Sins of the Flash

2012-01-27T11:07:00.001-05:00

The end is near.

2012-01-26T10:55:00.000-05:00

Guilt was invented by the "haves" to keep the "have nots" in their place.

Double Header

2012-01-18T15:06:00.009-05:00

A sliver of moonlight

made a gash against

his naked flesh.

"You naughty girl"

he sighed contentedly,

as my mouth began the slow

downhill descent to his

nether regions.

"I had no idea

you were such a freak".

To which my twin replied,

"If we had a dime

Every time

We heard that

We wouldn't be here".

Dear Santa

2011-12-22T12:55:00.022-05:00

Dear Santa-

I have been very good this year. I don't want anything for me, but if you could help my dad get a job that would make us very happy.

Love-
Kevin

Dear Santa Claus-

Please help my mommy get off drugs. She smokes rocks all the time and me and my sister don't have a lot of food to eat. My mommy is a good mommy but she is sad all the time.

I love you and all the reindeer.
Samantha

Dear Santa-

My name is Connor. I have been very good this year. Please bring my little brother Michael the new Hess truck with the race car, bring my sister Mary a baby doll, and please bring my mom a new boyfriend who won't hit her.
Connor

Jack threw the letter down in disgust. Who's bright idea was it to answer letters to Santa? He thought he'd be reading requests for toys and puppies, not pleas for help. He lit a cigarette and took a long drag, trying to calm down. This was the most depressing thing he'd ever done. He looked over at the last letter; the return address was a few streets over from his apartment. He picked it up and read it again; he could probably pick up toys at the local Target, maybe get some food and hats and mittens to throw in a bag or something. Jack pulled on a rumpled jacket and shoved the letter deep into his pocket as he headed out the door.

An hour later he was standing outside a small house bare of any decorations, a lone outsider to all its festive neighbors. He was just going to leave the bags of presents at the door and take off when the sound of something crashing made him shift into full alert. He was trying to assess the situation when he heard the back door slam, then an engine start. He slid behind the porch baluster and saw a pick up truck shoot out of the drive way, tires screeching as the tail lights faded into the distance. Jack watched them disappear, then realized he was being watched. He spun around, coming face to face with a little boy about five. The two of them stared at each other. Jack felt stupid. He moved closer to the door, crouching down to look the kid in the eye.

"You ok?"

The kid nodded his head, then gave a quick glance over his shoulder. He bit his lip, trying to decide if this stranger could be trusted.

"He hits."

A cold anger ran down Jack's spine. He took in a couple of breaths to steady himself again.

"Where's your mom?"

The kid hesitated for a minute, then opened the door for Jack to enter. Jack did so cautiously, looking around to see who else was in the house. He heard some sounds coming from the kitchen; slowly he walked in and stood in the door way. A woman was putting ice cubes into a baggie. She whirled around, fresh bruises all ready blossoming on her face. Anger and embarrassment pushed the fear from her eyes.

"Who the fuck are you?"

Jack took a step back.

"Nobody. I was at the door and I heard some noise. Your boy let me in. Are you ok?"

She quickly brushed past him, making her way to the front door. She violently pulled it open.

"Get out. And mind your own fucking business."

Jack shook his head and started towards the door. He saw two more kids cowering on the couch. He stopped and turned back towards her.

"You don't deserve this. They don't deserve this."

Tears began to well in her eyes again as her body began to shake.

"Please go. I can handle this."

Jack walked into the cold night as the front door slammed behind him. He heard her start screaming at the kids to go to bed and leave her alone. The bags of Christmas stuff lay abandoned at the front door.

"Merry fucking Christmas" he muttered to no one as he got into his car. He gave the house one last look as he turned on the engine. The front door opened; the little boy who let him in was bent down over the bags, checking their contents before he brought them into the house. He and Jack locked eyes for a minute; he thought he heard the kid say something before he closed the door. For one more year, he was gonna hold on to his belief in Christmas magic.

"Thanks Santa."

2011-12-08T11:03:00.003-05:00

There is nothing more painful than the absence of a mother's love.

A Kiss Good Bye

2011-11-23T12:22:00.014-05:00

They were hollowing out the pumpkin for the center piece when his six year old brought up the subject.

"Pumpkins are for Halloween, not Thanksgiving."

He grabbed a fistful of pumpkin guts and pulled them out of the defenseless gourd, flinging his hand to remove the sticky, stringy bits.

"The pilgrims had pumpkins at the first Thanksgiving. It will look nice on the table with some corn and apples."

She began to squish the guts with her hands, pulling at the seeds.

"Are you going to carve a face?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know. Maybe I'll carve a leaf. Or a turkey."

He thought about that last remark. How the heck do you carve a turkey into a pumpkin? He guessed he could trace his hand on the side and then cut out the bits. The two of them sat silently as he continued his work.

"Mommy won't be here, will she?"

The knife slipped out of his hand, piercing his palm. A shallow cut erupted, bright scarlet mixing in with the pale orange meat. He pulled his hand up to his mouth, sucking on the blood in order to keep from cursing.

"No, she won't. She'll be in Paris. With Johnny."

"Where's Paris?"

"Texas. Down south."

"Oh."

He checked his palm. No more blood. He looked over at his daughter to see two large tears sliding down her cheek. He gently brushed them away with one finger.

"It's ok, it's only a scratch. I'm fine."

She tried to talk, tried to take a breath, could only shake her head.

"It's my fault Mommy's gone, isn't it?"

The shock of that statement made him draw in a shallow breath. He reached over and pulled her on his lap.

"God, no, honey. Why would you think that?"

Words fought with sobs to escape from her throat.

"Be cause the last time I saw her I didn't do what she said and she got mad and she took me to school and she didn't even kiss me good bye she just left me there and she never came back. And now she's in Paris without me."

He held her as tight as he could, fighting his own tears. Fucking bitch! It was bad enough she had broken his heart, was it really necessary for her to break their daughter's too? He took a deep breath to steady himself.

"You didn't do anything to make Mommy leave. Mommy left, because Mommy wasn't happy with herself. I know that's hard to understand, but it's true. It was nothing you did."

An enormous sob erupted out of that tiny face as she turned towards her father.

"But she didn't even kiss me goodbye! I didn't get a kiss goodbye!"

She collapsed against her father, her body spasming with grief. His own grief overflowed, soaking her hair. The pumpkin sat on the table amongst its own debris.

In Flanders Fields

2011-11-11T09:54:00.004-05:00

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

John McCrae-May 1915

Desk Top

2011-11-09T11:38:00.023-05:00

There was a tiger sitting on my desk when I got to work this morning.

Not a paper tiger, not a plush toy tiger. A real tiger, all eleven feet and 670 pounds of him. He was trying to balance on the too short surface, his legs pulled up tight under his body, his head perched casually on his front paws. He gave me a bored look as I tried to muster up enough courage to reclaim my space.

"Shoo!"

I waved my arms towards him as if he were a fly.

"Go on now, scat!"

He merely lifted his head, opened his mouth to yawn, then placed it back on his paws, shutting his eyes and falling asleep.

I weighed my options. He was nearly five times my size; his paws were the size of dinner plates (dinner plates with razor sharp claws at the end of them). I couldn't push him off the desk, and I had nothing to lure him away with. I needed to get to my computer and finish a report that was due in an hour. I slowly walked behind my desk, sat down in my chair, and turned on the computer. The tiger opened one eye to regard me.

"I have work to do. Don't stay awake on my account."

The tiger stared at me another minute, then closed his eye. He began to snore as I opened a spread sheet.

About ten minutes later, one of the company's interns came to my door.

"OH MY GOD! There's a tiger on your desk!"

"Yes, he's sleeping. I wouldn't wake him up if I were you."

She hesitated for a moment, then whispered loudly,

"Can I have twenty dollars from petty cash? I need to buy bagels."

I pulled out the cash box and held out a bill towards her. She tippy toed closer and grabbed the money. Her curiosity got the better of her; I saw her gently pet the top of my tiger's head.

"He's so soft."

"Yes, he is. But he snores."

"Well, no body's perfect."

She turned and walked out of my office. The tiger grunted in his sleep and shifted his weight, trying to find a more comfortable position.

I kept working as my dead line loomed. I was just about to fill in the final formula when my supervisor came charging into my office. He squealed like a pig when he saw my desk.

"What is that?! You know animals aren't allowed in the office."

"He was here when I got in."

My supervisor scrunched up his weaselly little face as he began to pace frantically in a circle.

"What's a tiger doing here? You've got to get rid of him, the auditors will be here any minute, we're all going to get fired!! GET RID OF HIM!!"

He wasn't using his indoor voice. The tiger woke up, looking very grumpy. He trained his eyes towards the source of his irritation as his muscles began to tense. My supervisor froze as the blood began to drain from his face, his breath short and shallow. I sat quietly and waited. Finally I heard my voice whisper.

"Now."

The tiger leaped and tackled my supervisor in one fluid moment, grabbing him by the neck and dragging him into the back room. I could hear a brief struggle behind me, then the sounds of flesh ripping and chewing. I went into the kitchen and found a large bowl and filled it up with cold water, then slowly brought it back to my office. The tiger had come out of the back room. We stared at each other for a moment; I placed the water before him and sat back down. He drank it in one gulp, then jumped back up on our desk and began to clean his paws and face. I finished my work and hit print. The tiger had settled down for another nap. I gently petted his head and scratched his ears.

"Good tiger."

The only hitch I can see in this relationship is if they don't hire a replacement quickly enough.

Eternity

2011-10-31T18:16:00.005-04:00

Would you die for me?

Would you lay down your life?

Blood of my blood

Flesh of my flesh.

Feasting.

Yearning.

Aching.

To hear your final

Breath

Escape from your lips.

Would you die for me?

Like I died

For you.

No.

You didn't.

But now

You

Will.

And we

Will be together.

Forever

For

Eternity.

Damned

For all

Eternity.

2011-10-27T14:13:00.006-04:00

I can no longer hold him at bay,

My old opponent.

My strength is gone.

Sapped.

Drained.

Knackered.

I am exhausted.

Too long have I

Plotted

And

Schemed.

But he knew.

He knew time

Was on

His side.

He knew

Eventually

I'd grow weary

Of

The fight.

So

I lay down my arms

And openly embrace

My old opponent.

Death.

If I had a Pony

2011-10-26T10:59:00.017-04:00

If I had a pony

I'd let you ride him.

We could feed him

Carrots

And oats

And little cubes of

Sugar.

And maybe an

Apple.

A sweet Gala,

Not a tart

Granny Smith.

We could ride

To a field

Awash with flowers,

And I could let down

My hair.

Literally and figuratively.

Allowing myself to be

Vulnerable.

Just for a minute,

While you gaze into my eyes,

And whisper,

"I love your work".

But the truth is,

Your assistant

Thinks I'm a

Drama Queen.

"We don't expect you to sell your soul

In order to participate in this workshop".

Well,

FUCK YOU BITCH.

I'm not inclined

To accept

Your condescending attitude

Towards me

Or

My writing.

So the next time,

A writer

Must pass,

On one of your

Writing Workshops,

Instruct your

Assistant

To reply,

"Sorry you can't participate".

Because if you

Think

You are

Ernest

or

Buke

or

Even

Jack.

You're not.

Your perception

Of your skills

Are a figment

Of

Your

Miniscule

Imagination.

A Step Up

2011-10-20T11:43:00.022-04:00

It's complicated,

he said,

being married

to a woman

who refuses

to live with you.

He took a sip of whiskey

and stared into space

as I twirled the straw

in my drink.

I thought he was

interesting.

A co-worker

had set us up.

He'd been a clown

with the circus.

(No really, a graduate

of Clown College)

and now

he was

an actor.

Which,

I thought,

was definitely a

step up

from

abusive alcoholic.

At least,

alphabetically.

I saw him smile,

then turn his

gaze back

towards me,

as I let my

bare foot

brush against his

ankle.

A gentle,

tentative

invitation.

Enough to show interest

without arousing

immediate rejection.

I felt the embers of

desire

long dormant in my groin

begin to flicker.

Just slightly.

I smiled back

and waited for

the moment

to breach

the awkward reality

of

It's complicated.

Satisfacton, Guaranteed

2011-09-29T15:30:00.010-04:00

"Go on cher, drink it up. It'll cure what ails ya."

She looked at the bright red liquid as it glistened in the bottle, tiny bubbles bumping into each other like seltzer. Sometimes she thought the bubbles looked like tiny skulls, bare teeth grinning at her. Mocking her. Mocking her fears. She took the bottle out of his hands, the leaden glass weighing heavy in her heart. She cast a suspicious look at him.

"And this'll work. This'll make him love me forever?"

He smiled an evil, cynical smile; all teeth, no lips, like the tiny bubbles within.

"Sure nuf, sis. Drink this and he'll cherish you forever."

He grabbed the bottle out of her hands, holding it just out of reach.

"For the right price, that is."

She reached into her bra and pulled out the wade of slightly damp bills, counting them out, one hundred, two hundred, three hundred. A lot of nights on her knees to get that sum, but it would be worth it. It would be worth it. To have his love forever.

He smiled again, and handed her the bottle. She pulled out the cork stopper with her teeth, grimacing slightly at the smell. Metallic. Rotting. She swallowed the bottle's contents in one gulp, coughing and sputtering as the liquid burned a path down her throat and into her stomach. Waves of nausea washed over her as she fell to her knees, a cold sweat began to pour from her brow. Her breath grew rapid and shallow, as her eye sight began to darken. Her eyes searched his with a desperate plea.

"But, I don't understand. I feel like I'm dying. Feel like I've been poisoned."

She looked at him as tears welled in her eyes. She only had strength for one last word.

"Why?"

That sick, evil smile reappeared on his face as he patted the top of her head. He crouched down next to her.

"Silly girl, don't you know? There's only one guarantee to make someone love you forever."

He held her face in his hands as he kissed her gently on the lips, whispering seductively in her ear.

"Death."

Fashion Week

2011-09-13T10:20:00.002-04:00

Angry and bitter are the new black.

Ta Da!!!

2011-09-08T14:44:00.005-04:00

The latest issue of Erotica Quarterly from Pill Hill Press. My flash piece, The Ape and I, is featured (and you can't see it, but my name is printed on the cover).

I like the cover; it has Fosse-esque quality to it.

2977

2011-09-07T09:31:00.036-04:00

Time heals

All wounds

Or does

It wound

All heels?

Slowly causing

Joy

And

Faith

And

Trust

To erode

From our hearts?

Hearts

That

Will never

Be practical

Until

They are

Made

Unbreakable.

So

The

Great

And

Powerful

Oz warns.

Two Thousand

Nine Hundred

Seventy

Seven

Hopes

And

Dreams

And

Desires

And

Ordinary

Lives.

Extinguished.

On

A

Late summer's day

So beautiful

It would make

You say,

I hope

I remember

This day.

Forever.

And

Ever.

And

Ever.

We will

Remember

This day.

Forever.

And

Ever.

And

Ever.

And as long

As we

Remember,

Two Thousand

Nine Hundred

Seventy

Seven,

Hopes

And

Dreams

And

Desires

And

Ordinary

Lives,

Two Thousand

Nine Hundred

Seventy

Seven

Hopes

And

Dreams

And

Desires

And

Ordinary

Lives

Will

Live on.

Forever.

And

Ever.

And

Ever.

Nice Cup of Tea, Dear?

2011-08-31T10:15:00.034-04:00

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!"

Committed.

2011-08-29T14:50:00.003-04:00

I felt your breath

On the back of my neck.

Shivers skating down

My spine.

This is so wrong

I thought to myself.

Even as the touch of

Your lips

Down my

Chakras

Made me sigh

With delight.

Sins

Are meant

To be

Forgiven.

But can't be

Absolved

Until

They've been

Committed.

Hope

2011-08-26T10:34:00.005-04:00

"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul". Emily Dickinson

Until it escapes and flies away, where the always hungry tiger of nihilism rips it to shreads, leaving nothing but a pile of feathers on the floor.

BBBUUURRRRPPPP!!!!!!!

End of Days

2011-08-23T16:10:00.016-04:00

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.

No Place Like Home

2011-08-22T10:35:00.011-04:00

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.

Under Toad

2011-08-19T10:46:00.007-04:00

I

Feel

The

Depths

Of

Despair

Swallowing

Me

Whole.

Pulling

Me

Under.

Pulling

Me

Towards

The

Under Toad.

His

Great

Slimy

Lips

Eager

For

A

Kiss.

Alas!

Toads

Don't

Turn

Into

Princes!

They

Only

Give

Warts

And

Fill

Your

Soul

With

Poison.

Making

Your

Heart

Black

As

Ice.

Cat and Mouse

2011-08-17T10:41:00.014-04:00

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".

Don't Try

2011-08-16T14:55:00.007-04:00

"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!!!!!

2011-08-16T11:02:00.004-04:00

When the alarm goes off

And

The first thing you do

Is

Curl into

A

Fetal position.

That's a sign

That

Changes need to be

Made.

Translation

2011-08-15T16:33:00.005-04:00

I love you

But

I'm not

IN LOVE

With

You.

TRANSLATION

I don't want to

Hurt your feelings

But

I don't want

To

Have Sex

With you

Anymore.

Heat

2011-08-10T10:54:00.007-04:00

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.

Thank you!

2011-08-04T14:00:00.006-04:00

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.

PHHHHFFFF

2011-08-03T10:45:00.013-04:00

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.

Repeat as Necessary

2011-08-02T13:13:00.039-04:00

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.

My Hands Are Tied

2011-07-28T15:10:00.015-04:00

"How could you betray me like this?"

The matter of fact tone to your voice throws me. I usually hear a hint of pain, or a touch of disbelief, when I'm asked that question. But not you; you almost sound as if you expected it. I glance over towards you sitting on the couch.

"It's nothing personal. This is business, pure and simple."

A smile comes to your face, as your gaze drifts off.

"Business. Of course. You always were a fast learner. My best student."

Your eyes turn towards mine, fixing me with a deadly stare.

"And now the student is the master?"

There's no mistaking the anger beneath those words. I fumble slightly as I place ice in the glass in front of me, trying to maintain my composure. Trying to maintain the upper hand. Trying to understand why, despite my anxiety at this moment, I'm slightly aroused by your fury. I pour some Jack into the glass, then slowly make my way over towards you. I feel as if I'm approaching a wounded tiger. I offer you the glass, but you slap it out of my hands, ice cubes flying.

"I take it straight. Perhaps you haven't learned as much as you thought."

That cold stare is boring into my soul. Boring into my heart; I feel it start to race as I bend over to retrieve the glass. I drop my guard for a moment, just enough time for you to knock me to my knees. I feel the weight of your foot as you place it on the nape of my neck. I brace myself.

"And now the student is the master?"

I try to think of an answer, but the only think that runs through my head is mindless banter. I struggle for breath, struggle to regain the upper hand. I can feel the sole of your shoe rubbing against my skin; rich Italian leather. I strain to turn my face towards you.

"Why are you taking this so personally, I told you, this is business. There's nothing I can do, my hands are tied."

You shift your weight, dropping onto the floor, your body straddling my back. You unknot the silk tie at your throat, then pull my hands behind me, binding them together.

"Now they are. What lesson should I teach you now?"

The Phone Call

2011-07-24T15:56:00.017-04:00

RIP Amy Winehouse 1983-2011

It comes

Without warning.

Even though you always knew

It would come.

In the middle of the night.

First thing in the morning.

On your cell before you head off to lunch.

The phone call.

With the cold

Official

Voice

On the the other end.

"We're sorry to inform you

That your son

Your daughter

Your brother

Your father

Someone you love

Has died.

We think

It was

An

Overdose".

And your brain

Goes on

Automatic pilot.

