Video Games

                 trying something a little different this time...  


Personal diary of Margot Spoon. Entry dated 27th May 2012. Evidence Item Log #46331. Maryland State PD.


    27/5/12 Sunday

The one is about you. But aren’t they all? Well, they’re all about me really, but this one is also about you.

I wore those nice purple knickers that you say you like. Did you even notice? Actually, I should back track because that’s not the start of it. The start of it is that I don’t have a key. I don’t have a key, which is fine, I would flat out refuse a key anyways, but it would just mean that I can get in and out of your fucking house. Like when I leave my makeup bag in your bathroom but I’ve already closed the front door and then I’m locked out. Thanks. That’s what I would say to you. THANKS.

Today, as always, it was getting in that was the problem. This is how it went — I try calling you on my drive back but you don’t answer. Then, at your front door, I’m knocking without response. And then I’m knocking so loudly that your neighbour comes out to see what’s going on. And THEN, my husband calls and I know that if I don’t answer he’ll start to panic a little bit.

So there I was, on your front steps feeling your neighbour’s eyes penetrating my skirt, seeing my inappropriate purple underwear, wondering why I was talking to one man on the phone while I waited outside the door of another man’s house like a fucking five dollar whore.

But of course he was thinking nothing of the sort — your neighbour. Those were MY thoughts.

And THAT was the point that I had a tiny, quiet moment full of questions. It went like this — Is it the sex? Is it the danger, the risk? Is it just a habit I have created? Is it the comfort I feel after so long without any comfort? Is it my lack of self control? Is it you?

Is it YOU?

By the time I realise it’s none of those things and nor do I have any answers, you’re at the door, opening it, and I can see you’re wearing that ridiculous microphone headset.

‘Sorry baby,” you say as you let me in and I would believe the apology if you didn’t immediately  turn away and hurry back to the video game that I know is the reason you took so long to answer the fucking door. I want to leave right then and there, and so I pause in the hallway, my overnight bag in one hand, my phone in the other with my husband’s missed call. I watch you un-pause your video game on the couch, and to you, it’s as if you it’s as if the last fifteen seconds didn’t happen. And maybe they didn’t.

I think about walking back out the door but I’m tired and I’m frisky and I’m hungry. Plus, my husband thinks I’m staying at Kate’s tonight and she thinks I’m staying at home. I don’t want to go home, but if I actually show up at Kate’s it will be cuddling and then I’ll get her off and then she’ll lick me and all I’ll be wishing is that someone would actually fuck me. And hard. With a dick. I know that’s selfish. I’m no stranger to my own lack of appreciation for the things that I do have have in life.

To be fair though; my diary is about the ego. So let it be that this is my ego talking, in order of make me feel less culpable. And there it is — I already feel it less.

Anyway, I’m at your house and I don’t leave. I don’t go home. I don’t go to Kate’s. I undress and, in only my underwear, I come and sit next to you on the couch. For obvious reasons I am convinced that this will work, but you LITERALLY don’t look away from the television screen.

I sigh. My eyes ache. I want to take out my contacts, and let’s face it, maybe I’d like you more right now if you were blurry. I lean in and kiss your neck but the only response I get is a small humming sound. You still don’t look at me. You are transfixed on Halo. I know it’s called ‘Halo’ because you might have said it to me a million times. Maybe more. It was a couple of months ago when you first bought this video game and it’s your money to spend so I kept my mouth shut.

But now, here on your couch in my inappropriate knickers, I wish I had said something. I want to you tell you that you’re a halfwit and a fool. I want to scream it out loud and paint it on your god damned walls. I want to paint it on your face. I want to paint it in your blood.

You’re talking and for a moment I think it’s to me and so I go open my mouth to say something in response, but then you wave me away with a hand and I feel my anger and it’s almost tangible.

You’re talking into your headset and I think of all the times you have come on my back. In the interests of full disclosure via my ego, I will say that I always liked it, but that is beside the point. I think of all the times you’ve come on my chest. I think of all the times you’ve come on my face. And in my mouth.

I recompose myself and sidle up next to you. The gunfire from your Halo game is distracting. ‘How about we have a little nap?’ I suggest. You appear not to hear me. You talk again, and AGAIN, it’s not to me.

I’m vibrating. I feel it more as I stand up and look directly at you from the side. I’m cold in just my knickers and my eyes still itch — I’m at the point where I NEED to take out my contacts. ‘Baby?’ I ask, one last time.

If you register the words you fail to show it. You frantically thumb buttons and I see your eyes dart back and forth as they follow the graphics on the screen. I circle the couch until I am behind you and I feel as if I’m floating above us. I think to myself that perhaps even if I could break open the heavens, your attention wouldn’t be caught. Perhaps I could wake the dead and your attention wouldn’t be caught..

It’s easy to grab the thin cord of the game controller and quickly wrap it around your neck; the neck that I just kissed. There’s a long moment before you reach up to grab at my hands because apparently you thought this was something kinky. You were wrong.

I tighten the cord and feel you struggle against it. You’re strong and you pull forward and one of my hands slips but I have my knee up on the back of the couch. Leverage. That’s what I have. For once. LEVERAGE.

It takes longer than I imagined. You scratch at my hands with your fingernails and try to get out by sliding downwards, but you weren’t expecting this. No one would have expected this from me I suppose. I almost lose you a few times but I think of your come on my face and somehow it gets easier to keep the cord pulled tight and fast around your neck.

Your last breath is silent. I almost don’t even notice it. Ironic, really. Isn’t it? I let go and push you a little. You slump forwards. Your video game controller falls to the floor. I think it might crack open. Your game — Halo — continues on the television. On the screen things explode, vividly coloured aliens attack your virtual character, and I bite my lip.

It happened again. My husband is going to be so mad.

He. You. She.

He. You. She.
Three poems for free. I hope they're okay.




