Outside

Lucy hesitated as she reached for the doorknob. It wasn’t that she was a homebody or phobic about the citizens of the world beyond her front door; it was, however, the first time since primary school that she’d left the house unescorted during the day.

Open the door. You’re being irrational. Open the door.

And she did.

Lucy stepped out on to the expansive wrap-around porch and was shocked by the silence of things. No crickets chirped in celebration of the on coming dew. No nighthawks bleating to each other in the pursuit of moths. No drag queens screaming at each other as they wandered out of the colorful local bars. No cicada winding down his song as the temperature dipped in the witching hours.

The day world was full of sun and the rumble of traffic from a nearby freeway.

Lucy wanted to turn around and go back inside.

Only one day. It is only one day.

Shrimp

Marc watched her nimble fingers at work: mincing garlic, chopping parsley and de-veining the shrimp. She possessed the quick and economical movements of a practiced chef. Aislyn place the fresh herbs into the melted but not boiling butter and olive oil mixture in the copper bottom skillet. Marc watched her hands as though she were a culinary magician poised to pull an herb roasted rabbit out of the seasoned air.

“How do you feel about Chardonnay?” Aislyn asked, holding up a bottle of deep green glass with a hand written label across its front.

“Nothing by Night Train in my house growing up.”

“You’ll love this,” she said adding a splash of the wine to the skillet.

“Where did you learn to cook like this?”

Aislyn smiled at the amazement in his voice. “I slept with many, many wealthy men and acquired a taste for the finer things.”

“Seriously?”

“I dated a lot in college and most of them were from well-to-do families. The men that found me attractive usually had savior complexes and endless resources. At the time, the only way I thought I could pay them back was by blowing their mind or other things.” Aislyn added the peeled and de-veined shrimp into the bubbling oil and shrimp.

“You sure do seize the moment.”

“If you can’t be honest about the past, how can you be honest about your prospects for the future?”

Marc rubbed his eyes and peered into his soda, watching the carbonated bubbles float to the top and burst in celebration. He wanted to be that jubilant.

Marc couldn’t meet her eyes as she flipped the shrimp in the skillet, using her wrist to keep the oil, herbs, and crustaceans in constant movement.

“What about those who don’t want to be honest about the past?” he asked.

Bad Night

Brown flecks mingled with thick yellow bile in the white porcelain bowl. Her stomach undulated with the tides rolling in the basin as she held auburn curls out of her face.

Alfred whined and yelped from outside the door. After four years of living with this regimen, Alfred still hadn’t gotten over the shock. He paced and pawed at the door each night she

She flushed the toilet watching dried blood and vital potassium disappear. The only light illuminating the antiseptic bathroom was the blue glow of an Indiglo alarm clock. 10:34. Aislin’s stomach was faltering and twelve minutes behind schedule.

Cool water felt delicious against her face. She was thankful that it hadn’t been a bad night. The force of the past had pressed stomach acid through delicate nasal passages.

Hula Hoop

Aislyn stopped atop Monarch Pass to let Horatio run around and toilet. This was easily the worst driving of the entire trip. Monarch was often closed due to heavy snow or rock slides. Aislyn always stopped here to stretch and laugh at the pedestrian crossing sign with a hula hoop painted across the man’s middle. The first time Aislyn saw the sign she thought it was a comment on how pedestrian the pedestrian signs are like they should be doing something other than walking. A friend, however, explained that it was a reference to a favorite jam band that had aided in reviving the popularity of the hula hoop, but Aislyn was pleased to see the mundane sign infused with humor.

No Phone

"You don't wear a watch?" Riley asked.

"Or carry a cell phone," Brigid said.

"How do people get a hold of you?" Riley asked.

"You don't. If I want to talk to you, I'll find you." Brigid picked the lint off Riley's armchair, frowning at each thread and hair. "I had a cell phone once. My agent kept calling me on my vacation so I tossed the phone into the ocean. I may have killed a few fish, but I'll never have another cell phone."

Research

"There's a pub two blocks from my house in Colorado that has the country's greatest buffalo burger. I know because I've done the research."

Happy Pixi Day!

My new Palm Pixi arrives today! Hooray for mobile blogging.

Not Broken

"When I was with him, I didn't feel broken. I'd lived through so many tragedies. I'd loved men but it was never the kind of love that puts a smile on my face day after day," Aislyn said into her beer as she traced the peeling label on the Fat Tire bottle.

