___ I flipped idly through the channels, paying little attention to the seamless shift from noisy cartoons, to gory murder scenes, to wildlife documentaries as each station flickered by. I wasn't particularly interested in watching anything, but having spent much of my week analyzing data, I was up for something mindless. It was Friday night and I probably should have been out on the town socializing, but my social skills had been a bit stunted when my last attempt at blending in resulted in vengeance-fueled serial murders after my girlfriend was skinned for being the wrong sub-species. The fact that I was evolving into a bit of a homebody was understandable.
___ As if refusing to let me languish alone in a darkened living room, the phone suddenly rang shrilly from the kitchen. I groaned, rolling off of the couch and padding barefoot across the springy carpeting as it gave way to cold, hard linoleum. The caller ID indicated Gabe's cell phone, and I couldn't help but heave a sigh; he tended to be in trouble when he called. The fact that he hadn't been around in almost two weeks suggested that he was using again, which was ample cause for trouble. I lacked the motivation and the funding to post bail if he was being arrested again, and answered the phone with a scowl prepped to indicate as much.
___ "Trent!" the familiar voice shouted before I could greet. He seemed to be speaking over the volume of his car's stereo based on the loud crackling of destroyed bass. "Do you have any Vics handy?"
___ "Do you have a cold...?" I asked, perplexed by the peculiar nature of this phone call.
___ "No, it's for you," he said impatiently, coughing between words. It was phlegmy; he smoked way too much to sound that way so young. "Smear some under your nose so you can't smell anything, ok? I have a surprise for you."
___ Now I was curious, and slightly mortified. I couldn't imagine what Gabe was planning that would demand I deaden my senses; if we were going for Vics, he apparently thought the smell was both strong and distinct enough to give away the surprise before he could go through the motions. It was a valid concern when attempting to catch a therianthrope off guard, of course, but it still left me uneasy.
___ "Gabe..." I started, but he cut me off.
___ "Come on Trent," his voice was whiny, and reminded me of how young he was. "Please?"
___ Resorting to being polite? I supposed I'd have to oblige him.
___ "Fine, fine. When are you coming?" I wandered down the hall towards the bathroom, resigned to my fate of huffing camphor fumes to placate a teen aged werebear.
___ "I'm pulling into your street right now -" a horn blared to confirm as much as Gabe managed to cut off one of the few cars traveling Route 93, "- so hurry, ok?" The line went dead.
___ I stared at the receiver and shook my head, withdrawing the small blue container from the medicine cabinet, nose already wrinkling at its caustic reek even through the closed lid. Moments later I was sitting on the couch with a tingling upper lip and thoroughly thwarted sense of smell. As Gabe's car pulled in to the driveway and I found myself unable to detect not only its filthy, sputtering engine but his nicotine-and-heroin redolence, I tried to remember if this had been what humanity was like.
___ The screen door creaked open, and Gabe's angular face, cloaked in a scraggly adolescent beard from a recent inattention to personal grooming, poked around the frame. He still had a cigarette in his mouth and moved to put it out in the palm of his hand when I glared daggers at the bits of ash floating to my floor.
___ "Did you do it?" he asked, his own sense of smell so diminished from smoke that he couldn't be certain.
___ "Vics heil," I saluted him with one raised hand then pointed beneath my noise.
___ He smiled and slipped through the door, one hand behind his back and the width of his torso obscuring whatever he was attempting to hide. I frowned despite myself as he entered, noting that he looked even thinner than he had two weeks ago, his clothing wrinkled around an increasingly lean frame. If he noticed my shift in mood he paid it no mind, striding over the couch and fighting a grin the whole while. He stopped roughly two feet away, eyes jumping to the book case across the room periodically as though he had something in mind. Gradually, however, he fixed on my face, and then his features slowly became more composed.
___ "So," he paused awkwardly, running one hand through the red ridge of his mohawk, which was frayed and dilapidated today as though he hadn't had time to gel it, "do you remember what happened today, like a year ago?"
___ I didn't like thinking of a year ago; I'd just barely clawed my way back to semi-sanity and did not wish to be reminded of the chain of events that had nearly destroyed me as they had so many others. A frown tugged at the corners of my mouth, and Gabe looked alarmed.
___ "No, no no. Nothing like that. It's just..." he laughed nervously. "A year ago today, I tried to kill you, remember?"
___ How could I forget waking up to the sight of bear claws rushing towards my face, or the sound of them impaling my mattress as I just barely evaded the attack?
___ "Yes, I remember," I said, forehead furrowed with confusion. Gabe held a hand up before I could say anything else.
___ "Well, I got you an anniversary present," he said, voice dropping with embarrassment at the word anniversary and a sheepish grin that made him years younger playing across his face. As though he could contain the excitement no further, he whipped his arm from behind his back, presenting a small plastic cage with a blue lid. Inside, huddled in the folds of a washcloth, was a tiny black mouse, beady eyes wide with terror.
___ "You're always hanging around the house alone, and I know your last mouse died a few months back, so I thought you could use a new pet." He extended the mouse towards me.
___ I reached out and gently lifted the container from his outstretched hand. It was familiar; this was the cage I once used to bring my previous mouse, Animus, to the vet's. Gabe must have rooted around in the basement to find it when I was at work. The mouse reared up to examine its surroundings, eerily hand-like paws pressed to the acrylic and head bobbing as it sniffed the air. I smiled despite myself.
___ "This is... unexpected," I pressed one finger to the plastic, opposite the mouse's tiny paws.
___ "Do you like it?" he asked eagerly, bending close to look inside the cage. The mouse's comically large ears snapped upright with alarm and it buried itself abruptly beneath the washcloth.
___ "I do," I said, unable to resist a full-blown grin at this point. "Where did you get him?" Gabe's smile faltered a bit and a flush crept into his cheeks. Oh boy. This had to be good.
___ "Well, I know you don't like the whole 'animals as products' thing, so I didn't buy it..." Gabe apparently found his own feet very fascinating at that moment. I waited patiently for further explanation. "You're against experimenting on animals too, right?"
___ I looked at the mouse, which had cautiously re-emerged from its bedding. It was small, sleek, and solidly black with a short coat. I bet it weighed almost exactly 27 grams, and would probably bite me the second I opened the cage lid. It was a C57BL/6 - a popular research strain due to its unique immunophenotype.
___ "Did you steal this from the University?" I asked, my voice too amused to be scolding - which it probably should have been even if a younger, more idealistic part of me found the idea fantastic. Gabe seemed to sense as much and smiled knowingly.
___ "I'd like to think I... liberated it?" He tried to look very serious and noble, and we both broke out laughing at the same moment. It made me realize that I missed having him around the house -- even if he was immature, lazy, messy, and temperamental.
And this is where I'll stop for now, because I'm enjoying this exchange enough that I am seriously considering refining it and adding it to Vol. 2, haha.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Werewolves on a motherfuckin' Plane!
This is just a fun little tidbit that would possibly occur in a more polished form in Vol. 2 of Raze, and involves our protagonist Trent, his "seeing eye dog" Lucas, and a very, very long flight from Montana and New York to rescue Gabe from some very novel-worthy doom. All characters, concepts, and plotstuffs are, obviously, (c) to me.
___ I hate flying. As a biologist, animals, plants, and ecosystems made sense to me. Giant hunks of metal packed with explosives & propelled by what amounted to over-glorified propellers, flying through the air at hundreds of miles per hour, did not. Cars were terrifying enough for transportation, and they were on the ground. And cars didn't involve squalling babies, bad airline food, persistently unavailable bathrooms, and dreadful on-flight movies. I began to wonder how long it would have taken to drive to New York, and if I'd be outed as a therianthrope if I ripped the emergency door off its hinges and made a run for it.
