TumblrFiction

Wisdom Teeth

erikadprice — Tue, 21 May 2013 21:01:07 -0500

Tomorrow is the ceremony. They’re going to pull out my wisdom teeth, and I will become an adult. I’m afraid. Alloran’s teeth came out last week. He wasn’t the same after. He didn’t want to play, and when we pestered him into it, he just followed along.

He used to be a good story teller, but he couldn’t even get The Robber and the Bishop right. They say that’s just what happens, getting out your wisdom teeth robs you of your childhood, but brings about the extra space in your head for adulthood.

There is one older person in our village who still has his wisdom teeth in. Jokoss, they call him. It means “fool”. He refused to let his teeth be pulled, now he writes. Day and night he writes, and they read his works and put on his plays, and cheer and gush. Still, they taunt him.

I’m going through with it. It’s time for me to become an adult. Tomorrow, I’ll wonder why I was so scared. I hope.

Hades' Plea

erikadprice — Tue, 21 May 2013 18:01:07 -0500

theincomplete:

My most dearest desire,
Today makes a new day without you. Summer is here, and I cannot feel Helios’ sun upon me as you do. Your meadow must me wonderful, as you are in it tending your upper world garden. I long for you, my love, as I always do during the seasons without you.
It’s been eons, but the question still lingers on my mind; why did you only eat four arils? Did you know some secret that escapes me about the earth? Could winter only last four months? Would the earth whither away and die?
If my brothers allowed it, I would cause another Ice Age and an enduring winter would be ours to share, but I shan’t. I know how you love the upper world, and damned be the straw that I drew.
Had I been the Lord of the sea, we would spent all our days together. Had I been the Lord of the sky, the heavens would be ours. Instead, I have the darkness that keeps me cold for eight long months. You are my light, Persephone, and more than ever now, I need your light.
Tell me you love me, and I will be able to endure. Tell me that you desire me more than the sun, and I shall wait as long as it takes. Tell me that your heart longs for me, and I will continue on.
My love, my heart, my desire, I am forever yours.

Truly,
Hades

Short Stack

erikadprice — Tue, 21 May 2013 15:01:29 -0500

ruefle:

They’ve already told us all we need to know -
so what’s left is the experience.

No regrets, he says, as he orders T-bone steak
at two in the morning at iHop, wearing a lopsided
tuxedo, rented, from a lopsided man - his date
sits next to him, encouraging his valiant act.
The waitress does not ask medium rare or
rare. He waits nervously.

The picture in the menu is unappetizing, we protest.
You will end up with food poisoning, we warn.
But no regrets, and he’s scarfing down
two short stacks and three large, cut outs
from the extra well-done cardboard
disguised as meat.

And we’re all laughing, I guess, all of us,
at the mediocrity of this breakfast joint
and at the ridiculousness of our fancy clothes
getting wrinkled and syrupy in a booth
next to pancakes and maple.

And that’s when I burst. Everything
I’d been holding in for the night surrenders
at this rundown place like the messiness
of tears has excuse. What dignity
is there to preserve at a moment like this -

So I run to the bathroom like I’ve got a
real bad stomach ache. I’m not even the
one who’s eating the steak.
But I’m so sad, my eyes are
breaking open the dam, and I’m sobbing
into the public sink - hoping no one comes
through the door but having a myriad
of explanations in case someone does -

You see, I loved him, but I only saw
a planned paradigm before us - like
we were loving for the experience, not
for our own sake - And you see, I was
too selfish and too selfless, and he
was too, and we hurt so bad and so
good. I miss him tonight, but at least
it wasn’t a burden. But that’s a lie…

I ask God to bless the creator of
waterproof mascara as I squeeze a few
drops of disinfectant solution into my eyes.
I walk back into the scene, glittery soul
and cheap eyeliner -

Let’s live out the cliches; we’ve got
nothing original of our own. No regrets,
and then, obligatory after-party, and
then, falling asleep on a smelly leather
couch the parents put out for us silently.

They’ve been here before, too.
And we follow familiar steps;
rarely do we venture into the unknown.

She Kills with Affection.

erikadprice — Mon, 20 May 2013 21:00:47 -0500

pfpc:

Her cosmopolitan life is a bore. People do gossip. So she goes off in search of her match, be it animal or mineral. She purchases a stone house in the hinterland replete with island fare and the distinct pleasure of utter isolation. She spends her days idle, looking to the horizon, satisfied that she is alone.

A rock. A lizard. The oppressive summer sun. A pale blue sky. The waves rushing onto the shore.

There is the small matter of the authorities who are eminently inquisitive. Already, they have found the postman dead of cardiac arrest. The priest came to visit, a welcoming visit, and the same fate befalls him. She has no boundaries. She cannot help herself.

Only the animals are immune. They do not understand her.

The Conductor

pfpc — Mon, 20 May 2013 18:00:56 -0500

marielation:

It wasn’t until it was too late when I realized that the only train heading south had just passed me by. It left behind a cloud of dust and smoke that veiled the waiting area with gray and white. The smell of the smoke was what brought me back to my senses.

I was lost in thought and I couldn’t blame myself for being so. It’s been three months since Tony left me. His reasoning that led to the matter was ridiculous, too ridiculous that I dare not think about it. I was suicidal after the event. Bullets began to look a great deal like painkillers and anti-depressants. Tony had bruised every bit of me and my emotions were no exception. However, the coldness of the revolver’s trigger petrified me. His ‘love,’ that turned out to be the growing bulge on my belly would return to me the misused love I had for its father, someday. My momma would be very happy to find out that she’d finally be a granny. Then, she’d forgive me for my stubbornness. Maybe poppa would brush up on his carpentry and build my baby a crib.

“So, I see that I’m not the only person the train left behind,” said a man with gray hair and grandfatherly features as he sat down beside me. He was a tall, slim man yet the wooden bench creaked as he took the weight off his feet. “Name’s Willy. I’m a conductor.” He smiled, highlighting the laugh lines that meant joyous years, and revealing slightly crooked teeth that had dark accents from nicotine. My grandpa was a smoker and the color of his teeth was just like the conductor’s.

“Unfortunately.” I returned his smile. “I…I’ll just go now.” The peach colored cardigan on my lap fell to the floor as I stood up. Willy reached for it and handed it to me as he said that there was another train leaving in half an hour. There was no other train assigned to depart according to the schedule board.

“They don’t write down everything on that board you know.” He laughed. “Sit back down and I’ll keep ya company while ya wait for your ride.” I did.

“How do you know that?” silly of me to ask. He did mention that he was a conductor and the blue outfit he wore announced it. “I mean, why…” I trailed off as I searched for words but there was a look on his face that told me that he knew what I wanted to ask.

So he said, “There are journeys that have to be taken off schedule.”