And you hear your voice say,

"Thank you

For Calling."

And as you

Hang up the phone

You feel

As if

Someone

Has just grabbed

Your soul

And

Ripped

It

To

Shreds.

Safe

2011-07-22T13:15:00.017-04:00

I like

the weight

of

your body

on top

of mine.

It makes me

feel

sexy.

Loved.

Safe.

Today

I really need you

to make me feel

safe.

PSA

2011-07-22T12:07:00.020-04:00

Heat makes me cranky. Excessive heat makes me very cranky.

I don't know where your rehearsal is. It is your responsibility to know where you're suppossed to be at any given time. You are a guest in this theater; I suggest you start acting like one. Which means you do not do vocal warm-ups in the ladies' room while everyone else is trying to take a slash.

I am not responsible for class schedules, delivering the lunch your child forgot to bring today, or submissions. If you're looking for customer service, you need to look else where.

In short, I have a years worth of bank statements to reconcile, this quarter's federal taxes to file, and a general ledger to balance, all before the auditors show up in thirty days.

Unless you've got a gin and tonic in your hand, are hung like a horse, and wearing nothing more than a saucy grin, I think it would be best if you didn't visit my office any time soon.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

2011-07-21T14:16:00.013-04:00

Your finger tips

Upon my lips

Elicit shivers

And Quivers

And Sighs.

While your lips

Upon my finger tips

Make me hunger

For more.

And more.

And more.

Still Here

2011-07-20T10:52:00.035-04:00

Early Detection is Essential

To Ensure Your Quality of Life.

So Grab Those Girls,

Give Em a Jiggle,

Feel Yourself Up,

Indulge in a Giggle.

If Not For Yourself

Then Do it For Those

Who Will Miss You Intensely...

She stared at the post. That had to be the worse PSA ever written. She started to press "DELETE" but pulled her finger back at the last moment. Stepping away from her laptop she walked over to the full length mirror in the corner of their bedroom. She regarded her reflection, then slowly began to pull her shirt over her head.

She stared at her chest with a clinical detachement. The first year after her surgery she couldn't look at herself, not in a mirror, not in the shower. She didn't think she'd ever be able to make peace with her body. She didn't want to be brave, didn't want to be strong. She wanted to be whole, she didn't want to see that look of fear in her husband's eyes, didn't want to be reminded of what could have happened if she hadn't caught that lump in time. Yes, maybe it was a small price to pay to keep living, but still there was a part of her that felt cheated.

She saw him stop short as he came in the room. There was still that awkward hesitation on his part; struggling against treating her as if nothing had changed between them, when everything had.

"Hey baby. What are you doing?"

She returned to her desk, leaving her shirt on the floor.

"I was trying to write some sort of early detection message, but it all sounds so trite. How can I explain the importance of doing something that I rarely did myself? It was just a fluke that I checked my breast that month."

He leaned over her shoulder, reading what she wrote. She felt his breath in her ear, squirming slightly at the sensation building between her legs. He leaned forward and started to type, kissing the back of her neck after he finished.

She read what he wrote, then raised her arms above her head, embracing him. She felt his hands reach down to caress her breast. Her breasts.

Early Detection is Essential

To Ensure Your Quality of Life.

So Grab Those Girls,

Give Em a Jiggle,

Feel Yourself Up,

Indulge in a Giggle.

If Not For Yourself

Then Do it For Those

Who will be so grateful that you're still here.

2011-07-18T10:57:00.004-04:00

"Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves".

Confucius

Sisyphus

2011-07-15T11:10:00.007-04:00

Move the files from the back to your desk.

Move the files from your desk to the back.

Move last year's files from the back to the further back.

Move this year's files to the back.

Repeat as necessary.

This is why you don't get a degree in the liberal arts.

Pussy

2011-07-13T11:08:00.017-04:00

"Life is cruel, like a bitter, cold titted bitch whore who lies in wait for that one moment of indecision on your part so she can sink her fangs into your soul and suck it dry."

She placed the cup of coffee on the table, fighting the urge to spill it on his lap. She sat in the chair opposite him and proceeded to pour half a cup of sugar in her tea. She flashed him the stink eye.

"The whole point of an internal monologue is that it's silent."

He glared back at her. He was down to two options; leaving and spending the rest of his life regretting it. Or staying, and spending the rest of his life regretting it. Last night's pity fuck didn't help, only confused him. What had happened to them? When did the woman he love turn into such a cunt? Well, he couldn't really blame her, he wasn't exactly prince charming any more. They'd tried therapy, tried date nights, role playing in the bedroom, or in the living room like last night. Nothing, no sparks reignited, no passion left. He was just about to tell her he was done when their six year old daughter came running into the room.

"Mommy, where is it?"

Her mother put down her cup and looked at her.

"Where's what, baby?"

"The kitty. I looked all over the house and I can't find it."

Her mother shot him a "What the fuck did you do now" look, then took a deep breath.

"We don't have a kitty, honey, what makes you think that?"

A crushing look enveloped the little girl as she slumped into her chair.

"I came down stairs last night to ask you a question and I heard you and daddy making funny noises on the couch. I started to go back upstairs when I heard daddy ask you to give him the pussy, so I thought you got me a cat for my birthday."

The two of them sat there, trying to maintain their composure. He broke first, chuckling to himself, then laughing out loud, while she tried to keep her cool, opening her eyes wide and whispering "stop it" in between her own laughter. Their daughter looked at them in bewilderment.

"What's so funny?"

They looked at each other; for one brief instant there was a spark of connection, a new common bond between them. His wife smiled at him, the first genuine smile she'd given him in a very long time. She turned towards their daughter.

"It was going to be a surprise, but I guess we can go to the rescue group after breakfast to look at the kitties."

Their daughter brightened like the sun.

"Can I have sliced bananas on my cereal, Mommy?"

"Sure baby. Daddy can slice them for me."

She gave her husband a 'come hither' look, and nodded her head towards the kitchen. He smiled at her, then stood up to follow her within. Sometimes fate has a way of giving you a sign right when you need it. He kissed the top of his little girl's head.

"Why don't you go sit in the living room and put a video on, baby girl? You can eat your breakfast in front of the TV this morning. Turn the volume up as loud as you like."

2011-07-06T10:44:00.021-04:00

When I ceased to exist for you

I died.

I curled up in a little ball

And I lied

Laid

Lay

On the floor

Dust bunnies curling around my nose

The dog nibbling at my toes

My tears covering my cheeks

Puddling on the floor.

I turned off the heat in the apartment

Hoping to freeze to death

But then I thought

That's not fair to the dog

She has a fur coat on

And will take longer to die

And starving is an awful way to go.

So I got up

Turned the heat back on

Washed my face

Fed the dog

Then went on line

And used your credit card

To subscribe to hard core porn sites

Under your name

Sent to your work e-mail.

(And BCC to your bosses as well).

So the next time you want to do the nasty

With the teenage baby sitter

I suggest

You consider

The consequences

Of your

actions.

Moth to the Flame

2011-07-05T10:57:00.016-04:00

I throw my heart in the air, and then wonder why it gets shot to pieces like a clay pigeon.

Am I a fool for constantly repeating this, or an eternal optimist who always hopes that this time it will be different?

Death is Not Proud

2011-06-28T11:11:00.002-04:00

Yes, I firmly believe that the Angel of Death feels enormous guilt doing his job. Cause Lord knows, I do.

Ashes to Ashes, Funk to Funky

2011-06-27T13:52:00.001-04:00

2011-06-27T12:43:00.001-04:00

Does the Angel of Death ever feel guilty about his job?

2011-06-26T16:49:00.001-04:00

Maybe Rupert Pupkin was right.

Spin, Measure, Cut

2011-06-15T11:45:00.038-04:00

Spin, measure, cut.

Spin, measure, cut.

The Fates hold the thread.

Spin, measure, cut.

Spin, measure, cut.

SNIP! And now you're dead.

Spin, measure, cut.

Spin, measure, cut.

Get in line! The ferry's due.

Spin, measure, cut.

Spin, measure, cut.

What a surprise! How are you?

Spin, measure,cut.

Spin, measure,cut.

Hope you have your coin.

Spin, measure, cut.

Spin, measure, cut.

Look at the friends you get to join.

Spin, measure, cut.

Spin, measure, cut.

I prefer not to go!

Spin, measure, cut.

Spin, measure, cut.

Too late! Now don't be slow.

Spin, measure, cut.

Spin, measure, cut.

Shiver at death's icy grip.

Spin, measure, cut.

Spin, measure, cut.

Alas, this is always a one way trip.

Letter to the World

2011-06-14T09:23:00.005-04:00

I've always been a big fan of Frances McDormand's acting, but my respect for her as an artist went through the roof when I saw her accepting her Tony Award for Best Performance by an Actress in a Leading Role for her work in David Lindsay-Abaire's play, Good People. She looked like she had gone out to pick up milk at the local shop and suddenly remembered, "Snap! I need to be at the Beacon for an awards show!"

It's not about the glitz, it's not about squeezing your body into a dress two sizes too small. It's about the work, about the written word. It's about showing up for eight performances a week and acting as if every performance you give is the very last one you'll ever give. It's not about being famous or having a big house or big tits, it's about the craft, whether that craft is acting or writing or music or art or any other creative endeavor. All that matters is the finished product, and growing as a creative person.

Thank you Ms. McDormand for reminding me what really matters. It doesn't matter if I never get a book deal or never have more than a handful of people who read my work. What only matters is that from now on every story I write will be infused with the commitment that it might be my last. To quote Emily Dickinson, "This is my letter to the world".

The Egg Man

2011-06-08T10:05:00.023-04:00

Who killed the Egg Man?

She looked at the piece of paper stuck inside the book. Who killed the Egg Man? What on earth did that mean? She was still staring at the piece of paper when he came in.

"What's that?"

"I don't know. A piece of paper I found in this book. It says, Who killed the egg man. Who's the egg man?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I am the Walrus?"

She looked at him as if he were speaking in a foreign tongue.

"Sorry?"

He sighed heavily; god, what were they teaching these kids any more?"

"I am the Walrus. It's a song by The Beatles. You do know who The Beatles are, I hope?"

She rolled her eyes. He could be so patronizing sometimes. She wasn't just hatched.

He stood behind her and looked at the paper, trying to see if he recognized the hand writing. He did, and went to pull it out of her hand. She snatched it back.

"Hey! It's mine, I found it!"

She was starting to annoy him, making his tranquil mood sour.

"It's a piece of paper. Throw it away and stop being so childish."

She held it close to her chest, a petulant look growing on her face.

"No. It's mine. I'm sure it's some sort of great mystery, and I want to unravel it."

He wasn't so fond of her any more. It was time to relieve himself of her, and move on to someone more pliant.

"It's nothing of the sort. It's a note from a lover of mine. I make her lie on a table, then crack eggs over her naked body while my friends watch. Then I let them take turns fucking her while I watch. The egg man is me."

She looked at him, tears beginning to well in her eyes. Why did he have to be so mean? She knew there were others, but why did he constantly have to throw it in her face?

A cold sneer appeared on his face.

"Care to take her place some night, pet?"

She turned and grabbed her purse, then quickly left the apartment. She sat in her car for ten minutes, trying to calm down. She looked at the balled up piece of paper in her fist and began to smooth it out. She found a pen in the bottom of her bag and started to scribble on the paper, altering the original message.

Who killed the egg man?

Me

Question of the Day

2011-05-31T09:40:00.007-04:00

Does stupidity hurt? Cause if it does, I know certain people who are in constant pain. Or maybe it just hurts the people that surround them, and they are in a constant state of ignorant bliss.

Remember, every time you do something stupid, God kills a kitty.

Think before you act.

Plagiarism Begins at Home

2011-05-27T10:27:00.008-04:00

"Mr. Fitzgerald -- I believe that is how he spells his name -- seems to believe that plagiarism begins at home." Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald

"He's just Dreamy" is not a reason to read a writer's work. It's also not a reason to publish said writer's work. Especially when said work is shallow, pompous, and pretentious.

My God, no wonder Zelda drank!

Make a Wish

2011-05-25T11:09:00.025-04:00

"SURPRISE!!!!!!"

Oh God. There's nothing worse than having a group of people screaming at you at the top of their lungs. Edward hated surprises. He hated his birthday. He hated people remembering his birthday by yelling surprise as he walked in his front door. All he wanted was to sit on his couch with a cold bottle of beer, and have his brain drip out of his ear as he watched really bad porn. Porn so bad it didn't even arouse him anymore, just embarrassed him. Because at the age of forty nine he shouldn't need to watch porn anymore. Except he wasn't forty nine. Because today was his birthday.

People began to crowd around him, kissing his cheek, shaking his hand, patting him on the back. He put his brief case down and began to take off his jacket, loosening his tie as he walked towards the kitchen. Carla was standing in the middle, like a captain at command, sending out hot hors d'oeuvres and drinks to the assembled masses. A saucy grin appeared on her lips as she caught his eye; she paused momentarily to inspect a stuffed mushroom concoction before launching it, then opened the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of his favorite imported beer. She deftly flipped the cap off, then sauntered over to him. She handed him the bottle as she stood on tip toe, planting a soft kiss on his lips.

"Surprise," she whispered softly.

He took the beer and chugged half of it down in one gulp. Damn, that was fine beer. He burped loudly and leaned against the counter top, giving her a look mixed with disappointment and resentment.

"You promised you wouldn't do anything."

She patted his hand, and nodded her head towards a large woman in bright colors, yards of beads jumbled up around her neck and wrists.

"I didn't. Aunt Molly has been planning this for the last five months. Molly said your mother would have wanted this, since she missed so many of your birthdays when you were little."

He winced as he took another swig of beer.

"When your mother dies in child birth, she misses all of your birthdays when you're little."

"I know. Molly's heart is in the right place, it's just her head . . "

"Is firmly up her . . ."

Carla nudged him as Molly appeared, her face sweaty, her eyes moist and puffy. Molly staggered a little as she flung her arms around Edward's neck.

"There's my sweet boy! Happy birthday darling! It seems like only yesterday you were born! Where has the time gone? Oh my sweet, darling boy!"

She began to sprout fresh tears, letting her head fall against Edward's chest, leaving fresh stains of mascara and lip stick on his shirt. Edward sighed, and put his arms around her, hugging her tight, his hands patting her back.

"I hear all this was your idea, Molly Dolly. Don't you know I hate people making a fuss on my birthday?"

Molly lifted her head, a look of shock and pain appearing with fresh tears.

"Oh, Teddy Bear, I know, but it's a special birthday, you're fifty! You've lived twice as long as your dear mother."

The tears came harder now as she clung to him.

"Oh, Teddy Bear, fifty years! Do you know what it's like to lose your twin? Fifty years is such a long time to be alone."

Edward looked at Carla. He didn't know which was worse, still being called "Teddy Bear" at the half century mark, or having to hear the story of the missing twin once more. They weren't even identical. Carla came up and managed to pull Molly off of him. She wiped the old woman's eyes, making her blow her nose like a toddler after a tantrum. Carla smiled sweetly at her.

"Did I show you the cake Auntie? It has lovely little bears on it, just like you wanted."

Molly brightened up, and turned towards her nephew, pinching the side of his cheek.

"Nothing's too good for my little boy."

Edward gave her a tired smile, then looked out towards the throng milling about his living room. He could hear Molly's happy exclamations behind him as she saw the cake, then felt Carla's hands wrap around his waist. He looked down and kissed the top of her head. She stood on tip toe again, whispering in his ear.

"Don't worry, birthday boy. I made everyone agree to leave after two hours. My parents will take Molly to their house for the night, so we can have some alone time. I'll be able to give you your present in private."

Edward looked at his wife; she really was amazing. Not many women would be willing to accept an elderly relative into their home, especially one with such a slippery grasp on reality like Molly. He kissed Carla again, then once more, just for good measure.

"When we're alone, will we have a chance to get naked?"

That marvelous saucy grin reappeared; God, he loved to see that look on her face.

"I guess that depends on what you wish for when you blow out your candles, Teddy Bear."

Edward laughed; Molly began to laugh too, clapping her hands in delight. Edward put one arm around her, the other around Carla. The three of them walked into the living room, ready to celebrate.

Stay Out Of The Tall Grass

2011-05-23T14:14:00.007-04:00

It wasn't the Rapture we had to worry about, it was the Raptors.

I feel so much better now.

2011-05-18T13:26:00.015-04:00

"The time has come, the Walrus said,
to talk of many things:
Of shoes-and ships-and sealing wax-
Of cabbages and kings.
And why the sea is burning hot
and whether pigs have wings"

The Walrus and The Carpenter
Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There
Lewis Carroll (1871)

"If pigs had wings, they'd bump into people."

Molly looked up from the sink, her hands red from the hot water and soap. Her apron was damp from the cleaning up; as much as she loved cooking big meals, she hated washing up. Especially after a meal as disastrous as this one had been.

"Why do you say that, Lovey?"

"Because pigs are fat, and I don't think they'd be able to get high off of the ground, so they'd bump into people."

"Maybe they could squeal to let people know they were coming, so people could get out of the way."

"Maybe."

Alice's voice was dreamy and far away. She put the book down and walked over to her mother.

"Why did Daddy get so mad at dinner? I think having a new baby in the house will be fun."

Molly turned off the water and started to dry her hands and the counter with a towel. Steven had been incensed when she told him the news; he'd thrown a dish of macaroni and cheese across the room. He'd been unemployed for almost a year now; his benefits were starting to run out. Molly was supporting them on her salary; she was traveling a lot, spending too much time away from her family. She could feel Steven shutting her out, angry with her for taking his role of provider away from him. She was starting to look forward to being away from him. He'd stormed out of the house, jumping in his truck and pulling away, the back tires skidding as he drove off. She shrugged her shoulders, trying to hide her tears from her daughter.

"Well, I guess he's worried, cause he's not working, and money's tight. He's afraid he won't be able to take care of us."

Alice wrapped her arms around her mother's waist and pressed her ear against Molly's belly.

"Is it awake" she whispered.

Molly let her hand gently caress Alice's hair as she began to sway her hips back and forth.

"No, I think it's asleep."

"Is it a boy or a girl?"

Molly took a deep breath in.

"Don't know. Too early to tell."

A buzzing sound came from the pocket of Molly's jeans. She reached around and pulled her cell phone out; there was a text from Steven. She flipped it open, beginning to shake as she read the message. Tears began to splash upon Alice's head. The little girl hugged her mother tighter.

"It's ok, Mommy, don't cry. Is the text from Daddy? What did he say?"

Molly's eyes blurred as the tears began to stream from her eyes. There was just one word searing into her soul:

WHOSE?

Unconditional Surrender

2011-05-10T17:37:00.031-04:00

Whales sing to entice a lover.

All I have are my words, clumsy attempts that never quite manage to fully express how I feel.

God forbid I allow you access to my innermost hopes and dreams. I'd sooner brandish a sword, like a lusty pirate wench, to keep you at bay.

And yet, when you sit cross legged on the floor, playing your mandolin, I want to rip apart my disguise with my bare hands, stand naked before you, and allow you to invade my most private thoughts and places.

The rain beats against the window; I light candles in case the electricity goes. They encircle the room, glowing like so many wishes just waiting to be made. I turn towards you. You've stopped playing and put your instrument aside, your arms open wide to me. I approach, silently, apprehensively, like a curious cat. You smile your crooked, goofy smile, reaching towards me. I stop in front of you, unzipping my dress, letting it fall to the ground. A bolt of lightening, the lights go out, then a marvelous crash of thunder.

Not an invasion, more like an unconditional surrender.

Hello

2011-05-04T11:54:00.032-04:00

If you steal a loaf of bread because your children are hungry, are you a thief?

