The evening had swung round again, and within minutes the sun would be pushing up past the edges. They two were still awake, smiling, kissing, holding. He said something dry; she laughed. There was a secret punishment which had been inflicted on both. It said: you will live like a cigarette, burning so beautifully at first, and falling to ashes. Ashes came with sunrise.
Friday, October 11, 2013
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Footnote 3 of Carl Edson's "Broken Mirrors: The Schism of Post-war Ke$han Scholarship" (2078, p.1)
3. Dr Branson's early papers regarding socio-distorted discourse, and the subsequent rebuttal to his claims on gender roles--spearheaded by Gayle's "Party Girlz: Glitter and Glam in Six Songs of Cannibal (2027)"--produced a fundamental new lens through which Ke$hanism could be viewed not necessarily as an actual academic discourse, but rather, through a Gรถdelian use of metafictional devices and "fourth-wall-breakage (p. 3)," a type of performance "in homage and honor [of] that greatest of all: Ke$ha. (p. 18)." This period would set the stage for pre-war philosophies to sweep the larger field of depersonalizational therapy, creating a fertile ground for the current period of scholarship.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Werewolf
My hands were incredibly warm, and beneath them was something so smooth and soft and giving that a part of me didn't believe. It would have been hard for anyone. To believe, I mean. How could another human being possibly see what I was seeing? Feel what I was feeling? The impossible blues, the smooth and gradual shadows, painting a gradient across her cheek. The cold tang of the water and the smooth warmth of her throat. My fingers were leaving beautiful indentations against her windpipe and arteries.
It was as if I were seeing her through a dream, the sensation. I knew it to be wrong, and I knew I would regret it so, but it came through filtered. My eyes had a shroud over them through which everything passed in a fog of vagary. I was briefly aware of the trickle of moonlight in the stream, but my heart beat loudly over it.
It was as if I were seeing her through a dream, the sensation. I knew it to be wrong, and I knew I would regret it so, but it came through filtered. My eyes had a shroud over them through which everything passed in a fog of vagary. I was briefly aware of the trickle of moonlight in the stream, but my heart beat loudly over it.
Laid Out
Laina hadn't moved in, she guessed, four hours. She'd lain down on the carpet of her room, plucked a string on the guitar a few feet away, and then hadn't moved for two hundred forty minutes. She blinked now and then. And she kept breathing. But she hadn't really moved.
She could not discern why this was so--her not moving and her general "not-movingness" that had developed internally as the not moving continued externally. She felt deadened. It was as if someone had, in that moment of acute pain when she'd taken it upon herself to lie down on the carpet of her floor, stuck her with a syringe full of soul-novocaine. And since then she hadn't moved.
She ran her tongue against the back of her teeth. They were smooth as all get out, but had weird little bumps and ridges, like you might expect of a topographical-map-made-model. Her eyes hurt from staring through the legs of her bed so long. She had counted the thirteen different wood grain knots in her floorboard seventeen times. She had counted how many times she'd counted her counting. Four times.
She felt absolutely nothing.
She longed to be high or drunk or rolling or tripping or something. But she could not bring herself to get up. And in the place she knew she should have felt guilt or crushing failure in wanting to resort to drugs, she felt a sort of a squeegeeish feeling. A lumpy, wet, nearly-soapy cleanness. An almost kind of dirty cleanness.
She breathed in, once, deeply, and she held the breath. Then she breathed out.
She could not discern why this was so--her not moving and her general "not-movingness" that had developed internally as the not moving continued externally. She felt deadened. It was as if someone had, in that moment of acute pain when she'd taken it upon herself to lie down on the carpet of her floor, stuck her with a syringe full of soul-novocaine. And since then she hadn't moved.
She ran her tongue against the back of her teeth. They were smooth as all get out, but had weird little bumps and ridges, like you might expect of a topographical-map-made-model. Her eyes hurt from staring through the legs of her bed so long. She had counted the thirteen different wood grain knots in her floorboard seventeen times. She had counted how many times she'd counted her counting. Four times.
She felt absolutely nothing.
She longed to be high or drunk or rolling or tripping or something. But she could not bring herself to get up. And in the place she knew she should have felt guilt or crushing failure in wanting to resort to drugs, she felt a sort of a squeegeeish feeling. A lumpy, wet, nearly-soapy cleanness. An almost kind of dirty cleanness.
She breathed in, once, deeply, and she held the breath. Then she breathed out.
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Saturday, October 5, 2013
Serial Killers Getting High
"No man, it's weird. You just like... it's strange."
"When do I feel it?"
"Soon."
They each took another hit, the second boy coughing.
"Okay. I feel it. Do I feel it? What does it... feel like. I feel it."
The first smiled.
He saw, in his mind's eye, the animals he'd dissected alive. He saw their hearts beating, and for the pleasure they'd brought then, an endless wing of remorse unfolded within him. He let it go.
"Oh my God," the second said, "it's like a... it's like..."
"A great big wing man. Don't hurt too bad. It's okay, you didn't know."
His friend started weeping for his past, and he held him. Absolved him. And all of this is the cloud of a new future.
Friday, October 4, 2013
A Chat
The day I met God it was in the mid-70s and overcast. I love that kind of weather. It was later in the evening; I'd driven into the edge of town to have a few drinks with a friend of mine, but he'd cancelled at the last second.
I've never minded drinking alone, so I sat down, ordered three fingers of Jameson neat, and started reading a book.
A man came and sat next to me and told me:
"You won't believe this, but I'm God."
I told him he was right.
He said: "When you were thirteen, you fantasized about living inside a woman's breast, non-sexually."
I told him he was right.
"When you were twenty, you didn't threaten to kill yourself to your ex-girlfriend, because you felt that would be unfair."
I told him to get to the point.
"You're going to kill someone tonight, driving home drunk."
He was probably right, I was already on my second drink.
"You saw the little girl today, but you didn't really notice her. You remember the red balloon though."
I did.
"You're going to slam into her mother's car going home, and kill the mother. The girl will be brain-damaged for the rest of her life. Severely."
"Then I won't drive home," I said.
"Yes you will. You can't help it."
I looked down at the drink, then back at God. I finished the drink and ordered another.
I asked him why he was telling me all this.
He didn't really know. "There is no reason, I guess," he said.
"Okay."
After a few hours, after I was considerably drunk, I stepped outside. I felt decently dizzy. We had talked about the world and our favorite drinks and why certain animals existed, but Pokemon didn't. He was pretty nice.
I came to my car and looked at it for a long time, admiring the dents and the duct tape that held my driver's side headlight in. I ran my fingers across the cracked window moulding. Or whatever that stuff's called. I fingered my keys in my pocket, and took them out. Held them up against the lock of the car, and dropped them.