___ Fidgeting in my narrow leather chair, which reeked like tanning chemicals and dozens of passengers worth of sweat, I shrewdly looked to make sure no one was watching before obsessive-compulsively adjusting the small plastic knob holding the tray table in place until it was in a perfectly centered position. I didn't understand the mentality of people who left these things off center, the very corner just barely holding the table in place. I was certain it would have sprung open during take-off, definitely a safety hazard... or at least this was my justification for fretting over such a minor detail so I would appear slightly less anal retentive.
___ Because I was sitting in the back of the plane, the only area with seeing eye werewo... dog accommodations, I could hear little but the roar of the engine. It drowned out muddled instructions from the flight attendants regarding the various ways we should calmly conduct ourselves when facing our inevitable fiery death. Sighing and popping a stick of gum in my mouth in anticipation of the elevation change, I deftly avoided this presentation. Seat belts? For a plane crash? Really?
___Ahead of me, cast in browns through the tint of my sunglasses, the other passengers were staring obediently at a series of instructions reduced to simple pictures for our increasingly multi-lingual society. They all looked placid and trusting, devotedly shifting their attention between the flight attendants and the card to follow along. Social conditioning at its finest.
___The grinning stewardesses began cheerfully talking about how to react in the event of an "emergency water landing," which is a euphemism for "crashing into the ocean and drowning instead of crashing into the ground and burning." There was no ocean in the middle of America, and I thought it would be more pertinent to find out how I should react if the plane crashed into the Rockies, or a corn field, or - and I shuddered - Wisconsin.
___I was flying across my country on mission to rescue a heroin-addicted teen aged werebear from a situation that would likely endanger my life in the process, so why was it that the plane ride was more daunting? My attention shifted to Lucas, who was laying on the floor with his head on his paws, eyes half shut and looking decidedly bored. I thought I could see a tiny smile curling his dark pink lips slightly upwards when my heart skipped a beat with the sudden motion of the wheels on the tarmac. As we lurched free of the ground, my hand involuntarily spasmed around the arm rest. Lucas raised his head and grinned up at me, managing a mocking look even on a canine snout. I resisted the urge to give him a kick and blow my cover as blind.
___ I hate flying. As a biologist, animals, plants, and ecosystems made sense to me. Giant hunks of metal packed with explosives & propelled by what amounted to over-glorified propellers, flying through the air at hundreds of miles per hour, did not. Cars were terrifying enough for transportation, and they were on the ground. And cars didn't involve squalling babies, bad airline food, persistently unavailable bathrooms, and dreadful on-flight movies. I began to wonder how long it would have taken to drive to New York, and if I'd be outed as a therianthrope if I ripped the emergency door off its hinges and made a run for it.
___ Fidgeting in my narrow leather chair, which reeked like tanning chemicals and dozens of passengers worth of sweat, I shrewdly looked to make sure no one was watching before obsessive-compulsively adjusting the small plastic knob holding the tray table in place until it was in a perfectly centered position. I didn't understand the mentality of people who left these things off center, the very corner just barely holding the table in place. I was certain it would have sprung open during take-off, definitely a safety hazard... or at least this was my justification for fretting over such a minor detail so I would appear slightly less anal retentive.
___ Because I was sitting in the back of the plane, the only area with seeing eye werewo... dog accommodations, I could hear little but the roar of the engine. It drowned out muddled instructions from the flight attendants regarding the various ways we should calmly conduct ourselves when facing our inevitable fiery death. Sighing and popping a stick of gum in my mouth in anticipation of the elevation change, I deftly avoided this presentation. Seat belts? For a plane crash? Really?
___Ahead of me, cast in browns through the tint of my sunglasses, the other passengers were staring obediently at a series of instructions reduced to simple pictures for our increasingly multi-lingual society. They all looked placid and trusting, devotedly shifting their attention between the flight attendants and the card to follow along. Social conditioning at its finest.
___The grinning stewardesses began cheerfully talking about how to react in the event of an "emergency water landing," which is a euphemism for "crashing into the ocean and drowning instead of crashing into the ground and burning." There was no ocean in the middle of America, and I thought it would be more pertinent to find out how I should react if the plane crashed into the Rockies, or a corn field, or - and I shuddered - Wisconsin.
___I was flying across my country on mission to rescue a heroin-addicted teen aged werebear from a situation that would likely endanger my life in the process, so why was it that the plane ride was more daunting? My attention shifted to Lucas, who was laying on the floor with his head on his paws, eyes half shut and looking decidedly bored. I thought I could see a tiny smile curling his dark pink lips slightly upwards when my heart skipped a beat with the sudden motion of the wheels on the tarmac. As we lurched free of the ground, my hand involuntarily spasmed around the arm rest. Lucas raised his head and grinned up at me, managing a mocking look even on a canine snout. I resisted the urge to give him a kick and blow my cover as blind.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Kumba
This paragraph is part of a possible novel I may write somewhere down the road, so needless to say, concepts, characters, content, etc. are all (c) Lauren Weeks. This bit is brief enough that I doubt anyone could do much with it if they wanted, but still.
Prolouge
The crowd was cheering on the day that I died.
Chapter 1: Birth
__ My first memory was the sound of the wind rushing through the dry savanna grasses. It was so vast a noise that I thought a thousand hungry predators were rushing towards me with sharpened claws and eager fangs. I remember running behind my mother’s great gray legs and burying my head in the coarse dryness of her flesh, squealing at the top of my lungs all the while. I made such a ruckus that even the herd matriarch was alarmed; her massive feet made the ground quake as she approached to investigate. Caressing my body with her rubbery trunk, she made soft, comforting sounds until I relaxed against my mother’s body, puling her teat closer with my trunk to suckle. I fell to sleep beneath the comforting fortress of her body, so powerful but so loving all at once, the way Gods are said to be. This memory of closeness of my herd, the sounds and smells of the other elephants, has brought me comfort that endured through many of my darkest hours.
Haha, yeah, that's all I'm sharing for now.
Prolouge
The crowd was cheering on the day that I died.
Chapter 1: Birth
__ My first memory was the sound of the wind rushing through the dry savanna grasses. It was so vast a noise that I thought a thousand hungry predators were rushing towards me with sharpened claws and eager fangs. I remember running behind my mother’s great gray legs and burying my head in the coarse dryness of her flesh, squealing at the top of my lungs all the while. I made such a ruckus that even the herd matriarch was alarmed; her massive feet made the ground quake as she approached to investigate. Caressing my body with her rubbery trunk, she made soft, comforting sounds until I relaxed against my mother’s body, puling her teat closer with my trunk to suckle. I fell to sleep beneath the comforting fortress of her body, so powerful but so loving all at once, the way Gods are said to be. This memory of closeness of my herd, the sounds and smells of the other elephants, has brought me comfort that endured through many of my darkest hours.
Haha, yeah, that's all I'm sharing for now.
Broken Things
___When he left, he took a lot of things with him: their dog, her GPS system, half of their DVDs, and most of the money out of her bank accounts. He didn’t break her, steal away pieces of her pride like most men did during a break up; that always happened each time she gave in and got back together with him. How many times had it been now? Three, four? Five? It was a wonder there was anything left, really.
___She was too afraid to enter her apartment when she got home from work. The logical part of her brain told her that this was for any number of very good reasons. He might be there, waiting to hurt her. He might come back while she was home for the same reason. He may have come while she was away and destroyed her dearest belongings, leaving her to pick up the pieces. But deep down, she knew the worst thing for her would be going up to that apartment and finding nothing out of place other than the lack of his presence. It would be quiet, like the aftermath of a hurricane, and she would be alone. This, more than anything rational, was terrifying, and this was why she kept taking him back.
___Sitting in the parking lot with her hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, she dipped her bruised face into the bend of her forearm. She had cried so much today that there were no tears left to fall, but her back quaked with each sob nonetheless. A whirlwind of emotion tormented her despite the quiet, soothing sound of rain gently falling over the roof of the car. Part of her desperately longed to jettison the heavy shackles of their relationship for good, knowing how it would always end no matter how sweet he acted in the first weeks after she accepted him back. Part of her also longed for him the way an junkie craved his addiction, and by now her self esteem was so thoroughly destroyed that she could convince herself that anything he said or did was justified.
