The cloud turns its face. The birds
tumble out, wing by wing.
Few are watching—
only the trees see air shift to feather,
vapor to claw. Someone
whistles by the river. His tune,
meandering between the flocks of grackles,
slips through their beaks
and dislodges birdseed. The breeze
caws, hoots, and flaps away.
The river is full of more fish. The current
flaps with silver and scales.
The wildflowers lift their noses
and sniff, whiskers twitching—
dirt melts under foot. Frogs
fall from the trees, their eyes
amber with memory. Someone
loses his whistle. His voice
cracks, deepens, and fades away. . .
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Friday, July 2, 2010
I Loved Wonderful
The teacup-elephants are on parade again,
weaving drunkenly through town
because the ringmaster puts beer in their peanuts;
they trample toothpicks and plastic grocery bags,
trumpeting music-box tunes, off-key and off-rhythm,
trunks clutching tails
in a quivering congo line.
Nina Miller, her cat sweatshirt clashing
with her crossing-guard vest and hat,
races to scatter traffic from their path,
her ponytail bobbing as she scolds careless drivers
with pursed lips and a shaking forefinger.
Danny and I are eating ice cream cones
as we walk down Sycamore,
chins sticky with our respective flavors
because neither of us wants to stop holding hands
long enough to use a napkin.
He rubs his thumb across my palm
and I shiver, licking my lips
against the sudden, sweet dryness in my throat.
One elephant weaves its way toward the gutter;
I unwrap my hand just long enough to nudge it to safety.
Feral parrots swoop at the elephants,
pecking at their ears and tweaking their tails,
singing old jazz tunes in French
as they perform aerial cartwheels.
Nina cries out, herding the elephants with one hand
and shooing the birds with the other.
A few of the skateboarding teenagers
abandon their tricks and join her,
whistling and shaking their hoodies
at the gaudy-feathered hooligans.
The elephants, bleeding, drunk, and confused,
panic at the noise and stampede,
tossing their heads and trumpeting,
shoving everyone aside as they gallop back toward the circus.
I see Humbert, the Fortune-Telling Elephant—
an old bull with three spots on his ear,
a penchant for cookies offered by curious six-year-olds,
and a talent for shuffling Tarot cards.
I pat his back as he lumbers past,
his spots faded but still visible
against the multiplied wrinkles.
Nina runs after the herd,
alternating between shouting at them to stop
and pondering aloud what punishment
she’s going to wreak on the ringmaster.
I grin and lick my melting cone.
Danny laughs and shakes his head.
“Man, I’ll be glad when we move.”
He runs his thumb over my hand again.
“Can you imagine raising a kid
among all this nonsense?”
I look at him.
He smiles and leans for a kiss.
Shivering, I pull my hand from his,
my throat a different kind of dry.
I shake my head and stare.
Confused, he blinks a few times,
the ice cream falling from his grip.
“Sweetie?” he says,
voice rising in volume and pitch.
I shake my head again,
turn on my heel, and walk away.
It’s half-price admission at the circus today,
and the mermaids always put on a good show.
weaving drunkenly through town
because the ringmaster puts beer in their peanuts;
they trample toothpicks and plastic grocery bags,
trumpeting music-box tunes, off-key and off-rhythm,
trunks clutching tails
in a quivering congo line.
Nina Miller, her cat sweatshirt clashing
with her crossing-guard vest and hat,
races to scatter traffic from their path,
her ponytail bobbing as she scolds careless drivers
with pursed lips and a shaking forefinger.
Danny and I are eating ice cream cones
as we walk down Sycamore,
chins sticky with our respective flavors
because neither of us wants to stop holding hands
long enough to use a napkin.
He rubs his thumb across my palm
and I shiver, licking my lips
against the sudden, sweet dryness in my throat.
One elephant weaves its way toward the gutter;
I unwrap my hand just long enough to nudge it to safety.
Feral parrots swoop at the elephants,
pecking at their ears and tweaking their tails,
singing old jazz tunes in French
as they perform aerial cartwheels.
Nina cries out, herding the elephants with one hand
and shooing the birds with the other.
A few of the skateboarding teenagers
abandon their tricks and join her,
whistling and shaking their hoodies
at the gaudy-feathered hooligans.
The elephants, bleeding, drunk, and confused,
panic at the noise and stampede,
tossing their heads and trumpeting,
shoving everyone aside as they gallop back toward the circus.
I see Humbert, the Fortune-Telling Elephant—
an old bull with three spots on his ear,
a penchant for cookies offered by curious six-year-olds,
and a talent for shuffling Tarot cards.
I pat his back as he lumbers past,
his spots faded but still visible
against the multiplied wrinkles.
Nina runs after the herd,
alternating between shouting at them to stop
and pondering aloud what punishment
she’s going to wreak on the ringmaster.
I grin and lick my melting cone.
Danny laughs and shakes his head.
“Man, I’ll be glad when we move.”
He runs his thumb over my hand again.
“Can you imagine raising a kid
among all this nonsense?”
I look at him.
He smiles and leans for a kiss.
Shivering, I pull my hand from his,
my throat a different kind of dry.
I shake my head and stare.
Confused, he blinks a few times,
the ice cream falling from his grip.
“Sweetie?” he says,
voice rising in volume and pitch.
I shake my head again,
turn on my heel, and walk away.
It’s half-price admission at the circus today,
and the mermaids always put on a good show.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Underwater
The steps lead down to the water. Morning glories, closed against the night’s chill, trailed around the metal handrail; ivy grew over the stone walls that enclosed the staircase.
Water oscillated over the last step, each time covering it with a mere film of moisture. It moved enough so that the moss which covered the boulders surrounding the lake had left the step alone.
It felt pleasant against her feet as she stood there, her right hand cupped against her thigh, her other hand gripping her right arm, just beneath the livid bruise on her shoulder. She closed her eyes as the breeze swept through her hair.
A real wave broke over her feet, splashing on her calves, and she shivered. Opening her eyes, she watched as a current wove its way through the smooth surface of the lake. She rubbed her arm in a distracted manner as she waited, fingers digging white circles into the skin.
Her dress did not fit as well as it once had. The cotton was stressed from its years of use, a few threads dangling loose. The sun—the sun!—had bleached the already pale blue to near-white. But she’d craved its familiar texture and so had removed it from its hidden box.
At the tip of the handrail was a long spike, placed upright, still stained from her last visit. She studied the movement in the water, now circling a small distance from the steps, and sighed. Reaching out, she plunged her index finger onto the thin metal, nearly impaling the digit entirely.
She pulled her finger off the spike and swept her arm in a curve over the water. Her blood glinted silver in the moonlight, falling in a parabola. The drops rested on the surface of the lake for a moment before sinking.
Wincing, she shook off a few more globules of blood into the water before squeezing her finger into her fist. She clasped her other hand around it to provide more pressure. A few breaths in and out did little to dull the pain.
The head that rose from the water was sleek, and covered with scales that glinted like chips of mica. One oval black eye reflected the lake; the other, the moon. Swimming toward her, the whole creature appeared by inches, all of it smooth, shiny, and silent.
She just watched, shaking from the cold and the anticipation. Despite her best efforts, blood slithered down her arm, dripping onto the steps. It was so quiet that the liquid landed with audible splashes. She took another deep breath. “Hello, Mother.”
Her mother folded her arms, leaning against a boulder that rose from the bottom of the lake. “Sefiera.”
They stared at each other for a few moments, as the water rose to the level of her ankles.
“You have not been here for some time, Sefeira.” Her mother placed a hand on the step, careful to keep it under the water. “In fact, I remember that the last time you came to me, you swore that you would never return.”
Sefeira moved a few stairs up, out of the water. “Mother—I—” She swallowed hard. “I was wrong, to say what I did.” She stared back at her mother, suddenly defiant. Neither woman blinked. “But I was not the only one.”
Tapping her hand on the stair, raising little bubbles that floated to the surface, her mother frowned. “This is why you are here? To make peace?” She pursed her wide mouth. “This is. . . unlike you, daughter.”
Shrugging, Sefeira spread her hands wide. “Perhaps I have been too long in the world, mother. Things move. . . differently, out here.” She went to step back down, but caught a toe on the edge of the stair. Unable to catch herself, she fell against the left wall. The wind knocked out of her, she curled her right arm over her stomach, looking down with alarm. She looked up in time to see her mother’s eyes widen.
The other woman pulled herself up towards her daughter with a great effort, arms trembling against the unaccustomed weight of her body. “No.” She gasped, struggling to breathe, her gaze fixed on Sefeira. “No!”
Sefeira put her hand to her mouth. Looking away from her mother, she noticed blood smeared on her dress, a starburst over her left hip. “I. . . yes.” Wiping at the stain with the back of her hand, she let out a quavering sigh. “I’m—I’m sorry, mother.”
Unable to hold herself up, her mother slid back into the water, only her eyes and the top of her head above the surface. “You wore the dress I made you.” Her words were garbled by the liquid, but Sefeira understood. “It no longer fits so well, does it? Especially around the. . . stomach area.”
It was the expected remark, but it still made the woman choke for a moment. Giving up on the stain, she returned to her first position and caught her breath. The solidness of her upper arm in her hand comforted her. “It will be a monster.”
Her mother said nothing.
Sefeira bit her lip. “Of course it will be a monster. I know that.” She dug her fingers into her own flesh, wondering if they would bruise. She risked a glance up at her mother. “I need your help. Please.”
The other woman huffed, raising a plume of water and a cloud of bubbles. “Yes, this makes more sense. You return for my assistance.” She treaded water, her webbed hands barely disturbing the surface of the water. “But. . . what kind, Sefeira?”
She loosened her grasp, instead just stroking her arm, avoiding her mother’s eyes. “May I have. . . may I have my true form back? Just for a moment. I want. . . I want to give it to you.” She swallowed hard again. “The baby. I want to give it to you.”
Her mother swam toward the steps again, the last few of which were still covered by the lake, her expression furious. “He is so perfect in your eyes then, still, that you would abandon your child for him? Even though it is a monster, it deserves more care for you than that! You have no. . . room for anything in your heart except yourself and that man!” She spat the last word.
“It’s not like that!” Sefeira said, glaring back at her mother. She pointed at the bruise on her shoulder with a jab of her bloody finger, her other hand clenched in a fist. “Has algae grown over your eyes? Have you slumbered so long that your mind is only dreams and water?” She poked the bruise itself and hissed at the contact. She whispered, face tight with emotion and pain, “It’s not like that at all.”
Neither woman spoke for a moment. The breeze rippled over the surface of the lake. Her mother reached up and tapped her daughter on the ankle. “You know I cannot leave the lake anymore. I cannot. . . avenge you, my daughter.”
Sefeira smiled, her eyes reflecting the moon, and the lake, her pupils large in the dark. “As if I were asking for that. No, mother, I can take care of myself.” She stopped smiling, but continued to show her teeth. “I can take care of. . . him.” Kneeling to clasp her mother’s hand, she sighed. “No.”
Stroking the back of her daughter’s hand, the other woman answered the sigh with a chuckle. “I see how it is. You wish back your teeth, your claws—you will find the answer to your injuries in his screams?”
Her daughter yanked her hand away and stood again. “Yes, but—” She snarled, her eyes still unblinking. “He’s going to know who kills him. It has to be my familiar face that fills his last sight.” She ran her hand over the spike on the railing. “I just want to give you the child before I go back there.”
The lake rose again, swallowing another step.
“The other humans will kill you.”
“Yes.”
The moon shone on the lake, the light bouncing as the water undulated.
“Why.”
Sefeira smiled. Frowned. Shrugged. Finally she spread her fingers over her stomach and sighed. “Because you warned me, and I ignored you, and now there is a monster. My child, a monster. It will kill everything if given half the chance. My fault.”