As I was turning my eyes back up to the car, after picking up the keys, I noticed a storm drain maybe ten feet away.
I slid the keys in, hearing them bounce and jingle and scrape across the asphalt.
When I went back into the bar, the man said I had to go to Hell now. That it wasn't a test, that the mother had needed to die. It was all very important to him for some reason. I offered to buy him a drink, but he shook his head and left.
I've never minded drinking alone, so I sat down, ordered three fingers of Jameson neat, and started reading a book.
A man came and sat next to me and told me:
"You won't believe this, but I'm God."
I told him he was right.
He said: "When you were thirteen, you fantasized about living inside a woman's breast, non-sexually."
I told him he was right.
"When you were twenty, you didn't threaten to kill yourself to your ex-girlfriend, because you felt that would be unfair."
I told him to get to the point.
"You're going to kill someone tonight, driving home drunk."
He was probably right, I was already on my second drink.
"You saw the little girl today, but you didn't really notice her. You remember the red balloon though."
I did.
"You're going to slam into her mother's car going home, and kill the mother. The girl will be brain-damaged for the rest of her life. Severely."
"Then I won't drive home," I said.
"Yes you will. You can't help it."
I looked down at the drink, then back at God. I finished the drink and ordered another.
I asked him why he was telling me all this.
He didn't really know. "There is no reason, I guess," he said.
"Okay."
After a few hours, after I was considerably drunk, I stepped outside. I felt decently dizzy. We had talked about the world and our favorite drinks and why certain animals existed, but Pokemon didn't. He was pretty nice.
I came to my car and looked at it for a long time, admiring the dents and the duct tape that held my driver's side headlight in. I ran my fingers across the cracked window moulding. Or whatever that stuff's called. I fingered my keys in my pocket, and took them out. Held them up against the lock of the car, and dropped them.
As I was turning my eyes back up to the car, after picking up the keys, I noticed a storm drain maybe ten feet away.
I slid the keys in, hearing them bounce and jingle and scrape across the asphalt.
When I went back into the bar, the man said I had to go to Hell now. That it wasn't a test, that the mother had needed to die. It was all very important to him for some reason. I offered to buy him a drink, but he shook his head and left.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Swinging
He was swinging on a porch swing, looking out over a field of soybeans as the sun swung low over them. He was thinking about his classes and what all he had due in the upcoming week, with a feeling of stress and, as he thought about it, fear. He wondered what he might be forgetting as he cataloged his assignments, and thought about the teachers he could wheedle extensions from. He thought about a girl he had been talking to in History and whether or not he might have a chance with her--he felt himself to be a sort of hero to her, for helping her study this big test they'd just had. He thought about the dishes he had yet to do tonight.
She too was swinging on a porch swing, looking out over a field of soybeans, the sun swinging low. It burned a dull red, the color of the roads after rain. The sand roads, speckled with invisible but tainting particles of clay. It was beautiful the way it hung, and very warm in the dying evening. Grasshoppers flitted about from plant to plant in their endless search for... what did grasshoppers search for? They were ceaseless in their leaping, though, and for every one that landed, ten more took flight. The sun hung so low, now hardly just a sliver of grapefruit red, burning brighter as it fell lower over the edge. The back and forth of the swing was lulling, and made for good sleep. She could begin to imagine her eyes closing if she'd wanted.
Then there was also this paper that was coming due in two weeks, and he wasn't sure about what all came before the actual paper. Plus, the professor for that class was a huge stickler for grammar and so he'd have to go down to the writing lab at some point. Was she sleeping, now, he wondered, but was afraid to look over. He felt sick. He felt anxious and jittery and sick, but he couldn't begin to tap his foot on the porch, or he'd feel weird about it, and she might start asking about it, and besides it might kill the mood he'd tried to cultivate. Did she like sunsets and porch swings and crap like that? He wondered if this other girl, this one he'd met through a friend, liked that crap. She had been homely, but still very pretty, with a sunburned face and black hair that fell down over it in a mess, poking every freckle it seemed like. And when was the next he worked, he wondered? He'd have to check the schedule. He wondered if she would ever want to marry him, and he was afraid that he'd never want to marry her.
The sun was just slipping over now, and the sky was still a beautiful, gem-colored color. It was so warm though, still, despite the sun going, and the swinging of the swing lulled her, and she felt safe and secure, and sound. And very beautiful. And very much at peace.
She too was swinging on a porch swing, looking out over a field of soybeans, the sun swinging low. It burned a dull red, the color of the roads after rain. The sand roads, speckled with invisible but tainting particles of clay. It was beautiful the way it hung, and very warm in the dying evening. Grasshoppers flitted about from plant to plant in their endless search for... what did grasshoppers search for? They were ceaseless in their leaping, though, and for every one that landed, ten more took flight. The sun hung so low, now hardly just a sliver of grapefruit red, burning brighter as it fell lower over the edge. The back and forth of the swing was lulling, and made for good sleep. She could begin to imagine her eyes closing if she'd wanted.
Then there was also this paper that was coming due in two weeks, and he wasn't sure about what all came before the actual paper. Plus, the professor for that class was a huge stickler for grammar and so he'd have to go down to the writing lab at some point. Was she sleeping, now, he wondered, but was afraid to look over. He felt sick. He felt anxious and jittery and sick, but he couldn't begin to tap his foot on the porch, or he'd feel weird about it, and she might start asking about it, and besides it might kill the mood he'd tried to cultivate. Did she like sunsets and porch swings and crap like that? He wondered if this other girl, this one he'd met through a friend, liked that crap. She had been homely, but still very pretty, with a sunburned face and black hair that fell down over it in a mess, poking every freckle it seemed like. And when was the next he worked, he wondered? He'd have to check the schedule. He wondered if she would ever want to marry him, and he was afraid that he'd never want to marry her.
The sun was just slipping over now, and the sky was still a beautiful, gem-colored color. It was so warm though, still, despite the sun going, and the swinging of the swing lulled her, and she felt safe and secure, and sound. And very beautiful. And very much at peace.
The Waitress
The waitress waddled over to the boys carrying their eggs and bacon and pancakes. Each step was slow, painful, and her knees trembled slightly. They were at the table, singing to each other some popular song, one of them leaning back against the wall with his legs stretched out across the booth's seat. The other playing with his phone.
"Here y'are boys, two breakfast smileys. Can I getcha more coffee?" she asked the one on the phone.
"Nope. Thanks." he said, looking down at the plate.
She turned and began walking back towards the obnoxious women who'd been there almost an hour now.
"Hey," said the one who was practically lying down now, "You all right?"
"About what you'd think," she said, wanting to move on.
"You look like you're havin' a rough night," he said, smiling. He was open and inviting, and she was, after all having a bad night.