"I've always felt like something was wrong with me, like I was lacking that part of my psychology which motivates the soul to seek love. I prayed for love with little faith that God would provide. When I met Riley, I began hoping for all those things I never dared to dream."

"What the hell happened? Why did you leave Iowa?"

"There is no redemption in the past only pain and confusion."

Photo: Ophelias-Overdose

Cerulean

Aislyn studied his every movement as if constructing a character sketch in her mind. She drew his face and coloured in his eyes: cerulean flecked with green and ringed by dark brown. She caught herself before she began colouring in the freckles that faded up his fingers. Aislyn had to remind herself to live in the moment.

Photo: silentspring

Scar

A wide, waxy scar ran from his left earlobe, below is jawline, and terminated at the tip of his chin; four inches of imperfection not caused by a careful scalpel, rather something more threatening.

Photo: liquidkid1

Fatal Imperfection

Riley talked about building houses and fixing cars like they were skills every well-bred lawyer possessed. His confidence and bravado were enticing. Under his suit and what some would consider effeminate qualities, he was a real man. He knew much about the world of men: camping, fishing, motorcycle repair, plumbing and the maintenance schedule of a vintage Jaguar. Aislyn kept waiting to find his flaw: the fatal imperfection that sent her running from the relationship.

Photo: DigitalRuin

Society Wife

Aislyn slipped inside without being noticed and let Horatio off his leash. The Great Dane slid among the crowd with he stealth of an alley cat. When a guest noticed the mammoth dog, Horatio bowed his head in chivalrous mockery; however, the vain canine was merely showing off his new red collar studded with faceted cut glass. The old boy flashed his jewels like a society wife wiggling her wrist to get everyone to notice her new bracelet.

Suspended above the Earth

Darcy leaned her head against the cold window, wishing she could fly back to Colorado and crawl back into bed with Albert. Happiness was a good man to come home to even if he was a dog.

Her boarding call sounded. Darcy walked to the gate, handed the gate attendant her boarding pass and ID. She smiled and said that Darcy was the last to board.

After takeoff, I couldn’t read any longer. I stared out the tiny window, watching the Great Lakes recede. I was always sad while in flight. Those hours spent suspended above the earth are the worst and loneliest hours: waiting to leave one place to arrive in another. Some small slice of misery served on a platter of transportation.

Graffiti

Trains rumbled through the pre-dawn light. The rail cars marked by the graffiti of distant cities. The gang tags were unreadable to an untrained eye yet Brigid admired the colors and lines. A set of railroad tracks paralleled Highway six across Iowa. Brigid passed small towns sustained by the fruits of the land: corn, hogs, cattle. Old men in feed/seed hats that sit around small cafes discussing Co-op politics. She wondered what would happen to these communities and farms when the greatest generation left this life. Global economics, boardrooms, and the corporate lifestyle were more seductive to newer generations rather than the prospect of throwing on a pair of overalls and fixing the John Deere. Brigid figured living on a farm must be a study in patience and faith: wait to plant, pray for rain, pray for sun, wait to harvest, wait for spring. Brigid had the patience to out weather granite and strength to move a mountain, yet farming seemed so tedious.

The sun had put on work clothes and was headed for a day tending to the Iowa crops. The eastern horizon blazed pink and orange was the work day began. Brigid could feel the sun's approach in her veins like a tidal pull calling the ocean up the beach. As the tide rose, her foot grew heavier on the gas pedal urging the BMW over 100 mph. She'd wanted to be home before daylight's liquid fingers stroked the earth.

Cinnaberry

Two a.m. and the small mountain valley had tucked itself in for the night. The sky, which was never one color, peered down upon the frozen night. One lone and crazed elk wandered the streets in search of love and food as all mammals tend to do.

Margot stealthily entered the mansion by way of a missing windowpane at the back of the house. She was not yet accustomed to the horrendous odor the house emitted. The source of the pungency had not been determined; however, Margot had planned to arm herself with some bleach and water this weekend to rid at least the servant’s quarters of the vomitous smell. In the meantime, dozens of cinnaberry car air fresheners would have to do the trick.