Her mother let out a low moan, cupping her hands against her head. “You don’t have to do this. Perhaps. . . perhaps we can change. We can forget about the revenge, just this once.” She pulled herself up a few steps, sprawling at Seferia’s feet. Water dripped as she gasped in the air. “Come home, my daughter. Come home and live with me and your child. We will sleep and dream, and then wake and swim and eat the little fish, and sleep and dream again. You will be safe here.” Panting, she hauled herself to her feet using the handrail, leaning on it. “Please, Sefeira. Please!” Exhausted, she fell to a seated position.
Sefeira sat on the step above her. She spread her hands wide again with a sad smile. “I can’t, my mother. I can’t stand to sleep and dream anymore. I. . . I have been too long in the world.” She stroked her mother’s arm. “I’m sorry. Just. . . please take the child. Give it sleep and dreams instead. Let it dream of a world where its mother is not foolish, not cruel and selfish. A world where it can unleash all of its little nightmares and cause no harm to anybody.” Plucking a furled morning glory, she tucked it behind her mother’s ear, her own eyes wet. “All the nicest dreams, like you gave me when I was a little girl.”
A leaf, floating in the lake, drifted up on the steps and tangled in the lattice-work of the handrail base. Its scallops scraped against the metal, ringing in the cold air.
“I will take the child.” Her mother reached over and took the leaf in her hand. She let it sit in her palm, staring at the intricate tracery of its veins. “You do not even have to return to your—our—old form.” Raising the leaf to her lips, she blew it away again. She half-turned to look up at her daughter and smiled a little. Placing her hand over her daughter’s stomach, she closed her eyes and whistled for a moment, the high-pitched noise echoing off the walls around them. When she took her hand away again, she held a small egg. It gleamed in the moonlight, gelatinous, a translucent gold through which the hint of the child inside could be seen. She looked up at her daughter. “I should kill it now, before it grows into its hatred.”
“Yes.”
The dark blotch inside the egg squirmed a little, and the egg jiggled in her hand. She cupped both palms together and cradled it. She sighed. “But I will not. I will give it the dreams that you want it to have, Sefeira. Ugly red dreams full of pain—the nasty imaginings of an abomination. It will sleep in the caves where it can hurt no-one.” She lifted it to eye-level. “I wonder whose eyes it will have.”
Sefeira reached out to touch her child, then pulled back. Unconsciously, she smoothed her hand over her now empty stomach. “I should go.”
Nodding, her mother looked up at her daughter, sighed, and looked away again. “I would embrace you, but I fear to drop it.”
Her daughter leaned over and put her arms around her mother. The other woman inclined backwards into the embrace, which lasted only a moment before they pulled apart again. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome, Sefeira.” Something wet shone in her mother’s eyes for just a moment. “You could still stay.”
Sefeira rose to her feet, shaking her head. “That is not our way, Mother. He will be repaid for every injury—I am still enough of your daughter to demand that.” She walked up the staircase, leaning on the rail for support. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
When she came to the top step, Sefeira turned and looked down. Her hand, still resting on the banister, trembled, and she opened her mouth to speak. Her shoulder, twisting as she moved, sent out a fresh spark of pain, and her expression firmed. She raised her other hand in a wave, but her mother was absorbed with staring into the depths of the egg, murmuring to it. Sefeira nodded once, stepped back from the lake, and walked away, stopping only to pick up her shoes from where she had left them.
Water oscillated over the last step, each time covering it with a mere film of moisture. It moved enough so that the moss which covered the boulders surrounding the lake had left the step alone.
It felt pleasant against her feet as she stood there, her right hand cupped against her thigh, her other hand gripping her right arm, just beneath the livid bruise on her shoulder. She closed her eyes as the breeze swept through her hair.
A real wave broke over her feet, splashing on her calves, and she shivered. Opening her eyes, she watched as a current wove its way through the smooth surface of the lake. She rubbed her arm in a distracted manner as she waited, fingers digging white circles into the skin.
Her dress did not fit as well as it once had. The cotton was stressed from its years of use, a few threads dangling loose. The sun—the sun!—had bleached the already pale blue to near-white. But she’d craved its familiar texture and so had removed it from its hidden box.
At the tip of the handrail was a long spike, placed upright, still stained from her last visit. She studied the movement in the water, now circling a small distance from the steps, and sighed. Reaching out, she plunged her index finger onto the thin metal, nearly impaling the digit entirely.
She pulled her finger off the spike and swept her arm in a curve over the water. Her blood glinted silver in the moonlight, falling in a parabola. The drops rested on the surface of the lake for a moment before sinking.
Wincing, she shook off a few more globules of blood into the water before squeezing her finger into her fist. She clasped her other hand around it to provide more pressure. A few breaths in and out did little to dull the pain.
The head that rose from the water was sleek, and covered with scales that glinted like chips of mica. One oval black eye reflected the lake; the other, the moon. Swimming toward her, the whole creature appeared by inches, all of it smooth, shiny, and silent.
She just watched, shaking from the cold and the anticipation. Despite her best efforts, blood slithered down her arm, dripping onto the steps. It was so quiet that the liquid landed with audible splashes. She took another deep breath. “Hello, Mother.”
Her mother folded her arms, leaning against a boulder that rose from the bottom of the lake. “Sefiera.”
They stared at each other for a few moments, as the water rose to the level of her ankles.
“You have not been here for some time, Sefeira.” Her mother placed a hand on the step, careful to keep it under the water. “In fact, I remember that the last time you came to me, you swore that you would never return.”
Sefeira moved a few stairs up, out of the water. “Mother—I—” She swallowed hard. “I was wrong, to say what I did.” She stared back at her mother, suddenly defiant. Neither woman blinked. “But I was not the only one.”
Tapping her hand on the stair, raising little bubbles that floated to the surface, her mother frowned. “This is why you are here? To make peace?” She pursed her wide mouth. “This is. . . unlike you, daughter.”
Shrugging, Sefeira spread her hands wide. “Perhaps I have been too long in the world, mother. Things move. . . differently, out here.” She went to step back down, but caught a toe on the edge of the stair. Unable to catch herself, she fell against the left wall. The wind knocked out of her, she curled her right arm over her stomach, looking down with alarm. She looked up in time to see her mother’s eyes widen.
The other woman pulled herself up towards her daughter with a great effort, arms trembling against the unaccustomed weight of her body. “No.” She gasped, struggling to breathe, her gaze fixed on Sefeira. “No!”
Sefeira put her hand to her mouth. Looking away from her mother, she noticed blood smeared on her dress, a starburst over her left hip. “I. . . yes.” Wiping at the stain with the back of her hand, she let out a quavering sigh. “I’m—I’m sorry, mother.”
Unable to hold herself up, her mother slid back into the water, only her eyes and the top of her head above the surface. “You wore the dress I made you.” Her words were garbled by the liquid, but Sefeira understood. “It no longer fits so well, does it? Especially around the. . . stomach area.”
It was the expected remark, but it still made the woman choke for a moment. Giving up on the stain, she returned to her first position and caught her breath. The solidness of her upper arm in her hand comforted her. “It will be a monster.”
Her mother said nothing.
Sefeira bit her lip. “Of course it will be a monster. I know that.” She dug her fingers into her own flesh, wondering if they would bruise. She risked a glance up at her mother. “I need your help. Please.”
The other woman huffed, raising a plume of water and a cloud of bubbles. “Yes, this makes more sense. You return for my assistance.” She treaded water, her webbed hands barely disturbing the surface of the water. “But. . . what kind, Sefeira?”
She loosened her grasp, instead just stroking her arm, avoiding her mother’s eyes. “May I have. . . may I have my true form back? Just for a moment. I want. . . I want to give it to you.” She swallowed hard again. “The baby. I want to give it to you.”
Her mother swam toward the steps again, the last few of which were still covered by the lake, her expression furious. “He is so perfect in your eyes then, still, that you would abandon your child for him? Even though it is a monster, it deserves more care for you than that! You have no. . . room for anything in your heart except yourself and that man!” She spat the last word.
“It’s not like that!” Sefeira said, glaring back at her mother. She pointed at the bruise on her shoulder with a jab of her bloody finger, her other hand clenched in a fist. “Has algae grown over your eyes? Have you slumbered so long that your mind is only dreams and water?” She poked the bruise itself and hissed at the contact. She whispered, face tight with emotion and pain, “It’s not like that at all.”
Neither woman spoke for a moment. The breeze rippled over the surface of the lake. Her mother reached up and tapped her daughter on the ankle. “You know I cannot leave the lake anymore. I cannot. . . avenge you, my daughter.”
Sefeira smiled, her eyes reflecting the moon, and the lake, her pupils large in the dark. “As if I were asking for that. No, mother, I can take care of myself.” She stopped smiling, but continued to show her teeth. “I can take care of. . . him.” Kneeling to clasp her mother’s hand, she sighed. “No.”
Stroking the back of her daughter’s hand, the other woman answered the sigh with a chuckle. “I see how it is. You wish back your teeth, your claws—you will find the answer to your injuries in his screams?”
Her daughter yanked her hand away and stood again. “Yes, but—” She snarled, her eyes still unblinking. “He’s going to know who kills him. It has to be my familiar face that fills his last sight.” She ran her hand over the spike on the railing. “I just want to give you the child before I go back there.”
The lake rose again, swallowing another step.
“The other humans will kill you.”
“Yes.”
The moon shone on the lake, the light bouncing as the water undulated.
“Why.”
Sefeira smiled. Frowned. Shrugged. Finally she spread her fingers over her stomach and sighed. “Because you warned me, and I ignored you, and now there is a monster. My child, a monster. It will kill everything if given half the chance. My fault.”
Her mother let out a low moan, cupping her hands against her head. “You don’t have to do this. Perhaps. . . perhaps we can change. We can forget about the revenge, just this once.” She pulled herself up a few steps, sprawling at Seferia’s feet. Water dripped as she gasped in the air. “Come home, my daughter. Come home and live with me and your child. We will sleep and dream, and then wake and swim and eat the little fish, and sleep and dream again. You will be safe here.” Panting, she hauled herself to her feet using the handrail, leaning on it. “Please, Sefeira. Please!” Exhausted, she fell to a seated position.
Sefeira sat on the step above her. She spread her hands wide again with a sad smile. “I can’t, my mother. I can’t stand to sleep and dream anymore. I. . . I have been too long in the world.” She stroked her mother’s arm. “I’m sorry. Just. . . please take the child. Give it sleep and dreams instead. Let it dream of a world where its mother is not foolish, not cruel and selfish. A world where it can unleash all of its little nightmares and cause no harm to anybody.” Plucking a furled morning glory, she tucked it behind her mother’s ear, her own eyes wet. “All the nicest dreams, like you gave me when I was a little girl.”
A leaf, floating in the lake, drifted up on the steps and tangled in the lattice-work of the handrail base. Its scallops scraped against the metal, ringing in the cold air.
“I will take the child.” Her mother reached over and took the leaf in her hand. She let it sit in her palm, staring at the intricate tracery of its veins. “You do not even have to return to your—our—old form.” Raising the leaf to her lips, she blew it away again. She half-turned to look up at her daughter and smiled a little. Placing her hand over her daughter’s stomach, she closed her eyes and whistled for a moment, the high-pitched noise echoing off the walls around them. When she took her hand away again, she held a small egg. It gleamed in the moonlight, gelatinous, a translucent gold through which the hint of the child inside could be seen. She looked up at her daughter. “I should kill it now, before it grows into its hatred.”
“Yes.”
The dark blotch inside the egg squirmed a little, and the egg jiggled in her hand. She cupped both palms together and cradled it. She sighed. “But I will not. I will give it the dreams that you want it to have, Sefeira. Ugly red dreams full of pain—the nasty imaginings of an abomination. It will sleep in the caves where it can hurt no-one.” She lifted it to eye-level. “I wonder whose eyes it will have.”
Sefeira reached out to touch her child, then pulled back. Unconsciously, she smoothed her hand over her now empty stomach. “I should go.”