"You know how it is," she motioned with her head towards the women, "some folks just can't make up their minds. Do this, do that, get this, we didn't ask for that. It get's pretty old fast."
"Hey, well, don't worry about them. You can only do what ya can. Should we go beat 'em up for ya?"
She smiled and laughed a little bit. He was very handsome, and forty years younger than she.
"Oh God no, I can't ask yinz to fight customers," she said, smiling back in a way she thought of as flirtatiously.
"Well," he said, "You let us know what we can do for ya."
She kept smiling back at him.
"Well, she said, I guess I'm just pretty tired. It's been a hard year, y'know?"
"Oh yeah?" he said, picking at his eggs. The other played with his phone and now and then cut into a pancake.
"Yeah, I've been lookin' forward to my health benefits and now they're sayin' they wanna shut it down. So I have to go to a meeting and everything. And since my husband died in the fire--my house burned down a few years back--I don't really have anyone to help me out with it. So I been a little worried about that. It's pretty stressful I guess, you know what I mean?"
She was saying this at him, but he was picking at his eggs and his bacon now, and she could see he hadn't really been paying any attention at all.
"Here y'are boys, two breakfast smileys. Can I getcha more coffee?" she asked the one on the phone.
"Nope. Thanks." he said, looking down at the plate.
She turned and began walking back towards the obnoxious women who'd been there almost an hour now.
"Hey," said the one who was practically lying down now, "You all right?"
"About what you'd think," she said, wanting to move on.
"You look like you're havin' a rough night," he said, smiling. He was open and inviting, and she was, after all having a bad night.
"You know how it is," she motioned with her head towards the women, "some folks just can't make up their minds. Do this, do that, get this, we didn't ask for that. It get's pretty old fast."
"Hey, well, don't worry about them. You can only do what ya can. Should we go beat 'em up for ya?"
She smiled and laughed a little bit. He was very handsome, and forty years younger than she.
"Oh God no, I can't ask yinz to fight customers," she said, smiling back in a way she thought of as flirtatiously.
"Well," he said, "You let us know what we can do for ya."
She kept smiling back at him.
"Well, she said, I guess I'm just pretty tired. It's been a hard year, y'know?"
"Oh yeah?" he said, picking at his eggs. The other played with his phone and now and then cut into a pancake.
"Yeah, I've been lookin' forward to my health benefits and now they're sayin' they wanna shut it down. So I have to go to a meeting and everything. And since my husband died in the fire--my house burned down a few years back--I don't really have anyone to help me out with it. So I been a little worried about that. It's pretty stressful I guess, you know what I mean?"
She was saying this at him, but he was picking at his eggs and his bacon now, and she could see he hadn't really been paying any attention at all.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
In The Moments Before Death
Yes, and while the thrum of the engine were not at the forefront of her mind, they still did occupy a part of her understanding of this moment. Though it existed, this drone, it lay deep beneath her, or what she would conceive of as her. Above it, the space almost always just beneath her, and which now supplanted her, floated every memort of breaking glass and twisting metal she had encountered. Yet farther beyond, above all things, were her deep and undying apathy for her lover in the seat adjacent, the fast approaching concrete wall, the scream of tires. And above all, a profound misery, not that she had been a thing birthed and dragged through this nothing emptied of all feeling, but that she could not possibly have known any other way.
Monday, September 30, 2013
A Tableaux of Jeremy Sniders
He was sitting, sunken in the chair, such that his back did not bend as much as it gradually became upright--like the graph of an exponential function. His eyes were bloodshot and his mouth hung slightly open. His breathing made an incredibly gentle scraping sound. His eyes were bloodshot and his eyelids drooped. Ash and Cheeto dust had been ground into the carpet. His mouth was very dry, and slightly open, so that with each breath the back of his throat tickled and scraped against the breath. His guitar sat beside him, on the floor, untuned, with one of the strings broken.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
He Said, She Said
She said: "This place is so incredibly, fantastically boring."
He said: "It's unattractive to whine you know."
She said: "Hey! You can be such a jerk, you know that?"
He said: "Do you ever wonder about how the little binary neurons in our brain produce thoughts? About what happens. About where these... experiences we call thoughts come from?"
She said: "Yeah. Yeah I do."
He didn't say anything at all.
He said: "It's unattractive to whine you know."
She said: "Hey! You can be such a jerk, you know that?"
He said: "Do you ever wonder about how the little binary neurons in our brain produce thoughts? About what happens. About where these... experiences we call thoughts come from?"
She said: "Yeah. Yeah I do."
He didn't say anything at all.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
A Snow Field
Everything around him was very white. He could see everything: the pine forests in their slow march up a distant mountain, the blue sky falling down to hold the flat earth everywhere but, and the infinite white waste which spread itself across all and in between all.
He took another step, and his whole body shook. More was falling.
It was all engulfing, and shone brightly in the sun, and it was everywhere. Absolutely everywhere.
Friday, September 27, 2013
First Thing's First
The first thing he did, before he even got out of bed, was wiggle the mouse a little and push the button on top of his monitor. Otherwise, he'd go outside or something and nothing would get done. Then he lay back down for a little bit, and closed his eyes, and slept for another thirty-five minutes.
When he got out of bed, wearing only his boxers, he went into the kitchen to make some eggs. His roommate was gone for church. He refused to let himself shower, for fear that doing so would be a magical catalyst, the result of which would be that he'd suddenly have plans for the rest of the day. He did relent on brushing his teeth after the eggs though. This he could not deny himself.
He sat down at the desk, still in boxer shorts, his skin feeling grimy and filmy. A patina in cold sweat.
He opened up Word.
He pulled up his email to find the assignment. He flicked over to Chrome and read an article on Slashdot. Halfway through the article, he flicked back to his email. Facebook had three messages for him. One from an old highschool crush who seemed intent on catching up with him. His wording would have to be very precise. He googled pickup artistry, and read up a bit.
He checked his email, and had to search for the instructor's name, and then the class. He saved the word document as "irishlitmidterm.doc". It was saved to his desktop. He opened the prompt.
The girl, from high school, and he had been talking for about fifteen minutes now. As he talked, he browsed pinterest. He found an interesting thing about homemade smoke grenades and began researching homemade munitions. He felt a thrill, as if the government were watching him in person, live, right now, through the keyhole in his door.
The sun came in through the blinds. He tried to focus on the prompt, but he kept thinking about making some explosives for the girl, though the two concepts really didn't fit together. He began to read an article about fractals, but then he started looking at pictures of fractals online. There was a really cool Youtube video that he couldn't explain, but it had to do with fractals and was really, really cool. On Tvtropes he found a neat page about Infinite Jest, which he hadn't yet finished, or really, even, actually started (he was thirteen pages in). But still, it was interesting and inspired him to look for the book, but he didn't.
