screens nationwide.
THUR. S27, 2007
- Untitled IV, by Corey Patrick
- Michael, by Ms. Johnee
Untitled IV
By Corey Patrick
There’s a line in a John Prine song, “That night she fell asleep in my arms, humming the tune to Louie Louie. Aww baby, we gotta go now.” The words run through my head as she drifts off on my shoulder in the cool blue light of our bedroom. Ten minutes earlier she told me she wasn’t going to cum and I should just go ahead. That hasn’t happened in years. My little beauty is a cum machine. My finger throbs as I make up reasons for her behavior tonight. My eyes are heavy. Aww baby, we gotta go now. It’s three o’clock in the morning. I’ve woken up holding a pillow instead of my wife. She’s not in the bed. I turn my attention to our bathroom. Maybe there’s a late night pee happening. “Goofball? You alright?” My words are met by the stiff silence of the windless night. I lay my head down on the pillow and stare at the ceiling. What’s a successful writer to do? It’s her business. I close my eyes again. It’s three forty five in the morning. She’s still not here. I can’t sleep. I hurl my objecting legs over the side of the bed, shaking the sleep out of my head. “Lady? What’s going on?” I get up and start ambling around the room. I’m not sure what I’m looking for but my hands search for something on the flat surfaces around the room. I stumble across my underwear and decide they must be the lost item in question. I pull them on as I walk out of our room in search of my missing, crying, non-cumming wife. My finger has bled through the bandage. I stumble through the long hallway that leads from our bedroom to the landing. The hallway is painted an ill-advised, brooding blue that she fell in love with on a trip to Santa Fe. I tried to tell her that it wouldn’t look the same in our house because the light is different but she wouldn’t be dissuaded. I didn’t (and don’t) care enough to have the fight. I was right of course; she hates the color but keeps it up there to prove a point. A point I feel I ceded when I let her choose the absurd shade, but this is neither here nor there. The landing is anchored by two-story palladial windows that look out onto our backyard. The lights of the house are off as I reach the stairs and the suddenly there is movement to my right: a brief flick of orange from the backyard. My eyes adjust to the darkness. I have found my wife. She sits on our stone bench under the juniper tree and sneaks a cigarette. Her legs are curled up to her chest. She has a blanket wrapped around her petite frame.
Michael
By Ms. Johnee
I keep telling you to turn off that fucking television but like everything else I’ve been saying, you haven’t been listening. Instead you get up and head into the kitchen to finish off that bottle of Absolut you started an hour ago. You walk past me again and plop your lazy, pathetic self onto the couch and start channel surfing. For the past two hours I’ve been sitting in front of Microsoft Word trying to gain some inspiration. All I have so far is a blank screen and an increasing headache. The phone has gone off four times, and I’m willing to bet that all four times it was my mother, calling to see if I’ve decided to leave you yet. Or maybe it was your mother, calling to see if I turned out just as she thought I would be, a gold digging whorl. Unfortunately, for both of them, neither is true. Just yet. Frustrated and looking for a fight, I close my laptop and walk casually over to the television. I look directly into your pitiful brown eyes and press the power button. You do nothing for a second and then with the remote, turn the damn thing back on. I press the power button again. And once again, without even the slightest expression of annoyance, turn it back on again. You don’t seem bothered and you hardly look at me at all. All you do is lay there wedged between the cushions, drinking your vodka from a dirty looking glass.
I know without looking, that the sink is full, the laundry untouched and the wastebasket in the bathroom is overflowing. The only food in the fridge is an unopened bottle of ketchup and take-out cartons from the grimy Chinese food joint down the block. They don’t deliver and I know you’re too lazy to have walked. Probably paid that young kid from down the hall to go get it for you. .
This is what I have been coming home to, every night, for the past six months. You don’t do anything except drink and watch TV. The good nights’ are the ones I come home to find you asleep. At least then I don’t have to pretend to care about you, or instigate a one-sided conversation. Sometimes I get one word sentences and other times you don’t even talk at all. You’ve been this way ever since Michael died. At first, only your appetite changed. You would lock yourself in your studio for hours, blasting your stereo and only coming out to eat. You came to the kitchen for crackers or a slice or two of cheese. Then one day, I found you had padlocked the door to the studio. And a few weeks later you had moved your misery onto the couch and nestled in with the first of your many bottles of vodka. For a while it seemed that you were permanently silent and intoxicated. I slept alone in our bed. I never touched your pillow. I never asked you to come to bed like a good wife should. I never tried to talk to you about Michael. I only let you slip deeper and deeper into your pain and ignored my own.
It wasn’t because I wanted to give you your space; it wasn’t that I didn’t know how to approach the subject. The real reason was that I blamed you for his death. I hated you and loathed the idea of even being with you. And conveniently, it seemed, you felt the same way. If I spoke to you, it was only to relay important messages. Like, “Don’t fall asleep with the bottle in your hand, if it spills you’ll ruin the couch.” My life revolved around avoiding you. To me, you were the reason my son was lying in the ground. You were why my little boy was no longer with me. In essence, you were the constant bitter reminder that you were alive while my son was dead. If I had had the power, I would’ve asked god to put you in the freezing earth so that I could be with my baby again. It isn’t natural for wives to hate their husbands, or to wish them dead. At first I felt guilty and horrible whenever a thought like that crossed my mind. But as the months continued I found it was easy. Hating you was the only way to grieve the loss of my dead son. The energy I put into despising you, helped to ease the pain of losing Michael. If I left you, I would have no constant reminder, no outlet for my anger. That’s why I couldn’t leave you. But tonight was different. Tonight I noticed how much you were avoiding me, as much as I was avoiding you. I noticed how you never looked directly into my eyes or how you always kept your head bent down if for some reason you were off the couch and we crossed paths. It began to annoy me. I knew that I had a reason for my behavior. There was an excuse for me to ignore you and hate every breath you took. But I wondered why you were doing the same. Was your silence your own? Did you believe in your own mind that his death was somehow my fault? Were you repulsed by me? I needed to find out. I wanted to know if you were only silent, because you thought that’s what I wanted, or if it had to do with any underlying apprehension. So I stood there in front of the TV, trying to detach your gaze. You looked right through me. Finally I went behind the entertainment center and pulled every plug I could get my hands on. That’s when I heard you stand up, and felt your hands on me before I could turn around.