Nodding, her mother looked up at her daughter, sighed, and looked away again. “I would embrace you, but I fear to drop it.”
Her daughter leaned over and put her arms around her mother. The other woman inclined backwards into the embrace, which lasted only a moment before they pulled apart again. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome, Sefeira.” Something wet shone in her mother’s eyes for just a moment. “You could still stay.”
Sefeira rose to her feet, shaking her head. “That is not our way, Mother. He will be repaid for every injury—I am still enough of your daughter to demand that.” She walked up the staircase, leaning on the rail for support. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
When she came to the top step, Sefeira turned and looked down. Her hand, still resting on the banister, trembled, and she opened her mouth to speak. Her shoulder, twisting as she moved, sent out a fresh spark of pain, and her expression firmed. She raised her other hand in a wave, but her mother was absorbed with staring into the depths of the egg, murmuring to it. Sefeira nodded once, stepped back from the lake, and walked away, stopping only to pick up her shoes from where she had left them.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Upgrades
‘Bout a hundred and sixty-seven years ago, I got my third husband—what’s-his-face—to pony up the cash for a complete diamond refitting on my ‘member-banks, but they’re totes obsolete now. I’ve had to do three hardcore purges and constant weeding in the past fifty years alone, so it’s totes time to replace. I mean, I had to wipe everything from my 70’s, the husbands are just a list now, and I’ve got no space for song lyrics, which sucks. How can I pick up cute adoles-boys at concerts if I can’t sing along?
Nah, it’s all about organics now, which is kinda funny considering that’s what I started with, but they’ve made super-major advances. I guess they take some kinda microbiotic or bacterial or whatever sludge, cram enough human DNA in there to keep our hyper-immune systems from eating it, and then voila! I can keep every encyclopedia in there and still remember the name of that awesome store where I bought my first pair of snappy rocket boots. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s how it works or whatever. I totes failed bioscience in school, and that was, like, before they’d even invented AI-biology and just a couple a’years after the aliens had to sued to get xenobio into the books or something, so we didn’t have, like, anything of this shit they have now.
Anyways, the awe-cool part is that the bacteria can talk to each other not only in your skull, but to other skulls, too. Which, I mean, doesn’t sound too great—since, like, if you don’t have room for your ‘members, who’s got space for some major loser’s eighty-memorized episodes of, like, Super Dino Manga, right? But I guess they sorta keep your memories floating in mid-air or something—I’m kinda confused about that part, but it sounds snappy—like a juggler or something, and then get it back when you want it, which is pretty high-rolling. And I guess the micro-whatevers can also share storage tips with each other and sorta, like, evolve, so that you don’t have to prune like ever, and the system even gets better ‘stead of older. No more replacing your tech ‘cause it turns out that your third husband, whatever the hell his name was, skimped like a cheap creep and left your medulla oblongata as straight-up meat. Which he totes did, but as soon I figured out that little tidbit, I got my boyfriend to cough up enough dinero to fix it. Sure I had to mention a few pic-files that coulda hurt a delicate polit career, but it was totes worth it.
Of course, it’s all galactically expensive, but I’ve been squatting in my ex-girlfriend’s apartment for the past 3 ½ years—she’s on a trip to Neptune, something ‘bout finding her inner Greek god or adjusting her Water Element, I dunno—so I’ve got a nice chunk saved up, and I’m pretty sure I can pay in installments or whatever. I can’t wait to shed this old sparklers in my skull and get this new stuff, lemme tell ya’—it’s getting so I have to dump a phone number if I wanna learn a bartender’s name, or whatever! Whatever I’ve gotta do, it’ll be totes worth it.
. . .
So, I went to the pace today—and it’s called “Micro Memory” and how loser is that?—and they gave me a price range. Man, it’s not just galactic in price, it’s freakin’ UNIVERSAL, like I bet there’s some alt-uni folks who are totes riding in their balloons or whatever and feeling how much it freakin’ costs from there, but I’m still totes hooked. I’m still pretty hyper—those muscles implants I got a while back have totes paid for themselves, and those DNA scrubs and patches were bad-assteroid—but let’s face it, I am out of storage. The other day I had to scrap my mom’s freakin’ maiden name! It was totes for a good cause—the boy was so cute even his phone number was sexy—but I still feel kinda bad about it. Good thing she’s dead or she’d be totes giving me her “hairy eyeball” or whatever for that one. But I wrote it down in my journal so that when I’ve got my new mnemonic I can load it back in. But the one good thing is that the doc-chick told me that they do do it in installments, thank God. They kinda have to, though; I mean, there are like major governments who can’t afford this shit.
Man, I was totes skeptical about my whole “fruit stomping fetish website” gig, but it has been a freakin’ lifesaver, no jokes. Whodathunk that stilettos and satsumas would’ve been the keys to like, my calling? And that people would be super-stoked to shell out major clams (ha!) to see me apply one to the other over the Interwebs? I’d thank that one husband of mine who turned me onto it, but I totes flushed his name in the first purge. What a disaster that marriage was—I’m pretty sure it was a disaster, anyway. I tossed most of it, except for the wedding part, ‘cause I looked major hot in my dress.
Anyways, they told me at the ‘member-place to come back in a week to get the surgery done—and I have to shave my head, which kinda sucks, but I’m gonna dye my skull green afterwards as this, like, statement. Yeah, they told me to get all my mem-banks copied, too, just in case or whatever, but I dunno. It would be kinda snappy to lose everything and be like, an amnesiac. I’m totes gonna leave a message in the apartment in case I do, and I’m gonna tell Amnesiac Me that I’m some kind of super-secret-spy for the AIs or something, all mysterious-like. That would be soo awe-cool.
. . .
Well, got all my new memory today and I’m still me—which is good, of course, though being a spy would have been the shit too. I feel soo freakin’ poor now, though. May have to sell of a couple a’ old tings and work overtime at the fruit-site for a bit if I’m gonna, like, eat. I’m major hungry too—I guess all the extra bacteria in my skull have a totes high metabolism or whatever. It’s worth it, though—I’ve loaded all kinds of old stuff back in there and no sign of strain yet. I’d forgotten just how much I’d forgotten, like 2/3rds of my kid-hood, how weird is that? Some remembers—and this is pretty snappy, like even I was impressed and the last time I got impressed was when I first found out why they call Longboys Longboys—the micro-critters can actually pluck out of ya’, like, you don’t even have to upload ‘em again. Something ‘bout “intrinsic cell memory” or whatever, which is kinda weird ‘cause I thought I read somewhere, like, freakin’ decades ago that all your cells got replaced or something? I dunno, I flunked out of med school, too.
Holy shit, I’d completely forgotten about that. These little buggers are good.
But whatever, I’ve been all beauty and not too much brains for freakin’ forever now, so docs know best, I guess. It is real nice to remember more—s’funny, a lot of this stuff I don’t even know why the hell I put it in storage. I mean, my eighth-grade play? That was really fun! Way better than the sixty-seventh sequel to Saw or whatever that I dumped it for instead. But hey, it’s still all background to like, my real life, of course. Plannin’ on makin’ a real round of the clubs tonight, yeah, see how much new boy-toys’ faces I can shove in the data banks. I s’pose if I was some, like, serious chick, I would stay in and like, assess all my new ‘members or whatever—like my third husband, whose name was freakin’ Dylan, of all things, what t’hellness was I thinking—but I still haven’t even dyed my shaved-skull yet, ‘cause I didn’t want to docs to yell at me or whatever, so I got to do that before tonight. And then I was thinking that I might go all retro in, like, honor of my past coming back up, and get some tattoos of circuits on there too in—in—oh, in like a shiny blue. Yeah! Plus then I’m booked a double shift at work and only then can I do what I like, promised, and go out with the amigos. So I’m not gonna sit and sulk like when I got stood up at my eleventh-grade pro—dammit.
. . .
The ex came back from her Neptune-tour and kicked me out, which, thanks to my little micro-buddies, unfortunately seems like a perfectly reasonable response. I mean, dang, in the guest bedroom while she was asleep? That’s pretty freakin’ cold, I gotta admit. So now I’ve got to find new digs, which is gonna eat into my micro-payments (ha!) I guess I could start doing night-shifts at work, which are triple-pay. It would totes kill my social life, but I think—and now I kinda know—that I have had a pretty decent amount of that already. Sometimes I wish bacteria-brain wasn’t quite so good and I’d have to excuse to scrap some of couple a’ the thousands of one-night stands I’ve had. I mean, come on, does a girl have to remember the night she—well—never mind. It kinda makes me think about, like, what I’m really doing, ya’ know.
But it’s all awe-cool. I can totes just take a night off a week still, I mean, I don’t have to kill myself with work or nothing, if it gets really way too much of a murder on my out-and-about time, I could go back to my old diamond banks. Definitely do some different prioritizing on what I keep though, I’m telling. Not that I’m gonna go all responsible and shit—I’m still the same chick who out-drank a whole bar, I mean, just ‘cause I ‘member a bit more. But it’s for def gonna be out with the crappy lays and stay with the lullaby my mom used to sing to me before I’d go to bed. Shit, sometimes I think I haven’t ever really slept a whole night since she stopped singing to me. Well, I mean, I think that now; I musta totes been on something when I let that go. Or I forget it before I even had the option, back my when my brain was my own meat. I forget when I forgot. Doesn’t really matter, though, because I am totes not gonna have to. I kinda think I’d miss most of this stuff—like, how could I have forgotten how long Dylan had to save to get me my diamond ‘member-banks? It was a birthday present ‘cause I’d been sad when I realized that I couldn’t remember my grandma’s favorite color. And he was my second husband, how could I forget that? I musta transposed him and Greg, who was a real creep, by accident when I made the list and trashed the rest. And Paul, my first husband, barely counted—we were both major drunk in Las Vegas II and annulled it in the morning. But Dylan was . . . he was a really good guy.
. . .
Blargh. By all the rings and little moons of Saturn, double-shifts make me so tired that I’m almost too worn out to use my damn memory. My little microbiological amigos have really been working overtime, dredging up new memories. I went to the Micro-Memory facility to make another payment—ouch—and had a quick check-up with one of the doctors while I was there. He scanned my skull and said that the bacteria had evolved four times in a major way in just three months, which I’ll admit freaked me a bit. He said it was all perfectly okay and whatever, but named me that I might start getting, like, extra memories. I asked him what the heck that meant—was the whole intra-bacterial communication between different colonies gonna give me other peoples’ memories or something—but he said no, thank God. He said it would be just that I’d start remembering everything, more than I ever would’ve with my regular brain, or straight-up tech like the diamond banks. It would be, like, the tiny details and some really early stuff, like—like—oh god, I just got a flash of before I was born, holy damn.
Geez.
Anyways I should probably haul my ass to bed and get some sleep, or I’m never gonna have enough energy to head to the bar with Jesp and Allie tonight. Ugh. I’m not even in the mood for the bar or alcohol anymore, I’m serious. But they’ve been complaining that they never see me anymore, so. . .
. . .
Shit! Shit, shit, shit! Some son-of-a-bitch hacker wrecked the website for a full week, and I’m short on my micro-memory payment for the month. I tried to do some free-lancing but halfway through the gig I remembered how my first hamster died and burst into tears. Not the right fetish for that, I and I couldn’t get anything else. I guess the director was so irritated that he posted my name on some kind of do-not-hire list, the creep. I took as many extra-shifts as I could at the fruit site, but it just wasn’t enough. So I called up the company and begged them to add the difference to next month’s, but it’s going to be tight. I don’t know what I’ll do if I have to give it back, I really don’t.
Last night I dreamt about my mom, and every detail was perfect—her funny cowlick right above her bangs, the way she always smelled like vanilla and mint, the sound of her voice. I haven’t been so happy since—
Since—
Wow. Even the bacteria can’t remember that.
But I’ll figure something out. I’ve got to.
. . .
I wish I could forget to go—
. . .
. . .