My getting pregnant was unexpected. Tony and I had planned on having our first child, supposedly, four years from now, when I turned twenty-six. I wonder if this was one of those off scheduled journeys.

“You’re pregnant, eh?” He asked. I eyed him quizzically while managing to keep a calm expression on my face. “Oh, bad story behind it?” I guess I wasn’t able to maintain a calm expression. It was the first time that someone noticed and it felt awkward.

“Yes. Actually. The father left after he found out.” I shifted my gaze over to the tracks. “I thought he was the one for me.” sadness began to flood me in. Tony was my high school sweetheart and we’ve been together since sophomore year. He had the looks of a movie star, to my eyes, at least, and his athletics chiseled his shape to match his brown hair and blue eyes. I wasn’t a tad bit compatible to stand side by side next to him and yet out of all the goddesses that roamed the campus, he chose me. Nothing was standing in our way…until he got me pregnant.

“That’s one fault that the heart came with. Nasty blood pumper.” He muttered. “I thought Lucilla was the one for me. That was long ago when I was a young man of eighteen years and there wasn’t a wrinkle on my face.” He began to laugh and I laughed along. “That was until I met Henrie.” He winked.

“Henrie?”

“Henrietta.” He chuckled to my embarrassment. I assumed that Henrie was a man. “Henrie was no beauty queen but she was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on. One look, and I knew that I had to leave Lucy. She and I were never meant to be together. We were just waiting until one of us broke it off. Don’t get me wrong though, Lucy and I loved each other.”

“What happened next?”

“Well, Lucy and I parted ways nicely. She met her man a week later. Henrie and I got married and lived, like those story books say, happily ever after.” There was content in his voice. His eyes were sparkled as he told me his story. I bet he loved Henrie very much. “You know, child, I think that that old boyfriend of yours isn’t the one. You should be happy.”

“But…there were so many beautiful memories. Tony and I. We…we were…” if I finished what I was saying, I would have been crying. I took a deep breath and made myself calm down.

“Sometimes, doors close so that you can open a better one later.”

A train was blowing its horn from a distance. I wore my cardigan and grabbed my bags as the conductor instructed me to since the train was ‘gonna be here any minute now.’ When it came to a halt, Willy allowed me to step in first before he took my ticket. He led me to a cubicle and I placed my bags under my seat. “Comfortable?” he asked. I nodded yes and said thank you for his company. “I’ll see ya later, child.”

The eight hour train ride was about to begin when a man came rushing in inside my cubicle. Sweat was trickling down his face and he was panting like a dog. “Can I sit with you, miss? All the other cubicles seem to have been taken.” Really? I haven’t noticed.

“Yes, please.” He sat opposite of me, catching his breath. He looked like a pleasant man, roughly my age, maybe a little older. The way he sat and the way he moved reminded me of someone I know. I couldn’t recall who, but. “Have we met before?”

“I was just about to ask you that.” He smirked. “I’m David.”

“Laura.”

David and I talked for almost the whole trip. We conversed like friends who have known each other since birth. There was a certain bond between us, some invisible cord that links us together. By the moment we began to talk about love, the atmosphere began to feel light. I felt as if I was being cradled in a cloud and a choir of angels was singing in the background. Then, I remembered what Willy said: “Sometimes, doors close so that you can open a better one later.”

Heart On Her Sleeve

pfpc — Mon, 20 May 2013 15:01:29 -0500

fauxsilhouette:

Fern sighs and attempts to hold back her tears. She knows that Oliver is missing Briarly. Fern is also aware that she and Oliver both have feelings for each other; however, he has yet to ask her on a date.

Oliver reluctantly turns away when Fern asks, “Why do you rarely tell me that you love me? I usually say it first..” Her voice trails away.

The speechless boy looks through the coffee shop’s window at the almost-empty parking lot. Everyone is at church, I guess, Oliver concludes. Finally, after ten, drawn-out breaths, he turns to find Fern staring at him, one eyebrow lifted, waiting for an explanation.

“I…I don’t know.”

Fern takes a wild guess, “Is it…Briarly?” She hopes that she’s wrong.

Again, Oliver’s chocolate eyes gaze in another direction: at the stained, hardwood floor. He nods slightly, “I think so…”

Fern sighs and attempts to hold back her tears.

You can never tell

erikadprice — Sun, 19 May 2013 21:00:58 -0500

mslabyrinth:

The noise of my own knuckles rapping against the door shook me out of my daze. I had the sudden urge to dive into the shrubbery that bordered the house, but I hesitated and then it was too late: the door opened and I saw her face change when she recognised me. I closed my eyes: she was going to come down on me like a ton of bricks.

She stepped outside, eyes darting left and right, quickly pulling the door ajar behind her.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she hissed.

“Is he here?” I asked.

“No but he will be any minute.” She craned her neck to glance at the drive then she pinned her eyes on me, demanding an explanation.

“I need to talk,” I said.

“Well shit Matt, you should have texted me.”

“I did. Your phone is off.”

“Fuck,” she mouthed at the sky, then she bit her lip as she always did when she was angry with herself. “Alright, look, meet me by the school in half an hour. And for god’s sake get your car out of the drive, now!”

It didn’t take her half and hour to turn up. I barely had the time to sit and take two drags of my cigarette, when I heard hurried steps down the gravel path and I saw her approach, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle over the coat she’d hastily worn over her jeans and t-shirt. She looked cold and concerned, but no longer angry.

“I’m sorry about before,” she said while still a few steps away. “You freaked me out. He could have been there. You know what he’s like.”

“She cheated on me,” I said.

She paused for the time it took me to take another drag.

“How do you know?” she asked.

“She told me.”

“She told you?” She inhaled through her teeth and tsked twice.

I gave her an icy look.

“What?” she said defensively. “Everybody knows it’s never a good idea to tell.”

“It’s over and she wanted to come clean. She still wants to be with me.”

“What did you do?”

“I left.”

“That’s what you get for telling,” she said condescendingly, but then she sighed, and straddled the wooden bench to sit in front of me. She waited a while for me to look up and speak, and when I didn’t she lowered her face to search for my eyes.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Tell me where it hurts.”

I was expecting to be asked who he was, how long it’d lasted, how she broke it to me, all of those facts and details that swam in a vortex in my head. Instead she was asking me about the vortex in my chest.

“I hate that she lied to me. I hate that she did it all behind my back while I didn’t suspect a thing.”

“Would you rather she’d done it in front of you?”

I looked at her disapprovingly.

“Sorry,” she said. “What else?”

“I thought she loved me more than that.”

Her eyes widened. “She loves you, Matt. You must know that, surely.”

“Not enough not to fall in love with someone else.”

“It might not have anything to do with how much she loves you. It might not have anything to do with you. Love happens, Matt. Sometimes we can’t stop it, we should be able to help it, but we can’t.”