My Avocado

Sitting there in the fridge, smug
That would be fucking right
But I know he’s hiding the truth from me
The naughty shit
His skin — dark and rough and green
And yet he looks so perfect
Ready for a salad
Mine to take
Mine to eat

But my avocado
Hiding his foul brown-ness from me
Leading me on
Lying in my fridge
Lying to me
He’s nothing but a liar
Naughty little avocado
You’re naughty
You’re a naughty little shit



My Pen

Baby where did you go?
Three days
Three whole days since I lost you
My soul aches wondering where your plastic-self might be
Your spare ink cartridges lie still — no longer with purpose

Baby where did you go?
I still remember how you felt between my fingers and how you
Managed to speak for me
Even at the worst
Even at the best
Even in the middle

You were all of me when I was nothing
Ink running down to your tip
I could always coax out what you had
To spill

Baby where did you go?
It was easy
To work you, until you couldn’t help yourself
And then your hot, thick truth was all over my page
And you were mine
And I was yours

Baby, where did you go?



My Crazy

My crazy wakes up early and goes to bed late
My crazy knows that there isn’t enough time in the day
My crazy has a busy schedule and I am at the top of the list
My crazy has been watching me
My crazy has been paying attention
My crazy knows the drill, but
My crazy, she lacks imagination — for she looks just like me
My crazy talks like me
My crazy walks like me
My crazy smells like me
My crazy, well, she’s just like me
My crazy is me
My crazy is everything I want to be
My crazy is everything I’m not
My crazy is qualified
My crazy is tired, and
My crazy wants her life back
My crazy is going to win.

The Bunny

An Easter story for my nephew, Clancy John, for when he is old enough to read it and realise that his Aunty Al was always a little bit messed up.

For you, CJ.

The Bunny

I didn’t call you.

I didn’t call you at all.

Nevertheless, nevertheless

You steamed to me over the sea,

Fat and red, a placenta

— Sylvia Plath, Medusa

~ ~ ~

“Why don’t you want to leave out some carrots?”

CJ shrugged and wished his mum would leave him alone about the whole Easter Bunny business.

“Clancy, you’re seven now. You don’t need to listen to what those other kids at school say. They’re only trying to scare you.”

“I don’t listen to them mum,” he lied, forking his macaroni around his plate. “I just don’t really feel like leaving out the carrots tonight.”

His mum sighed, but at the same time she seemed to give up. She stood and cleared away the plates and CJ was happy the conversation was over.

His dad fought the case next. “CJ. We know that you’re a big boy now, but that doesn’t mean you have to pretend to be something you’re not.” CJ’s dad had always been that way — trying to make too big a point, too soon. “We can have hot-cross buns and marshmallow rabbits and chocolate eggs and all the things you like. Tomorrow will be fun, you’ll see.”

CJ knew it would be a nice day. That wasn’t the thing he was fighting his parents on. “Mum, Dad. I’m not trying to be naughty, I just don’t want to put any carrots out. I don’t want the — “ he hesitated, “ — the Easter Bunny to come tonight.”

CJ saw his mum giggle quietly at the sink as she scraped off the dirty plates. 

“CJ, son,” his dad started, seemingly determined to fight the case, “are you worried that if the Easter Bunny brings you gifts, the other kids at school will make fun of you?”

CJ was starting to get angry and his voice got loud. “Dad, I don’t care about the kids at school, I just don’t want that big Bunny near me.”

In the kitchen his mum turned around and her eyes were wide with surprise. “Clancy John, you will not raise your voice when you speak to your father.”

CJ felt the hot blush rise up into his cheeks and regretted saying anything at all. His macaroni was going hard and dry on his plate. He should have kept quiet about the stupid Bunny. He looked at his dad and noticed the man’s eyes were tired and wet. CJ looked back down again.

“Alright young man,” his mother said quietly, “I think it’s time you hit the hay. We’ll see you in the morning. But there will be no Easter treats for you, I’m afraid.”

CJ could breathe. No treats, thank goodness. He felt a wave of relief — The Bunny wasn’t going to come tonight.

~ ~ ~

A book and a glass of water were allowed him, and the fan was on the lowest speed — just enough to keep the air moving and the scary sounds at bay. 

CJ tried to focus on his reading, but every minute or so he found himself looking out the window. He was waiting for The Bunny. Sure, his mum had said it wasn’t coming, but CJ knew better than that. 

The trees rustled and the winded picked up and the night was full of whispering and jumps that he couldn’t ignore. He wished he had finished his macaroni — he always felt sleepier with a full tummy. Tonight he felt hollow and filled with nothing but worry. Nothing but thoughts of The Bunny.

The Bunny. 

CJ knew about pretend things. Things that were in his books. Things that were on the television. Things that didn’t exist in the world where he lived. Make-believe. Pretend. He knew the difference and he knew that sometimes dreams seemed like real-life, but you had to shake yourself free and bring yourself back to Mum, and Dad, and School, and Sunshine. 

All the scary things disappeared when the sun came up.

But not The Bunny.

~ ~ ~

The first time he had seen it had been in the middle of the night and at the time, it had been middle-of-the-night dark. Dark. So dark that CJ had almost believed that it was indeed, a dream.

Outside his window, sitting cross-legged with its back against the fence, was a huge pink, fluffy bunny. It had drooping pink ears and awful tennis-ball sized eyes that were as red as raspberry cordial. It was not like a rabbit, but more like someone who was dressed in a rabbit suit. CJ had gone to the window to get a better look and the someone-in-a-bunny-suit with the raspberry tennis ball eyes had waved at him enthusiastically. That was when he had seen the red splotches on it’s hands and feet. The Bunny opened it’s mouth and screamed into the night. It was like a million fingernails scraping down a million chalkboards. 

CJ had wet the bed that night. He hadn’t known that it wouldn’t be the last time he would see the bunny. Scary things disappeared when the sun came up. 

But not the bunny.