”What are you trying to do?! What do you want?!”
”I want you to listen to me!”
”I am listening to you! I always listen to you!”
”Really? Do you hear me when I tell you to turn the volume down? Or when I ask you to look at me? Or are you selective in your listening?!” Your hands grew tighter around my upper arms; I thought you might lift me off the floor. Your face became red and for the first time in months I felt your eyes on me, not through me.
”What’s the point of listening to someone who looks at her husband like he’s the one who killed their son?! Don’t even try to deny it! You look at me like you might get sick! You can’t even stand to be in the same room with me! I see it in your face! Don’t you fucking lie to me!” There is only one way to answer you, honestly.
“I can’t stand you. The very thought of you repulses me. In my heart I blame you for Michaels death. I look at you and I wish I could trade you for him.” As soon as the words escape my lips I can feel the weight of them lift from me. I look into your face and the feeling of repulsion fades. Even as your eyes well with tears, I feel my heart ease in a way that hasn’t come from anger. I want to put my arms around you and tell you that I’m sorry. But you’re still holding them firmly, and you’re stronger than I remember. “I blamed you too. And I also wished from time to time, that I could give you up for Michael.” You say what I knew you always felt. Your eyes are red and the tears have already streamed down your face. You loosen your grip and gently pull me into your embrace. You reek of vodka and sweat but it only makes me pull you closer.
WED. S19, 2007
- Love is a Battlefield, by Tanya Landry
- Untitled III, by Corey Patrick
Love is a Battlefield
By Tanya Landry
Naomi always had things her way. In her forty years, she had accumulated everything she wanted. She had a big beautiful home, a wealthy and handsome husband who traveled a lot, and a beautiful teenaged daughter. She was blessed with unaging beauty and considerable brains, and she used her assets as currency. Absolutely nothing was unobtainable – except Keith Manchester.
She always thought back to that day in high school when Keith told her that he was dumping her for Stephanie. It was exactly two days after Naomi spent an evening in the back seat of Keith’s car listening to the Live from Earth cassette. She remembered his hot breath on her neck as he sang, “Love is a Battlefield” to her in the dark and the single star she saw through the fogged windows. That star was supposed to grant her wish that Keith be hers forever.
Although Naomi was happy with her current life, she never really got over Keith and his subsequent marriage to Stephanie. He was always on her mind as the one who got away. For nearly twenty years, Naomi wondered what ever became of Keith.
One day, Naomi was convinced by her daughter Brittany to set up a MySpace profile. Within minutes of doing so, she searched for and found Keith’s profile. When she clicked on his picture, she was shocked to hear “Love is a Battlefield” as his profile song. She read through all of his info and discovered that he was a father to two boys and was in the midst of a divorce. He looked as though he was not suffering too much, for he had amassed a stable of ladies as friends. His comments were full of sexy graphics and flirtatious suggestions. She thought to herself that surely he remembered her and that night, but she dared not cheapen herself by becoming just another dispatcher of glittery smut. No, she was far more significant as proven by his choice of song. She would monitor him and stalk him from afar as only a true devotee could.
For nearly seven months, Naomi would routinely check his profile and read his comments. She would examine his pictures to see if there were other women in his life. Much like a Pavlovian dog, the opening sounds of “Love is a Battlefield” had become titillating for her.
One day, as Naomi was heading to her bedroom to feed her MySpace addiction, she could hear Pat Benatar singing from her daughter’s bedroom. She threw open Brittany’s bedroom door to find Brittany at her computer with Keith’s profile on the monitor.
“What are you doing, Brit? Who is that?” she asked while trying to be nonchalant.
“Oh, just some old dude. He lives around here. He thinks he’s all hot. It’s hilarious. I think I can play him for a while,” Brittany said, smiling devilishly.
“Oh, no you don’t! Not again,” Naomi said. She thought for a moment then added, “Get downstairs now. You need to clean out your car. I’ve already told you that twice today. Now go!”
“Well, you don’t belong in my car. Who cares if it’s messy?”
“Uh, technically, the car is mine. And you always park right behind me. I have to move your car whenever I go somewhere. Get going now!”
Brittany stomped off screaming complaints all the way down the stairs. Naomi heard nothing as she read her daughter’s messages to and from Keith. She couldn’t believe her eyes. The conversations were all very sexy and seductive. Naomi was furious. She could hear her daughter coming back inside the house just as she read Brittany’s message to Keith: ”Sure I will. Just meet me at Westdale High in the parking lot Friday night. 7:00. 
” Naomi called out to Brittany, “And you’re punished! One week. No computer, no leaving this house. You can’t keep doing this, Brittany. It’s a dangerous game.”
The next few days were a blur. Naomi was constantly thinking about Keith and how he betrayed her again. She visited his profile dozens of times. She couldn’t work up the courage to message him. When Friday arrived, she made it a point to keep Brittany busy with movies and chores. As the evening progressed, she decided that she could sneak over to see Keith in person and tell him to stay away from her daughter. As 7:00 drew near, Naomi began another movie for Brittany to watch. She slipped out the back door quietly.