“So I should forgive her?”

“No, I’m just saying maybe you should widen your perspective a little, for your own good. It might make it easier for you to get over this feeling of injustice. Maybe she fought as hard as she could. Maybe she was wracked with guilt every minute she spent with him.”

“I hope she was. She should have been.”

I was still looking down, trailing my nails on a piece of graffiti etched into the seat in the space between my legs, but I knew she was rolling her eyes.

“She came back to you, right?”

“Are you saying I should take her back?”

“I’m not saying anything. I’m just suggesting you don’t make that decision out of a hurt ego.”

“What if it happens again?”

“It might. Then again, it can happen to anybody. It could happen to you.”

“It would never happen to me.”

“Just because it’s never happened it doesn’t mean it couldn’t.”

“I am not a cheater.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

To stress my point I looked straight into her eyes, and for the first time in the whole exchange I truly saw her: twenty years had passed since we used to make out on this very seat. Her smile lines were more pronounced now, but to me she was still the seventeen-year-old girl I used to love then.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s say you meet a woman.”

She lifted herself just enough to close the distance between us, and slowly, very slowly, she raised a hand to caress the hair just above my ear.

“Let’s say she is beautiful, intelligent, sexy in every way.”

She cocked her head slightly, staring languidly into my eyes as her other hand came to rest on my open thigh.

“Let’s say she falls in love with you. She wants you, she chases you, she makes you feel like a king.”

She trailed her fingers down along my jawline and her face got closer. Her eyes were now fixed on my mouth, her breath warm on my lips as she continued in barely a whisper.

“Until one day, you’re alone, and she’s so close, and she looks at you with such adoring hunger… closer… and closer…”

She brushed her lips against mine teasingly, once, twice, and on the third I closed my eyes and she kissed me. Slowly, softly, her lips fondled mine. She tasted me, and I posed no resistance, because I was no longer there: I was transported back twenty years, and I was kissing my first love, my best friend, my soulmate.

She pulled back gently, allowing me the time to return to the present moment.

“I think I made my point,” she murmured, caressing my face, then she smiled and got to her feet.

“I have to go,” she said. “I’ve left dinner on the stove and I need to get back. You’ll keep in touch, right?”

I nodded, feeling lightheaded but altogether calm.

She started down the path, but after a couple of steps she stopped and turned around, shaking her head.

“I still can’t believe she told you.”

I chuckled. “What makes you such an expert, anyway?” I said. “You’ve never been cheated on.”

“Nope.”

“And you have never cheated.”

A sly smile stretched slowly across her face.

“Haven’t I?” she said simply, then she turned, and walked away.

The Alpha Fever

erikadprice — Sun, 19 May 2013 18:01:06 -0500

yen-yaw:

You know it is one of those “Alpha” neighborhoods where people parallel park next to the businesses, where you can eat at an Italian Bistro—or the Subway across the street if you’re obviously not from around here— or get a fake tan next to the nail salon across the way from the jeweler’s right next to (not so much “consequently” as much as “predestined”) the bank where men in pleated pants or khakis walk in and out all day. Despite the love-bug Florida weather, all cars seem to be nearly spotless unless they are utility vehicles or driven by folks in their nineties or driven by you, the outsider. Everyone here presents a dog of some sort: not that these people would be walking the dog, but primping and entertaining the casual idea of owning a pet who shits and sniffs it later or pisses on the kitchen floor and licks it up—whereas a normal person like you knows these things, these people yank their dogs as they sniff curiously at sparse and sometimes emaciated artificial patches of grass here and there.

People look at you oddly as you write on your notepad. You observe. They scratch their goatees and feign preoccupation on their latest Smartphone, tugging uncomfortably at their collars and readjusting the pair of sunglasses perched on the crown of their heads. Women walk by briskly listening to pop chart hits on mp4 players loud enough to deafen children—children who scream as they walk and drop things or trip with futility over their feet and wail with a fully and exaggerated sense of fear that this pain is unrelentingly personal and dark and will last forever. These women have strange, breast-enhancing shirts made for running, copacetic enough to quell the bounce of their strut in designer running shoes from the emporium you know is down the street—you saw on your way in—and know you can’t afford.

The coffee you bought is made with a fancy triple-strainer. You don’t believe this even when you see it. First, the beans are ground and strained with water. Second, the coffee-like liquid collecting below is moved to another strainer after taste and aroma is dissected from the grounds. Finally, a third shift moves the liquid through white, translucent paper to sort out the obvious and residual bitterness of the coffee legion you’ve been so well accustomed to for most of the twenty-two years of your life at four dollars a pop. The thing that occurs to you as you take it for the small price of five dollars is the sort of professionalism and time and care it takes to make something like this, something small and dinky and borderline pathetic in size compared to the large “small” versions of things you are used to drinking. The first sip is the first sip of your generation, of your adulthood coming to fruition. You’ve traveled to a place you know nothing about: a place of finesse and expediency, of utter unconscious localization of those dividing themselves entirely from a world of less-than-fine taste and less gourmet attitude. The taste buds in your mouth become activated for the first time, their space which never before has been touched this way, and you come to terms with the fact of every cup of coffee you have ever tasted up to this point has been burned, incinerated. The gluttonous and completely primal ingestion of sugar that followed became a total disregard for your heart because someone didn’t work hard enough to make the thing you are drinking now taste decent. The taste is bold and authentic. You know it will be hard to repeat this sensation.

Despite the disillusioned circumstances that have brought you here, you feel absolutely in-tune with this bourgeois meta-culture of monetary and uninspired value. The conscious decision to object and be abject to the make-up and pampering of every male and female and dog in this area—despite everything you feel and know to be true—is stopped by your coffee. Much like a love potion, it quells your angry and upset feelings of virtue, subdued entirely by a place casually tattooed and littered with cigarette smoke; the black and onerous taste of your first, no-so-good cup of coffee pasted and dragged across your tongue begins to fade.

