I spent this month's rent on putting my dog to sleep.
I went to the Humane Society every day for a week in January. I'd told myself exactly a year from that week (I say that, but I've got no idea when I actually thought of the idea) that if I still want a dog a year later, I would get one, no matter what. I'd cuddled a number of puppies with big clumsy paws that were sure to foreshadow many a broken breakable and chewed Steve Madden's, which would suck because I only own two pairs. They had such wet little eyes and fuzzy bellies that each one seemed like the right pet, but not the right friend. The last day I went, January 28th, was actually the 8th day, because I wasn't ready to give up looking. I tried to figure things in percents - 80% sure that the lab/pit mix would be gigantic but really awesome. 95% about keeping the miniature pincher until it tried to maul a puppy through the chainlink. 75% sure I don't want a cat instead, even though they'd be an easier option.
I walked into the small dog kennel with my best friend, who I no longer talk to because she thinks I was texting her Neanderthal boyfriend. Seriously? Girls disgust me most of the time. Anyway, we walk in and there's a big orange and grey mess in the very first kennel on the right. The card on her cage reads "Carla" underneath pink highlighter, which indicates she's a girl. According to her info card, it was her birthday that day. January 28th. 80% sure that's a sign.
She's coughing and trying to use her red-pink tongue to push her overgrown hair out of her mouth without any success. Her backlegs were a dark orange, which I didn't understand. Is it mud? Does that mean she's sick? Man I don't know anything about dogs. I remember thinking to myself. The long matted hair from her stomach dragged across the floor, which was gross. This dog is gross.
My at-the-time-best-friend was loving this dog, though; she has a schnauzer of her own, which apparently is what this dog was supposed to be underneath all of her mess. She quickly went to work trying to sell me on her while throwing in plenty of "but it's your decision, don't let me influence you."
I asked to visit with the thing, and I'd be lying if I said I was thinking about getting her. I wanted a puppy. A lovable, cuddly bundle for me to raise. This dog was already four.
We went outside on the visitor's patio to see what she was like. She ran around excitedly in circles while we whistled and tried to get her attention. Occasionally she would stop to pay us a little bit of love, which was so surprisingly endearing. Her ears were big and stood straight up, except the tips of them which bounced quickly along with her footsteps. 65% this dog could be cute with that shit shaved off of her and a bath. I still wasn't sold, though.
She was put back into her cage, and we went to see her to say goodbye. She looked me right in the eyes when I opened the door, and she let out the shrillest, most annoying sound I've ever heard. Something about it told me I couldn't leave. I sat down in front of her for a good 25 minutes. By this time I'd come to the conclusion that I was 99% taking her home in my car. 99% sure her birthday was a sign. Does it go higher than 99%? I wasn't sure at the time, but now I know - it's always at 99%, because you're a little scared. Especially when it's your first dog.
She freaked out in the car, making that piercing yipping noise the whole time. 15% I made a mistake.
I named her Madeline, like the children's book. Carla is a stupid name.
Maddie and I had a rough start. She got a haircut and a bath, and when the groomer came back around the corner with her, I was a little disappointed. Her hair was so matted and dirty that they had to basically shave her. Plus the Rays were doing really good at the time, so they gave her a mohawk. Shaved with a Rayhawk, she looked like a little monster. It was almost cute, but mostly she creeped me out. I wasn't sure what to do - I'd already taken pictures of her and put them on Facebook, I didn't want to have to tell everyone I gave her back already. I can't believe I really thought about giving her back just because she didn't look cute enough, that's such a dick move.
A week into being a dog owner, she bit me. I was livid, but mostly because I was hurt. My first dog, the only that's supposed to be my best bud, doesn't even like me. I was right when I told myself that I didn't know anything about dogs, I didn't. I'd tried to pick her up while she was sleeping, and I'd frightened her. I didn't know that at the time though, so I scolded her and pushed her off the bed angrily. She wouldn't come up onto my bed for a few days after that.
I remember when I finally fell in love with her. I'd loved her all along of course, but it was like an obligatory love - she was mine, and I had her, so I loved her. Like the way you love your car, or an Ipod.
We were driving back to Lady Lake to see my best friend Hannah, a month or two later in March. I'd had her in a dog bed in the back seat, with a rawhide bone to keep her occupied. All of a sudden I felt the side of my cheek get warm, and I realized she was standing with her front two feet on the center console, her cheek almost pressing against mine. She had her eyes fixed onto the horizon, like she knew we were traveling somewhere. I realized we were driving home together, like she was my partner instead of my possession. I scratched her behind her ear and she gave my palm a few quick licks. From that day on, Maddie Rae always sat next to me instead of in the back.
She got really sick over the summer and I've never been so scared. I'd come home with groceries, just a handful of bags, back when I had to get the plastic bags so I had something to pick up dog doo with. My grandma had scared me that weekend, telling me that rawhides are really dangerous for small dogs since a piece can get stuck in their stomachs. Maddie Rae was a super-chewer so I knew I had to find a solution. I found some bones that were big thick compressed something or other that were for dental hygiene. Schnauzers have a lot of teeth issues. I picked those ones, since the compressed-stuff bones for dogs that chew a lot had corn meal in them, and corn meal isn't good for Schnauzers. Of course I would pick the most complicated dog, right?
So I come home with this pack of three bones that cost me almost ten bucks, and I pull one out in the car so it's already in my hand when I get to the door. She was so stoked. I set the bags down on the ground and began putting away the groceries. I noticed a items were super old, so I started cleaning out leftovers as I put things away. I turned to grab the last bag and there she was, gobbling down the third and last bone from the bag. I panicked and tried to grab the chunk that was left from her mouth, but she wasn't letting go. She could be seriously bratty at times.
I kept an eagle eye on her for the next two days to make sure no funny business happened. She went to the bathroom, went for walks, and barked at black people like she usually did, so I wasn't concerned. I came home from work on the third day and she didn't greet me at the door. Instead I walked into my studio and found puddles of vomit and diarrhea and my baby girl shaking, walking towards me. She came up to me and laid down across my feet with a sigh. Holy Shit.I KILLED her. Frantically I dialed my vet's office and was redirected to the animal hospital up the road. With tears biting at my throat I tried to explain the situation to a nurse - she wanted me to come in so they could see her immediately, it might be serious, she said. I don't have any money, though. I went anyways. I was so frazzled I could barely put the key in the ignition. Mom, Maddie's dead. I fed her three fucking bones all at once. I was psyching myself and making it impossible to function, so I called my oldest sister and told her to just talk about nothing with me on my way to the FVS. Thank God I got a GPS for my birthday. She bullshitted with me all the way to the hospital, and when I came jogging into the office, Maddie Rae in my arms, there were other people waiting in front of me. By this time it was 12:30 at night, so it seemed ridiculous that all of these people had emergencies, too. Mine is more important, get out of my way, get out of my way. I listened in on the man in front of me, who was explaining that his carrier he was holding (which apparently contained a cat) had been hiding in his closet for days. Seriously? Your cat hates you, that's why he's hiding, now fucking MOVE.
My patience is always more powerful than my bite, however, so I waited. A woman asks me what's wrong and before she finishes her sentence I begin to ramble to her, then I start crying, then sobbing, then I have to sit down. She takes Maddie from me and pats me on the shoulder.
I zone back in and I'm filling out paperwork, and my mom is calling me. Awesome, my older sister told her I bet. I answer and I can't really speak, so she yells at me and tells me to calm down. Brilliant. I take a few breaths and explain quickly, and tell her where I am. Of course her first words are "You don't have the money for that." And I'm in tears again. I know I don't, I know I don't. But I can't let this be my fault. I can't. "You don't even have rent, Kelley." Seriously, just stop. I know. I know. But I can't, mom. I can't let her...
I don't know anything about dogs.
The doctor comes back and Maddie is a little perkier. They gave her some oxygen to help her calm down a bit. That was nice, but she needs real help, how does she get real help? It's a hospital, shouldn't they have started fixing her by now?? The doctor looks at me with a forced look of understanding on her face. Fuck. She knows I'm a student and I'm broke and she's trying to empathize and this is bullshit, she can't go this way.
The doctor explains that she has to stay overnight. She needs fluids, and there's some sort of blockage in her abdomen, but they aren't sure that it's her stomach. There's blood in her urine. Blood? From eating too many bones? Why? I sob these questions into her face, wiping snot on my sleeve. I'm sure I looked a little frightening, either that or pathetic.
She says it might be her kidneys. If it's her kidneys, that means surgery. If it's a stomach blockage, that means surgery. But they need an x-ray to know.
Instead of playing the percentage game, I was now playing a sick game of prices - how high is too high of a price to save your pet? She isn't my pet though, she's more than that. She's more than that. The doctor could see me doing math, and she nodded slowly in agreeance.
$1,000 is as far as I could go, if I begged and pleaded from a few people.
The bill was $1,007. I had to pay before they would do anything, what the fuck kind of place does that? I had to pry the money from my mom's hands, but thankfully she agreed to pay. If it had been the middle of the day, I don't think she would've been so easy.
They said she was super dehydrated and something was up with her kidneys - either an infection or stones. Infection was solved with just meds, while, like before, kidney stones would mean surgery.
She took meds for a kidney infection, and she got a thousand times better, so I assumed that must've been it, just a kidney infection. Good. I even got her special dog food for dogs with kidney issues from the vet my twin sister works at. That's the vet we usually go to, because she knows some of the people there so she doesn't get as anxious. She had the WORST separation anxiety, she would howl for a good five minutes after I left, Kryssa said. I could hear her bark from outside of the building. Even sometimes when I left my apartment, if I didn't say goodbye properly she would freak out. Crazy ass dog...
So when I came home on Thursday and she had thrown up a little, I felt that same panic in my spine, but she was acting normal, still all hyper and full of energy. I figured she just ate too much, I had overfed her a bit the day before. We took a long ass nap, and then I got up to take her for a walk. She was shaking when I looked at her, which had me worried all over again. But I don't have any money so I kept trying to convince myself that she was fine. She's just cold, I told myself, so I put a sweater on her. I got a leash from the wall and she still jumped up excitedly. See? Totally fine.
We walked out the door and she was trailing behind me instead of pulling me forward like usual... maybe she's just tired. We go for a walk and she slows her pace even more until she finally just sits down and I'm numb. I didn't know what to do. She's shaking, then she starts to gag and vomits. I'm sitting on the ground outside with her, at 3 in the morning, and I just don't know. That was the last time she walked. I pick her up and take her inside, laying her next to me on the couch. I call that overpriced hospital and just ask them for advice. I can't afford to go back to your place, I don't know what to do, I tell them. She tells me it's okay, just wait until your vet opens in the morning. Four hours seemed dangerous to wait. I fed her some water, tried to get her to eat some food. She'll get better... I tried weakly to tell myself.
By the time we were at the vet her breathing was fast and uneven. I was in tears, trying so hard to think of anything she could've gotten into. Bleach? Sweets? I carry her in and the lady up front looks worried when she looks in Maddie's mouth. I'm in tears again. They know I'm Kryssa's sister, they know me here. Everyone's gonna know I accidentally poisoned my dog. Everything moved really really fast after that.
Kryssa came to be with me the minute she knew I was there. I don't know how she knew something was wrong, twin thing, I guess. She saw me crying and a look flashed across her face that I knew really well. The "Oh man, my twin is crying and I can't do anything" feeling that feels like you're pushing against your own skin. The vet took one look at her and said she looked like she had kidney stones. We can do some expensive tests, he said, but he's been doing this awhile and he's positive it's stones. His eyes were light blue I think. He was genuinely sincere, not fake sincere like the hospital people. I started brainstorming ways to get a loan, or borrow money, or something. How much can surgery be? It can't be all that much, I can do this. I can fix this. Kryssa was so great. She calmly spoke with me while I was sobbing, choking because my stomach was upset from seeing Maddie so sick.
"It's not your fault, I would do the same thing, I know it's hard now, but it's for her." It all still seems so wrong.
I just want my dog back, that's all.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
The Shore
Forced myself to write on an off day - didn't edit it at all, just one fluid chunk all at once.
The sun gleamed off the ocean water, and with one sultry glare she turned the sands raspy texture to that of glossy plastic.
I planted my toes deep within the shore, trying to force myself beneath the earth.
The breeze wrapped around my shoulders, and I leaned my weight into it.
This place makes me think of everything all at once.
About broken childhood toys, my brother's coin collection, raccoons digging through our rubbish bins, my loose teeth. Time struggles to continue here, I think, just like when you're young and you try to run underwater.
It makes me, obligates me, to remember that first time she'd gotten sick. I'd held the loose frame of my mother in my arms, whispering frantically that'd she be okay, she'd be okay. My mother nodded weakly in agreeance but even then I could see the color leaving her blouse.
This beach, this goddamn beach. We'd spent so many summers vacationing her, and now it's a tomb. Bits of her teeth and her legs and her hair all mixed in with the sand, the dog piss, the beer bottles.
I'd had a mother. One that hugs you and smells like clean linens and makes the best scrambled eggs. Then I had a room in a hospital, and then a box, and then charcoal sand. And now I've got broken sea shells and this grey-scale green water and it isn't a fair trade at all.
The sun gleamed off the ocean water, and with one sultry glare she turned the sands raspy texture to that of glossy plastic.
I planted my toes deep within the shore, trying to force myself beneath the earth.
The breeze wrapped around my shoulders, and I leaned my weight into it.
This place makes me think of everything all at once.
About broken childhood toys, my brother's coin collection, raccoons digging through our rubbish bins, my loose teeth. Time struggles to continue here, I think, just like when you're young and you try to run underwater.
It makes me, obligates me, to remember that first time she'd gotten sick. I'd held the loose frame of my mother in my arms, whispering frantically that'd she be okay, she'd be okay. My mother nodded weakly in agreeance but even then I could see the color leaving her blouse.
This beach, this goddamn beach. We'd spent so many summers vacationing her, and now it's a tomb. Bits of her teeth and her legs and her hair all mixed in with the sand, the dog piss, the beer bottles.
I'd had a mother. One that hugs you and smells like clean linens and makes the best scrambled eggs. Then I had a room in a hospital, and then a box, and then charcoal sand. And now I've got broken sea shells and this grey-scale green water and it isn't a fair trade at all.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
It's All Fiction, so calm down.
All made up. Except for the "When I Was Ten" story, that one was non-fiction...oh and some of this one, too. I don't edit this stuff unless I feel like going back and saving something. Most of it is full of typo's and inconsistent tenses. haha :)
Then my car's tires hit the damn curb again, so I cursed under my breath and struggled with the seat belt's death grip on my purse strap. I step from my car, the door moaning loudly like it always does, to see someone that I slowly recognized to be one of my neighbors. I'd seen him a few times, said a quick 'hey-what's-up?" that was just a greeting, not an actual question while running off to class or to work. He was tall, almost too tall, and tan with an upstate accent that I couldn't put my finger on. He smelled good, like a decent cologne with a thin layer of beer and Newports mixed in. That can't be normal that I think that smells good.
"Heyyy, neighbor, what's up? Why you out so late? You're cute. Let's chill!"
I cannot believe I lost my pepper spray last week, now I'm standing here defenseless against my too drunk too tall neighbor. I was thinking of how to put my keys between my fingers, and which way I should punch him to have the worst effect, when he touched my arm.
"I'm Spencer. Let's chill, you're cute, I just don't want to be alone right now."