Naomi ran outside to find Brittany’s car blocking her yet again. She decided to drive it to the school. As she pulled into the parking lot, she could see his car in the dark with the lights off. She couldn’t tell if it were her heart or his music drumming faintly. She didn’t even know why she was there or what to say. She stopped her car about forty feet away and turned on her brights. He stepped out of his car, and she was shocked to see that he was not at all as she remembered. In high school, he exuded charm, or pheromones; now, he radiated creepiness. She stepped out of her car, too. They stood silent for a moment.
Finally, he spoke. “Thank God you’re not young. I thought for sure my boys were setting me up.” He held out his hand, “Hi, Brittany. I’m Keith.” He began walking toward her.
Naomi dared not approach him. “I’m not Brittany. I’m here to tell you to stay away from her. She is too young.” She thought a moment. “Wait a minute. Did you say I’m old?”
“No! Oh, no! I said ^not young^. You’re beautiful. Oh, God. No, not old!”
“Beautiful, huh? Do you know who I am? Do you have any idea who you’re talking to?”
“Um…I’m sorry. Have we met? It would be hard for me to believe I’d ever forget someone as lovely as you. Where do I know you from? You do look a little familiar.”
“Of course I look familiar. I’m too familiar to you. I can’t believe you don’t recognize me. I thought I was special.”
“Hey, now. Calm down, baby. I’d be glad to get to know you again. Shoot, you’re special. Special hot. Tell me, hon, what’s your name?”
“You know what? Forget you ever knew me.” She climbed back into Brittany’s car. “^Love is a Battlefield^! Hmmph! You’re a loser, Keith. And look what you lost!”
She decided to speed off for dramatic purposes, but the tires spun on the gravel. The car fishtailed, and she heard a loud thump. She looked back and could see a dark mass on the ground. She panicked a moment then drove home. She floated outside her body as she tried to piece together a solution for her problem. She managed to sneak back in without making a sound, and Brittany never noticed she had been gone.
Luckily, everything worked out as usual. Witnesses saw the car in the area and got a partial plate number. Brittany’s car was covered with evidence. Keith told others he was meeting a girl from online. The cops had a detailed list of conversations between Brittany and Keith. Yes, it was too easy of a case. Even Brittany was convinced she killed Keith. Brittany was sentenced to juvenile prison with a scheduled release just as she would turn twenty-one, only five short years away.
Naomi could live with that.
Untitled III
By Corey Patrick
If this were one of my books, I would change points of view and the reader would get to learn why she’s really crying before I do. I would also get to make up the reason.
As it is, I am left to prepare a chicken dish for the weeping actress who is my wife without any idea of what’s coming next.
I picked up cooking when she started to get successful and far before I ever did. I was sure she was going to leave me and decided the least I could do was cook for her until she did. We had had a good run, one that had taken us from New York to Los Angeles. Now she was almost famous and I was still a no name writer. A no name writer in Los Angeles, there’s no real romance in that, nothing like the romance of the New York writer anyway. I was out of shape and had an almost clinical aversion to shaving, hardly red carpet material. I had no doubt that her newly hired publicist was imploring her to dump the baggage and get herself a pretty man. I learned to cook. I’m in excellent shape now. I shave everyday. I still cook. No publicist would dare suggest dumping me as career move. I am a well-respected writer. My little beauty is given the benefit of my purported intelligence, “She must be smart; she’s married to him. I wonder what they talk about?”
We talk about dry cleaning. Sometimes we don’t talk for days at a time, except for our morning ritual. Gauging by her erratic behavior and her seemingly out-of-nowhere preoccupation with weight, a salad of some sort is the way to go. I decide on a little gem originally called the Primo Chicken Salad but has since be re-christened garlic chicken salad by my crying wife.
My eyes water a bit as I rub the chicken with the garlic. I cut myself while chopping the celery and, for the first time this evening, feel a twinge of moody doom. The chicken is cooling on a paper towel when she’s appears in front of me, fresh from a bath. Her hair is wet on her shoulders, water is dripping down the nape of her neck and she wears only a towel.
“Sorry I’m in a mood, mister.” She kisses me long and slow. I feel better. “Garlic chicken salad is perfect. You’re awesome.” She still says things like “You’re awesome” and I fall more in love with her every time she does.
“Wanna open some wine?” I ask her, somewhat abruptly. For some reason, I need her to walk away from me.
“Yes. White right? With the salad.”
“You got it.” She sets the table and I put out the food; we sit down to another dinner. She’s dripping all over the table and my finger is bleeding through the paper towel bandage
WED., S12 2007
- Victoria’s Garden, by Carey Warner
- Untitled II, by Corey Patrick
Victoria’s Garden
By Carey Warner
cwar.ncft@yahoo.com
It has been raining all summer and Victoria has neglected her garden while waiting for a better day. This morning she decides to weed it while the ground is soft from nearly two months of daily rain, because a great fall garden is the most realistic plan of action for her at this point. With her gardening hat to deflect the mist and an unheard of long sleeve shirt in July in Texas, she dons her sandals and her wrap-around skirt that reeks of her profession, teaching, and goes out at sunrise before she has to make breakfast for her kids.