Business meetings take place next to your bench and legal pad of paper. Children are carted and shopping bags are swayed from side-to-side at eleven AM despite all reason against it. You felt like an outsider before. Now, you feel no more indifferent than a potted plant as part of the architecture of this niche. This street sighs as cars pass. The intersection reads “New Bounds St.” and “Prospect Circle.” A dog licks your toes as you stare ahead into a woman’s hair. You look at her, bound on the other side of the dog’s leash, and she says, “He must like you.”

iron-poet-i: an aquatic fairytale the queen needed a break from...

erikadprice — Sun, 19 May 2013 15:01:49 -0500

iron-poet-i:

an aquatic fairytale

the queen needed a break from the stress of the throne
and decided to visit the beach on her own.
she was sunning herself when out of the waters
came a whale. nine months later, she bore two mixed daughters.

the princesses took lessons to be light on their feet,
and squeezed into corsets to keep their waists neat.
when they were reaching the age of eighteen,
they wanted a party. they begged mother, the queen,
to arrange a soiree which she did with ill ease.
she sent thousands of invites (with no rsvps)
on the night itself ellie and lotte were wild
with excitement and laced up their dresses, perfectly styled
in the latest of fashions: ruffled and pink.
“tonight will they ask us to dance, do you think?”

they arrived at the ball, and stood behind curtains,
peering down the stairs— just to be certain
that people were there— oh, the crowd was a-twitter!
the dancefloor was slick, the chandelier all a-glitter!
ellie and lotte took a deep breath
and walked out into the ballroom, trying their best
to suck in their stomachs and not burst their dresses.
every eye in the room turned to see the princesses.
there was a moment of silence. no one blinked. no one sneezed.
two men broke from the crowd and got down on their knees.
declared one: “we have a strange fetish
for all things aquatic and reasonably wettish”
said the other: “this is rash—please do beg our pardons—
we’ll build you a pool in our conjugal gardens.”
everyone cheered and clapped, and bubbled with laughter.
the two odd-matched couples lived happily ever after.

if there is indeed a moral to this tale,
it’s: if you want to make love ~~don’t make love~~ you could do worse than a whale.

————————————————————————————-

Alibis not Needed Anymore’s entry for Iron Poet (opponent: The Last Curtainfall)

An Ode to Who?

erikadprice — Sat, 18 May 2013 21:01:02 -0500

flashyfifty:

“Well sure it’s dangerous!” she hollered over the calibrating engines. “But come on- time travel?! That’s the kind of opportunity that only comes around once in a lifetime!” The turbines mashed and churned as she considered this. “Well, I guess not if it works, but… you know what I mean.”

In a Dark and Mysterious Cave

jafferbatica — Sat, 18 May 2013 18:00:59 -0500

Everyone knows about the ring. It’s a folktale told across our land. The ring of shattering power, dependent solely on the wearer’s disposition. I give it to the hero, prophecy is fulfilled. I give it to the Dark Lord, our world is doomed. I keep it, and we don’t have to suffer through dualistic narratives.

peace/thorn: Bomb Shelters

moussemymind — Sat, 18 May 2013 15:01:39 -0500

peace/thorn: Bomb Shelters:

pazespina:

War broke out in the Philippines two years after Kris Aquino took the presidential seat. Make up-less, she sobbed into Channel Three’s cameras, whinging through her state of the nation address about how life was so putang inang hard for her, and how we would never understand. Paulo and I vacuumed up our congee and ate up her speech. We were both feeling very sympathetic, and very entertained.

    The GIs had flown in over Mactan Airport the morning before. Intermittent drills and gunshots disturbed our afternoons playing Scrabble with the cat. Although we lived in a boarding house near a military camp in Lahug, we had difficulty acknowledging that there was a war going on on Philippine turf. The fighting was down south, and we were confident that the pesteng Chinese would soon be bombed away by the Americans.

    Life continued as usual. We still worked at the call center, which no longer operated over the hours of seven PM. Instead of going out for lunch we had to stay in and eat in the pantry, because we were afraid of air raids. We listened to our vice president, Erap Estrada, speak in behalf of Kris Aquino in thirty-minute intervals in between filmings of his old movies, where he always won. We stared in awe at his perfectly coiffed head of hair; chuckled over his good-naturedly gruff jokes.

    In the evenings, because of the imposed curfew (seven o’clock on the dot), Paulo did yoga on a small mat in our room. It was hard to salute the sun cramped in between my books and our furniture, but he made do. We slept huddled together, our cat in the middle, on a ratty sofa bed we bought from Mandaue Foam a hundred years ago. We ate our meals from cans and shared a cup of cooked rice in between us.

    We dreamed about going to America. We’d go to San Francisco or Berkeley - somewhere in California, because we heard it was warm there - and take our cat with us. Paulo could teach yoga to bored housewives and I could be an assistant or a clerk because I typed fast and was good at taking instructions. We talked in whispers and tried to ignore the sound of gunfire in the distance, and tried not to notice that all around us the city was getting greyer. People scurried instead of walked. Traffic turned into a trickle. We were being left behind in the city, because we had nowhere else to go. Manila was being constantly bombed. There was a Muslim uprising in Mindanao, where they were trying to topple the Christian/Western government, and all ferries and planes were banned. Paulo and I were not province people; we wouldn’t know what to do with land if we had it.

    So we stayed in the city. Every day it looked more and more apocalyptic, but Paulo still did his yoga stretches after work. I still worked on my typing and filing skills. Soon, we told each other, we would be able to get out. We’d find a way, and we’d take our cat with us.

These Details In Preference to Nothing: The Dark Man and the Sounds

moussemymind — Fri, 17 May 2013 21:00:44 -0500

These Details In Preference to Nothing: The Dark Man and the Sounds:

thesedetailsnpreferencetonothing:

precision is not always an essential element
as concerns what is needed of clarity sometimes what is most required is only a small unhealing cut a delicate but desperate displeasure my thoughts and the subsequent pollution of feelings have too often been massaged by tinkering the sounds of words repositioned together in commonplace fashion cease to help they no longer allow me to imagine the worst alternative the madness of being certain a certainty that infects the shy and the desperately too human who sense but never see marvelous things the Dark Man drives through the dark on a two-lane highway the stars are present they shiver with their white power and the fragrance of pine trees he does not notice the stars he does not notice the evergreens’ thick scent he proceeds and is monomaniacally aware of his progress the minutes done the miles finished as if everything were constructed out this particular purpose out of the sounds of the words he repeated twelve years ago sitting near the eaves trough of his father’s bar the water pouring out of the trough the rain pelting the old Ford Escort they never finished fixing he drives farther he grows more aware of the road as if it were made of glass and metal from all the things his father never finished his father is gone he will never see him again the white lines slip under the car he turns the sound of the music louder his father is gone forever he knows this he is knowing this he listens to the words his trembling allows him to hear the road and the time he listens to the nebulous hum and in his kinetic state he becomes something like the sound of the word beautiful

excerpt from Blue Leopard Catahoula Cur

the-sandbox — Fri, 17 May 2013 18:01:00 -0500

this is an excerpt from my novel blue leopard catahoula cur, up now (and free) at freefugazi.com