Margot undressed in the dark and looming silence of the hulking house and slid into the sleeping bag. Her eyes immediately shut out the world searching for a much lighter existence. Sleep would come easily tonight. The day had been filled with theory classes, meetings with advisors, and hours spend hammering on a keyboard perfecting the last assignments of the semester. The night was filled with coffee and conversations with Connor.

Amends

Brian and Lexi lay tangled in a heap in the back of the Outback. A small quilt was all that separated their naked bodies from the cold night air. She lay facing him with her eyes closed and a small smile tickling the corners of her chapped lips. Brian held Lexi’s hand to his chest and pounding heart. “I’ve had an incredible night.”

Lexi looked around the small car, and realized that he could only be speaking to her. She fixed him a sideways smile. “So have I.”

“Why didn’t we meet earlier? Why did we have to meet now?” he inquired.

“Because the time wasn’t right.”

“And it is now?”

“I think so.”

“So do I,” he said leaning in and kissing her neck.

“Why me? Why are you attracted to me?”

“Why not you? Is there something wrong with you that I should know about?”

“Nevermind,” she whispered holding back the tears that threatened to betray her. Brian’s shoulders gave a little shiver signaling the sexual adrenalin rush had worn off.

“Why don’t we get dressed?” Lexi asked

“No, I just want to stay like this for awhile. When am I going to see you again?”

“I fly out on Sunday at 5. I can see you tomorrow night for a couple of hours but I have to pack.”

“I look forward to it.” He closed his eyes and pulled her in close. There is an electrochemical reaction when two naked bodies collide: an electric kiss.

This is the last time I will ever feel this, Lexi thought. After her flight back to the mountains of Colorado she made plans to end her life. Seven years of self doubt and loathing were too much to bear anymore. She had sought solace in church, street drugs, and the beds of many men; furthermore, Prozac, Xanex, and lithium could no longer make amends.

Art: R0ssi

Joy

"The thing I've learned from you is to find the beauty in every moment," Cormac said as Darcy shifted in the bed. "No matter the struggle you find the joy."

Darcy was scared of men who thought they had insights into her. Cormac had said that she'd always been honest and tonight her fear was sincere. She didn't like it when people knew too much about her past. But this time he was right.

Darcy and Cormac had been spooned tight most of the night laughing at the ghosts of their past relationship. Now the conversation had focused on Darcy. Cormac had focused on one of her strengths, an asset she'd worked years to perfect. Life had handed her many tragedies and she learned to smile through the tears. Darcy hugged him, wrapping her body around him feeling vulnerable and beautiful and invincible all at once.

They talked on through the night about things that were inconsequential to lovers seeking a night of refuge: friends in common, laughs remembered, times shared.

Darcy was slipping into slumber and looking forward to waking up to a warm body; however, Cormac disappeared into the small hours. "I promise I'll spend the night again," he whispered with a breathy kiss.

Darcy preferred to have him stay the night. Waking up next to someone made her feel like less of a whore, made her forget the passion of the night before. Waking up alone with strange tastes in her mouth and smells in her bed reminded her it was only one night.

Vigor

"Nervous?" Darcy asked aloud, her voice echoed in the empty apartment. Her hands shook, her stomach tied into knots that would make any Kelt proud, her heart leapt under her mother-in-law's first communion cross.

Although she made professional decisions every day, she was making an active decision about her personal life and was terrified. She couldn't remember a time when she'd been so consumed with nerves - not jumping off a bridge in Idaho with a rubberband strapped to her midsection, not her wedding day. The closest thing she could compare it to was her birthday eleven years ago when she was sitting in a doctor's office awaiting a diagnosis that would change her life.

Tonight, she was taking charge. She'd made up her mind and was pursuing it with a vigor she usually reserved for intellectual pursuits. Books, theories, and ideas could not fail her or disappoint.

However, if she couldn't have what she wanted this night she wouldn't consider it again. It was a one time opportunity. She didn't have the energy to be this nervous beyond a few hours.

Darcy showered, smoked a Russian cigarette, downed some Alka-Seltzer and brushed her teeth. Now, there was only time to wait.

Prologue

Setting: Empty stage with full lights

At Rise: SHILOH enters with blackboard. Written on the black board is, “We can do no great things only small things with great love, Mother Theresa.” SHILOH positions the blackboard center stage, steps back and studies the board.

SHILOH
Blasphemy.

(SHILOH erases board and exits.)