She sinks into the ground a bit as she makes her way to the tall grass she’s been looking at through her kitchen window for two months now. The grass has not gone to seed, fortunately, and it is able to be pulled out, roots and all, very easily. It becomes difficult to kneel in the dirt as it is squishy and, though she is kneeling on cardboard, the mud, a fine mixture of organic compost, worm castings and native soil that needs more mulch, has already worked its way into her sandals between her toes. She tosses her shoes onto the adjacent grass and lets her toes burrow in the mud. The cool home grounds her as she avoids pulling out the few plants that have survived with such little sun, basil, a tomato plant that has not born fruit and the perennials from last year. The rosemary and thyme are suffering from all of the moisture, but the oregano, which had been gnawed to the ground by rabbits within two days of planting last winter, is big and lush, heartier from the abuse.
There are several squash plants growing and Victoria is just this morning able to ascertain which of the sets of seeds she had placed along the perimeter and in the compost have actually germinated. Acorn squash and miniature pumpkins are the victors. She had been hoping for a less time-consuming squash to cook, like a zucchini. She has been on a zucchini kick lately since she made the perfect batch of it sautéed in late May just after her husband had extended her garden for her as a mother’s day present. She had sliced zucchinis into lengthwise segments two inches long and braised them with melting butter just long enough to add cumin, paprika and salt to the cast iron skillet before she doused them with enough water to steam them. She had to be careful not to add so much water that the zucchinis would get soggy though. In her third batch of these she discovered the fine soup created if she did add more water, but turned off the heat after they were just softened. Even Jeremy, who was a finicky eater, asked for seconds.
As she thinks of those small pumpkins and how the boys had decorated them gaudily at the pumpkin patch her mother-in-law had taken the children to last fall, she wonders what she should plant for the upcoming cool weather and recalls the information on the wrinkled list from the county extension agent which she keeps in the nightstand next to her side of the bed. She begins to crave her morning tea, which is usually steeped nettle leaf and peppermint that she picks from the shady bed next to the house. It is thriving. Victoria notices she’s cleared a sufficient amount of overgrowth to spread mulch for now and can remove the rest as she plants beans and late okra and cucumbers soon. She will plant beets, turnips and spinach just before school restarts at the end of next month.
Because her green and blue print skirt, which is her favorite, is getting muddy, she unties it and tosses it into the grass as she lets her bare ass fall into the mud. She laughs at herself and then begins to cry. She misses her husband so much it surprises her. With a pain in her chest, she pushes her hands into the mud, feeling at one with the dirt for just one important moment.
Untitled II
By Corey Patrick
I’m sitting at the kitchen counter when she comes home at six-thirty. As far as she can tell I haven’t moved all day and I have a sneaking feeling that she suspects as much when she asks me to help with the groceries.
“Please tell me you picked up the dry cleaning.” We are in the driveway. She’s had a bad day and is fighting the impulse to take it out on me.
“I did. I put it in the bedroom.”
“Okay.” She grabs the eggs and leaves the four remaining bags for me. I stare at her ass as she walks away. This is what I’ve learned to do. She can be in a shit mood all she wants. I don’t engage; I stare at her ass. Later, she’ll tell me about her bad day and I’ll listen before giving her advice she’ll take to heart. Then we’ll fuck. What could be better than this?
I walk into the bedroom and my little beauty is crying. She’s quick to cry and it’s not always an emergency. She’s been subject to random crying jags since her father died two years ago. I have no idea when it’s a jag or a present problem. As is the case with everything in our marriage, we’ve established shorthand for this scenario.
“Wanna talk?”
“It’s okay.” I’m off the hook. Good thing, too. I’m distracted by stories this evening. I wouldn’t be a good listener and she would notice. “What’s for dinner?”
“I thought I’d do a little pork loin, what do you think?”
“No. I’m getting too fat,” She’s not. Also, pork is lean. “You’re trying to make me fat so I don’t get any work and I can stay home and be a pregnant wife.”
I have no idea where this is coming from.
“What would you like me to make?”
“Chicken. Some chicken thing.” The tears are streaming down her face now. It’s a ridiculous site at which I cannot laugh.
“You’re sure you don’t want to talk?” This follow up is rare, but I’m starting to get genuinely concerned.
“I told you I don’t. Stop asking.” I bite my lip. “Turn around would ya?” She smiles as she wipes the tears from her mascara lined face. She knows my trick, and obliges. “Some chicken thing it is.” Her back starts convulsing as she starts crying harder. She is in a full weep now. I leave the room. This is no jag.
WED., S5 2007.
- The Taste of Orange, by S. Massey Cole
- Half a Century of Henry, by Lauren J. Walter
- Untitled I, by Corey Patrick
The Taste of An Orange
By S. Massey Cole
I sit in the middle of the park, the same park where David and I wiled away the hours every weekend, I command myself not to think, just to concentrate on my task at hand, the peeling of this amazing orange I bought on my walk here, this afternoon. Thinking is bad; thinking rips the bandaids and the scabs off the sensitive wounds of my psyche. It’s been three weeks since I lost, the most precious person I had ever held.
My feet are tucked under me, and the grass is tickling my knees, the sun feels warm and delicious like the touch of a new lover. The peel, which I had attempted to peel in one long piece, breaks off, but undeterred I continue to peel. I hear kids on the baseball diamond calling to one another, one guffaws loudly and happily, David would love to be there jeering the pitcher, “belly itcher”. “Stop, enough!” I say aloud, now, to myself. Now people who were walking by, stop to consider this strange, rumpled woman with sun burnt arms who appears to be talking to a large half peeled orange. The female walker turns her head toward the other and makes a twirling motion with her finger at her head, silently dismissing me. Finally the orange is peeled, I take a large bite, and then another the juice is dripping down my arms and onto my legs, attracting small insects, thoughtlessly I brush them aside, and a random, unwelcome thought pops into my head, an orange was the last thing he ate. A gulf of tears, unbidden, joins the orange juice and pulp that falls unto my lap. The world swims as I taste the orange and my anguish, one sweet and one bitter.