At home I take my clothes off and eat three pink pills in my bathroom, where I’ve removed the mirror because my reflection terrifies me when I am on drugs. When I come to and leave the bathroom there is a girl sitting on my bed that I have never seen before in my life. She is short. Red-haired. Dressed in jeans and a loose jacket. Big, black-rimmed glasses cling to her face like a fruit bat. She smiles when she sees me and says, “Found you.” I dive back into the bathroom and shove more pills into my mouth. I stand against the closed door and hyperventilate, BIC triple-blade razor in hand for defense. Hours pass. When I’m sure it’s quiet on the other side of the door, I slowly open it and venture out. I am so worked up at this point that I dig into my fridge—the light blinding me for a second—and find a half-bottle of Bacardi 151. I take two quick shots and scan the yard once with the binoculars. There’s a note taped to my door. In the glow of the streetlight, all seems clear. I run down stairs and rip the piece of paper off the door. I run back to my room and try to read it but it’s just a flyer for some no-name punk rock bank so I tear it into tiny squares and burn the pieces in an empty cereal bowl, dancing tribal circles around the flame. When I’ve exhausted myself, I collapse into bed and dream about running through the woods, chainsaw in each hand, cutting down trees like they’re made of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter while the girl looks on, tied up, mouth gagged with ten hundred-dollar bills and she’s sitting on my bed when I get back to my place and I just give up. I fucking give up. I scream at her, “Who the fuck are you?” but she doesn’t answer. I go into my bathroom and pop the lid off a fresh bottle of pills. I eat them like skittles and pace back and forth next to my bed. I want to ask her why she’s following me, what about me could possibly be interesting enough for her to dedicate this amount of time to finding out, but I know she probably won’t answer. My mouth is dry. I spot a glass of water on my nightstand that I don’t remember pouring. I pick it up. Sip. Stare at her. She tells me I look like a busted up Christmas ornament. I look down at myself, at my grey t-shirt, at my legs in frayed canvas pants popping out into red, dollar-store flip flops with snapped thongs duct-taped back together. I say, “What’s wrong with these clothes?” She laughs and asks if I’ve ever been in love before. I say, “I met a girl once who was really sexy—drop dead—and at her house one night we were both sitting on her bed. She had these jeans on with a hole in the crotch—maybe on purpose, I don’t know—but she kept spreading her legs to show off this red thong she was wearing and eventually she caught me looking and started to massage herself and told me how she used to hide her crack pipe in the slit throat of this teddy bear she had when she was a kid. I remember she pointed at it up on a shelf and—swear to whoever—this bear had black plastic eyes that showed me everything and I looked around and realized she didn’t have sheets on her bed and her mattress and pillows were all stained yellow and I could smell her parents smoking weed out in the living room and who the fuck are you? And how did I even start talking about this?” She smiles and she’s not wearing a black dress anymore she’s wearing jeans with a hole in the crotch and I can see red fabric peeking out and she says, “I’m whatever you want me to be. Now tell me if you’ve ever been in love,” and I’m shaking so I set the bottle of pills on my desk—lid still off—and say, “No. I don’t know my parents very well.”

I go see Koan. My fist on the metal door of the van sounds tinny and hollow. I’m carrying a bag. Inside the bag is a road-killed raven fresh off the Arizona blacktop. I climb in when Koan opens the door. She begins picking pills off her futon mattress like a monkey grooming its mate for beetles. I join her, cramming a half-dozen into my mouth before taking the dead bird out of my bag. Koan tells me to eat the bird. She sings, “Astral butterflies land on our bodies and feed off the orgasms we make,” and begins to undress. I watch her fractured face come to peace with itself as the high hits her eyelids. Her lips are a Venus flytrap. I bite into the bird and my nostrils fill with stink. I chew and swallow, twice, three times. My stomach comes alive. A fourth of July fireworks show. I feel it boiling over and open my throat to puke. Before I pass out I see Koan, naked, leaned back, legs spread, unsheathing a foot-long sex toy labeled on the side in yellow lettering: The Great American Challenge. I wake up on a beach. It’s nighttime. Under the surface of the water twenty yards offshore, I see a soft glowing light. I swim towards it. The light feels warmer the closer I get. It offers a feeling of safety in the black water. When I can almost touch the source of the glow, something changes. A single line of small round lights illuminates one by one, revealing an alien shark, its body a six foot grey killing machine. Several things happen. The shark looks at me and acknowledges my presence. I become aware of a force emanating from within this animal that gives me the impression that this is not just a shark, but a ‘being,’ meaning: something with distinct, otherworldly powers over the (mostly) unknown rules of the universe I find myself inhabiting. The shark circles and I tread water, searching my pockets for anything and, impossibly, finding a Swiss army knife. When the shark attacks, so do I, catching the beast in its right eye. There is an explosion of light under the water, like lightning from a far off storm. The shark dives and the light dissipates and I feel more alone than I have ever felt in my life. For a faint moment, I think I hear sirens and my mother screaming. I hear Koan’s voice slowed to a crawl. See the sun on her pale stomach as we’re both dragged from the van. This vision leaves quickly though. I’m left with a final shot, the image of three Koan’s washing up on a beach. They’re all naked and soaked to their marrows. They awake on the sand together and squint against the bright sun. Their surroundings are unrecognized. All seem to have just woken up from a dream, as if the dream was a symbiote with no more need of its hosts. Other families wander in the background, enjoying a normal day at the beach. They are unfazed by the women. The three together look out to sea. Remembering something possibly? I sink in the black water to the sounds of children laughing and slip into a deep, relaxing sleep. When the medics inform her of the news, Koan’s mother isn’t terribly shaken by her death. She tells them she’s seen worse. Once while working in a Banff hotel, a businesswoman came to stay for a few nights. Koan’s mother was assigned to clean this woman’s room upon vacancy. There she found two urine and blood soaked mattresses, a desk chair soaked in vomit, all kinds of food stomped into the carpet, the blankets and towels nowhere to be found, all supplied glasses broken and covered in something brown, a closed mason jar full of shit in the toilet, the garbage bins used as toilets, the bathtub full of garbage, the shower running, crayons melted in the microwave, a porn VHS smashed over the DVD player, feces smeared all over the television screen which was playing static, an alarm clock blaring a burnt CD of Lionel Richie, suitcases full of clothes cut into strips and tied together left hanging from the ceiling fan, and 20 pesos—left as a tip—on the nightstand.

Danger! I'm a writer...: Prologue: Rainlier Province

moussemymind — Fri, 17 May 2013 15:01:37 -0500

Danger! I'm a writer...: Prologue: Rainlier Province:

allofmyrandommusings:

He kisses his son and wife on the forehead, knowing that it will be for the last time.
“Pa!” The boy yells, trying to get his father’s attention in vain. “Papa!” The boy cries out louder while struggling in his mother’s arms. She wraps her body around the boy, protecting him and quieting his dangerous voice, which echoes in the silent night. She watches while holding back sobs of her own as her husband walks off, nothing but sadness and love in her eyes.

He stalks through the crowd, covering his face with the black hood of his worn out jacket. There is no need to be spotted until the circumstances are right. He has a destination and a purpose. No one can stop him. No one can detour him.