~ ~ ~

The second time was at breakfast the next day, Good Friday, when CJ was eating his cereal at the bench, listening to his parents bicker in their en suite. They thought he couldn’t hear them. The minivan was parked in the driveway outside the window and CJ had a clear view of it. 

He heard the gravel crunching and the dirty pink bunny came swaying up the path, stumbling here and there, a bottle in it’s hand. 

CJ was frozen with fear — he knew he shouldn’t be seeing what he was seeing — his held his spoon half way between his bowl and his mouth. The bunny looked up at him, head lolling. It waved. CJ didn’t wave back. 

The bunny cocked it’s head and it’s huge raspberry-red eyes stared at CJ. The splotches were still on it’s hands. CJ wanted to call for his mum or his dad, but no words came out of his mouth, and so, as the bunny tossed the bottle in the air and it smashed on the bitumen behind him, CJ felt the piss soaking into his school shorts. He wondered if anyone was going to save him.

~ ~ ~

The third time was the worst.

School. 

Big lunch. 

CJ had put on his hat and eaten his sandwich and his sultanas. He kept his apple aside. Lunch was always the best part of the day. School was good, but he found himself longing to be outside. Reading was good, but it was always better when he was outside and could feel the cool breeze and the bright sun on his face. 

His best friend was Sammy — big, burly, brown and blonde — Sammy was CJ’s anchor. They mock-wrestled on the oval; race each other from wall to wall; pretend to be Jedi knights; or go exploring in the bush beyond the far fence (which technically, was breaking the rules, but CJ felt safe if Sammy was with him). The two of them used their Big Lunch time to full capacity, and CJ loved it. He looked forward to it. He waited on edge for it.

But that day turned out to be different.

CJ sat on the bench near the fern trees. Sammy hadn’t arrived down from the sixth grade block by then. CJ turned his apple over and over in his hand — the bed wetting stuck in his mind. He thought about it over and over like the apple, and felt heat rush up to his face. He wanted to smash the apple to pieces. He didn’t want to eat it — he wanted to destroy it. 

A screeching sound caught his attention. CJ looked up to see the pink bunny with the red tennis-ball eyes waving at him from across the oval. It’s mouth opened and closed oddly, like a fish from the cartoons. CJ tensed up and willed himself back home. He willed himself anywhere away from the bunny Anywhere. Even back to his bed where maybe he could be asleep and maybe this could be a dream and maybe the sheets would be dry.

CJ wished Sammy would come down for lunch.

The bunny was motioning him over, calling him across the sea that was the oval, but CJ knew better than that — strangers and candy and balloons and all of that stuff — he knew a threat when he saw it. He stayed right where he was on the bench and felt his hand tighten around the apple. 

The screeching sound of fingernails got louder and Louder and Louder and LOUDER and LOUDER and…

“CJ?”

It was Sammy. The big, brown blonde boy stood in front of him looking worried. Clancy shook off his fear and looked past Sammy but the bunny was nowhere to be seen. He looked down again, certain he would find his school shorts soaked with piss, but they were dry and his apple lay on the ground next to his feet, un-crushed.

“Wanna go read this new Spiderman comic I got?” Sammy asked. “I don’t really feel like exploring today.”

CJ nodded. The words he clutched at seemed to dart away too quickly for him to know what they were. 

Sammy always knew when something was wrong and he always knew when it was best to be quiet and not ask about those things. CJ was glad for that. He wanted to burrow into his friend. He wanted for there to be a space inside Sammy where he could hide — away from The Bunny. 

The comic was a good one. Lots of action and interesting bad guys and exciting moments where you didn’t know if Spidey was going to save the day or not. Or not.

The bell signalling the end of Big Lunch rang. Sammy put a good, heavy hand on CJ’s shoulder, but it wasn’t enough.

The Bunny was already back. 

It was waiting over beyond the far fence of the school oval, holding a red balloon. The awful thing was waving like a maniac.

~ ~ ~

After homework had been assigned and school let out, CJ was sure he would be ambushed as soon as he stepped out of the gate. Sammy caught the bus so he was all the way on the other side of the school — useless. 

CJ loitered near one of the thick cemented gate posts and prayed for his mum to be early.

And by some miracle, she was.

“Clancy!” she called from the car, “c’mon cutie, I’m parked in the loading zone. Quick quick!”

CJ felt relief wash over him like a warm bath. Nothing mattered as he sprinted to the car — not the wet bed, not the cold fear, not the red balloon — nothing. He was home-free and it was the best feeling he could remember ever having.

“Good day kiddo?” his mum asked.

CJ tossed his school pack onto the floor and buckled himself into his seat. “Sammy had a new Spiderman comic. It was awesome!”

His mum laughed and pulled the car out into school traffic. Everything felt better.

~ ~ ~

When they got home they found his dad asleep on the couch, and CJ’s mum held a finger to her lips —  quiet. 

CJ did his homework on the kitchen bench even though tomorrow was a holiday. It was easy, just some simple math and a few word game but it was a nice distraction to waste away the time until dinner.

When his dad roused it was, as always, funny to CJ. The big man would blink his eyes open lazily, and look around as if nothing made sense; as if nothing was the right way up or the right way round. CJ knew the feeling but he never imagined his dad could feel the same way as he did.

His dad spoke to his mum. “There’s a roast in the freezer baby. If you take it out and let it thaw we can have it tomorrow for lunch.”

CJ kept his focus on his homework, he wanted to stay here in this moment with his parents forever. 

“Clancy my boy, did you have a good day?”

CJ nodded, but his dad persisted.

“So, I know your mother said the Easter Bunny wasn’t going to come tonight, but…”

CJ felt a jolt of terror at the thought — “You promised he wouldn’t come!”

His mum turned where she was in the kitchen, confusion in her face. “Clancy baby, what’s wrong?! Are you okay?”

