Roses by Other Names

Subtle is the coffee
wafting from your drink;
cold chocolate ripples
against misshapen china.
You sip and look away.
I trace my glass rim,
ringing a high tone
against the crowd,
our curved silence.

You ask me to stop.
I nod and look away.

Our curved silence
against the crowd
rings a high tone.
I trace my glass rim;
you sip and look away.
Against misshapen china,
cold chocolate ripples,
wafting from your drink.
Subtle is the coffee.

I nod and look away.
You ask me to stop.

Lost and Found

My boyfriend just wasn’t good enough, so I slipped some sleeping pills into his coffee and dragged him down to the lost and found.

The woman working behind the counter yelped when I tried to stuff him into the box. “You can’t leave that here, ma’am.” She stood up and peered through the partition. “He’s not dead, is he?”

“Nah. You sure I can’t leave him here? I’ll pay you.” His shoe fell off, so I picked it up and balanced it on his nose. “Come on, you’ve gotta help me out! I keep trying to break up with him, but he’s. . . he’s a crier.”

She came out from her office and stared at him, now drooling onto his shirt. “So he’s sensitive?”

I rolled my eyes. “You have no idea.”

“Got a job?”

“He’s a manager at McDonald’s.” I shrugged. “Which was okay four years ago, but . . .”

She laughed. “My last guy ran pyramid schemes.” She shoved a clipboard at me. “Fill this out, and I think I can take him off your hands.” She moved the shoe. “Hmmm, not bad. Nice eyes.”

“Great.” I signed with a flourish and a grin.

Muscle Memory

Years from now,
when you and I have forgotten each other,
and I am sitting on my bed,
a tattered box in my lap,
staring at a strange Post-it
with a confused smile,
I hope that my name pops into your head,
and you wonder who it belongs to,
so that, for just a moment,
our expressions match.

Worse Than a Monkey's Uncle!

WORSE THAN A MONKEY’S UNCLE!,
or,
THE TRUE PERNICIOUS NATURE OF THE LATEST NOTION PUT FORTH BY MR. CHARLES DARWIN:
HOW IT IS DESTROYING OUR GREAT NATION AND BRINGING ON THE END OF DAYS

Faithful Reader, it is our Duty as a Newspaper to bring you all of the News which is occurring in our Great Nation, in order to truly demonstrate and elucidate all of those Events which happen each day. This is our Duty, and we are Proud and Humble to do so. However, it does so happen that there is some information that is horrible, so barbaric, so utterly Disturbing and Upsetting that we are distraught that we must place it into the Hallows of our Newspaper. We are Sworn to be Wholly and Utterly Truthful, however, and thus we do Shake our Heads at the State of Society Today. May we therefore take this Opportunity to warn our gentler Readers of the truly Disturbing nature of the following News, and to suggest they avert their Delicate Eyes from the material.

In previous Editions, we have been Shocked and Dismayed to represent to you the Blasphemous Theories of Mr. Darwin in his book The Descent of Man, which state that Man is descended from Ape! He is of the Evil Notion that, rather than being created in Full Form as God Intended and, Indeed, Did Create, we are merely the product of so-called Natural Selection, such that we are but an Accident of forces in a past of ludicrous proportions!

Of course, Faithful Reader, we have dedicated ourselves to Repudiating and Repulsing this foolish and unhealthy penny dreadful, but unfortunately there are always the Weak and Immoral who are Mislead by such Nonsense, and it is one of these Poor Sinners whom we reference today in this article, for it is by Them that an occurrence so Unfathomable, so Unholy, so Calumnious, and so very much Without Precedent so as to require a special meeting of Our Church has come to our attention.

For upon reading the Profane and Irreverent words of Mr. Darwin, one Aloysius P. Sallmen, a Eccentric Gentleman who has been known in the past to have been Unduly Influenced by Pamphlets and other Pernicious Pieces of Unsubstantiated Information, has announced that he will be entering into the Sacred Institution of Marriage with a Common Ape named Bernice, brought back from his travels in Foreign Lands! For he declares that if he is Descended from an Ape, then this Female is therefore nothing more than a Distant Cousin to himself, Mr. Sallmen, and that this Relationship is well outside the Laws of the Realm which Govern Familial Relationship, and also is not in Violation of those Laws which Govern Relationship between Man and Animal, for Mr. Darwin has declared Man to be Nothing More than Animal! He apparently has no Concern for the Rules of the Lord and His Kingdom!