I'm not sure if he said "you're cute" again or if I just heard it, but I felt comfortable with him, and his eyes were sincere, his body language relaxed. I can hear my mother in the back of my head screaming "What is wrong with you?!" and I just whisper 'everything.' to shut her up.
"I'm Jen, I was out studying. Huge test on Friday." I rescued my phone from my purse, leaving my bag to be swallowed up by my car. Locking the door behind me, Spencer and I start walking and he kept talking.
"Yeah we always see each other and barely even say hello so -"
"I do too say hello!"
"Psh yeah like once. I just marked you off as a bitch after that." He smiled and I was glad he was so light-hearted. Maybe he was just a light-hearted drunk, I don't know, but it was nice to spend some time with someone. I guess I didn't want to be alone, either.
We walked to his front door and I laughed, tapping him on the arm.
"You live right below me! Weird, huh?"
"Yo, this place is crazy, have you met the lady with the short bleached-blonde hair, they call her - "
"Mrs. Juicy?" I laughed, "yeah, her dog is so cute!"
He opened the door to his apartment and it was odd to see the exact same model as mine, but as someone else's home. I could see him better now, and his hair was black like I'd guessed, but his skin tone was a lot more tan than I'd suspected, an olive color.
"Are you Hispanic?" I asked, wondering if he was the typical, suave asshole so common to our city.
"Nah, nah, nah, look - " He points to a big black-and-white print of Frank Sinatra hanging on the wall. Frank's relaxed in a chair with a careful half-smile, a whisp of smoke collecting above his hat.
"One-hundred percent Italian, baby." I rolled my eyes and sat down on his loveseat next him, him sitting forward, me indian-style and facing his side.
"So who are you, what do you do, tell me, Jen." He lights a cigarette (Newports, just like I'd guessed) and hands me one, too.
-more laterrrrrr-
Then my car's tires hit the damn curb again, so I cursed under my breath and struggled with the seat belt's death grip on my purse strap. I step from my car, the door moaning loudly like it always does, to see someone that I slowly recognized to be one of my neighbors. I'd seen him a few times, said a quick 'hey-what's-up?" that was just a greeting, not an actual question while running off to class or to work. He was tall, almost too tall, and tan with an upstate accent that I couldn't put my finger on. He smelled good, like a decent cologne with a thin layer of beer and Newports mixed in. That can't be normal that I think that smells good.
"Heyyy, neighbor, what's up? Why you out so late? You're cute. Let's chill!"
I cannot believe I lost my pepper spray last week, now I'm standing here defenseless against my too drunk too tall neighbor. I was thinking of how to put my keys between my fingers, and which way I should punch him to have the worst effect, when he touched my arm.
"I'm Spencer. Let's chill, you're cute, I just don't want to be alone right now."
I'm not sure if he said "you're cute" again or if I just heard it, but I felt comfortable with him, and his eyes were sincere, his body language relaxed. I can hear my mother in the back of my head screaming "What is wrong with you?!" and I just whisper 'everything.' to shut her up.
"I'm Jen, I was out studying. Huge test on Friday." I rescued my phone from my purse, leaving my bag to be swallowed up by my car. Locking the door behind me, Spencer and I start walking and he kept talking.
"Yeah we always see each other and barely even say hello so -"
"I do too say hello!"
"Psh yeah like once. I just marked you off as a bitch after that." He smiled and I was glad he was so light-hearted. Maybe he was just a light-hearted drunk, I don't know, but it was nice to spend some time with someone. I guess I didn't want to be alone, either.
We walked to his front door and I laughed, tapping him on the arm.
"You live right below me! Weird, huh?"
"Yo, this place is crazy, have you met the lady with the short bleached-blonde hair, they call her - "
"Mrs. Juicy?" I laughed, "yeah, her dog is so cute!"
He opened the door to his apartment and it was odd to see the exact same model as mine, but as someone else's home. I could see him better now, and his hair was black like I'd guessed, but his skin tone was a lot more tan than I'd suspected, an olive color.
"Are you Hispanic?" I asked, wondering if he was the typical, suave asshole so common to our city.
"Nah, nah, nah, look - " He points to a big black-and-white print of Frank Sinatra hanging on the wall. Frank's relaxed in a chair with a careful half-smile, a whisp of smoke collecting above his hat.
"One-hundred percent Italian, baby." I rolled my eyes and sat down on his loveseat next him, him sitting forward, me indian-style and facing his side.
"So who are you, what do you do, tell me, Jen." He lights a cigarette (Newports, just like I'd guessed) and hands me one, too.
-more laterrrrrr-
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Potpourri
And another thing is the way that I can't touch them. How I can touch my skin, and feel the dull bite of pain when you press your thumbs against the blue-grey puddles, wondering what I'd see if I peeled back that first layer and looked each burst and broken vessel right in the eye.
Thick lilac petals, a romance novel.
He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not.
Thick lilac petals, a romance novel.
He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Hiatus
Officially on writing-hiatus for a while.
Trying to write songs for Le'Mango and learn the uke a little better.
Plus I'm trying this new thing where I actually date people, and it turns out that takes up some time.
Trying to write songs for Le'Mango and learn the uke a little better.
Plus I'm trying this new thing where I actually date people, and it turns out that takes up some time.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Bit 20-something
Sorry I'm such a terrible blogger. But hey, it's my blog, so get over it.
Letter to An Ex-Lover
I don't feel like writing fiction today. I feel like telling you how much... how much I hate who I've been. How much I want to be just a good person and a good friend. How I'm sorry I slept with you, but I'm not at the same time. You gave me exactly what I needed when I was broken. It wasn't conventional love, but it was love enough to keep me from absolutely collapsing. I never cried to you, and that's something I kind of regret, but it didn't feel right, so I guess it's okay. I just needed to be held while I fell asleep, and I needed someone to know that I had love in me, that I had more than just flesh to give. I don't think I'll ever forgive myself for giving something so precious to a near stranger just because I was hurting. You weren't my first, but I had that same sick feeling in my stomach when I drove home from your house in the middle of the night that first time. The first few times, actually. But I just convinced myself that anything was better than hating myself and sleeping alone and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't be something serious for you and I'm sorry that I was so cold. I feel like my heart is warm again, and even though I'm traveling a few friends lighter, I know who I am and I know that I have a lot of love to give (emotional, not physical) to the world. So thank you for being a bad mistake that turned out pretty decent.
Letter to An Ex-Lover
I don't feel like writing fiction today. I feel like telling you how much... how much I hate who I've been. How much I want to be just a good person and a good friend. How I'm sorry I slept with you, but I'm not at the same time. You gave me exactly what I needed when I was broken. It wasn't conventional love, but it was love enough to keep me from absolutely collapsing. I never cried to you, and that's something I kind of regret, but it didn't feel right, so I guess it's okay. I just needed to be held while I fell asleep, and I needed someone to know that I had love in me, that I had more than just flesh to give. I don't think I'll ever forgive myself for giving something so precious to a near stranger just because I was hurting. You weren't my first, but I had that same sick feeling in my stomach when I drove home from your house in the middle of the night that first time. The first few times, actually. But I just convinced myself that anything was better than hating myself and sleeping alone and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't be something serious for you and I'm sorry that I was so cold. I feel like my heart is warm again, and even though I'm traveling a few friends lighter, I know who I am and I know that I have a lot of love to give (emotional, not physical) to the world. So thank you for being a bad mistake that turned out pretty decent.
Friday, July 30, 2010
When I Was Ten (Portfolio 2009)
I'd almost forgotten about this piece. I'd hidden it away in my Documents.
It's non-fiction, shockingly. But hey, I'm a fiction writer, who knows if I'm telling the truth. ;)
"Well," Bin's mother began meekly, as she gently, almost nervously, handled the strand of fake pearls around her neck -
"...everyone knows, Maria. Everyone knows that you're going through a divorce, and that's why she acts out like that." Her eyes darted towards my dirty sneakers, then back at the folded hands of my own mother.
My mother sat perfectly still, her hair a frazzled mess, her eyes smoldering protectively. She rose from her seat and I could smell the hand sanitizer on her palms, metallic and heavy.
"Well, Marilyn, everyone knows your boy's a touch stupid, but somehow you managed to get 'em worked into the gifted program just to aggravate my kid."
She grabbed me by the wrist, pulling me from my usual seat at the principal's "discussion table."
"We're done here." my mother spat, turning to shoot one last glare at the slight, gangly figure of Binford Mayfield. Her hips jingled and clacked with prison cell keys as we performed our heated march to her white mini-van.
The night before I’d put on a clever performance, sobbing and choking as I tried to explain to my mother how I’d been brutally assaulted by a boy in my class, and I’d only been trying to defend myself, when realistically I’d beaten the shit out of him for laughing at me. I showed her the tender window in my teeth were I’d lost a baby tooth that day eating lunch, and fought back fake tears as I quietly explained that he’d sucker-punched me in the jaw. My mother yanked me closer by the chin so that she could inspect the bloody gum of my mouth. She lowered her eyelids and a darkness filled her lash line; a touch of what I would later recognize as insanity shaking around the edges of her eyes, but she caught it before it got inside of her, pushing it up into her messy hair. I did everything I could to suppress a grin.
I fucking hated obstacle course day.
The monkey bars were the worst part; they sat there, at the end of the obstacle course, kicking sand in my face, taunting me.
I'd take my time trudging through the other sections, like pull-ups or jumping jacks, but there it always stood, cemented into the ground, the sun reflecting off of its unholy arms and legs.
I'd hang from its neck, my hands clasped so tightly onto it that they burned and itched, our P.E. coach offering kind and encouraging words, my stubby legs flailing dangerously close to his face, but there was no moving me from that first rung. So there I would hang, like an anchor tied up by just a sewing thread, until the bell rang for class.
I wasn't a cute kid when I was ten, either.
I was a squat, exceptionally hairy little girl with mis-matched socks, and only my four top front teeth would show when I grinned my fleshy, crooked grin.
Our gifted fifth grade class room had eleven kids, all of which I hated save my twin sister. If Erica looked at me funny, I would insult her dirt poor family and her hand-me-down clothes until she cried whenever the teacher wasn't around. If Curt laughed at the thickness of my eyebrows, I would spit in his food, then smile in his direction as I greedily devoured my own at our lunch table. My sister sat silently, aware that no one was safe from my tirade.
As we gathered our books into our plastic backpacks after school that day, I heard the taller boy, Bin, whispering to Curt, mocking my earlier attempt at those damned monkey bars. I spun around menacingly, my hands pulled tightly into volatile little knots
"Shut up, Bin!" I hollered, slinging my heavy work load into the back of his shoulders, the weight of Science and Mathematics slamming into the base of his neck. He tried to defend himself, and even got in a few kicks, as I ruthlessly beat him into the tile floor. Smiling to myself, I watched as he fell to his hands and knees, shaking and guarding his face with his arms.
I harnessed my weapon across my back, humming to myself as I walked serenely from the classroom.
"I can't believe that boy didn't get in more trouble!" My mother exclaimed as we climbed into her car.
I pouted enough that she would catch it in the rear-view mirror.
"I know it." I mumbled as I watched the Mayfield's staring in our direction, a smirk creeping up into my gums.
"He's such a bully."
It's non-fiction, shockingly. But hey, I'm a fiction writer, who knows if I'm telling the truth. ;)
"Well," Bin's mother began meekly, as she gently, almost nervously, handled the strand of fake pearls around her neck -
"...everyone knows, Maria. Everyone knows that you're going through a divorce, and that's why she acts out like that." Her eyes darted towards my dirty sneakers, then back at the folded hands of my own mother.
My mother sat perfectly still, her hair a frazzled mess, her eyes smoldering protectively. She rose from her seat and I could smell the hand sanitizer on her palms, metallic and heavy.
"Well, Marilyn, everyone knows your boy's a touch stupid, but somehow you managed to get 'em worked into the gifted program just to aggravate my kid."
She grabbed me by the wrist, pulling me from my usual seat at the principal's "discussion table."
"We're done here." my mother spat, turning to shoot one last glare at the slight, gangly figure of Binford Mayfield. Her hips jingled and clacked with prison cell keys as we performed our heated march to her white mini-van.
The night before I’d put on a clever performance, sobbing and choking as I tried to explain to my mother how I’d been brutally assaulted by a boy in my class, and I’d only been trying to defend myself, when realistically I’d beaten the shit out of him for laughing at me. I showed her the tender window in my teeth were I’d lost a baby tooth that day eating lunch, and fought back fake tears as I quietly explained that he’d sucker-punched me in the jaw. My mother yanked me closer by the chin so that she could inspect the bloody gum of my mouth. She lowered her eyelids and a darkness filled her lash line; a touch of what I would later recognize as insanity shaking around the edges of her eyes, but she caught it before it got inside of her, pushing it up into her messy hair. I did everything I could to suppress a grin.
I fucking hated obstacle course day.
The monkey bars were the worst part; they sat there, at the end of the obstacle course, kicking sand in my face, taunting me.
I'd take my time trudging through the other sections, like pull-ups or jumping jacks, but there it always stood, cemented into the ground, the sun reflecting off of its unholy arms and legs.
I'd hang from its neck, my hands clasped so tightly onto it that they burned and itched, our P.E. coach offering kind and encouraging words, my stubby legs flailing dangerously close to his face, but there was no moving me from that first rung. So there I would hang, like an anchor tied up by just a sewing thread, until the bell rang for class.
I wasn't a cute kid when I was ten, either.
I was a squat, exceptionally hairy little girl with mis-matched socks, and only my four top front teeth would show when I grinned my fleshy, crooked grin.
Our gifted fifth grade class room had eleven kids, all of which I hated save my twin sister. If Erica looked at me funny, I would insult her dirt poor family and her hand-me-down clothes until she cried whenever the teacher wasn't around. If Curt laughed at the thickness of my eyebrows, I would spit in his food, then smile in his direction as I greedily devoured my own at our lunch table. My sister sat silently, aware that no one was safe from my tirade.
As we gathered our books into our plastic backpacks after school that day, I heard the taller boy, Bin, whispering to Curt, mocking my earlier attempt at those damned monkey bars. I spun around menacingly, my hands pulled tightly into volatile little knots
"Shut up, Bin!" I hollered, slinging my heavy work load into the back of his shoulders, the weight of Science and Mathematics slamming into the base of his neck. He tried to defend himself, and even got in a few kicks, as I ruthlessly beat him into the tile floor. Smiling to myself, I watched as he fell to his hands and knees, shaking and guarding his face with his arms.
I harnessed my weapon across my back, humming to myself as I walked serenely from the classroom.
"I can't believe that boy didn't get in more trouble!" My mother exclaimed as we climbed into her car.
I pouted enough that she would catch it in the rear-view mirror.
"I know it." I mumbled as I watched the Mayfield's staring in our direction, a smirk creeping up into my gums.
"He's such a bully."
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Remix
Took a few old thoughts and gave them a spin.
I can feel all of my potential solidifying, cementing itself into my tendons. I-
I remember when weekends were the only thing I wanted, when I would eat sugary cereals and wake up at 7 a.m. just to watch Charlie Brown. When my sisters and I would wear the same pajamas in different colors and sing along with Celine Dion songs while slipping and scuffing around on the living room floor in our fuzzy socks.
Now all I can think about is time, how much of it I'm wasting, how much more I need, how little energy I have left to give. It hurts to try and work at anything, it makes me emotionally exhausted.