CJ folded up his homework and slipped it back into his folder. “Sorry mum. I just want to go to bed.”

“Do you not feel well?” his dad asked.

CJ was desperate to retreat and hide under his blankets. “I’m just tired. I’m sorry about this morning.”

His mum looked hurt. “Baby, we aren’t mad anymore. The Easter Bunny won’t come if you don’t want him to, okay? We aren’t mad. We just…we thought you still believed in him sweetness.”

CJ kissed his mum and dad goodnight, and wondered what ‘believing’ really meant. In his room he closed the window and the blinds and the cupboards and the bedroom door — even though he never did that. He usually like everything open. But he wanted to keep it out. 

He wanted to keep The Bunny out.

~ ~ ~

When he woke CJ was buried under a pile of blankets and pillows and he was soaked in sweat. At first he was worried he had wet himself again, but he didn’t have the heart to check properly. 

He smelled something strong, something strange, like burning. Smoke.

Down near his feet, the bed dipped away suddenly. CJ’s stomach dropped out of him and he carefully pulled back the blankets.

Sitting on the edge of his mattress, smoking a cigarette, it’s big red eyes gleaming, was The Bunny. It was staring at him and had one leg crossed over the other. It’s mouth peeled into a wide grin. 

“Hey buddy,” it said in a low voice. The Bunny flicked ash onto CJ’s carpet and tapped a furry hand on it’s furry knee. “I hope you weren’t expecting me to hop around or anything.”

CJ felt the piss soaking into his pyjamas.

This Is Getting Old

“Jerry, take your meds.” Ellen was thin, quiet, but not to messed with. 

He didn’t really care today. 

“Jerry,” she repeated, “we’ve done this a thousand fold and it always turns out the same way. Please don’t waste my time.” 

She was right — they had done this a thousand times, and it did always turn out the same way — but he was still going to put on the show. 

Just to keep her distracted. 

He opened his mouth to protest (or so Ellen would think) but then threw in the three little pills and took a gulp of tea from his cup. Then he made a big deal of swallowing and opening his mouth again to show that the pills were gone. 

Ellen looked at him like she looked at everything else — with eyes that could see but would never really care — then she turned on her heels and walked the med cart over to Beverley Lewis who was drooling down the front of the bib that was tied haphazardly around her wrinkled neck. 

Jerry drank the water from his plastic cup to wash away the heat from the tea. He watched as one of the pills bobbed up to the milky surface in his mug and wondered how he was going to fix that situation. Letting the capsules hit the roof of his mouth and then get sucked back with the rest of the tea was easy; getting rid of them was a whole different thing that he hadn’t really thought about until this point. 
 
“Butter cake, Mr Downs?” It was one of the morning shift trainees. Luke or something. He was holding a flimsy plastic plate with a thin piece of dry butter cake on it. 

Jerry looked up at the kid and had an idea. “My fly has a tea in it.” 

“I’m sorry Mr Downs?” Luke-or-something was confused. 

“I mean, apologies — my tea has a fly in it.” 

“Oh. Oh... I see. Would you like me to make you a fresh cup?” 

Jerry went to stand up. “No no. I can do it. You carry on kiddo. But be sure not to get your fingers too close to Bev’s chompers,” he winked. 

The kid shrugged and continued on his butter-cake-mission around the ring of stained plastic chairs that were the main attraction in the common room of Pandonia Lodge. 

With plenty of effort, Jerry hoisted himself out of his plastic chair and shuffled over to the tea cart that was parked near the nurse’s station. 

As he dumped his tea (and secret stash of pills) into the waste bucked, a pair of dark eyes and a short, thin, electric-purple mohawk appeared from behind the cart. 

“Dom!” Jerry hissed, and turned back quickly to see if anyone was looking. 

They weren’t — Ellen was rigid as always, talking to a tired-looking resident; Beverly Lewis was stuffing butter cake in between her dentures; and Luke-or-something was turned towards a window mucking with his phone. 

Jerry slowly turned back to the cart. The purple mohawk was gone and so he poured another cup of tea, but just as he was stirring in the half-spoon of sugar that he liked, he heard a whispering voice to his left. 

“Jeeeeeeeeeee-rrreeeeeeeee...”

He turned his head to see Dom in a backwards hand-stand against the wall down the hall. A huge grin peeled itself right across the kid's face. 
 
“Oh my God!” the Dom exclaimed, “I’ve been waiting, like, only forever for you."

All Jerry could think was that he was going to be in trouble. They were going to be in trouble. “Dominique, you can’t be here!” 

“Jesus. You always say that.”

Jerry stepped further into the hall — away from the common room. “I say it because it’s true.” 

“Oh, c’mon Grandpa. Live it up a little.”

Jerry didn’t like that. “Please don’t call me Grandpa.” 

Dom pushed himself off the wall and stood up-right, his purple mohawk bobbing sideways and then back again. “Sorry J. I’ll call you Nancy if you prefer. Either way — I have a plan,” Dom said, winking one of his dark eyes. 

Jerry was tired. “No, not tonight Dom. I have to get back to the common room and check in with Ellen.” 

“Fuck that. I have a better idea.” Dom winked again and took Jerry’s hand in his own.

The skinny purple-haired teenager dragged the old man further down the hall, away from the common room of Pandonia Lodge and the tedious staff and residents who milled there, wasting away their lives.
 
“Where are we going Dom?” 

“To complete the first stage of my plan, Nancy. You and I are getting out of this prison.” Dom dragged Jerry past the awful unisex bathrooms, the steaming hot kitchen, and the security desk — they headed right for the staff locker room and Dom produced a silver master key from him pocket. 

“Where did you get that?!” 

Dom shrugged. “Stole it from the nurse’s station, Nancy. Whatchya’ gonna do ‘bout it?”

Jerry felt a tumultuous mix of worry and excitement inside himself. “This is bad Dom. We shouldn’t be doing this. We’re going to get caught.”
 