Something’s missing. Something’s missing, and I don’t know what. It’s on the tip of my tongue and I open my mouth to let it tumble out so I can know what it is, so I can understand, but it won’t budge. I turned this apartment upside-down, searching for it, but I couldn’t find it, not even a clue as to what it is. There was this strange note about me being a spy of some sort, but that doesn’t feel right. At least, as much as I can tell.
And everything’s wrong. Everything around me seems different and the date on the calendar is a whole century than it should be. I’ve been trying to get ahold of my mom for days but she seems to have gone missing.
There’s pictures of me with people I don’t know, in places I don’t recognize, with expressions I don’t like or understand.
The only thing that seems like it might apply is this—this note I found scribbled n a notebook cover—a cover that has no notebook with it. It was lying next to a small container full of ashes of which I can only pick a few random letters. It says—in a weird shallow parody of my handwriting—“if you knew, you’d know it was for the best.”
And I don’t know what’s going on.
Nah, it’s all about organics now, which is kinda funny considering that’s what I started with, but they’ve made super-major advances. I guess they take some kinda microbiotic or bacterial or whatever sludge, cram enough human DNA in there to keep our hyper-immune systems from eating it, and then voila! I can keep every encyclopedia in there and still remember the name of that awesome store where I bought my first pair of snappy rocket boots. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s how it works or whatever. I totes failed bioscience in school, and that was, like, before they’d even invented AI-biology and just a couple a’years after the aliens had to sued to get xenobio into the books or something, so we didn’t have, like, anything of this shit they have now.
Anyways, the awe-cool part is that the bacteria can talk to each other not only in your skull, but to other skulls, too. Which, I mean, doesn’t sound too great—since, like, if you don’t have room for your ‘members, who’s got space for some major loser’s eighty-memorized episodes of, like, Super Dino Manga, right? But I guess they sorta keep your memories floating in mid-air or something—I’m kinda confused about that part, but it sounds snappy—like a juggler or something, and then get it back when you want it, which is pretty high-rolling. And I guess the micro-whatevers can also share storage tips with each other and sorta, like, evolve, so that you don’t have to prune like ever, and the system even gets better ‘stead of older. No more replacing your tech ‘cause it turns out that your third husband, whatever the hell his name was, skimped like a cheap creep and left your medulla oblongata as straight-up meat. Which he totes did, but as soon I figured out that little tidbit, I got my boyfriend to cough up enough dinero to fix it. Sure I had to mention a few pic-files that coulda hurt a delicate polit career, but it was totes worth it.
Of course, it’s all galactically expensive, but I’ve been squatting in my ex-girlfriend’s apartment for the past 3 ½ years—she’s on a trip to Neptune, something ‘bout finding her inner Greek god or adjusting her Water Element, I dunno—so I’ve got a nice chunk saved up, and I’m pretty sure I can pay in installments or whatever. I can’t wait to shed this old sparklers in my skull and get this new stuff, lemme tell ya’—it’s getting so I have to dump a phone number if I wanna learn a bartender’s name, or whatever! Whatever I’ve gotta do, it’ll be totes worth it.
. . .
So, I went to the pace today—and it’s called “Micro Memory” and how loser is that?—and they gave me a price range. Man, it’s not just galactic in price, it’s freakin’ UNIVERSAL, like I bet there’s some alt-uni folks who are totes riding in their balloons or whatever and feeling how much it freakin’ costs from there, but I’m still totes hooked. I’m still pretty hyper—those muscles implants I got a while back have totes paid for themselves, and those DNA scrubs and patches were bad-assteroid—but let’s face it, I am out of storage. The other day I had to scrap my mom’s freakin’ maiden name! It was totes for a good cause—the boy was so cute even his phone number was sexy—but I still feel kinda bad about it. Good thing she’s dead or she’d be totes giving me her “hairy eyeball” or whatever for that one. But I wrote it down in my journal so that when I’ve got my new mnemonic I can load it back in. But the one good thing is that the doc-chick told me that they do do it in installments, thank God. They kinda have to, though; I mean, there are like major governments who can’t afford this shit.
Man, I was totes skeptical about my whole “fruit stomping fetish website” gig, but it has been a freakin’ lifesaver, no jokes. Whodathunk that stilettos and satsumas would’ve been the keys to like, my calling? And that people would be super-stoked to shell out major clams (ha!) to see me apply one to the other over the Interwebs? I’d thank that one husband of mine who turned me onto it, but I totes flushed his name in the first purge. What a disaster that marriage was—I’m pretty sure it was a disaster, anyway. I tossed most of it, except for the wedding part, ‘cause I looked major hot in my dress.
Anyways, they told me at the ‘member-place to come back in a week to get the surgery done—and I have to shave my head, which kinda sucks, but I’m gonna dye my skull green afterwards as this, like, statement. Yeah, they told me to get all my mem-banks copied, too, just in case or whatever, but I dunno. It would be kinda snappy to lose everything and be like, an amnesiac. I’m totes gonna leave a message in the apartment in case I do, and I’m gonna tell Amnesiac Me that I’m some kind of super-secret-spy for the AIs or something, all mysterious-like. That would be soo awe-cool.
. . .
Well, got all my new memory today and I’m still me—which is good, of course, though being a spy would have been the shit too. I feel soo freakin’ poor now, though. May have to sell of a couple a’ old tings and work overtime at the fruit-site for a bit if I’m gonna, like, eat. I’m major hungry too—I guess all the extra bacteria in my skull have a totes high metabolism or whatever. It’s worth it, though—I’ve loaded all kinds of old stuff back in there and no sign of strain yet. I’d forgotten just how much I’d forgotten, like 2/3rds of my kid-hood, how weird is that? Some remembers—and this is pretty snappy, like even I was impressed and the last time I got impressed was when I first found out why they call Longboys Longboys—the micro-critters can actually pluck out of ya’, like, you don’t even have to upload ‘em again. Something ‘bout “intrinsic cell memory” or whatever, which is kinda weird ‘cause I thought I read somewhere, like, freakin’ decades ago that all your cells got replaced or something? I dunno, I flunked out of med school, too.
Holy shit, I’d completely forgotten about that. These little buggers are good.
But whatever, I’ve been all beauty and not too much brains for freakin’ forever now, so docs know best, I guess. It is real nice to remember more—s’funny, a lot of this stuff I don’t even know why the hell I put it in storage. I mean, my eighth-grade play? That was really fun! Way better than the sixty-seventh sequel to Saw or whatever that I dumped it for instead. But hey, it’s still all background to like, my real life, of course. Plannin’ on makin’ a real round of the clubs tonight, yeah, see how much new boy-toys’ faces I can shove in the data banks. I s’pose if I was some, like, serious chick, I would stay in and like, assess all my new ‘members or whatever—like my third husband, whose name was freakin’ Dylan, of all things, what t’hellness was I thinking—but I still haven’t even dyed my shaved-skull yet, ‘cause I didn’t want to docs to yell at me or whatever, so I got to do that before tonight. And then I was thinking that I might go all retro in, like, honor of my past coming back up, and get some tattoos of circuits on there too in—in—oh, in like a shiny blue. Yeah! Plus then I’m booked a double shift at work and only then can I do what I like, promised, and go out with the amigos. So I’m not gonna sit and sulk like when I got stood up at my eleventh-grade pro—dammit.
. . .
The ex came back from her Neptune-tour and kicked me out, which, thanks to my little micro-buddies, unfortunately seems like a perfectly reasonable response. I mean, dang, in the guest bedroom while she was asleep? That’s pretty freakin’ cold, I gotta admit. So now I’ve got to find new digs, which is gonna eat into my micro-payments (ha!) I guess I could start doing night-shifts at work, which are triple-pay. It would totes kill my social life, but I think—and now I kinda know—that I have had a pretty decent amount of that already. Sometimes I wish bacteria-brain wasn’t quite so good and I’d have to excuse to scrap some of couple a’ the thousands of one-night stands I’ve had. I mean, come on, does a girl have to remember the night she—well—never mind. It kinda makes me think about, like, what I’m really doing, ya’ know.
But it’s all awe-cool. I can totes just take a night off a week still, I mean, I don’t have to kill myself with work or nothing, if it gets really way too much of a murder on my out-and-about time, I could go back to my old diamond banks. Definitely do some different prioritizing on what I keep though, I’m telling. Not that I’m gonna go all responsible and shit—I’m still the same chick who out-drank a whole bar, I mean, just ‘cause I ‘member a bit more. But it’s for def gonna be out with the crappy lays and stay with the lullaby my mom used to sing to me before I’d go to bed. Shit, sometimes I think I haven’t ever really slept a whole night since she stopped singing to me. Well, I mean, I think that now; I musta totes been on something when I let that go. Or I forget it before I even had the option, back my when my brain was my own meat. I forget when I forgot. Doesn’t really matter, though, because I am totes not gonna have to. I kinda think I’d miss most of this stuff—like, how could I have forgotten how long Dylan had to save to get me my diamond ‘member-banks? It was a birthday present ‘cause I’d been sad when I realized that I couldn’t remember my grandma’s favorite color. And he was my second husband, how could I forget that? I musta transposed him and Greg, who was a real creep, by accident when I made the list and trashed the rest. And Paul, my first husband, barely counted—we were both major drunk in Las Vegas II and annulled it in the morning. But Dylan was . . . he was a really good guy.
. . .
Blargh. By all the rings and little moons of Saturn, double-shifts make me so tired that I’m almost too worn out to use my damn memory. My little microbiological amigos have really been working overtime, dredging up new memories. I went to the Micro-Memory facility to make another payment—ouch—and had a quick check-up with one of the doctors while I was there. He scanned my skull and said that the bacteria had evolved four times in a major way in just three months, which I’ll admit freaked me a bit. He said it was all perfectly okay and whatever, but named me that I might start getting, like, extra memories. I asked him what the heck that meant—was the whole intra-bacterial communication between different colonies gonna give me other peoples’ memories or something—but he said no, thank God. He said it would be just that I’d start remembering everything, more than I ever would’ve with my regular brain, or straight-up tech like the diamond banks. It would be, like, the tiny details and some really early stuff, like—like—oh god, I just got a flash of before I was born, holy damn.
Geez.
Anyways I should probably haul my ass to bed and get some sleep, or I’m never gonna have enough energy to head to the bar with Jesp and Allie tonight. Ugh. I’m not even in the mood for the bar or alcohol anymore, I’m serious. But they’ve been complaining that they never see me anymore, so. . .
. . .
Shit! Shit, shit, shit! Some son-of-a-bitch hacker wrecked the website for a full week, and I’m short on my micro-memory payment for the month. I tried to do some free-lancing but halfway through the gig I remembered how my first hamster died and burst into tears. Not the right fetish for that, I and I couldn’t get anything else. I guess the director was so irritated that he posted my name on some kind of do-not-hire list, the creep. I took as many extra-shifts as I could at the fruit site, but it just wasn’t enough. So I called up the company and begged them to add the difference to next month’s, but it’s going to be tight. I don’t know what I’ll do if I have to give it back, I really don’t.
Last night I dreamt about my mom, and every detail was perfect—her funny cowlick right above her bangs, the way she always smelled like vanilla and mint, the sound of her voice. I haven’t been so happy since—
Since—
Wow. Even the bacteria can’t remember that.
But I’ll figure something out. I’ve got to.
. . .
I wish I could forget to go—
. . .
. . .
Something’s missing. Something’s missing, and I don’t know what. It’s on the tip of my tongue and I open my mouth to let it tumble out so I can know what it is, so I can understand, but it won’t budge. I turned this apartment upside-down, searching for it, but I couldn’t find it, not even a clue as to what it is. There was this strange note about me being a spy of some sort, but that doesn’t feel right. At least, as much as I can tell.
And everything’s wrong. Everything around me seems different and the date on the calendar is a whole century than it should be. I’ve been trying to get ahold of my mom for days but she seems to have gone missing.
There’s pictures of me with people I don’t know, in places I don’t recognize, with expressions I don’t like or understand.