Half a Century of Henry
By Lauren J. Walter
Today was Henry’s 50th birthday. He was thrilled beyond words. Not. He hated birthdays as a rule, particularly the big ones that involved decade changes. The concrete demonstration of life passing him by before he had noticed it just pissed him off. This birthday in particularly had already been a nightmare. His wife, Elsa, had thrown him a surprise party. The surprise was that it was all about her and her likes, and nothing about his. The event was everything he feared, loathed and dreaded – namely fancy food, fancy people, and fancy outfits. Everything pretentious and overdone. After twenty plus years, Henry would have liked one goddamn birthday in his style, a couple of friends, jeans, and burgers in the backyard. But Elsa hated his friends and his style, so fancy shmancy it was. Nothing like the joy of a joyless celebration.
Joyless seemed to be defining more and more of Henry’s life. With each passing year, he was finding his life seemed greyer and duller. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been happy, and that scared him. He had given up doing what he loved for a job he hated twenty years ago to satisfy Elsa, and yet neither of them had been satisfied since. He wondered if Elsa felt similarly, but that wasn’t a conversation they could actually share, as it involved real concepts and feelings, items that had been long banned between them. His marriage seemed to be teetering on the edge of the abyss, and he no longer cared.
Henry walked out of the apartment towards the train station. Within minutes, he was soaked, despite his desperate efforts to stay dry. The umbrella he had opened as he walked outside seemed to be serving as a vehicle for water to run down his back instead of protecting him from the onslaught. It seemed somewhat apropos; the unyielding rain matched his unyielding sadness.
Henry crossed the street as the light changed, and was immediately splattered by an asshole in a Hummer. As Henry turned to give him the finger, his left foot landed in a puddle deep enough to soak both his shoe and foot to the bone. Unfuckingbelievable. He stepped onto the curb, and shook his foot, attempting to shed some of the water, when he noticed the train coming into the station. He cursed and ran down the stairs, trying his best not to fall and break his neck.
Huffing and puffing, he entered the train with the crowd, closing his umbrella carefully. He was astounded to find a seat on the aisle, something good had finally happened. He got as comfortable as his soaked clothing would allow, and rested his umbrella between his dripping legs. It was then he noticed his seat mate. She was stunning. Vibrant. Everyone else on the train was in the same or similar shades of black and grey, but she, well, she was in technicolor. He smiled at her, not knowing what else to do, and she nodded back. The rules of train etiquette limited their contact to that. He tried not to stare at her, but she was intoxicating, and he had been sober for way too long.
Henry tried to find a conversation starter, but his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. Then he noticed her book. Dear god, could it be? The goddess was reading his book, the book that had been out of print for over 20 years. “Excuse me miss.” She looked at him with displeasure, bothered by the interruption. “That book, are you enjoying it?” She looked at him curiously, and a bit indignantly. “Its reasonably good. Something a bit different.” “Where did you find it? It’s been out of print for 20 years?” “My mom gave it to me. She used to date the author.” Henry felt his heart stop in its tracks. “She did? Your mom, is her name Annie?” He could feel the train pulling into a station. She closed the book and looked at him closely, “How did you know that?” “Because I wrote that book.” “Daddy?” Henry looked at her with sheer panic, grabbed his umbrella, and fled the train.
Happy Birthday indeed.
UNTITLED I
by Corey Patrick
I have a circular office off the den where I go to do my writing in the morning. I can’t do it in the bedroom because she sleeps later than I do. She always wakes up just before I finish and, when I come back into the bedroom to see her, asks me what I was writing about. It’s a little joke we have because she knows I hate the question and will never tell her. She says it with a mischievous smile as she stretches to help herself wake up, her little frame bending to the left as her arms go up her sides. I grab her ass and she yells at me to stop. “I just woke up, meanie. Did you make more coffee yet?” She makes the cute pouty face. All women have one, as they should. They work.
“No. I’ll do it now.” I go to kiss her.
“I have breath.” Still pouty, a little groggy.
“I have breath.” We kiss.
She has a busier day than I do, she usually does. I have writing to do but that can be done here. In my underwear, if I so choose. I don’t have to shower until around eleven or twelve. She has to be out of the house by seven at the latest for her eight o’clock call. The rest of the morning is spent watching her get ready and dealing with the minutia of our life. “Can you pick up the dry cleaning today?”
“Yes.”
“I need that dress for the weekend so you have to do it today.”
“Okay.”
“He closes at four on Fridays so you’ll have to be there before-”
“Four? I got it”
“Shut up. Who closes at four anyway? Why does he do that?” It’s a sincere question; she really wants to know.
“Probably for the Sabbath. Sundown.”
“This is LA. The sun never sets at four.”
“I think it’s a time of day thing here. Like five.”
“Really?”
“I think so.”
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t know it, but it sounds sensible.”
“You totally just made that up.”
“Maybe. It sounds right to me, though.”
“Shit.” She’s looking at the digital clock above the oven “I’m so late. I have to get in the shower.”
And she’s off. I sit and drink my third cup of coffee as I hear the water turn on. My mind races with story ideas and little stresses. I know I’m going to have to eat at some point but can’t tell what I’m in the mood for. I try to read the paper. It’s what smart people do and I’m regarded as a smart person. I’m trying to live up to it.