This essay was very important.
He found the prompt and opened it. He read it three times. Then it read it three more times. Finally he started reading Penny Arcade and Slashdot in rapid response. An article, a strip, an article, a strip.
After a while, he sighed to himself, and felt a great terror writhing up from deep within himself, fueled and fed by the sunshine that seemed to pass over and around and through him, but never to strike him. He dug around for his stash, packed a bowl, and lit it, and began to type something about the Irish lament and its role in big house novels or something. He wasn't exactly sure.
When he got out of bed, wearing only his boxers, he went into the kitchen to make some eggs. His roommate was gone for church. He refused to let himself shower, for fear that doing so would be a magical catalyst, the result of which would be that he'd suddenly have plans for the rest of the day. He did relent on brushing his teeth after the eggs though. This he could not deny himself.
He sat down at the desk, still in boxer shorts, his skin feeling grimy and filmy. A patina in cold sweat.
He opened up Word.
He pulled up his email to find the assignment. He flicked over to Chrome and read an article on Slashdot. Halfway through the article, he flicked back to his email. Facebook had three messages for him. One from an old highschool crush who seemed intent on catching up with him. His wording would have to be very precise. He googled pickup artistry, and read up a bit.
He checked his email, and had to search for the instructor's name, and then the class. He saved the word document as "irishlitmidterm.doc". It was saved to his desktop. He opened the prompt.
The girl, from high school, and he had been talking for about fifteen minutes now. As he talked, he browsed pinterest. He found an interesting thing about homemade smoke grenades and began researching homemade munitions. He felt a thrill, as if the government were watching him in person, live, right now, through the keyhole in his door.
The sun came in through the blinds. He tried to focus on the prompt, but he kept thinking about making some explosives for the girl, though the two concepts really didn't fit together. He began to read an article about fractals, but then he started looking at pictures of fractals online. There was a really cool Youtube video that he couldn't explain, but it had to do with fractals and was really, really cool. On Tvtropes he found a neat page about Infinite Jest, which he hadn't yet finished, or really, even, actually started (he was thirteen pages in). But still, it was interesting and inspired him to look for the book, but he didn't.
This essay was very important.
He found the prompt and opened it. He read it three times. Then it read it three more times. Finally he started reading Penny Arcade and Slashdot in rapid response. An article, a strip, an article, a strip.
After a while, he sighed to himself, and felt a great terror writhing up from deep within himself, fueled and fed by the sunshine that seemed to pass over and around and through him, but never to strike him. He dug around for his stash, packed a bowl, and lit it, and began to type something about the Irish lament and its role in big house novels or something. He wasn't exactly sure.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Dialogue
"Here man, hold it--"
"Back off, dude. I got it. I got it."
"No, but man you're gonna cou--"
"Dude, chill. It's cool. I'm a big boy, I can handle it... fffffff..kghghgh...kgkg..kg.. shit. Shit man. Shit I'm really sorry man."
"Ahhhhahahahaha...hahahaha...haheheh. Don't worry bout it man. Don't even worry...."
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Watch
Somewhere, someone had hidden a camera in my apartment. A moving-picture type camera, for as I gazed at the screen, I saw myself moving. The back of my head, to be precise.
So I turned and looked, and of course saw nothing. Whoever would hide a camera would... well... hide it. But when I turned back around, I was looking at my face, as though the camera were inside of my computer's screen. I looked around for a long time, checking out my screen to see if I could find it, and eventually ended up looking on the back of the monitor.
When I came back to the screen, the camera's location was changing every few seconds. First here, then there. Now I saw my face, now I saw my hair, and now the sides of my shoes. There must have been cameras all around, and watching my many-faceted being turned over and over by a thousand cameras I could not see, I became very disoriented, and felt vomit rising up hot and stinging in my throat.
So I turned and looked, and of course saw nothing. Whoever would hide a camera would... well... hide it. But when I turned back around, I was looking at my face, as though the camera were inside of my computer's screen. I looked around for a long time, checking out my screen to see if I could find it, and eventually ended up looking on the back of the monitor.
When I came back to the screen, the camera's location was changing every few seconds. First here, then there. Now I saw my face, now I saw my hair, and now the sides of my shoes. There must have been cameras all around, and watching my many-faceted being turned over and over by a thousand cameras I could not see, I became very disoriented, and felt vomit rising up hot and stinging in my throat.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Apple-a-day
A husband and a wife were fighting; their voices carried through the air vents. The wife said she needed to feel like she existed, like she wasn't some peripheral part of his world. She needed to be loved. He said nothing, and there was silence for a good, long time.
Monday, September 23, 2013
A Woman Lying Nude, On Wet Pavement
She supposed it was a bit silly to feel guilty over not feeling guilty over what was currently happening to her. The fact of the matter was, though, that about two months ago--or maybe two and half months, actually, come to think of it--she had stopped feeling things. Even physically, after a while. Hunger didn't even matter.
It was just as if some great big, emptiness had bloomed into the world, radiating from her like the spokes of a wheel. She moved up and down repeatedly.
There would definitely be bruising tomorrow. And abrasions. On the cheek, there, where her face was rubbing against the brick wall.
She wondered in an abstract way if she would ever respond to this, if there was ever a way she could bring herself to feel about it, even in hindsight. Would she, twenty years down the line, feel very strongly about this?
A flush overcame her, which was, she guessed, somewhat natural. It wasn't as if she'd never... thought about it.
When she started walking yesterday, as the sun had started to finally set, she'd felt for the first time a sort of elation. She had had a revelation. She had begun to cut the last ties to her experience, had begun fully pulling away. For the first time, she found her week entirely free. No obligation, no bond to those left living. And so she walked.
For thirty-seven hours.
And then she was here. And so were they. And then it was happening.
But really. It didn't feel like anything.
And they were done.
The best that could happen was going to happen, she knew.
But then it didn't.
And there, lying in the subsequent silence, she began to think to herself: oh yes, yes here it comes, and, in a sad way, she was happy for it.
It was just as if some great big, emptiness had bloomed into the world, radiating from her like the spokes of a wheel. She moved up and down repeatedly.
There would definitely be bruising tomorrow. And abrasions. On the cheek, there, where her face was rubbing against the brick wall.
She wondered in an abstract way if she would ever respond to this, if there was ever a way she could bring herself to feel about it, even in hindsight. Would she, twenty years down the line, feel very strongly about this?
A flush overcame her, which was, she guessed, somewhat natural. It wasn't as if she'd never... thought about it.
When she started walking yesterday, as the sun had started to finally set, she'd felt for the first time a sort of elation. She had had a revelation. She had begun to cut the last ties to her experience, had begun fully pulling away. For the first time, she found her week entirely free. No obligation, no bond to those left living. And so she walked.