The only thing that seems like it might apply is this—this note I found scribbled n a notebook cover—a cover that has no notebook with it. It was lying next to a small container full of ashes of which I can only pick a few random letters. It says—in a weird shallow parody of my handwriting—“if you knew, you’d know it was for the best.”
And I don’t know what’s going on.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Contended Humming
In case anybody was wondering (and I know you're not,) I have one finished story that just needs typed up and one story that I'm pretty sure I'll finish today. *glee!* Man, it feels good to back in the groove.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
24-Hour Paradise
Day 319:
Have figured out how to move small objects. Made every label in the store peel off. It took them ages to stick them all back on. Pleasing.
Day: 788:
Daily exercise has increased my strength. Managed to tip over a castle of soda cans. Explosions everywhere. Floor was irretrievably sticky for the remainder of the day. Excellent.
Day 1006:
Have learnt how to utilize own energy and convert it into other types. Super-heated a hot dog so that a customer received first-degree burns on her tongue. Good.
Day 2340:
Possessed the manager so that he responded to a customer’s complaint with obscenities. Perfection. Plan to do so again when district manager comes to investigate.
Day 8549:
Whispered in the cashier’s ear everyday for 226 days. Today she finally went crazy and hung herself in the backroom. Superb.
Day 8550:
Am displeased to discover that I have been joined by the shade of said cashier. No matter. It is both weak and far behind me in development.
Day: 8603:
Cashier spent entire day sobbing in a most unpleasant high-pitched fashion. Attempted to block noise, to no avail. So distracted that was unable to implement any new problems in the store.
Day 8605:
Cashier continues to wail. Cacophony has grown so loud that several of the customers seem to be aware and disturbed by it. Would be pleasing to see their discomfiture if the noise were not so irritating. Something must be done if revenge is to continue.
Day 8606:
Attempted to perform exorcism with a magazine, a lighter, and the ring-tone of a stolen cell phone. Said modifications almost resulted in own exorcism; project temporarily abandoned.
Day 9621:
Would find the cat-and-mouse game between myself and cashier amusing, except that somehow am losing. Have determined that it is time to escape this place and enter the larger world once more.
Day 9938; Day 242:
Am still stuck in the wall. Will be killing the cashier when manage to struggle free of bonds.
Day ???:
Convenience store torn down some time ago. Concrete block of wall used to create part of the wall around now-vacant lot. Still trapped in said blocks. Cashier disappeared some time ago. Have lost all ability to manipulate physically, mentally, or emotionally. Displeasing.
Still think that this is an awful lot of punishment for bad luck and only one dead kid. Only two weeks past expiration date; those just guidelines. Everyone knows that.
Have figured out how to move small objects. Made every label in the store peel off. It took them ages to stick them all back on. Pleasing.
Day: 788:
Daily exercise has increased my strength. Managed to tip over a castle of soda cans. Explosions everywhere. Floor was irretrievably sticky for the remainder of the day. Excellent.
Day 1006:
Have learnt how to utilize own energy and convert it into other types. Super-heated a hot dog so that a customer received first-degree burns on her tongue. Good.
Day 2340:
Possessed the manager so that he responded to a customer’s complaint with obscenities. Perfection. Plan to do so again when district manager comes to investigate.
Day 8549:
Whispered in the cashier’s ear everyday for 226 days. Today she finally went crazy and hung herself in the backroom. Superb.
Day 8550:
Am displeased to discover that I have been joined by the shade of said cashier. No matter. It is both weak and far behind me in development.
Day: 8603:
Cashier spent entire day sobbing in a most unpleasant high-pitched fashion. Attempted to block noise, to no avail. So distracted that was unable to implement any new problems in the store.
Day 8605:
Cashier continues to wail. Cacophony has grown so loud that several of the customers seem to be aware and disturbed by it. Would be pleasing to see their discomfiture if the noise were not so irritating. Something must be done if revenge is to continue.
Day 8606:
Attempted to perform exorcism with a magazine, a lighter, and the ring-tone of a stolen cell phone. Said modifications almost resulted in own exorcism; project temporarily abandoned.
Day 9621:
Would find the cat-and-mouse game between myself and cashier amusing, except that somehow am losing. Have determined that it is time to escape this place and enter the larger world once more.
Day 9938; Day 242:
Am still stuck in the wall. Will be killing the cashier when manage to struggle free of bonds.
Day ???:
Convenience store torn down some time ago. Concrete block of wall used to create part of the wall around now-vacant lot. Still trapped in said blocks. Cashier disappeared some time ago. Have lost all ability to manipulate physically, mentally, or emotionally. Displeasing.
Still think that this is an awful lot of punishment for bad luck and only one dead kid. Only two weeks past expiration date; those just guidelines. Everyone knows that.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
The Oracle of Falling Petals
They come to her cave every day, this place she had chosen for its cool, damp solitude. They come with their wet eyes and their pleading voices and smooth, sleek bodies and say
Please.
She has never been able to deny these corporal children; they are too enviable, even in their state of permanent confusion. She would trade her centuries of wisdom for their brief lives. Who is she to deny them hope or, at the least, knowledge, in their dazzlingly short existence?
Yes.
So she makes their decisions for them, and tells some version of their futures, and fades a little with each answer.
No. Yes. No. Yes. Yes.
She has contemplated moving many times. The cave is not as cool as it once was. Her petitioners bring in their hot breath and slake their thirsts on her spring. The tears they leave behind are salty and full of too much regret. She could simply retreat into the deeper caverns, where blind fish swim in circles and the stalactites ring with whispers. But. . . she longs to be needed, even as the heat and aridity of the children shrivels her.
Please. Please.
Some of the children press her hand and thank her. Some stand still, digesting the answer she has given. Others run without another word, unable to face what she has told them, or so happy with the news that they cannot wait to be a part of that future. There are a few who stay and beg for more explanation, but she has none for them.
Yes. No. No. No.
When she is truly frail, she tells herself, there will be no more prophecy, no more answers. She will limp to the darkest corner in the remote depths and wait for the desperate to crawl to her. She will listen to their entreaties and then. . . for just one. . . she will grant her only wish that she can grant, and blow away on the wind of their contented sigh.
Please.
But this is not that time. Though she aches at night, and each new form clambering into her cave makes her wince, it is not yet time. She straightens as the child holds his hands out to her and pleads.
Yes. She loves you.
No. She loves you not.
Please.
She has never been able to deny these corporal children; they are too enviable, even in their state of permanent confusion. She would trade her centuries of wisdom for their brief lives. Who is she to deny them hope or, at the least, knowledge, in their dazzlingly short existence?
Yes.
So she makes their decisions for them, and tells some version of their futures, and fades a little with each answer.
No. Yes. No. Yes. Yes.
She has contemplated moving many times. The cave is not as cool as it once was. Her petitioners bring in their hot breath and slake their thirsts on her spring. The tears they leave behind are salty and full of too much regret. She could simply retreat into the deeper caverns, where blind fish swim in circles and the stalactites ring with whispers. But. . . she longs to be needed, even as the heat and aridity of the children shrivels her.
Please. Please.
Some of the children press her hand and thank her. Some stand still, digesting the answer she has given. Others run without another word, unable to face what she has told them, or so happy with the news that they cannot wait to be a part of that future. There are a few who stay and beg for more explanation, but she has none for them.
Yes. No. No. No.
When she is truly frail, she tells herself, there will be no more prophecy, no more answers. She will limp to the darkest corner in the remote depths and wait for the desperate to crawl to her. She will listen to their entreaties and then. . . for just one. . . she will grant her only wish that she can grant, and blow away on the wind of their contented sigh.
Please.
But this is not that time. Though she aches at night, and each new form clambering into her cave makes her wince, it is not yet time. She straightens as the child holds his hands out to her and pleads.
Yes. She loves you.
No. She loves you not.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Almost
I.
Sora stands at the window, looking out. I creep up behind her and put my hands over her eyes. She sighs and says my name in an absent-minded way, arms stiff at her sides. Letting go, I ask her what’s wrong. She turns, blinking, and jerks her chin at the sky. I look.
Something silver is falling.
II.
We stand at the window the next day. Sora has her arms folded, glaring outside with her lips tight. I lean my forehead against the glass, having cleared a circle away in the condensation so I can see.
It looks almost like rain, the whatever-it-is. Almost, but not enough. And in being so almost-but-not-enough, it’s almost more disturbing than a random liquid would be. It’s rain put together by somebody who’s never seen it. The hollows of the yard are filled with the stuff, and it’s spilling over onto the sidewalk. I ask her if it could just be mercury or something, and she gives me a moment of her glare before returning it to the view. Risking a shrug at her inflexible back, I walk to the kitchen and get a glass of water; suddenly I’m thirsty.
III.
The yard is soggy; Sora and I venture a few steps out onto it, huddled under umbrellas, before retreating to the house again. It feels nasty sloshing against our shoes, weirdly slimy and clinging. For some reason, we can’t bring ourselves to rinse our footwear, instead leaving them to languish on the back porch. I peel my socks off with the tips of my fingers, and I still feel the need to scrub my hands afterwards.
The almost-rain is still dripping, oozing, from the sky—it’s just viscous enough that I can’t call what it’s doing “falling.” Everything outside glistens from a coating of it, even the car. Sora makes several pointed remarks about how she wanted a house with a garage, but I’m too busy checking the window seams for leaks to be irritated.
IV.
Every container we own is placed under a leak now, and we’ve only managed to cover the kitchen and bedroom, sealing off rest of the house. Sora and I tip around the pots and pans as if they were landmines.
Sora sits on the bed, legs pulled close to her chest, frowning at the steady streams that have perforated our roof. We still aren’t sure how it’s getting in; wincing, I climbed onto the roof and checked for holes, some sign that it was toxic and had eaten through, but nothing. As far as I can tell, it’s simply extremely good at insinuating itself through the tiniest of spaces. She spends most of the day just glaring at the strange weather. She says that she can’t help it. I suspect it doesn’t help that we’ve been stuck in here together for a week.
We can’t bear to call it rain, or anything stemming from the word, so Sora has christened it “almost.” It’s a bit of an insult to me; she claimed that whenever I slept, I was talking, obsessing over the idea that it was almost rain, almost wet, almost alien—just almost. It does suit the stuff, though.
As far as we can tell, the almost doesn’t seem to be dangerous. It doesn’t hurt. We just can’t stand to touch it. Several times we tried to go for the car, but the first drop of the almost that fell on our skin, and we sprinted back for the shower. It’s so insidious that the most elaborate weather-proofing does no good, and we are compelled to wash, trapping us at home again. Not that I think it would matter; it seems to be everywhere.
V.
Sora’s gone. I don’t know how, or when. We’d been fighting for days, in the pettiest ways. She left my favorite book next to one of the overflowing pots of almost, so it was ruined twice. I poured a cup of it over her feet so that she had to clean. But I still would have thought she would have taken me with her.
VI.
My bathwater this morning had a silvery sheen to it.
VII.
When you get used to it, the almost is. . . well, almost like water. Tastes a bit odd. It’s almost a flavor I can identify, but not quite. Sometimes I pretend that Sora didn’t really left, that she just discovered what I did, that the almost isn’t all that bad. Perhaps she just. . . dissolved in the night. That would be good, I think.
I lift a glass to my lips and take another sip. Almost good.
Sora stands at the window, looking out. I creep up behind her and put my hands over her eyes. She sighs and says my name in an absent-minded way, arms stiff at her sides. Letting go, I ask her what’s wrong. She turns, blinking, and jerks her chin at the sky. I look.
Something silver is falling.
II.
We stand at the window the next day. Sora has her arms folded, glaring outside with her lips tight. I lean my forehead against the glass, having cleared a circle away in the condensation so I can see.