___After all, it was only one black eye.
___Her cell phone buzzed to life on the seat beside her, screen glowing blue in the dimness of the car. She startled at the sound and stared for a long moment before tentatively picking it up to read the name on the caller ID. She felt a twinge of shame for hoping, somewhere in the back of her mind, that it would be him. The number on the screen was her mother’s, and she felt both relief and trepidation. There was no hope that her voice would not betray her condition; she would have to tell her everything, hear the anger and hurt and worry in her mother’s responses like she had so many times before.
___Their conversation, like the day’s earlier events, flew by in a blinding flurry of emotion. Her mother asked all of the concerned maternal questions like, “did he hurt you?” and “do you need me to come over?” before launching into her furious tirade reprimanding her daughter for being so foolish. This wasn’t quite blaming the victim, more a product of concerned sorrow, and a desperate plea to comprehend how she chose him time and time again over her family, over herself. By the end of the discussion they were both crying, and she heard the half-hearted and unconvinced hope in her mother’s cracking voice as she quietly said,
___“I’m glad you’ve gotten rid of him, honey.”
___She said goodnight and hung up the phone, but did not leave the car. Forehead cradled in her hands, she quietly whispered to herself in hollow despair,
___“He'll never go away that easily.”
___She was too afraid to enter her apartment when she got home from work. The logical part of her brain told her that this was for any number of very good reasons. He might be there, waiting to hurt her. He might come back while she was home for the same reason. He may have come while she was away and destroyed her dearest belongings, leaving her to pick up the pieces. But deep down, she knew the worst thing for her would be going up to that apartment and finding nothing out of place other than the lack of his presence. It would be quiet, like the aftermath of a hurricane, and she would be alone. This, more than anything rational, was terrifying, and this was why she kept taking him back.
___Sitting in the parking lot with her hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, she dipped her bruised face into the bend of her forearm. She had cried so much today that there were no tears left to fall, but her back quaked with each sob nonetheless. A whirlwind of emotion tormented her despite the quiet, soothing sound of rain gently falling over the roof of the car. Part of her desperately longed to jettison the heavy shackles of their relationship for good, knowing how it would always end no matter how sweet he acted in the first weeks after she accepted him back. Part of her also longed for him the way an junkie craved his addiction, and by now her self esteem was so thoroughly destroyed that she could convince herself that anything he said or did was justified.
___After all, it was only one black eye.
___Her cell phone buzzed to life on the seat beside her, screen glowing blue in the dimness of the car. She startled at the sound and stared for a long moment before tentatively picking it up to read the name on the caller ID. She felt a twinge of shame for hoping, somewhere in the back of her mind, that it would be him. The number on the screen was her mother’s, and she felt both relief and trepidation. There was no hope that her voice would not betray her condition; she would have to tell her everything, hear the anger and hurt and worry in her mother’s responses like she had so many times before.
___Their conversation, like the day’s earlier events, flew by in a blinding flurry of emotion. Her mother asked all of the concerned maternal questions like, “did he hurt you?” and “do you need me to come over?” before launching into her furious tirade reprimanding her daughter for being so foolish. This wasn’t quite blaming the victim, more a product of concerned sorrow, and a desperate plea to comprehend how she chose him time and time again over her family, over herself. By the end of the discussion they were both crying, and she heard the half-hearted and unconvinced hope in her mother’s cracking voice as she quietly said,
___“I’m glad you’ve gotten rid of him, honey.”
___She said goodnight and hung up the phone, but did not leave the car. Forehead cradled in her hands, she quietly whispered to herself in hollow despair,
___“He'll never go away that easily.”
Friday, September 19, 2008
Three Brief Conversations.
1. Dial Tone
___The phone sprung to life on the coffee table, buzzing across its surface angrily like a mortally wounded bee. He startled at the sound, then glanced at the caller ID. It was Laura. Wondering why she was calling this late, he flipped the phone open.
___"Laura?" His voice was urgent, concerned. That didn't make it easier for her.
___"You were right," she said, tones hushed and sorrowful.
___"What's going on?" There was now a cold pit of ice in his stomach, because he could only think of one thing she could have been referring to.
___"I'm calling to say goodbye," she continued, ignoring his question as though it was never spoken.
___"You're scaring me," he said, and the high edge to his voice confirmed it.
___"Come tomorrow, I'll either be dead, or a murderer." She paused, then laughed sardonically. "Though some part of me thinks you'll get over the former more quickly."
___"Laura, calm down - tell me what happened. Is it Julie?"
___"I know you hate it when I remind you but, I love you, Alan." Her voice should have been more emotional to accompany those words, but they were flat and hollow. This more than anything frightened him.
___"Laura, I..."
___"Don't," she said sharply, cutting him off. "Your arguments won't dissuade me, and if you even dare try at reciprocity, I'll see right through it. Good bye, Alan."
___The receiver went dead, and it felt like an omen.
2. Vegans
___She worried the lid of the bottle, wincing as a sharp burning shot up her hand to her shoulder and then back down again, like the nerves were playing catch with her pain. It wasn't even one of those confounding child-proof lids, just a normal twist-off; how humiliating. As she tried to force her injured arm to perform, she became aware that a shadow had fallen over her. Looking up with apparent agitation, she pursed her lips in the beginning of an irate what, then stopped.
___Standing over her was one of the most offensively attractive women she'd ever seen. Her luxurious black hair fell forward as she looked down, an amused smile dancing more in her almond-shaped sepia eyes than on her dark, thin lips. She held out one mocha-brown hand, long elegant fingers splayed. Her palms looked curiously rough considering the manicured perfection of her nails, which were long but only tastefully so.
___"May I?" the woman asked, her voice warm and lyrical.
___Amanda nodded distantly, too stricken to argue. The woman twisted the lid off with ease, giving a funny little smile when she saw the label and small, pink pills that had been obscured by the dark glass. Amanda managed a meek "thank you."
___"B12?" the beautiful stranger asked, a hint of amusement creeping into her voice. "Are you a vegan?"
___Amanda snorted, gesturing to her muscular, blocky body - the kind of body that played sports that lead to shoulder injuries. She gave the stranger a very arrogant look.
___"Do I look like one?"
___Her smile spread wider, like she was enjoying some secret joke at the other woman's expense.
___"I don't know... do I?" She reached into the bottle, withdrawing one tablet and trapping it between the perfect white teeth of her grin with a wink before closing her lips and sauntering away.
3. Chivalry's Not Dead
___Margaret saw the door before he did, his attention focused too intensely on his watch as they exited the restaurant. He'd barely been able to tolerate sitting through an hour's dinner, too concerned with getting back home before the game started. A devious grin sprung across her face, forcing the frown lines hewn in the corners of her aging visage to reconfigure. Striding ahead, she pulled the door open, bowing at the waist and gesturing her husband through with a great sweep of her knobby, arthritic hand.
___"After you, Darling!" she trilled.
___He looked up from his watch with a scowl, ears burning red as he crossed the threshold peevishly following a moment's hesitation.
___"See that?" She proclaimed teasingly. "Chivalry's not dead yet."
___Once outside the door, he grabbed her elbow firmly, pulling her close with his lip curling in an angry little growl.
___"Would you stop castrating me in public?" he hissed, annoyed, then stormed ahead.
___There was the hint of laughter in her old eyes.
___The phone sprung to life on the coffee table, buzzing across its surface angrily like a mortally wounded bee. He startled at the sound, then glanced at the caller ID. It was Laura. Wondering why she was calling this late, he flipped the phone open.
___"Laura?" His voice was urgent, concerned. That didn't make it easier for her.
___"You were right," she said, tones hushed and sorrowful.
___"What's going on?" There was now a cold pit of ice in his stomach, because he could only think of one thing she could have been referring to.