After just ten hours of being awake I'm ready to pass right back out, but I'm never completely asleep. His dark shadow creeps up from beneath the little glowing creases around the edges of my bedroom door and I can't breathe.
There's a glint of silver and I can hear the air in front of me rip open, the stink of his skin, and I'm never completely asleep.
Crumbling walls surround an illicit wound between my legs.
A dull, broad ache in the front, the back, the middle of my skull and I just don't want to think ever again.
Stains on my sheets, blemishes on my soul.
I can feel all of my potential solidifying, cementing itself into my tendons. I-
I remember when weekends were the only thing I wanted, when I would eat sugary cereals and wake up at 7 a.m. just to watch Charlie Brown. When my sisters and I would wear the same pajamas in different colors and sing along with Celine Dion songs while slipping and scuffing around on the living room floor in our fuzzy socks.
Now all I can think about is time, how much of it I'm wasting, how much more I need, how little energy I have left to give. It hurts to try and work at anything, it makes me emotionally exhausted.
After just ten hours of being awake I'm ready to pass right back out, but I'm never completely asleep. His dark shadow creeps up from beneath the little glowing creases around the edges of my bedroom door and I can't breathe.
There's a glint of silver and I can hear the air in front of me rip open, the stink of his skin, and I'm never completely asleep.
Crumbling walls surround an illicit wound between my legs.
A dull, broad ache in the front, the back, the middle of my skull and I just don't want to think ever again.
Stains on my sheets, blemishes on my soul.
A Compilation of "My Mel"
So far, these are her bones.
The more I read this first one, the less and less I like it. I think it's gotta go.
Possible Beginning – Mel is college age
"C'mon, Mel, you used to love to throw down!"
He hands me a luke-warm beer and a smile.
I don't know his name, and after searching my memory I realize that I never did. He was a thick build, a rough dresser; but his face was kind. Inviting.
Well whoever he is, he doesn't know me too well either; I hate beer.
I hand the beer back to Thick and give him a quick kiss on the cheek as I walk through the entrance and into a sea of partially wasted twenty-ish year-olds.
Grabbing something cold, clear, and bottled from an oversized ice bucket I head towards the music.
I start small talking a girl from my psych class - Kim, or Katie or something like that. Honestly, I was just glad to see a familiar face, because so far I'd only recognized a few one night stands and a cat-fighting frienemy or two.
I wasn't feeling comfortable enough yet, so I headed back for a second bottle. As I struggled with the cap for a moment I felt a gentle hand on the small of my back and a husky but sober voice at my ear.
"What's your name, babe?" He half-yelled into my eardrum (the music level had been steadily increasing).
"Stacy," I lied to him,"you?"
"Evan. I think we had a health class together, yeah?"
Wrong. Evan looked a lot like that one guy off of Greek - the one that started off really geeky who was that one girl's brother? Evan smiled confidently and used a little too much eye contact. There was an innocence to him though, possibly fake, but it was a little difficult to judge character in such a crowded apartment.
"Right, I remember! You sat near the front." I smiled a reassuring smile that had him confused.
Apparently he's a back-row sorta guy.
I held out my drink for him to get me another; I figured that way he'd have a little extra time to plan out his next move.
My stomach was feeling a little cramped & upset, but I knew if I just drank a little faster it'd eventually wash away. Alcohol never did settle with me well.
"So what's your major?" Evan asked as he fought his way back through the crowd with a red plastic cup in his hand.
Original question, Ev. "Biochemical Engineering." I lied again.
"Ouchhhh. I'm pre-law myself, so one day I'll be able to arrest you for being so damn beautiful."
I rolled my eyes and shook my head out of embarrassment for him. He knew it was cheesy from the giant grin he was sporting, but he'd gone for the kill anyways.
"Let's go dance, Evan." I grabbed him by the hand and gulped down the last of whatever he'd put together. I'd promised myself that I wouldn't drink drinks that someone else made after a friend of mine got roofied, but Ev didn't seem like the kind of guy who even knew where to get roofs, let alone slip me one.
I danced so close to Evan that I could tell he wasn't comfortable. He'd given me a funny look after I'd swallowed down that last drink so quickly. I pressed my hips to his and he smiled a surprised but knowing smile.
"Let's find someplace quieter...to talk." I yelled in his ear halfheartedly. I've played this through so many times that I pretty much had it scripted. I grabbed a few jello shots from a passing tray as I led Evan away.
Melanie's Story Part I
Quietly, he spoke.
"Well then I can't see you any more."
I searched his face quizzically, trying to figure out where exactly this was coming from. Definitely not his backbone, that's for sure.
"Then open your eyes, Craig! This - this isn't something you can just run away from! I can't run, and you're tied to me. Life isn't a three-legged race, Craig. We have to take this slow, together, okay? Step by step. Together."
"I can't, Mel. I just...I just can't."
I pressed a hand against my stomach. Apparently it was as sick of his bullshit as I was.
"I didn't do this to myself! WE did this! We made this...this..."
"-mistake."
I couldn't believe the word he'd chosen to finish my sentence.
"To be honest I was going to say 'baby', but apparently I was way off base. It's too late for the alternative, Craig. WE HAVE NO OPTIONS. We're just going to have to roll with the Goddamn punches."
The look he gave me said everything. He was always the kind of person who would just get frustrated when he couldn't move his emotions from his heart to his mouth, which is where I came into play. I felt incredibly calm, which so surprised me; I was picturing a complete meltdown.
"I know that you don't love me; not anymore, at least. To be honest, Craig, I'm not in love with you either. Your fingernails are way too long, and you only wash your hair like twice a week. Not exactly attractive."
I sighed a defeated sigh. Maybe this kid is going to be a superhero, because I have no idea where my strength is coming from.
"I don't have the money, or the time, and neither do you. But combined, maybe...maybe we can be our own little dysfunctional family."
He was pacing back and forth, slowly and deliberately. I stepped in front of him, staring him in the face.
"Craig, maybe we can do this."
Pressing both of his hands to his forehead, Craig slowly shook his head.
"Well. I'm not gonna lie, that's disappointing."
Together we just stood there for a second, kicking at the ground and staring off into the distance past the lakeshore. Words just kept coming out of my mouth, even though I knew I should probably keep to silence.
"You know, in third world countries like Cambodia or Somalia or whatever they used to have these things called "menstrual huts". When women were on their periods they would be exiled to just sit in these huts, because men in like the 1400's thought that the shedding of uteral lining was witchcraft voodoo or Santaria or something. Except they probably didn't actually CALL them "menstrual huts" at the time seeing as how they thought it was some form of really icky, evil magic."
Probbbbably not the best conversational topic.
Taking an embarassed second to clear my throat, I decided to wrap things up.
"Wellllpp, you've got about what?, five or six months to find your balls? So, if those two little bundles of fertile joy show up and you decide to do something halfway valiant by being a father to your own child, why don't you shoot me a text or facebook me or something. I'm probably not going to want to talk to you or see you, so impersonal communication is most likely the best route to take. But hey, what do you know about the best route, right? Have a good life, asshole."
I had a feeling that things would turn out this way.
Take a little advice from me and listen to your gut.
Mine used to be full of good judgement, but now it's probably got something in it that looks like a newborn panda surrounded by placenta goo.
Pregnant
Walking through a grocery store makes me anxious. I'm afraid to make eye contact with any of the passersby. I mean, should I smile? Should I nod a bit? What if someone asks me a question, what if they don't look back, what if they know just by looking directly into my eyes? The thought alone makes my breathing all uneven and it feels like I'm sipping through a straw for air, so I keep my eyes glued to the floor.
Plums boil down to pulp, cranberries dry on thick rolls of parchment and yellow squash bursts into flames. Numbers fly through my scalp and all I can think of are bank statements, diapers, formula, and the bite of whiskey that I miss so fucking much.
It's an off day and I don't have as much concern for her as usual, and it makes me sick to my stomach with guilt. Also I'm just plain sick to my stomach. I hold her from the outside of my shirt, hoping she can't hear my thoughts. We walk slowly, trying to make a decision that we haven't quite figured out the two sides of yet.
I look at the cellophane bags of bread and I feel my stomach filling up, the grumbling lining absolutely stuffed full of toy trucks and glitter crayons and Barbie dolls with their hair all chopped off. Her little plastic feet carve their way into my esophagus and I'm sure I could probably go for weeks without eating.
Melanie's Story, Part II
It's been two months since the talk, and I'm still pathetically hopeful.
I mean, hey - everyone always says a woman is always a mother, a man is a father once he sees his child. Maybe...maybe he just needs to see her.
I took a deep breath for both of us.
The whole school knew by now, and all of my friends were still deciding. Still deciding if they should stay, or run, or just drop off a gift at my baby shower and then pretend like they don't know me the next day. It's a very subtle thing they're doing; trying to be supportive but also slowly giving me more 'space' until they finally stop visiting altogether.
I don't blame them, I wouldn't want to associate with me either.
I'd been taking a walk through the city's park, which is always empty on a Thursday. I stopped to take a rest at one of the benches closest to the water, holding my little girl from the outside of my belly.
I closed my eyes and just let my mind float between my thoughts, slipping around the corners of my ideas, weaving in and out of them.
Ezra. Ezra...something.
I've always adored that name. In Hebrew it means "help", and I always thought that was so fitting for a newborn - especially an unexpected one. Most new parents are so freaked out by the time that their kid is almost ready to be born that they are just about to kill each other. When their baby arrives, it soothes them into the nurturing mothers and fathers they need to be. The baby helps their relationship.
In my case, however, Ezra's going to be a different kind of help.
God willing, she's going to keep me sane.
Hugging my belly, I got comfortable and started to tell my Ezra a story.
"Once there was a sailor whose lover was The Sea. As soon as he was old enough to work on a boat, he got a job as a laborer. He soon became the captain of his very own ship, which he happily sailed all around the world until he was an old man. Every night he would go to his cabin below the deck and let the beautiful songs of The Sea lull him to sleep, his lover only seperated from him by a few inches of wood and metal. As an old man, one night the sailor became completely despondent. Do you know what that means, baby girl? That means he was so heartsick he couldn't fight any longer. He sat on the deck of his glorious ship, drinking bottle after bottle of wine, toasting to the health of his lover The Sea. Out of his mind with both heartache and liquor, the sailor tied a cannonball around his ankle, and climbed over the railing of his ship. Declaring his love for The Sea, he begged her to let him love her. He explained that he'd never wanted one being so much in his life. Never felt so connected; so connected that the mere inches of distance between them was so painful he couldn't bare it."
Taking a few moments to push the tears back down my throat, I continued.
"The Sea, feeling his pain and realizing her own feelings for him, sent a giant wave towards the sailor's ship, sending the man right into her loving embrace. To this day, if you listen closely enough, you can hear their laughter in the crash of every wave."
Ezra is born
I looked into her small sticky eyes for the first time, felt her tight, tiny hand around just my ring finger, and my heart exploded. The bits of my heart floated up my chest and then out of my eyes, heavy tears of happiness convincing me that she was all I'd ever fucking need.
Her skin was a painful reddish purple but I could already see her tan and smiling into the sun, a wealth of brown curls falling down the back of her cotton sundress as we plant tomatoes and cucumbers and bell peppers. She'd smile into the sky, absolutely joyful just to be living, to be. I'll teach her all about how the seeds grow and why we have to wait for them to be ready to eat. I'll tell her lots of fairy-tales instead of the specifics. Like how when a Borrower takes something of yours you have to write an itty bitty note asking for it back, otherwise they'll be insulted if you use human sized paper.
I'll tell her all of the vegetables are just shy when they're seeds. That she'll have to sing to them and tell them all of her deepest, gooiest secrets and dreams. Only then will their little ears reach up, up, up out of the ground to hear her songs even better.
That's what I'll tell her.
Finale.
She reached at the grass and pulled out several blades, as if digging up her memories from the earth itself. The sun warmed the freckles across her nose, her frizzy blonde hair full of barrettes and braids and happiness.
A woman with endearing eyes sat across from Ezra, sharing the same snack of string cheese and boxed apple juice.
"It's alright," the woman whispered carefully, "you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."
Ezra shook her head cautiously and gave one of her infamously carefree smiles.
"No, it isn't like that. It isn't like that at all. My real mom is my adoptive mom, and I know that. My Mel wanted me to know that. See she gave me a Silly Sad box before I could even think my own thoughts, and whenever I'm sad I just open it and talk to her through it. It's full of photos and letters and CD's she made, and even some of her singing to me. It's a magic box that turns all of your sad thoughts into silly ones."
The woman put her pen and paper aside, interested in the unusual tone Ezra had. For an adopted child, birth parents are usually a touchy subject once they get older, but Ezra spoke with forgiveness and understanding that she'd never felt come from a child before.
"So how do you feel about her, your birth mother?"
"She doesn't like me calling her that, and neither do I. She's My Mel. She taught me a lot of things while I was in her tummy, so that when I was born I'd already know them. Like how to pick a good pair of shoes and how to make plants grow. She gave me a new home so that I could share my knowledge and my love, she said. She felt like I was just so special that she had to share me with the world, even if that meant we couldn't see each other for a while... but I've got a mission, you know?" Ezra stood from her spot and placed her fists against her hips. "Somedays I have to reassure the sky that she's beautiful so that she won't fall down, and occasionally I get to teach dogs and cats get along with each other, but mostly I just like to help. It doesn't matter how. My Mel told me that's my gift, and that you're supposed to give back what's been gifted to you."
Ezra spoke with such assuredness, such fortitude that the woman wasn't sure what to say. In fact, she wasn't sure if she should say anything. All she knew is that she really did believe her, and her My Mel.
The more I read this first one, the less and less I like it. I think it's gotta go.
Possible Beginning – Mel is college age
"C'mon, Mel, you used to love to throw down!"
He hands me a luke-warm beer and a smile.
I don't know his name, and after searching my memory I realize that I never did. He was a thick build, a rough dresser; but his face was kind. Inviting.
Well whoever he is, he doesn't know me too well either; I hate beer.
I hand the beer back to Thick and give him a quick kiss on the cheek as I walk through the entrance and into a sea of partially wasted twenty-ish year-olds.
Grabbing something cold, clear, and bottled from an oversized ice bucket I head towards the music.
I start small talking a girl from my psych class - Kim, or Katie or something like that. Honestly, I was just glad to see a familiar face, because so far I'd only recognized a few one night stands and a cat-fighting frienemy or two.
I wasn't feeling comfortable enough yet, so I headed back for a second bottle. As I struggled with the cap for a moment I felt a gentle hand on the small of my back and a husky but sober voice at my ear.
"What's your name, babe?" He half-yelled into my eardrum (the music level had been steadily increasing).
"Stacy," I lied to him,"you?"
"Evan. I think we had a health class together, yeah?"
Wrong. Evan looked a lot like that one guy off of Greek - the one that started off really geeky who was that one girl's brother? Evan smiled confidently and used a little too much eye contact. There was an innocence to him though, possibly fake, but it was a little difficult to judge character in such a crowded apartment.
"Right, I remember! You sat near the front." I smiled a reassuring smile that had him confused.
Apparently he's a back-row sorta guy.
I held out my drink for him to get me another; I figured that way he'd have a little extra time to plan out his next move.
My stomach was feeling a little cramped & upset, but I knew if I just drank a little faster it'd eventually wash away. Alcohol never did settle with me well.