It looks almost like rain, the whatever-it-is. Almost, but not enough. And in being so almost-but-not-enough, it’s almost more disturbing than a random liquid would be. It’s rain put together by somebody who’s never seen it. The hollows of the yard are filled with the stuff, and it’s spilling over onto the sidewalk. I ask her if it could just be mercury or something, and she gives me a moment of her glare before returning it to the view. Risking a shrug at her inflexible back, I walk to the kitchen and get a glass of water; suddenly I’m thirsty.
III.
The yard is soggy; Sora and I venture a few steps out onto it, huddled under umbrellas, before retreating to the house again. It feels nasty sloshing against our shoes, weirdly slimy and clinging. For some reason, we can’t bring ourselves to rinse our footwear, instead leaving them to languish on the back porch. I peel my socks off with the tips of my fingers, and I still feel the need to scrub my hands afterwards.
The almost-rain is still dripping, oozing, from the sky—it’s just viscous enough that I can’t call what it’s doing “falling.” Everything outside glistens from a coating of it, even the car. Sora makes several pointed remarks about how she wanted a house with a garage, but I’m too busy checking the window seams for leaks to be irritated.
IV.
Every container we own is placed under a leak now, and we’ve only managed to cover the kitchen and bedroom, sealing off rest of the house. Sora and I tip around the pots and pans as if they were landmines.
Sora sits on the bed, legs pulled close to her chest, frowning at the steady streams that have perforated our roof. We still aren’t sure how it’s getting in; wincing, I climbed onto the roof and checked for holes, some sign that it was toxic and had eaten through, but nothing. As far as I can tell, it’s simply extremely good at insinuating itself through the tiniest of spaces. She spends most of the day just glaring at the strange weather. She says that she can’t help it. I suspect it doesn’t help that we’ve been stuck in here together for a week.
We can’t bear to call it rain, or anything stemming from the word, so Sora has christened it “almost.” It’s a bit of an insult to me; she claimed that whenever I slept, I was talking, obsessing over the idea that it was almost rain, almost wet, almost alien—just almost. It does suit the stuff, though.
As far as we can tell, the almost doesn’t seem to be dangerous. It doesn’t hurt. We just can’t stand to touch it. Several times we tried to go for the car, but the first drop of the almost that fell on our skin, and we sprinted back for the shower. It’s so insidious that the most elaborate weather-proofing does no good, and we are compelled to wash, trapping us at home again. Not that I think it would matter; it seems to be everywhere.
V.
Sora’s gone. I don’t know how, or when. We’d been fighting for days, in the pettiest ways. She left my favorite book next to one of the overflowing pots of almost, so it was ruined twice. I poured a cup of it over her feet so that she had to clean. But I still would have thought she would have taken me with her.
VI.
My bathwater this morning had a silvery sheen to it.
VII.
When you get used to it, the almost is. . . well, almost like water. Tastes a bit odd. It’s almost a flavor I can identify, but not quite. Sometimes I pretend that Sora didn’t really left, that she just discovered what I did, that the almost isn’t all that bad. Perhaps she just. . . dissolved in the night. That would be good, I think.
I lift a glass to my lips and take another sip. Almost good.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Undue Blues
It is not fair—
nor right—
nor good—
to cry for a spring that has not yet left,
for trees that still contain their leaves,
for flowers still asleep.
But this breezy beautiful day,
with its sun enough
to let me doze outside—
it’s breaking my heart,
because I know how soon
it plans to leave again.
nor right—
nor good—
to cry for a spring that has not yet left,
for trees that still contain their leaves,
for flowers still asleep.
But this breezy beautiful day,
with its sun enough
to let me doze outside—
it’s breaking my heart,
because I know how soon
it plans to leave again.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Pebbles--explanation
Wrote this for my mom's birthday. I admit, it ends a little cheezy, but I quite like that main bits.
Pebbles
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who liked rocks. Igneous, sedimentary, metamorphic—she liked them all. She liked them so much that she collected them. When she went to the store, she would buy quartz slides and carved obsidian. Every time she would go for a walk, she would return with pockets full of stones—river pebbles, bits of shale, and little white rocks. If it was a rock, she would try to take it home with her.
And that was the funny thing about the girl. She really did like every kind of rock, from the tiny emerald chip that had fallen out of her grandmother’s ring to the rough lumps she would find by the train tracks. She would clean and polish each one carefully and put it in its own special place on her collecting shelves.
Sometimes, people would make fun of the little girl. They told her that it didn’t make any sense to collect boring pebbles from the side of the road. They told her that she should only focus on the most exciting rocks, the shiny gems and the sleek rare minerals.
The little girl didn’t listen. She just kept collecting her rocks, no matter what kind they were, and no matter if she already had a dozen others just like it. To the little girl, each one was special.
When the little girl grew up, she became a geologist. She went all over the world, traveling from deserts to canyons to beaches, examining her beloved rocks. And when she got a little too old to kneel in cold mud, she became a geology professor. She taught each of the students about rocks, and she taught all of them to love stones as much as she did.
On the last day of class, she would give each student a hug, a rock from her now vast collection, and a little index card that said:
Just as every stone is special, so are you. Just as each rock is different, so are you. And just as each pebble is important—so are you.
And even if not all her students went on to become geologists, or even teachers, they never forgot what she said, and they remembered to love each and every rock. But most importantly, they remembered to love themselves for themselves, and that’s the best lesson of all.
And that was the funny thing about the girl. She really did like every kind of rock, from the tiny emerald chip that had fallen out of her grandmother’s ring to the rough lumps she would find by the train tracks. She would clean and polish each one carefully and put it in its own special place on her collecting shelves.
Sometimes, people would make fun of the little girl. They told her that it didn’t make any sense to collect boring pebbles from the side of the road. They told her that she should only focus on the most exciting rocks, the shiny gems and the sleek rare minerals.
The little girl didn’t listen. She just kept collecting her rocks, no matter what kind they were, and no matter if she already had a dozen others just like it. To the little girl, each one was special.
When the little girl grew up, she became a geologist. She went all over the world, traveling from deserts to canyons to beaches, examining her beloved rocks. And when she got a little too old to kneel in cold mud, she became a geology professor. She taught each of the students about rocks, and she taught all of them to love stones as much as she did.
On the last day of class, she would give each student a hug, a rock from her now vast collection, and a little index card that said:
Just as every stone is special, so are you. Just as each rock is different, so are you. And just as each pebble is important—so are you.
And even if not all her students went on to become geologists, or even teachers, they never forgot what she said, and they remembered to love each and every rock. But most importantly, they remembered to love themselves for themselves, and that’s the best lesson of all.
Friday, February 26, 2010
The Assistance of Punctuation
I love the sweet knife of the hyphen,
the gentle curve of the parenthesis,
cutting and folding
my poetry into kirigami
dissecting my emotions
so that they are enough not-mine
to stick to the paper
without scuttling into the corner.
the gentle curve of the parenthesis,
cutting and folding
my poetry into kirigami
dissecting my emotions
so that they are enough not-mine
to stick to the paper
without scuttling into the corner.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Neglectful Amnesia
How sad we are, to walk away,
and leave our things behind—
our shoes
and toys
we used to love
—and yet, don’t seem to mind
the thoughts that slip,
(like melting snow)
our pasts that fade, and tear,
so that our childhood
cartwheels by
but we can’t see it there
We store our memories
in our brains—
through notes—in objects too—
and still it seems so long ago
I was in love with you.
We live to watch our deaths come on,
remember to forget—
I’m sure I’ll see you in my dreams
(but I’m not sleeping yet)
and leave our things behind—
our shoes
and toys
we used to love
—and yet, don’t seem to mind
the thoughts that slip,
(like melting snow)
our pasts that fade, and tear,
so that our childhood
cartwheels by
but we can’t see it there
We store our memories
in our brains—
through notes—in objects too—
and still it seems so long ago
I was in love with you.
We live to watch our deaths come on,
remember to forget—
I’m sure I’ll see you in my dreams
(but I’m not sleeping yet)
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Where the Days Are Longer
He is certain that he left her in summer, swinging her legs in the warm and algae-covered lake, yet here she is in spring. She carries an umbrella and wears yellow boots, splattered with rain-churned mud.
“Rose?”
She shakes her head and laughs. “You always forget my name.”
He reaches for her umbrella, seeking shelter, but she backs away. “Violet, what are you doing here? You were swimming.”
The girl smiles. “That’s not it either, you know, but don’t worry about it.” She kicks at the ground, sending a spray of water and mud onto his legs. “And as to how I got here, well, did you think it would be summer forever?”
Nodding, he tries for the umbrella again, this time managing to brush it with a few fingers before she dances out of reach. “Of course it should have been summer forever, except when it was the other three seasons, but the point, Lily, is that you shouldn’t be here.”
She pouts. “You don’t love me anymore?” She hands him the umbrella.
Raising it over his head, he wipes the freezing rain from his face before answering. “Did I ever?” He chuckles at his own cleverness.
She claps her hands, beaming. “Exactly. . .you don’t! You did it, you did it!”
He frowns. “What are you talking about? Of course I love you, Daisy. I always have.” He smiles and gestures toward her. “Now come under here with me; you’re getting soaked.”
“Oh.” Now she frowns. “What’s the umbrella for?”
He laughs. “For the rain, of course!”
She tilts her head and points at the clear sky.
“What?” He stares at the dry road, the sun playing over the trees that line it. “But—”
. . .
He is certain that he left her in autumn, running underneath the maple trees and trying to catch the falling leaves, yet here she is in winter. She pulls a sled behind her and wears mismatched gloves crusted with dirty ice.
“Iris!”
She drops the sled’s leash and sniffs. “Nope. You can’t even get that right, can you?”
He is going to reach out for the sled, but checks the gesture at her tone. “Of course I—what did I do wrong, Jasmine?”
The girl snorts. “Wrong again. Please, don’t even bother.” She kneels, gathering snow and packing it together. “Aren’t you even wondering how I am in winter?”
Trying to smile at her, he can’t help but let his confusion leak into the expression. “Yes, of course. How are you in winter, Flora? I mean, why are you here? As to ‘how’ you are. . . grumpy seems to be the answer.” He eyes the sled again; it looks well-used, but still perfectly functional. She must have just ridden down the gentle slope behind her.
She rolls her eyes and stands. “You think you’re so funny.” Pulling her arm back, she hurls the snowball at him, hitting him in the face.
Flinching, but not in time, he wipes away the snow, feeling the ice crystals melt under his fingertips. “Aster, please. It was just a joke, of course. I didn’t come here to upset you.”
Her eyes light up and she leans closer, cupping his chin with one wooly palm. “Exactly, yes! You—”
He smiles, sliding so that he can kiss the line of her wrist that huddles between her glove and the sleeve of her parka. “I knew that you were just playing with me, Marigold. Of course! Now come on, let’s take the sled and go have fun.”
“Oh.” She yanks her hand away. “What makes you think we’d have fun with the sled?”
He laughs. “We’ll ride it down hills, of course!”
She frowns and spreads her arms. “But it’s flat for miles around.”
“What?” He stares at the barbed-wire fence stretched in a line as far as he can see. “But—”
. . .
He is certain that he left her in spring, singing something he couldn’t understand, her lap full of half-grown kittens tumbling over one another, yet here she is in autumn. She carries a trick-or-treat bag and is wearing a Halloween costume, a strange cross between traditional ghost and fairy princess.
“Ivy?”
She tilts her head to the side and giggles. “Not quite, but you can call me whatever you want.”
He reaches for the sack, his breath coming short and fast in the chilly air, and she pulls it just out of reach. “Briony, h-how did you get here? Weren’t you with the kittens?”
The girl grins and steps forward. “What was that about sex kittens?” She drops the bag and it lands on his feet, spilling over his shoes and onto the ground. “I can’t help but think that you would know how a person came to be. Or do you need a refresher course?”
Swallowing, he backs away, the candy that was on his shoes falling off. “That’s not what I meant, Fleur. I meant, of course, how did you get to autumn?”