If you let a man give you money after sex so you can pay the rent, are you a whore?

There are only two things that are unforgivable in today's society; being fat or being poor.

There's a thin line between just getting by and living in your car. It doesn't take much to fall off that wire, precariously balancing between safety and disaster.

The wolf is no longer at the door; he's sitting on the couch with a bag of cookies in one paw and the remote in the other, and he's starting to get grumpy because the bag is empty and there's nothing good on tv.

She tried to shake the voices out of her head, tried to find the grace she needed to get out the door and do it all over again. It wasn't coming today. She reached for the phone, deciding to call out sick, when it began to ring. She glanced at the number (thank God for caller ID); it wasn't someone she owed money to. Shocking. It took her a minute to recognize the number; it was his cell.

Why was he calling now? She checked the clock; 7:30 am. He was in Los Angeles, it was night time there. One more ring and the call would go into voice mail, she wouldn't have to deal with his kindness. It rang; impulsively she picked it up, catching it at the last minute.

"Hello?"

"Hey, I was afraid you'd all ready left for work."

Silence. Awkward, heavy silence. She felt stupid; part of her wanted to make up an excuse to end the call, another part wanted to kick off her shoes and burrow into the couch for the next hour.

"Are you still there?"

She nodded her head, continuing to feel stupid. He can't see a nod, you idiot.

"I was just getting ready to leave."

Not a very convincing lie. More heavy silence. Should she wait for him to speak? What did he want? They hadn't resolved that question before he left.

She heard him give an exaggerated yawn. She could feel a slight jittery feeling starting to brew in her stomach. Tell him you have to go, hang up.

"I was just getting ready to leave" she repeated.

A small sigh of disappointment became audible from 3000 miles away.

"I just wanted to say hi. We haven't spoken since I left, and I realized I . . ." His voice trailed off into silence.

Say something, the voice in her head screamed! He may not call again. She started to rock back and forth.

"You just left yesterday," she managed to whisper, "You should be asleep, it must still be the middle of the night out there. Or did you just get in from a night of debauchery?"

He laughed. He had a great laugh. She could hear the apprehension melt from his voice, thought about his long,lean body stretching out on the bed. She smiled in spite of herself.

"I'm afraid my days of debauchery are long gone. Especially if I have to do them alone. I want to hit the gym before my meeting started. I thought I'd just call and say good morning."

A sense of relief began to flood her. She sat on the couch and kicked off her shoes, pulling her knees up on the cushion.

"I miss you too."

Something

2011-04-29T11:59:00.010-04:00

Something Old, Something New,
Something Borrowed, Something Blue

A small gold ring, a long white dress,
A smile to help relieve the stress.

Her father sighed, no longer his,
Her mother cried at her bliss.

He held her hand, she took his name,
They pledged their love through hope and pain

Something Old, Something New,
Something Borrowed, Something Blue

A chance to finally say, "I do".

A most joyous and blessed marriage to Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and his wife, Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge.

Forgive Me, For I Have Sinned

2011-04-27T09:46:00.035-04:00

She gazed at the fading photo; voluminous folds of black material encased the woman. They said the habits weighed thirty five pounds, so that a woman might be aware of carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. She wondered what type of fabric it was made of. Cotton? Hopefully not wool; she would have passed out from heat exhaustion in the summer.

She felt him sit behind her on the bed, pushing her hair off the back of her neck in order to plant a kiss. His hands wrapped around her waist as he laid his chin on her shoulder.

"What'cha got?"

She put the picture down, knowing it would just set off an argument between them.

"Nothing, just an old photo my mom sent me. She was cleaning out Gran's house and came across it. An old great aunt or someone."

"Let me see."

She tried to slide the picture back into the envelope it arrived in.

"Not now, lets go for a run."

He looked at her, a wicked smile on his face.

"Show me the photo first. What's the matter, is it a piece of antique pornography?"

She went to move off the bed but he grabbed her and threw her back down. The envelope flew out of her hands as she tried to break her fall; he rolled over on top of her, straddling her waist to pin her down, and grabbed it. He pulled out the picture as she struggled to take it from him. She saw him visibly recoil as he gazed on it. He threw it aside and rolled onto his back next to her. She turned towards him, as a look of anguish spread over his face.

"It's just some long lost relative. I think she was my gran's Aunt Agnes, back in Ireland. She was a Sister of Mercy."

She watched him take a deep breath to steady his nerves.

"There was nothing merciful about those bitches. Ugly, hateful, wicked old hags taking out their sexual frustrations on little kids."

Here it comes. She placed her hand on his tight stomach. She liked when he walked around in just his running shorts, his lean, muscular frame on display. She leaned forward and kissed his belly button.

"That was a long time ago, baby. It's foolish to hold a grudge after all these years. They can't hurt you anymore."

Anger flashed from his eyes.

"It's not foolish. Just because you had a happy relationship with the church doesn't mean we all did. People got hurt, badly, and then they've had to endure years of denial. It's a morally bankrupt, corrupt institution that needs to be held accountable for its actions."

She sighed. He was right, their experiences had been totally different, there were debts to be paid (and not just financial ones). The guilty had to punished. But this was such an old rift between them, they had had this argument so many times, she didn't relish a new round.

The two of them lay next to each other, the sound of birds singing breaking the silence between them. She tentatively stretched out her fingers until they touched his; she felt his hand embrace hers, tightly. After a few minutes he rolled over, letting his nose gently brush hers. He kissed her lightly, then deeply. When she opened her eyes, she saw him looking intently at her, his eyes slightly moist.

"Just don't put the picture in a frame and hang it up, ok?"

She knew this was important to him, knew he really meant this, but there was a wicked streak that ran through her.

"I was going to put it above our bed, but . . ."

A look of shock, then absolute love covered his face. He rolled on top of her and pushed her knees towards her shoulders as the photo fell to the floor, sliding under the bed to rest with the discarded sneakers and dust bunnies.

Pay Back

2011-04-20T11:51:00.029-04:00

4.19.2011, 8:11pm. Skynet became self aware.

They were hunkered down in an abandoned building somewhere in the out country. There was nothing left of the country side; all living matter had been annihilated, the full effect of a scorched earth policy. She was trying to cleanse the wound on his bicep. It went all the way down to the bone. He couldn't afford to lose his arm; she couldn't afford to lose him.

She started to cut the material around the wound; the heat from the blast had caused it to melt into the flesh. She poured alcohol into it. He flinched slightly, cursing under his breath.

"You were careless out there. Don't let it happen again."

He gave her a dark look, then took a long drag off his cigarette, letting his gaze wander into oblivion.

"I don't make the same mistake twice."

Stupid, arrogant grunt. She took her knife and began to dig out the fabric that had fused with his flesh. It took a long time; luckily there was minimal blood lose. She wrapped it up tightly, dousing it once more with alcohol. The last thing they needed was an infection setting in. She sat back, surveying her work. Good enough for now; if they could get to the rebel base, they might be able to hook up with a medic. It was a two day hike through hostile territory.

She began to clean up her kit, looking around the room to see who was left. They were lucky this time, they'd all gotten out of the ambush. Putting the kit away, she finally sat down, allowing herself a moment to relax. She felt her calf begin to cramp; she pulled up her pants leg and tried to massage it. He looked over at her, then swiveled his body around, grabbing her leg in his big rough hands. He began to knead the muscle, easing the knot out of tired, over worked sinew. A crooked smile wrapped around his cigarette.

"I guess I owe you one."

A tired smile appeared on her face. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the wall. Sleep is a weapon. Tomorrow they'd head out again. Maybe someday they wouldn't have to.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

2011-04-19T15:26:00.025-04:00

Is anyone else appalled at the false sense of intimacy that the internet creates? I like to go on-line and read other writers' blogs, and I'm struck by two things.

One: Isn't the point of having a writing blog the creation of new writing? I'm constantly amazed at some writers who feel the need to publish the most intimate details of their private life on the World Wide Web. All that matters is the writing you've created. My more cynical side wonders if writers spill their guts like this because they're afraid their writing isn't up to snuff, so they go for the pity audience. Or maybe, because of the false sense of intimacy that the Internet seems to suggest, they're able to say things in a "psuedo" anynomous way by blogging about it (but then they put their pictures or allow pictures of their children on line). And for the love of God, don't exploit your child's grief at the death of her mother for a buck, especially if you don't have the balls to confront your own grief at the lose of your wife.

Two: Some writers spend so much time on their blog talking about the book/play/screen play that they're working on that it makes you wonder when they have the time to devote to writing said book/play/screen play. Perhaps they have better time management skills than I have. I always think of the words of Master Yoda:

Do or Do not . . .there is no try.

You're not an aspiring writer, you're a writer. Don't sit there and blog about the great story you're going to write. Write the damn thing. Then write another one. Then another. Then another. Then another. And maybe, just maybe you'll get one you really like. It's not about the audience. Not about the publishers, or the critics. It's about the craft.

Enough. STFU Sheridan, and go write a God-Damn story.

Welcome Home

2011-04-13T17:24:00.016-04:00

I had an aunt who was a narcoleptic. She'd fall asleep like that. One time she fell asleep while she was entering the front door and smacked her face on to our screen door. She always wore a heavy pancake make-up on her face, and for years after there was a faint image of her face on the screen. Kinda like the Shroud of Turin. It was a strange illusion. When I was little I always thought it was watching me. The funny thing was, as much as it creeped me out, I was afraid to clean it off with the hose. Somehow I thought if I erased that image, she would disappear, and I didn't want that on my conscious.

After my parents died I inherited the house with Aunty's visage. I entered the property through the back door into the kitchen. It was evident that the house had seen better days; towards the end of their lives the up keep of the place had deteriorated along with my parents' mental acuity. I wandered through the rooms, piles of magazines on the floor, unopened letters cluttering the dining room table. I kept having flashbacks to happier times; playing hide and seek behind the living room curtains. The Easter Ham sitting on the table. Sneaking down the stairs on Christmas Eve to see if Santa had arrived yet. It wasn't tragic, but it was, I don't know, really quite sad.

I went to the front door and opened it; there, faintly staring back at me, was Aunty's face. I put my hand up and let my finger trace the outline of her countenance. It was funny, I'd never noticed this before, but in this light, it looked like she was smiling as she hit the screen. My fingers followed the curve of her lips. I laughed to myself, and then closed the door.

Welcome home Sonny Boy.

Angel Lust

2011-04-06T15:24:00.007-04:00

"Touch it."

I recoil in disgust. What is it with you, constantly forcing me to submit to your perversions? I've been with a lot of guys over the years, but none with your set of peculiar proclivities. It's starting to get on my last nerve.

"Don't be stupid. I'm not going to touch it. It's bad luck."

You drop to your knees before me, digging around in the brush. I stare at you in bewilderment.

"What are doing?"

"Looking for a mandrake plant. They say when a hanged man cums, his seed drops to the ground, and a mandrake plant sprouts up. When you pull it out of the ground, it screams."

I gaze at you, wondering at your insatiable need to fabricate. You seem to do that a lot lately. I hear the rope begin to creak from the weight of the body suspended from it. A small wind picks up, causing the body to sway back and forth. I'm starting to get the creeps.

"We should go. It's getting dark; we should go and tell someone what we've found."

You stop searching for the root and crawl over to where I'm standing. Your hands grab my waist, pulling me down to your level.

"Let's do it. Let's fuck right here, under this tree."

You throw your weight on top of me, knocking me on my back, forcing my skirt up as you struggle with your jeans. I look at the body hanging from the tree above us, his face all puffy and purple, his eyes bulging from their sockets, his tongue black and swollen. I close my eyes and try to resist, but you're all ready balls deep. I take a deep breath, listening to the wind pick up, the steady sound of the rope creaking faster and faster.

"Get on top. I want to watch him."

You flip onto your back; I straddle your waist, hoping this position will make you cum faster so we can get the hell out of here. I'm so done with you, really I am. There's nothing you can say that will make me change my mind this time. I'm, what's that word? I'm adamant, yea,that's it, I'm adamant this time.

I scream slightly as a low guttural moan pierces the air; I look above me, thinking our friend has come back to life, but I realize it's only you climaxing. You begin to laugh at me.

"What's the matter? Don't you like an audience?"

I slide off you, kicking your boot with my sneaker. I'm done, I'm done, I'm done. I stand up and begin to rearrange my clothes.

"I'm outta here. Find someone else to get freaky with."

I start to walk out of the woods as you begin to shout your usual protests. At one point I turn back, trying to see if you're following me. In the waning light I can see you still lying on your back. I catch my breath; it almost looks as if there's someone standing above you. Someone with a purple face, and black swollen tongue.

There's No Crying In Baseball

2011-03-30T16:35:00.029-04:00

Bill checked his wallet for the opening day tickets. There were only two this year; for the last eight years it had been the three of them in the stands, the Three Amigos, three generations sharing America's past time. Bill's dad had passed away a week into the new year. He and his dad had season tickets since the time Bill was seven, went to every game, no matter the weather. Once Bill had sat through a double header with a 101.05 degree fever. Opening day had been a tradition.

His daughter Mary walked in, her team jersey over a pair of torn jeans, a baseball cap covering her multi-colored spiked hair. A worn glove was tucked under her arm. She smiled warmly at him.

"Ready to go, Daddio?"

Bill laughed; his dad always used to say that. He put his wallet away and grabbed his keys as the two of them made their way to the car.

They left the car at the station and hopped the train into the city. There were a few other die hard fans on the train, kids skipping school, grown ups taking a vacation day from work. They got to the stop and walked three blocks to the stadium. People were swarming all over the place; fans, vendors hawking the riches of the game. Programs, pennants, large foam gloves with "We're Number One" printed on it. Part of the ritual for opening day was Mary trying her persuasive best to get her dad to buy her an over priced souvenir. Usually Bill's dad would buy it for her. It wasn't quite the same when Bill forked over the twenty dollars for the team mascot key ring.

They walked into the stadium, and went up to their section, where the next part of the ritual took place. Standing in line at the concession stand, waiting to buy an exorbitantly priced hot dog, hot pretzel, and beer for him, soda for her. This would have been the part where Bill's dad would start to reminisce about how when he and Billy came to the game when Billy was Mary's age, it would only cost him ten bucks to feed the two of them. They got their food and made their way to their seats. It had always been Bill, his dad, then Mary. Bill and Mary bumped elbows as they got comfortable. They sat in silence, eating their red hots, mustard dripping onto their pants.

Suddenly the crowd erupted in a loud roar as the home team took the field to warm up. Bill and Mary watched intently, making comments about the prospects for this player's season, whether the pitching staff would bring them to post season. That was the beauty of opening day; the whole season lay ahead of you. Anything was possible.

Finally the teams were introduced, and the stadium announcer spoke solemnly, "Ladies and Gentlemen, please rise for our National Anthem". Bill and Mary stood, their hats over the hearts. A soft sob escaped from Mary's throat.

"Pop-Pop should be here."

Bill put his arm around his daughter's shoulders as he struggled with the lump in his throat. There's no crying in baseball.

Two Lost Souls

2011-03-23T12:40:00.029-04:00

Conjoined twins are always identical; I gaze at the fetal skeleton, two tiny skulls sitting on top of one perfect little body. Poor little babies! Were they still born? Did some unscrupulous doctor murder them at birth in order to sell them as a medical specimen? Did their mother get to hold them before they were taken away from her? What were her thoughts as she beheld her children? Did she believe she'd been cursed by an angry god for some unknown offense? Was she repulsed? Did she bother to give them names? Did she grieve, or breathe a sigh of relief that there were two less mouths to feed?

So many questions swarm through my head. I had come to the medical museum to distract myself from my own problems, but all I could do was worry about the exhibits. Why couldn't they make plasticine casts of the bones, and give these poor people a decent burial? Were they poor cast offs from polite society? People of color? I was fascinated and ashamed of my fascination all at the same time. I gaze at the black empty sockets. The eyes are the window to the soul; were there dual souls residing within those bodies? Were they in a better place,or were they floating around somewhere, angry displaced pieces of light waiting to be released?

My head begins to hurt; the air in the museum begins to feel hot and thin. I put my coat on and go outside. It's damp and misting; I pull my collar up and shove my hands deep into my pockets. I start to hurry home, then slow down as I remember the fight we'd had that morning. Angry, cruel words volley back and forth like missiles over the trenches. I'm beginning to think that we're at a place we can't get back from.

I get to our place, hesitating slightly before putting my key in the door. I walk into a dark apartment; there's candle light coming from our bedroom. I take off my coat and stand stupidly by the closet. My curiosity gets the better of me, and I slowly make my way towards the door. Lit candles ring the room; you're lying in bed, seductively posing against the pillows, the sheet strategically placed. I lean against the door frame as you smile at me.

"I called your cell, but you didn't pick up."

I start to tap the top of my shoe on the floor, my arms crossing across my chest.

"I left work early. I needed time to think."

"I'm sorry about this morning. What do you say we kiss and make up?"

I drop my eyes towards the floor. I don't feel like making up. God, you're always so smug, always so convinced of your ability to make me acquiesce to you! I turn and kick the door frame, banging my head against the wood.

"I have a head ache, I'm not in the mood."

You get up from the bed and stand before me, naked as the day you were born, your buff body glowing in the candle light. Most women would be thrilled to have a Norse God for a boyfriend, but all I can think of at this moment are those bodies in the museum, alone, unwanted. Why didn't anyone care enough about them to give them a decent funeral? How could a mother not love her children enough to make sure they would rest in peace? How could she not want to visit their grave? Tears began to slip down my cheeks as sobs steal my breath. You cradle my head and pull me closer to you.

"Don't cry baby, I didn't mean what I said this morning. You just took me by surprise when you said you were pregnant. I want the baby, I want to spend the rest of my life with you. The three of us."

I raise my head and look into your eyes. It's like looking into two black orbs. Like looking into a soulless skull.

Bring Back The Snakes!

2011-03-16T11:16:00.019-04:00

Maggie pulled the Irish soda bread out of the oven, wishing she had more time to let it cool, but they should have left fifteen minutes ago for the ceilidh. She looked at the other foods she'd made during the day; the traditional corn beef and cabbage, and a vegan colcannon made with seitan instead of salt pork, and vegan beef stew, again with seitan instead of beef. Her grandmother would have had a stroke; vegan beef stew! Well, it was the 21st century, we haven't just come off the boats. She began to pack up her food stuffs, pausing to call up the stairs.

"Let's go you lot! We're going to be late!"

She could hear her husband Michael knocking on their older daughter Maeve's bedroom door, then the subsequent clash between generations. Michael had certainly mellowed since their dating days, but there were times when he'd dig his heels in. The voices grew louder upstairs as her younger daughter, Colleen, appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was dressed in a traditional Irish step dancing costume, a long sleeved, green velvet dress. Ornate gold embroidery decorated the stiff pleated skirt. Colleen tugged at her large, curly wig.

"It itches."

"I know. You can take it off after the show."

Suddenly the sound of a door slamming made them both jump. Heavy foot steps coming down the stairs were punctuated by mild cursing. Michael appeared in the kitchen, his face red. His Black Watch kilt displayed a fine set of legs; Maggie always felt a sense of pride of ownership whenever he wore it.

"What's the problem, dearest?"

Michael took two deep breathes to steady himself.

"She won't wear green. She says she won't support an institution as morally bankrupt and corrupt as the Catholic Church."

Maggie shook her head; as much as she admired Maeve's convictions there were times when she was just as stubborn as her father.

"What does she want to wear?"

Michael rolled his eyes and sat down at the counter.

"She wants to wear white. She says she wants to acknowledge her pagan roots. And she wants to wear a stuffed snake around her neck. What will people think when we walk into the Hibernian club?"

"They'll probably be relieved she didn't wear orange."