Sunset

I met him in a crowded restaurant. He walked right up to me and asked me if I’d seen the sunset the night before. I said no. He said he wished he could have shared it with me and that his name was Wilson. He kissed my cheek, handed me a slip of paper and seemingly walked out of my life.

I stared at the note all the while eating my grilled McChicken sandwich. On the piece of paper was written:

In your eyes I see a love of life
I can imagine you’ve faced much strife
Into my mind you twirled
You danced into my world
I want a place in your vision
Outside all of this derision
Away from this fast food
Call me if in the mood

Gambler

Searching for a winning lover in this deck of cards,
And constantly having to fold.
Just a toss of the dice you say.
I’m ready to toss the dice out.
I’m no longer in Lady Luck’s graces.
She gave me a taste of a winning streak.
But the house always wins.
Now, I’m poor, broken and jonesing for a game.
Most can see that this old gambler needs to lay down her cards.
Yet I wait for the right hand to go all in.
The final hand to be a winner…forever.
Maybe the next hand…
Maybe the next hand…

Descent

“I forgot to put on underwear this morning,” I muttered.

“You what?” Leah responded.

And this is how it started: my slow descent into depression. Isn’t funny how we can narrow it down into one sentence. I stopped answering the phone. The only time I would bathe would be when I could smell my feet even though they were tucked deep in my covers in the midnight hours. I neither left my apartment nor had the desire to.

I would cook my favorite dinner then refuse to eat it, no longer hungry for curry or garlic shrimp or naked pasta. I would spend days organizing my CD collection or alphabetizing my canned goods.

Whore

Languidly mounted upon human criticism she sits,
chaos and order dancing, she screams locked in madness.
Masquerades of naked dramas fill her nights,
by day she plays with the stars.
Spitting sputtering spewing she breaks her promises.
She curls up around your loins leaving you screaming: more!

Destiny has not been a lover nor a friend.
She has beaten me until I have cursed her name:
sorrowful screams in the dead of the night.
I have bared myself raw and naked under her heavy lipstick.
You love me, rob me and leave me.
Fortune is not to be known by any virgin.

Destiny has cast me out of her graces.
She has thrown me out of her bed without a blanket.
The bitch has ripped my dying lover from my arms.
Fate has eluded me down back alleys.
Faith has damned me for my place in her arms.
Fate you are a wretched whore.

Open Water

I fear
his forgotten laugh.
Sand and pebbles
retreating to the ocean.
A sand castle of memory
crumbled,
scattered
out to sea.

I fear
weeping.
Consumed by salt,
undulating body
washed by waves of sobs

I fear
grief.
It tears and bites
like jagged rocks,
sucks me
down with undertow.
Shocked and numb –
jellyfish sting.

I fear
love.
Standing ashore,
I watch
boats drift.
Scared of open
water,
I refuse
my ride.

New Orleans' Dawn

Sounds of sax, trumpet and snare lure me away
from the shotgun shacks of childhood years.
Horns wail like a concave scream.

Parched mouth yearns for smoky night clubs.
Loins lust for men of gin and vodka and lies.

The small morning hours fade
in a whiskey-ruined whisper
Lady Day welcomes me into the waking world.

If I Profane

What light through yonder…

I want you to glow,
to shine, to luster
not for me, but for passion -
lust for the aspiration of lusting.

O’ daughter of Capulet,

I want no devotion,
no rapture, no dedication.
No lover’s ecstasy,
only an appetite to please.

Speak again, bright angel!

I want virginity,
innocence – chaste and sour.
Physically undeflowered,
burning for celibacy.

Be my rose.

I want your saintly
kiss to my pilgrim’s hand
Lips taunt and tongue shy -
do not kiss, but palm to palm.

Fighting Pillows

Pillows tossed, covers turned.
Books scattered across the blue clad mattress.
Quilted Irish Chain crisscrosses her pale naked frame.
Scars slash flesh in white spots and stripe

Nestled, she slumbers upon a field of hallucinations.
Snatches of reality twirl with violent visions.
The past revisited – mystified by a dreamy veil.

King-sized and meant for multiples, yet she wakes alone.
Stroking the solitude next to her,
Floundering, she finds a beckoning sketchbook.
Words rip the page recapturing forgotten memories.

Fair Maureen

“Married my father,
I should turn into my mother.
Right?”