___"I'm calling to say goodbye," she continued, ignoring his question as though it was never spoken.
___"You're scaring me," he said, and the high edge to his voice confirmed it.
___"Come tomorrow, I'll either be dead, or a murderer." She paused, then laughed sardonically. "Though some part of me thinks you'll get over the former more quickly."
___"Laura, calm down - tell me what happened. Is it Julie?"
___"I know you hate it when I remind you but, I love you, Alan." Her voice should have been more emotional to accompany those words, but they were flat and hollow. This more than anything frightened him.
___"Laura, I..."
___"Don't," she said sharply, cutting him off. "Your arguments won't dissuade me, and if you even dare try at reciprocity, I'll see right through it. Good bye, Alan."
___The receiver went dead, and it felt like an omen.
2. Vegans
___She worried the lid of the bottle, wincing as a sharp burning shot up her hand to her shoulder and then back down again, like the nerves were playing catch with her pain. It wasn't even one of those confounding child-proof lids, just a normal twist-off; how humiliating. As she tried to force her injured arm to perform, she became aware that a shadow had fallen over her. Looking up with apparent agitation, she pursed her lips in the beginning of an irate what, then stopped.
___Standing over her was one of the most offensively attractive women she'd ever seen. Her luxurious black hair fell forward as she looked down, an amused smile dancing more in her almond-shaped sepia eyes than on her dark, thin lips. She held out one mocha-brown hand, long elegant fingers splayed. Her palms looked curiously rough considering the manicured perfection of her nails, which were long but only tastefully so.
___"May I?" the woman asked, her voice warm and lyrical.
___Amanda nodded distantly, too stricken to argue. The woman twisted the lid off with ease, giving a funny little smile when she saw the label and small, pink pills that had been obscured by the dark glass. Amanda managed a meek "thank you."
___"B12?" the beautiful stranger asked, a hint of amusement creeping into her voice. "Are you a vegan?"
___Amanda snorted, gesturing to her muscular, blocky body - the kind of body that played sports that lead to shoulder injuries. She gave the stranger a very arrogant look.
___"Do I look like one?"
___Her smile spread wider, like she was enjoying some secret joke at the other woman's expense.
___"I don't know... do I?" She reached into the bottle, withdrawing one tablet and trapping it between the perfect white teeth of her grin with a wink before closing her lips and sauntering away.
3. Chivalry's Not Dead
___Margaret saw the door before he did, his attention focused too intensely on his watch as they exited the restaurant. He'd barely been able to tolerate sitting through an hour's dinner, too concerned with getting back home before the game started. A devious grin sprung across her face, forcing the frown lines hewn in the corners of her aging visage to reconfigure. Striding ahead, she pulled the door open, bowing at the waist and gesturing her husband through with a great sweep of her knobby, arthritic hand.
___"After you, Darling!" she trilled.
___He looked up from his watch with a scowl, ears burning red as he crossed the threshold peevishly following a moment's hesitation.
___"See that?" She proclaimed teasingly. "Chivalry's not dead yet."
___Once outside the door, he grabbed her elbow firmly, pulling her close with his lip curling in an angry little growl.
___"Would you stop castrating me in public?" he hissed, annoyed, then stormed ahead.
___There was the hint of laughter in her old eyes.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Wild Horses (AKA Ren Practices Dialog)
___The sky above was overcast, and there was nothing ominous about this fact; it was merely November. A flock of geese broke the soft, motionless gray in fast lines of animated black, calling out nosily to their comrades as they moved in perfect formation towards their winter grounds. There was something peculiarly effortless about their frantic wing beats, perhaps the instinct that drove them over frigid miles through the same migratory routes their ancestors had observed for generations. She envied the orderly, predictable world of the geese as she walked carefully across the slick frozen ground in the direction of the stable. She could already hear him inside, talking in quiet, comforting tones to the horse he was working on in a fashion that seemed out of place coming from someone of such rough-edged character.
___If he heard her enter, he gave no indication. His side was braced against the foreleg of an old thoroughbred gelding, arm extended to pinch the animal's fetlock as he clucked gently, trying to encourage the animal to raise its foot for a cleaning. The horse looked up at her, ears perked and hopeful for treats, but became disinterested when none were presented. It lifted its foot obligingly, and he held it firmly, the long sinewy muscles of his forearm straining slightly from the weight as he worked the pick first along the outer curve of the hoof, dislodging caked mud or feces - both looked about the same. She moved to the other side of the horse, placing one hand on its warm, muscular neck. The thoroughbred was too tall for her to observe him looking over its withers, so she dropped her head and peered around the long line of its throat.
___"You're here early," she observed. "And you weren't in class yesterday."
___"Yeah, I know," he replied to both statements of the obvious.
___"Were you feeling alright?" She watched as he worked the pick carefully but firmly around the raised ridge of the horse's frog.
___"Feeling fine, just not feeling like going to school," he replied, flipping the pick over and using the brush to remove finer debris.
___"Oh," she replied dumbly, running one arm along the horse's back and awkwardly floundering for anything to say.
___"You come down here for a reason?" He asked, his posture suddenly very stiff. She couldn't tell if it was in anticipation of her answer, or because he was working a stubborn piece of gravel free from the hoof.
___"Just to visit, I guess," she leaned her cheek against the horse's shoulder, its chestnut bulk blocking her view of him for a moment.
___"Me, or the horses?" he asked, an edge of spite creeping into his voice mingled with the teasing the words intended. She winced a little.
___"I'm sorry I haven't been in touch. It's just..." she couldn't finish the sentence without being more hurtful.
___He let the horse drop its foot and moved to its hindquarter without so much as glancing her direction, keeping close & running his hand down the animal's spine to avoid spooking it. It was less cooperative in raising its hind hoof.
___"It's just that you're uncomfortable around me now, right? Because it isn't mutual?" The horse pulled free of his grip the moment after he raised its foot a few inches from the ground. He tried again without so much as a sigh, maintaining better patience with it than with her.
___"If I knew, I would have never..." she peered over the slope of the horse's back, again unable to finish a sentence.
___"I'm glad you did. It was nice," he said flatly, trapping the horse's hock between his his knees this time to keep it from pulling away.
___"It was," she agreed, flush creeping into her cheeks. "But I never meant to lead you on," she added hurriedly.
___"You didn't," he said, and it sounded sincere. Flakes of dried shit fell to the concrete.
___"Then why did you tell me, afterwards I mean?"
___"Because, you didn't give me the chance to tell you before," he said with a sardonic laugh.
___"So it wasn't because of the sex?" Her voice grew hushed at the last word.
___"Just because there's something about sex in love doesn't mean there's anything about love in sex," he answered cryptically, the brush scraping against the horse's hoof. "Anyways, I felt this way long before that, so don't insult me by suggesting that my dick fell in love with you."
___Her ears burned with embarrassment and a hint of anger, but part of what he'd said made her curious.
___"How long?" she asked, leaning over the horse's flank with blue eyes focused intensely on his back. He paused in his work for a moment before answering.
___"Well, how long have I known you?"
___This caught her off guard.
___"You've dated since we'd met," she observed skeptically.
___"Yup," he replied, frowning and fingering a soft, off-color spot along the collateral sulcus. "Did you expect me to wait around for something that wasn't going to happen?"
___She frowned.
___"You didn't even try, though."
___"Didn't have to." He put the horse's foot down. "The outcome wouldn't have been different if I tried." She didn't argue. He continued. "The funny thing about loving someone who doesn't love you is," he said as he placed the hoof pick back in the supply case and now withdrew a rubbery round curry comb, "it's a lot like a wild horse." He began to move his hand in firm, rhythmic circles, starting just behind the horse's cheek and working down it's neck, still not looking at her. "You might feel the purest joy in your life watching it run wild, might want that horse to be yours like nothing else in the world. But no amount of love or desire is about to change the fact that it's not yours - it's free. And the only way to have it, unless it comes to you, is to force it, to break it." He worked the brush over the horse's shoulder, fingers of the opposite hand laced through the thoroughbred's mane. "And no one who really loves someone wants that." He stopped, finally looking up with the first hint of a smile dancing behind his dark brown eyes. "Besides, once you've got it, you have to spend your weekend picking shit out of its hooves, anyways."