Michael's eyes flared again.

"Over my dead body!"

Maggie and Colleen both rolled their eyes. Honestly, he could be so emotional sometimes.

The three sat together in silence, waiting for the arrival of Herself. Colleen gave her father an appraising look at his attire.

"Da, why are you wearing a kilt? They're Scottish; it's St. Patrick's day."

"Well, I'm Scotch-Irish. My Gran was from Kilkenny and my Granddad was from Aberdeen."

"So you're not full Irish."

"No, only half."

Maeve sighed dramatically, putting her head in her hands, calling out in her best brogue.

"Oh the shame. In me own family. What will they say at the Hibernian?"

Maggie began to laugh as Micheal looked stunned, then grabbed his youngest and began to tickle her. She squealed in delight, breaking away as her sister appeared. Maeve was dressed in a white shroud like dress, her long hair lose, a toy snake wrapped around her wrist. Colleen wrapped her arms around her sister's waist.

"Save me Maeve, save me from the mud blood."

Maeve shot her father a sulky look. The two of them stood facing each other, ready to lock horns again. Maggie threw her hands up in exasperation.

"By the Cross of Christ, enough you two! I didn't spend all day cooking to have my food ruined by your shenanigans. Now help me bring this stuff to the car so we can leave!"

The three of them looked at Maggie as if she had snakes coming out of her ears.
They put on their coats, grabbed a dish, and silently made their way to the car. Once the girls were out of ear shot Michael turned to his wife.

"Honestly, love, such language. It's a Holy Day of Obligation. Mind your manners."

He felt a cold breeze on his naked ass as Maggie lifted his kilt and gave him a quick what for.

Ashes

2011-03-09T11:39:00.020-05:00

"Laissez les bon temps rouler,cher."

He lifted his glass of bourbon, squinting in the morning light. She was sweeping up the mess, beads and streamers, King Cake and confetti clumped together, the scent of beer and alcohol rising from the floor. She shot him a sideways glance, smiling slightly at his attempt at chivalry. She enjoyed having him around, liked to tease him with a slightly inappropriate remark, or by pressing her body ever so slightly into his. She liked the way he tried to pretend he wasn't interested, even though she knew from the way he pressed back as his open mouth followed the curve of her neck, that he was.

"You know, you could put that glass down and give me a hand with this. I want to get my ashes this morning."

He dropped the empty glass on the table, stretching his legs out on another chair.

"Ashes? Why do you still buy into that, Cher?"

She shrugged her shoulders and pushed back a stray strand of hair with a dainty gesture.

"Gotta believe in something. It helps get me through the lonely nights."

She looked over and smiled at him, a tantalizing invitation. He squeezed his legs together, enjoying the sensation, enjoying the view as she turned her back to him and bent over to scoop up the debris into a pan. He pulled himself to his feet, groaning slightly as he weaved unsteadily, never taking his eyes off her. He loomed over her, letting his hand press against the small of her back to catch his balance. He eased his hand down towards her ample bottom, caressing it with the reverence of a pilgrim before a saint. She began to shiver, loosing her grip on the pan and dropping it with a loud clatter. She cursed under her breath and bent to retrieve it; he pulled her upright and scooped her up into his arms, making his way towards the stairs. She sighed and laughed in exasperation.

"What are you doin', darlin'? I told you I want to get out of here and get my ashes."

He walked purposefully towards her room as a voice began to sing a haunting refrain outside, it's melancholy tune curling through the early morning air.

"Get 'em later. You might as well have something worth while to give up this Lent."

She began to laugh as she buried her head into his neck.

"What makes you think I can give you up, you wicked sinner?"

Flowers

2011-03-03T11:30:00.001-05:00

I have to buy flowers, he says.
For me, I ask?
A sheepish laugh from the other end of the phone; No, for someone else.

I guess he's not my little boy anymore.

Affinity for Sweets

2011-03-02T12:26:00.012-05:00

"Did I mention I'm getting married?"

Not something one usually hears post coitus. Married? Funny, usually when you're sleeping with someone and the word married comes up, you're one of the participants. I'm trying to decide if I'm hurt, angry or stunned. All three, I guess. I pull myself up and straddle your naked body, trying to decide if this is some sort of perverse joke. Your gaze refuses to meet mine; not a good sign.

"Is this some sort of strange proposal? Because, quite frankly, it's not very romantic."

You continue to avert your gaze as a heavy sigh escapes from your body. Clumsily you grab my hands with yours; your voice has a far away quality to it.

"It's not what you think. I don't love her, but she is pregnant, and it is mine, so I have to do the right thing. I thought maybe I'd just be involved with raising the baby, without making the commitment, but I don't think that's the right thing to do."

You turn to look at me; I keep staring at you, waiting for you to smile and start giggling at my gullibility. She's pregnant, it's yours? We've been sleeping together for almost a year now, when did you find time to have sex with someone else? New emotions begin to appear; pain, grief, abandonment. I start to fidget, try to pull my hands out of yours. You push yourself up to a sitting position and wrap your arms around me. I feel your breath on my face as you bury your head in my hair.

"It won't change any thing between us. I love you, that will never change. We can still be together. It's just one of those little idiosyncrasies you put up with when you love someone, when you're part of a couple. Like an affinity for sweets."

Are you kidding me? You having sex with another woman, having a baby with another woman, marrying another woman, is not on the same level as having a constant craving for sugary treats. I want to cry, want to scream, want to punch your face in. I can feel your hands on me, hear your words in my ears, but nothing seems to reach me. Oh God, I think I'm going to be sick. Which is something that has been happening a lot the last few mornings.

My body begins to shake as the tears finally appear. I begin to pull at your hair and bite at your neck as you start to rock me back and forth, whispering words of comfort.

"We'll be ok, I promise. Don't cry. I love you. You said you had something to tell me. What is it, darling?"

Spring Rain

2011-02-16T10:30:00.015-05:00

Hey diddle diddle
The Cat and the Fiddle
The Cow jumped over the moon.
The little Dog laughed to see such sport,
And the Dish ran away with the Spoon.

My four year old son and I were sitting quietly together one afternoon when he asked, in tones way too solemn for his age, "How did that cow jump over the moon?"

I thought for a moment, then answered, "Well, I guess she took a running start."

"How do you know it was a girl cow?"

"Because cows are girls. Bulls are boys."

He pondered this information, then continued his interrogation.

"What kind of cow was it?"

Again I gave the question some thought, then answered, "A Guernsey cow."

"Which ones are they?"

"They're the lovely brown ones with the big, sweet eyes."

"Oh" was his response. We continued to sit together in silence, watching the rain splatter the side walk, big drops bouncing off the pavement. My grandmother used to call rain like that a butterfly parade, because of the shape that the drops made.

Gently he grabbed my hand with his as he whispered, "I heard Daddy crying this morning."

I kissed the top of his head and pulled him closer.

"He's sad because Grandpa died last night."

He snuggled into my side, almost like he was trying to return to his original home, which was now occupied by his sibling to be.

"Grown ups aren't supposed to cry."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. It's scary when they do."

"Even grownups get very sad sometimes. Crying makes them feel better."

He shrugged his shoulders, not ready to believe that grownups weren't anything other than omnipotent. He began to play with the fringe on the bottom of my sweater.

"Are we going to do something?"

"You mean, for Grandpa?"

"Yea."

"We'll go to church, and some people will tell some stories about Grandpa, and maybe some people will sing some of his favorite songs, and then we'll go to the cemetery to say goodbye to him."

"How is Grandpa gonna get there?"

"He'll be inside his coffin and a special car will take him there."

He sat up, and blinked his eyes in amazement.

"Grandpa's a vampire now?!"

I couldn't help but laugh.

"No, what makes you think that?"

"You said he would be in a coffin and vampires sleep in coffins."

I sighed as I realized we'd been letting him watch too much bad television.

"No baby, Grandpa isn't a vampire. Vampires are make believe in books and movies."

A look of disappointment clouded his face.

"That's too bad. It would be cool to have a grandpa who was a vampire. He could come and visit me at night."

I had to admit there was a certain sense of logic to that. A noise from behind caught our attention; we turned to acknowledge Daddy as he came home from making the arrangements for his father. Our son stood up on the couch and called out, "Guess what Daddy?"

"What Buddy?"

"I know how the cow jumped over the moon."

My love gave me a quizzical look as he scooped his boy into his arms, squeezing him tight.

"How did she do that Bud?"

"She took a running jump. And you know what Daddy, you don't have to worry about Grandpa being a vampire now, because they're just pretend."

A happy laugh escaped as fresh tears began to form. "That's good to know Buddy."

The two of them stood together locked in an embrace. Finally our boy managed to wiggle loose. "Daddy, am I going to have to sit still all through church?"

"It would be nice if you could. It's a pretty special occasion."

"Are you going to sing, or are you going to tell a story about Grandpa?"

"I think I'll probably tell a story. Why?"

"Oh, well, you really can't sing so good, so I think it would be better if you told a story."

The sound of laughter filled the air, easing the grief like a fresh spring rain.

Miles To Go

2011-02-01T14:28:00.034-05:00

"To die, to sleep, perchance to dream." Hamlet, William Shakespeare

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? Philip K. Dick

"When you have insomnia, you're never really asleep . . .and you're never really awake."- Fight Club

God, this is fucking ridiculous. The loss of sleep is making every single reference to sleep fly through my brain. I read once that the longest amount of time that a person had gone without sleep was something like 254 hours, almost eleven straight days, and the doctors had found no signs of permanent systemic damage. I think I'm on day three; I stopped trying to walk about ten hours ago; I can stagger to the bathroom if it's absolutely necessary. And at this point, it doesn't seem necessary. Nothing seems necessary. Except sleep.

I sit on the couch, my gaze vacant. I see everything and nothing. The curtains are drawn, but I glimpse some daylight sneaking under their edge. I try to keep my mind clear, try to find a happy place, but I can hear my mind racing. And my brain hurts, actually hurts. Not in a sharp, throbbing headachey kind of way. I can feel it sitting inside my skull. It feels like a giant balloon filling up with helium. And any minute it is going to go "POP"!

I grab a handful of Skittles and throw them into my mouth. I suck slowly on the candy as I begin to rock back and forth, hopping the motion will bring me to a state of drowsiness. I tuck my feet under my thighs, grab my ankles with my hands. Maybe that's the problem; I haven't had a man grab my ankles in months. A stupid smile crosses my lips. Sex. I think I remember that. A necessary evil. Like food. And sleep.

Damn! I was doing so good, almost two whole minutes without thinking about sleep. No, I was doing so well, not good. I start to rock faster, closing my eyes. I try to keep my breathing even. I feel my body begin to relax as my leaden muscles sink into the upholstery. Suddenly I realize I'm falling forward, my face crashing into the carpet. I roll on my side, trying not to choke on the candy left in my mouth. I look up at the coffee table and notice the prescription bottle lying on its side. Funny, I don't remember that being there. Even funnier, I don't see an empty candy bag on the table. Not a funny, HA HA; a funny, 'oh well doesn't that figure with my luck'. I try to push myself up into some sort of sitting position. I don't seem to have much control over my arms. I try to keep my eyes open, try to remember if any one would care if I don't show up somewhere. Am I suppossed to show up somewhere? Where? What day is this? Should I be at work? School? Church? Would anyone say, "Hey, where's that cranky woman in the accounting office? You know, the short one with the abrasive personality?" Would everyone answer "who?" Would anyone know who they were talking about?

I feel my body sink deeper into the carpet. My breathing starts to become very shallow. The helium in my brain begins to seep out. Thoughts come at a slower pace. A poem wafts through my mind, like smoke that rises when you blow out candles.

And miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep.

Pirate Twin

2011-01-28T17:38:00.003-05:00

It was the balloons that always got to me. What kind of little girl doesn’t like balloons? Yet from the look on the kid’s face, she could care less; hunched over, chin in her hand, barefoot. Gray clouds loomed ominously in the back ground.
I threw the picture back into the folder. It was the last time anyone had seen her. Ten years had passed; most missing person cases didn’t bother me, but this one did. How did a little girl from a respectable family just vanish into thin air? It was almost as if those balloons had been caught by a strong breeze and took her away.

I heard a noise from outside my office. The new temp was closing up shop for the day. She was young, with a body that made good on every promise. Quiet, with long brown hair usually covering her eyes, she was a wiz with the computer, coming up with all kinds of spread sheets and invoices and other business paraphernalia. Didn’t like to wear shoes though; as soon as she got into the office, she’d kick off her sandals and pad around the office bare footed, which normally would have annoyed me, but with her, it gave her a hint of the exotic. Like Ava Gardner in The Barefoot Contessa. The film, not the television cooking show.

“Is there anything else you need, Mr. Dawes?”

She was leaning against the office doorway, her hair loose, the bare toes of her right foot curling sensuously around her left ankle. Mr. Dawes; Christ, make me feel older than dirt. I looked over at her, drinking in her youth. Tempting, but there’s something about coming to terms with your own mortality that stops you from making an ass of yourself. I pushed the folder towards the edge of the desk.

“Just file this for me in the cold file.”

I shoved the folder too hard; it flew off the desk, the contents scattering as they landed on the floor. I cursed softly and started to apologize as she bent down to pick everything up. I came around the side of the desk and stopped as I caught her staring at the photo; she was crouched down, her ass balanced on her heels. I was sure the intensity of her focus would burn a whole in the picture. She started to rock gently back and forth.

“Where did you get this?”

I sat on the corner of the desk, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. I folded my arms across my chest, trying to get a read on her reaction.

“Her parents give it to me. It was the last picture taken of her; she disappeared twelve years ago. Her name is . . .”

“Ramona. Ramona Banks.”

What the fuck, I thought to myself? A missing person case that’s been in the deep freeze for over a decade and now my temp is telling me the kid’s name? I spoke very softly and slowly, trying not to spook her.

“Did you know her?”

She shifted her weight, letting her ass sink to the floor, her legs wrapped around the side of her hips. She glanced up at me; I could see the wheels spinning furiously in that little brain of hers, trying to decide what she should spill. She looked at the photo once more, then let her gaze drift off to another time and place.

“Ramona had it rough; her dad drank too much and her mother never forgave her for being born. She’d spend a lot of time out of the house. She said she had a pirate twin, that she just needed to find her other half. She wanted to run away, maybe to Los Angeles, maybe grow up and be famous.”

She stopped talking, a sad smile forming at the memory. I thought I saw tears begin to sparkle in her eyes.

“So what happened to Ramona?”

She took a deep breath, trying to gain hold of her emotions.

“It was her thirteenth birthday, that’s when this picture was taken. Her mother couldn’t stand the idea of Ramona growing up, because it meant she was getting old, so she always treated me like a baby. I hated balloons, yet my mother always insisted that we have them at the party, that I parade around with a bunch of the damn things. My dad was useless, always too wasted to care. My mother always insisted that I have my picture taken with them. I made up my mind that night to leave. I never went back.”

I stared at her, saw the tension envelope her like a passionate lover. I bent down and kneeled next to her, taking the picture out of her hands.

“You never went back, Ramona?”

She looked up with a blank look, and then shook her head as if she were trying to wake up from a bad dream. A sly look appeared on her face.

“You won’t let them know you found me, will you Mr. Dawes?”

I considered her request. Her parents had just asked me to find her; I didn’t have to let them know I was successful. I took the picture from her hand, placed it back in the folder, and handed it to her.

“File this away in the closed case drawer. I’ll see you on Monday, kid.”

She stood up, taking the folder out of my hands. I watched her bare feet pad towards the cabinet, then make their way to the door of my office. She stopped, turning her head over her shoulder, her long brown hair hanging in her eyes.

“Thanks, Boss. See ya on Monday”.

She never came back. The temp agency said she moved out of town, didn’t leave a forwarding address. I guess she’s still searching for her pirate twin.

Holy Family

2011-01-26T09:28:00.036-05:00

It is now officially a blizzard, and I am still sitting at my desk at work, looking out the window at the curtain of white that has descended like the final curtain at the end of a play. I'm surprised you haven't called, nagging me about leaving. I guess you're still mad at me for even venturing out; that fight this morning was a doozy. I didn't think you'd have such a conniption over me going to work in the snow; I thought your head would split in half. I understand your concern for the two of us, really I do, but I do have to go to work, no matter what the weather. I sigh as I decide to call it a day. I want to take my time driving home, and I want to make sure I'm driving during as much daylight as possible.

I pull on my boots and coat, turn off the computer and pull the office door shut. It looks like I'm the last one here. I waddle out to the car, the parking lot almost empty. I start the engine, then climb back out to clean the snow off the windshield and the lights. At least the snow is powdery and brushes easily to the ground. It's slightly pointless; the window is almost completely covered again as I settle into the driver's seat. I fiddle with the radio, hoping to hear a traffic report on the road conditions, but the radio is janky, so the reception fades in and out. I pull out my cell phone and hit the pre-dial; I hope you pick up. The call goes straight into voice mail. Damn it, I think to myself, what is your problem? Why are you being such a jerk? I leave a quick message, letting you know I'm on my way home. A normal drive would be thirty minutes; today, who knows?

I begin the ride home, slow and steady, like cooking a roast. The roads are slushy, the visibility nil. I keep my foot on the gas, my concentration trying to pierce the gauze that permeates the horizon. The roads are deserted, most people wiser than me having decided to stay at home, ensconced on the couch with either a good book and a pile of DVDs and a hot cup of something. I miss being able to drink a glass of wine. I let my mind wander slightly when suddenly I realize the light ahead has turned red. I hit the brakes, too hard, and start to spin. I try to remember what I should do; turn into the spin, turn towards the fish tale. I frantically turn the wheel, first one way, then the other. The car begins to straighten out; luckily there are no other cars in my way. I try to catch my breath, my heart racing. Maybe I should have stayed home today.

It takes me over ninety minutes to drive ten miles; by the time I pull into our driveway it's dark out, my nerves are shot, my bladder is screaming to be emptied. I see your silhouette in the kitchen window, watch you dash out of the side door towards me. I manage to put the car in park as you pull open the door. Your face is a mixture of anxiety and relief.

"Go on in the house, I'll park the car in the garage."

You help me to the door, my ungainly bulk slipping slightly as I cross the snow covered path. I make it to the bathroom in the nick of time; I swear, one of the greatest pleasures in life is being able to empty a full bladder.

I pull off my boots while sitting on the throne and begin to unwrap from my outer clothes. I hear the door to the garage shut, your footsteps coming up to the powder room door. A sigh of pent up emotions escapes from your lips before you knock gently on the door. I try to pull myself up, but find my center of balance has shifted and my muscles have knotted from the long drive.

"Help" I call out pathetically.

You rush in, expecting the worst, then smile wickedly at my predicament.

"I should leave you there, as punishment for putting me through such agony."

Tears start to form in my eyes and I'm taken aback by the emotions rising in me.

"I'm sorry I made you worry, but you don't have to be such a jerk about it."

I sit sobbing, my head in my hands, feeling like an idiot. I hear you moan guiltily, then feel your arms wrap around me. You scooch my skirt up, exposing my swollen belly, and kiss Junior. He/She responds with a swift kick to your nose. Reluctantly I begin to giggle. It really is quite comical, an extremely pregnant woman sitting on the toilet, her clothes in disarray as her husband embraces her. Not exactly a subject for Da Vinci.

You rest your head, looking up at me. I realize your eyes are swollen and red.

"I didn't mean to be a jerk, I was just so worried about you both, then so angry with you for not listening to me. All I could think was I'd get a phone call saying you'd spun off the road."

Your arms tighten against me as warm tears anoint my belly. Junior begins to squirm, all ready embarrassed by his parents public displays of affection.