For thirty-seven hours.
And then she was here. And so were they. And then it was happening.
But really. It didn't feel like anything.
And they were done.
The best that could happen was going to happen, she knew.
But then it didn't.
And there, lying in the subsequent silence, she began to think to herself: oh yes, yes here it comes, and, in a sad way, she was happy for it.
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Quiet Songs in the Hills
I ran into a girl I knew from high school last night. At a titty bar. It's not really surprising, I know, but it was a pretty weird coincidence. See, we're both living in the same small town in North Carolina now. It's like an eight-hour drive from where we grew up, and it's a pretty small town. Not much there, either. Just kinda this dot on the map sorta place, and we both ended up here*.
That wasn't even the coincidental part, though. See, it turns out she's my best friend's sister. I met him when I moved down here, about four years ago. We, my friend and I, became good friends through this I guess you might kinda call it a summer camp I was working and living at.
But whatever. So this girl works down at the one down on 321 as you're heading into Wilkesboro, Club Escape. My buddy and I are going with a mutual friend--it's his bachelor party--and we're just kinda looking for a good time. So my friend suggests this place, cause his sister I guess knew the groom too and they'd had a kinda flirtatious history as he was going through high school. So anyways we get there and--you know it's actually a pretty nice place--we pay the cover, go get some drinks and sit down. A few girls come out and dance and we throw some singles and whatever and then this girl who I'd seen my friend talking to when we first got there comes out and announces a special bachelor's dance and whatnot. This girl comes out and instantly the groom's all dopey in the eyes. I mean, she looks great, don't get me wrong, but you know when you can tell someone's too into a girl, y'know?
And then I take a second look and think "man, this girl looks familiar. I know this girl from somewhere, and damn she looks pretty good." Still couldn't place her though. Eventually the emcee for the show starts dancing too and then like two more girls come out. They pull me and my buddy up and we all start dancing and whatever. My buddy was really uncomfortable with it. But anyway we're all up there, my friend as far on the fringe of it all as you can be, turned with his back facing us and everything. Man it was funny.
We're all up there and this chick comes over to me. I could see it in her eyes that she'd recognized me too. We're right up close to each other and she's looking straight into my eyes, not saying a word, not looking away, and just kind of slowly dancing--she's completely naked now, remember--and, like, studying me. It was intense. Her eyes were this really deep brown, like some really dark gemstone. I know it sounds gay, but it's true. We were there for a good minute, looking at each other and trying to remember. Both of us dancing, and not really thinking about anything but who this other person was.
Well, then the song ended and the groom got this big hug and everything and we all sat back down. I guess I'd kinda gotten real quiet trying to think who she was, and my buddy asked what was wrong. So I told him about it and then he tells me it's his sister and blah blah blah.
So anyways, later on she was out serving drinks and I kinda hummed our school's fight song. She just started laughing and so did I. We got to talking for a bit, about what we've been doing, and, you know.
She's a pretty interesting girl. She's actually a certified SCUBA instructor now, funny enough. She's stripping for fun she says. Which, hey, fine by me.
I guess I probably should have gotten her number or something, but when I knew it was the time to ask I just kinda didn't want to call her. Maybe I'll look her up on Facebook or something. I dunno. I might call her. I just... I can't really explain it.
*She was 18 and her brother was 14 when her mom ran off to the Blue Ride and took them with her. And her brother growing up with her mom's new husband left such an impression on him, my buddy's who I'm talking about here, that he ended up changing his last name to this guy's. So I never knew she had come down here after graduation too.
That wasn't even the coincidental part, though. See, it turns out she's my best friend's sister. I met him when I moved down here, about four years ago. We, my friend and I, became good friends through this I guess you might kinda call it a summer camp I was working and living at.
But whatever. So this girl works down at the one down on 321 as you're heading into Wilkesboro, Club Escape. My buddy and I are going with a mutual friend--it's his bachelor party--and we're just kinda looking for a good time. So my friend suggests this place, cause his sister I guess knew the groom too and they'd had a kinda flirtatious history as he was going through high school. So anyways we get there and--you know it's actually a pretty nice place--we pay the cover, go get some drinks and sit down. A few girls come out and dance and we throw some singles and whatever and then this girl who I'd seen my friend talking to when we first got there comes out and announces a special bachelor's dance and whatnot. This girl comes out and instantly the groom's all dopey in the eyes. I mean, she looks great, don't get me wrong, but you know when you can tell someone's too into a girl, y'know?
And then I take a second look and think "man, this girl looks familiar. I know this girl from somewhere, and damn she looks pretty good." Still couldn't place her though. Eventually the emcee for the show starts dancing too and then like two more girls come out. They pull me and my buddy up and we all start dancing and whatever. My buddy was really uncomfortable with it. But anyway we're all up there, my friend as far on the fringe of it all as you can be, turned with his back facing us and everything. Man it was funny.
We're all up there and this chick comes over to me. I could see it in her eyes that she'd recognized me too. We're right up close to each other and she's looking straight into my eyes, not saying a word, not looking away, and just kind of slowly dancing--she's completely naked now, remember--and, like, studying me. It was intense. Her eyes were this really deep brown, like some really dark gemstone. I know it sounds gay, but it's true. We were there for a good minute, looking at each other and trying to remember. Both of us dancing, and not really thinking about anything but who this other person was.
Well, then the song ended and the groom got this big hug and everything and we all sat back down. I guess I'd kinda gotten real quiet trying to think who she was, and my buddy asked what was wrong. So I told him about it and then he tells me it's his sister and blah blah blah.
So anyways, later on she was out serving drinks and I kinda hummed our school's fight song. She just started laughing and so did I. We got to talking for a bit, about what we've been doing, and, you know.
She's a pretty interesting girl. She's actually a certified SCUBA instructor now, funny enough. She's stripping for fun she says. Which, hey, fine by me.
I guess I probably should have gotten her number or something, but when I knew it was the time to ask I just kinda didn't want to call her. Maybe I'll look her up on Facebook or something. I dunno. I might call her. I just... I can't really explain it.
*She was 18 and her brother was 14 when her mom ran off to the Blue Ride and took them with her. And her brother growing up with her mom's new husband left such an impression on him, my buddy's who I'm talking about here, that he ended up changing his last name to this guy's. So I never knew she had come down here after graduation too.
Saturday, September 21, 2013
A Love (Very Rough Draft)
(Forgot to post the one last night. Two today)
When I was young, I carried a stuffed animal with me everywhere. It was a small, ragged, stuffed rabbit, which I had taken to calling "Bunny Bun." It wasn't much bigger than my hands. It's fur had, over, the course of several years become worn and faded, and in spots bare, so that it seemed a cancerous little animal. Only I was capable of loving it, I knew, and so it became my responsibility, loving this rabbit. Which is not to insinuate that I didn't truly love it, only that I understood the importance of that love.