We have received a letter from the Very Man Himself, in His Own Words, and this is what he tells us of his Sacrilegious Actions.

To Whom It May Concern at the London Monitor

Who are you to judge the actions of your fellow Man? Thou shalt not judge lest ye be judged himself, sayeth the Lord, and doth he not also say to Love Thy Neighbor as of Himself, and thus you see that my adoration of my Beloved Bernice is not an Unholy Aberration, as you have so cruelly stated in your newspaper. For as the Learned Mr. Darwin has stated, We, that is, Mankind, is a Sweet and Loving Neighbor to the Great Ape by Virtue not only by sharing this Vast Globe which the Lord has so Cunningly Created for us, but also by Virtue of a Familial Relationship as well.

I invite you, Gentlemen, to therefore visit me in my countryside estate and to see the Sweet and Doting face of my Dearest Bernice. For Who, after gazing upon the Loving and Liquid Eyes, so full of Wonder, could doubt or judge my Love for Her Whom I Love Best?

There, Gentle Reader, you read the ravings of a Mad Man who is Destined for Both Hell and the Sanatorium! But you should pity him, for it is the rantings and ravings of Mr. Charles Darwin who are bringing him to this sorry state! It is this so-called Scientist who is working his Vicious Lies into our Society and Will, we are Certain, be the Downfall of Us All.

Double Shifts

Miriam sighed as she saw two teenage girls slide into her biggest booth. She’d begged Grimm to let them start seating the customers, but he’d just thrown a plate at her and told her to shut up. She probably shouldn’t’ve asked him right after he’d gotten bailed out, but it wasn’t her fault he couldn’t keep his temper. She picked up two menus and put on her best smile, hoping to coax a decent tip out of them.

“Welcome to Grimm’s Diner, best coffee and short-stack in the state. My name’s Miriam, I’ll be your waitress today.” She set the menus down, already flipped to the beverage section. “Can I get you something to drink today?”

With the same beige hair and chocolate eyes, Miriam was sure they had to be twins. The one on the right looked confused. “What’s a short-stack?”

She smiled again. “Pancakes, hun. And we have the best!” It was a little over the top, but it usually worked. “That what you’d like?”

The girl on the left, eyes blurred by mascara, asked for black coffee. “Scalding, please. I like it really hot.”

Her sister, hair pulled into a messy ponytail, ordered tea with lots of sugar. “Real sugar, please. I hate the fake stuff.”

Miriam nodded as another wave of nausea passed through her. She gritted her teeth against it. “Coming right up!” Clutching her notepad against her stomach, she scurried to the bathroom and threw up as quickly as she could. Spitting in the sink, she scrubbed her hands and crunched three mints, then ran back and poured the girls’ drinks. “Hot tea, hot coffee! You sure you don’t want something for your coffee, hun?”

Mascara girl shook her head. “Nah. But can I get a, uh, short-stack please? With extra butter!”

Scribbling, Miriam looked at the other girl. “And you, sweetheart?”

Ponytail set her menu on top of her sister’s and handed both over. “Eggs and bacon, please. Scrambled eggs, extra-extra-extra crispy bacon. Like, just short of burnt.”

“Okay, then.” Miriam felt sick again at their choices. Not that she would normally, but she was just so sensitive right now. “Those should be up for you real soon.” She went to the kitchen and slapped the order onto the wall. “New order, Grimm.”

He ignored her, pouring batter into the waffle iron, but she knew he’d taken care of it. A few more of her tables filled up and she spent the next ten minutes busy, ferrying drinks and orders back and forth. Miriam checked in on the girls once, topping off their drinks, before hearing the bell for their meals. She hustled it over, and was amused to see them dive into their food as soon as she set the plates down. They’d probably ridden in on the bus.

Then the bells rang again, and she rushed to get all the other orders out. She tried to pay extra attention to the twins; they seemed sweet, but a little lost. When it came time for the bill, she snuck two dollars off their total. Grimm wouldn’t notice. “Here you are, hun.”