"So what's your major?" Evan asked as he fought his way back through the crowd with a red plastic cup in his hand.
Original question, Ev. "Biochemical Engineering." I lied again.
"Ouchhhh. I'm pre-law myself, so one day I'll be able to arrest you for being so damn beautiful."
I rolled my eyes and shook my head out of embarrassment for him. He knew it was cheesy from the giant grin he was sporting, but he'd gone for the kill anyways.
"Let's go dance, Evan." I grabbed him by the hand and gulped down the last of whatever he'd put together. I'd promised myself that I wouldn't drink drinks that someone else made after a friend of mine got roofied, but Ev didn't seem like the kind of guy who even knew where to get roofs, let alone slip me one.
I danced so close to Evan that I could tell he wasn't comfortable. He'd given me a funny look after I'd swallowed down that last drink so quickly. I pressed my hips to his and he smiled a surprised but knowing smile.
"Let's find someplace quieter...to talk." I yelled in his ear halfheartedly. I've played this through so many times that I pretty much had it scripted. I grabbed a few jello shots from a passing tray as I led Evan away.
Melanie's Story Part I
Quietly, he spoke.
"Well then I can't see you any more."
I searched his face quizzically, trying to figure out where exactly this was coming from. Definitely not his backbone, that's for sure.
"Then open your eyes, Craig! This - this isn't something you can just run away from! I can't run, and you're tied to me. Life isn't a three-legged race, Craig. We have to take this slow, together, okay? Step by step. Together."
"I can't, Mel. I just...I just can't."
I pressed a hand against my stomach. Apparently it was as sick of his bullshit as I was.
"I didn't do this to myself! WE did this! We made this...this..."
"-mistake."
I couldn't believe the word he'd chosen to finish my sentence.
"To be honest I was going to say 'baby', but apparently I was way off base. It's too late for the alternative, Craig. WE HAVE NO OPTIONS. We're just going to have to roll with the Goddamn punches."
The look he gave me said everything. He was always the kind of person who would just get frustrated when he couldn't move his emotions from his heart to his mouth, which is where I came into play. I felt incredibly calm, which so surprised me; I was picturing a complete meltdown.
"I know that you don't love me; not anymore, at least. To be honest, Craig, I'm not in love with you either. Your fingernails are way too long, and you only wash your hair like twice a week. Not exactly attractive."
I sighed a defeated sigh. Maybe this kid is going to be a superhero, because I have no idea where my strength is coming from.
"I don't have the money, or the time, and neither do you. But combined, maybe...maybe we can be our own little dysfunctional family."
He was pacing back and forth, slowly and deliberately. I stepped in front of him, staring him in the face.
"Craig, maybe we can do this."
Pressing both of his hands to his forehead, Craig slowly shook his head.
"Well. I'm not gonna lie, that's disappointing."
Together we just stood there for a second, kicking at the ground and staring off into the distance past the lakeshore. Words just kept coming out of my mouth, even though I knew I should probably keep to silence.
"You know, in third world countries like Cambodia or Somalia or whatever they used to have these things called "menstrual huts". When women were on their periods they would be exiled to just sit in these huts, because men in like the 1400's thought that the shedding of uteral lining was witchcraft voodoo or Santaria or something. Except they probably didn't actually CALL them "menstrual huts" at the time seeing as how they thought it was some form of really icky, evil magic."
Probbbbably not the best conversational topic.
Taking an embarassed second to clear my throat, I decided to wrap things up.
"Wellllpp, you've got about what?, five or six months to find your balls? So, if those two little bundles of fertile joy show up and you decide to do something halfway valiant by being a father to your own child, why don't you shoot me a text or facebook me or something. I'm probably not going to want to talk to you or see you, so impersonal communication is most likely the best route to take. But hey, what do you know about the best route, right? Have a good life, asshole."
I had a feeling that things would turn out this way.
Take a little advice from me and listen to your gut.
Mine used to be full of good judgement, but now it's probably got something in it that looks like a newborn panda surrounded by placenta goo.
Pregnant
Walking through a grocery store makes me anxious. I'm afraid to make eye contact with any of the passersby. I mean, should I smile? Should I nod a bit? What if someone asks me a question, what if they don't look back, what if they know just by looking directly into my eyes? The thought alone makes my breathing all uneven and it feels like I'm sipping through a straw for air, so I keep my eyes glued to the floor.
Plums boil down to pulp, cranberries dry on thick rolls of parchment and yellow squash bursts into flames. Numbers fly through my scalp and all I can think of are bank statements, diapers, formula, and the bite of whiskey that I miss so fucking much.
It's an off day and I don't have as much concern for her as usual, and it makes me sick to my stomach with guilt. Also I'm just plain sick to my stomach. I hold her from the outside of my shirt, hoping she can't hear my thoughts. We walk slowly, trying to make a decision that we haven't quite figured out the two sides of yet.
I look at the cellophane bags of bread and I feel my stomach filling up, the grumbling lining absolutely stuffed full of toy trucks and glitter crayons and Barbie dolls with their hair all chopped off. Her little plastic feet carve their way into my esophagus and I'm sure I could probably go for weeks without eating.
Melanie's Story, Part II
It's been two months since the talk, and I'm still pathetically hopeful.
I mean, hey - everyone always says a woman is always a mother, a man is a father once he sees his child. Maybe...maybe he just needs to see her.
I took a deep breath for both of us.
The whole school knew by now, and all of my friends were still deciding. Still deciding if they should stay, or run, or just drop off a gift at my baby shower and then pretend like they don't know me the next day. It's a very subtle thing they're doing; trying to be supportive but also slowly giving me more 'space' until they finally stop visiting altogether.
I don't blame them, I wouldn't want to associate with me either.
I'd been taking a walk through the city's park, which is always empty on a Thursday. I stopped to take a rest at one of the benches closest to the water, holding my little girl from the outside of my belly.
I closed my eyes and just let my mind float between my thoughts, slipping around the corners of my ideas, weaving in and out of them.
Ezra. Ezra...something.
I've always adored that name. In Hebrew it means "help", and I always thought that was so fitting for a newborn - especially an unexpected one. Most new parents are so freaked out by the time that their kid is almost ready to be born that they are just about to kill each other. When their baby arrives, it soothes them into the nurturing mothers and fathers they need to be. The baby helps their relationship.
In my case, however, Ezra's going to be a different kind of help.
God willing, she's going to keep me sane.
Hugging my belly, I got comfortable and started to tell my Ezra a story.
"Once there was a sailor whose lover was The Sea. As soon as he was old enough to work on a boat, he got a job as a laborer. He soon became the captain of his very own ship, which he happily sailed all around the world until he was an old man. Every night he would go to his cabin below the deck and let the beautiful songs of The Sea lull him to sleep, his lover only seperated from him by a few inches of wood and metal. As an old man, one night the sailor became completely despondent. Do you know what that means, baby girl? That means he was so heartsick he couldn't fight any longer. He sat on the deck of his glorious ship, drinking bottle after bottle of wine, toasting to the health of his lover The Sea. Out of his mind with both heartache and liquor, the sailor tied a cannonball around his ankle, and climbed over the railing of his ship. Declaring his love for The Sea, he begged her to let him love her. He explained that he'd never wanted one being so much in his life. Never felt so connected; so connected that the mere inches of distance between them was so painful he couldn't bare it."
Taking a few moments to push the tears back down my throat, I continued.
"The Sea, feeling his pain and realizing her own feelings for him, sent a giant wave towards the sailor's ship, sending the man right into her loving embrace. To this day, if you listen closely enough, you can hear their laughter in the crash of every wave."
Ezra is born
I looked into her small sticky eyes for the first time, felt her tight, tiny hand around just my ring finger, and my heart exploded. The bits of my heart floated up my chest and then out of my eyes, heavy tears of happiness convincing me that she was all I'd ever fucking need.
Her skin was a painful reddish purple but I could already see her tan and smiling into the sun, a wealth of brown curls falling down the back of her cotton sundress as we plant tomatoes and cucumbers and bell peppers. She'd smile into the sky, absolutely joyful just to be living, to be. I'll teach her all about how the seeds grow and why we have to wait for them to be ready to eat. I'll tell her lots of fairy-tales instead of the specifics. Like how when a Borrower takes something of yours you have to write an itty bitty note asking for it back, otherwise they'll be insulted if you use human sized paper.
I'll tell her all of the vegetables are just shy when they're seeds. That she'll have to sing to them and tell them all of her deepest, gooiest secrets and dreams. Only then will their little ears reach up, up, up out of the ground to hear her songs even better.
That's what I'll tell her.
Finale.
She reached at the grass and pulled out several blades, as if digging up her memories from the earth itself. The sun warmed the freckles across her nose, her frizzy blonde hair full of barrettes and braids and happiness.
A woman with endearing eyes sat across from Ezra, sharing the same snack of string cheese and boxed apple juice.
"It's alright," the woman whispered carefully, "you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."
Ezra shook her head cautiously and gave one of her infamously carefree smiles.
"No, it isn't like that. It isn't like that at all. My real mom is my adoptive mom, and I know that. My Mel wanted me to know that. See she gave me a Silly Sad box before I could even think my own thoughts, and whenever I'm sad I just open it and talk to her through it. It's full of photos and letters and CD's she made, and even some of her singing to me. It's a magic box that turns all of your sad thoughts into silly ones."
The woman put her pen and paper aside, interested in the unusual tone Ezra had. For an adopted child, birth parents are usually a touchy subject once they get older, but Ezra spoke with forgiveness and understanding that she'd never felt come from a child before.
"So how do you feel about her, your birth mother?"
"She doesn't like me calling her that, and neither do I. She's My Mel. She taught me a lot of things while I was in her tummy, so that when I was born I'd already know them. Like how to pick a good pair of shoes and how to make plants grow. She gave me a new home so that I could share my knowledge and my love, she said. She felt like I was just so special that she had to share me with the world, even if that meant we couldn't see each other for a while... but I've got a mission, you know?" Ezra stood from her spot and placed her fists against her hips. "Somedays I have to reassure the sky that she's beautiful so that she won't fall down, and occasionally I get to teach dogs and cats get along with each other, but mostly I just like to help. It doesn't matter how. My Mel told me that's my gift, and that you're supposed to give back what's been gifted to you."
Ezra spoke with such assuredness, such fortitude that the woman wasn't sure what to say. In fact, she wasn't sure if she should say anything. All she knew is that she really did believe her, and her My Mel.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Weeping Willow, Won't You Wallow Louder
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=51K4cUTuvc0
I'ma shake ya off, yeah, get up on that horse
and
ride into the sunset, look back with no remorse.
I'm writing on paper. Sorry bloggers. Maybe in a few days.
Good news is, this shit is decent.
I'ma shake ya off, yeah, get up on that horse
and
ride into the sunset, look back with no remorse.
I'm writing on paper. Sorry bloggers. Maybe in a few days.
Good news is, this shit is decent.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Being Really Hardcore And Staying Positive
Mymel - Finale.
She reached at the grass and pulled out several blades, as if digging up her memories from the earth itself. The sun warmed the freckles across her nose, her frizzy blonde hair full of barrettes and braids and happiness.
A woman with endearing eyes sat across from Ezra, sharing the same snack of string cheese and boxed apple juice.
"It's alright," the woman whispered carefully, "you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."
Ezra shook her head cautiously and gave one of her infamously carefree smiles.
"No, it isn't like that. It isn't like that at all. My real mom is my adoptive mom, and I know that. My Mel wanted me to know that. See she gave me a Silly Sad box before I could even think my own thoughts, and whenever I'm sad I just open it and talk to her through it. It's full of photos and letters and CD's she made, and even some of her singing to me. It's a magic box that turns all of your sad thoughts into silly ones."
The woman put her pen and paper aside, interested in the unusual tone Ezra had. For an adopted child, birth parents are usually a touchy subject once they get older, but Ezra spoke with forgiveness and understanding that she'd never felt come from a child before.
"So how do you feel about her, your birth mother?"
"She doesn't like me calling her that, and neither do I. She's My Mel. She taught me a lot of things while I was in her tummy, so that when I was born I'd already know them. Like how to pick a good pair of shoes and how to make plants grow. She gave me a new home so that I could share my knowledge and my love, she said. She felt like I was just so special that she had to share me with the world, even if that meant we couldn't see each other for a while... but I've got a mission, you know?" Ezra stood from her spot and placed her fists against her hips. "Somedays I have to reassure the sky that she's beautiful so that she won't fall down, and occasionally I get to teach dogs and cats get along with each other, but mostly I just like to help. It doesn't matter how. My Mel told me that's my gift, and that you're supposed to give back what's been gifted to you."
Ezra spoke with such assuredness, such fortitude that the woman wasn't sure what to say. In fact, she wasn't sure if she should say anything. All she knew is that she really did believe her, and her My Mel.
She reached at the grass and pulled out several blades, as if digging up her memories from the earth itself. The sun warmed the freckles across her nose, her frizzy blonde hair full of barrettes and braids and happiness.
A woman with endearing eyes sat across from Ezra, sharing the same snack of string cheese and boxed apple juice.
"It's alright," the woman whispered carefully, "you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."
Ezra shook her head cautiously and gave one of her infamously carefree smiles.
"No, it isn't like that. It isn't like that at all. My real mom is my adoptive mom, and I know that. My Mel wanted me to know that. See she gave me a Silly Sad box before I could even think my own thoughts, and whenever I'm sad I just open it and talk to her through it. It's full of photos and letters and CD's she made, and even some of her singing to me. It's a magic box that turns all of your sad thoughts into silly ones."
The woman put her pen and paper aside, interested in the unusual tone Ezra had. For an adopted child, birth parents are usually a touchy subject once they get older, but Ezra spoke with forgiveness and understanding that she'd never felt come from a child before.
"So how do you feel about her, your birth mother?"
"She doesn't like me calling her that, and neither do I. She's My Mel. She taught me a lot of things while I was in her tummy, so that when I was born I'd already know them. Like how to pick a good pair of shoes and how to make plants grow. She gave me a new home so that I could share my knowledge and my love, she said. She felt like I was just so special that she had to share me with the world, even if that meant we couldn't see each other for a while... but I've got a mission, you know?" Ezra stood from her spot and placed her fists against her hips. "Somedays I have to reassure the sky that she's beautiful so that she won't fall down, and occasionally I get to teach dogs and cats get along with each other, but mostly I just like to help. It doesn't matter how. My Mel told me that's my gift, and that you're supposed to give back what's been gifted to you."
Ezra spoke with such assuredness, such fortitude that the woman wasn't sure what to say. In fact, she wasn't sure if she should say anything. All she knew is that she really did believe her, and her My Mel.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
Bit Number ?
It's like swimming against the ocean.
After awhile the water seems it just seeps deep inside of you, past the tissue and the hurt and you're just flooded.
Fucking taking on water.
All of the air that's been beguiled between the rigged roof of my mouth and the thickness of my tongue fights against the pressure of it all.
AND THATS ALL FOR NOW 'CUS I'M TIRED.
After awhile the water seems it just seeps deep inside of you, past the tissue and the hurt and you're just flooded.
Fucking taking on water.
All of the air that's been beguiled between the rigged roof of my mouth and the thickness of my tongue fights against the pressure of it all.