I also had a friend with an incorrigible penchant for cruelty, who, though he mocked me and did his best to hurt me, was nevertheless a good friend. I understood from very early on, and I do not, to this day, know how, that his cruelty was a reflection of his own insecurities. His father was absent and his mother was an addict. Perhaps it was in the cold gleam of his eyes as he said his terrible things to me; they betrayed a calculating and purposeful barbarity, a desired outcome. Regardless, this friend was unmercifully wicked to me, at times.
One of these was when he discovered my love for the stuffed animal, which I had to a point, kept hidden from him. But he did discover it, and from that point forward, he was unrelenting. Like a dog with meat he came at me, again and again: "Grow up, would you?" "You're such a baby!" "Only a little, poopy-pants baby would still have a stuffed animal!" He exposed me to my peers, taking the toy out of my backpack one day in school and initiating a game of keep away that left me, eventually, sniffling and on the verge of tears.
This went on for months, and I bore it dutifully, knowing that beneath everything my torment was penance for some unnamed sin he had committed. It grew worse though, and he became violent. Shoving, punching, spitting. All of these things fell upon me from him over the animal--this was made apparent, that it was because of the toy these things happened. Never once did I sway in my conviction to bear this for him.
It culminated one night with the destruction of the animal, by fire, in my own backyard. I had invited him over to stay the evening and camp out. We made our fire, lay out our bedrolls, and cooked hotdogs and s'mores. As I lay down to sleep, the embers of the fire still glowing, I took Bunny Bun from beneath my blanket and held him, both the animal and I looking up at the stars. My friend, in a sudden fit of immense rage, grabbed the toy without a word and threw it into the fire, where it began to smolder.
I cried out impotently and began scrambling to retrieve it, seeing already the blackening cloth, and knowing there would be permanent damage. He leapt on me and began holding me back, whispering in my ear all the while that "that stupid toy has to go. You're too old for it now and daddy's got to take it away." I sobbed and scratched at him, resisting with all that I could muster. He was too strong though, and within moments the rabbit had burst into flames. Soon thereafter, nothing identifiable was left.
I could not move.
He slowly let me free, and looked in my eyes.
"Doesn't that feel better now? Doesn't it feel freer?"
I could not respond.
"Oh, come on, you'll be happier for it someday. What's the big deal with it anyway?"
For a long while I sat, staring at the embers from which my charge had departed, and then I turned my head up to face him.
"Have you ever had a stuffed animal?"
He was stunned, and began to stammer.
"W-well... I mean... Who..."
"Did you?"
"Yes."
We stared at each other.
"But when I was a baby. I grew out of it."
"And what happened to it?"
"I don't know, I guess I--"
"You lost it. You were young, and you cared for it more than anything in the world, but you lost it. It disappeared one day, and you looked for days on end for it. You sobbed in the darkness of your bed, and you came to your mother. And she held you and told you it would be okay, that you would find it. So you looked, for days, and eventually it hurt less. Every now and again you would think of some new hidden spot where it must be, and the search began, but after a few months, you no longer searched for it. It did not hurt as bad. The pain receded and you could deal with it.
And your stuffed animal was forgotten."
He watched me now, rapt, and I could see the pain in his eyes as he relived it. But I could not relent now; I could not free him from this.
"Where did the toy come from?"
He did not answer.
"From your mother. She gave this creature to you, for you to love it and care for it. Because only you could, and this need became a part of you."
He turned his head down.
"That toy was one my mother had given to me. And it was a part of me. I loved it and cared for it, without boundary."
I could see the soft glimmer of tears in his eyes, reflecting the glow of the embers.
"One night she came into my room, in the deepest darkness. She took it from me, hid it. For weeks I searched, knowing that she had taken it. When I found it, I swore to myself I could never love her again. I knew that the toy had become a part of me, a central part. The most important part. It was what I am."
I was silent for a moment.
"That toy was that for me, it was the damnation of my mother and the single part of me that meant anything. It was my lone love in the world. It was everything, and it represented to me a part of me, a deeper love than anything I had ever known."
I sat across from him, the fire at dying, and I gazed at him. He could not bring his eyes to meet mine.
When I was young, I carried a stuffed animal with me everywhere. It was a small, ragged, stuffed rabbit, which I had taken to calling "Bunny Bun." It wasn't much bigger than my hands. It's fur had, over, the course of several years become worn and faded, and in spots bare, so that it seemed a cancerous little animal. Only I was capable of loving it, I knew, and so it became my responsibility, loving this rabbit. Which is not to insinuate that I didn't truly love it, only that I understood the importance of that love.
I also had a friend with an incorrigible penchant for cruelty, who, though he mocked me and did his best to hurt me, was nevertheless a good friend. I understood from very early on, and I do not, to this day, know how, that his cruelty was a reflection of his own insecurities. His father was absent and his mother was an addict. Perhaps it was in the cold gleam of his eyes as he said his terrible things to me; they betrayed a calculating and purposeful barbarity, a desired outcome. Regardless, this friend was unmercifully wicked to me, at times.
One of these was when he discovered my love for the stuffed animal, which I had to a point, kept hidden from him. But he did discover it, and from that point forward, he was unrelenting. Like a dog with meat he came at me, again and again: "Grow up, would you?" "You're such a baby!" "Only a little, poopy-pants baby would still have a stuffed animal!" He exposed me to my peers, taking the toy out of my backpack one day in school and initiating a game of keep away that left me, eventually, sniffling and on the verge of tears.
This went on for months, and I bore it dutifully, knowing that beneath everything my torment was penance for some unnamed sin he had committed. It grew worse though, and he became violent. Shoving, punching, spitting. All of these things fell upon me from him over the animal--this was made apparent, that it was because of the toy these things happened. Never once did I sway in my conviction to bear this for him.
It culminated one night with the destruction of the animal, by fire, in my own backyard. I had invited him over to stay the evening and camp out. We made our fire, lay out our bedrolls, and cooked hotdogs and s'mores. As I lay down to sleep, the embers of the fire still glowing, I took Bunny Bun from beneath my blanket and held him, both the animal and I looking up at the stars. My friend, in a sudden fit of immense rage, grabbed the toy without a word and threw it into the fire, where it began to smolder.
I cried out impotently and began scrambling to retrieve it, seeing already the blackening cloth, and knowing there would be permanent damage. He leapt on me and began holding me back, whispering in my ear all the while that "that stupid toy has to go. You're too old for it now and daddy's got to take it away." I sobbed and scratched at him, resisting with all that I could muster. He was too strong though, and within moments the rabbit had burst into flames. Soon thereafter, nothing identifiable was left.