The girl with the ponytail held out a ten, but hesitated. “Um. Do you know where a Chinese place is around here?”

Miriam blushed, and fanned herself with her notepad to cover. “Phew, it’s hot in here. Yes, there’s a new one not too far, about two blocks past the hardware store. It’s pretty tasty, too.” She laughed. “You must be growing girls, though, to ask about another restaurant when you just ate!”

“No, it’s. . .” Ponytail reached up to play with her hair, eyes troubled. “The last time our dad sent the child support, he said he was working at a Chinese restaurant in Flashtown, and. . .”

“We wanted to visit,” said her sister, wiping at her make-up and making it worse. She frowned. “Mom’s new boyfriend’s a real jerk. He calls us ‘half-breeds.’ We thought maybe Dad would let us stay for a little while, teach us Indian stuff.”

“Native American!” her twin corrected.

Mascara nodded. “Yeah, that.” She peered at Miriam. “Hey, are you okay? You went all green.”

Her sister punched her in the arm. “Shut up, Casey!” She smiled apologetically. “Sorry.”

“It’s. . . it’s okay.” Miriam spoke too loudly and the girls looked startled. She swallowed hard. “Casey, huh? That’s a pretty name. Are you two twins?”

The other girl sighed. “Yeah. My name’s boring, though—Jane. I hate it.” She brightened. “Hey, if we live here, I could change it, right? Nobody’ll listen to me at home, but I could tell people it was something different from the beginning and they’d never know.”

“Dad would.”

Jane shook her head. “Nu-uh, ‘cause we could say it was a nickname. Like. . . Miley! I like that. I’m going to tell everybody that my name is Miley.” She looked at Miriam. “You won’t give me away, will you?”

Miriam shook her head, not trusting her voice anymore.

“Great. Well, we’d better get going. I bet they get real busy at lunch.” Jane set the money down. “Thanks for all your help!” She yanked at her sister’s arm, her ponytail bobbing at the movement.

“Yeah, thanks!”

The girls ran out. A few of the regulars chuckled.

Miriam leaned her forehead against the wall, taking refuge in its coolness, until Becca Grimm touched her shoulder. “Ahh! What?”

Becca winced at Miriam’s yell, the skin around her right eye still green. She was holding her left hand stiff against her side. She leaned in and whispered. “Can you take the next shift for me, hun? I don’t feel so good.”

Miriam blinked, then frowned. “I dunno. I worked a double yesterday, and—”

“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.” Ignoring her, Becca slid out the door, brushing past a huge group and practically running down the street.

Miriam stood in the middle of the crush, the pit in her stomach suddenly feeling very empty—and much too full.


--the characters of Miriam, Grimm, and Becca Grimm, and the diner, are all creations of other authors. This was written as part of a writing exercise.

Premonitions

Carrie opened the book. She looked up at the man in the white coat and frowned. “I don’t want to.”

His hand hovered over the red button. “You must.”

She winced and leafed through the pages, turning them faster as she searched for the important pictures. Her thumb slammed against photographs of an oak tree, an arrow, a lantern, and a bicycle. “These. All of these.”

The man wrote in his notebook, the ballpoint pen leaking.

Carrie laughed when she saw his fingers grow dark with ink.

He glanced at her. “What’s so funny?”

Smiling, she said “Now all that’s needed is a man with a blue hat and a broken watch, and then you won’t press that button ever again.”

The man stared, then cursed. He ran for the door, yanking at the unresponsive handle, shouting for security.

Carrie giggled and took the needle from her pocket.

Kountry Klutter

Ever since my hair turned white, my store has been doing ever so much better. I believe that people are just more comfortable buying antiques from somebody who looks antique herself, someone who may have very well owned the items they are now purchasing. A little silly, perhaps, but such is the way of the world. Everything these days seems to be about appearances over truth, veneer over substance.

I should not complain, I know. In today’s uncertain economic times, a woman should take whatever help she gets. Why should it bother me if I am selling better due to a quirk of pigment, rather than any special technique which I have concocted? I am grateful for the extra business, I truly am; until the appearance of my wrinkles, the store was on the brink of financial ruin. Then I took up knitting, and sales really picked up. I don’t know what I would have done had I lost the store—I live upstairs, where I have lived since I was born. While I was not permitted in the shop during business hours until I returned from graduate school, I remember wandering through it at night, luxuriating in the heady scent of dust, leather, and furniture polish.