AND THATS ALL FOR NOW 'CUS I'M TIRED.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Mymel
Bit Bit Bit
Walking through a grocery store makes me anxious. I'm afraid to make eye contact with any of the passersby. I mean, should I smile? Should I nod a bit? What if someone asks me a question, what if they don't look back, what if they know just by looking directly into my eyes? The thought alone makes my breathing all uneven and it feels like I'm sipping through a straw for air, so I keep my eyes glued to the floor.
Plums boil down to pulp, cranberries dry on thick rolls of parchment and yellow squash bursts into flames. Numbers fly through my scalp and all I can think of are bank statements, diapers, formula, and the bite of whiskey that I miss so fucking much.
It's an off day and I don't have as much concern for her as usual, and it makes me sick to my stomach with guilt. Also I'm just plain sick to my stomach. I hold her from the outside of my shirt, hoping she can't hear my thoughts. We walk slowly, trying to make a decision that we haven't quite figured out the two sides of yet.
I look at the cellophane bags of bread and I feel my stomach filling up, the grumbling lining absolutely stuffed full of toy trucks and glitter crayons and Barbie dolls with their hair all chopped off. Her little plastic feet carve their way into my esophagus and I'm sure I could probably go for weeks without eating.
Walking through a grocery store makes me anxious. I'm afraid to make eye contact with any of the passersby. I mean, should I smile? Should I nod a bit? What if someone asks me a question, what if they don't look back, what if they know just by looking directly into my eyes? The thought alone makes my breathing all uneven and it feels like I'm sipping through a straw for air, so I keep my eyes glued to the floor.
Plums boil down to pulp, cranberries dry on thick rolls of parchment and yellow squash bursts into flames. Numbers fly through my scalp and all I can think of are bank statements, diapers, formula, and the bite of whiskey that I miss so fucking much.
It's an off day and I don't have as much concern for her as usual, and it makes me sick to my stomach with guilt. Also I'm just plain sick to my stomach. I hold her from the outside of my shirt, hoping she can't hear my thoughts. We walk slowly, trying to make a decision that we haven't quite figured out the two sides of yet.
I look at the cellophane bags of bread and I feel my stomach filling up, the grumbling lining absolutely stuffed full of toy trucks and glitter crayons and Barbie dolls with their hair all chopped off. Her little plastic feet carve their way into my esophagus and I'm sure I could probably go for weeks without eating.
I'm so sorry, Blogger.
Non-Fiction Bit #...?
I've failed you miserably. I lost control of myself again and here I am. This swirling, murky mess of something I could call home by now. I don't have any strength to fight it off, and I don't know how to even begin to lift my hand to my eye to keep the light from blinding me. All I fucking want is to be able to want something. Really, really feel all of something and want all of something. To control my hands and the space between my thighs that the light shines through and at the same time I don't even fucking care. Let them come.
I've failed you miserably. I lost control of myself again and here I am. This swirling, murky mess of something I could call home by now. I don't have any strength to fight it off, and I don't know how to even begin to lift my hand to my eye to keep the light from blinding me. All I fucking want is to be able to want something. Really, really feel all of something and want all of something. To control my hands and the space between my thighs that the light shines through and at the same time I don't even fucking care. Let them come.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Bit 18
Squeezing at their plastic containers, I splash little glossy puddles onto a thick white canvas.
Barn red, Deep Ocean Blue, Canary Yellow. What if barns were painted yellow? Barn Yellow?
Painting on canvas is so restricting. It's like when you're a child and you're only allowed in the yard to play. There's some much more space than that! But you've got to stay in the yard otherwise you'll have to come inside and do the dishes instead.
I want to lift my canvas above my head with its gobs of primary colors and let it slowly drip down onto my hair. Why can't paint be in my hair?
It makes the walls seem too tall, all of the reality that surrounds material objects. Shampoo is for washing, not for dancing. Carrots are for eating, not for jewelry.
I want to sleep in a giant mixture of paints, possibly contained in the bathtub.
I want to make love in it.
I want slick, sliding walls of purple and saffron that just pours down over the floor.
------------
For real though, I would like a sandwich right now.
Squeezing at their plastic containers, I splash little glossy puddles onto a thick white canvas.
Barn red, Deep Ocean Blue, Canary Yellow. What if barns were painted yellow? Barn Yellow?
Painting on canvas is so restricting. It's like when you're a child and you're only allowed in the yard to play. There's some much more space than that! But you've got to stay in the yard otherwise you'll have to come inside and do the dishes instead.
I want to lift my canvas above my head with its gobs of primary colors and let it slowly drip down onto my hair. Why can't paint be in my hair?
It makes the walls seem too tall, all of the reality that surrounds material objects. Shampoo is for washing, not for dancing. Carrots are for eating, not for jewelry.
I want to sleep in a giant mixture of paints, possibly contained in the bathtub.
I want to make love in it.
I want slick, sliding walls of purple and saffron that just pours down over the floor.
------------
For real though, I would like a sandwich right now.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Happy "Mother's" Day
I wrote this on an especially bitter day. There's a twist of fiction to it, and I've got a headache, so this is today's chunk.
Bit 17
God willing, my mother was going to beat the Devil out of me.
By now she'd caught a glimpse of Him, dancing at the corners of my mouth, and she'd tried scrubbing Him out, forcing that fifth commandment down my throat with toothpaste and scalding water.
`````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````
Our home was more than immaculate, which it always needed to be.
Its grey siding was pressure-washed monthly, as were the white shutters of every window. I would spend my weekends scrubbing the front door clean after it had been tarnished and corrupted by the hands of children. Our hard green sofa with its dozens of pillows - arranged by size - ran parallel to the kitchen table, polished and always completely set. The kitchen, a blinding shade of hospital white, tasted like bleach and lemons, made complete with a pantry that was always stocked but disappointing to the neighborhood kids, its shelves and crevices filled with unsalted almonds and rice cakes. The Twin Hall held both my sister and I; two closets on the left with their doors properly shut, and two bedrooms on the right with their doors wrenched wide open. My sister's room was a little porcelain miniature of my mother's with its pale chiffon drapes and the solemn mahogany of her armoire, her bedspread ironed into a perfect pane of glass. You could catch her rolling socks mechanically if you walked by slowly enough, her translucent skin stretched taut over blue and green wiring.
In my own room I could feel my mother's insults, a broad, violent garnet across her walls. I could see them snarling, revolted by the forbidden laundry sprawled across her dark blue carpet, the artwork pinned up with tacks that pierced their eyes. They stood heavy and severe, towering beneath her wallpaper, sneering at me with my mother’s carefully polished fangs:
Worthless,
Disgusting,
Pig.
I would pray to her God on the worst nights; a child begging him to turn my stone mother to nectarine. I wanted to slice her open and see more than just spotlessly clean rock, to nuzzle her sticky skin against my cheek.
Most nights I just begged her for mercy, which she consistently told me I did not deserve. Every apology letter was torn to pieces and thrown away as I stood silently, illicit tears biting at my throat. To my mother apologies and tears were insignificant. Empty.
```````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````
Some days we would visit neighbors, sharing cookie recipes and discussing holiday decorations competitively. My mother would slowly loosen her shoulders when she saw their cluttered living rooms, and her smirk would inch toward her ears as she saw stains on their kitchen counters.
It was on these days that you could see the juices leaking from her eyes; the stringy pulp stuck between the teeth of her smile.
Bit 17
God willing, my mother was going to beat the Devil out of me.
By now she'd caught a glimpse of Him, dancing at the corners of my mouth, and she'd tried scrubbing Him out, forcing that fifth commandment down my throat with toothpaste and scalding water.
`````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````
Our home was more than immaculate, which it always needed to be.
Its grey siding was pressure-washed monthly, as were the white shutters of every window. I would spend my weekends scrubbing the front door clean after it had been tarnished and corrupted by the hands of children. Our hard green sofa with its dozens of pillows - arranged by size - ran parallel to the kitchen table, polished and always completely set. The kitchen, a blinding shade of hospital white, tasted like bleach and lemons, made complete with a pantry that was always stocked but disappointing to the neighborhood kids, its shelves and crevices filled with unsalted almonds and rice cakes. The Twin Hall held both my sister and I; two closets on the left with their doors properly shut, and two bedrooms on the right with their doors wrenched wide open. My sister's room was a little porcelain miniature of my mother's with its pale chiffon drapes and the solemn mahogany of her armoire, her bedspread ironed into a perfect pane of glass. You could catch her rolling socks mechanically if you walked by slowly enough, her translucent skin stretched taut over blue and green wiring.
In my own room I could feel my mother's insults, a broad, violent garnet across her walls. I could see them snarling, revolted by the forbidden laundry sprawled across her dark blue carpet, the artwork pinned up with tacks that pierced their eyes. They stood heavy and severe, towering beneath her wallpaper, sneering at me with my mother’s carefully polished fangs:
Worthless,
Disgusting,
Pig.
I would pray to her God on the worst nights; a child begging him to turn my stone mother to nectarine. I wanted to slice her open and see more than just spotlessly clean rock, to nuzzle her sticky skin against my cheek.
Most nights I just begged her for mercy, which she consistently told me I did not deserve. Every apology letter was torn to pieces and thrown away as I stood silently, illicit tears biting at my throat. To my mother apologies and tears were insignificant. Empty.
```````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````
Some days we would visit neighbors, sharing cookie recipes and discussing holiday decorations competitively. My mother would slowly loosen her shoulders when she saw their cluttered living rooms, and her smirk would inch toward her ears as she saw stains on their kitchen counters.
It was on these days that you could see the juices leaking from her eyes; the stringy pulp stuck between the teeth of her smile.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Bit 16
"Father Thomas I've been a bad, bad girl... and I'm in desperate need of confession." she pulled at the edges of her plaid skirt, trying to adjust it back to it's proper place. Her hair was messily pushed to one side and she reeked of her Daddy's gin.
Father Thomas coughed into the back of his hand.
"Bless ye, child. You have - "
"Well aren't ya gonna ask? Aren't ya gonna ask what I did? Or am I supposed to tell you myself?"
"Um, well -"
"Don't answer that, I'll just tell ya I guess." she had a giant wad of bubble gum she kept smushing between her lips.
"I made a pretty serious mistake, Father. And I mean, we ain't talkin' just the regular old thirteen-year-old Gossip Girl bull. I'm talking like, the whole sixth commandment is shot to Hell. But I'm not all that sorry about it, you see? So I dunno if this whole Confessional thing is really gonna play out like it should, ya know?"
Father Thomas clears his throat.
"Oh but ya DO know, don'tcha Father?" her tone turned a little darker, and the Father squirmed a bit in his chair, pulling at the sleeves of his robe.
"I mean wasn't that you that was upstairs with my mother when daddy was workin' late the other night?" She sat up a little straighter, crossing her legs.
"I heard the two of you screwin' around in there. I heard what she was yellin' when you was touchin' her. Oh, I heard what she was sayin'. Couldn't have been anyone else but you, 'Fathaaaaa Thomassss!' "
Her rather loud interpretation of her own mother made Father Thomas more than nervous, so he turned abruptly to face her through the copper meshing.
"Sarah I don't think this is an appropriate place for us to discuss that."
"Um, fuck you."
He smiled. "No thanks, sweetheart."
She spit as heavily into the grate as she could, wrapping her fingers around the copper that surrounded the two of them, sneering into the little windows of his face she could see.
"Go. To. Hell."
"Father Thomas I've been a bad, bad girl... and I'm in desperate need of confession." she pulled at the edges of her plaid skirt, trying to adjust it back to it's proper place. Her hair was messily pushed to one side and she reeked of her Daddy's gin.
Father Thomas coughed into the back of his hand.
"Bless ye, child. You have - "
"Well aren't ya gonna ask? Aren't ya gonna ask what I did? Or am I supposed to tell you myself?"
"Um, well -"
"Don't answer that, I'll just tell ya I guess." she had a giant wad of bubble gum she kept smushing between her lips.
"I made a pretty serious mistake, Father. And I mean, we ain't talkin' just the regular old thirteen-year-old Gossip Girl bull. I'm talking like, the whole sixth commandment is shot to Hell. But I'm not all that sorry about it, you see? So I dunno if this whole Confessional thing is really gonna play out like it should, ya know?"
Father Thomas clears his throat.
"Oh but ya DO know, don'tcha Father?" her tone turned a little darker, and the Father squirmed a bit in his chair, pulling at the sleeves of his robe.
"I mean wasn't that you that was upstairs with my mother when daddy was workin' late the other night?" She sat up a little straighter, crossing her legs.
"I heard the two of you screwin' around in there. I heard what she was yellin' when you was touchin' her. Oh, I heard what she was sayin'. Couldn't have been anyone else but you, 'Fathaaaaa Thomassss!' "
Her rather loud interpretation of her own mother made Father Thomas more than nervous, so he turned abruptly to face her through the copper meshing.
"Sarah I don't think this is an appropriate place for us to discuss that."
"Um, fuck you."
He smiled. "No thanks, sweetheart."
She spit as heavily into the grate as she could, wrapping her fingers around the copper that surrounded the two of them, sneering into the little windows of his face she could see.
"Go. To. Hell."
Friday, May 7, 2010
Bit 15
I pour a glass of orange juice for each of us in the crystal wine flutes his mother got us last year. We'd already finished off the two bottles of Chardonnay last night, first screaming and fighting and cursing, then weeping until we just had to laugh. So here we are with orange juice, lots of pulp but no alcoholic content. Damn.
Usually I'd be walking about in just the deep burgundy sheet off of our bed, smiling seductively as I came with just one chilled glass to our bedside, but we weren't "us" anymore. "Us" used to entail sticky, salty sex and cinnamon schnapps. It used to mean I'd cook us dinner and we'd have to sit next to each other instead of across because the few extra inches of distance stung our skin. "Us" meant fighting until four in the morning because he hadn't walked in the door until two hours earlier and his phone'd been off all night.
Now it's him, and it's me.
We were sitting at the kitchen table, the single light above us the only one on. The sun was pulling herself up above the horizon, eager to remind us that time doesn't pause for anyone.
"So," I pouted with a sigh as I sat at the chair across from him, "what do I do now?"
He seemed a little offended at the question. With his favorite, most condescending tone he said to me- "Well, Jenna, what have we been discussing this whole night? The last 12 hours have been nothing but us discussing what you're gonna do. And that's up to you now, Jenna. You're an adult, you decide."
Ooooh, he had some nerves, Billy. He always knew exactly what to say to make me feel like a child, and he enjoyed doing so. The sizzle of anger I felt was enough to make me want to rise out of my seat.
"Oh no, Oh no, William. This is up to you, now, to figure out what I'm 'gonna do.' You see, it wasn't up to me when you stayed out alllll night with some green-eyed floozy and then it was NOT UP TO ME when you lied about said floozy the several times I asked where you were at two, three, four in the -"
"Jenna we've discussed that enough. What we're discussing currently are your plans for the future." He spoke in that patronizing monotone that made me want to smash his head in.
I smashed my glass against the wall instead.
"I will say when we've discussed YOUR CHEATING ON ME 'enough!' But I know one thing for damn sure, and that's that twelve hours of 'discussing' your ADULTERY was not enough. Not by a long shot, William. I'll call you up every day if I have to, if that's what is going to make ME feel better, I'll call you up and tell you what a miserable, insufferable pig you are. And once you stop taking my calls, oh you can bet a silver dollar I'll be showin' up at your place to tell you in person you despicable COWARD!"