19th Century English Gangsta Hood
by Malka
http://www.myspace.com/idiotsvillage
numberbees@yahoo.com
One bucolic and delightfully serene summer’s day, having retired from the full London season to their luxurious estate, Edward and Emily strolled under the stern gaze of several family portraits hanging in their opulent, spacious drawing room and contemplated their future together as man and wife.
“I cannot fathom why you are opposed to this betrothal of ours, Emily,” ejaculated Edward. “It is to our benefit, and also for the sacred continuation of our pure bloodline, that of our honorable family. Why do you persist in being so contrary?”
Emily sobbed, her powdered bosoms heaving in delicate distress as her long, tapered fingers caressed the tears that threatened to mar her alabaster skin. “Oh Edward! That I object to this union is no reflection upon your quality or nature, but to bow to strict and unnatural conventions— oh, it is too unjust!” She sobbed again, to good effect, in that it caused Edward to feel pity towards the poor creature even as he contemplated a deft application of his pocket handkerchief to her mouth to shut her the hell up for Christ’s sake.
“What is so unjust about the preservation of our venerable family?” A dark scowl twisted Edward’s noble features, his aristocratic brows knitting a sweater in frustration. “I beg of you to remind yourself that it is our duty to assure the continuance of our bloodlines against the day that the common shopkeepers take over and weaken our race with their fine and lofty notions of equality. Bah! Insufferable nonsense!” he exclaimed.
Seeing Emily frown, her clear and peanut shaped eyes becoming shaded with displeasure, and ever so much more peanutty, he modified his pursuit and his angry tone. “Oh darling,” he murmured, dropping grandly to his knees and kissing the hem of her frock in a show of impassioned adulation, the likes of which had not as yet been equalled in the history of English literature. “I do not mean to distress you, or offend your delicate sensibilities, for it is not purely for monetary considerations or quality breeding that I anticipate our matrimonial bliss. You must know that I love you, and have sought with great anxiety the day that I might call the entire world to witness you as my adored wife, and I am pleading with you so that I might hear from your lips the final words that I hope will make us happier than either of us can express! Permit me to demonstrate my undying constancy.” And with that he kissed her shoes and tenderly licked the mud off of her fragile boot as added proof of his earnest devotion.
“Goddamit, stop doing that, you weird dick!” Emily scolded, whereupon Edward’s agitation became insurmountable.
“You must believe me,” he pleaded, clasping her hand to his beseeching heart, an organ that throbbed and pranced with his tribute to love’s pursuit. “As your brother, I am bound by honor to find you a suitable match, and as our parents find it agreeable and, I hasten to add, quite necessary, we shall take our vows and safeguard our heritage!”
Swooning was, in Emily’s estimation, the only appropriate response to this, having practiced the art to the point at which it was almost impossible to carry on a heated conversation without a fainting spell that invariably changed the subject to one that was more to her liking. And indulge in her vapours she did, with a pathos so impassioned that the blighted couple stumbled from the elegant confines of the drawing room, found themselves expelled through the French windows, and thus onto the carefully designed and manicured park grounds that attested to their wealth and taste to all who were forbidden to enter within the unexampled splendour of their mansion.
Addled by her tumultuous exit from the security of the drawing room, and further distressed by her brother’s proposal, Emily made haste upon her recovery to direct his attention to the unusual sight, accompanied by an alarming cacophony of thundering noise hitherto unknown to them as a phat muthafuckin subwoofer, that approached from the distance and echoed her own fluttering pulse, causing her lips to quiver endearingly in the manner of poached worms.
Edward made to quiet those oily red worms with a tender kiss when she interrupted his lovemaking with what was, in his estimation, an inconvenient observation. “Why, brother,” she simpered, “those gentlemen who approach in that queer horseless conveyance are the very ones who helped mama mount her horse for our morning’s exercise.” She folded her skirts demurely as he composed his forsaken kiss into a disconcerted scowl. “Indeed,” mused she, “they executed it so vigorously, I wonder that dear mama was able to keep to her saddle afterwards.” Edward pressed her for more details, which she gratefully supplied against the threat that he might entreat her with more disagreeable supplications of love, an uncomfortable prospect that was beginning to make her bowels churn with a most unladylike gaseous froth. “Oh, they performed quite a curious ritual after mama’s request that they mount her,” she continued. “To be quite honest,” whispered Emily, “I wasn’t sure that it was really in the proper way, but I couldn’t say anything for fear of causing offense.” She paused to smooth the curls that invaded her exquisitely sculpted nostrils and paused for dramatic suggestion before breathlessly exclaiming, “Oh Edward, I do believe them to be… foreigners!”
And foreigners they were, as evidenced by the manner in which the aforementioned carriage turfed the carefully manicured lawn and growled with some kickin’ rhymes, before sliding to a halt and disgorging two gentlemen, most ebony in countenance, and wearing curious garb trimmed with gold, and opulent pieces of jewelry, amongst them many splendid rings, neck chains, and jeweled ear pins, all of which spoke of untold riches. “Yo homey, look at the badunkadunk on that white girl,” observed the taller, more formidable of the pair.
“Yeah, they some tight phatty cakes, and I’m the baker, man,” proclaimed the other, a remarkable gentleman in that, despite his short stature, he bore the weight of his gold trappings with ease. “What up, baby girl?” He gave her a sly grin, his eyes slowly encompassing her entire form in a way that caused her chaste thighs to excrete an irregular, and in her flustered estimation, quite improper moistness.
Edward was bestirred to interject, his sensibilities affronted by these two interlopers who had as yet to bother introducing themselves to the proper heir of the grounds that they had unconscionably besmirched with their ungainly carriage. “Sirs,” he proclaimed, “I am—”
“Yeah, s’up man, we know who you be,” interrupted the stranger who was taking liberties with the fold of Emily’s dress with his penetrating eyes. “Nice crib, G. We’s Wealth and Stealth. Stealth, that’s my nigga here,” he concluded, pointing to his towering companion.