No affirmation offered.

“Alcoholism is the fate of Irish Catholic
women with abusive husbands
and they’re all abusive.”

Take her snifter.

“Mom, started with cooking sherry,
then cough syrup,
then Jamison’s by the bottle.
I’ll show her.”

Drowned in Hennessy.

“Fuck confession,
I’ve got a toilet.”

Awaiting

Boards jump as she ventures across the rustic structure.
Rough-hewn timber trusses creak and moan
settling into deep pilings. A train rumbles
in the distance, a whistle blowing across wasted farmland.
Silver frost drapes the cottonwoods, winter’s embrace.
To the west, the sky is alight – flames of pink, purple
blossom. To the east, a flock of night’s ravens
swoop and dive nearing her, drawing
darkening pewter sky.
A hawk screams in the night. A soul in pain,
prey falling victim to talons.
Water glides on to the mighty, muddy Mississippi.
A sullen girl awaits love’s return.

Twilight had just fallen on the South Park valley. The clouds were gradually shedding their pink colour. The ride back to school was always the worst, leaving Doug behind with only homework to look forward to.

The nearly full moon at zenith, the world was lit with an eerie light. Nancy’s face illuminated by the dashboard. Kim sniffled and struggled to breathe through a raging sinus infection. Myself, watching the ends of another colourful Colorado sunset. I noticed a couple of buffalo walking close to the road and missed Killian. He would have loved this drive through the twilight, the buffalo, and the countless tomorrows in the future. Yet he was robbed of his promised tomorrows.

Photo: tigerofjesus

Regret

Scarlet began to wander around her life in a daze. No physical pain or catastrophic event could distract her from the hell that played over and over in her mind. Although she hated the word, regret was now part of her mental vocabulary. Too many midnight scandals found at the bottom of a tequila bottle. Too many mornings spent searching a strange bedroom for her underwear. Too many times she’d prayed that the stranger in the bed would not wake to ask her questions or even her name. Too many hot showers spent trying to scrub the sins of the night away.

In the past, Scarlet claimed not to believe in Catholic guilt; but here it was. Contrition was no longer the right word for the scar she wore at the pit of her stomach. Sunday mornings, before entering the narthex, she paused and drew a deep breath to muster the courage to enter God’s house a whore. Scarlet cried through the Our Father: lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. Could she really with any conscious take communion? Scarlet carried her rosary with her at all times now. Somehow by holding those beads she hoped to be absolved of her transgressions. But could praying to a virgin really be that helpful?

Scarlet had broken the one promise that she had made Declan. She had participated in the same indulgence that had killed him: unprotected flesh. Above all else, this is what was killing her. That one moment of drunken idiocy, was the parasite that gnawed at her already tattered heart. How could she recover after breaking such a promise?

The half winter’s moon peered down from his lofty perch amongst the stars. At 2am the sad moon was nearing the horizon thereby casting it in an eerie red color. The frigid Iowa air formed a sound insulating layer over the gravel road. Nearby, an owl scoped her nightly feast. Here at the edge of town only possibilities could be seen without the negative forces of Newton blinding any glimmer of hope.

Brian and Lexi lay tangled in a heap in the back of the Outback. A small quilt was all that separated their naked bodies from the cold night air. She lay facing him with her eyes closed and a small smile tickling the corners of her chapped lips. Brian held Lexi’s hand to his chest and pounding heart. “I’ve had an incredible night.”

Lexi looked around the small car, and realized that he could only be speaking to her. She fixed him a sideways smile. “So have I.”

“Why didn’t we meet earlier? Why did we have to meet now?” he inquired.

Photo: Boo756

Rambling

Waking Aislin form a hard sleep, Nora crawled in bed and nestled into her daughter’s arms. The roles were reversed; Mother was scared; child wore a brave face and offered comfort.

Nora’s agoraphobia had started slow with a bit of anxiety while grocery shopping. It was magnified by Nora’s position as an in-take nurse in the local emergency room. She’d seen the pain humans inflicted upon each other. The symptoms became crippling before Aislin left for Colorado. Nora refused to be vulnerable and refused to leave the house. She still worked graveyard at the hospital; however, that was the extent of her excursions outside the house.

Aislin snuggled into Nora as a child holds a doll. “Are you coming to my show?”