Dom waved his hand in Jerry’s face as he opened the locker room door and pushed inside. “Oh don’t be such a scaredy-cat Nancy. All we need is one set of car keys and we are outta-here!” 
 
With a glance behind him, Jerry had no choice but to follow the purple mohawk though the door and hope that no one saw them. Inside it smelled of sweat and socks and Indian food. Jerry felt the urge to hold his breath. “What do we even need a car for, Dom? We’re not going anywhere without the pass-code for the main door.” 

Dom brushed a hand down the line of smooth skin next to his mohawk. “Ain’t no thing but a chicken wing, old man. You just leave that to me.” Dom turned quickly and started rifling through the myriad bags that lined the benches. When he found a jingling key chain in what looked like a bowling ball bag he jumped up on the bench with a wild ‘ah-ha!’. 

“Get down from there Dom,” Jerry protested, feeling all his seventy-three years coming down upon him at once. He wanted to have fun but now was not the time, and this was not the place. Pandonia Lodge was where he lived now and it commanded respect. He had already disobeyed the rules by not taking his pills — by lying — and now stealing was just another step out of line. 

Dom jumped down from the bench and looked at Jerry with big, crazy eyes. “Remember when you used to knock off early on Friday afternoons and bust me out of school and we would go to the beach down past Golden Cove — where you knew that no one would recognise us, so we wouldn’t get in trouble? Remember?” 

Jerry looked down. He remembered.

Dom jangled the keys in his hand and tousled Jerry’s wispy grey hair. “Golden Cove was always my favourite place. Always.”
 
