Friday, November 18, 2022

Secrets

 Secrets



Best not play with fire…


The classroom was empty but for Mr H.

Dylan didn’t want it to be so easy. “Hiya.”

Mr H looked up and almost jumped. “Dylan. I didn’t expect to see you.”

You know the way that I hide. “I just finished last period. Bus is gone already.” Dylan tilted his head.

Mr H cleared his throat. “Right.”

The silence between them was hot as a flame.

“Your parents can’t pick you up?”

“They’re out of town.”

“Both of them?”

“Yes.”

“Right…”

Dylan stepped to the desk and suddenly that was all there was between them. He watched Mr H touch a finger to his lips and mess with the papers in front of him.

“Something wrong?”

Mr H coughed. “You know this is inappropriate Dylan.”

“Was it inappropriate last time?”

~~~

The rain started before they did. Pelting down on the roof as Mr H kissed his neck and pushed him onto the desk. Dylan got high off the danger. Pants down to his knees, Mr H’s hand around his face, holding him still.

And then, the whisper in his ear. Why do you let me play?

~~~

It was dark when Dylan got there but there were lights on in the house. A white picket fence and perfectly maintained gardens.

That would do well.

The gasoline was less slick than he had imagined. More like water. The match didn’t even make a sound.





 Don’t light the match unless you want to watch me burn…








26:27

 
26:27


    You don’t know how deep it is



Water dripped against the glass. Was it that time already?

The snap of Sammy’s underwear against her hip was a muscle memory for Gabe. He woke but didn’t open his eyes, lest she noticed his flinching and lip-biting. Be still. He wanted to look, but was that betraying? He didn’t know who he should be loyal to at this point.

Was it Sammy?

Was it Her?

Sammy — with her dark hair and her dark eyes. Was it Sammy? With her smell  and her pale skin and her small hands.

No. Perhaps it was Her, after all.

Who could ever make that choice? Certainly not him.

And there, on the edge of his bed, at six o’clock in the fucking morning. There she was.

Her. Her. She had no name. But she had a cigarette between her fingers and a silence that was deafening.

Gabe swallowed hard. “You’re back.”

She only lifted her brows in agreement.

“That’s soon.” He flailed for a moment, trying to find his words. “I mean…sooner than before.” His cellphone rang. It was Sammy.

“I…”

Her eyes said it — Don’t. And as Gabe was drowning, Her finger rolled the cigarette along her lower lip and smoke drifted up around her eyes. The call rang out. Correction: he let the call ring out.

Gabe couldn’t help but glance at the photo of he and Sammy that sat on the bench next to the bed. Again…Don’t.

Her fingers let the cigarette rest on the very edge of the bed as she slipped off her dress. Gabe hadn’t realised until now that it was yellow with dark blue flowers here and there. “What if she needs me?”

It was only a quick, questioning look that she shot at him before she licked her fingers and crept inside his pants. Sammy was all but forgotten at that point.

Cold noses touching just before her lips were on his. Her. Gabe almost lost himself before any of the points were won. Don’t, not just yet. Slow down. It’s not a race.

Her. She read his mind — as it were — and she was on top quick as a whip. There were never any words uttered other than his own. Her, the silent apparition. Gabe, the vessel filled with need.

“Don’t leave this time.” Was he begging Her?

She gripped the bed frame and took a breath, as if she existed. Her hips, so soft to the touch. Her neck, did it belong to him? That metallic smell of blood, always from her mouth, sometimes on her fingers.

Gabe started to feel it wash over him. “Please…”

The cellphone rang again. He knew he had to pick up this time.

“Sammy.”

She was in full business mode. “Yeah, did you see a yellow folder of papers somewhere this morning? Maybe next to the bed or in the bathroom?”

Gabe looked around and there she was, sans dress, pointing towards the kitchen.

“The kitchen bench?”

Sammy was flustered. “Could be. Just look for me, yeah?”

He walked out and saw the yellow folder right there on the bench. “Found it.”

“Fuck. Yes, can you skip through to Part 4.8 and just read out the first paragraph?”