I collapsed to the floor, sobbing into a glittery mess of citrus. My head was already pounding out of my skull from the last several times I'd burst into tears just hours before.
"Jen - Jenna, please." His tone broke into something soft and tender that I recognized. It was the same voice he used when we chatted about baby names over our honeymoon breakfast. He'd liked David for a boy but I thought it was much too stuffy. He'd giggled and hugged me close, just because he wanted to hug me.
"There's glass in your hand, Jenna. Let me clean it out." He'd already grabbed a pair of tweezers from the junk drawer in the kitchen, and was meticulously, gently pulling the bits from my palm and into his napkin.
I pulled away from him as much as I could.
"Thanks." I grumbled at my feet.
He wiped my hand clean, then got up to get a compress for it, but I put my hand on his knee.
"Let it bleed."
He shrugged and sat against the wall next to me, knowing that sometimes I just want things to be unkempt, and sometimes I don't make much sense. He knows a lot about me, Billy. He knows a lot.
"Jenna I fucked up. Royally. I had so much going right for me, with you. Remember that summer we spent together, in college? We'd get drunk in the middle of the day, eating watermelons and Popsicles, and that one time we scared the neighbor's kids so badly that - "
" - that they called the police." we laughed together. I could feel the blood from my hand drip delicately onto the linoleum.
"I don't know what I'm going to do without you, Jen. You've added so much life, and fun, and spirit into me. I just don't know what I'm gonna do..."
He lifted his hand to my chin, and when I looked into his eyes I swear it seemed his pupils were cracked in half with the pain.
"...kiss me? Just one last time." A layer of tears wobbled in the front of his eyes.
I pressed my eyelids together and tried to ignore that feeling you get when everything is coming apart. Like the ground is crumbling right out from under you.
"Oh, Billy..." I raised my own, bloodied hand towards his scruffy cheek.
I flattened out my palm and wiped it across his mouth, staining it red as I stood from my spot on the floor.
"I think you'll fucking manage."
Bit 14
When we were ten, we hung out in my parent's basement, blowing soap bubbles out of plastic pipes and playing dress up in my mother's winter clothing.
The heat and the humidity never stopped us; we'd run about outside, collecting different types of leaves to make into a heaping, muddy stew for 'dinner' that day. We'd share secrets and laugh obnoxiously loud just because we were outside and we were allowed to do that. We'd share those twin Popsicles and we'd wipe our sticky mouths with our sleeves.
We'd steal my brother's pocket knife and dig it into our plastic dolls to see if they'd still cry like they do when they need to be changed.
We had so many questions, and the answers, no matter how detailed, never seemed satisfying enough.
I pour a glass of orange juice for each of us in the crystal wine flutes his mother got us last year. We'd already finished off the two bottles of Chardonnay last night, first screaming and fighting and cursing, then weeping until we just had to laugh. So here we are with orange juice, lots of pulp but no alcoholic content. Damn.
Usually I'd be walking about in just the deep burgundy sheet off of our bed, smiling seductively as I came with just one chilled glass to our bedside, but we weren't "us" anymore. "Us" used to entail sticky, salty sex and cinnamon schnapps. It used to mean I'd cook us dinner and we'd have to sit next to each other instead of across because the few extra inches of distance stung our skin. "Us" meant fighting until four in the morning because he hadn't walked in the door until two hours earlier and his phone'd been off all night.
Now it's him, and it's me.
We were sitting at the kitchen table, the single light above us the only one on. The sun was pulling herself up above the horizon, eager to remind us that time doesn't pause for anyone.
"So," I pouted with a sigh as I sat at the chair across from him, "what do I do now?"
He seemed a little offended at the question. With his favorite, most condescending tone he said to me- "Well, Jenna, what have we been discussing this whole night? The last 12 hours have been nothing but us discussing what you're gonna do. And that's up to you now, Jenna. You're an adult, you decide."
Ooooh, he had some nerves, Billy. He always knew exactly what to say to make me feel like a child, and he enjoyed doing so. The sizzle of anger I felt was enough to make me want to rise out of my seat.
"Oh no, Oh no, William. This is up to you, now, to figure out what I'm 'gonna do.' You see, it wasn't up to me when you stayed out alllll night with some green-eyed floozy and then it was NOT UP TO ME when you lied about said floozy the several times I asked where you were at two, three, four in the -"
"Jenna we've discussed that enough. What we're discussing currently are your plans for the future." He spoke in that patronizing monotone that made me want to smash his head in.
I smashed my glass against the wall instead.
"I will say when we've discussed YOUR CHEATING ON ME 'enough!' But I know one thing for damn sure, and that's that twelve hours of 'discussing' your ADULTERY was not enough. Not by a long shot, William. I'll call you up every day if I have to, if that's what is going to make ME feel better, I'll call you up and tell you what a miserable, insufferable pig you are. And once you stop taking my calls, oh you can bet a silver dollar I'll be showin' up at your place to tell you in person you despicable COWARD!"
I collapsed to the floor, sobbing into a glittery mess of citrus. My head was already pounding out of my skull from the last several times I'd burst into tears just hours before.
"Jen - Jenna, please." His tone broke into something soft and tender that I recognized. It was the same voice he used when we chatted about baby names over our honeymoon breakfast. He'd liked David for a boy but I thought it was much too stuffy. He'd giggled and hugged me close, just because he wanted to hug me.
"There's glass in your hand, Jenna. Let me clean it out." He'd already grabbed a pair of tweezers from the junk drawer in the kitchen, and was meticulously, gently pulling the bits from my palm and into his napkin.
I pulled away from him as much as I could.
"Thanks." I grumbled at my feet.
He wiped my hand clean, then got up to get a compress for it, but I put my hand on his knee.
"Let it bleed."
He shrugged and sat against the wall next to me, knowing that sometimes I just want things to be unkempt, and sometimes I don't make much sense. He knows a lot about me, Billy. He knows a lot.
"Jenna I fucked up. Royally. I had so much going right for me, with you. Remember that summer we spent together, in college? We'd get drunk in the middle of the day, eating watermelons and Popsicles, and that one time we scared the neighbor's kids so badly that - "
" - that they called the police." we laughed together. I could feel the blood from my hand drip delicately onto the linoleum.
"I don't know what I'm going to do without you, Jen. You've added so much life, and fun, and spirit into me. I just don't know what I'm gonna do..."
He lifted his hand to my chin, and when I looked into his eyes I swear it seemed his pupils were cracked in half with the pain.
"...kiss me? Just one last time." A layer of tears wobbled in the front of his eyes.
I pressed my eyelids together and tried to ignore that feeling you get when everything is coming apart. Like the ground is crumbling right out from under you.
"Oh, Billy..." I raised my own, bloodied hand towards his scruffy cheek.
I flattened out my palm and wiped it across his mouth, staining it red as I stood from my spot on the floor.
"I think you'll fucking manage."
Bit 14
When we were ten, we hung out in my parent's basement, blowing soap bubbles out of plastic pipes and playing dress up in my mother's winter clothing.
The heat and the humidity never stopped us; we'd run about outside, collecting different types of leaves to make into a heaping, muddy stew for 'dinner' that day. We'd share secrets and laugh obnoxiously loud just because we were outside and we were allowed to do that. We'd share those twin Popsicles and we'd wipe our sticky mouths with our sleeves.
We'd steal my brother's pocket knife and dig it into our plastic dolls to see if they'd still cry like they do when they need to be changed.
We had so many questions, and the answers, no matter how detailed, never seemed satisfying enough.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Bit 13
There once was a little girl who couldn't make her eyes stop leaking.
She tried to fill the holes up with happy memories and glitter stickers and good books.
But the holes just got bigger and bigger until the holes got hungry.
The holes got hungry and they wanted more than tears.
They wanted her confidence. Her smile. Her strength.
They're starving, so the girl has to find new things to feed them.
Things that little girls shouldn't even dream of in their nightmares.
There once was a little girl who couldn't make her eyes stop leaking.
She tried to fill the holes up with happy memories and glitter stickers and good books.
But the holes just got bigger and bigger until the holes got hungry.
The holes got hungry and they wanted more than tears.
They wanted her confidence. Her smile. Her strength.
They're starving, so the girl has to find new things to feed them.
Things that little girls shouldn't even dream of in their nightmares.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Bit 12
"I mean seriously, does Mr. Williams think all we've got to do all weekend is study? For real? Who has time for reading when we've got loads of parties to hit!" Jenna smiles at me and bumps the side of her hip against mine playfully as we close our school lockers.
Jenna's hair always fell in perfect gold curls down her shoulders. She only wore three colors - black, red, and gray. But however she wore them, she still had an innocence deep inside of her that always found it's way out, glowed around her face. An innocence that easily bought her whatever she needed from her parents, A's from the gym teachers, and dates with the hottest guys in our grade, and even a few above us. I'd heard a rumor the year before that Jenna had done "everything" necessary to get an A in her French class, and Mr. Jameson the French teacher, sure did seem awfully happy with her that year.
But we're a duo now so I can't let her know I think this sort of stuff about her. I'm the wingman that spreads even nastier rumors about the girls who are spreading rumors in the first place.
(brb to write more. and better, hopefully.)
"I mean seriously, does Mr. Williams think all we've got to do all weekend is study? For real? Who has time for reading when we've got loads of parties to hit!" Jenna smiles at me and bumps the side of her hip against mine playfully as we close our school lockers.
Jenna's hair always fell in perfect gold curls down her shoulders. She only wore three colors - black, red, and gray. But however she wore them, she still had an innocence deep inside of her that always found it's way out, glowed around her face. An innocence that easily bought her whatever she needed from her parents, A's from the gym teachers, and dates with the hottest guys in our grade, and even a few above us. I'd heard a rumor the year before that Jenna had done "everything" necessary to get an A in her French class, and Mr. Jameson the French teacher, sure did seem awfully happy with her that year.
But we're a duo now so I can't let her know I think this sort of stuff about her. I'm the wingman that spreads even nastier rumors about the girls who are spreading rumors in the first place.
(brb to write more. and better, hopefully.)
Whoops!
So I wrote yesterday's bit of fiction on the back of my math final... and then I turned it in. So I felt like I wrote yesterday, but I guess technically I didn't. So you guys get two today, and I still owe another extra piece in the future. :)
Bit 11
We sit awkwardly over dinner, sharing the very basics of our lives. He asks questions and I give him monosyllabic answers because I don't think he deserves much more.
A waitress walks by and refills my sweet tea. I smile a bit and thank her.
"Heh, you always did like sweet tea. That's something you and your sister have in common" my father smiled and tried again to make a connection.
"Stepsister. Sarah's my stepsister, Dad."
My father nodded slightly and stared down at his plate.
"I - I know. I just..."
Seeing that much weakness in my father made me angry, volatile almost. He's supposed to be my rock, and here he is, being broken down by his own daughter. How'd this happen?
"You just what? Got your new life confused with your old one for a minute?" I jeered at my father.
hah. "My Father." The man who left when I was seven and began a whole new life with some blonde woman from work, who I eventually learned was his assistant. I know the cliche emotions that a child goes through during a divorce - My mom bought me lots of books on it to avoid having to actually talk about it - but I can't seem to avoid feeling them. I'm angry and I'm hurt and I feel kind of guilty whenever I even see him. I remember him teaching me how to build a fire, how to play basketball, how to cheat in a game of cards.
He had a lot of life back then.
Now he's got this emptiness in him that I don't understand, that I don't have a place for.
I know I love him. But all I can feel is the sharpness of my anger.
"It's been five years, Dad, and that's enough for you, I guess. But not for me. I still have a hole where my Dad used to be. My REAL Dad."
I saw him nod his head again and bite at his lip to keep from crying. He stayed seated, staring at his plate, as I collected my things and walked away.
Bit 11
We sit awkwardly over dinner, sharing the very basics of our lives. He asks questions and I give him monosyllabic answers because I don't think he deserves much more.
A waitress walks by and refills my sweet tea. I smile a bit and thank her.
"Heh, you always did like sweet tea. That's something you and your sister have in common" my father smiled and tried again to make a connection.
"Stepsister. Sarah's my stepsister, Dad."
My father nodded slightly and stared down at his plate.
"I - I know. I just..."
Seeing that much weakness in my father made me angry, volatile almost. He's supposed to be my rock, and here he is, being broken down by his own daughter. How'd this happen?
"You just what? Got your new life confused with your old one for a minute?" I jeered at my father.
hah. "My Father." The man who left when I was seven and began a whole new life with some blonde woman from work, who I eventually learned was his assistant. I know the cliche emotions that a child goes through during a divorce - My mom bought me lots of books on it to avoid having to actually talk about it - but I can't seem to avoid feeling them. I'm angry and I'm hurt and I feel kind of guilty whenever I even see him. I remember him teaching me how to build a fire, how to play basketball, how to cheat in a game of cards.
He had a lot of life back then.
Now he's got this emptiness in him that I don't understand, that I don't have a place for.
I know I love him. But all I can feel is the sharpness of my anger.
"It's been five years, Dad, and that's enough for you, I guess. But not for me. I still have a hole where my Dad used to be. My REAL Dad."
I saw him nod his head again and bite at his lip to keep from crying. He stayed seated, staring at his plate, as I collected my things and walked away.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Bit 10
Rock bottom in Mel's Story. I've been watching too much 'Intervention'
I know that feeling, that feeling that's behind his skin. Right about now the whole room just got fifty times smaller, and in a few moments all he'll be able to hear is his heart beating and he won't be able to breathe evenly. I've felt that before dozens of times because I've seen a lot of scary shit. Shit you wouldn't believe. Now my brother's seeing it, too.
"Mel. Put that fucking needle down." Afton's face was blank with this really frightening mixture of shock and disgust.
I had my palms pressed against my temples, the slick tip of a needle slicing ever so gently into my forehead. Yeah, it's kind of messed up, but that dissection, the splitting of my skin puts everything into such a pleasant perspective. It's like when you're a little kid and you get to lick the icing off the bottom of all the candles on your birthday cake. Because it's your birthday, and those are your candles.
Afton doesn't get it.
"You can't understand, Afton. There's - there's a pressure, in the back of my skull and it just builds and builds until I can't see anymore. And this shit gives me sight! It let's me live. It gives - "
"It is going to kill your unborn child. Jesus, do you hear? Did you hear the words that I just said? YOUR UNBORN CHILD. This isn't about you. How you feel, what you want. It's about someone else now. Jesus Christ." Afton started crying and I could see all of our memories dripping down his nose.
"I know, I know, I know, I know, I know. But I need it, alright? I mean I think after this one time, then I could probably stop. But just this one more time." I was getting a little disgusted with myself as well, but it wasn't really me talking at this point. My mouth tasted salty and I realized I was crying, too.
"Melanie. Come the fuck on. Seriously? This is where we are? I mean look at yourself -" Afton grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me in front of the mirror above the dresser.
"That's YOU, Mel. That mess is what is now you. It isn't the drug, this is who you've become." Afton could hardly speak, but he was getting angrier. I couldn't see myself like he wanted me to, the pressure was in the way. Like when you smear your glasses and everything is just a runny mixture of colors. But I could taste my tears.
"Go ahead and fuck up your life, if that's what you want. But at least -" Afton had to take a second to breathe because he was so upset "at least be fair to that baby. I'll turn you in if I have to, Mel. If that's what it takes to make you save your own God Forsaken child, I'll turn you right over. Just fucking think for a second. Quit "feeling" and think."