She purses her lips. “Maybe I hitched a ride with a handsome stranger.” She leans toward him and presses her mouth to his. “I can give you all the sugar you want, you know.” Slipping her hand quickly into his grip and then out again, she smirks at him.
Raising his hand to find a piece of taffy, he wipes a strange smear of oil off it before answering. “You’re scaring me.” He intends to chuckle at the joke, but can’t.
She gives him a thumbs up, face creased with a plainer smile. “Exactly! I knew you could figure it out.”
He frowns. “Do? Do what? I feel like I don’t even know you, Delphinium.” For lack of anything better to do, he unwraps the sweet and pops it in his mouth. “I can figure that you’re different, of course.”
“Oh.” Now she frowns. “Why are you eating that?”
He shrugs. “Because it’s candy, of course.”
She shakes her head and recoils.
“What?” He spits out his mouthful, staring at the clump of tire in his hand. “But—”
. . .
He is certain that he left her in winter, shivering by the side of the road, too exhausted even to cry for help, yet here she is in summer. She carries an ice cream cone and wears jean shorts, tattered and splotched with white paint.
“Zinnia?”
She rolls her eyes. “Geez, I can never tell if you think you’re being funny, or if you really can’t remember. It’s Poppy. Poppy! How many times do I have to tell you?”
He reaches for her ice cream, hoping to steal a lick of it, but she steps back. “Oh, yes, Poppy. Of course. I remember. Did you come here to get warm?”
Poppy laughs. “Nice try, bucko, but no cigar.” She picks a glob of ice cream off her cone and flings it at him; it lands in his eye and stings badly. “I would have thought you’d guess that I don’t ever go to winter. Not really.”
Nodding without understanding her, blinking to get the ice cream out of his eye, he snatches the cone out of her hand. “Of course it’s nicer here in the summer, Poppy, but you shouldn’t be able to come here at all. Not if I’ve left you in winter.” Triumphant, he takes a bite out of the ice cream. It tastes bland, and the cold seems to shoot right up into his brain.
Hands on her hips, Poppy grins as she watches him. “Hurts, doesn’t it, Mr. All-Powerful?”
Raising his hands to his forehead, he wipes at it, trying to smooth away the agony. “No. And do you think I can’t handle pain? I can, of course. Lots. As much as I have to.”
She claps her hands, beaming. “And that is it exactly! Pain, and lots of pain, and—” Poppy giggles and pokes his shoulder “‘of course,’ you really have to.”
He frowns. “What are you talking about? It’s just brain-freeze, of course.” He gestures toward her. “Now come here and be quiet, and promise to stay where I put you.”
“Oh. No.” She makes a face. “I hated the ditch.”
He shivers and tries to tell himself that it’s just the last bit of the frozen treat making bumps rise on his arm. “What ditch?”
She clucks her tongue. “You remember. It was cold, and full of half-frozen mud, and I barely fit in it. One of my legs stuck out so that somebody ran it over by accident. I’d never stay there.” She half-smiles and shrugs. “All because I didn’t want to be just a summer girl, or an afternoon girl, or an around-the-edges girl.”
He licks his lips. “You’re lying.”
Poppy raises an eyebrow. “No. But I’m curious—which part are you objecting to? Do you even know?”
“Shut up!” He leaps, the anger rising in him familiar as he grabs Poppy’s throat, but his hands slide through and he falls. Confused, he looks up at her. “You’re dead. This can’t be real.”
She tilts her head and chuckles, and her form seems to wave like a heat mirage in his vision. “Why did you ever think it was?”
“What?” He stares at the emptiness above him, below him, and all around him. “But—”
. . .
He was certain that he left her, yet here she is.
“Rose?”
She shakes her head and laughs. “You always forget my name.”
He reaches for her umbrella, seeking shelter, but she backs away. “Violet, what are you doing here? You were swimming.”
The girl smiles. “That’s not it either, you know, but don’t worry about it.” She kicks at the ground, sending a spray of water and mud onto his legs. “And as to how I got here, well, did you think it would be summer forever?”
Nodding, he tries for the umbrella again, this time managing to brush it with a few fingers before she dances out of reach. “Of course it should have been summer forever, except when it was the other three seasons, but the point, Lily, is that you shouldn’t be here.”
She pouts. “You don’t love me anymore?” She hands him the umbrella.
Raising it over his head, he wipes the freezing rain from his face before answering. “Did I ever?” He chuckles at his own cleverness.
She claps her hands, beaming. “Exactly. . .you don’t! You did it, you did it!”
He frowns. “What are you talking about? Of course I love you, Daisy. I always have.” He smiles and gestures toward her. “Now come under here with me; you’re getting soaked.”
“Oh.” Now she frowns. “What’s the umbrella for?”
He laughs. “For the rain, of course!”
She tilts her head and points at the clear sky.
“What?” He stares at the dry road, the sun playing over the trees that line it. “But—”
. . .
He is certain that he left her in autumn, running underneath the maple trees and trying to catch the falling leaves, yet here she is in winter. She pulls a sled behind her and wears mismatched gloves crusted with dirty ice.
“Iris!”
She drops the sled’s leash and sniffs. “Nope. You can’t even get that right, can you?”
He is going to reach out for the sled, but checks the gesture at her tone. “Of course I—what did I do wrong, Jasmine?”
The girl snorts. “Wrong again. Please, don’t even bother.” She kneels, gathering snow and packing it together. “Aren’t you even wondering how I am in winter?”
Trying to smile at her, he can’t help but let his confusion leak into the expression. “Yes, of course. How are you in winter, Flora? I mean, why are you here? As to ‘how’ you are. . . grumpy seems to be the answer.” He eyes the sled again; it looks well-used, but still perfectly functional. She must have just ridden down the gentle slope behind her.
She rolls her eyes and stands. “You think you’re so funny.” Pulling her arm back, she hurls the snowball at him, hitting him in the face.
Flinching, but not in time, he wipes away the snow, feeling the ice crystals melt under his fingertips. “Aster, please. It was just a joke, of course. I didn’t come here to upset you.”
Her eyes light up and she leans closer, cupping his chin with one wooly palm. “Exactly, yes! You—”
He smiles, sliding so that he can kiss the line of her wrist that huddles between her glove and the sleeve of her parka. “I knew that you were just playing with me, Marigold. Of course! Now come on, let’s take the sled and go have fun.”
“Oh.” She yanks her hand away. “What makes you think we’d have fun with the sled?”
He laughs. “We’ll ride it down hills, of course!”
She frowns and spreads her arms. “But it’s flat for miles around.”
“What?” He stares at the barbed-wire fence stretched in a line as far as he can see. “But—”
. . .
He is certain that he left her in spring, singing something he couldn’t understand, her lap full of half-grown kittens tumbling over one another, yet here she is in autumn. She carries a trick-or-treat bag and is wearing a Halloween costume, a strange cross between traditional ghost and fairy princess.
“Ivy?”
She tilts her head to the side and giggles. “Not quite, but you can call me whatever you want.”
He reaches for the sack, his breath coming short and fast in the chilly air, and she pulls it just out of reach. “Briony, h-how did you get here? Weren’t you with the kittens?”
The girl grins and steps forward. “What was that about sex kittens?” She drops the bag and it lands on his feet, spilling over his shoes and onto the ground. “I can’t help but think that you would know how a person came to be. Or do you need a refresher course?”
Swallowing, he backs away, the candy that was on his shoes falling off. “That’s not what I meant, Fleur. I meant, of course, how did you get to autumn?”
She purses her lips. “Maybe I hitched a ride with a handsome stranger.” She leans toward him and presses her mouth to his. “I can give you all the sugar you want, you know.” Slipping her hand quickly into his grip and then out again, she smirks at him.
Raising his hand to find a piece of taffy, he wipes a strange smear of oil off it before answering. “You’re scaring me.” He intends to chuckle at the joke, but can’t.
She gives him a thumbs up, face creased with a plainer smile. “Exactly! I knew you could figure it out.”
He frowns. “Do? Do what? I feel like I don’t even know you, Delphinium.” For lack of anything better to do, he unwraps the sweet and pops it in his mouth. “I can figure that you’re different, of course.”
“Oh.” Now she frowns. “Why are you eating that?”
He shrugs. “Because it’s candy, of course.”
She shakes her head and recoils.
“What?” He spits out his mouthful, staring at the clump of tire in his hand. “But—”
. . .
He is certain that he left her in winter, shivering by the side of the road, too exhausted even to cry for help, yet here she is in summer. She carries an ice cream cone and wears jean shorts, tattered and splotched with white paint.
“Zinnia?”
She rolls her eyes. “Geez, I can never tell if you think you’re being funny, or if you really can’t remember. It’s Poppy. Poppy! How many times do I have to tell you?”
He reaches for her ice cream, hoping to steal a lick of it, but she steps back. “Oh, yes, Poppy. Of course. I remember. Did you come here to get warm?”
Poppy laughs. “Nice try, bucko, but no cigar.” She picks a glob of ice cream off her cone and flings it at him; it lands in his eye and stings badly. “I would have thought you’d guess that I don’t ever go to winter. Not really.”
Nodding without understanding her, blinking to get the ice cream out of his eye, he snatches the cone out of her hand. “Of course it’s nicer here in the summer, Poppy, but you shouldn’t be able to come here at all. Not if I’ve left you in winter.” Triumphant, he takes a bite out of the ice cream. It tastes bland, and the cold seems to shoot right up into his brain.
Hands on her hips, Poppy grins as she watches him. “Hurts, doesn’t it, Mr. All-Powerful?”
Raising his hands to his forehead, he wipes at it, trying to smooth away the agony. “No. And do you think I can’t handle pain? I can, of course. Lots. As much as I have to.”
She claps her hands, beaming. “And that is it exactly! Pain, and lots of pain, and—” Poppy giggles and pokes his shoulder “‘of course,’ you really have to.”
He frowns. “What are you talking about? It’s just brain-freeze, of course.” He gestures toward her. “Now come here and be quiet, and promise to stay where I put you.”
“Oh. No.” She makes a face. “I hated the ditch.”
He shivers and tries to tell himself that it’s just the last bit of the frozen treat making bumps rise on his arm. “What ditch?”
She clucks her tongue. “You remember. It was cold, and full of half-frozen mud, and I barely fit in it. One of my legs stuck out so that somebody ran it over by accident. I’d never stay there.” She half-smiles and shrugs. “All because I didn’t want to be just a summer girl, or an afternoon girl, or an around-the-edges girl.”
He licks his lips. “You’re lying.”
Poppy raises an eyebrow. “No. But I’m curious—which part are you objecting to? Do you even know?”
“Shut up!” He leaps, the anger rising in him familiar as he grabs Poppy’s throat, but his hands slide through and he falls. Confused, he looks up at her. “You’re dead. This can’t be real.”
She tilts her head and chuckles, and her form seems to wave like a heat mirage in his vision. “Why did you ever think it was?”
“What?” He stares at the emptiness above him, below him, and all around him. “But—”
. . .
He was certain that he left her, yet here she is.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Around the Edges
He can only write to her in margins,
scribbled notes
in books he thinks she might read,
poems inscribed between paragraphs,
sweet nothings cut off by a heavily-texted page.
He sits and composes and doodles,
dreaming of the day she’ll find them
and learn how he feels.
He loves her at every remove,
waiting for her to see,
never considering the possibility
that she already has. . .
scribbled notes
in books he thinks she might read,
poems inscribed between paragraphs,
sweet nothings cut off by a heavily-texted page.
He sits and composes and doodles,
dreaming of the day she’ll find them
and learn how he feels.
He loves her at every remove,
waiting for her to see,
never considering the possibility
that she already has. . .