Gabe felt Her behind him as he started to read. Her touch was cold and he shivered with goose pimples. “Please…”

Sammy coughed on the other end. “What?” she asked.

“Nothing.” Shake it off.

A pause. “Okay, well… I’ll be late.”

Of course she would be. Gabe held his tongue.

“Maybe hit the yard. Those weeds are choking out everything. And that goddamn hole.”

Gabe walked back to the bedroom and looked out the window. Why did he think it would be gone? That hole. “I’ll fix it up. Dinner will be on the stove.” He hung up before either of them could say anything more.

~~~

Her cigarette balanced, precarious between her lips. Gabe felt her eyes on him as he pushed the mower back and forth, avoiding The Hole. “What are you looking at?” he asked her.

Of course, no response.

He pulled the engine off and stalked past. “I have to make dinner before it’s too late.”

~~~

Onions, tomatoes, bacon. Cooking off in the warm kitchen. Gabe could feel Her sitting behind him, cigarette still in Her hand. Smoke curled in the air.

He was dying to be with Her. Was the pain more than it was worth?

Now you’ll be in the ground with me.

~~~

The Hole took quite a while to fill. Gabe turned the faucet as far as it would go. At some point he had to boil the kettle and make a cup of tea. A biscuit. A small chair next to the damn Hole.

He turned back to look, and of course, there was the curling smoke. Her.

The yellow dress was intact as were her knowing eyes. The smile was something new.

“Is something funny?”

Never an answer from Her.

Gabe turned his attention back to the water. Why was it taking so long?

He returned to the kitchen and wrapped Sammy’s dinner into a plate to set in the oven. The sink was full and so he ran the water until it was hot.

Her hands encircled his chest and then lower.

“You’re still here?”

Of course she was.

~~~

The Hole called to him.

Everything turns to dirt. She pushed him back and it was so easy to fall into the water.

You dug the pit.

Her laugh was muffled. And then, for the first time, she spoke.

You can’t drown a ghost who knows how to swim.


   

Tuesday, October 4, 2022

Change






Change


~~ Find what you love and let it kill you

                    Charles Bukowski




“Where?”


“The park.”


“You’re going to the park?”


“That’s what I said, fool.”


“You never go to the park.”


“Well, I’m going now.” Summer picked up her phone and keys as she stalked toward the front door, she could almost hear Christopher grinding his teeth.


The air outside was cold as ice. The park? What was she thinking? The fucker was right, she never went to the park. And it was almost 9PM — not exactly the safest time for a girl to be out alone. 


Summer scratched the grit out of her eyes and stomped down the pathway. The park was her destination and that was all there was to it. A streetlamp flickered and she couldn’t help but think of that song. Her mind felt like it was on fire with Christopher — his stupid curly hair, the smell of his skin, the way he mimicked the call of the crows just like the fool that he was.


Who was the fool now? 


The park would make her feel better.


Summer rounded the end of the street and saw the dimly lit acres of green. Exactly what she had wanted — not a soul in sight. 


There was a bench but it was right in the middle of the park, near the children’s slide. Summer felt a little exposed in the park at night but she desperately wanted to sit; gather her thoughts; take a moment. 


The grass was wet and cold but she had bigger problems to be fair. A hat would have been a good idea. And a jacket. Hindsight…


“Hello?” It was a female voice.


Jesus!” Summer jumped on the park bench. Her phone fell onto the wet grass.


The girl was young. Long dark hair. Pretty as…well…


“Are you okay?” the girl asked.


Summer realised she was shaking; she took a breath. “Yeah, yes. Sorry. You scared the goddamn out of me.”


“Sorry. It’s just strange to see someone out here in the park late at night. Let along a girl.”


Summer scoffed. “A girl? I haven’t been a girl in a damn near decade.”


Dark Hair seemed confused. “Is everything okay?”


“Just kind of a shitty night.”


“I don’t want to freak you out but my friend is meeting me here.”


Summer looked around. “In the park?”


Dark Hair grinned. “You’re not exactly one to be judging.” She held out a hand, “Caroline, by the way.”


“Summer.”


Caroline sat down on the other side of the bench. She smelled of sweet tea and soap. 