He grabbed my hands and pressed them against my own belly with him sobbing into the back of my hair.
Ezra started kicking.
Everything changed right then.
Rock bottom in Mel's Story. I've been watching too much 'Intervention'
I know that feeling, that feeling that's behind his skin. Right about now the whole room just got fifty times smaller, and in a few moments all he'll be able to hear is his heart beating and he won't be able to breathe evenly. I've felt that before dozens of times because I've seen a lot of scary shit. Shit you wouldn't believe. Now my brother's seeing it, too.
"Mel. Put that fucking needle down." Afton's face was blank with this really frightening mixture of shock and disgust.
I had my palms pressed against my temples, the slick tip of a needle slicing ever so gently into my forehead. Yeah, it's kind of messed up, but that dissection, the splitting of my skin puts everything into such a pleasant perspective. It's like when you're a little kid and you get to lick the icing off the bottom of all the candles on your birthday cake. Because it's your birthday, and those are your candles.
Afton doesn't get it.
"You can't understand, Afton. There's - there's a pressure, in the back of my skull and it just builds and builds until I can't see anymore. And this shit gives me sight! It let's me live. It gives - "
"It is going to kill your unborn child. Jesus, do you hear? Did you hear the words that I just said? YOUR UNBORN CHILD. This isn't about you. How you feel, what you want. It's about someone else now. Jesus Christ." Afton started crying and I could see all of our memories dripping down his nose.
"I know, I know, I know, I know, I know. But I need it, alright? I mean I think after this one time, then I could probably stop. But just this one more time." I was getting a little disgusted with myself as well, but it wasn't really me talking at this point. My mouth tasted salty and I realized I was crying, too.
"Melanie. Come the fuck on. Seriously? This is where we are? I mean look at yourself -" Afton grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me in front of the mirror above the dresser.
"That's YOU, Mel. That mess is what is now you. It isn't the drug, this is who you've become." Afton could hardly speak, but he was getting angrier. I couldn't see myself like he wanted me to, the pressure was in the way. Like when you smear your glasses and everything is just a runny mixture of colors. But I could taste my tears.
"Go ahead and fuck up your life, if that's what you want. But at least -" Afton had to take a second to breathe because he was so upset "at least be fair to that baby. I'll turn you in if I have to, Mel. If that's what it takes to make you save your own God Forsaken child, I'll turn you right over. Just fucking think for a second. Quit "feeling" and think."
He grabbed my hands and pressed them against my own belly with him sobbing into the back of my hair.
Ezra started kicking.
Everything changed right then.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
I missed a day. I'll write twice some day to make up for it.
Bit 9
I can feel all of my potential solidifying, cementing itself into my tendons.
I remember when weekends were the only thing I wanted, when I would eat sugary cereals and wake up at 7 a.m. just to watch Charlie Brown. When my sisters and I would wear the same pajamas in different colors and sing along with Celine Dion songs while scuffing around on the living room floor in our fuzzy socks.
Now all I can think about is time, how much of it I'm wasting, how much more I need, how little energy I have left to give. It hurts to try and work at anything, it makes me emotionally exhausted.
After just ten hours of being awake I'm ready to pass right back out, but I'm never completely asleep. His dark shadow creeps up from beneath the little glowing creases around the edges of my bedroom door and I can't breathe.
There's a glint of silver and I can hear the air in front of me rip open, the stink of his skin, and I'm never completely asleep.
I can feel all of my potential solidifying, cementing itself into my tendons.
I remember when weekends were the only thing I wanted, when I would eat sugary cereals and wake up at 7 a.m. just to watch Charlie Brown. When my sisters and I would wear the same pajamas in different colors and sing along with Celine Dion songs while scuffing around on the living room floor in our fuzzy socks.
Now all I can think about is time, how much of it I'm wasting, how much more I need, how little energy I have left to give. It hurts to try and work at anything, it makes me emotionally exhausted.
After just ten hours of being awake I'm ready to pass right back out, but I'm never completely asleep. His dark shadow creeps up from beneath the little glowing creases around the edges of my bedroom door and I can't breathe.
There's a glint of silver and I can hear the air in front of me rip open, the stink of his skin, and I'm never completely asleep.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Bit 8
I kicked at the floorboards, staring at that ridiculous metal chair.
I was thinking of some sort of asshole comment I could make, but then I realized how much I didn't actually want to do that. What I want is to feel an entire emotion. Have the whole length of it run through me all at once, like these people. As much as she fucking annoys me, I'm jealous of Freida. And the only thing standing in my way is my damn pride.
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyelids.
"You... you took everything from me. I trusted you to take away the pain, and you slowly dug under my skin, got into my brain. I fucking trusted you. And now I've lost my life. My love. My goddamn baby."
The whole class sat perfectly still, watching my every movement. I guess I was sobbing, but I couldn't hear it.
I've never talked about them taking my daughter before.
"Those people came and all you had for me was your high. And my kid can't eat that. She can't sleep on it. So - so - so I don't get to have her. August was mine, she was all of my love, all of my hope and my heart and my bones and my blood. She was completely mine, and YOU TOOK HER AWAY!" I spat at that fucking chair. That god damn chair.
"And that's not enough. You've gotta destroy me, too. But there's nothing left of me, so I guess you can just have my skin. Take the blown veins in my arm, take the shitty clothes I have, take the emptiness that I feel all of the fucking time. See what good it does you."
I kicked at the floorboards, staring at that ridiculous metal chair.
I was thinking of some sort of asshole comment I could make, but then I realized how much I didn't actually want to do that. What I want is to feel an entire emotion. Have the whole length of it run through me all at once, like these people. As much as she fucking annoys me, I'm jealous of Freida. And the only thing standing in my way is my damn pride.
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyelids.
"You... you took everything from me. I trusted you to take away the pain, and you slowly dug under my skin, got into my brain. I fucking trusted you. And now I've lost my life. My love. My goddamn baby."
The whole class sat perfectly still, watching my every movement. I guess I was sobbing, but I couldn't hear it.
I've never talked about them taking my daughter before.
"Those people came and all you had for me was your high. And my kid can't eat that. She can't sleep on it. So - so - so I don't get to have her. August was mine, she was all of my love, all of my hope and my heart and my bones and my blood. She was completely mine, and YOU TOOK HER AWAY!" I spat at that fucking chair. That god damn chair.
"And that's not enough. You've gotta destroy me, too. But there's nothing left of me, so I guess you can just have my skin. Take the blown veins in my arm, take the shitty clothes I have, take the emptiness that I feel all of the fucking time. See what good it does you."
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Bit 7
Everyone has some sort of tick here. Freida, the overweight girl with terrible shoes, always twirls one of her dirty blonde curls around her pointer finger. Gina only eats celery and she's always twisting one hand around the other like they're never warm enough, which is pretty likely. The bald guy with a German name constantly taps his foot. Tri-pull-et tri-pull-et tri-pull-et.
It'd all be really fucking distracting if I actually wanted to listen.
There's about a dozen people here today, and all of them keep crying. I hate it when they get all emotional, I mean come on. We're all messed up. "Oh Jesus, my parents hate me, my wife left me, I'm soo pathetic." Yeah. You're right, bald German guy. You are pathetic.
"Katie?"
Oh goddamnit.
"Katie, why don't you get up here and talk with your Shadow?"
"Why don't you go die in a fire?"
She smiled. Our director used to be an addict too. From the way she's always so twitchy and full of energy, I think she's a liar. I think she still snorts and just tells us all she quit so we'll get sober. She's one of those ridiculous people that like you the meaner you are to them.
"Just give it a try, for me?" They'd all started clapping which is 'group' for 'Haha, bitch, you've got no choice.'
I walked to the front of my class, and stood across from an empty metal folding chair, staring at the space around it. The air's cranked up too high in here.
"Good, good. Now really talk to your Shadow, Katie. Tell it just what it's done to you, and that you won't stand for it anymore. Don't be afraid... everyone's supporting you here."
Always with the support bullshit.
I gave a dramatic sigh and shoved my hands in the pockets of my dirty jeans. Fuck this place.
---continued tomorrowwww--- :)
Everyone has some sort of tick here. Freida, the overweight girl with terrible shoes, always twirls one of her dirty blonde curls around her pointer finger. Gina only eats celery and she's always twisting one hand around the other like they're never warm enough, which is pretty likely. The bald guy with a German name constantly taps his foot. Tri-pull-et tri-pull-et tri-pull-et.
It'd all be really fucking distracting if I actually wanted to listen.
There's about a dozen people here today, and all of them keep crying. I hate it when they get all emotional, I mean come on. We're all messed up. "Oh Jesus, my parents hate me, my wife left me, I'm soo pathetic." Yeah. You're right, bald German guy. You are pathetic.
"Katie?"
Oh goddamnit.
"Katie, why don't you get up here and talk with your Shadow?"
"Why don't you go die in a fire?"
She smiled. Our director used to be an addict too. From the way she's always so twitchy and full of energy, I think she's a liar. I think she still snorts and just tells us all she quit so we'll get sober. She's one of those ridiculous people that like you the meaner you are to them.
"Just give it a try, for me?" They'd all started clapping which is 'group' for 'Haha, bitch, you've got no choice.'
I walked to the front of my class, and stood across from an empty metal folding chair, staring at the space around it. The air's cranked up too high in here.
"Good, good. Now really talk to your Shadow, Katie. Tell it just what it's done to you, and that you won't stand for it anymore. Don't be afraid... everyone's supporting you here."
Always with the support bullshit.
I gave a dramatic sigh and shoved my hands in the pockets of my dirty jeans. Fuck this place.
---continued tomorrowwww--- :)
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Bit 6.1
Alright, so I can't get off that easily, I re-decided.
Did this last semester - 35 poetic lines about an inanimate object
----------------------------------------------------------------------
I am comprised almost entirely of water.
I am broken.
I am the color
of ripe pumpkins and
navels and
sweet potatoes and
poppies and
excitement.
Nestled
in cardboard,
clothed
in plastic packaging,
I am
warm
in my frozen
manmade bed.
I am cloaked in crystal negligee.
I am fragile,
filled with amusement.
A fruitless backbone.
A fruity center.
I am tasty.
I am halfway eaten and
dripping,
sticking,
slipping,
sweating.
The Sun's sultry breath trickling down my spine.
Her vicious blaze robbing me of my composure.
Slip
Drip
Dropsicle.
I am burning refreshment.
I am the good kind of pain.
I am cool, audacious -
glistening serenely under
her smoldering scowl.
With each bite
I am made more whole.
The bone of your teeth ripping,
tearing through my tendons and
my artificial flavors.
Caressing vital organs.
I am falling, and I
have
hit
the ground.
I am fractured.
Bleeding.
The jealous sun seeks her revenge,
searing my torso with her envious glare.
I am seeping,
salivating.
I am running
from my own body
and I
am utterly free.
I am
tyrannous, constant and
cascading over a forest of
beetles and grass and anthills.
Swirling and slicing and merciless.
I am both worshipped and feared.
I am burrowing deep inside the earth.
I am carried home to feed
millions of children.
I am dragged below
to comfort the afflicted.
I am sustenance.
I have found my faith.
Alright, so I can't get off that easily, I re-decided.
Did this last semester - 35 poetic lines about an inanimate object
----------------------------------------------------------------------
I am comprised almost entirely of water.
I am broken.
I am the color
of ripe pumpkins and
navels and
sweet potatoes and
poppies and
excitement.
Nestled
in cardboard,
clothed
in plastic packaging,
I am
warm
in my frozen
manmade bed.
I am cloaked in crystal negligee.
I am fragile,
filled with amusement.
A fruitless backbone.
A fruity center.
I am tasty.
I am halfway eaten and
dripping,
sticking,
slipping,
sweating.
The Sun's sultry breath trickling down my spine.
Her vicious blaze robbing me of my composure.
Slip
Drip
Dropsicle.
I am burning refreshment.
I am the good kind of pain.
I am cool, audacious -
glistening serenely under
her smoldering scowl.
With each bite
I am made more whole.
The bone of your teeth ripping,
tearing through my tendons and
my artificial flavors.
Caressing vital organs.
I am falling, and I
have
hit
the ground.
I am fractured.
Bleeding.
The jealous sun seeks her revenge,
searing my torso with her envious glare.
I am seeping,
salivating.
I am running
from my own body
and I
am utterly free.
I am
tyrannous, constant and
cascading over a forest of
beetles and grass and anthills.
Swirling and slicing and merciless.
I am both worshipped and feared.
I am burrowing deep inside the earth.
I am carried home to feed
millions of children.
I am dragged below
to comfort the afflicted.
I am sustenance.
I have found my faith.
Bullshit Bit 6
This writing every day business is a lot harder than I thought it'd be. I'm not articulate every day, and some days I just don't ever want to even read again. God damn I'm dramatic. lol
I want something cohesive, though. I want to have a finished product. This 365 project should help, I think. I'll be a lot lighter on my toes when it comes to on-the-spot work, and I'll have much more faith in myself and my writing abilities.
I'm gonna let this count as today's piece, even though it isn't fiction.
This writing every day business is a lot harder than I thought it'd be. I'm not articulate every day, and some days I just don't ever want to even read again. God damn I'm dramatic. lol
I want something cohesive, though. I want to have a finished product. This 365 project should help, I think. I'll be a lot lighter on my toes when it comes to on-the-spot work, and I'll have much more faith in myself and my writing abilities.
I'm gonna let this count as today's piece, even though it isn't fiction.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Bit 5
The sun gleamed off the ocean water, and with one sultry glare she turned the sands raspy texture to that of glossy plastic.
I planted my toes deep within the shore, trying to force myself beneath the earth.
The breeze wrapped around my shoulders, and I leaned my weight into it.
This place makes me think of everything all at once.
About broken childhood toys, my brother's coin collection, raccoons digging through our rubbish bins, my loose teeth. Time struggles to continue here, I think, just like when you're young and you try to run underwater.
It makes me, obligates me, to remember that first time she'd gotten sick. I'd held the loose frame of my mother in my arms, whispering frantically that'd she be okay, she'd be okay. My mother nodded weakly in agreeance but even then I could see the color leaving her blouse.
This beach, this goddamn beach. We'd spent so many summers vacationing her, and now it's a tomb. Bits of her teeth and her legs and her hair all mixed in with the sand, the dog piss, the beer bottles.
I'd had a mother. One that hugs you and smells like clean linens and makes the best scrambled eggs. Then I had a room in a hospital, and then a box, and then charcoal sand. And now I've got broken sea shells and this grey-scale green water and it isn't a fair trade at all.
The sun gleamed off the ocean water, and with one sultry glare she turned the sands raspy texture to that of glossy plastic.
I planted my toes deep within the shore, trying to force myself beneath the earth.
The breeze wrapped around my shoulders, and I leaned my weight into it.
This place makes me think of everything all at once.
About broken childhood toys, my brother's coin collection, raccoons digging through our rubbish bins, my loose teeth. Time struggles to continue here, I think, just like when you're young and you try to run underwater.
It makes me, obligates me, to remember that first time she'd gotten sick. I'd held the loose frame of my mother in my arms, whispering frantically that'd she be okay, she'd be okay. My mother nodded weakly in agreeance but even then I could see the color leaving her blouse.
This beach, this goddamn beach. We'd spent so many summers vacationing her, and now it's a tomb. Bits of her teeth and her legs and her hair all mixed in with the sand, the dog piss, the beer bottles.