I could not move.
He slowly let me free, and looked in my eyes.
"Doesn't that feel better now? Doesn't it feel freer?"
I could not respond.
"Oh, come on, you'll be happier for it someday. What's the big deal with it anyway?"
For a long while I sat, staring at the embers from which my charge had departed, and then I turned my head up to face him.
"Have you ever had a stuffed animal?"
He was stunned, and began to stammer.
"W-well... I mean... Who..."
"Did you?"
"Yes."
We stared at each other.
"But when I was a baby. I grew out of it."
"And what happened to it?"
"I don't know, I guess I--"
"You lost it. You were young, and you cared for it more than anything in the world, but you lost it. It disappeared one day, and you looked for days on end for it. You sobbed in the darkness of your bed, and you came to your mother. And she held you and told you it would be okay, that you would find it. So you looked, for days, and eventually it hurt less. Every now and again you would think of some new hidden spot where it must be, and the search began, but after a few months, you no longer searched for it. It did not hurt as bad. The pain receded and you could deal with it.
And your stuffed animal was forgotten."
He watched me now, rapt, and I could see the pain in his eyes as he relived it. But I could not relent now; I could not free him from this.
"Where did the toy come from?"
He did not answer.
"From your mother. She gave this creature to you, for you to love it and care for it. Because only you could, and this need became a part of you."
He turned his head down.
"That toy was one my mother had given to me. And it was a part of me. I loved it and cared for it, without boundary."
I could see the soft glimmer of tears in his eyes, reflecting the glow of the embers.
"One night she came into my room, in the deepest darkness. She took it from me, hid it. For weeks I searched, knowing that she had taken it. When I found it, I swore to myself I could never love her again. I knew that the toy had become a part of me, a central part. The most important part. It was what I am."
I was silent for a moment.
"That toy was that for me, it was the damnation of my mother and the single part of me that meant anything. It was my lone love in the world. It was everything, and it represented to me a part of me, a deeper love than anything I had ever known."
I sat across from him, the fire at dying, and I gazed at him. He could not bring his eyes to meet mine.
Great Big Hands
When
she was younger, she had a reoccurring dream that she would not quite call a
nightmare, though it had many times driven her into her parents’ room, and left
her wrapped around the body of her mother, beneath the sheets, too stifled even
to breath.
The dream would begin with her standing
at her front door, late at night. The moon would send white spiders’ legs down
through the leaves. She’d look at the door for a few minutes, and then, drawn
by some unspoken force, She’d gently move her hands to the door—in the dream she
had big hands—and slowly they would glide over all the paint chips and cracks
and the molding and the spot where the cold glass disappeared into the wood.
The hands were very large, though not cartoonishly so, and though the nature of
the dream demanded she not be aware of her dreambody yet, she knew the hands
somehow fit her. An underlying and ragged edge of anxiety—tension—would unfold
over her like a wing as, nightly, she realized this.
The hands were long-fingered bones,
and the flesh on them slipped not unlike a glove. The fingers stretched out in
a vulturesque grace and a cracking, weathered texture shadowed the thousand
scoriations of her skin. They did not shake. Nor did they make a sound.
In some faraway place, she
remembered smooth, small, white skin, like an eggshell.
The hands would drift gently in the
gentle moonlight until they fell on the brass doorknob, bright and cold and
hard in the night.
She did not like to play much, the
girl, but preferred to watch. To listen. To smell. Never to touch. She recoiled
at the thought of the sandbox, with the feeling that a snake would bite her if
she came too close to it. She would fold her tiny, bright hands in her lap and
watch her siblings playing, smiling with them as they ran. Some nights she
couldn’t sleep, and she would look out the window into her backyard, and the
farmer’s field behind it, and she would imagine the deer in the long, brushing
grass.
She would walk around the house, in
the moonlight, with the great big hands touching everything. The fingers would
graze the rough fabric of her family’s couch and slide along the glass of an
heirloom cabinet. Hundreds of pieces of China glowed inside. She would crouch
and feel the floor: the cracks between the boards, the grain undulating almost
not at all, the gentle, nipping stick of the finish. Her whole hand would press
against the floor, moving in slow circles.
Everything in the room would yield,
ever so unnoticeably, to her calloused fingertips. The television: antenna,
screen, plastic casing, buttons, dusty top. The magazines: frayed pages, glossy
and crinkling cover, bent spine. She would move around the room dozens of
times, running her long fingers along the wall, tracing a pattern she did not
remember.
She would find her toys, placed
lovingly in a drawer that slid beneath the couch. But when she touched them in
the dream, with those big, dark hands, it was different. It was as if the toys
had been taken away and replaced with others exactly the same. She knew, in an
oblique way, this was a reflection of herself and not of her toys, and that the
hands informed her of this fact.
There would come a divergence, now,
in the nature of her being, in the dream. She would become aware that the body
was not hers, and would seem to float above herself, somewhere above the
moonlight shining in through the windows. A part of her would yet remain,
though, with the hands—the seeing and feeling and breathing part—but nevertheless
she became a separate thing.
The sense of anxiety and unease that
had once limned the dream now flooded in, pervaded every part of the dream like
a virus.
In response to this, she began to
move quickly, tracing the walls with her fingers, towards the bedroom in which
she slept. The strip of wallpaper that ran beneath the ceiling was covered in
pale roses.
She would come to the door of her
room, and lean against it, her palms against the warm wood. The knob would make
no sound as the hands turned it, and the door would fall away. In the last,
pallid moment before she awoke, she would see herself—lying in bed—holding her
hands between her face and the ceiling, the pale, little things, neither
trembling nor alive in the moonlight.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Beautiful Like a Bird
Sarah could not stop smiling inside. Her face was blank and still on the outside, but she could not stop smiling inside. The chipmunk's limbs were tied so it was splayed open. It was breathing fast. Above, the stars were cold and clean and eternal. She set down the stolen scalpel and looked. It was all still beating and red and moving, and its skin was open like wings spread. It was ready to take flight. The chipmunk could fly now. She could not stop her smiling, but did not wish to regardless.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
At the Principal's Office.
"And why do you feel that's an appropriate response?
...
Well some people would consider shoving a chopstick into someone's nose rather an aggressive action, especially considering the comments you made referring to her brain.
...
I understand that, but I think it's fair that we both consider what lies behind those actions, don't you?
...
I see.
...
...
...
Despite all that, I still think it would be fair to assume that your actions were a considerable escalation. Would you agree?
...
I don't see how that has any bearing on the situation.
...
Regardless of any insult, overt or implied, to your mother's sexual escapades, it was still a terribly inappropriate action.
...
I don't feel that way about your mother. In fact, I find her a kind, caring, responsible individual.
