Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Nice Cup of Tea, Dear?
The dulcet sounds of the adagio sostenuto from Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata wafted through the air. She opened the box from the bakery and pulled out a lemon cake with a blueberry swirl inside, frosted with a light sugar glaze, and placed in on the cake stand. Cutting a thin slice she deftly put it on a delicate, china plate and placed it ever so gently in front of him, as the kettle began to whistle. She returned to the kitchen, removing the pot from the stove top. Steam rose as she poured the water inside, the tea infuser sinking deep into the boiling liquid. She brought the pot to the table, waiting several minutes until the brew was nice and dark. She looked over at him sitting opposite her. She smiled shyly at him.
"Tea, dear?"
He mumbled something, his head lolling forward. Drops of blood dripped onto his naked chest. She saw his hands stretch against the ropes that bound him to the chair. She frowned slightly.
"I'm sorry dear, I didn't quite hear you. Would you like a nice cuppa?"
Incoherent words tumbled out of his mouth as more blood began to spittle across his cut and broken lips. He tried to raise his head, tried to open his bruised and puffy eyes to focus on her. He managed to hold his head up for ten seconds as one word escaped.
"Why?"
She huffed quietly and poured herself a cup, dropping two lumps of sugar in. Tears began to well in her eyes, and she took a sip to steady her nerves. It was still too hot and burned the tip of her tongue. She dropped the cup onto its saucer; tea spilled on her fine, white damask table cloth.
"God damn it, Alex! Look what you've made me do!"
She tried to blot out the stain with her napkin, but the strong, dark liquid began to penetrate the fragile weave. Her tears increased as her frustration grew, until finally she was sobbing, rubbing the soiled fabric until it ripped. An agonizing wail left her body; she pulled the cloth off the table, china breaking as it hit the floor, cake smashing into crumbs, and began to drag it towards the sink. Cold water filled the basin as she began to drown her grief. Water began to overflow onto the floor as she turned back towards the dining room, a cleaver in her hand.
"God damn you, Alex, look what you've made me do!"
Monday, August 29, 2011
Committed.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Hope
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
End of Days
She didn't know his name.
She didn't care.
She didn't know where he came from.
She didn't care.
It was the end of days.
He had a pulse.
He was willing.
She was drowning
In nihilism.
She wanted
To care.
She needed
To feel.
Something.
Anything.
Anyone.
Even if only
For fifteen minutes
(He was young, so maybe twenty).
Before the end.
Before the rain.
Something.
Anything.
Anyone.
Someone.
Monday, August 22, 2011
No Place Like Home
When you have a loved one who is mentally ill, you don't look at homeless people in quite the same way. The old man wearing a tin foil crown who refers to himself as the King of Egypt used to be some one's little boy. The old lady who screams at pedestrians who get too close to her as they cross the street used to be her daddy's princess. And that heroin addict who's shaking violently as he's curled up in a ball inside an abandoned doorway used to be best friends with his brother.
No one chooses to be homeless, just like no one chooses to be an addict. "But what about personal responsibility" those who've never been down this road ask? People who are mentally ill suffer from a decreased ability to make socially acceptable personal decisions. You can't force someone to accept treatment, you can't force someone to take their medication. You beg, you plead, you bargain, you threaten. You try tough love. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it buys you time.
It's difficult to get through to someone who hasn't slept in over 60 hours. It's exhausting, it's frustrating, it's infuriating. You can grab them by the shoulders and scream into their face "YOU'RE KILLING YOURSELF! LISTEN TO ME! I CAN'T HELP YOU UNLESS YOU LET ME!" Sometimes, you get through. Sometimes, you don't. Sometimes, you watch them tear up and shake their head no. You watch them pull further away, sometimes disappear, until they become nothing more than a nagging fear. A fear every time it rains or snows that the don't have shelter, a fear the only way they can get food is by letting someone hurt or abuse them. A fear, every time the phone rings or the door bell buzzes, that on the other end is an official sounding voice saying, "We're sorry to inform you".
As sad as that information makes you, there is always that little voice inside your heart that whispers, "Thank God". You hate yourself for feeling that way. Even though, now, you can finally relax, because your loved one is finally at peace. They finally have a home. A grave. A place where they can't be hurt anymore. A place where they're finally safe. A home you can finally visit.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Under Toad
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Cat and Mouse
A moment for
Just the two of us
On
A Saturday afternoon.