Overcast clouds threaten to rain on the assembled party, who stand in neat rows, listening to the governor drone on before them. The Sintiels, taking precautionary posts throughout the clearing, eye the progressive man but think nothing of his steps, which grow ever closer to the platform in the middle of the square. Looking down onto the crowd, the Sintiels’ sights are clouded by racism and disgust, seeing insects in the place of living beings. Because their eyes scan the crowd but do not see individuals, the Sintiels are ignorant of the actions unfolding right before them.

With every step the man takes, he gains the attention of another person in the crowd. The people part slightly to make his journey easier. Some move in fear but most move in support, clearing a way for him. By the time he stands before the platform all eyes in the crowd are trained on him. He takes a preparatory breath, ready for what he is about to do and the undeniable consequences of his actions.

He slides his hand slowly into his pocket, wrapping his grip around the cool, slender gun. It is the first gun he had ever smuggled from the Sintiels. The gun which helped him arm hundreds of other people, the very same people who stand with him today and will support his actions until their own deaths. From the moment the man decided to steal that first gun, it has all led to what is happening in this moment and everything to come. His next actions are fast, filled with purpose. He whips his armed hand out of his pocket and towards the sky. A single shot blazes through the dreary afternoon, calling all attention to him.

“My people will rise against you!” He yells, dropping his gun because it has served its absolute purpose, but the man’s eyes deliberately seek one of the cameras, addressing a particular person who, at this moment, sits in a lavish purple chair, assessing the screen in front of him.

There is no doubt that the man’s call to arms is heard loud in the aftershock of the initial bullet. Cheers ring out to fill his ears, swelling his body with joy while a single bullet lodges itself into his chest in the attempt to deflate it. The man’s world tilts as the Sintiels let go of restraint, riddling his body with bullets. The cold ground embraces the man for his final rest. Hot liquid seeps from his torso, pooling around him but the man fights to keep his eyes open, the last breath still trapped in his lungs.

Chaos ensues as the Sintiels redirect their attention to the riled horde of people, unleashing shots with no aim. But, rebels in the crowd return the favor, picking off the exposed Sintiels with ease. The frantic citizens disperse with difficulty, eventually leaving the shooters in the square just as exposed as the Sintiels, who now take cover on the stage. Off in the distance, an earth shattering explosion sets the sky alight with reds and yellows, a little fire threatening to burn everything in its wake. On the ground, Ignatius closes his eyes to the bright light, finally able to rest.

The Revolution has begun.

Overcaffeinated and underemployed: 5/1

moussemymind — Thu, 16 May 2013 21:00:59 -0500

Overcaffeinated and underemployed: 5/1:

havasita:

I’m on the beach with stacks of colored houses behind me and the blatant sky before me. I’m wet from sweat and I can hear the sounds of the end of a Sunday afternoon on the beach. I can only lie still for a few moments before switching to my stomach and resting my chin on my hands, or sitting up and letting the sun blind me briefly, or caressing the sand with my hand. I drink deeply from a bottle of pink water, and I inhale tiny particles of sea.

There’s a pier in the distance. Through the eye of a camera it’s barely visible. There was a game of volleyball at the courts earlier. Now there is just a grid of courts with barely swinging nets.

The sun is just beginning to give hints of sunset and the children in the surf are still in full color, if a little overexposed. The waves lick their feet. They squeal in anticipation. I don’t hear this. I guess it.

That’s what’s meant to happen on Sunday late afternoon in Manhattan Beach — that volleyball nets are abandoned, and children’s voices are the right pitch to be heard above the ambient noise of the ocean. Little footprints in the wet sound are washed away with each sweep of the waves, couples lie motionless in the sand in the weakened sun, a surfer in a glistening wet suit is packing up his gear dripping water on the pale sand.

With time the motion will slow. The last beach goers will murmur their goodbyes in respect of the twilight, the sound of tires on the bike path will be more clearly heard, a yellow lifeguard truck will roll by. One exhausted child will ruin the reverent quiet with full-throated wails. Her mother will pass the picnic basket and the pile of wet towels to her husband and pick up the child. Or lover. He might be her lover.

I don’t know if this is what happened that day. By then I’d gone home. I’d left the pretense of tranquility there, where the sand had already forgotten my shape.

One day I’ll learn to match my heart to the languid rhythm of the ocean. One day I’ll master the art of hearing and seeing without words.

Metal S. Guy: Cazra and Io'bo: Part 1

moussemymind — Thu, 16 May 2013 18:01:05 -0500

Metal S. Guy: Cazra and Io'bo: Part 1:

metalsguy:

<— Previous

When Ranikutt chose Cazra and Io’bo to lead the charge against the strange beast beneath the waterfall, she felt there were no other options. Unlike the other refugees, these two seemed preoccupied with something other than the loss of their village. When they were all gathered in the great temple, Cazra constantly sharpened the head of her spear, and smeared the weapon’s haft with colorful berry paints. Io’bo was the quieter of the two, but no less colorful. While the scrape-scrape-scrape of her sharpening was incessant, the only indication he was there at all came from the unmissable clusters of beads hanging around his neck and wrists. While he listened, he seemed distracted by their patterns and tapped his bulbous fingertips across them, following certain lines of color.

While the rest of the villagers settled in the great city, the two young frog-folk remained in the temple with their goddess, listening to her lessons and eating only certain foods, all of which had been touched by magic. For two weeks they were isolated there, and when they were finally permitted to step outside again, they were hardly recognizable.

Cazra was the shorter of the two, with whippy limbs and strong, thick fingers. She walked confidently on powerful hind legs, with a bundle of brightly-colored spears strapped to her back. Garments that clung loosely around her middle and legs spoke of newfound status, embroidered with stone beads and thick panels of polished copper. Using one of her spears as a walking stick, she led her friend out of the city.

Subject to his sentimentality and whimsy, Io’bo trailed behind Cazra as they made their way toward the gates. As he shook hands with and bid farewell to strangers, he flaunted the fashionable, dark cloth hanging around his arms and legs, letting the decorative polished copper clatter noisily against his memory beads and spit off errant crackles of simple magic. He walked with more of an easygoing lope, but dropped into a bounding hop on all fours to catch up with his friend after a long while mingling.

“Io’bo, you must take this seriously,” she groaned, punctuating her sentence by snapping a fat dragonfly out of the air with her tongue. “This Tuzoctl could easily kill us, even now. The Pond-Mother has been kind, but that is not enough to save us.”

“We have magic now! Where is your confidence, Cazra? Look-” The taller Croken raised his hands, striking the beads hanging around them with his thumbs. Blue magic coalesced in his palms like coils of seafoam, then burst into the open air, forming a cloud of bright blue illusionary butterflies. “You see? We can do fantastic things. Why not enjoy it?”