“I’ve been showing your work since you were four,” she said. Although Aislin couldn’t see her mother’s face, she knew that Nora was smiling as her words turned up like the corners of her mouth. “The refrigerator was never big enough for you.”

This was all Aislin needed to hear. Her mother would stay home, rambling around the small house, talking to Albert, and ignoring all else. The weight of the rest of the world seemed to be pressing down on the house trying to find a crack or open window.

Lucky Charms

Lack of sleep, an odd bed, anticipation, and hunger all conspired against me. Sleep would not come tonight.

I rose from the bed, pulled on the flannel pants, rolled the bottoms up as not to trip on the stairs, and wandered down to the kitchen. The house took on a whole new character with only the moonlight creeping through the windows to illuminate the space.

The kitchen was spotless, not even a water spot in the stainless steel sink. Each of the canisters that sat out on the counter was perfectly spaced from each other. Even the contents of the fridge were perfectly aligned with each other. The apples were sorted by type.

I started opening cabinets in search of some snack food. Chips, cookies, or candy would have worked wonders to calm my nerves. I had just tucked into some tortilla chips when the door swung open, startling me. Jon entered wearing only flannel pants identical to the one I had on. He didn’t look remotely sleepy and his pants were not wrinkled.

“Hello,” I said through a mouthful of chips.

“What are you doing up?”

“Hungry.”

“Me, too,” he said pouring a bowl of Lucky Charms. He sat on the counter next to me eating only the marshmallow pieces.

Night Terrors

Aislyn woke in the night with tears streaming down her cheeks. Yet another nightmare of sexual transgressions left her crying in the night. Instead to recalling horrible images of the past, her subconscious was creating new terrors. The first dream was the maintenance man in her condo and Riley had been the knight riding in on his white jag to save her. Tonight's dream was a female security guard at the mall where she was buying nail polish.

Aislyn curled under the down comforter, but couldn't get warm. She touched the sheets where Riley had been the day before. She'd been crying for him in her dream, wanting to be comforted by his tender presence. Now she was overcome by fear of what the dreams portented; what demons had been set loose in her fragile psyche.

Photo: crvena69

Bakhtin

Outside, the sky was alight with the fire of night’s advance; blue, pink and yellow mingled in ways only seen on truckstop postcards. Inside, Peri perched herself in front of the television, behind a stack of ungraded papers, beside a bottle of chardonnay, and under a log cabin quilt. The high mountain summer night wasn’t cold enough to warrant the quilt but it was a happy remnant of the past.

She hated being to be the professor to assign papers discussing the ramifications of Mikhail Bakhtin on modern writers because she was the professor that had to read and evaluate each paper; however, it paid the bills no matter how contrived the essays were. At least it wasn’t Calvino.

The phone pulled Peri from her loathing. “Hello?”

“We’re coming over,” Bridget said. “I have someone I want you to meet.”

“Who’s we?” Peri asked jumping from the sofa looking down at her boxers and Surf Colorado tee.

“A few of us from the department. Got any wine?”

“Of course.”

“Good. We’ll be there in a few.”

“Damn it!” Peri said hanging up the phone. She ran up the stairs tripping on the top step. She tore through her drawers throwing on a pair of dress pants and a black tee – simple, understated but semi-professional. Her new colleagues were used to seeing her in a business suit among the academic halls full of jeans and oversized sweatshirts.

Crier

“Maybe you can answer this for me,” Riley said.

Brigid waited for the question, but Riley had fallen silent.

“What’s that?” she asked. The question was quick and her tone was upbeat. They’d discussed so many emotional topics over the weekend, she was anxious to keep the conversation light.

“Why can’t I cry when I’m supposed to? I didn’t cry at my daughter’s funeral, but I’ll cry at a random movie. I’ve been to five different counselors and not one of them could answer this question.”

“Grief is a funny thing. It twists you in ways you didn’t think were possible.” Brigid paused to consider her own grief and the years of learning to cry.

“I was in a terrible car accident when I was sixteen. The doctors don’t really know how I was able to walk away with only a few cuts, but anyway that has nothing to do with my point.”

“I think I remember the accident. But what does that—“

“Hold on, I’m just trying to illustrate my point. They took me to the hospital. The doctors and nurses in the emergency room were really freaked out, but I remained calm during this whole time. I didn't cry, I answered all their questions as if I'd suffered no maore than a paper cut. It wasn’t until my mom walked into the ER that I finally broke down. I bawled and bawled when she was finally there.”