___And she laughed, realizing with much relief that they were going to be okay.
___If he heard her enter, he gave no indication. His side was braced against the foreleg of an old thoroughbred gelding, arm extended to pinch the animal's fetlock as he clucked gently, trying to encourage the animal to raise its foot for a cleaning. The horse looked up at her, ears perked and hopeful for treats, but became disinterested when none were presented. It lifted its foot obligingly, and he held it firmly, the long sinewy muscles of his forearm straining slightly from the weight as he worked the pick first along the outer curve of the hoof, dislodging caked mud or feces - both looked about the same. She moved to the other side of the horse, placing one hand on its warm, muscular neck. The thoroughbred was too tall for her to observe him looking over its withers, so she dropped her head and peered around the long line of its throat.
___"You're here early," she observed. "And you weren't in class yesterday."
___"Yeah, I know," he replied to both statements of the obvious.
___"Were you feeling alright?" She watched as he worked the pick carefully but firmly around the raised ridge of the horse's frog.
___"Feeling fine, just not feeling like going to school," he replied, flipping the pick over and using the brush to remove finer debris.
___"Oh," she replied dumbly, running one arm along the horse's back and awkwardly floundering for anything to say.
___"You come down here for a reason?" He asked, his posture suddenly very stiff. She couldn't tell if it was in anticipation of her answer, or because he was working a stubborn piece of gravel free from the hoof.
___"Just to visit, I guess," she leaned her cheek against the horse's shoulder, its chestnut bulk blocking her view of him for a moment.
___"Me, or the horses?" he asked, an edge of spite creeping into his voice mingled with the teasing the words intended. She winced a little.
___"I'm sorry I haven't been in touch. It's just..." she couldn't finish the sentence without being more hurtful.
___He let the horse drop its foot and moved to its hindquarter without so much as glancing her direction, keeping close & running his hand down the animal's spine to avoid spooking it. It was less cooperative in raising its hind hoof.
___"It's just that you're uncomfortable around me now, right? Because it isn't mutual?" The horse pulled free of his grip the moment after he raised its foot a few inches from the ground. He tried again without so much as a sigh, maintaining better patience with it than with her.
___"If I knew, I would have never..." she peered over the slope of the horse's back, again unable to finish a sentence.
___"I'm glad you did. It was nice," he said flatly, trapping the horse's hock between his his knees this time to keep it from pulling away.
___"It was," she agreed, flush creeping into her cheeks. "But I never meant to lead you on," she added hurriedly.
___"You didn't," he said, and it sounded sincere. Flakes of dried shit fell to the concrete.
___"Then why did you tell me, afterwards I mean?"
___"Because, you didn't give me the chance to tell you before," he said with a sardonic laugh.
___"So it wasn't because of the sex?" Her voice grew hushed at the last word.
___"Just because there's something about sex in love doesn't mean there's anything about love in sex," he answered cryptically, the brush scraping against the horse's hoof. "Anyways, I felt this way long before that, so don't insult me by suggesting that my dick fell in love with you."
___Her ears burned with embarrassment and a hint of anger, but part of what he'd said made her curious.
___"How long?" she asked, leaning over the horse's flank with blue eyes focused intensely on his back. He paused in his work for a moment before answering.
___"Well, how long have I known you?"
___This caught her off guard.
___"You've dated since we'd met," she observed skeptically.
___"Yup," he replied, frowning and fingering a soft, off-color spot along the collateral sulcus. "Did you expect me to wait around for something that wasn't going to happen?"
___She frowned.
___"You didn't even try, though."
___"Didn't have to." He put the horse's foot down. "The outcome wouldn't have been different if I tried." She didn't argue. He continued. "The funny thing about loving someone who doesn't love you is," he said as he placed the hoof pick back in the supply case and now withdrew a rubbery round curry comb, "it's a lot like a wild horse." He began to move his hand in firm, rhythmic circles, starting just behind the horse's cheek and working down it's neck, still not looking at her. "You might feel the purest joy in your life watching it run wild, might want that horse to be yours like nothing else in the world. But no amount of love or desire is about to change the fact that it's not yours - it's free. And the only way to have it, unless it comes to you, is to force it, to break it." He worked the brush over the horse's shoulder, fingers of the opposite hand laced through the thoroughbred's mane. "And no one who really loves someone wants that." He stopped, finally looking up with the first hint of a smile dancing behind his dark brown eyes. "Besides, once you've got it, you have to spend your weekend picking shit out of its hooves, anyways."
___And she laughed, realizing with much relief that they were going to be okay.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Variations on a Happy Ending - D
Author's Note: This is one of four short stories from a writing assignment called "Variations on a Happy Ending." I may eventually post the others once I finish writing the "rationale" portion - but I digress. The purpose of the writing was to create four dramatically different short stories that all had a similar ending theme. The theme was coming to terms with - and more importantly, being content with - who you are. The other three characters were a woman with a compulsive overeating disorder, a gay many in a polyamorous triad, and a sociopath. I thought this particular one, however, one forced me to work very much outside my normal writing style, length, and theme.
___Rhett never meant to harm his Alphess. He had no reason to; she was always good to him. She’d found him when he was just a small, lost puppy, wandering alone in the streets after his mother had been hit by a car. She could not replace his canine mother, but the Alphess nurtured him, keeping him warm, offering him food, and even allowing him to stay in her home. She was also the one who walked him, every day, in all weather, and that more than anything else was Rhett’s favorite thing to do. For all of these reasons, he loved her the way dogs love humans.
___Rhett’s father was a greyhound and his mother a husky; fast and strong were in his blood. As a puppy he would smell the air, feel the wind in his short black fur, and want nothing more than to run at his top speed down the sidewalk, enjoying the thunder of the pavement beneath his paws. But the Alphess was not young, fast, or strong; she was old, slow, and weak. She could not run with him, and grew angry with his tugging and lunging. She taught him not to run, but never was able to take the urge away.
___Two years later, Rhett was a larger, stronger dog, and his Alphess only slower and weaker. She barely had the energy to chase the squirrels away from the bird feeder, a task Rhett took up by barking through the open window so that they scattered in all directions. One morning, while returning home from a walk, Rhett saw two squirrels fighting atop the bird feeder, chattering with their great plumes of tails flicking and jerking angrily. They were distracted, and he could catch them; he wanted to catch them for his Alphess and knew she would be very proud.
___But he was only a dog, his thoughts likely limited to impulse. When he lunged forward suddenly in pursuit of his quarry, the Alphess pitched forwards, hitting the ground with a funny little shriek like a wounded animal. She couldn’t get back up. He doubled back, whining and licking at the air in submissive concern, and she struck him hard in the face with her little frail hands. She called him a Bad Dog.
___Rhett spent the next two weeks at a dog shelter. The first few days, he waited for his Alphess, but she did not come back for the Bad Dog. The next few days, he wallowed in sorrow, pining for his master. After that, he looked to each person that came through the doors with guarded optimism, tail wagging slung between his legs and head lowered. They never stopped to look at him; he was too old, too big, or too plain. At the end of two weeks, they’d moved him to a cage in the back, beyond where people never even bothered to look, alongside snarling ferals and sickly old animals. There was a door in the back of this room, and whenever it opened, he smelled harsh chemical odors, emptied bladders, and the pervasive odor of death. It frightened him.
___One afternoon, a Man and his Boy stopped in to the shelter. The Boy had something wrong with his legs; they were stick-thin and pale, and his father pushed him along in a strange chair with wheels. The shelter staff showed the Boy little lap dogs, and old dogs who didn’t have the energy to run and play, but the Boy pointed to Rhett enthusiastically. His father pushed the wheelchair closer, and Rhett sniffed and licked his outstretched hands.