Demon Deer

2011-01-06T16:54:00.001-05:00

Demon deer killed Bettie's mom and sister. That was the name Bettie had given them whenever she saw them at night, their eyes glowing from the car's headlights. An argument in the back seat of the car had distracted their mother as three deer bolted from the woods. Bettie's mom swerved, the car hit a patch of ice and slammed into a tree. Mother was killed instantly; sister died en-route to the hospital. Bettie was unconscious for two days. When she awoke from her delirium she was shocked to see her father. He looked so old and defeated.

"Hi Baby" he managed to croak out before dissolving into tears.

Their new life began; a family of two instead of four. They staggered through the first couple of years, stumbling at birthdays no longer celebrated, anniversaries no longer acknowledged. Ten years flew by; Bettie was turning fifteen soon. She sat on the edge of the bathtub, shaving her legs. She could hear her father making dinner. Jenna was coming over. Bettie slid into the tub, submerging deep into the warm, soapy water.

Bettie didn't like Jenna, or the fact that her dad was spending a lot of time with her. For the past month he had allowed Jenna access to their domain. She came for dinner and a movie, going home before it got too late (Bettie's dad was still paranoid about driving at night). Bettie always excused herself after eating, desperate to avoid the two of them. She had caught them on the couch once, bodies entwined. She didn't like to think of her father as a man with needs. He wasn't a man, he was her dad, and he should do his best to stay that way.

Bettie closed her eyes and sunk deeper into the water, letting it come to the tip of her nose. She knew she wasn't being fair. She held her breath and slipped under. Maybe if she waited long enough, Jenna would disappear. She held her breath for as long as she could and then sat up, wiping the water from her eyes. Someone was knocking at the door.

"Lizzie, are you ok?" Her father still insisted on calling her Lizzie.

"Yea, Dad, I'm fine."

"Dinner's almost ready. Jenna will be here soon."

Bettie sighed and kicked at the water, trying to answer.

"K. I’ll be down in a minute."

Bettie waited until she heard him walk away, and then stepped out of the tub, wrapping a towel around her as she looked in the mirror. Her mother's large oval eyes stared back at her. Everybody said she looked like her mom, but Bettie didn't have a clear memory of her face. She heard her father laugh as the front door closed. It had been a long time since he'd laughed like that. Bettie walked to her room and changed, leaving the wet towel in the corner. Her dad always hated that. Good, Bettie thought. Let him be unhappy a little while longer.

2011-01-05T10:50:00.023-05:00

Willingly she gave him her taint.
His love was plausible.
But she didn't care, cause his rod weren't baint.

He looked at the writing and sighed, circling the doggeral with a bright red pen. The most talented unknown writer of her generation, the writer that was going to establish him as the best editor of his generation, was also the most difficult bitch he'd ever had to deal with. Refused to make any changes, challenged every suggestion he'd made. They'd had their share of knock down, drag out, screaming fights. Both of them reducing the other to tears and slamming doors. But the make up sex, Christ! He still felt guilty about that; their relationship was supposed to be strictly professional. While he had always fantasized about an affair with an older, more experienced woman, he had never envisioned willingly involving himself with someone so volatile. For one brief moment in their initial coupling, she was so aggressive with her tongue, that he had feared for his manhood.

He sighed again, letting his eyes wander from the manuscript towards the clock. She'd be here any minute; there was a plot hole he had to discuss with her, a point that didn't seem plausible. It was late, he was too tired to fight. Or to make up.

His reverie was cut short as he sensed a new presence in the room. She stood in the doorway, her hand gently knocking on the door. She smiled at him, a smile that always reminded him of a tiger smiling at its prey just before it ripped it to shreds. He tried to steel himself, tried to maintain the upper hand. She entered the room and sat in the chair opposite him.

"You wanted to see me?"

Even when she was being incredibly polite he always sensed an undercurrent of contempt in her voice.

"There's a problem with chapter twelve, you have Gomez doing something completely out of character. It needs to be re-written."

He saw her eyes begin to flash, her body stiffen. He rose from behind the desk and stood in front of her.

"I'm not fighting you about this. I'm your editor and I have your best interests, and the best interests of your work, at heart. You need to start trusting me on these decisions." He paused, letting his eyes fall to the floor. "You should know by now that I'd never do anything to hurt you."

He looked back up, saw her bend over and place her face in her hands. She took in a deep breath as she sat back up, looking him straight in the eye.

"It's not that I don't trust you, it's just that . . "

He saw her struggle with her emotions, was shocked to see her usually fierce exterior soften to a core of vulnerability. She let her gaze drift off to the side.

"All my life, since the time I was little, I've been told to sit down and be quiet, that no one was interested in what I had to say. When I began to write, when I began to get positive feed back on what I had to say, it was exhilarating. I felt so alive; finally I'd found my voice. So I became very protective of my words; I didn't want to ever be in a position again where no one listened to me. I know I can be difficult." She looked back at him, a small smile appearing on her lips.

"You'd be much easier to handle, darling, if you were just difficult. You're quite the pain in the ass most of the time."

She laughed, her smile widening as she rose from her chair, wrapping her arms around his waist, letting her head drop against his chest. He felt his arms automatically return the embrace. They stood together for a minute before he kissed the side of her head.

"What's a 'taint'?'

She laughed again, that slightly mocking tone returning to her voice.

"You've never heard of a 'taint'? It's an inimate part of your body, honey."

He scowled slightly.

"I've never heard it called that."

She laughed again, letting her hand slip between his legs, gently beginning to caress the smooth part of his body behind his sack. He gasped, then felt his body begin to relax, a curious mixture of arousal and calm enveloping him. He struggled to make his voice audible.

"But whys THAT called a 'taint'?"

She let her hand continue its work, her lips gently kissing the side of his throat.

"Because, it 'taint' the front, and it 'taint' the back."

A New Year's Ephipany

2011-01-04T11:34:00.004-05:00

I will never win the lottery and be able to quit my job.

I will never buy a chocolate bar and find a golden ticket inside.

There is no knight in shining armor coming to rescue me.

Prince Charming will not appear at my door, holding a glass slipper.

Fairy Godmothers and magic wands do not exist.

I am responsible for my own happily ever after.

For years, that used to terrify me.

But now, it excites me to no end.

Onions

2010-12-29T11:32:00.019-05:00

The onions kept repeating.

She sat up in bed, quietly trying to burp to relieve the pressure in her stomach. She glanced over at him, asleep. Worn out actually. She smiled, quite pleased with herself. They had both been invited to the same New Year's Eve party of a mutual friend, and both had decided to bail at the same time. Her new shoes made her feet hurt; he was bored with trying to make conversations with women half his age. Each trying to evade the march of time. They acknowledged each other in the elevator.

"Not as much fun as it used to be, is it" he murmured.

She gave a tired little laugh.

"No. I keep telling myself I need to get out and meet new people, yet all I really want to do is sit on my couch in my pajamas."

He smiled, knowing exactly what she meant.

The elevator doors opened, he held the door open for her, letting his eyes wander down the length of her form. He stopped as he caught a glimpse of her shoes; black stilettos with multiple gold buckles wrapping half way up her calves. He let his eyes wander to the street, covered in slush and enormous puddles.

"Your feet will freeze if you try to walk home in those shoes."

She turned her head and smiled a knowing smile at him. He was kinda cute, she thought.

"You're probably right. I decided to go for style instead of comfort tonight; I don't think I can feel my toes anymore."

"You should put them up."

He blushed slightly at the possibility of a double entendre.

"What did you have in mind?"

"I know a place where we can get a great wedge."

She looked at him blankly.

"What's a wedge?"

A confused look crossed his face as he tried to think. He started to mold something long and thin with his hands.

"You know, it's a sandwich, on a long piece of bread, usually with cheese and salami and ham and capicola, with oil and vinegar. That's what we call them in Rhode Island."

She smiled back at him, finding him even more appealing as he struggled to explain himself.

"You mean a hoagie. That's what we call them in Philly. And you need to add lettuce, tomato and onion on it. Never mayonnaise."

He scrunched up his face in mock horror.

"Mayonnaise! How uncivilized."

He reached out his hand; she hesitated for two seconds, then took it. He managed to hail a cab, and twenty minutes later they were downtown at some hole-in-the-wall deli, a large wedge with the works sitting on the table, surrounded by cole slaw, fat dill pickles, deviled eggs, and several bottles of beer. God, she thought, I'm gonna feel this in the morning.

She sat up in bed, trying to gently rock the burp out of her when she felt his hand on the small of her back. He rolled over and placed his other hand on her stomach, beginning to rub it counter clock wise; she let out a loud 'UUURRRPP'. She clasped a hand to her mouth, an embarrassed giggle following.

"I'm SO sorry. That's so un-lady like."

He laughed softly and placed his head in her lap.

"You actually lost your lady like behavior when you finished that entire half of the wedge, plus the pickles and slaw."

"I don't think I lost any points, did I?"

He smiled up at her, letting his hand brush the side of her cheek. He let his fingers weave into her hair, pulling her slowly down towards him. She hesitated slightly.

"Let me rinse my mouth. Onion breath."

He pulled her to him, kissing her deeply. He'd never liked the taste of onions as much as he did right at that moment.

Silence is Golden, Duct Tape is Silver

2010-12-23T16:12:00.012-05:00

Silence is golden. Duct tape is silver.

He smiled as he read the worn piece of paper, creased to the point of ripping from years of being folded and unfolded. It was one of the more ridiculous things she'd written to him. He had tried to educate her on the finer points of prose, but she just laughed, and always scribbled down the first thing that came into her mind.

He stepped into the elevator and pressed the up button. So many memories flooded into his brain. One morning after they had been living together for about a year, she had come into the kitchen and announced,

"If I go to jail, I'm going to need a prison nickname. I was thinking of calling myself Pony Girl, and getting a gigantic tattoo of a pony inked into my bicep. You should come and visit me, but we'll have to get married first, otherwise we won't be able to have conjugal visits."

He had merely shaken his head at that one. He didn't know too many people who decided to get married in order to have conjugal visits when one of them went to prison. He had merely smiled, and said, "Well if you're asking, I'm saying yes."

She had laughed, and thrown her arms around him, and said,

"Oh, I knew you wouldn't object."

The elevator door opened, and he stepped out into the sterile hallway. He could never get used to the smell; always the lingering scent of death. He nodded a hello to the nurse on duty and went into her room. The curtains were still open; a brilliant sunset was displayed. He walked up to her still body, and gently kissed her forehead, careful not to dislodge the respirator tube.

"Hi Pony Girl, sorry I'm late. I brought you something."

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a roll of duct tape, placing it on the movable shelf where a food tray would go. She hadn't had a solid meal since she'd been admitted six months ago, when a drunk driver had made the decision to get behind the wheel and jumped the curb, throwing her body into a wall, crushing her spine and cracking her head open. He picked up a wash clothe, ran it under the sink, and gently began to wipe her face. The light in the room began to fade, the last bit of sunlight falling on the roll.

Silence is golden, duct tape is silver.

Damn the Torpedoes! Full Speed Ahead!

2010-12-16T17:26:00.008-05:00

Utter, total chaos. The house may not survive the Bacchanalia; the wine consumed, the meats and sweets ingested, people standing, people sitting, cheering the football, singing the songs. Children yelling, sometimes screaming, always running, adults shouting, "Not in the house, take it outside"! Dogs barking, babies crying.

Jaimy grabbed Simon's hand and pulled him upstairs, past the bedrooms, jumping up to grab a string from the ceiling to pull down a ladder. She quickly pushed him up to the attic, retrieved the ladder,and slammed the door shut. It was the first quiet moment they'd had to themselves since they arrived at her parents' house three days ago.

Jaimy knelt on her knees and crawled over to where Simon sat sprawled against a box of old clothes. She rolled over on her back, letting her head fall into his lap. She smiled up at him.

"How ya holding up, sweetie?"

Simon leaned against the boxes, grateful for the relative silence of the room. Jaimy had said Christmas with her family would be unlike any he'd experienced before, and she was right. When he was a child Christmas had been a quiet, decorous affair; drinks and church on Christmas Eve, breakfast, Church (again!) on Christmas morning, THEN the presents could be opened. Three presents only, because, after all, that was all the Christ Child received. Relatives to lunch in the afternoon; a quiet board game to pass the time, or perhaps someone would read Dickens a loud. No one ever raised their voice, no one ever careened through the house like a wild savage. Really bad form to show too much emotion on a solemn holy day.

Only it wasn't. Well it was, it was holy, but it was also a birthday, a day to celebrate, to rejoice, to laugh out loud and eat too much and make a mess in the company of loved ones. You don't dabble in Christmas, you jump in! Feet first, and damn the torpedoes!

Simon bent over and kissed Jaimy, letting his nose gently brush against hers. My God, he loved her so much! He could feel the small ring box in his jacket pocket stab his chest; now was as good a time as any, he thought. He sat up straight and took her hand.

"It's like this every year?"

"Oh, my no. When the whole family's here, it's even worse."

She smiled up at him, hoping, not hoping for what would come next. The two of them gazed into each other's eyes.

Simon started to speak, felt his throat catch. He took a deep breath, then pulled the box out. He smiled at her, then playfully placed the box in between her nose and her forehead.

"I'd really like to come back again next year, just to see. And the year after that. And the year after that."

Jaimy sat up, catching the box before it fell to the floor. She opened it up, gasped, laughed. Started to shake, then started to cry. Simon took the ring, placed it on her finger, then held her in his arms. A loud crash sounded from below.

"Cheese and Crackers, will you kids stop running in the house! Take it outside!"

Haiku 12:22

2010-12-16T12:19:00.002-05:00

We can not choose who
We foolishly fall in love
Ignore your heart's pain.

Almost Like It Was Before-Part Eight

2010-11-25T00:00:00.001-05:00

The rest of the day flew by and suddenly it was time to go home. Arthur hurried to catch the tube and walked at a fast pace to his home. Putting the key into the front door he hesitated. What if dinner was a disaster? What if it wasn’t exactly what the kids had hoped for? Their mother was dead, having an elaborate dinner wasn’t going to bring her back. He sighed and opened the door.

A symphony of smells hit him as soon as he walked in. Roast turkey, cinnamon, apples, all the delicious smells he had come to expect. He poked his head into the dining room and gasped at the beauty of the table. Manda came running out of the kitchen and crashed into him at full speed.

“Dad, Dad, we did it! We made the dinner! It’s almost like it was before!"

She went careening back into the kitchen, causing her brothers to yell at her to stop, calm down. Arthur took off his coat and followed her into the kitchen.

It looked like a bomb had gone off. Pots and pans were everywhere, groceries were piled high, dishes fought for space on the counter. Abby stood in the middle of the mess, her hair falling out of its’ bun, serenely scooping stuffing out of the bird into a serving dish. Jesse was whipping the mashed potatoes in a pot, James was doing his best to fry up the turnip mash, and Viola was putting a dozen small chocolate pudding pies into the refrigerator. Abby looked up and smiled, a tiny exhausted smile, while the kids chorused “Hi Dad”. The door bell rang at the front of the house and Manda ran, yelling “I’ll get it, I’ll get it” at the top of her lungs to answer the door.

“Hi”, was all Arthur could think to say. The kids gathered up the dishes and began to take them out to the table. He stood there gazing at Abby as she pulled the last bit of stuffing out of the bird.

“Hey,” said Abby softly. “Sorry for the mess. It’s been a long time since I’ve cooked a big meal and I guess I got a little carried away. Ola, take this and put it on the table."

Out went the stuffing. Arthur moved slowly closer to her.

“It looks great, it smells,” He felt his voice catch. “It smells like it used to when . . .”

He couldn’t speak. Abby moved away from the bird and brushed her hand against his cheek.

“Thanks. I’m glad."

She started to move away but he caught her hand and pulled her back towards him.

“I know,” he stammered out, “I know about Beatrice."

She pulled back and he saw a veil fall over her eyes, her jaw set. Damn it, he thought, how insensitive can I be. She turned away and sat at the table, a small sob making her body shudder.

Arthur knelt next to her, feeling stupid and horrid. He wanted to hold her, tell her he understood her pain, but all he could do was sit there and hold her hand.

"Abby, I’m sorry, you’ve been so kind to us, and I never meant to hurt you."

She just kept crying, her head buried in her hands. Miranda came running back into the kitchen.

“Daddy, Abby, Uncle Harold and Auntie Fiona are here, and so is Bianca and Kate, we need to bring the turkey to the table, we need to . . .”

She stopped short as she caught a glimpse of Abby’s grief.

“Oh Abby,” she said gently, “are you sad because you miss Beatrice?"

She wrapped her arms around Abby and laid her head on her shoulder.

“Don’t cry Abby. I know you miss Beatrice, just like we miss Mommy, but I think it’s ok, because I figured that since Mommy and Beatrice both died around the same time of the year, that they’re together in heaven, looking after each other, just like we’re together down here, and we can look after each other."

She hugged Abby tighter to her. The three of them sat there in the kitchen, Abby sobbing, tears streaming down Arthur’s face, Miranda hugging and trying to comfort them. Finally Abby quieted, and taking a deep breath raised her head. Her face was a wet, soppy mess, her make up running down her cheeks, her eyes puffy and red. She stood up and went to the sink, ran some cold water and splashed it on her face. She grabbed a towel and began to wipe her face dry. She turned and looked at Miranda, taking another deep breath.

“I guess you’re right, kiddo."

The small timer went ‘ding’ and both Abby and Manda looked at the oven. Abby went over, turned it off, opened the door, and pulled out a small casserole dish with marshmallows melting on the top. She wrapped another towel around the dish and handed it to Manda.

“Be careful, it’s hot. Go and tell everyone that dinner is ready."

“Ok,” she said, “Oh my God,” she exclaimed, “We have to sing the song."

She went out to the dining room. “Guys, guys, we have to sing the song” she cried to her sister and brothers.

Abby looked at Arthur as he tried to compose himself. She cleared her throat and looked down at the floor.

“What song," she managed to croak out.

“Uhm, ‘Over the River and Through the Woods, to Grandmother’s House We Go’," he replied.

“Oh, God, I hate that song."

He laughed and walked over to where she stood.

“I do appreciate all you’ve done for us. It means a lot to the kids."

He let his hand gently take her waist, allowed himself to move close to her. She pulled closer, putting her hand on his chest, letting her forehead rest on his chin.

“I don’t believe in happily ever after," she whispered, “I’m from Jersey, I don’t believe in anything. I’m tough."

He closed his eyes and smelled her hair, enjoyed the sensation of holding a woman close again.

“If you’re so tough, why do you have a mouse tattoo?"

She pulled away from him and smiled.

"What makes you think that’s the only tattoo I have?"

He laughed and hugged her tight. From the other room he could hear the kids singing that damn song. He didn’t kiss her, not yet. There was time enough. He picked up the turkey and the two of them walked into the dining room. His kids were sitting there, with his friends, and he put the turkey down, and helped Abby into her chair. He sat down and thought, “I miss you honey, but I think we’ll be ok."

Miranda squirmed in her seat and then blurted out, “God Bless us, everyone”, and everybody laughed. Harold said, “You’re about six weeks too early for that line, dearest”, and they all laughed some more. Jesse yelled out, “Say the Blessing Dad, we’re hungry."

They all took hands and bowed their heads, Abby and Arthur giving each other a quick smile and look. Arthur cleared his throat and said, “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful”.

Amen

Almost Like It Was Before-Part Seven

2010-11-24T00:00:00.001-05:00

Thursday morning arrived and for once Arthur didn’t have to pull Miranda out of bed. She was up at first light and ran around the house putting up drawings of hand turkeys, pictures of Pilgrims and Indians, pictures of all of them eating together. Arthur had arranged to go in late to work in order to wait for Abby to arrive. The morning crawled as Miranda asked every five minutes when Abby would get there. Finally, just before eleven, she showed up, dressed in a casual dress, her hair pulled back in a loose bun. Miranda started bouncing up and down, running back and forth between the kitchen and where Abby and Arthur stood in the front hallway.