“So what brings you here on a Tuesday night, all by yourself?”


Summer felt herself blush. “Boy problems, I suppose.”


“The worst kind of problems.” Caroline scrunched up her nose and shooed away some invisible flies.


Summer swallowed hard. “And so…why do you meet your friend in a park in the middle of the night.”


Caroline smiled. “Only the best things happen in the middle of the night.”


And just like that, there she was. Brown hair pulled back into a braid. Ring in her nose. Eyebrows to perfection. Summer bristled. It was bitches like this that Christopher wanted. He didn’t want Summer.


Brown Hair sat down next to Caroline and they exchanged a kiss. Summer swallowed again.


“Summer, this is Bronwyn.” Caroline never let her eyes stray from those lips. The tension was near deafening.


“Nice to meet you.” Summer felt herself shaking again and the whole thing was just way too weird. “I think I’ll head off home now.” Summer stood up and started to walk away through the wet grass.


Of course…there was that part of her, though…


“Wait!” It was the brunette, Bronwyn.


Summer turned and saw that they were both standing now. “Perhaps we could come with you?” Dark Hair — Caroline — was interminably confident it seemed.


“Ummm, what?”


Bronwyn bit her lip and Summer was sure that she died right there and then. “We could come with you to wherever you’re going?”


“To my house?”


“Sure.” They said it at the same time and there was that little death once again.


Summer gripped her phone in her pocket. “I mean, um, okay? My boyfriend is home though.”


 The two of them — Dark Hair and Bronwyn — laughed like fucking school girls and hopped, skipped, and jumped towards Summer. Was this a dream or a goddamn nightmare?


“We’re coming. It’ll be fun.”


Summer felt her eyes widen and roll, but perhaps they were right, a little fun should be had.


The house was only a two minute walk and Christopher was probably asleep by now anyway.  The three of them crept up the stairs and across the porch. The door opened without a sound and for that, Summer was thankful. She brushed her face and considered her life choices.


Caroline whispered. “Are you okay?”


Summer shook herself free of thoughts and nodded. “I’ll make some tea?”


Caroline smiled. 


As Summer turned on the kettle she noticed the other girl — Bronwyn — was gone. That was short lived.


“Look who I found.” The brunette had Christopher in her hand, guiding him into the kitchen.


Summer bit her tongue. “Baby?”


“There’s no time for ‘baby’ now.” Caroline was so close to Summer in an instant that was almost impossible. “There’s only time for this…” Her lips were all over Summer’s neck. Fingers in her mouth. Pulling at her hair. 


The words were on the tip of Summer’s lips — Wait, Stop, No—but of course, they were never spoken; she didn’t want to speak them. And then, those same fingers, brushing up between her legs, underneath her dress, touching the wet that was already there.


Where was she?


Christopher looked up from where he was lying in the bed. “Baby, are you alright?”