___“You don’t want him; he’s a Bad Dog. Broke his last owner’s hip pulling,” warned one staffer.
___“Horrible leash manners, and he’s so fast when he gets running.” confirmed another.
___“He’s perfect!” the Boy proclaimed, smiling widely.
___Rhett did not understand their words, but his tail wagged at the sound of the Boy’s voice.
___Initially, Rhett had been afraid he’d hurt the Boy like he'd hurt the Alphess. He walked slowly, refused to play tug of war, and was very careful not to jump up no matter how excited he was when the Boy came home from school. The Boy seemed disappointed, and Rhett was confused. Then, one crisp winter day, when the snow was freshly fallen in a shimmering white blanket over the hills, the Boy’s father carried his son outside, whistling for Rhett to follow. The dog watched as the Man lowered the Boy’s body into a small wooden sled, head tilted and tail wagging. The Man tied a rope hanging from the front of the sled to the back of Rhett’s collar, then threw a tennis ball. Rhett watched the ball longingly as it sailed through the air, tumbling down the snowy hill, but he didn’t want to run with his leash on.
___“Go get it,” the man sternly ordered. Rhett whined and slowly approached the ball. As the sled moved behind him, the Boy giggled excitedly.
___“Faster, Rhett!” he yelled. The dog picked up the ball, doubling back on his rope and dropping it in the Boy’s gloved hands. This time, the ball was thrown even further, and the Boy yelled “Go get it!” with an urgency that made Rhett trot after it this time. The child’s laughter grew more excited, and the happier he was, the happier Rhett was.
___“Run, Rhett!” cried the Boy, a smile lighting up his entire face and voice rolling with laughter. Rhett understood, finally. He smelled the cold winter air, felt the wind in his short black fur, and for once, he ran, enjoying the thunder of his paws through the crisp new snow. He ran for the Boy, for he had legs for both of them. He was a large, strong dog, made for running, and in his own canine way, he finally accepted that. And Rhett was content, because the Boy was happy. When their games came to an end come lunch time, the Boy hugged his dog close and said,
___“You’re a Good Dog.”
___Rhett never meant to harm his Alphess. He had no reason to; she was always good to him. She’d found him when he was just a small, lost puppy, wandering alone in the streets after his mother had been hit by a car. She could not replace his canine mother, but the Alphess nurtured him, keeping him warm, offering him food, and even allowing him to stay in her home. She was also the one who walked him, every day, in all weather, and that more than anything else was Rhett’s favorite thing to do. For all of these reasons, he loved her the way dogs love humans.
___Rhett’s father was a greyhound and his mother a husky; fast and strong were in his blood. As a puppy he would smell the air, feel the wind in his short black fur, and want nothing more than to run at his top speed down the sidewalk, enjoying the thunder of the pavement beneath his paws. But the Alphess was not young, fast, or strong; she was old, slow, and weak. She could not run with him, and grew angry with his tugging and lunging. She taught him not to run, but never was able to take the urge away.
___Two years later, Rhett was a larger, stronger dog, and his Alphess only slower and weaker. She barely had the energy to chase the squirrels away from the bird feeder, a task Rhett took up by barking through the open window so that they scattered in all directions. One morning, while returning home from a walk, Rhett saw two squirrels fighting atop the bird feeder, chattering with their great plumes of tails flicking and jerking angrily. They were distracted, and he could catch them; he wanted to catch them for his Alphess and knew she would be very proud.
___But he was only a dog, his thoughts likely limited to impulse. When he lunged forward suddenly in pursuit of his quarry, the Alphess pitched forwards, hitting the ground with a funny little shriek like a wounded animal. She couldn’t get back up. He doubled back, whining and licking at the air in submissive concern, and she struck him hard in the face with her little frail hands. She called him a Bad Dog.
___Rhett spent the next two weeks at a dog shelter. The first few days, he waited for his Alphess, but she did not come back for the Bad Dog. The next few days, he wallowed in sorrow, pining for his master. After that, he looked to each person that came through the doors with guarded optimism, tail wagging slung between his legs and head lowered. They never stopped to look at him; he was too old, too big, or too plain. At the end of two weeks, they’d moved him to a cage in the back, beyond where people never even bothered to look, alongside snarling ferals and sickly old animals. There was a door in the back of this room, and whenever it opened, he smelled harsh chemical odors, emptied bladders, and the pervasive odor of death. It frightened him.
___One afternoon, a Man and his Boy stopped in to the shelter. The Boy had something wrong with his legs; they were stick-thin and pale, and his father pushed him along in a strange chair with wheels. The shelter staff showed the Boy little lap dogs, and old dogs who didn’t have the energy to run and play, but the Boy pointed to Rhett enthusiastically. His father pushed the wheelchair closer, and Rhett sniffed and licked his outstretched hands.
___“You don’t want him; he’s a Bad Dog. Broke his last owner’s hip pulling,” warned one staffer.
___“Horrible leash manners, and he’s so fast when he gets running.” confirmed another.
___“He’s perfect!” the Boy proclaimed, smiling widely.
___Rhett did not understand their words, but his tail wagged at the sound of the Boy’s voice.
___Initially, Rhett had been afraid he’d hurt the Boy like he'd hurt the Alphess. He walked slowly, refused to play tug of war, and was very careful not to jump up no matter how excited he was when the Boy came home from school. The Boy seemed disappointed, and Rhett was confused. Then, one crisp winter day, when the snow was freshly fallen in a shimmering white blanket over the hills, the Boy’s father carried his son outside, whistling for Rhett to follow. The dog watched as the Man lowered the Boy’s body into a small wooden sled, head tilted and tail wagging. The Man tied a rope hanging from the front of the sled to the back of Rhett’s collar, then threw a tennis ball. Rhett watched the ball longingly as it sailed through the air, tumbling down the snowy hill, but he didn’t want to run with his leash on.
___“Go get it,” the man sternly ordered. Rhett whined and slowly approached the ball. As the sled moved behind him, the Boy giggled excitedly.
___“Faster, Rhett!” he yelled. The dog picked up the ball, doubling back on his rope and dropping it in the Boy’s gloved hands. This time, the ball was thrown even further, and the Boy yelled “Go get it!” with an urgency that made Rhett trot after it this time. The child’s laughter grew more excited, and the happier he was, the happier Rhett was.
___“Run, Rhett!” cried the Boy, a smile lighting up his entire face and voice rolling with laughter. Rhett understood, finally. He smelled the cold winter air, felt the wind in his short black fur, and for once, he ran, enjoying the thunder of his paws through the crisp new snow. He ran for the Boy, for he had legs for both of them. He was a large, strong dog, made for running, and in his own canine way, he finally accepted that. And Rhett was content, because the Boy was happy. When their games came to an end come lunch time, the Boy hugged his dog close and said,
___“You’re a Good Dog.”
Friday, September 5, 2008
Only
___Anyone who says that they appreciate everything they have is full of shit. No one appreciates the little, every-day, mundane things, the small blessings we stumble through life without noticing. Damn the effrontery of anyone who says he values life more than someone who is dying. Petty blasphemers who claim they appreciate their health know nothing compared to someone with a terminal disease. Only those shriveled, pitiful, stick-figure children in Ethiopia understand the true value of food. Only someone who stoops over a toilet with her own violent retching ripping her esophagus knows the power of self image. You want to learn the importance of possession? Seek out the homeless. Do you want to appreciate money? Look to the poor. No one has life-changing revelations just because their feet touch the floor in the morning; it is only when an EMT pulls you from your mangled car after a freeway accident that you start to revere life.
___Until you’ve lived in the city, you will never appreciate the outdoors. Unless you’ve nearly drowned, you’ll never revel in the feeling of every breath filling your lungs. The deaf alone are keenly aware of the importance of sound. Only the paralyzed could possibly understand how marvelous walking is. If you are complaining about your haircut, you don’t understand how beautiful a single strand of hair is to a chemotherapy patient. Pilots do not appreciate flight. Whores do not appreciate sex. Every single thing we are never denied eludes us all the more; we are the ungrateful prostitutes of the privileged life. You can‘t value what you've never lost. Those who want for nothing care for nothing.