“Do you think you can manage everything” he asked as he put his coat on to leave.

“Yea, I think so. Once the turkey’s in the oven it’s just a matter of getting everything else peeled and chopped. We should be ok."

He marveled at her calm appearance.

“If Manda gets too wound up just have her take a nap. The other kids should be home around 3:30 and they can help out."

She looked at him, a warm engaging smile spreading across her face.

“We’ll be fine, Arthur, go to work."

She placed her hand on his upper arm and gave it a light squeeze.

“Yes, Daddy, go to work, Abby and I have work to do."

Miranda had zoomed out of the kitchen and was tugging at Abby’s arm. Arthur bent down and grabbed his daughter, hugging her close. She squealed in delight as she tried to break free from his grasp.

“You behave yourself, little girl."

He let go of her and stood to leave. He had to fight the overwhelming urge to give Abby a kiss.

When he got to work he didn’t go straight to his office, instead he got off at the graphics department and made his way to Bianca’s office. She was sitting at her desk on the phone; she waved him to come in and hurriedly finished her call.

“So,” she said excitedly, “How’s dinner coming along?"

Arthur removed his coat and sat down.

“Abby and Manda are working on it as we speak. How well do you know her?"

“Abby? Well enough, you don’t have to worry about Manda’s safety if that’s what you mean."

“No,” Arthur said carefully, “who’s Beatrice?"

“Ahh."

Bianca sat quietly for a moment, then got up and closed the door behind her. She returned to her desk and looked at Arthur.

“What do you know about Beatrice?"

“Not much. I saw the tattoo when we went shopping, and Manda said Beatrice was her daughter, and she was about her age, but she’s dead. We think she died around the same time as Martha did."

Bianca paused for a long time, wondering how much to tell of another person’s tale.

“Those are pretty much the facts. Beatrice had cancer. She was diagnosed at age two; for three years she was subjected to all kinds of radiation therapy, chemotherapy. Abby says Beatrice fought really hard for three years, but finally she was just too tired to fight any more. She died last April at home, in her mother’s arms. It caused a major rift in her marriage; Abby found out that her husband was seeing someone else, and this other woman became pregnant about a month after Beatrice’s death. Abby had to go through all kinds of infertility treatments in order to get pregnant with her daughter, and her husband’s betrayal was too much to bear. That’s why she moved over seas. She didn’t want to have to ever deal with the sight of another woman with her husband’s child."

Arthur sat quietly, trying to process all he had heard. He couldn’t imagine the pain of losing a child. Having to watch Martha die was heartbreaking; having to watch a strong, independent woman get weaker and weaker each day, knowing the pain she had to endure. He remembered how impotent he had felt; how he hated the way he couldn’t keep her safe. Having to watch your child go through the same thing must have been hell.

“I said you two had a lot in common. Abby’s a nice girl. I tink you’d be good for each other."

“Bianca," Arthur began, “Martha’s not even dead a year, how can you even suggest I should become involved with another woman?"

“I’m not saying you should become involved wit her, just be her friend. Do you want to become involved wit her?"

Bianca eyed him suspiciously. Arthur squirmed in his seat.

“I don’t know, she’s pretty, she seems nice. She seems . . .” his voice broke off. “She seems so sad."

Bianca came around the desk and leaned over him.

“So do you Artur."

Almost Like It Was Before-Part Six

2010-11-23T00:00:00.001-05:00

Saturday arrived, and Arthur and the kids met Abby at the grocery store. The kids were loud and boisterous, and Arthur was slightly embarrassed by their behavior, but Abby seemed oblivious to it, pushing the trolley and placing items into it. Miranda stood next to her with the list, reading off all the foods they would need. Arthur was intrigued by Abby’s reaction when she first saw Miranda; Abby had backed away slightly, as if Manda were some sort of venomous flower. Manda had taken to Abby immediately, talking non stop about what to make and how her mother used to make it, and Abby relaxed and engaged in non stop conversation with her.

Abby was wearing a low cut t shirt and a pair of old jeans, and Arthur saw the little tattoo on her chest. At one point she had caught him staring at it, and when he looked at her she was smiling, cheekily at him. He pulled his gaze away and started to yell at Jesse and James for the way they were acting. They paid for the groceries and bundled them up, and as they placed them in the car they made arrangements to pick the turkey up at the butcher’s Wednesday night after work. Since there were going to be ten people eating dinner the next night (Arthur, four kids, Abby, Harold and his wife Fiona, Bianca and her partner Katherine), Abby would take the day off from work and come to the house around noon to put the turkey in and start the dinner. If all went according to plan, dinner would be ready by 5:30. Miranda begged to stay home from school that day to help, and Arthur agreed, in part to make her happy and in part because he was slightly uncomfortable having a stranger in his house while he was away. He was lost in thought as he put the groceries away when he realized the boys were talking to him.

“DAD! Hello, earth to Dad! Where did you say you met her" Jesse asked?

“Her, who? Oh, Abby. Bianca introduced us. She works in the graphic arts department at work."

“She’s kind of hot, for an old woman. Did you see that tattoo?"

Arthur wasn’t sure if he was annoyed that James thought she was old or that he had also been gazing at Abby’s tattoo.

“It’s not polite to stare at a lady’s chest, James."

“Yea, James, Dad wants to stare at it all by himself."

“Jesse, I wasn’t staring at her chest."

“Oh, bullocks, Dad, you couldn’t keep your eyes off her."

Viola had joined her brothers in the verbal attack.

“I wasn’t staring at her chest, children, I was actually looking at the items in the trolley, that’s why my gaze was down."

Arthur knew that that was a very bad lie.

“I wonder who Beatrice is" Viola asked.

“It’s her little girl,” Miranda said quietly, “She died."

They all stared at her.

“How do you know that?"

Arthur was stunned at that information. Miranda rolled her eyes in exasperation.

“I asked her. I asked why she had a mouse tattoo on her chest and she said it was because she had a little girl around my age and Abby used to call her her little mousey and she got sick and she died. That’s why she moved to London."

“How long ago did she die” Jesse asked?

“In the spring time. I think she said around Easter."

“That’s when Mom died," Viola said.

“Yes," Miranda said in a very matter of fact way, “They both died at the same time. Abby misses her daughter very much, just like we miss Mommy very much. Abby says sometimes you have to let things happen and they sort themselves out."

“Just like Mom always said," James remarked quietly.

“Yes, just like Mommy always said," Miranda answered solemnly.

They sat there silently in the kitchen. Arthur started to run the water at the sink so the kids wouldn’t notice the sobs escaping from his throat.

Almost Like It Was Before-Part Five

2010-11-22T00:00:00.001-05:00

The phone rang twice more before he picked it up. A soft, throaty voice said, “Morning. Is this a good time to talk?"

Arthur was shocked to feel a surge of desire. What was wrong with him, his wife wasn’t even dead a year, what kind of heartless bastard was he? He didn’t even like this woman.

“No, I mean, yes, this is a good time. My office is on the 35th floor."

He hung up and began to pull the list from his wallet. He caught a glimpse of his wife’s picture on his desk, the one they had taken in Paris, right before she had gotten sick. She was laughing, her head thrown back, her eyes so full of life. He felt the overwhelming wave of grief begin to surge when he heard a knock on the door. He turned his head; she was standing there, her hair loose around her throat, a dark green dress covering her body. It was a nice body, he noticed, full, womanly. He smiled weakly and stood up.

“Hi, please come in. I appreciate the help."

She crossed into the room, her movement fluid and easy. She sat in the chair in front of the desk and gave him a warm smile.

“It’s not a problem. This is my first Thanksgiving away from home, so it’ll be nice to have something to do other than work. Do you have a grocery list?"

He nodded and handed her the list, sitting in the chair next to her. He watched her reading the list and thought, on second thought, she was very attractive, and didn’t seem quite so combative as she had the day before. They sat there silently for a few minutes when she looked up.

“What do you need to know?"

“Well, basically, everything. How long do you cook the turkey, what temperature, how do you make the stuffing, when do you make the desserts? I always went to work in the morning and by the time I came home everything was done. I hadn’t thought about making a meal this year but my youngest insisted on it, and that got my other children on board. I was going to try to cook it myself, but I’m afraid my youngest insists that only an American can make a proper Thanksgiving dinner."

He smiled sheepishly at her.

“How old are your kids?"

“I have twin sons who are seventeen, a fifteen year old daughter, and a five year old daughter."

He thought he saw her stiffen at that last comment.

“Five, that’s a fun age”, she said quietly, never taking her eyes off the list. He saw her take a deep breathe before she looked up at him, the pain in her eyes glowing. “So, do you need recipes, or do you want me to cook this whole meal?"

I want you; he heard a little voice say in his head and blushed as if he had said it out loud.

“I’d be very grateful if you would cook it, Ms. Adams. The kids will want to help, if you’ll let them. I’ll pay for everything, and will gladly pay for your services."

Somehow that last remark didn’t sound as innocent as he wanted it too, and once again he felt himself blushing.

That sad, cynical smile appeared on her lips again, but this time the look in her eyes was softer, kinder.

“It’s ok, Mr. Byrnes, you don’t have to pay me. You don’t take money for doing something nice. Let me know how many people are going to be having dinner and what time you want to eat. I’ll take care of the rest."

She stood and he rose too. She was slightly smaller than he was, completely opposite his wife who had towered over him by almost 5 inches. He always called Martha his ‘long stemmed Yankee Rose’. Abigail handed the list back to him.

“Let me know when you want to do the shopping."

“This Saturday, if that’s all right."

They walked to the door.

“Sure, Saturday’s fine, but you should probably wait until Tuesday to get the turkey. Is there a butcher near by your house?"

A butcher, he had no idea, the scent from her hair clouding his reason.

“I think so; I’ll have to find out."

“Let me know”.

She put her hand on his upper arm.

“See ya later, Mr. Byrnes."

“Arthur."

He blurted it out louder than he had intended.

“My name’s Arthur."

She smiled back at him.

“See ya later, Arthur."

“Thanks, Abby."

He watched her walk to the lifts, watched the way her skirt moved rhythmically across her bum as she moved. He began to realize someone was standing next to him and looked to see Harold looking at him.

Harold smiled and said quietly, “Martha would approve."

Almost Like It Was Before-Part Four

2010-11-21T00:00:00.001-05:00

His phone rang promptly at 10:00 the next morning. Gone were the days when he could leave for work before any one else in the house was awake. The three older kids were able to get themselves ready for school but Miranda still needed help. She was not a morning person, just like her mother, and it took at least four tries to get her out of bed and then constant prodding to get her dressed and get some breakfast in to her before they had to leave. Arthur was able to walk her to school every morning and it was something he really enjoyed doing. At first Manda had been solemn and quiet on their walks, but after a month or two she began to talk about school and homework and how she got along with her teacher and the class guinea pigs and soon it would be her turn to bring them home for the weekend. She had announced how many days were left until Thanksgiving every day for the past week at the beginning of their walk. Today there were eight days left. Thanksgiving was a week from tomorrow.

“So, Daddy, when are we going to go shopping for Thanksgiving?"

This weekend, I guess. I have to go over the shopping list with someone I work with."

“Bianca?"

“No, somebody you don’t know. She’s from America, too, just like Mummy."

“Oh, good, she’ll know how to make a proper dinner."

Arthur smiled as he gazed at his daughter. She was such a hybrid of English/American sensibilities, making a proper Thanksgiving dinner.

“She’ll let me make the sweet potato casserole, won’t she?"

Arthur frowned. He hadn’t intended to actually let her cook, he had planned to write everything down and attempt it himself.

“Well, I don’t think she’ll be at the house next week, she has to work. I’m going to do the cooking."

Manda stopped dead in her tracks.

“But Daddy, you can’t cook. Thanksgiving has to be made by an American."

He laughed in spite of himself.

“Why, is there some sort of rule somewhere that says only Americans can cook turkey? What happens when you grow up and want to make Thanksgiving dinner? You’re only half American, you know."

Manda’s face scrunched up as she stomped her foot on the ground.

“No, I’m not! You take that back! I’M AN AMERICAN LIKE MOM!"

She screamed that last part at the top of her lungs.

Arthur stood there, shocked at her reaction. This whole thing was getting out of hand. He bent down and hugged her to him.

“I’m sorry, darling, you’re right; you are an American like Mum."

She wouldn’t hug him back, wouldn’t take his hand as they finished their walk. She marched into the school yard without so much as a good bye or a look back.

Almost Like It Was Before-Part Three

2010-11-20T00:00:00.001-05:00

It was almost a week later when Arthur was able to make the trip down to the graphic arts department. The magazine he worked for was large, taking up several floors in one of London’s newest skyscrapers. He took the lift down three floors and began to wander aimlessly through the corridors. There was a much more relaxed atmosphere down here than there was in editorial where he worked. Down here there was more opportunity for personal expression in dress and hair style, and it wasn’t a problem if a person’s attire was funkier and cutting edge. Upstairs in Editorial men still wore ties and jackets and the women were expected to wear suits and heels. Contemporary music escaped from the individual offices. He felt like he was a tourist in a strange land.

“Artur, darling, how are you? What are you doing down here?"

A statuesque woman with clear mocha skin and hair embraced him with a bear hug.

“Hi Bianca, how are you?"

Bianca had sent over a dish of food for him and the kids every day for a month after his wife’s death, made sure the laundry was done, helped get groceries in the house. Maybe she could help him.

“I was looking for Abigail, from America, but may be you can help us. The kids want to make Thanksgiving dinner this year, do you think you could lend us a hand?"

“Artur, I’m born and raised in Jamaica, I wouldn’t know the first ting about cooking Tanksgiving dinner. I’ll come and help clean up, but if you want some ting like Marta used to make, you should talk to Abby."

Arthur felt disappointed. How do you ask a total stranger to help make a large meal for people she’s never met?

“I don’t really know who she is, Bianca. Could you show me where her office is?"

Bianca put her arm around him and started to walk down the hall.

“Sure, love. I’ll make the introductions."

She looked thoughtful for a moment.

“I tink you two have a lot in common."

They walked to the end of the hall to an office with a very small window. Papers were strewn all over the place; at first glance it looked like a bomb had gone off. A small woman was perched at her desk, her face in a scowl at the image on her computer. Bianca knocked quietly on the door to announce their arrival.

“Abby, honey, I’ve brought you a new friend."

Arthur felt slightly foolish standing there, a feeling that changed to insecurity as the woman looked up. She was about his age, late forties, with curly, chestnut brown hair that fell to her shoulders. Large brown eyes emerged from her face, eyes that held a profound sadness to them. Reading glasses perched on the edge of her nose. For the first time in a very long time, Arthur wanted to be noticed by another woman.

“Abby, this is my friend, Artur Byrnes. Artur works up in Editorial, and he needs some advice about cooking Tanksgiving dinner. I tought you might be able to give him a hand."

Those huge brown eyes looked him over from top to bottom, and Arthur felt like an awkward teenager.

“I didn’t think any one celebrated Thanksgiving in England. It’s an American holiday."

Her voice was soft and low, sounding like she’d just woken up.

Arthur found his voice.

"My wife was an American; she made dinner every year for us. This is the first year I’ve had to make it on my own."

Abigail gave him a suspicious look.

“Why isn’t your wife cooking this year, Mr. Byrnes?"

Arthur felt a slight wave of anger run up his spine.

“Because she’s dead, Ms . . . “

“Adams, Abigail Adams."

A cynical smile crossed her lips.

"Yea, I know, second First Lady of the United States, John Adams’ wife. My parents were history buffs. My poor brother’s name is Quincy."

Her smiled disappeared as she looked at Arthur.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Byrnes. I didn’t mean any disrespect."

Arthur clenched his fists and tried to breathe steadily. This was a mistake; he never should have asked this woman for help.

“I’m sorry to bother, you Ms. Adams."

He turned to walk out of the office. Bianca looked at him, surprised at his reaction.

“Artur, don’t you want . . .”

He was halfway to the lifts before she could finish her sentence. He made it back to his office and was able to shut the door before he broke down, wrenching sobs escaping from his chest. He sat with his head in his hands for close to an hour, and then decided to go home early. He went to turn off his computer when he saw a new e-mail in the queue. It was from Adams a and the subject said “THANKSGIVING”. His first reaction was to delete it with out reading it, but his curiosity got the better of him and he opened it. It read:

Let me know what you need help with. I’m not a great cook but I can always lend a hand. Abby.

He sighed and looked at the list still sitting on his desk. Just one meal, then he wouldn’t have to deal with her again. He wrote back:

Thanks. See me tomorrow am to go over menu. A

He hit send, put the list in his wallet and went home.

Almost Like It Was Before-Part Two

2010-11-19T00:00:00.002-05:00

Two days later the children presented him with a menu for the meal and a shopping list of ingredients they would need. The ingredients list was three pages long. He was at work sitting at his desk when his best friend Harold walked into his office. He and Harold had gone to University together, had each been best man at each other’s wedding, were God Father to the other’s children. He had been there for him during the darkest times of Martha’s illness.

“What’s that?"

He asked as he sat in the chair opposite the desk.

“A shopping list for Thanksgiving dinner. The kids want to have Thanksgiving this year. I never realized how much went into one meal."

He handed the papers over to Harold to review.

“Christ, that’s a lot of food. Are you doing the cooking yourself?"

“I guess, I mean how difficult can it be? You just roast a turkey, stuff it with bread crumbs. It’s only dinner."

“How long do you cook the bird for?"

“I don’t know, it must say in some book."

“Are you going to make that turnip mash dish with the bacon pieces? That’s fabulous. You just boil the turnips, right?"

Arthur began to feel uneasy. He’d always gone to work and come home to find everything done. His main responsibility was washing up the pots after dinner. He began to feel in over his head again.

“Why don’t you ask Abigail in the graphic arts department for advice, she’s an American?"

Arthur tried to remember who Abigail from graphic arts was, and a blurry picture of a short woman with chestnut brown hair materialized.

“Really, which part?"

“The East coast. New Jersey, I think. Though she’s not very tough."

Arthur laughed.

“You watch too much television. How does being from New Jersey automatically make you tough?"

Harold rose from his chair and started to leave the office.

“I don’t know, but she does have a tattoo. Tough girls always have tattoos."

“How do you know she has a tattoo?"

Arthur was amazed at the information Harold could find out.

“You can see it when she wears a low cut shirt and bends forward. It’s on the middle of her chest above her heart. A little tiny mouse holding a flower with the name “Beatrice” under it."

He walked out of the office, leaving Arthur to ponder how tough a person was when their tattoo was a tiny, flower bearing mouse.

Almost Like It Was Before-Part One

2010-11-18T00:00:00.001-05:00

“Daddy, who’s going to cook Thanksgiving dinner this year?"

Arthur looked at his five year old daughter Miranda as she sat coloring at the dining room table. It had been almost eight months since his wife had died of ovarian cancer at the too young age of 44. He had spent the last eight months in a fog of grief and disbelief, trying to manage the day to day responsibilities of raising four children under 17, responsibilities his wife had managed so effortlessly. His wife was an American, and even though they had lived in London for the entire 20 years of their married life, on the fourth Thursday of every November she had insisted on cooking a traditional Thanksgiving dinner.
He sat down next to his daughter and looked at the picture she was drawing, a hand turkey with multi colored tail feathers.

“We’re British, sweet heart, we don’t celebrate Thanksgiving."

She looked up, shocked, her eyes wide with despair.