“Okay?” Riley asked as if skeptical that Brigid would get to the point.

“I always hold it together until someone is there to take the burden from me. I’m guessing that you are very similar, only you don’t have to support system that will allow you to cry in times of great grief and pain. Your parents are gone, your grandma isn’t doing well, and your wife ended many of your friendships without offering you the comfort that friends would have provided. You had to be strong for you and your family. There was no one to help you shoulder that tremendous burden, so there wasn’t chance for you grieve and cry.”

Brigid paused and considered her next words carefully. "I believe the most amazing part about being in a relationship is finding someone that will help carry the weight and to support each other even when the burden is overwhelming."

Basking

The gunmetal grey sky rained down on the gloomy Saturday. Riley roamed around the bookstore researching his ambitions. Brigid found a quiet corner and sketched him from an armchair. Black ink exploring and illustrating the wave of emotions and new connection to the landscape of her negation.

While she sketched, Brigid considered how she wanted this rainy day to stretch into a lifetime. Brigid simply wanted to bask in the affection of this beautiful and complicated man, like she was at the beach for the first time and bathed in the sun and sea.

Photo: Ronaaa

Jon gazed into the fire. The light illuminated the beautiful bone structure of his face: high cheek bones, well-defined brow, and patrician nose. I could imagine his ancestors as the Lords of England being waited on by my peasant, Irish ancestors.

He stood, took my glass, and placed it with his on the bar. “You must be tired,” he said. “You should find ample toiletries in your bathroom. I’ll give some pajamas.”

Jon led me up the oak stairs into an expansive hallway. We passed an open door leading into a book lined study, another open door revealed a small room littered with exercise paraphernalia. At the end of the hall, Jon opened a door to reveal a palatial bedroom. At first I though it was the master bedroom, but by his body language I could tell it was my room. A large oak four poster sat prominently in the middle of the room. It was adorned with a white down comforter and enough matching pillows to cushion a fall from the highest peaks of the Rockies.

Photo: reiko-stocks

Perfect Seduction

“Vodka tonic…Got any music?”

Jon nodded. He walked over to a roll top desk in the living room, lifted the roll to reveal a bar and small stereo. He hit play and mixed two drinks. I was nervous in the quiet. Louis Armstrong calmed me but couldn’t dispel all my unease. I hadn’t encountered such a perfect seduction scene in many years.

Jon turned back to me, two drinks in his hand. He looked at my hands which were playing with his tie.

I took the highball glass from Jon, thanked him, down it in two swallows, and asked for more. He stared in disbelief, and then mixed another drink.

“I’ll go easy on this one,” I promised, settling into one of the overstuffed couches. I savored the warmth of the vodka spreading through my body. Louie finally lulled me into a relaxed state.

Photo: elgabo

Intersections

Deirdre drove through morning rush hour traffic. At stoplights she'd rub her chapped lips and remember Riley's passionate kisses. Her makeup was still smeared from the sweat of both of their bodies meeting in tender and erotic intersections--a twisting of limbs and gasps of pleasure.

As side streets gave way to highway and to interstate, she conjured visions of a bright future with Riley--a man with whom she had dark and sordid past. Although fictional, it was a love story she wanted to believe in, one she wanted to invest in, one she trusted.

Photo: sporto

Sandman

Lola watched Walken pad up the stairs and heard him enter the bedroom overhead. Lola could just picture him sitting there looking from the bed to the door and back to the bed. His large black face panting in anticipation as he was waiting for her to give him the signal it was okay to hop into bed.

In the downstairs bathroom, she downed two Tylenol PM with a glass of Alka-Seltzer, and brushed her teeth. Years of insomnia led to a slight dependency on sleep aids. The average person can fall asleep in 15 minutes or less; on a good night Lola could find slumber after two fitful hours.

Walken watching, Lola crawled into bed, settled in, and whispered his name. On cue, he bounded into bed and curled up next to her back. Lola had designed the space herself. The queen-size bed was elevated above the rest of the furniture. Decked out in deep purple and sky blue velvet the bed faced a large bank of windows. She’d intended the space to be the ultimate in comfort to entice the sandman.