___I never understood how much I wanted to be a mother until I had a miscarriage. Just a month ago, I was heart-set on “termination.” The parasitic cell cluster growing like a tumor in my womb taught me that you can’t understand love until you’ve experienced heartache, because the second my boyfriend found out about it, he walked out the door and never returned. When you can’t afford an one bedroom apartment in the bad part of town, you catch a drift of the full importance of having a roof over your head. When you’re pan-handling for nickels to save up for an abortion, you become keenly aware of shame. I’m telling you all of this because you’ll never understand what falling from grace is until you’ve done it yourself. Consider the story that follows to be your official wake-up call, even though you’ll never, ever get it until it is too late.
___Until you’ve lived in the city, you will never appreciate the outdoors. Unless you’ve nearly drowned, you’ll never revel in the feeling of every breath filling your lungs. The deaf alone are keenly aware of the importance of sound. Only the paralyzed could possibly understand how marvelous walking is. If you are complaining about your haircut, you don’t understand how beautiful a single strand of hair is to a chemotherapy patient. Pilots do not appreciate flight. Whores do not appreciate sex. Every single thing we are never denied eludes us all the more; we are the ungrateful prostitutes of the privileged life. You can‘t value what you've never lost. Those who want for nothing care for nothing.
___I never understood how much I wanted to be a mother until I had a miscarriage. Just a month ago, I was heart-set on “termination.” The parasitic cell cluster growing like a tumor in my womb taught me that you can’t understand love until you’ve experienced heartache, because the second my boyfriend found out about it, he walked out the door and never returned. When you can’t afford an one bedroom apartment in the bad part of town, you catch a drift of the full importance of having a roof over your head. When you’re pan-handling for nickels to save up for an abortion, you become keenly aware of shame. I’m telling you all of this because you’ll never understand what falling from grace is until you’ve done it yourself. Consider the story that follows to be your official wake-up call, even though you’ll never, ever get it until it is too late.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Something I Wrote Listening to "Good People," for Whatever Reason.
___In my dreams, it’s all so perfect. The night is quiet but for the sound of the waves lapping the shore, the sand still warm under our feet from the sun that has long dipped below the horizon. A warm summer breeze causes her flowing skirt to billow; she looks like an angel as she wraps her arms tenderly around me, delicate hands gently tracing the line of my back. Her beautiful brown eyes catch the moonlight, her perfect dark hair hangs soft and loose to frame her face. She tilts her head upwards, yearning, and I lean down to kiss her. My dreadlocks hang in dark a curtain around our faces as we meet, blocking out the world so that only we exist. Only this, only this kiss.
___My hands find her tiny waist, resting on the sculpted yet soft curves of her body. With Jack Johnson’s peaceful melodies drifting in the background, we dance barefoot on the sand, bodies intertwined, tongues dancing on one another’s lips. She rubs her smooth dark cheek across the stubble of my own, standing on the tips of her toes to whisper in my ear: “I love you.”
___And then the sun wretches upon me. My eyelids flutter open, and I find myself alone in my apartment. The morning is gray, droplets of condensation clinging to my window as the cold November rain soaks the earth. Laying naked in the tangle of my sheets, I’m holding on to the memory of something that never was. And I weep.
___My hands find her tiny waist, resting on the sculpted yet soft curves of her body. With Jack Johnson’s peaceful melodies drifting in the background, we dance barefoot on the sand, bodies intertwined, tongues dancing on one another’s lips. She rubs her smooth dark cheek across the stubble of my own, standing on the tips of her toes to whisper in my ear: “I love you.”
___And then the sun wretches upon me. My eyelids flutter open, and I find myself alone in my apartment. The morning is gray, droplets of condensation clinging to my window as the cold November rain soaks the earth. Laying naked in the tangle of my sheets, I’m holding on to the memory of something that never was. And I weep.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Second Hand Smoke
___My hands were shaking as I flicked the lighter, cursing as spark after spark flashed but no flame danced on its cool metal head. The cigarette was getting soggy in my sweating palm, reeking nicotine. Letting out a frustrated growl, I turned to the man sitting across from me and flashed a harshly contrived smile.
___“Don’t suppose you have any matches, mate?”
___I should have predicated by scent alone that the answer was no, but who knew? Maybe he was a popular patron of the seedy strip clubs on fourth street. They always had matchbooks to give away. But of course, I wasn’t going to be so lucky as to find a good old fashioned pervert on a city bus. From the flash of disgust curling on his lip, I knew I was in trouble.
___“Why don’t I just skip the matches and give you cancer, would you like that?”
___ I wondered, could he manage a pretentious sneer if I broke his jaw?
___ “Oh, could you? That would be awesome. I’ve been wanting cancer for so long now but no matter how many of these things I smoke, it just isn’t happening.” My smile evaporated and I felt my face go blank. I’m so sick of these preachy anti-smoking crusaders. It’s too bad being a self righteous dick doesn’t cause cancer. Now there’s an “anti-” campaign I could get behind.
___Turning away from the moron next to me, I leaned my head against the window. It was filthy with finger and forehead sebaceous smears; I made my contribution. The rain dappled the glass, creating a thousand tiny distortions in my line of vision. The world looked almost as warped through the lens of the droplets as through the lens of my own mind. Bubbling nightmare taxicabs, streaked pedestrian faces melting down the glass, flowing rivulets of park benches; I drank it all in through the drab grayness of the day.
___My leg danced under me, wriggling like a captive under an oppressor’s grasp. Quivering like windswept leaves in my lap, my hands conveyed my anxiety better than words. I squeezed my eyes shut, still palming the lighter. My thumb played over the switch, and the warmth of the flame danced to life like a hot breath across my skin. But I didn’t light the cigarette. I held the fire to the soft pink flesh of my palm.
___ The pain was immediate and intense, but I steeled myself and did not flinch away. My skin bubbled as fluid in the tissue boiled. Blisters turned to ruptures, hanging skin blackened and curled. The bus began to reek like scorched flesh as greasy black tendrils of smoke rose from my ruined palm.
___ I wondered, would the guy next to me bitch about second hand smoke?
___“Don’t suppose you have any matches, mate?”
___I should have predicated by scent alone that the answer was no, but who knew? Maybe he was a popular patron of the seedy strip clubs on fourth street. They always had matchbooks to give away. But of course, I wasn’t going to be so lucky as to find a good old fashioned pervert on a city bus. From the flash of disgust curling on his lip, I knew I was in trouble.
___“Why don’t I just skip the matches and give you cancer, would you like that?”
___ I wondered, could he manage a pretentious sneer if I broke his jaw?
___ “Oh, could you? That would be awesome. I’ve been wanting cancer for so long now but no matter how many of these things I smoke, it just isn’t happening.” My smile evaporated and I felt my face go blank. I’m so sick of these preachy anti-smoking crusaders. It’s too bad being a self righteous dick doesn’t cause cancer. Now there’s an “anti-” campaign I could get behind.
___Turning away from the moron next to me, I leaned my head against the window. It was filthy with finger and forehead sebaceous smears; I made my contribution. The rain dappled the glass, creating a thousand tiny distortions in my line of vision. The world looked almost as warped through the lens of the droplets as through the lens of my own mind. Bubbling nightmare taxicabs, streaked pedestrian faces melting down the glass, flowing rivulets of park benches; I drank it all in through the drab grayness of the day.
___My leg danced under me, wriggling like a captive under an oppressor’s grasp. Quivering like windswept leaves in my lap, my hands conveyed my anxiety better than words. I squeezed my eyes shut, still palming the lighter. My thumb played over the switch, and the warmth of the flame danced to life like a hot breath across my skin. But I didn’t light the cigarette. I held the fire to the soft pink flesh of my palm.