His friend could only shake her head and soldier on, walking briskly along the clay road. Whether she liked it or not, coils of magic whirled around the base of her spear as it struck the ground, flickers of green light giving her the energy to keep on. In a week, they would be back home, and would have to face the strange terrors that waited beneath the waterfall.

Always

erikadprice — Thu, 16 May 2013 15:02:19 -0500

artreture:

I have nothing fancy to tell. Meeting Julie went just like how usual couples would; either through common friends, were already friends for a long while or an opportunity presented itself at a coffee shop. Ours was the latter, with a slight twist. When I met her though, I knew she was a keeper.

Our paths crossed at a coffee shop near our university. I was busy painting something on a small canvas, when a book unexpectedly hit my shoulder from behind. It fell on my lap. Thankfully enough, it wasn’t hard-bound. But its edge hit my clavicle. I rubbed the spot before picking up the book. Twenty Love Poems And A Song Of Despair by Pablo Neruda, I mouthed silently. Good choice.

“Eep! Sorry!” I spun around to follow the voice. A short-haired girl held several books supported by her right arm and hip while holding a hot beverage on the other. She extended a hand. I placed her book on it.

“Let’s just say I’m lucky that your books were what leaned towards me, and not your drink.” I chuckled. There were three empty seats on my table. I wanted her to take one but I didn’t know how to express that. She was a nervous girl who constantly adjusted the black-rimmed spectacles that rested on her gentle slope of a nose. There were a few freckles on her cheeks, like tiny peach-colored stars. I wanted to compliment her on this. But it was too soon. As it is, I was ahead of myself again.

“I’m so sorry. Did it hurt? After all… Well, it is about love and a song of despair. Haha!” She laughed at her retort for a couple of seconds before pulling an awkward expression. “The book, I mean,” she added. Something told me back then that she ran monologues in her head a lot. She looked away for a while and muttered to herself. I heard the word “doltish.” I made a mental note to myself during that moment to look into what it meant.

“Would you..?” I motioned her over to one of the vacant seats at my table. The coffee shop was full. Taking a wild guess from her lingering uneasiness, she meant to stay and finish her drink there. It took her a couple of seconds to react but she eventually nodded nervously and sat across me. She placed her books on the other chair next to her and took a sip from her cup.

I looked at her. “I want to do with you,” I said, “what spring does to the cherry trees.”

“Huh?”

“It’s by Neruda,” I said. I dwelled on what I quoted for a while. I then realized that what I said seemed perverted. I deserved her reaction. There was no chance for a smooth escape on that one. I didn’t bother trying.

“Oh, haha! Alright. Good poet huh?” she replied. “A friend referred Neruda to me. So far, I’m loving him. But the line that you just said did sound corrupt though haha!” She laughed a lot in between her sentences. I found it both odd and endearing. And yes, darn it, what I said did sound corrupt.

I bowed and shook my head apologetically. She said it was alright.

“So you paint huh?” she asked. I nodded. I leaned the canvas toward her direction so she could take a good look at it. I told her it was inspired by a painter called Albert Bierstadt. “I could tell. Kinda,” she said. “I read about him once. Hints of romanticism in his paintings could be found with the way he played with light and all.” She plucked a tissue from the dispenser and wiped a coffee stain from the side of her lips.

“Oh. I didn’t know that,” I said, slightly embarrassed. I was merely on Google earlier that day, searching for a piece I could imitate for my oil painting class. All I knew was that it was made in 1860. She was very chatty for someone who just met another in a short span of time. But it was this conversation that led to many more.

Being the only son and child to my parents, my choice in taking Painting didn’t please them as much as it did me. But thanks to my generous uncle, he encouraged me to go after what I wanted. Julie on the other hand took up Journalism, so she was busier than I was. After that incident in the coffee shop, we met up several times. Hanging-out led to dates, until the dates led to a beautiful commitment.

She was my first relationship and yes, this was odd since I was a guy and university was usually the place where everyone could get away with anything. But I wasn’t like that. I was infatuated with this girl called Nancy back in high school. I courted her for 2 years and she ended up dating a college guy who wore his polos with the collars up. After breaking my heart and seeing the disgusting sight with the collar, I decided to turn asexual and focus my attention on romanticizing over canvases and paint. It was a good decision. Simply because it led me to meeting Julie eventually.

I wanted to emphasize on the moment when Julie and I met for the first time because it was what really struck me the most. I could still remember the scent of her hair, even if she was right across me. It was coconut-y. I didn’t like coconuts in particular, but after making an awkward remark about how her hair smelled like the meadow, she laughed and said she used coconut-flavored shampoo. She didn’t get to finish her drink because her father came and picked her up fifteen minutes after we met. But a lot happened within those minutes. It was a beautiful fifteen-minute moment that introduced me to my best friend and my soul-mate. A few years later, we still did everything together. Like two kids at a park, we ran across vast spaces and felt the wind rush between our arms and legs.

Julie loved writing letters to me. When we were apart during vacation with our families and relatives, she would send posts and I would be giddy every time. Whenever I sent my reply, I always enclosed a drawing or two of her favorite Calvin And Hobbes comic. We also met each others’ families during Christmas one time. They seemed to have received each other well. My mom’s cupcakes and her dad’s unique lasagna recipe seemed to have put everybody in a great mood that we were able to sneak into the backyard for a few minutes to exchange kisses. It wasn’t a very dangerous move but hiding gave us both the immature rush of wanting to stay young. The little things such as her epistles, the way she clucked her tongue whenever she was upset, the way her hair fell on her face and spectacles and the lone dimple that rested on her right cheek, remain etched in my mind. I bring her wherever I go. Even if it isn’t the same way for her anymore.

There’s nothing else fancy to tell. Meeting Julie went just like how usual couples would; either through common friends, were already friends for a long while or an opportunity presented itself at a coffee shop. Ours was the latter, with a slight twist. But just like some relationships, we were unfortunate enough to not make it to the end. I don’t want to focus on what went wrong. I’d rather recall the moments that will always remain beautiful to me. How I met her will always remain as it was: innocent and genuine. Julie will always be a part of me. Our promises and dreams have been long interspersed into the wind, like poppy seeds and strewed dandelions. But I know they’ve landed in good places. I still keep her letters. It reminds me of how good and great something was, even if that something isn’t what she believes to be true anymore. But in one point in time she did, and that’s what matters. In the dust and haze, she’ll remain to be the brightest star in the titanic, inky sky that lays before me. My nervously-blinking, peach-colored star - always.

Take a letter: Say nothing

moussemymind — Wed, 15 May 2013 21:01:03 -0500

Take a letter: Say nothing:

takealetter:

I counted the steps as I always do from the bottom of the hill to the lane. The house came into view from behind the trees and I stopped. On the ground covered in muck and rotting leaves a red woolly hat had rolled up against the wall. It was soaked through and stepped on and kicked aside. I wondered how long it had been there. It was February. I picked up the hat, cold and disgusting to the touch. When I pulled it on it felt worse than I had imagined. Icy. Wet. Filthy. I turned from the house and walked back down the way I had come.