It Always Goes Away
This blue!—
against the streetlights’ orange
against the dirty shine of the moon on the slush
against the cold that freezes my knee
into a stone egg
This blue!—
against the trees’ gray
against the light wafting from the city below
against the wind that carves slices
from my skin
This blue!—
against the sidewalks’ tan
against the starlight divided by branches
against the spreading dark that lurks
at my vision’s edge
(vibrant and deep and so bright it breaks my heart)
against the streetlights’ orange
against the dirty shine of the moon on the slush
against the cold that freezes my knee
into a stone egg
This blue!—
against the trees’ gray
against the light wafting from the city below
against the wind that carves slices
from my skin
This blue!—
against the sidewalks’ tan
against the starlight divided by branches
against the spreading dark that lurks
at my vision’s edge
(vibrant and deep and so bright it breaks my heart)
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Captivated Has Its Root in Capture
You write me love poems
cut out of magazines,
the unmatched letters skittering
across the page—
you tell me it’s romantic
and spontaneous and poetic
but all I can think of is ransom notes,
and the time we were in the museum five hours
because you wanted me to understand
Mondrian in the soul,
in the bones, like it was blood and breath
and I just liked the colors.
I have a headache and you will insist
that love can cure all ills,
but I’m fairly sure I’d rather rely on aspirin.
cut out of magazines,
the unmatched letters skittering
across the page—
you tell me it’s romantic
and spontaneous and poetic
but all I can think of is ransom notes,
and the time we were in the museum five hours
because you wanted me to understand
Mondrian in the soul,
in the bones, like it was blood and breath
and I just liked the colors.
I have a headache and you will insist
that love can cure all ills,
but I’m fairly sure I’d rather rely on aspirin.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Inspiration
We found you in the middle of the kitchen floor—
me, Billy, and little Jacob—
humming something off-key,
hands tangled in ribbons,
feet covered in paint, or milk,
expressions changing too fast, too often,
so that your cheekbones smiled
as your eyebrows wept.
And we were as unsurprised
as little pitchers—so eager to be filled!—can be;
Billy ran for Daddy, who was shocked.
He called a quiet sort of ambulance,
even as you squealed and tried to reach the knives,
Jacob clinging to your leg and wailing,
me draped across your stomach,
my jelly sandals squeaking against the tiles
as I tried not to look.
We visited you only once at that place—
little Jacob, me, and Billy—
and then dug our heels in,
because you were not really there,
eyes just fly-specked mirrors,
hands lumps of unfinished concrete,
and because our bruises had not yet faded.
Daddy told us that you loved us very much,
but we saw that you didn’t even mime the words.
Now Billy photographs you, over and over,
girls dripping with black-and-white metaphors,
while little Jacob designs tattered clothes
that trail a river of ribbons down the runway
as he blinks, cameras flashing off his glitter.
I write my angry poems about your gin and your starched dress;
they call me a feminist,
“an unflinching peeler away of hypocrisy,”
even as I wonder, Mama,
if you weren’t as repressed as you were crazy.
me, Billy, and little Jacob—
humming something off-key,
hands tangled in ribbons,
feet covered in paint, or milk,
expressions changing too fast, too often,
so that your cheekbones smiled
as your eyebrows wept.
And we were as unsurprised
as little pitchers—so eager to be filled!—can be;
Billy ran for Daddy, who was shocked.
He called a quiet sort of ambulance,
even as you squealed and tried to reach the knives,
Jacob clinging to your leg and wailing,
me draped across your stomach,
my jelly sandals squeaking against the tiles
as I tried not to look.
We visited you only once at that place—
little Jacob, me, and Billy—
and then dug our heels in,
because you were not really there,
eyes just fly-specked mirrors,
hands lumps of unfinished concrete,
and because our bruises had not yet faded.
Daddy told us that you loved us very much,
but we saw that you didn’t even mime the words.
Now Billy photographs you, over and over,
girls dripping with black-and-white metaphors,
while little Jacob designs tattered clothes
that trail a river of ribbons down the runway
as he blinks, cameras flashing off his glitter.
I write my angry poems about your gin and your starched dress;
they call me a feminist,
“an unflinching peeler away of hypocrisy,”
even as I wonder, Mama,
if you weren’t as repressed as you were crazy.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Currents
She is waiting
by the river
by the ocean
by the lake
It is waiting
It is watching
It is dreaming
at her feet
and the mirror
of the river
of the ocean
of the lake
is still broken
is still patterned
is still woven
by the water
that is hiding
something valued
something troubled
something needed
and she fears it
and she wants it
and she hates it
as she’s waiting
at the river
at the ocean
at the lake
Ooookay, so this site won't let me format properly. Just imagine a double tab in front of all the right-hand lines so that it flows like a current.
by the river
by the ocean
by the lake
It is waiting
It is watching
It is dreaming
at her feet
and the mirror
of the river
of the ocean
of the lake
is still broken
is still patterned
is still woven
by the water
that is hiding
something valued
something troubled
something needed
and she fears it
and she wants it
and she hates it
as she’s waiting
at the river
at the ocean
at the lake
Ooookay, so this site won't let me format properly. Just imagine a double tab in front of all the right-hand lines so that it flows like a current.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Riddles Wrapped in Enigmas
Nancy did puzzles because that was what she’d always done, and because that was what they paid her to do. So when the puzzles were numbers, she ordered them, and when they were hypothetical, she used philosophy, and when they were tactile, she spent hours at the table, fitting glittering mica chips together so well that you couldn’t even find the seams.
Someone always left the puzzles at her door. Nancy hadn’t ventured past the end of her street n years, but she’d never caught anyone leaving them. The puzzle was usually tucked into a manila folder on nondescript paper. Payment came the same way, receipts of whatever amount had been deposited into her bank account. She preferred it that way—most of what she needed came from the Internet.
Not that she hadn’t ever tried to discover the source of the puzzles; their origin was the only one she could never solve. But with one exception, the puzzles were as anonymous as the containers they came in. She’d even, in desperation, once had a cardboard box full of broken eggshells examined by a forensic scientist who owed her a favor. He’d handed them back, unnerved, having found nothing—no fingerprints, no DNA, no trace evidence at all. He couldn’t tell that she had handled them, he’d said—they seemed immune to any examination. Even the eggs had been scoured clean, with no indication even of the cleaning.
So Nancy gave up, and solved her paid puzzles, and tried not to let her situation gnaw too much on her mind. She used the money to decorate her apartment in lavish patterns and developed a horror of broken things, and bought two beers at the bar downstairs every week to prove that she still had some sort of social connection.
When she wasn’t fitting puzzles together, Nancy played with her cat—Escher, payment for one of her non-mysterious jobs—and read, and watched TV, and searched online, looking for the boy she loved.
His name was Billy Nguyen. He’d been 19 and she’d been 20 when they’d met five years ago. He was beautiful. Nancy had opened her door one morning to find five precarious stacks of plywood crates, and sitting on the shortest, bobbing his head to the music blasting from his CD player, was a tall Korean boy with blue streaks in his hair. Pulling out his earphones, he’d explained that he was there to help her lift the ruined statue pieces inside the boxes. He’d smiled and a long dimple creased her left cheek, revealing the cheekbone line beneath it.
They had lifted and fitted the statues’ components for two weeks—the statues were made of onyx and turned out to depict minotaurs. Billy had taught her how to cook chicken really well, and she’d made him lemonade and burnt peanut butter cookies, and somewhere in the middle of all that Nancy fell in love. And when they put the last horn in place, Billy had kissed her, and she’d let herself believe that he might love her back. He’d been sleeping on her couch the whole time, so that when he’d dozed off as they watched some movie, Nancy had let him sleep. She’d gone to bed in a happy blur, drunk on the memory of his hand in hers.
But when she woke up, he was gone. The blanket was folded with another deposit slip on top, all of his things, and the statues, gone as well. Nancy had asked everyone nearby if they’d seen him, but it was useless. The doorman saw someone leave, but didn’t know who; the coffee shop girl remembered Billy, but had no idea what had happened. She’d known better, even in her desperate mood, than to involve the police—without any proof that he’d even existed, she would have been laughed out as a loony.
So now she just searched and searched, looking at different times for his name of his picture, but nothing ever came up. In her darkest moments, she wondered if she was crazy, if the whole thing had been some mental breakdown.
Nancy refused to believe it, though. She let her fingers do the work as she arranged a charred document, moving nimbly to keep it from flaking, and wracked her brain for any sort of clue, any sort of pattern that would lead her to him. Nancy was sure there had to be one, because everything had a pattern if you looked hard enough—although a tiny, nasty part of her whispered that there certainly was one, and it meant that she would never find him. Her life didn’t run the sort of path that allowed for beautiful dimpled boys.
She continued to live her life, marking each moment with a new envelope. Nancy ordered, and fixed, and placed, and rearranged—and hoped.
Someone always left the puzzles at her door. Nancy hadn’t ventured past the end of her street n years, but she’d never caught anyone leaving them. The puzzle was usually tucked into a manila folder on nondescript paper. Payment came the same way, receipts of whatever amount had been deposited into her bank account. She preferred it that way—most of what she needed came from the Internet.
Not that she hadn’t ever tried to discover the source of the puzzles; their origin was the only one she could never solve. But with one exception, the puzzles were as anonymous as the containers they came in. She’d even, in desperation, once had a cardboard box full of broken eggshells examined by a forensic scientist who owed her a favor. He’d handed them back, unnerved, having found nothing—no fingerprints, no DNA, no trace evidence at all. He couldn’t tell that she had handled them, he’d said—they seemed immune to any examination. Even the eggs had been scoured clean, with no indication even of the cleaning.
So Nancy gave up, and solved her paid puzzles, and tried not to let her situation gnaw too much on her mind. She used the money to decorate her apartment in lavish patterns and developed a horror of broken things, and bought two beers at the bar downstairs every week to prove that she still had some sort of social connection.
When she wasn’t fitting puzzles together, Nancy played with her cat—Escher, payment for one of her non-mysterious jobs—and read, and watched TV, and searched online, looking for the boy she loved.
His name was Billy Nguyen. He’d been 19 and she’d been 20 when they’d met five years ago. He was beautiful. Nancy had opened her door one morning to find five precarious stacks of plywood crates, and sitting on the shortest, bobbing his head to the music blasting from his CD player, was a tall Korean boy with blue streaks in his hair. Pulling out his earphones, he’d explained that he was there to help her lift the ruined statue pieces inside the boxes. He’d smiled and a long dimple creased her left cheek, revealing the cheekbone line beneath it.
They had lifted and fitted the statues’ components for two weeks—the statues were made of onyx and turned out to depict minotaurs. Billy had taught her how to cook chicken really well, and she’d made him lemonade and burnt peanut butter cookies, and somewhere in the middle of all that Nancy fell in love. And when they put the last horn in place, Billy had kissed her, and she’d let herself believe that he might love her back. He’d been sleeping on her couch the whole time, so that when he’d dozed off as they watched some movie, Nancy had let him sleep. She’d gone to bed in a happy blur, drunk on the memory of his hand in hers.
But when she woke up, he was gone. The blanket was folded with another deposit slip on top, all of his things, and the statues, gone as well. Nancy had asked everyone nearby if they’d seen him, but it was useless. The doorman saw someone leave, but didn’t know who; the coffee shop girl remembered Billy, but had no idea what had happened. She’d known better, even in her desperate mood, than to involve the police—without any proof that he’d even existed, she would have been laughed out as a loony.
So now she just searched and searched, looking at different times for his name of his picture, but nothing ever came up. In her darkest moments, she wondered if she was crazy, if the whole thing had been some mental breakdown.
Nancy refused to believe it, though. She let her fingers do the work as she arranged a charred document, moving nimbly to keep it from flaking, and wracked her brain for any sort of clue, any sort of pattern that would lead her to him. Nancy was sure there had to be one, because everything had a pattern if you looked hard enough—although a tiny, nasty part of her whispered that there certainly was one, and it meant that she would never find him. Her life didn’t run the sort of path that allowed for beautiful dimpled boys.
She continued to live her life, marking each moment with a new envelope. Nancy ordered, and fixed, and placed, and rearranged—and hoped.
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