My father always ruffled my hair when I complained about not being allowed in the store. “They come here as much for the atmosphere as they do for the things they buy, Caroline. And while of course I love you dearly, customers don’t associate children with ‘antique’ or ‘sophisticated,’ and so your presence would not be helpful. I know you would not wish to hurt business, darling.” Then he would spend the rest of the night showing me how to tell whether silver has been artificially darkened to look older, how a straight line instead of a curve made a beautiful piece of Chippendale into a cheap imitation, how to pick the real Ming vase out of a dozen fakes. I loved those evenings, sitting in my father’s lap, wearing cotton gloves to prevent oil getting on the more delicate pieces.

Small wonder that I studied art and its history; my professors said that I could have gone far as an artist, crafting new priceless antiques for another generation. But my father was ill, and I was needed at home, to help him as the fake glasses he affected to look intelligent turned into real ones and his hands began to shake too much to do the accounts. Business picked up then, too; his aloof demeanor, born of a fading mind, was seen as the arrogance of the affluent.

Of course, that was some time ago. It is probably different in larger or more modern towns, but here people are no longer interested in sophisticated; I sell more rooster-adorned tea towels than I do authentic Shaker dressers. No more am I intended to represent some mysterious enchantress with secret knowledge. Indeed, many out-of-towners delight in tricking me, buying seemingly worthless items which I later discover as priceless. I look like an archetypal grandmother—sweet but dotty, a little fuzzy on details such as which price tags I put on which item—and quite easy to fool. They snap up everything, eager to show off their knowledge of hand-blown glassware and American masterwork paintings. They are certain of their ability to separate treasure from trash—certain enough not to mind when I am too forgetful to locate the papers of provenance for the genuine baskets woven by real Osage Indians in the late 1800s.

----

The week before my father died, he asked me what I was going to do for contacts. Women couldn’t get into the antiquing business at that time; it was strictly an “old boys club.” We were running out of inventory and he was simply too sick to negotiate for new.

I just smiled, thinking of the purchases I had made at the hardware store that day, and promised him that I’d manage.

Iron Buffalo

I am so SICK of this poem. I don't even know if the last few stanzas work. Arrrrgh. Forget this noise; I'm done with it.

But here it is anyways.


Ghosts have followed you home
from the right side of the tracks, little girl;
look behind you out of the corner of your eye.
These men and women slipped from rails
onto a gravel-scattered ground;
they said goodbye years before they died.

Little girl, you’re just the same,
nobody seems to know your name
you tell the guidance counselor you’re fine.
Little girl, I ought to say
that things won’t always be this way—
but what if you can’t leave the past behind?

You walk alone past rusting trains,
their whistle only in your head, little girl;
that lowing helped you sleep at night.
Small wonder that these drifting ghosts
cling to your tired and limping heels;
they have that same uneasy mind.

Little girl, you need to wander,
you can’t stay here any longer—
soon you’ll run out of reasons to fight.
Little girl, your face is fading,
but you keep on masquerading;
you’re lost and gone while still alive.

Because no matter how you hope,
your daddy won’t die until you leave, little girl;
no-one will ever answer your prayers on time.
The ghosts know how easy it is to lose
when you insist on staying in last place;
if you don’t go, someday you’ll say goodbye.

Argh.

I've been working on this poem/song/thing for two days, and I can't seem to get it right. I think I've lost the state of mind. Also, it's going crummy in the middle. Frustrating.

But wait. . . wait. . . maybe I've got it. I postpone my RIP.

Because!

--For the reason of "because I feel like it," the chorus I made up for a song that does not exist. (In other words, I wrote the chorus and couldn't write anything good for the rest.)

--Also, the title of this blog does involve the word "sprinkles," which means I should really put more small things on here.

--That's what she said.



Baby had a good boy,
she had a good boy
who let her dooooown!
Baby had a good boy,
she had a good boy
who ran out of toooooown!
He did all the right things,
said all the right words,
but all his promises
were meant for the birds--
Baby had a good boy
and now she wants something baaaaaaaaaaad!



--This is best sung at the top of the lungs, in the car, on the way home from work. Trust me.