The old man felt a big fat lump swell up in his throat. 

~~~

“Jesus! Jerry! Where the fuck do you even think you’re going?” Ellen was not herself for a moment — she was huffing and puffing and there was bright pink colour in her usually pallid, unreadable face. She stopped in front of the Vespa 400 and Jerry could see her process as she put herself back together. She straightened up. The calm came over her and it was enviable. Jerry was used to the panic, even in his old age, even now that there was nothing to lose. He always got the guilts so easily and couldn’t help but feel every eye on him despite being the only one in the room. 

If only he could find a calm like that.

Jerry gripped the steering wheel of the Vespa and looked across at Dom who had his feet up on the dash, and his chin down on his chest, and his arm crossed like a sullen child. Jerry remembered that Dominique had always been a sullen child. Naughty and then sullen. Naughty and then sullen. Sullen when caught. 

“Tell her, then. I know you’re going to.” Dom’s electric-purple mohawk brushed against the car’s roof as he spoke. 

Jerry looked back up at Ellen and the words came out far too softly. To the beach. 

 “I’m sorry Jerry,” she said coldly, “did you say something?”

“To the beach.”

“To the beach?” 

He nodded, “Mmhmmmm.” 

“To the beach,” she repeated, her eyes narrowing. 

Jerry swallowed and tasted the freedom that was about to be taken from him. 

Ellen took a few steps forward and placed her hands on the Vespa. “Turn the engine off please, Jerry. We’re going back inside.” 

Jerry shook his head and gripped the steering wheel tighter — he didn’t want to go back inside. 

“Jerry,” she repeated, “we’ve done this a thousand fold and it always turns out the same way. Please don’t waste my time.” 
 
He looked up and saw her face was serious. His confusion must have been apparent. “I was going to the beach,” he protested. 

“Who were you going to the beach with?” she asked, motioning for Luke-or-something to step and in get Jerry out of the car. 

Jerry turned to Dom, who was still sulking, and then back to Ellen. Her face was unreadable and slightly distorted on the other side of the Vespa’s windshield. 

“Jerry, who were you going to the beach with?”

Jerry, feeling all of his seventy-three years hanging over him, was finally ready to go back to Pandonia Lodge. “I was going to go with Dom. It was his plan, after all.” 
 
Ellen’s face didn’t change. “Dominique has been dead for forty years Jerry. I’m sorry. And I need to ask another question.” 

Jerry knew what the next question was — “No. I didn’t take my meds,” he said, feeling tired all of a sudden. 

When Jerry looked back to the passenger seat, Dom was staring right at him and the electric-purple mohawk had drooped a little. “Dad, I’m sorry. I just wanted to go to the beach.” 

Jerry smiled. “I know kiddo. So did I.”

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And they both went down into the water
         — Acts 8:38

How quietly and slowly it is, that
You waste me away
How surely it is, that
You waste me down to nothing
You grind me down to dust

Dig up what you’ve buried and it will only stink of earth and rot

Dig up what you’ve hidden and it will ruin you

How entirely it is, that
You use me up and take all of my love
I am emptied out; cavernous, now.
And how slowly it is, that
You fail to fill me up again.
How slowly it is, that
You

Dig right down into the heart of me

Dig up what you’ve tucked away and it will be your end

How surely it is, that
I am not the means to your end
And so you dig

You and dig
And dig
And your hole
It fills
With water
Me; I fill with water

I fill with water and how slowly it is, that
I fill with water and yet it is not you
Who fills me

I can’t breathe
And you can’t tell
How surely it is, that
I fill
How slowly it is, that
I drown

Dig up things you’ve stolen and they will burn you

Dig into your luck and it crumbles

How quietly and surely you waste my time
And waste my body
And waste
My soul

How slowly it is, that
You lean back
Fall back
Into the water

And you take me with you.

Little Miss Turtle

Happy Valentine's Day


It was a blind and broken time
And kindness was forbidden
I guess I tried to hitch a ride
From acid to religion

But every guiding light was gone
And every good direction
The book of love I read was wrong
It had a happy ending

Leonard Cohen
The Great Divide -- from Book of Longing

*** 


I can’t sleep.

And it’s been eight minutes since I last looked at the clock because I’m looking at it again now, and it says 11:13PM and the last time I looked, it said 11:05PM. So that’s eight minutes.

Eight, very long minutes.

There’s something dripping. I can’t hear it all the time but if I stop and wait long enough, and make sure to listen properly, I can hear it. Something dripping. Maybe I left a tap on upstairs. Or maybe it’s the fridge again. Anyways, it doesn’t matter what it is because I know I won’t fix it, I’ll just keep letting it drip, whatever it is.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I was never very good at fixing things, or solving problems, or finality. I was never very good at letting go I suppose.

I would always wake up before you, I couldn’t help it. Probably the shift work or perhaps the caffeine that I yearned for; the caffeine I still yearn for. You would sleep without moving and I would lie there next to you and worry that the sound of my heart beating would disturb you. Now I just wake up whenever it pleases my body. I toss and turn and make a mother-fucking ruckus. I would wake the dead if they slept next to me.

It used to be that I would wake up and it would be an inconvenience except that what does it matter now? Sometimes I wake up and I hum a tune and then catch myself before I realise it doesn’t matter. Not now.

It doesn’t matter now.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Maybe it’s the other clock — the one outside our room, sorry, my room — the one I can’t see. Maybe it’s the other clock just tick-ticking away and maybe nothing is leaking or dripping at all.

I used to wake up early and be as quiet as I possibly could in the shower and then turn the coffee machine on and get out the milk and rip open a packet of Splenda and I would do all of this on edge. But you would sleep and none of it would bother you or wake you. I’d peek back into our room — sorry, my room — and you’d be in the same spot, unmoved, unchanged, lost in Sleepy Town. Nothing could ever raise you. Not until you were ready, at least.

It’s too early for coffee right now. Or is it too late?

I made bacon and onion and pasta last night. It didn’t work out well. It was too wet and the crappy shrivelled beetroot leaves that I put in it made the pasta an unappetising pink colour. I ate a couple of spoonfuls and then left it to sit in the pot. It’s probably congealed by now, but I’m so lazy that I’ll dump it into a plastic container and pretend like I’m going to eat it for lunch tomorrow, at work. But I already know it’s shit and I already know I won’t eat it tomorrow. At work.

Work. That thing I have to do tomorrow.

I definitely won’t eat it.

You would have made something nice — something impressive — like pasta with a homemade sauce. Or chicken wings with slaw. Or salisbury steak. You would have let me cut the onion.

Baby, you would say, please be careful. Last time you almost sliced off your finger. Pay attention, okay? I would blush and when it was almost done you would let me taste it for seasoning and I would say, no it doesn’t need any salt, and you would smile and say,  And then you would add a little more salt.

I can’t sleep and you would say it’s because I don’t exercise enough. I don’t expend enough energy to be tired at the end of the day and I know you’re right but you’re not here and so it doesn’t matter anymore.

I wake up early, long before you do, but you put everything into your day and I am a slow, underachieving turtle. You are loud and I am turned down so low that soon I might just disappear.

Little Miss Turtle.

11:22PM. Drip. Drip. Drip.

At work you would text me and ask how my day is going and I would lie and say it’s good. I'm killing it, I would say.

Does my pillow smell like you? Maybe it just smells like me and I can’t remember what I smell like so I attribute it to you; to your smell.  It smells more manly than me, I think. You smell like trees. Trees and grass and forest air. You slept like dead-wood and I always woke before you did. You were the slumbering log and I was the…

What was I?

The turtle. Little Miss Turtle.

After dinner you would go for your run and I would watch you out the kitchen window as you disappeared down the path next to the road. Every night you would disappear and all I could think was that you weren’t going to come back. The irony in that, is that one day you didn’t. There was always going to be that day time that you didn’t come back. And that one day held true — you didn’t come back.

I have to work in three hours. I stare at the clock and know that I’m going to look unrested and strung out and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ll put on my work shirt and some makeup and hope that there aren’t any meetings scheduled today.

When you met me you decided that you hated my job and that in turn, I hated my job. Four ay-em? you baulked. No one starts work at four ay-em! Your body clock will be so off, baby.

You were right I suppose. Perhaps all of me is off. I can still hear it, but I’m not sure if it’s real — drip, drip drip.

For a long time your side of the bed was empty, but that got to be too much. Now I have books on the sheets amidst the dust, because I haven’t changed them for weeks. The sheets, that is. Maybe it’s more than weeks by now.  Drip, drip, drip. Coffee and a grapefruit is not breakfast, baby.

I shaved my legs tonight like it was date night. Like it was Thursday or Friday and you were going to take me out. Like you used to do.  You would give me attention and order me too many drinks and not enough carbohydrates so that I would be easy once we got home. So that I would let you have whatever you want. I knew how it worked and I never said anything but that was probably because I liked it that way. I liked it when I was yours — when I belonged to you.

Now, if I wanted to, I could sleep for days without worry. But I can’t. Now, I can’t sleep at all.

I can’t sleep.

I shaved my legs and they’re smooth now, but me in my bed by myself, what’s the point of smooth legs? You’re not going to take me out. No one is going to take me out. I’m in my bed and all I can think is that I-have-to-work-in-two-and-a-half-hours. It’s on a loop inside my head.

If I wanted to I could come home and get into bed straight away. I could change into my jimmies without doing anything — without cooking dinner or washing the dishes or saying even a single word. I don’t do that, but sometimes I think about doing it. Sometimes I really want to do it.

When I come home now I usually do a lap around the yard and pretend like I am committed to our garden — sorry, my garden. I fill the watering can and feed the parsley, the three rose pots, the succulent on the front table (it has a flower now, by the way), and the rosemary bush, which has grown into a tree in it’s own right. Then I come inside and I kick off my shoes and strip off my sweat-soaked work shirt and wonder how many hours it will be until I can sleep tonight. Drip, drip, drip.

Probably all of the hours to be fair.

I considered dinner on the way home in the car — an old burrito wrapped in tin foil in the fridge, a sandwich made with the bread from the box which I know is already stale, or pizza ordered in. You would hate all three options but you’re not here anymore. I’m a slow, slow turtle who doesn’t want to cook tonight.

Little Miss Turtle.

Last Valentine’s Day you bought me seven roses. They were variegated. Pink and red and peach. It was the first time you’d given me flowers and I didn't’t really know how to act. Today is February 13th and those roses are brown and grey and dried up, but they’re still in the vase that I put them in a year ago. I had to empty out the water because it started to stink, but once they were dry I put them back in and keep them on the dining table, where they sit.

I didn’t exercise today — I came home and poured a gin and drank it in two minutes and thought about texting you. I didn’t get any steps. Well, maybe twenty or so, but not enough to impress you even a tiny bit. I didn’t do all the things you used to tell me to do over and over again. I didn’t expend energy. I didn’t work hard without thinking about what it would get me. I didn’t ignore the externals. I didn’t feel thankful for all the things that I had. All I did, at the end of the day, was consider the ice in my glass and twist my hair into a ratty knot and I think about texting you.

11:22PM. That’s nine more minutes. I pour another gin and watch the dead roses on our, sorry my, dining table. I’m worried they might move or come back to life somehow. Perhaps if I stare at them long enough. Drip, drip, drip.

Sometimes (and you’d laugh at me) I drag my pillow and blanket out and set up a makeshift bed under the table downstairs. It feels like I’m camping — like I’m just out camping and that’s why you’re not here with me. I thought about texting you.

Hey little turtle. Did you get your steps today?

Once, in the morning, I dropped a glass in the kitchen and it smashed into a million pieces and I froze in panic at the cacophonous sound. But you didn’t wake up. You didn’t even hear it. I cleaned up the mess and you woke up at the time that you always woke up and you asked me if I was feeling positive and ready for the day.

Yes, I said. Yes, of course. A lie. Nothing but a lie. Drip, drip, drip.

11:29PM. Seven minutes. Seven minutes.

There’s a space — a point that hollows out in the center of my chest — you used to rest your fingers there after we were done having sex and it made me feel like perhaps gravity really could hold me down and stop me from floating away.

11:31PM. Two minutes.

I didn’t have dinner. I had another gin and I stayed quiet so that I could hear the drip, drip, drip.

I thought about texting you.

Valentine’s Day last year you told me that you loved me and you asked me if I wanted to marry you. I told you I wasn’t sure and that I would have to think about it.

I guess I fucked up. Little Miss Turtle messed up everything.

I thought about texting you tonight.

But you won’t get it. You won’t ever get another text from me.

The space where my necklace used to hang is empty. The space where you used to be is empty. I’m empty.

I’m fucking empty.

And I can’t sleep.


Feb 14th 2015
Man Dies in Chatinnya Lake

The details are still unclear, however the Westlow police station has confirmed that young local man, Bobby Callick, has been lost to the Chatinnya lake just below Chatinnya Bridge.

His car was found in the late hours of today, February 14th, floating downstream towards the spill, and the guardrail damage is consistent with that on his vehicle. There is no sign of foul play.

The county is confident that this incident is an accident despite the insistence by the victim’s finance that this was a suicide.

Mr Callick’s family will be holding a memorial at the Lutheran church in Westlow County due to crews being unable to retrieve the body from Chatinnya Lake. Our prayers are with them. There will be no formal burial.

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I’m parked outside your house and I can feel time passing normally. It slips through my fingers and I don’t hold onto it despite knowing that I can.

The street light above me flickers and I think of that song. Touch me, it’s so easy to leave me, all alone in the moonlight.

No, it wasn’t ‘a street light flickers’. It was ‘a street light gutters’. Different, I suppose.

And soon it will be morning.

Whatever. I hate that song anyways.

Your front porch light clicks on and I jump, but it’s only your cat activating the sensor. I see it slink off into the bushes. All your blinds are pulled up and the internal lights are on so your family doesn’t seem to notice the porch light. Lucky. Not that it would matter to me. Well, not really.

I crawl over the center console and exit through the passenger seat so that I can slip around the back of my car and into the thick hedge that guards your front yard.

I want to watch you in your element, sweetness. I want to see the way you are now — without me. I want to see how you are with him, sweetness — your husband.