I'd had a mother. One that hugs you and smells like clean linens and makes the best scrambled eggs. Then I had a room in a hospital, and then a box, and then charcoal sand. And now I've got broken sea shells and this grey-scale green water and it isn't a fair trade at all.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Itty Bit 4
She sang, and I wasn't sure if I'd ever be able to breathe again.
Her voice sounded like curly haired kittens and balsa wood - structured but gentle, nourishing.
"This song," she whispered, "is about bones and the sympathy we must carry for them. For you see, no bone is ever given. They are taken, stolen. And therefore everyone of them is haunted."
She sang, and I wasn't sure, but I think she glanced at me. Intentionally. And when I saw her eyes I really saw her. All of her memories, the stories behind her scars, the loves she'd lost, the loves she'd purposefully let go of, and the strength she carried in her soul.
She sang, and I wasn't sure if I'd ever be able to breathe again.
Her voice sounded like curly haired kittens and balsa wood - structured but gentle, nourishing.
"This song," she whispered, "is about bones and the sympathy we must carry for them. For you see, no bone is ever given. They are taken, stolen. And therefore everyone of them is haunted."
She sang, and I wasn't sure, but I think she glanced at me. Intentionally. And when I saw her eyes I really saw her. All of her memories, the stories behind her scars, the loves she'd lost, the loves she'd purposefully let go of, and the strength she carried in her soul.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Fictions.
Bit 3
His name's Edmund.
Edmund Thillwhistle.
Edmund lives deep in the gunkiest mud, where all five of his hearts ache with terrible, powerful thuds.
All the other earthworms are perfectly happy with their lives, eating their body weight in food and slinking through the slippery silt that collects under tangles of roots.
But Edmund was stuck on his childhood memories, his very first one at that. When he was in a little glass cocoon, no bigger or smaller than a grain of rice. Where he grew and grew and grew and tranformed into something absolutely new.
Edmund had been sneaking. He'd sneaked and creeped to the tippy top of the earth, where he poked the edge of his eye to see something he'd never seen but had always felt in at least three of his five hearts.
It's great orange and onyx wings floated so gently across the emptiness, and he writhed and wriggled about in his sticky home, trying to jump up to join The Butterfly. All of his effort went without success.
Determined, Edmund dug and twisted and winded and wrenched himself into his own concrete cocoon. He sat for twenty-eight and three-quarter days, waiting to feel some sort of newness in his segments. Once he felt a slight itch on his left side, but it wasn't enough, he knew, to make him grow as he once grew.
Frustrated, disheartened, and brimming with mal-contempt, He spun himself tighter into his swaddling, wiggling and waggling so powerfully that he began to work himself up above the earth.
With little to no warning, thick, greedy fingers snatched him from his earthy encasement, pulling him higher and higher still until he was smooshed into the coarse denim of a seven-year-old's pocket.
He squirmed and swiveled and spiraled about, desperately searching for any way out.
The harder he fought, the more tightly he fit, entangled and encircled in blue pocket lint.
Harsh chubby hands pulled Edmund further up, he tossed and he flounder 'til he was abruptly pierced through the gut.
He looked at himself, at his blue stringy skin, his seeping, sweeping ooze, his bright metal pin, and everything about Edmund was absolutely new.
The hook yanked and it clanked as the fishing reel drew, and the fear deep inside of him grew and grew and grew.
He was tossed violently back as the little boy threw
his fishing line high up through,
the emptiness and, for the very first time,
Edmund Thillwhistle flew.
His name's Edmund.
Edmund Thillwhistle.
Edmund lives deep in the gunkiest mud, where all five of his hearts ache with terrible, powerful thuds.
All the other earthworms are perfectly happy with their lives, eating their body weight in food and slinking through the slippery silt that collects under tangles of roots.
But Edmund was stuck on his childhood memories, his very first one at that. When he was in a little glass cocoon, no bigger or smaller than a grain of rice. Where he grew and grew and grew and tranformed into something absolutely new.
Edmund had been sneaking. He'd sneaked and creeped to the tippy top of the earth, where he poked the edge of his eye to see something he'd never seen but had always felt in at least three of his five hearts.
It's great orange and onyx wings floated so gently across the emptiness, and he writhed and wriggled about in his sticky home, trying to jump up to join The Butterfly. All of his effort went without success.
Determined, Edmund dug and twisted and winded and wrenched himself into his own concrete cocoon. He sat for twenty-eight and three-quarter days, waiting to feel some sort of newness in his segments. Once he felt a slight itch on his left side, but it wasn't enough, he knew, to make him grow as he once grew.
Frustrated, disheartened, and brimming with mal-contempt, He spun himself tighter into his swaddling, wiggling and waggling so powerfully that he began to work himself up above the earth.
With little to no warning, thick, greedy fingers snatched him from his earthy encasement, pulling him higher and higher still until he was smooshed into the coarse denim of a seven-year-old's pocket.
He squirmed and swiveled and spiraled about, desperately searching for any way out.
The harder he fought, the more tightly he fit, entangled and encircled in blue pocket lint.
Harsh chubby hands pulled Edmund further up, he tossed and he flounder 'til he was abruptly pierced through the gut.
He looked at himself, at his blue stringy skin, his seeping, sweeping ooze, his bright metal pin, and everything about Edmund was absolutely new.
The hook yanked and it clanked as the fishing reel drew, and the fear deep inside of him grew and grew and grew.
He was tossed violently back as the little boy threw
his fishing line high up through,
the emptiness and, for the very first time,
Edmund Thillwhistle flew.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Something "Inappropriate"
Bit 2
"I'm thinking about all of the great sex we've had, after he'd sneak me in the back door in the middle of the night, and it just doesn't fit."
My dog Lord Barkington (known more colloquially as "LB") wagged his tail with a boundless amount of sloppy joy.
"Oh, now, be serious LB. I need to pick out both a decent dress and a decent mind frame."
I held up something short in yellow and something shorter in red, and LB just gave me that same sappy smile.
"Yes yes yes, definitely the red. Great choice."
I slipped the dress over my head, setting it snuggly around my hips. How could we? I mean... there's just two separate lives the way I see it. The one where everyone can see me during the day, and the one where I'm sneaking about in the shadows at night. Mixing the two together would just be thoughtless. I laughed aloud.
"I can see myself now, LB, trying to small talk about local politics and grocery stores and then all of a sudden ripping him from his seat, taking him to a secluded location to engage in some adult activity."
LB gave me a look of disapproval.
"Oh, hush you. I just don't know what to do." I join LB on the floor, scratching at his favorite ear.
I sighed dramatically into his fur.
"I can't combine sex and love. Actually, I think I CAN, I just don't want to. What's that make me?"
LB was silent. He knows I'm the one that feeds him and allows him into the cozy confines of my bed, so he really should stay silent when it comes to these sort of questions.
"Oh you might as well say it anyways, I can see it in your little beady eyes. I'd be the Tramp, 'cus you're much more of a Lady than I am."
"I'm thinking about all of the great sex we've had, after he'd sneak me in the back door in the middle of the night, and it just doesn't fit."
My dog Lord Barkington (known more colloquially as "LB") wagged his tail with a boundless amount of sloppy joy.
"Oh, now, be serious LB. I need to pick out both a decent dress and a decent mind frame."
I held up something short in yellow and something shorter in red, and LB just gave me that same sappy smile.
"Yes yes yes, definitely the red. Great choice."
I slipped the dress over my head, setting it snuggly around my hips. How could we? I mean... there's just two separate lives the way I see it. The one where everyone can see me during the day, and the one where I'm sneaking about in the shadows at night. Mixing the two together would just be thoughtless. I laughed aloud.
"I can see myself now, LB, trying to small talk about local politics and grocery stores and then all of a sudden ripping him from his seat, taking him to a secluded location to engage in some adult activity."
LB gave me a look of disapproval.
"Oh, hush you. I just don't know what to do." I join LB on the floor, scratching at his favorite ear.
I sighed dramatically into his fur.
"I can't combine sex and love. Actually, I think I CAN, I just don't want to. What's that make me?"
LB was silent. He knows I'm the one that feeds him and allows him into the cozy confines of my bed, so he really should stay silent when it comes to these sort of questions.
"Oh you might as well say it anyways, I can see it in your little beady eyes. I'd be the Tramp, 'cus you're much more of a Lady than I am."
Thursday, April 22, 2010
A Piece of Mel's Story
Bit 1
If I do write a book, I think I'm going to take my character Melanie Stone (featured in Mel's Story Pt I & II) and write her, well, story. Here's a bit of something after Ezra's born.
-----------------------
I looked into her small sticky eyes for the first time, felt her tight, tiny hand around just my ring finger, and my heart exploded. The bits of my heart floated up my chest and then out of my eyes, heavy tears of happiness convincing me that she was all I'd ever fucking need.
Her skin was a painful reddish purple but I could already see her tan and smiling into the sun, a wealth of brown curls falling down the back of her cotton sundress as we plant tomatoes and cucumbers and bell peppers. She'd smile into the sky, absolutely joyful just to be living, to be. I'll teach her all about how the seeds grow and why we have to wait for them to be ready to eat. I'll tell her lots of fairy-tales instead of the specifics. Like how when a Borrower takes something of yours you have to write an itty bitty note asking for it back, otherwise they'll be insulted if you use human sized paper.
I'll tell her all of the vegetables are just shy when they're seeds. That she'll have to sing to them and tell them all of her deepest, gooiest secrets and dreams. Only then will their little ears reach up, up, up out of the ground to hear her songs even better.
That's what I'll tell her.
If I do write a book, I think I'm going to take my character Melanie Stone (featured in Mel's Story Pt I & II) and write her, well, story. Here's a bit of something after Ezra's born.
-----------------------
I looked into her small sticky eyes for the first time, felt her tight, tiny hand around just my ring finger, and my heart exploded. The bits of my heart floated up my chest and then out of my eyes, heavy tears of happiness convincing me that she was all I'd ever fucking need.
Her skin was a painful reddish purple but I could already see her tan and smiling into the sun, a wealth of brown curls falling down the back of her cotton sundress as we plant tomatoes and cucumbers and bell peppers. She'd smile into the sky, absolutely joyful just to be living, to be. I'll teach her all about how the seeds grow and why we have to wait for them to be ready to eat. I'll tell her lots of fairy-tales instead of the specifics. Like how when a Borrower takes something of yours you have to write an itty bitty note asking for it back, otherwise they'll be insulted if you use human sized paper.
I'll tell her all of the vegetables are just shy when they're seeds. That she'll have to sing to them and tell them all of her deepest, gooiest secrets and dreams. Only then will their little ears reach up, up, up out of the ground to hear her songs even better.
That's what I'll tell her.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Jotting this down
"Do you wanna know how I got started on it?"
I could feel his cheek nod against the slick flesh of my thigh. Florida's sunshine had been getting to the both of us, so we'd collapsed in front of the A/C unit, barely clothed and exhausted from the heat. I could feel the beads of sweat gathering at the bottom of my neck, slipping down my spine to collect again at the small of my back.
"I had this boyfriend that promised me the world. The entire fucking planet, mind you. 'All you have do', he would say, 'all you have to do is follow the silver lining. And we'll have it all.' "
He looked up at me with an emptiness I knew intimately, an emptiness I carried around with me in my stomach, in my throat, in my hands.
"So he taught me how to cook ice. Cook it and pour that sticky-sweet candy right down my veins. From then on out the clouds never looked the same."
He pulled me tenderly into his lap, kissing the nape of my neck.
"And now you're hollow like me." His breath made my voice catch in my throat, tears burning at the edge of my eyelids.
"Yeah." I whispered.
I could feel his cheek nod against the slick flesh of my thigh. Florida's sunshine had been getting to the both of us, so we'd collapsed in front of the A/C unit, barely clothed and exhausted from the heat. I could feel the beads of sweat gathering at the bottom of my neck, slipping down my spine to collect again at the small of my back.
"I had this boyfriend that promised me the world. The entire fucking planet, mind you. 'All you have do', he would say, 'all you have to do is follow the silver lining. And we'll have it all.' "
He looked up at me with an emptiness I knew intimately, an emptiness I carried around with me in my stomach, in my throat, in my hands.
"So he taught me how to cook ice. Cook it and pour that sticky-sweet candy right down my veins. From then on out the clouds never looked the same."
He pulled me tenderly into his lap, kissing the nape of my neck.
"And now you're hollow like me." His breath made my voice catch in my throat, tears burning at the edge of my eyelids.
"Yeah." I whispered.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Cut the Cute.
We were a little less than acquaintances that day, having run into one another on Main Street when a riot broke out. The crowd stood silently, watching a topless woman shout and flail about, her face an angry shade of lilac.
“Society has raped me of my womanhood!” she bellowed, trying to force her screams between the cracks of each brick building. A second protester ran into the road, dousing the topless woman in fake blood that dripped down her breasts, falling like delicate lace on the gravel beneath her bare feet. A nervous hand crept into mine, and I locked my fingers tightly around it, my eyes still fixed on the crimson spiraling into the rain gutters as I led her away with me.
We went on a few official dates after that, a wine tasting, a horror film, bar-hopping. I ended these dates quickly, faster than she wanted; switching out meaningful conversation over a mediocre dinner for mechanical sex, the same way my mother pulled the cracked eggs out of the carton at the grocery store. She would bite at my lip, hungry for more than just a physical embrace. When she called to tell me about her newest painting I would rush her off the phone just to let her know that I was the one in control. I invited myself over for a quick fuck between classes – no cigarettes, no wine, just a simple pattern, like the one sewn into the bottom of my dress.
“I was expecting a lot more clutter from an artist. Where’s all of your work, huh? Your masterpieces?”
I jeered at her, playfully elbowing her in the ribs as I dropped my purse next to the doormat.
A sliver of a smile flashed across her lips – the same kind that I suppressed whenever she said “Benjamin's” or “too legit.” She didn’t wear any make-up but she’d had her septum and eyebrow pierced, her short black hair shaggy and always in her eyes, paired with a long-sleeved blouse and boy cut jeans.
“You know where they are, Mel.” She muttered as she kicked off her ballet flats, staring at me with indifference, obviously frustrated that I was playing this game with her again.
“But I really don’t remember Lesley, I promise!” I inched toward her, my hands hugging the bone of her hips.
Her fingers fluttered at the hem of my dress for an instant and I saw the floodgates crack. It was crushing her, waves of hurt and desire resurfacing, forcing her under, refusing to let her up for air. I pushed forward, enjoying the familiar wounds that returned to the center of her eyes. I kissed her earlobe and I could feel her trying to find her breath.
“Why can’t you just fucking leave me alone?” she growled from behind clenched teeth, pinning me to the wall of her bedroom. Pulling her closer, I shrugged coyly as if I didn’t have an answer, but I knew. It wasn’t love, and it wasn’t lust. It was this fleshy, salty taste that sat on the back of my tongue, constantly burning into the roof of my mouth - Greed. My hands ran up and down her sides, re-exploring her familiar curves as I reached up to loosen a single button on her blouse.
“Show me.” I bit at her ear, breaking down her defenses. Her blouse gave way to my heavy hands and her artwork blinked its sleepy eyes at me, sucking in fresh air. A brilliant score of vermilion, saffron, and violet inked deep across her chest, swirling into cerulean waves and tangled sheet music as the sleeves of her shirt stretched down towards the floor.
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