___ The pain was immediate and intense, but I steeled myself and did not flinch away. My skin bubbled as fluid in the tissue boiled. Blisters turned to ruptures, hanging skin blackened and curled. The bus began to reek like scorched flesh as greasy black tendrils of smoke rose from my ruined palm.
___ I wondered, would the guy next to me bitch about second hand smoke?
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
The Water Glutton
For someone who cares about the environment, I spend way too much time in the shower. My parents rag on me about it all the time. "Maybe instead of recycling you should just shoot for taking a shower in under 30 minutes. There's plenty of plastic, but not potable water." I couldn't agree more, quite frankly. It is really quite selfish to sit there pouring hundreds of soapy gallons down the drain while somewhere off in Africa, there's a pot bellied kid with ashen skin wishing he had a single gallon to drink in a week. Not that a lack of showering on my part would put water to the parched lips of some tragic face on a Trinity Broadcasting Station commercial, but the whole concept is grotesque the way gluttony is. Water glutton. That's me.
The thing of it is, a nice long shower for me is about as good as a $300 session with a high end shrink for an upper middle class white business man. I like to crank the hot water up until it's just barely uncomfortable, until all of my capillaries are dilated and my white, white anglo flesh is red like a boiled lobster. When the water pounds down on my back at that temperature, all of the hairs on my arms stand on end like I'm freezing, like my body can't tell hot from cold anymore. My sinuses clear out in the first minute, my muscles relax until I'm worried I'll piss myself, and if I scrub hard with my fingernails, that first layer of old, dead skin sloughs right off. Sometimes when I get out, there is steam rising off of my flesh and I'm lightheaded with a fever - that's exactly how hot I like it.
The heat is really just the secondary effect of the desired one though. What's important about the heat is that the whole room fogs up. Dense, hot, whirling mist, clouding up the windows and the curtains and hell, even the tile. I like to get it so thick that if I turn the lights off (and I always do) and squint my eyes, I can't tell if there is a foot between me and the curtain, or a mile. Like I'm alone in avoid, surrounded by endless omnipresent nothing. I don't think of stupid things like, "can nothing actually be omnipresent?" when all I can hear is the water thundering down, slapping against my flesh, and all I can see is a haze. I don't even bother scrubbing at that point; I just turn my face to the water, close my eyes, and listen. I blank out everything until I'm just a hot, nebulous void myself.
Like the dirt and sweat and sebaceous secretions, the shower washes my thoughts away. It drowns the demons. When I'm grinding shampoo into my scalp, wrinkling my nose at the strong scent that is always supposed to be something like "lavender" but always smells like "chemical cocktail," that alone is all I am thinking about. Shearing short, black, bristly hairs from my leg - the five-o-clock shadow of my shins - turns into a surgical procedure demanding of my rapt attention, the world drowned out by the faint scrape of a sharp blade on soft flesh. I don't think I'd even notice my toes if I didn't scrub them meticulously, examining them like a broken VCR, trying to figure out what angle I should take if I want to work the waterlogged sock fuzz from under my big toenail. So single-minded is my focus that I sometimes wonder if I shouldn't figure out a way to do my homework or writing in the shower.
And lo - I'm not in the shower right this instant, which is probably why I'm instead spilling verbal diarrhea across this page. My mind is racing with thoughts of the cages I need to clean, the floors I need to vacuum, the classes I need to attend tonight, and ah - probably a shower later too, right?
The thing of it is, a nice long shower for me is about as good as a $300 session with a high end shrink for an upper middle class white business man. I like to crank the hot water up until it's just barely uncomfortable, until all of my capillaries are dilated and my white, white anglo flesh is red like a boiled lobster. When the water pounds down on my back at that temperature, all of the hairs on my arms stand on end like I'm freezing, like my body can't tell hot from cold anymore. My sinuses clear out in the first minute, my muscles relax until I'm worried I'll piss myself, and if I scrub hard with my fingernails, that first layer of old, dead skin sloughs right off. Sometimes when I get out, there is steam rising off of my flesh and I'm lightheaded with a fever - that's exactly how hot I like it.
The heat is really just the secondary effect of the desired one though. What's important about the heat is that the whole room fogs up. Dense, hot, whirling mist, clouding up the windows and the curtains and hell, even the tile. I like to get it so thick that if I turn the lights off (and I always do) and squint my eyes, I can't tell if there is a foot between me and the curtain, or a mile. Like I'm alone in avoid, surrounded by endless omnipresent nothing. I don't think of stupid things like, "can nothing actually be omnipresent?" when all I can hear is the water thundering down, slapping against my flesh, and all I can see is a haze. I don't even bother scrubbing at that point; I just turn my face to the water, close my eyes, and listen. I blank out everything until I'm just a hot, nebulous void myself.
Like the dirt and sweat and sebaceous secretions, the shower washes my thoughts away. It drowns the demons. When I'm grinding shampoo into my scalp, wrinkling my nose at the strong scent that is always supposed to be something like "lavender" but always smells like "chemical cocktail," that alone is all I am thinking about. Shearing short, black, bristly hairs from my leg - the five-o-clock shadow of my shins - turns into a surgical procedure demanding of my rapt attention, the world drowned out by the faint scrape of a sharp blade on soft flesh. I don't think I'd even notice my toes if I didn't scrub them meticulously, examining them like a broken VCR, trying to figure out what angle I should take if I want to work the waterlogged sock fuzz from under my big toenail. So single-minded is my focus that I sometimes wonder if I shouldn't figure out a way to do my homework or writing in the shower.
And lo - I'm not in the shower right this instant, which is probably why I'm instead spilling verbal diarrhea across this page. My mind is racing with thoughts of the cages I need to clean, the floors I need to vacuum, the classes I need to attend tonight, and ah - probably a shower later too, right?
Monday, September 1, 2008
A Novel Idea - Introduction
A more appropriate title for this blog would probably be "brain drizzle," which is why those words are in the URL. The title idea is more or less intended to be a pun, since this is a blog of fictional writing. Nothing here is apt to have anything to do with novel writing in actuality, as like most other aspiring novelists, I'm fairly territorial about any potentially publishable material. So, this blog will chiefly be composed of "shorts and snippets" - meaning short finished works or just whatever random scene happened to pop into my head when I was close to a keyboard. It could be an RPG post or rejected section of a larger writing project. Every once in a while, a posting may only be a few sentences or a quote. This is simply a creative outlet for any unpolished, unimportant writing knocking around in my skull, nothing more.
Now that an explanation of what this blog entails has been provided, I would like to give a bit of a disclaimer. Fiction, in my opinion, is wonderful because it knows no boundaries, is silenced by no taboos, and can unflinchingly reflect on every aspect of reality or fantasy, from the beautiful to the hideous. When we start treating people's fiction like a reflection on their character, it borders on censorship, because it inspires a fear to write anything that pushes the limits or reflects realities we aren't comfortable with. I like to challenge myself by writing on a wide range of subjects, some of which may be violent, sexual, or disturbing. This does not reflect my actions, desires, or moral foundations. This is my long winded way of saying something very simple: If you can not differentiate between my fiction and my reality, I humbly beseech you to read no further.
Enough of that. On to something worth reading... maybe.
Now that an explanation of what this blog entails has been provided, I would like to give a bit of a disclaimer. Fiction, in my opinion, is wonderful because it knows no boundaries, is silenced by no taboos, and can unflinchingly reflect on every aspect of reality or fantasy, from the beautiful to the hideous. When we start treating people's fiction like a reflection on their character, it borders on censorship, because it inspires a fear to write anything that pushes the limits or reflects realities we aren't comfortable with. I like to challenge myself by writing on a wide range of subjects, some of which may be violent, sexual, or disturbing. This does not reflect my actions, desires, or moral foundations. This is my long winded way of saying something very simple: If you can not differentiate between my fiction and my reality, I humbly beseech you to read no further.
Enough of that. On to something worth reading... maybe.
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