~~~

It starts to rain and I feel the urge to stop it but I want to see you — because through the window, in the yellow glow of your kitchen light, I see you chopping onions and chicken and all I can hear is you saying how you hate to cook. All I hear is how it’s such a goddamned stereotype for women to be in the kitchen doing what men tell them to do. What men expect them to do.

And yet here you are. With your shiny engagement ring and your sparkling wedding ring and your hollow smile. You’re wearing a fucking apron. And sautéing. And forcing a smile. And doing all the things you swore you would never do.

Never. Ever. Do.

You’re a lying sack of shit, sweetness. You are the scum that I scraped off my toilet bowl last night.

You are the girl I lost hold of.

And you’re all that I can think about anymore.

~~~

Eventually the safety light turns off and I get a better view of you in the kitchen and him pouring a glass of fucking chardonnay. For himself. You cut roughly through a stubborn tomato and it spurts onto your dress above your apron. I watch you try to wipe it off but I see he’s angry. You failed to please him.

I see you eye the wine.

I know you want some and I know he probably disapproves of you drinking at all. If only he knew you and who you really were.

What you want is a shot of tequila. Or an old fashioned. Or some smooth whiskey over ice.

I know what you want sweetness.

He — your husband — knows nothing about you.

~~~

From the hedge I can’t hear you but I can see him exiting the kitchen and taking up a seat in the lounge. He turns on the NFL and I see you cringe as you realise you’re going to have to watch it all night. Your hand shakes. You look across at the bottle of wine and quickly turn back to the tomato-chopping that is your job.

I know you’re absolutely dying for a cigarette.

No. Better. A fucking cigar.