Summer crawled in the bed and pressed down onto him. In that moment, she knew she loved him. He made the sounds she was hoping for. She felt how much he filled her and the heat that they exchanged. His hands around her neck and the way he turned her over. She belonged to him. And so did those other girls.



~~~



The kettle dinged in the kitchen and Summer went to check on it. Dark Hair — Caroline — was in the way, rope still around her neck. Summer poured a glass of cold water. The other one could wait. Bronwyn? Summer dropped the glass. Blood on her hands, as it were. 


Christopher called from the bedroom. “Why are you awake? It’s the middle of the night.”


“Only the best things happen in the middle of the night.”












Wednesday, November 20, 2019

Storm



Storm


In my dream you were there
And we were in the kitchen;
My kitchen

I asked you
Is there a storm coming?
You didn’t look at me
But you said

Of course there is, can’t you see it out the window?

Tuesday, April 2, 2019

Full Refund

Full Refund



Push me, just don’t be surprised when I fall…



The smell of coffee was the smell of morning and Barden found, yet again, that it was certainly a comfort. He could hear the shower running out in the bathroom and he could see the light coming in underneath the bedroom door. She must have already opened the kitchen blinds 

Barden kicked off his pyjama bottoms and climbed into his jocks and socks. He raised his hand toward the bedroom screen and brought to life an expanse of early morning ocean. The virtual waves crashed rhythmically onto the virtual sand. Perfect, he thought to himself. 

He sweetened the coffee and added a dash of almond milk. Things were missing — bacon, eggs, bagel etc. Barden frowned to himself and listened closely. The shower was still running. 

In the bathroom he found his clothes laid out amidst the steam but behind the curtain, nothing. On the sink: his toothbrush with paste already on it and his beard trimmer charged and set to blade one, just how he liked it. Where was she? 

On instinct he almost called out her name. No. Don’t be silly. Old habits die hard as it were.

Suit, vest, tie. 

Cufflinks, shoelaces, scent. 

Barden felt clunky; out of practice. He felt embarrassed that he didn’t know where she was. He felt absently angry that she hadn’t come when he needed her. The cufflinks alone had cost him five minutes. 

Back in the bedroom he raised his hand and the ocean disappeared. The bed was unmade and the paraphernalia from the night before littered the floor. Barden felt his ears twitch with distaste. The room should not be left like this. They did not operate this way.

Watch, ring, badge. 

Shirt tucked and buttons done. 

Where was she?

He turned on his heel and stalked back out to the bathroom. The steam persisted. Barden peered around the glass to find nothing and then turned the shower off. 

Fine. She was sulking somewhere, working on an overdue task, or updating, or in shutdown because of some error or whatnot. It wasn’t the thing itself that upset him, it was the inconvenience of it. Fine. Whatever

Out the front door and down the steps. It was strange to do it without her, but Barden finally felt the real sun on his face and he couldn’t help the smile spread across his face. He started walking towards his Macchius 2300 when he noticed something slumped on the front lawn — something that was ruining his manicured couch grass. 

Misha

He said her name before he could help himself. 

The bullet had entered under her chin and the entire top of her head was mince meat. The gun from his secret cabinet was only barely in her hand.

Misha

Gary from next door was walking down his front path.

“Woah, Bard. You got one of those corrupted units?”

Barden looked up, and then down again at Misha’s blown out head and the mess of circuits that littered his lawn. The coffee didn’t feel so good in his belly anymore.

“Dude,” Gary continued, “don’t worry. Just call SureCorp, they’ll replace that shit immediately. You’ll get a full refund.”


Wednesday, November 28, 2018

A Mortal Shell

A Mortal Shell



               I mistook my death for bliss

   Bayside — It Don't Exist


***


My dreams are the best place to be. Even when they’re bad. Even when they’re nightmares.

It’s Saturday. December 12th. Two-thousand and fifteen. I know this because Daniel keeps a little block calendar on the display bench that sits across from my bed. It’s one of those ones you have to turn the blocks over each day — hand painted I suppose — maybe it used to be Christmas themed. Now it’s faded. At least it’s not dusty like everything else in this room. At least it’s not dusty. Not like me.

I can’t stand the dust. I can’t stand that I feel dusty.

It’s Saturday, which means Daniel will be home all day except if he has to run errands. It’s Saturday, which means he’ll be depressed. Normally Victoria has to spend the majority of the day with me. Her colourful printed nurse shirts and squeaky plastic sneakers fill the space with a certain satisfaction. She punctures the sterility and I find that I can finally breathe with her around. But it’s Saturday.