"Stay here in the living room
And watch cartoons.
Daddy and I have to talk.
Alone.
In our bedroom".
Sneaking away
Right in front of everyone.
"Lock the door" I whisper
As we quickly shed our clothes.
Stolen moments
So crucial to keeping
Love viable.
You still make me gasp
As we try to mute our
Carnal pleasure.
We catch our breaths.
Get redressed.
Open the door,
A soft, quick kiss
As you disappear.
I sit on the couch
Watching a cat chase a mouse,
When very calmly I hear,
"Mommy, I didn't hear any
Talking going on
Inside your room".
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Don't Try
"His gravestone reads: "Don't Try", a phrase which Bukowski uses in one of his poems, advising aspiring writers and poets about inspiration and creativity. Bukowski explained the phrase in a 1963 letter to John William Corrington: "Somebody at one of these places [...] asked me: 'What do you do? How do you write, create?' You don't, I told them. You don't try. That's very important: 'not' to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It's like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks you make a pet out of it."[16]" From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
Happy Birthday Hank.
BBBRRRIIINNNGGGG!!!!!
Monday, August 15, 2011
Translation
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Heat
Sitting in the car
Outside my house.
After our third date.
Waiting for the rain
To stop.
No longer immune
To your many charms,
My desire for you
Radiates
From every pore in
My old body.
Making me blush.
Imagine!
Feeling waves of lust
At my age!
I take your hand,
And ask,
"Would you like to come in?"
When I really mean,
"Would you like to stay the night?"
You smile,
And whisper
"Yes"
As you gently kiss my cheek.
You open my door.
We walk towards the house,
As the rain
Drenches us.
Giving us two
Old
(not old, mature)
Lovers,
A convenient excuse
To remove wet clothing,
And snuggle
Under soft covers.
Generating enough heat
To burn down the house.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Thank you!
Some shameless bragging: My short story, Some Pig, has been accepted for publication in The Examined Life-A Literary Journal of the University of Iowa Carver College of Medicine. This was a story I originally wrote for Three Word Wednesday, so I want to send a special thank you to Thom Gabrukiewicz for giving us all an opportunity to stretch our creative muscles each week. I'd also like to send an enormous hug to each and every one of you who follow this blog; you are some of the most talented writers I have had the great fortune to read and work with. Your comments about my work are always so spot on, and I consider it a privilege to be a part of your lives.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
PHHHHFFFF
It would appear
That a dose of reality
Won't always pierce
The cotton headed ninny muggins
Amongst us.
He doesn't love you
Really means
HE DOESN'T LOVE YOU.
Not
He's playing hard to get.
Or
He's unable to express
How he really feels.
Because
He's been hurt
Or
Betrayed
Or
Had a rotten childhood.
He doesn't love you
Means
It's time
To let go
Of
Him.
And begin to
Embrace
Yourself.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Repeat as Necessary
Angry and bitter doesn't get you laid. Of course, not getting laid will make you angry and bitter. It's a really vicious cycle.
Look at your reflection in the mirror. Streaks of gray flash through your hair; it's time to hit up the colorist again. The lines under your eyes seem deeper too. Open the medicine cabinet and pull out the Preparation H; squeeze a drop of anti inflammatory cream on the tip of your finger. Gently dab some along the tiny crevices, watch as they fade slightly. Not as much as they used to.
Put the medicine back and walk towards the bed. Open the night stand drawer, and pull out the straight razor. Crawl into bed, lean back against the pillows. Make yourself comfortable.
Try to relax.
Open the blade; watch the light glisten off the edge. Hold the razor in your right hand. Draw your knees up to your chest, heels close to your groin. Bring your hand quickly down, slashing the blade over the skin of your right inner thigh. A stinging sensation will course through your body. A bright crimson line will begin to appear on your flesh. Sometimes it's hard to find a clear piece of skin; the minor scaring builds up quicker than you think it will
Slice the skin five more times as endorphins release into your system. Touch yourself with your left hand, mixing the sensations of pain and pleasure.
Repeat as necessary.
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