“Pardon me?” replied Edward. “You are… Niggers?”
“Yo, did you hear what that muthafucka said?” exclaimed Wealth to Stealth. “It’s on, bitch, I’m gonna cap your dandified ass!” he shouted, hitching his ungainly breeches and producing a weapon in a manner that, to Edward, was an unwarranted breach of protocol.
“I shall be happy give you satisfaction, sir, but now is neither the time nor place!” challenged the outraged Edward.
“You hear this punk ass fool?” asked Stealth of his companion. “First the boy insults ya, then he wants to be your bitch! Yo, suck my cock too, with your pretty ass mouth!” He performed an obscene clutching gesture with his groin, which elicited from Emily another one of her most expressive moans. Observing this was, in Edward’s estimation, much more than he could tolerate, and the responsibility towards his sister and betrothed stirred him to put an end to this indelicate altercation with haste and diplomacy.
“I beg of you to remember that there is a female present,” Edward, with as much calm as it was possible to muster under such a situation, stated.
“Yo man, you hear that shit?” Wealth turned towards Stealth, cocking his ear, with an expression of utmost disconcertion, towards the sky.
“What the fuck you talkin about, man?” answered Stealth.
“There’s this wack voice I hear, an like, it’s announcing everything we say and do, man. Fuck this nineteenth century shit when some fool narrator be frontin’ with all these lofty split-infinitives,” Wealth growled. “How these crackers complain about Ebonics when a nigga can hardly understand this muthafuckin bullshit? Y’all is mad stupid, man.”
“Word,” replied Stealth, who grinned of a sudden while mischievously affecting a mincing posture and, turning one wrist downward and sashaying with his other hand on his hip, proclaimed, “Oooowheee! My beloved Emily, allow me to make love to you by turning a phrase to beseech you upon wherefore art thou hast been as lovely as divinity can foresooth attest, oh my exhalted, tight, phatass bioootch!”
“Turn a motha fuckin phrase, haaaaha ha! Shiiiee, you turnin my muthafuckin stomach, man!” Wealth bent over with, it must be admitted, an uncontrollable laugh—
“Yo, narrator! Shut the fuck up before I rape yo gotdam mamma and gat yo muthafuckin ass!”
On an impulse, before Emily could comprehend the unvirginal flush that had gained mastery over her compromised senses, she winked at her brother and, while reaching for Wealth’s hand, stated imperiously, “Let us roll out, my homey G’s. This cracker be a trifling with me, and I wants to get properly laid. Peace out, you twisted, foppish, incestuous bitch.”
That’s when the narrator, too, found that she sought a wiser employment of her time then to witness some fly gangster shit that might result in a bullet in her motherfucking bottom.
Yo, I’m outta here, y’all.
Wedding Guests
by Ara von Niv
In mid June 2007 I was in Saratoga Springs, NY, for a former in-law’s
wedding. The immediate faimly of my deceased wife, Jackie, and me with
my son took over a B&B for the weekend. One night we had our own
rehearsal dinner party/cookout. In the midst of it, my wife’s uncle’s
wife’s brother showed up with his daughter. They were both very loud
and seemed pretty drunk.
The daughter, Chelsea, appeared to be in her early 30s, tall, stunning,
blonde, and very A Type go go Go Go GO GO TEAM personality. Chelsea
shook my hand firmly looking me in the eye, gave me a campaigner’s
smile, repeated my name with a head nod, and moved on to repeat her
greeting technique with my former brother-in-law. Not in the mood for
loud drunks, I went into the house to get my boy ready for bed and take
care of some work I brought with me. For the following sixteen hours, I
did not think about her again.
At the wedding reception the next evening, I sat down at the designated table and both the uncle’s brother-in-law (still loud, not that drunk,
yet) and Chelsea were seated with us.
Chelsea reached across the table: “Hi! I’m Chelsea!”
“Yes, Chelsea, I’m Jim. We met last night?”She waved that away and declared brightly: “I was two sheets to shit-faced last night! I don’t remember a thing!”
Chelsea then took over the table’s conversation. My sister-in-law
Moira, who was also at the table, is pretty A Type and quite able at taking
over a conversation/room herself but she was no match for Chelsea.
Thus, Moira resorted to whispering unsolicited encouragement in my ear.
[”Jimmy, she’s single.”]
Chelsea: “I’m just so fucking stoked about this wine! blah blah blah
blah I’m just loving all these fucking kids… I’m just so fucking
stoked about her dress… I’m just loving this china… I’m just so
fucking stoked about your son’s tie… I was totally loving this trail
I was hiking and,”
I interjected, “So, you hike? Where do you hike?”
[”Jimmy, she lives near you”]
“I’m just totally stoked about Shenandoah right now! I’m spending more
and more time there! And there are all these wineries near there. And
this one time, Blake and I got so shit-faced after hiking and…”
[”Jimmy, she likes outdoors stuff”]
Chelsea went on, “Are you all outdoorsy? I’m so loving hiking!”
“Yeah, I hike.”
Chelsea took back over and talked at us some more. I was completely not
attracted to her. I mention that only to make it clear that I had no
intention of pursuing this person during what ensued. Truly, I made no
effort to woo.
That said, she looked great, was friendly, but not my type at all. I
have never gone for what is commonly referred to as sorority chicks. I
don’t know why. There was an edgy looking woman at the next table with
a nose ring, an interesting thrift store dress and boots that kept looking at me. I wondered if I should talk to her.