The stink of it. The heat of it. The weight of it in your hand.

A cigar and a whiskey. I know you sweetness.

I know what you want.

I continue to watch as you focus on your tomato and he turns the volume up on the television. The tension in your neck makes me angry and I want to bust in there and save you from your fate. But you made your choices.

I watch him laugh out loud at an advertisement on the box and I watch you shrink further down. And that’s when I decide to stop it.

I stop time.

~~~

Inside the house your husband is the first person I walk by and I mark him an idiot for not bothering to lock the front door behind him. His mouth is open and there’s a droplet of spit hanging between his lips and the palm of his out-held hand. I have a strong urge to take his hand and stuff it into his mouth and twist his legs back the wrong way until they buckle and break.

I stop myself. I know that things can’t be undone.

I focus on you.

You, sweetness. With your apron and your glossy hair and your shiny heels. Right now — you are everything that I know you not to be. You’re trying too hard to fit into his life. You are mushing yourself into a mold that isn’t worth it, a mold that will turn you out like a smooth, self-loathing chocolate bunny rabbit.

I touch your hair and it is softer and cleaner than I remember it to be. I kiss your neck, but it is as smooth as I remember it to be. You are rigid, frozen in time, and so am I, but in a different way. I hold you tight and I rut up into you and all I want is for you to be mine forever.

Is that too much to ask?

~~~

I start time again.

I am in the other room now, your bedroom, and neither of you notice. I listen to your back and forth as I silently rifle through your drawers of clothing.

“Carrots?” you ask.

He’s watching the game. “Hmm. Whatever.”

I hear you dissolve and I know he doesn’t see it.

I see it. I see it in how quiet you are in response.

~~~

I stop time.

I can’t rewind and I can’t fast-forward. I wait a little longer this time, glad that I don’t have to hear your forced words and his uninterested responses. I’m always surprised by how excruciatingly quiet it is when the world stops. Deafening — it presses in on me and sometimes I can barely stand it.

The majority of your knickers are sensible in a repeating trio of beige, black, and dark blue, but right at the back of the drawer my fingers find a pair of socks that aren’t soft enough. Your vibrator.

I wonder if he knows, at the same time realising that, of course, he doesn’t. I bet he can’t even make you come. Does he try?

A range of pills inhabit your mirrored medicine cupboard and I pocket a few just for my own amusement. For later, after I go home and pretend like I’m going to sleep.

Your makeup is a neat yet excessive collection of overly expensive brands that fill a deep drawer under the sink. I remember you wearing dark eye liner and smudged mascara and I remember, every Sunday morning, with the help of a coffee and then a cigarette, you’d pluck the stray hairs of your eyebrows and complain how women would never be set free from all the fucking expectations.

Still, every Sunday morning, you’d pluck away until you were down to the filter and the skin above your eyes was red and puffy.

We fought more than was necessary but you were always my best girl, sweetness. If only I could rewind.

But all I can do is stop.

~~~

Your house is nice but it’s not you at all. Plush carpet (carpet is dirty and I don’t vacuum), eggshell walls (yeah…I don’t scrub walls), and too many bedrooms for what is needed in my opinion (who needs this many room?! It’s only more space to clean).

You were never the domestic type.

That song is still playing in my head.

And soon it will be morning. Touch me, it’s so easy to leave me, all alone in the moonlight.

I don’t even think those lyrics are aright. Morning is a long way off, but for the moment I still have time stopped, so it doesn’t matter.

Back in the kitchen I’m tempted to lift up your dress to see how you’re keeping things for him. That’s too far though. Instead I take a glass from the cabinet, pour some wine and place it just next to your chopping board. I press my face into your neck and you smell just like the girl I know you are. I pull your hair and your head cocks back and I remember how much you liked that.

I take a step back and admire your long, curling locks that hang from your tilted head.

I start time again.

~~~

You start backward but immediately catch yourself and straighten your neck again. You drop the knife and he calls from the living room when he hears it clatter on the bench.

“Everything alright?”

You cough. “Yes baby. Just slipped. Sorry, get back to your game.”

He doesn’t respond and that’s when you notice the wine. From behind, I watch you hesitate. You continue to chop your tomato and I know you want the drink — you want to let go and give in and give up — and he laughs in the living room and I see you tense up again.

I’m breathing as quietly as I can, and there’s no reason for you to expect me to be behind you, but still, my nerves and the exhilaration of even being here in your house is making me thump hard with adrenaline. My heart beats in my chest. I worry you’ll hear it.

You don’t. You don’t even turn. You place the knife down almost silently and lift the glass to your lips. You drain it. I wonder if it’s sheer want or terror that makes you do it.

You put your glass back down and I can’t help myself. I stop time and refill it. And then I get close enough to brush my lips against your neck and I immediately regret it. I want you. Badly. I want to pick you up and take you out of this awful house and away from this man who doesn’t love you. I want to hold your warmth close to my own and go back to the days we had. The days where we would be high or drunk or just inebriated in one way or another. I want to fix you but I know I’m probably the one who needs fixing.

I stop myself. I know that things can’t be undone.

You’re halfway through the second glass when I stop time.

I take it from your hand and empty it into the sink. I wash it, dry it, place it back in the cupboard, and arrange you to chop the tomato — as if you had been chopping it the whole time.

I want to brush my finger across your lips and hold you close to me. Close enough that you could feel how much I still want you. It’s always been you, sweetness. Yours is the name I say when I get there.

Every time.

I can’t rewind and I can’t fast-forward. I know I shouldn’t have come here at all, but just like you, I find it hard to help myself.

I walk out of your front door and I don’t look back.

I make it to the end of your garden path and out onto the street. The moon is bright above me and I’m singing that fucking song in my head again. A streetlamp gutters. 

 I’m looking back at your house. I start time again. I don’t notice the black Leviathan and there is less than a second before it hits me. I am man against RangeRover, and I lose.