At the end of the hill, where the bus stop is. I placed my bag on top of the wall and gently tipped it over the side. I heard it hit the ground. It had started to rain and I hurried along the road my arms crossed high on my chest and my shoulders pulled in. I bent my head into the wind and rain. Shivering, I walked for a long time in the wind and the rain. I didn’t stop walking until long after it got dark.

I was standing on the side of the motorway. I remember it like waking up. Cars and trucks roaring passed raised a thick mist all around me. I could see haloed headlights. I sat on the steel barrier no longer shaking. I was numb. I lay down on the ditch and stared at the lights passing by. Bright white and red. I lay there and maybe I slept. I didn’t move until morning. And when I rose I felt sick. In my head I felt sick. I was shivering.

I got to my feet and started to walk. I kept walking. The sun shone on my back. My clothes dried. I felt better. I left the road and walked through fields and came to a smaller road and followed that and left the road and walked through a little wood. With a track running along side. It was one of those muddy ones with the grass in the middle.

I was hot. I took off the red hat. I turned it over in my hand. A name was written clearly on the label inside. Dara. I pulled the tag off tearing the seam in the process and put the tag in my pocket. Then I hung the hat from a bramble at the side of the track. I thought about the person who might see the hat and wonder how it got there. I wonder who it belongs too? They won’t know it was me. And they won’t know that it travelled this far.

I came to a walled garden. The gate was open. I crept around a bit and found their shed unlocked. It was filled with bicycles and a lawn mower and it smelled cold and damp and comforting. I sat down on cold concrete. A dog was barking and I stayed in the shed. I heard someone come out. He shouted at the dog. Then the barking stopped. I was cold. I started to wish I hadn’t played the joke with the red hat. I wondered if someone had played a joke on me. I took the label out of my pocket and examined it in the dark. I didn’t know anyone called Dara. I put it back in my pocket. I wiped my nose on my sleeve. It kept running and I was shivering again. Then I fell asleep.

I had a dream about a time that I was coming home from somewhere and I was looking at my feet and counting my steps. I walked right into a boy from my class. I didn’t look up and I tried to step around him and bumped into someone else. There was a big group of them, boys and girls about my age. Some a bit older. One of the girls lived next door to me and I sort of smiled and tried to keep walking but the boy held me back. He said I had pushed into him on purpose and he couldn’t allow me to do that. Not in front of the others. He asked me why I had pushed him. I didn’t, I answered and he raised his hand to hit me. I flinched and when I opened my eyes his fist was suspended in the air and they all had smiles on their faces. He looked around and laughed. I moved to get away but another one grabbed me and had me up against the wall. My jumper was tied around my waist. I forced my way out and they all grabbed at me and my jumper came away and as I fought I could feel their hands pulling at me, pulling at my shirt and my hair and my skin. I glanced back and saw the jumper on the ground under their feet. I didn’t go back for it. Instead I ran straight to my house. I felt so guilty about leaving the jumper behind.

I woke to a bright light shining in my eyes. A policeman stood over me telling me to wake up. Hey, he said, do you hear me? I didn’t talk to them. I didn’t answer any questions. They knew who I was. I didn’t say anything all day. I was brought to a station and they gave me a drink and asked me what I thought I was doing? They brought me to a hospital. My parents arrived. She had been crying. They asked me where I was going. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know the answer. They took me home and I stayed in bed for days. People came to the house. Men and women I didn’t know. One lady kept smiling at me and talking about school. She told me stories about her schooldays. I didn’t like her. She kept leaning over me asking if I could hear her. I wished she would go away. I couldn’t understand why she was telling me stories about little girls. My dad would sometimes stand at the door. He asked me why I wouldn’t answer their questions.

I remember being back in school. My parents would always ask me how I got on when I came home but there wasn’t much to say so I didn’t say anything. I talked about other things though. I still had the label and I rubbed it between my thumb and forefinger. Eventually the name disappeared and the grey print. That summer we went away. They were always looking at each other over my head. We came back and I started back to school and it was ok. One day I asked could we go to the road I had walked along. The one with the grass in the middle. They asked me why and I said I would just like go up there. We went after lunch. My parents kept saying I can’t believe you came this far. The hat wasn’t there. I felt guilty and I kept my eyes open the whole way up and back but I didn’t see it. They kept asking if I had really walked all the way by myself. I left the silky worn tag up there.

It’s cold outside and warm in the kitchen. The windows have fogged up. It’s not late but already dark. She pours a pot of boiling water into the sink. She empties potatoes into a bowl. She keeps looking at the clock. She calls into the sitting room for the boy to turn the TV off. To do his homework. Then she looks at her watch and calls again, Where is your brother?

The front door slams shut. What took you so long? She stands in the hallway, a silhouette in the light from the kitchen. The boy throws his coat and bag in the corner. He goes upstairs. She picks up the bag and hangs the coat on the hook. She notices it is torn. What happened your jacket? She shouts. He doesn’t answer. She goes up to his room. She doesn’t knock. He is pulling a t-shirt over his head. She asks him what’s wrong. Did something happen on the way home? Nothing. No, he says. She asks how did his coat get torn. I don’t know, he answers.

He is quiet all through dinner but argues with his brother. She asks him what the matter is. Nothing, he says. After dinner they do their homework at the table. He just stares at his copy books. He sighs. She decides to take them out. Do you want to go see Granddad? she asks. His brother jumps up and runs to get his coat. Come on grumpy she says to him. She ruffles his hair but he shrugs her off and he gets up and goes to the front door and he takes his coat from the hook and puts it on. Have your hat? She asks. It’s cold outside. He shakes his head. Oh Dara, you really have to try and be more careful with your things, she says. He looks at her. He feels his chest get tight and a lump rises in his throat. His breath is shaky and he has to frown and swallow to steady it. He doesn’t know what to say. For a moment he feels like letting it go. Like wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his head in her jumper and crying like when he was little. But he doesn’t.

Morning Notes: Commerce Township- The Young Man

moussemymind — Wed, 15 May 2013 18:01:09 -0500

Morning Notes: Commerce Township- The Young Man:

madiebeartri:

The Young Man

The young man’s tracking device ceased to function the day he turned 18. In a few months, the device implanted at the age of four would break down leaving a small scar, the only evidence of his forced servitude. He stood released from the life of a commodity. The Vocational Education Program that bound him, as slave labor could no longer force him to work. He walked a free man. His life his own, he could travel anywhere, go to college or seek employment. All traces of his life in hell erased from the books, sealed by the courts as governed by law.

The young man looked out the window; the rain slowed to a drizzle. “We gotta go,” he said nudging his girlfriend out of the booth.