Daniel walks past my room without looking in and I know he’ll be on his way to make coffee. The smell will float in, tempting me — no, no, I can no longer be tempted, only teased — and perhaps he’ll put a croissant in the oven and brown some ham, fry an egg, melt a slice of cheese. I blink. I try to look down but I’m not so strong this morning. Sometimes I’m bigger and better than I can even imagine, but most of the time I’m not. I try to look down again but I can’t seem to see my feeding tube right now. I don’t know why I would want to see it and so I change my mind and instead, close my eyes.

Daniel and I are driving to the house in the Catskills. Ift’s raining hard and he’s gripping the wheel, saying we should never have left with the storm prediction. I put my hand on his leg and tell him it’s okay, which of course makes him worse. My throwaway reassurance never did anything for him. His worrying never did anything for me. I’m looking right at his concerned profile when we hit a patch of slick, wet road.

Sometimes I can move my left big toe. Today I try but it doesn’t happen. I start to smell the coffee from the kitchen, and perhaps toast. My mouth is dry — it’s always dry — but I will myself to talk. Can I have a cup? I would ask. Can I have a cup? Maybe I would just scream. CAN I HAVE A CUP?

Sometimes I can move my left big toe. 

The water makes us slide across the freeway but Daniel corrects us and huffs out a breath of anger. “I can’t believe you’re not going to quit.” He’s talking about my job and I really don’t want to have this fight right now, but it looks like I have no choice. 

Sometimes I get an erection. It can be for no reason, or sometimes it can be because my mind and dreams have been good to be. 

Egg and bacon sandwich. I can smell it properly now. Daniel walks back past my room and still doesn’t look in. I don’t will him anymore — I have given up for the day. Willing doesn’t work anyways, does it?

We never painted this room that I live in. It must have once been a pale blue because I can see patches of it in the corners. Now it is the colour of old sunscreen. I don’t know if that’s a colour for sure but it’s what I see. My custom bed takes up most of the space. All the monitors and other medical devices have the rest. Other than that there’s the small display bench with the block calendar, a tiny ticking clock, and a stool at the end of the bed. Daniel keeps the vacuum leaning up against the wall in the corner and sometimes he stores his golf bags in here. I am furniture now. I am furniture among the furniture. I have faded into the background. 

We skid back on to the right side of the road and I can feel myself gripping the chair. I must have white knuckles. “And how will I pay my bills if I quit, D?”

He’s silent and I know he wants to say that he’ll pay them for me but that’s not what I want. Daniel turns to me and asks, “But how can you possibly stay so unhappy forever?” I don’t know the answer to this question so I stay quiet. Without even looking at him I can tell Daniel  has had enough of me.

“You’re a fucking loser.” 

And just as he says it we hit another patch of wet road and this time there is no correction that can be made.


***


 “Morning.” Daniel carries his coffee and croissant into the room on a small wooden tray. He places it on the end of my bed and I know he’ll stay there for his breakfast, perched on an uncomfortable stool that is covered in the dust that smothers everything in here.

I can’t stand the dust. I am covered/smothered in it.

Good morning. I try to say it with my eyes but he doesn’t often look at me so it’s not noticed. Morning Good morning my love.  I say it over and over in my mind; with my eyes; as loud as I can manage. Good morning my love. 

My memory isn’t good, and for that I hate it. The things I do remember are pointless and unhelpful. I remember things that ar e far too close — the taste of metal in my mouth; the hot, slick blood on my fingers; the broken window slicing through my neck and then my cheek. Fuck you memory, I think. Fuck you.


***


Daniel doesn’t say anything else. He just sits at the end of the bed, eating his breakfast and spinning the wedding ring on his finger. I wonder if he thinks I notice. I wonder if he thinks I’m aware of anything at all. The irony of it all is that I’m aware of everything. My short term memory isn’t reliable but my memory of the past is so good that it hurts. 

Daniel’s croissant crumbs fall like tiny pieces of calligrapher’s gold leaf onto the blanket that covers my feet. He’s reading something on his phone as he sips his coffee (the news maybe) and he doesn’t look up at me. I see his profile and I am ripped back to that last day — the day with the rain and the road. 

I was in the hospital and I wasn’t fully conscious but I could hear the beeps of machines and I could smell the disinfectant and I could feel Daniel at my feet, holding on to me, but at the same time, letting go. I heard him clear as day when he said his last real words to me. In the end he was crying.


***

6:15PM
You’re a fucking loser.

6:17PM
You're a fucking loser in a shit job, making shit pay. 
You can’t speak up for yourself.

6:34PM
I hate you.





Tuesday, November 20, 2018

Untitled 19.11.18

Untitled 19.11.18



Perhaps I am wrong
But surely
There is some sweetness to be tasted
From the fruit I have picked

Surely
Some tea to be made
From the milk I have spilled

Surely
Some warmth to be felt
From the bridges I have burned

And surely
Some blood to be saved

From all those broken hearts