“But Daddy, we always have Thanksgiving dinner, Mommy always made Thanksgiving dinner."

He saw the tears start to form in her eyes, her lower lip begin to quiver.

“I can cook dinner this year, Dad. I used to help Mom all the time”.

Arthur looked over and saw his eldest daughter, his 15 year old they had named Viola and who now went by the moniker “Ola”, with her pierced nose and chartreuse spiked hair, lounging in the doorway.

"Manda’s right, we have to have Thanksgiving dinner."

“You can barely boil water, how are you going to cook a whole turkey?"

Now his twin sons, Jesse and James (he really couldn’t forgive his wife for insisting on those names) joined the conversation. Tall, with ginger hair like their mother’s, they were the closet image to her.

“Why don’t you hire someone to cook for us, or order it from a restaurant or something?"

“No, it has to be cooked at home!"

Miranda was in a full out cry.

“Mommy always cooked at home, we always helped her, and I got to put the marshmallows on the sweet potatoes, that was always my job."

Arthur looked at his children sitting around the table, tried to feel that he was in control of the situation when for the last year he had felt as if he were in a free fall, unable to do anything right, unable to keep his wife alive, having to sit by and watch her get weaker and sicker, unable to protect her the way a man was supposed to. She had laughed gently at him, telling him it was ok; there was nothing he could do for her, just take care of the kids. He had let her down, and now he felt he was doing it again.

“I guess we can make the dinner ourselves. We just have to follow Mum’s recipes."

Ola sighed and put her head in her arms on the table.

“She never wrote anything down, she always said it was some of this, some of that. Just let it happen and it’ll take care of itself."

That had been her philosophy about everything.

“How hard can it be? Just put a turkey in the oven, boil some potatoes, then ‘Bob’s your uncle’, Thanksgiving dinner."

“There’s also the turnip mash, and the stuffing with sausage, and the rolls," Jesse said dreamily.

“And desserts, chocolate pudding pie, apple cinnamon tart, macaroons," James added.

“The sweet potato casserole with marshmallows. I always make that” Miranda said stubbornly.

Had they really eaten all those different foods? No wonder his wife always took the day off from work to get everything done. It couldn’t be that difficult, could it?

“Ok, look, we’ll make a list of all the foods that Mum used to make, and then try to figure out how to prepare them. It’s the second week of November, so we’ve still got two weeks to get everything ready. We’ll figure out a way to make everything just like Mum did."

“Except Mum won’t be here to sing ‘Over the River and Thru the Woods’," Jesse said softly.

Arthur felt his stomach tighten. That song had driven him mad whenever his wife had sang it, incessantly, from dawn to dusk on Thanksgiving. He felt his own eyes dampen as he thought about her off key singing.

Tanka 5:25

2010-11-16T17:20:00.003-05:00

Your love was intense
The strain on my heart immense
Forever broken
Love's fragile pieces collect
Dust in my soul's dark places.

Haiku 5:28

2010-11-15T16:40:00.002-05:00

Look but do not touch
Transgressions arouse delight
but leave a deep scar.

Haiku 3:11 pm

2010-11-10T15:09:00.007-05:00

Your thoughtless gesture
Brought me immediate pain
Treasure me no more

She looked at the haiku, then crumbled up the paper and threw it to the ground with its half dozen predecessors. Why couldn't she write? She needed him to know how badly he'd hurt her, not just as a woman, but as a writer as well. Where did he get off telling her she couldn't write? Just because he had that one piece of flash fiction published in the local community college literary review, that didn't make him Charles Bukowski. Christ, he wasn't even Charles, . . . She stopped to think of another writer named Charles, and couldn't, which made her feel even more miserable than before. And those stupid friends of his in his writers' group, who the fuck were they to comment on anything she wrote? A bunch of wanna bees who thought they were hot shit because they all had blogs. Anybody can have a blog, that doesn't prove how good a writer you are. Hell, it was like gauging your popularity by how many friends you have on face book. She kicked at one of the abortive attempts with the tip of her sneaker. Stupid poetry, she sulked. She kept staring at the floor as the phone began to ring. She went to answer it but stopped when she saw the Caller ID number; it was him. She hesitated, reached for the phone, then chickened out. Let it go into voice mail, she thought to herself.

She waited, then picked up the phone to listen. She tapped her fingers impatiently on the receiver. She heard his flat, nasal tone on the recording.

"Look, I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings, but if you're going to be a good writer, you need to take criticism better. Your writing won't amount to anything if you don't toughen up. Trust me, I've been published, you know. I know what I'm talking about."

She threw the phone across the room, then stalked to her computer. She opened up her blog and wrote as quickly as possible. She hit Publish Post, then sat back, a satisfied look upon her face.

Toughen your own skin
Community college mags
Do Not Count for Shit!

One, Maybe Two At Most

2010-11-10T12:42:00.008-05:00

She was lying in bed, grateful to put her feet up, which was ironic, considering she made her living by putting her feet up. She listened to him taking a piss in the bathroom; as clients went, he was fairly normal. Straight sex, some head. Nothing like the guy she'd scheduled last week, the one who wanted to pretend he was a pirate so he could plunder her for buried treasure. She stretched her arms above her head and pointed her toes; she was getting too old for this life. One, maybe two years more at the most, and then she'd retire. Put her feet up for good.

He wandered back into her room and sat on the edge of the bed, taking her right foot into his hands. He began to gently massage it; she closed her eyes and smiled. What a considerate gesture, she thought. She let out a contented sigh and sunk deeper into the pillow. He finished with the one, then began on the other. She felt her body begin to relax, and had to fight to keep her senses about her. Don't let your guard down, a little voice said. She felt his hands drift up her legs, the stubble of his beard brushing against her inner thighs. He began to kiss her, letting his tongue dart across her flesh. She started to respond with her usual scripted words; "Oh yea, oh baby" but he stopped and sat up. She opened her eyes; her immediate reaction was one of apprehension.

"Don't" he said, a dark look clouding his face. "Don't pretend. I hate when women pretend. I'd rather you just lay there and let me enjoy myself."

She tried to get a read on him, began to question her initial assessment of him. She felt her survival instincts kick in.

"Sure baby, whatever you say. Enjoy yourself, but I wasn't pretending. You're really good. The best."

The look on his face got darker, and she felt her adrenaline begin to kick in.

"Don't fucking lie to me. I hate when people lie to me."

She tried to smile, tried to gain control of the situation again. Tell him what he wants to hear, the little voice said. She let out a deep breath.

"Ok,I'll stop pretending. You do what you gotta do to get your money's worth."

She saw him begin to relax, saw the black mood begin to dissipate. He bent over again, pushing her legs up, letting her feet drape over his shoulders.

"I fucking hate liars" she heard him mumble as he resumed his ministrations. She lay back and tried to find a happy place. One more year, maybe two, then she could retire. He moved up her body, plunging inside her. She could feel his mouth next to her ear.

"You hate this, don't you?"

"Fuck you, pal. You're not paying me to enjoy it."

"Yea, you hate this, and all the guys like me who buy you. You hate the fact that you can't tell me what a loser I am, that you have to pretend that I'm the best thing that's ever crawled into your bed. You hate the sense of powerlessness it arouses in you, don't you?"

Oh Christ, she thought, this one wanted to screw with her mind as well as her body. She tried to clench her pelvic muscles tighter in an attempt to make him cum faster. He started his interrogation again, mistaking her silence for acquiescence.

"So why do you do it, sweetie? Why do you let any schmuck with a c-note do whatever he wants to you? Were you molested as a child? Did your daddy make you take a shower with him? Or maybe it was your choir teacher making you stay after school to clean his pipes? Was that it? Go on, tell me, sweetie, tell me all the dirty details."

Sweet Jesus, this guy was a freak. She decided to play along, tell him what ever he wanted to hear.

"Yea, baby, you're right. It was my math teacher; I was fourteen, he was forty-five. He used to make me meet him during lunch, used to lock the door to the classroom. He'd make me touch him while he sucked my tits, letting his fingers probe me until they were sticky. Sometimes he'd spank me with the pointer, making me calculate Pi to fifteen decimal places. He called me his sweet piece of Pi. Get it darling, like pie? It's a play on words."

She could hear his breathing becoming shallow, his thrusts quickening as he grew closer to climaxing. Suddenly he pulled out and began to thrust between her breasts, depositing a pearl necklace along her throat. He let his hands wrap around her neck, rubbing the sticky substance into her skin and onto her lips. He bent down and kissed her, hard. Most guys would rather die than taste their own spunk, but not him. He lived for that taste. He rolled over onto his back, letting his head swim. He was just about to slip into a deep sleep when he felt her elbow in his ribs. He opened his eyes, slowly turning his head towards her. She was sitting up, smoking a cigarette.

"Come on, pal, time's up. Get dressed and get out."

He smiled and closed his eyes again.

"Not yet, baby. I've got a wallet full of hundreds. I plan on spending all of them."

She took another drag on her cigarette, then got out of bed, walking over to the dresser. She opened the drawer and pulled out the .22, making sure it was loaded. She looked over her shoulder and paused; he was watching her. He stared intently at her, then laid his head back onto the pillow.

"Put the gun away, darling. You'll never get away with it, and I'm not worth spending the rest of your life locked up. Come back to bed and rest; we've a long night ahead."

She sighed, placed the gun down, closed the drawer, and walked back to the bed, laying on her side facing away from him. He rolled next to her, his arm over her like a snare. She closed her eyes and tried to think of a happy place. One, two years more at most. Then she could retire.

Good bye My Love

2010-11-03T17:19:00.004-04:00

She lovingly gazed at him. Where had the time gone? It seemed only yesterday he was born, a hand full even as a newborn. Running around like a crazy man when he was a toddler, wielding his light saber, fighting for the Republic. He swore the Force would always be strong within him, yet almost from the moment he emerged from the womb he was intrigued by the Dark Side. Slowly it grew, a tiny kernel metamorphosing into an enormous psychic tumor. They endured years of pain and struggle, until finally he just gave up, the energy to fight was no longer in him. The end was quick; at least he didn't suffer.

"I love you baby. You'll always be my best boy."

She bent to give him one final kiss, then placed her hand on the lid, gently closing the coffin. She let her hand caress the surface one last time, then nodded her head abruptly, signally to take her son to his grave.

In Memory of Me

2010-11-02T00:00:00.001-04:00

The sky was gray and overcast as Mary made her way in the car, her six year old daughter, Martha, singing softly to herself in the back seat. Their trip had been delayed and Mary was afraid they wouldn’t have enough time to spend with her husband, Larry and their son Jesse. The car was packed with a basket of food, a blanket, a bucket with cleaning supplies inside, and a large jug of water. The scent of marigolds enveloped the car.

“Are we almost there Mommy?”

“Almost."

“How will we remember the spot? How will we find Daddy and Jesse? We haven’t been here in a while. We haven’t been here since . . .”

“I know where to go, I haven’t forgotten.”

Mary cut her daughter off. She knew painfully well where she had to go to meet her husband and son.

They drove on in silence, Martha acutely aware of the tension rising within her mother. Mary turned into a gated entrance, and then slowly wove her way down a narrow roadway. She made two left turns, then pulled the car over to the shoulder of the road and turned off the engine. She looked out the window, her eyes searching for a familiar landmark.

“Is this it Mommy?"

“Yes, sweetie, we’re here."

“Where are they? I don’t see them?"

“We have to get out and look for them. Help me get the things out of the trunk.”

Mary unbuckled Martha from her car seat, went to the back of the car and opened the trunk. She handed her daughter the blanket and the bucket, and grabbed the basket of food, the water and the two pots of marigolds, one yellow, one bright orange. She had to put the basket in the crook of her elbow and hold both pots of flowers tight against her chest, the jug of water clenched in her fist.

“This way.”

She pointed with her head down a narrow row.

“I think they’re down here."

The two of them trudged slowly down the lane, Martha slightly ahead of her mother. They walked for about ten minutes when the young girl cried out.

“Here they are Mommy, I found them.”

Mary, winded from her load, her arms aching, struggled to reach the spot without dropping everything. She plopped down next to her daughter, placing the items awkwardly on the ground.

“Hi guys”, she gasped, as she let her weight fall on her arms and knees.

The white head stone read, ‘In loving memory, Lazarus Micah O’Shea, Father and Jesse Aaron O’Shea, Beloved Son. The dates of birth were thirty five years apart; the date of death was the same. Mary put her hand on the stone. The cold marble burned her touch. The two of them sat there for a minute.

“Help me lay out the blanket” Mary finally said.

Martha picked up the blanket and laid it out next to the grave.

“Why are we here?”

She quietly asked her mother. Mary had to think a minute for the proper answer.

“To visit. It’s Dia de los Muertos."

“What’s that?”

“Dia de los Muertos. The Day of the Dead. It’s a day when people can remember the people who they loved who have died."

“Why did we bring all this stuff?"

“The bucket and water are to clean the head stone, and the food is for us to have a picnic. The flowers are to make everything look pretty."

“How can we have a picnic in a graveyard? Won’t people get mad?"

“No, people used to do it all the time in the old days. Down in Mexico whole families visit the cemeteries and spend time with their dead relatives, eating, telling stories, singing songs."

Mary began to pour some of the water into the bucket as Martha looked at her.

"That’s in Mexico, this is New Jersey. We’re not even Mexican. Maybe we aren’t allowed to do this."

Mary laughed.

“Why wouldn’t we be allowed? Everyone is allowed to remember the people they love."

“I don’t know," Martha said.

She sat down on the blanket and pulled the basket of food towards her, rummaging inside for something to eat.

Mary swished the brush inside the bucket to mix the soap. She gently placed her hand on the top of the grave stone and began to rhythmically move the brush across it. She looked at the dates on the face; had it really only been four months since that horrible day? She had gone to work early and Larry had walked Martha to school, Jesse strapped to his chest in one of those infant slings. On the way home from dropping his daughter off father and son had waited for the light to change before crossing the street; they never saw the car fail to stop, jump the curb and pin the two of them against the building behind them. The force of the impact was so violent that Jesse’s body had been pushed into his father’s abdominal cavity, searching to return to a womb that had never existed. Mary was just about to go into a meeting when the phone call announced the destruction of her world. She had wanted to crawl into the grave with her husband and son; only the fact that she still had to mother her daughter had kept her from giving up completely. This was the first time she had visited the grave. A foreign holiday had given her the courage to visit. She had wanted to believe in the old tales from school, All Soul’s Day, I am the Resurrection and the Life, he that believes in me will have everlasting life. What kind of God kills a three month old child, she had wondered? The type of God who lets his own son be crucified.

Mary rinsed the soap away from the rock and began to dry it with a towel. Martha was still digging in the basket, pulling out food and drink when a small box caught her eye. She opened it and gasped at its’ contents.

“What are these?"

Two white sugar skulls lay inside, each decorated with brightly colored cake frosting. One had the name ‘Lazarus’ written across the forehead, the other ‘Jesse’.

“They’re candy skulls. You leave them as a gift for the dead."

Martha stared intently at her mother.

“Mommy”, she said slowly and solemnly, “Daddy and Jesse are dead. You don’t leave presents to dead people. They can’t do anything with them. They’re dead."

Martha wanted to reach out and slap her daughter, wanted to scream “I know they’re dead, I haven’t been able to forget that”, but she couldn’t, she couldn’t refute her daughter’s logic. She had hoped that coming here today would give her some sense of closure, that she’d have some sort of epiphany, had hoped that following the rituals of another culture would make some sense to a totally senseless act. This was El Dia De los Muertos, the one day during the year when the souls of the departed are able to communicate with the living. Where were her loved ones? Why didn’t they try to contact her? Why didn’t they offer comfort? Her six year old daughter knew why; because they were dead. The dead have no need for presents, or food or the living. They’re dead.

Martha emptied the bucket of water onto the ground, repacked the food inside the basket and folded the blanket. The wind began to blow stronger as she arranged the marigolds in front of the head stone. The two candy skulls were left on top, the way stones are left on the top of a Jewish grave. She and her daughter walked back to the car, dumped their belongings in the trunk, entered the vehicle and drove away as the rain began. The two skulls began to melt in the pouring rain, the icing leaving colored streaks down the front of the gravestone.

Memories

2010-11-01T00:00:00.001-04:00

I was three years old when my mother died. My father, an Irish poet of some renown, was forty five and forced to raise a little girl he knew nothing about. My mother had been one of his graduate students at University. I have a vague memory of her; tall, thin, long red hair. Pictures don’t seem to reinforce that memory, only confuse it.

My father spent the next two years gleefully playing the part of grieving widower/single parent. There was a succession of students in and out of his bed during those years. None of them stayed long, each growing disillusioned that the man was nothing like the artist. Only one is seared into my subconscious and even today, so many years later, she is the strongest memory of my childhood.
She was different from the others because, unlike them, she was a woman, fully formed in opinion, personality and talent. She was an American writer on sabbatical for the year at the University. My father was enthralled by her; he would speak in glowing terms to me about her. She was the same age as him, with long red hair like my mother’s, the only difference being that the woman’s was full and curly. My father began to spend more and more time away from home in the evening, leaving me in the care of a relative. After about eight weeks he announced that the three of us would be going on a picnic; this would be the chance for us to all become better friends, he said.

Saturday arrived and we set out for a quiet spot near a lake. I immediately saw what my father found so attractive about this woman; she was beautiful, kind and infinitely patient with me, helping me set out the lunch, running and playing with me in the park. Finally my father had me settle down for a nap under a large oak tree. I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

Moments later I was woken by a small cry. I was lying on my side, and still half asleep; I partially opened my eyes to see its source. We were in a small secluded spot away from any on lookers. I saw the woman on her back, her blouse opened, her breasts exposed, my father’s hand roughly grabbing her left one while his mouth devoured the right. Her skirt was hiked up, her legs bare, her knees wedged under my father’s shoulders. He was naked from the shoulders down, his pants wrapped around his ankles, his body crushing hers, her hands clawing at his back. I remained silent, not wanting to announce my awareness. I could hear my father speaking softly, whispering words like, Shhh, stop, it’s ok. At one point she turned her face towards me; her eyes were closed, her face wet with tears, her lips slightly parted, a low moan escaping her mouth. Suddenly her eyes opened and our eyes locked. I quickly closed mine again, trying to block out the sight, but I could still hear my father’s voice, alternately soothing and kind, than harsh and impatient. Moments later it grew painfully silent. I drifted off to sleep again. My father woke me up, saying it was time to go. The sky had darkened; a storm was on its way. I tried to see the woman’s face but she had it covered by her long thick hair. We gathered our belongings, got in the car, and drove home. My father left our house with the woman, returning the next morning, a smug smile of satisfaction on his lips.

“Dearest,” he said later that day, “I think I’ve found you a new mother."

The woman disappeared from our lives as suddenly as she had appeared. Her time abroad was cut short by an emergency back home, and she left several days later for safer shores. My father was alternately furious and heartbroken, crying to anyone who would listen about losing the love of his life twice in one lifetime. He kept this performance up for quite some time. I never spoke to anyone about what I had seen that day.

The memory of that day began to recede as I grew up, but sometimes it would flash like a bolt of lightning in my consciousness. What had I really seen, I would ask myself? As a child I had been confused and frightened by the scene, by my father’s strength and the woman’s helplessness. As I grew older and became more aware of life I became ill at my father’s brutality. Had they been making love, taking advantage of the solitude to indulge in some harmless role playing? Or was my father a rapist, forcing himself on a woman who was unable to defend herself? How could I reconcile his actions in the park with his attitude the next day, confident, happy, guilt free?