Chelsea went on and on about her job, her difficulties with men, her
love for music…
“Jimmy is a musician!” Moira announced triumphantly, “A professional
musician!”
“Oh my fucking god! Really! What do you play?”
“Mostly I drum, but I…”
“Holy shit! I love drummers! I have such a weakness for drummers! I had
one break my heart 10 years ago. I never got over it. Oh, drummers…”
“Um, drummers are idiots,” I said truthfully. “Really, you’re better
off without us.”
Chelsea went on more about why she loves drummers.
[”Jimmy, she likes drummers! And she’s a drunk… you know you love
drunks.”]
Suddenly, it was just the three of us. Moira, seemingly noticing this,
left.
Chelsea and I continued to talk. For some reason, within a couple of
minutes, she calmed down about 90%. We started to have a real
conversation, one that volleyed effortlessly. It went on for a
while, but did not become stagnant. She asked what my connection was to the
family and seemed genuinely sorry to hear about Jackie. She told me
about a long term relationship that recently came to an end and how she
just packed her shit and left a man in New Mexico after eight years of
living with him; About her efforts in photography and why she prefers
film over digital (for all the right pretentious reasons); About her
frustrations, yet success, in the world of banking sales; About her
creative writing and how she’d love to find a way to make a living from
that…
A guy in his mid 40s from what was designated as The Singles Table
walked by and grabbed her on the shoulder: “Heyyyy, beautiful, I hope
you’re saving a dance for me…”
When the stud showed up, I turned my body halfway away from her and
scanned the dance floor for my son. I heard her laugh and say nothing.
I turned in time to see her wave him off effectively and make it clear to him by her body language that she was in the midst of a conversation. He walked off.
Agitatedly, she got into how that guy was so sleazy and had been following her around all weekend and how, no, she was not going to dance with him and that if she felt like dancing…
It occurred to me: Should I ask Chelsea to dance? I hate to dance. Is
that what she wants? Does she want me to ask her? Could I make it into
a joke? I’m a terrible dancer. And there is no way that I am going to
dance with an attractive woman in front of my former in-laws who all
cried openly at the mass earlier that day at the mention of Jackie in
the prayers for the dead. No, dancing is out. And dancing is
ridiculous. It would make as much sense to say: “May I touch you? How about your
biceps? Can I touch one? What do you think? I’ll stand close to you,
close enough to smell your shampoo and I’ll touch your bicep and
we’ll feel connected somehow, like we shared something. In trade, I’m down
with your touching my elbow.”
Chelsea was picking up the pace of her rambling about her feelings on
being asked to dance. I hadn’t said much of anything since being
interrupted by the stud. Just as she was getting ready to hit her
former manic pace, her head jerked rigidly, widened her eyes, clapped her
hands once loudly, threw them in the air with her fingers splayed (making her
look like a blonde moose), and announced: “Moving out! Time to
circulate!” she said quickly and started spinning her fingers. “Time to
circulate! Time to circulate!” She took a gulp from her wine, got up,
and walked away without a word.
I sat there for a moment trying to understand what just happened. I
wondered if I should feel dejected, or even embarrassed, that a woman
just up and bolted from a conversation we were having. I felt confused,
like something just happened. I couldn’t place what it was. It almost
felt like a dream abruptly ended. Just a regular dream; I could have
been matching socks in the dream.
I went outside and took a walk to get some fresh air. The experience
left me in a fog missing my wife and trying to understand what it meant
to be single at 36 after a happy marriage. Nothing seemed to make sense. I
had happiness and then it was gone and this nonsense was now taking its
place.
I left soon after, not bothering with goodbyes.
August 15: AWSUMGOD (by Lauren Walter) & KATHRYN (by Kevin Egan)
AWSUMGOD
By Lauren J. Walter ro ljwalter@aol.com
She was driving to work again. It seemed like she did this way more then she did anything she actually enjoyed. Today, she was heading out East to take care of yet another cranky old person. She suspected he would treat her like the hired help. Of course, she was the hired help, but that was beside the point.
She sat in traffic along the two lane road that leads to the Expressway. Two lanes. One in each direction. And way too many cars, all stopped. She wished the air conditioning in her Hyundai worked, but that was as beat up as the SUV itself. She had bought it from some used car dealer for $3,000, and it had quickly needed another $1,500 worth of repairs. Then some jackass had rammed into the passenger side, and now those doors no longer worked. And now she was sitting in traffic, burning gas at $3.05 a gallon, just sitting.
She thought about life and how it seemed to continue sucking. When she got the SUV, she somehow thought it was a sign her life was going to change for the better. She had even gone out and spent money on special plates, that read “AWSUMGOD”. She believed the plates would give her that extra boost; after all, she was spending money to praise God. But it hadn’t quite worked out that way.
After the accident, because she wasn’t able to get to work until she got the money to fix the car, she had been canned from her old job. She had worked for a hospital, making beds and cleaning bathrooms. Her attendance record had always been spotty, due to the vagaries of transportation and her own lack of motivation. But at least there, she got a regular paycheck. Her kids appreciated that money, spending it on fancy sneakers and gadgets before she got a chance to pay most of the bills.
Now, she was a free agent, going wherever a job popped up. She tried to trust in her license plate, but was finding it harder and harder with each overdue bill that landed in her mailbox. She wondered how long it would be before they had to find a new place to live, and where she would find the money.
She took a deep drag on her cigarette, blowing the smoke out her wide open window. She thought about life. She thought about God. And she blamed him for all she was going through. “I need to get new license plates,” she said aloud, to no one in particular.
*********