...
No.
...
That's simply not true at all.
...
Regardless of what may or may not have happened that evening, or whether money did or did not change hands, I still find your mother a kind person.
...
I had every intention of calling her again.
...
Well, unfortunately, I'm forced to deal with students and incidents such as yourself and our current situation.
...
If I were trying to imply that this was all your fault, I would have openly said it.
...
Well, that's a valid point of view, I suppose."
...
Well some people would consider shoving a chopstick into someone's nose rather an aggressive action, especially considering the comments you made referring to her brain.
...
I understand that, but I think it's fair that we both consider what lies behind those actions, don't you?
...
I see.
...
...
...
Despite all that, I still think it would be fair to assume that your actions were a considerable escalation. Would you agree?
...
I don't see how that has any bearing on the situation.
...
Regardless of any insult, overt or implied, to your mother's sexual escapades, it was still a terribly inappropriate action.
...
I don't feel that way about your mother. In fact, I find her a kind, caring, responsible individual.
...
No.
...
That's simply not true at all.
...
Regardless of what may or may not have happened that evening, or whether money did or did not change hands, I still find your mother a kind person.
...
I had every intention of calling her again.
...
Well, unfortunately, I'm forced to deal with students and incidents such as yourself and our current situation.
...
If I were trying to imply that this was all your fault, I would have openly said it.
...
Well, that's a valid point of view, I suppose."
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
The Government Probably Won't Even Consider My Having Googled "what metal is wonder woman's chestplate" At All
The government was definitely watching me. Definitely.
It was because of the things I googled. But what sucked was they were just such interesting things to me. I didn't mean to insinuate that I was a terrorist bomber when I searched for "easy to make high explosives," and then "pentaerythritol tetranitrate," and then for "how to make pentaerythritol tetranitrate at home."
It only came to me about halfway through the article, when the author was saying to slowly add pentaerythritol to the nitric acid whilst stirring. That this was a bad idea to be reading, I mean.
And then when I started looking up how to detonate plastic explosives, that also wasn't very wise. Especially when I clicked on mercury fulminate. And definitely when I started reading about how to make it.
Probably it didn't help my case when I started searching for "how to keep the government from spying on me" or "secure google searches." And then "keep NSA from looking at your google searches" was just stupid. I mean, if someone mentions the NSA, who's gonna be more interested than the NSA, right? You know?
The real clincher, though--the really stupid thing for me to have googled--was "best way to suicide bomb." Not only was that a poor decision governmental-monitoring-wise, but it was just a dumb search. I should have considered "most deaths in a suicide bombing" or "worst suicide bombings." Those are what got results.
And then "sneaking things onto airplanes." Boy. That was just... that was just not smart at all. That one was a really bad decision. And so was "detonator cap with mercury fulminate." And "amount of PETN needed to destroy an airplane." Especially because right after that, I searched "capacity of a human rectum."
Monday, September 16, 2013
Empty
First, water came out. I'd sit down on the toilet and try to defecate, but only water came out. I went out and sat on the lawn.
The weather had started to turn and low clouds brought a chill and a breeze. Everything was grey. There was a tree in the yard and I watched it for hours.
My stomach began to hurt. It had been not even a full day since I'd quit.
After a long time, the pain left.
It got much colder, but I still sat.
My lips had begun to crack, so I went back inside for water. I hadn't realized how cold I was or that I'd started shivering.
When I awoke, the pain was back, but I had quit. I no longer had to defecate, and looking in the mirror, I saw myself visibly thinner. My head hurt.
I looked at myself in the mirror, saw my sunken eyes and drawn face, my cracking lips and my scraggly hair. I did not know how long it had been-at least three weeks, it must have been. The tears running down the sides of my nose stung my lips and I was no longer able to go on, but still I persisted, lying there on the bathroom tile, holding my stomach, curled into a tight little nothing.
Sunday, September 15, 2013
A Rescued Dog and a Misery
You'd swear to god I starved my dog, if you'd met him. Really. It was ridiculous.
He'd spend hours in the kitchen just scrounging around for food--snuffling around in the corners, licking the cabinets where maybe three days ago a drop of jelly had run down and onto the floor, pressing his face down against the floor and licking under the fridge. He'd pull his face out in shock and flick his tongue around trying to get clumps of hair out of his mouth.
The ridiculous thing about it was that he had plenty to eat. He got even more than the recommended amount on the bag of dog food, and that's got to be the high end of a healthy portion to start with. So basically, he was eating more than more than a dog should eat.
Once, he got into the bag of dog food and ate about eight pounds of food. He weighed fifty pounds at the time. Well, fifty-eight.
I had been out with friends, and when I came back and saw my mother on the computer I said "How's Star?" His name is Star. I am fully aware that's a girl's name. I was going to name him Hrothmir, but with an eth instead of a th. I thought people would think that name was stupid though, so I named him Star.
She said "laying down in your room." I went in and saw him lying, his abdominal area swollen like a pregnant woman.
I started looking online and then sobbing, because of course he had bloat and bloat was pretty much a death warrant. I was lying there holding him and sobbing and saying "I love you buddy, I love you so much, I'm sorry I'm sorry, I love you Star," and that went on until we got to the twenty-four-hour vet's.
He'd spend hours in the kitchen just scrounging around for food--snuffling around in the corners, licking the cabinets where maybe three days ago a drop of jelly had run down and onto the floor, pressing his face down against the floor and licking under the fridge. He'd pull his face out in shock and flick his tongue around trying to get clumps of hair out of his mouth.
The ridiculous thing about it was that he had plenty to eat. He got even more than the recommended amount on the bag of dog food, and that's got to be the high end of a healthy portion to start with. So basically, he was eating more than more than a dog should eat.
Once, he got into the bag of dog food and ate about eight pounds of food. He weighed fifty pounds at the time. Well, fifty-eight.
I had been out with friends, and when I came back and saw my mother on the computer I said "How's Star?" His name is Star. I am fully aware that's a girl's name. I was going to name him Hrothmir, but with an eth instead of a th. I thought people would think that name was stupid though, so I named him Star.
She said "laying down in your room." I went in and saw him lying, his abdominal area swollen like a pregnant woman.
I started looking online and then sobbing, because of course he had bloat and bloat was pretty much a death warrant. I was lying there holding him and sobbing and saying "I love you buddy, I love you so much, I'm sorry I'm sorry, I love you Star," and that went on until we got to the twenty-four-hour vet's.
Saturday, September 14, 2013
A Crack in the Foundation
Everything smelled like her. Blankets,
clothes, furniture—even the yard seemed, in a way, to carry her. He expected to
hear her laugh at all times, and turning the corner, to see her. But that is the
way all fathers feel, and the law always sides with the mother.
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