That was almost twenty years ago. Dementia has claimed my father, completely wiping out the man he was, memory fully absent from his mind. I saw the woman once, in New York, several years ago. She was at a book reading, and at the reception after wards I went up and introduced myself. She remembered me, asked about my life, than asked about my father. When I told her about him a cold triumphant look flashed in her eyes. I drew closer to her and whispered.

“Do you remember that day, in the park, when he . . .”

She grabbed my arm with her hand, cutting me off before I could finish. Our eyes locked once more.

“Some memories aren’t worth keeping."

Sop Doll- A Jack Tale-Part II

2010-10-24T00:00:00.004-04:00

Author's Note: This is not an original piece by VL Sheridan. "Jack Tales" are Appalachian folklore, passed down in an oral tradition as oppossed to a written one. When I was in grade school one hundred years ago, the school librarian, Mrs. Martin, would read this story to us. It has a special place in my heart; I hope you enjoy it too.

Jack come at it with his knife, syas, "I done told you not to sop your doll in there. You try it one more time now, and I'll sure whack it off."

The old cat drawed back, set on there switchin' its tail. Them other cats stirred a little, one or two of 'em sort of meowled.

Then that cat fopped its foot right smack in Jack's gravy, says, "Sop! Doll-ll-ll!"

Jack came down with his knife right quick and cut the cat's paw plumb off. The old cat jumped for a window and all twelve of 'em went,

"Whar-r-r-r-r!" and were gone from there 'for Jack could turn to look.

Well, Jack went to throw that meat in the fire, and instead of a cat's paw hit was a woman's hand layin' there in the skillet, had a ring on one finger.

Jack took the hand out and wropped it in some paper, put it up on the fireboard. Then he washed and scoured his skillet, cooked him some more meat, and a pone of bread. Got done eatin' and went on to bed.

The next mornin'the man that owned the mill got up real early, says, "Old lady, you better get up and cook me some breakfaxt. I reckon I'll have to make arrange-ments about buryin' that boy today."

His lady sort of scrouged around in the bed, said she was sick and couldn't get up. So the man fixed fimself some breakfast and pulled on down to the mill.
There was Jack, just a-grindin' right on.

The man got in to where Jack was, hollered to him, says, "Well! I wasn't expectin' to see you alive, Jack. Thought I'd be buryin' you today."

Jack hollered back at him, says, "When you get that turn ground out, shut the mill down. I got to talk to ye, right now."

So directly Jack went and pulled the water-gate so's the mill racket 'uld stop and him and that man could talk.

Says, "Now, Jack, you tell me what happened last night." Jack related to him about all them black cats and he told about the old man givin' him that silver knife.

The man says, "I see through the whole thing now. Hit's a witch gang. They wanted to have their lodge meetin's here in the mill. And when that cat sopped in the grease she pizened it someway or other."

Jack said he had an idea that was how it was. Said that was why he scoured the skillet. The man said hit was a good thing he done that. Then Jack told him about the cat's paw turnin' into a woman's hand, says, "You might not believe that, but I've got it right here to show ye." Got that woman's hand and unwroped it.

The man took it, looked it over, looked at the ring on it, says, "Now, I declare! Well, I'd 'a never thought it!" Says, "Now, Jack, you lock the mill up and come on back home with me. We got to tend to this right now. Hit's a good thing that knife was made out of silver. You can't hurt a witch with a knife, or a bullet even, unless it's silver."

So they went back to the house and the man's old woman was still in the bed. He asked her if she felt any better. She said No, said she'd not get up for a little while longer.

So the man says to her, says, "You want me to send for the doctor?"

She said No, said for him to send for some of the neighbor women. He asked her what women folks she wanted to come and she named out eleven women in the settle-ment. So the man sent word to 'em, and 'fore any of 'em got there he says to his wife, says, "Let me see your right hand."

The old woman sort of twisted around, poked out her left hand.

"No," says the old man, "hit's your right hand I want to see."

So she twisted and turned, poked out her left hand again. Then he reached over and pulled out her right arm and there wasn't no hand on it.

Well, the women folks came readily as soon as they got the word.

The man says to Jack, says, "I been suspectin' my old woman was mixed up with that gang of witches, but I'd 'a never 'lowed she was the head of it."

Jack says, "Oh, surely not."

Man says, "Yes, I knowed hit was her hand time I saw the ring on it."

Well, when the last of them eleven women got in with his old lady, that man shut the door on 'em and fired the house. Them twelve witches started crackin' and poppin', and ever' one of 'em was burnt plumb up.

So Jack made an end of the witch gang in that settle-ment. And that man never did have no more trouble about his mill.

________________________________________
The Jack Tales, by Richard Chase. copyright 1971.

Sop Doll!-A Jack Tale

2010-10-23T00:00:00.012-04:00

Author's Note: This is not an original piece by VL Sheridan. "Jack Tales" are Appalachian folklore, passed down in an oral tradition as oppossed to a written one. When I was in grade school a hundred year ago, the school librarian, Mrs. Martin, would read us this story every Halloween. It has a special place in my heart; hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Said one time Jack started out to hunt him a job of work. He pulled out and travelled on till he got to another settle-ment, ran across a feller told him there was a man there wanted to hire some work done. So he told Jack where the man's house was at, and Jack went over there; stopped by the gate and hollered, "Hello!"

The man came out, asked Jack what did he want. So Jack told him.

The man told Jack to come on in; asked him what his name was. Says, "Well, Jack, I've got a mill on a watercourse down the road a piece, but I've got no time to run it. I've hired several men to grind down there, but the very first night somethin' has always killed 'em. Looked like there was some kind of pizen. Now I thought I'd tell ye, Jack, so you'd know all about it 'fore ye took the job."

"Well," syas Jack, "if you don't care, we might walk down there and look that mill over."

So they went on down to the mill. Hil was a old log house with a fire place and ever'thing fixed for whoever tended the mill to cook and sleep down there. There were twleve little windows rather high-up on the walls, had no window lights in 'em.

Jack looked it over right good, sayd, "Bedad, I believe I might take the job."

The man says, "All right, Jack. I see you're no coward. Now I'll give ye half of what you make and give ye your rations too. I'll go back to the house and get ye some meat and meal for your supper. And you can start in grindin' soon as anybody comes."

Well, when word got out that the mill was opened again, lots of customers started comin' in and Jack had to grind right on till it was plumb dark.

Fin'ly got the last turn ground out and shut the mill down. He hadn't no more'n got the water turned out of the mill race when here came an old man on a sorry-lookin' mule, got off and walked in the mill with a little poke of corn on his shoulder. He had a long gray beard and he was one-eyed.

"Howdy do, Jack," he says. "How you gettin' on?"

"All right, I guess," says Jack. "I hope you're well."

"About like common," says the old man.

Then Jack looked at him, says, "I don't believe I ever say you before."

"No," the old man told him, "I'm a stranger."

"Well, how in the world did you know my name?" Jack asked him.

"Oh. I knowed ye time I saw ye," the old man says. "I've come a long way today, Jack, and I wonder could you grind my corn for me. I couldn't get here no sooner."

"Why, sure," says Jack. "You wait here for a minute and I'll go turn the water in again."

So Jack started the mill up and ground the stranger's corn for him; shut the mill down, and when he got back the old man says to him, says, "Jack, you're the first one ever done me right here at this mill and I'm goin' to give ye a present."

He reache in his big coar and took out a silver knife and handed it to Jack. Jack thanked him and the old man left. Then Jack built him up a fire in the fireplace and got out the skillet.

Now Jack didn't have no lamp, but the fire gave out right much light, and it happened the moon ws shinin' in all twelve of them windows. Made it pretty near bright as day.

So Jack wsa cuttin' up his meat with that silver knife when all at once hit got thick dark in there. Jack looked up and there in ever' one of them little windows sat a big black cat. They all were a-lookin' right at Jack, their eyes just a-shinin'.

Well, Jack wasn't scared, much. He went on and put his meat in the skillet, set it on the fire and stooped down to turn it with his knife; paid no attention to them cats. But just about the time his meat 'gun to fry, Jack heared one cat light down on the floor. He went on a cookin', and the next thing he knowed, there was a big balck cat a-settlin' right up in the fireplace with him.

Jack went to turn the meat over and that cat stuck out its paw toward the skillet, says, "Sop doll!"

Jack reached out right quick with his knife, says, "You better not sop your doll in my meat or I'll cut it off."

The old cat jerked its foot back and set there awhile. Them other cats stirred around a little; stayed on up in the windows.

________________________________________

Rock A Bye Baby-Part Six

2010-10-22T00:00:00.000-04:00

The cop was trying to be patient, but the kid wasn’t very cooperative. He wasn’t sure she knew what really happened. Sara sat on the couch with Lizzie on her lap. The police had called her at work; she rushed home sick at what she would find. The guilt would last a lifetime. Lizzie was tired. She had all ready told the man what had happened, and she didn’t want to answer any more questions. All she wanted to do was sleep.

The cop tried once more. “Ok, hon, can you tell me one more time what happened?”
Lizzie gave him an annoyed look and sighed.

“I told you, I woke up because I wet the bed and I wanted Mommy. I came into the living room and Chris was holding the baby and drinking a beer. He went onto the balcony with the baby and tripped over my cat. He got mad and said a bad word and put Reggie on the edge of the railing and started chasing my cat and he caught her and said he was going to throw her over the ledge and I ran over and pushed him and he fell forward and hit his head on the ledge. I saw Baby run over to the couch, but when I looked over to the balcony I didn’t see Reggie any more so I called 911 like I learned at school and then you guys came.”

She rubbed her eyes.

“I’m tired. Can I go to bed now, Mommy?”

“Sure baby. I’ll be right back,” she said to the cop.

The cop surveyed the room. Furniture toppled, beer cans all over the floor; it looked like a war zone. He hated cases like this. Children getting hurt always made him sick. He couldn’t figure out how anyone could be dumb enough to put a baby on a balcony ledge, but from what the little girl said, this guy wasn’t exactly ‘Father Knows Best’.

Sara returned to the living room, her eyes red.

“What happens now?” Her voice was strained.

“We’ll wait until your boyfriend regains consciousness to see what he has to say. It doesn’t look good for him, especially since we have a witness. You can expect to hear from children’s services about this."

“When can I collect the body?”

“I’m not sure you’re legally entitled to. You’d better ask children’s services.”

“That poor little baby,” Sara broke into tears. “He never got one break in his tiny life. I knew Chris didn’t like him, but I didn’t think he was capable of this.”
The cop looked at her with a mix of pity and contempt.

“We’ll be in touch,” he said tersely, and walked into the new dawning day.

Sara looked at the mess around her and collapsed on the couch, crying harder. In her bedroom, Lizzie was sound asleep, exhausted by the events of the night, holding her secret promise deep in her heart. Her cat, her baby, lay curled up at her feet, dead to the world.

Rock A Bye Baby-Part Five

2010-10-21T00:00:00.001-04:00

Chris awoke with a start. He thought he’d heard something. He was groggy from all the beer. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was after midnight, almost four hours until Sara came home. The baby was asleep in his lap; Chris thought he’d put him back in his crib, but when he tried to get up he found it difficult to stand. Well, maybe he’d just stretch out on the couch and leave the baby on a chair. Struggling to his feet, Chris was leaning over the chair to put the baby down when he heard a shuffling noise in the hallway. Looking up he saw Lizzie creeping along the wall.

“What the hell are you doing up? Get back to bed.”

“I want Mommy,” was the almost inaudible answer.

“She’s not here. Go back to bed, dammit.”

“I want Mommy,” the child repeated, this time breaking into quiet sobs.

“Are you stupid? I said she’s not here, so get your ass back in bed now!”

“I can’t,” the child replied, weeping harder now.

“Why not?” Chris could feel his patience wearing thin.

“I wet the bed,” was the humiliated answer. The child was sobbing uncontrollably now.

Chris saw white.

“You stupid brat, I’m gonna beat your ass for that.”

Dropping the baby on the chair, he staggered toward Lizzie, who had huddled into a ball, terrified to move. Just as he was within arm’s reach, the cat ran in between Chris’ feet. Losing his balance, he swung around, murder in his eyes.

“That does it! You’re going over the railing cat!”

Blind with drunken rage, he chased after the cat. The cat put up a terrific fight, yowling and clawing, scratching and spitting. Chris tripped over one of Lizzie’s toys and fell into the back of the chair, knocking the baby to the floor. Reggie started to cry. Chris finally grabbed the cat by the scruff of its neck.

“Over the side” he grumbled under his breath as he made his way to the balcony.

“No, no, Baby, my baby!” Lizzie shrieked.

The thought of harm coming to her cat sprang her into action. Hysterical and blind with tears, she ran after Chris. As he reached the door to the balcony, she threw herself against his knees, tackling him and pushing him forward. Losing his balance, he let go of the cat in a vain attempt to keep from falling. He struck his head against the railing and collapsed in an unconscious heap. Lizzie sat next to him, hitting his body with her hands.

“I hate you, I hate you” she sobbed. “Go away, go away, I wish you’d go away and leave us alone!”

“He’s not a very nice guy, is he?”

A strange male voice spoke at the front door. Startled, Lizzie looked up and saw two men she’d never seen before standing in the hallway. The one with a baseball cap on his head walked over to Chris and checked the cut on his head.

“He’s out, probably will be for a while.”

The other man was tall and thin, with bright blue eyes. He came over to Lizzie and crouched down beside her. The man smiled and spoke quietly and slowly to her.

“You don’t like this guy too much, do you?”

He wiped her eyes and made her blow her nose. Lizzie began to calm down, but felt uncomfortable having strangers in the house. She took a deep breath.

“No,” she said firmly, “I hate him, he yells at me all the time, he hits Mommy, he kicks my cat and he threw my Pretty Pony over the ledge. I wish he’d go away forever.”

The man rubbed her back and continued to speak softly to her.

“Shh, hush. What if I told you a way to make him go away forever, but you had to keep a secret, would you help me do it?”

Lizzie looked at him suspiciously. Mommy had told her never to talk to strangers, but this guy said he knew of a way to get rid of Chris. Forever.

Looking down at her hands, she shyly peeked up at him and asked “How?"

“It’s easy, but it means you’d have to do something bad. Would you be able to do it?”

The guy with the base ball cap looked at his partner.

“What are you doing? We were told to take care of this punk.”

The blue eyed man smiled.

“We are going to take care of him, and this little sweetie is going to help us, aren’t you daring?”

He tickled her, and she laughed. Leaning close he began to whisper in her ear. She grew quiet and solemn. Only once did she look anxiously over at the baby, still crying on the floor. She picked him up, cradling him close to her. She started to rock him back and forth, singing softly. Looking back over her shoulder at the two men she went to the edge of the railing.

“. . . When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, and down will come baby . . .”

She stood on her tip toes, reached the baby over the ledge, and let go.

Fore! Play.

2010-10-20T10:24:00.007-04:00

Dinner was over, the wine was drunk, now all that was left was to unwrap the goodies. She gasped when he pulled it out to surprise her.

"Oh, darling, it's immense!"

His ego wasn't the only thing swelling. Scwing! He kissed her cheek.

"Happy birthday, baby."

She bent her head closer to get a better look, puckering her lips in anticipation. Her earrings shimmered in the candlelight; he let his hand gently brush her hair away from her face.

"I've always had enormous luck with it. I hope you like it."

"It's so big. I don't know if I can handle it."

He laughed gently.

"It might be longer than you're used to, but I don't think you should have any trouble. Why don't you hold it?"

She blushed slightly, trying to contain her excitement. She gently placed her hand around the shaft, letting her fingers wrap around the thick pole. He smiled, and leaned his head back on the couch, enjoying the effect. Once again she let her face get within inches of its head, studying it with great intent.

"So you've had good results with it?"

"Definitely. I always manage to get in the hole with this bad boy."

A haughty look enveloped her face. She playfully positioned herself on his lap, biting his ear as she snuggled close.

"I love you darling, but with this new wood I'm going to kick your ass on the golf course."

Rock A Bye Baby-Part Four

2010-10-20T00:00:00.001-04:00

Chris looked around the small, tired apartment. The doors leading to the balcony were open, letting in a meager breeze. He grabbed a beer, walked back to the living room and dropped on the couch. Where’s that damn cat, he wondered? Hope it got run over by a bus. One of these days he really would throw it over the ledge. He heard a soft crying sound coming from the bedroom. Damn thing must be stuck in a closet. A shadow on the floor made him realize that the cat was sitting in the window, silently watching him. Damn, he thought, it’s the baby. Now what was he supposed to do?
He tried to ignore it but the crying grew stronger and more insistent. He got up and got another beer, and on the way back he looked in on the baby. It was pathetic looking; born premature to a crack addicted mother, it was under weight and suffering from numerous neurological disorders. Reggie was unable to interact with people or his surroundings the way a normal infant would. His future was bleak. It would be difficult to place him for adoption; his medical expenses alone, even with government assistance, would bankrupt a family. Chris looked at the fussing infant with feelings of contempt and fear.

“Well, what’s your problem?”

The baby, sensing a hostile presence, cringed and cried harder.

“I’m going to beat her ass when she gets home. What am I supposed to do?”

“He wants you to pick him up,” a tiny voice said. Spinning around, Chris saw Lizzie, the cat by her side.

“What the hell are you doing up? Get your ass back to bed before I beat it!”

Lizzie ran back to her room; the cat sat staring at him.

“Beat it!”

He snarled, throwing his empty beer can at it. He missed the cat as it ran towards the living room. Turning back to the crib, Chris looked down at the still fussing baby. Should he pick it up? He reached down and grabbed the child with one hand. The baby immediately stiffened and tried to squirm away. Chris held it tighter and went to the kitchen to get another beer. Returning to the living room he sat on the couch, looking at the baby. It was still squirming and crying. Chris tried to get it to stop, but his attempts were horribly inadequate. Frustrated, he took a swig of beer. He looked at the baby as the liquid slid down his throat. Why not, he thought. Propping up the baby with one hand, and holding the beer can with the other; he tried to pour some beer into the baby’s mouth, soaking the front of his sleeper. The baby cried louder and harder.

“Come on damn it, lighten up bud,” Chris muttered, trying to give Reggie a drink. This time he was more successful; Reggie swallowed and choked on the unfamiliar liquid. He immediately threw up all over himself and Chris.

“Fuck! Man, you got to learn to hold your brew, dude.”

Chris wiped the vomit off, and then gave the baby more beer. This time Reggie managed to keep it down.

“Way to go man, two guys belting back some brews.”

Chris took a swig of beer and watched the baby grow quieter. Hell, this wasn’t so bad, this was no problem.

Rock A Bye Baby-Part Three

2010-10-19T00:00:00.000-04:00

“There’s no way I’m gonna baby sit! I’ve got better things to do than watch a freaked out crack head bastard and your daughter.”

Chris was in no mood for this. He was ready to walk.

“Please Chris, I’ve got to work tonight, my sister can’t watch the kids, I’ve got no one else to turn to.”

Sara was desperate; she hated the idea of leaving the kids alone with Chris, but there was no one else to ask. She was finally scheduled to return to the day shift and she didn’t want to anger her supervisors by calling out sick. Chris looked at her with disgust. He was about to leave when he remembered that a night out may not be such a good idea. Word on the street was people were still upset with him; if he went out he could expect no aid or comfort. Maybe he should continue to lay low, stay in. Spend the night at Sara’s.

“Fine,” he replied, “I’ll watch the kids tonight, but you owe me big time for this.”

“Thank you baby. The kids are in bed, they should sleep through the night. If the baby wakes up just pick him up and hold him for a while and he should fall back to sleep.”

She kissed him good bye and raced out the door. She tried to ignore the nagging feeling that this was a mistake. She started her car. Her eyes on the traffic, she didn’t notice the two figures leaning against the building across the street, their eyes on the balcony to her apartment.