There was something to be said for sleeping with a dog. He warmed the bed, rarely stole the covers, and there was little chance he would leave any bodily fluids aside from drool on the sheets. Sleep, however, was not possible.

Photo: Adam-Pieratt

Palisades

Walken and Lola watched the sunset behind the Palisades. Lola loved those cliffs, soaring above the high mountain valley. The rugged rock face was vertical against the crimson sky.

Walken watched Lola as she gaze at the dazzling skyline. Lola found it odd how much her dog studied her. The Great Dane was her constant companion. He reflected many qualities of his namesake, Christopher Walken; the dog was dark, brooding, and sometimes self involved. Furthermore, Walken was the only man she’d ever loved.

“Woof,” Lola said trying to distract him from his intrigues. He cocked his head in a quizzical manner. Lola woofed again. Walken finally realized the game and joined in barking.

Photo: ooberooberstrange

Freckles

“Why were you attracted to Jonas?”

“Initially?”

“Sure.”

“He had freckles on his eyelids. I’d never met anyone with that many freckles. And his would turn bright red whenever he was embarrassed or when he laughed. And he had the most ridiculous laugh. Big, boisterous and high pitched. Being around a laugh like that, you could help but join in.”

Photo: valelectronik

Grandpa

You'd think he was a saint, the way my grandmother talks about him, but from what I remember, he only ordered her around or ignored her.

My grandfather was only a nice man when it was to his benefit. He'd feed me hot dogs and sweets so I wouldn't tell my mom he took me to the horse track. Everyone once in a while he'd place a bet for me. We'd wander down to where they kept the horses. I'd look at them and pick one - the one that looked the best with his little blanket on. I won a few times and we'd buy cotton candy with the earnings. But most of the time I'd sit with a pad of paper and make-up stories about my dolls.

He was the one that taught me to be quiet. He taught me not to exist. He taught my grandmother not to exist, too. She was a radiant beauty in love with life and in love with a bad man. He didn't make her a proper wife; he was never able to buy a house because of his gambling. They lived from paycheck to paycheck and were never able to make it a Merry Christmas for their children. When the grandchildren came - I was the first - Grandma started sneaking money out of his wallet in the middle of the night and tucking it in a coffee can hidden behind the washing machine where he'd never look.

Photo: wwit

Family Ties

"What's the deal with your family?" Duke asked.

Aislin peered down at her hands, picked at something under one of her nails, and tucked her hands back into her coat pockets. "You mean the fact that they're crazy?"

"Whenever you run into any of them it seems like you can't wait to leave."

"It took me awhile to realize just how dysfunctional my family was."

"Every family has it's own quirks, but they're still a family."

"I thought it was normal for every kid to spend Saturdays at the dog track with grandpa; all moms had panic attacks at the mall; secret grow rooms in the basement; moonshine in the garage. My first childhood memory was of my uncles getting high while babysitting me. I was three. Three, for god's sake!

"When I asked where my dad was, I was told that he was a bad drunk and ran away. My mom acted like this was the most evil thing a person could do. Yet, I've watched every one in my extended family turn to the bottle and run away from responsibility. I learned it was okay unless you were my father, in which case you were an evil, evil man worthy of the wrath of god.

"There was never any cough syrup in the house, instead I was handed a shot of Jamison and told it would put hair on my chest. A bad tooth called for a shot of vodka. For a headache, the prescription was a bong hit and a nap."

Photo: Heile

Sink, toilet, trashcan

Aislin crawled into bed and cuddled around Gershwin the stuffed toad. Soft cotton enveloped her; however, the sheets smelled like last weeks visitor or was that her imagination. Rain dripped from pine needles at her window. It was a night for salt. She could feel sobs undulating toward her shores.

It hadn't been a particularly bad day; truthfully, it'd been a good day. The boss was happy and her writing professor was bubbling with the highest praise for latest piece. She was leaving in the morning for a city adventure. Yet all she wanted to do was cry.

Maybe it was the writing. In the past week she'd had to write about the worst moments of her life - confronting malevolent ghosts along with her protagonist. Sending intimate writing out into the world was overwhelming but she'd done it before. Was there anything different this time?

Aislin wanted something to blame this saddness on - some part of her week: the bizzare phone call from lover-past, illness sucking her breath, mother calling her back to forgotten farmlands, recollections of a broken night of shattered virginity, a rejection she promised she wouldn't feel, or reminders of bleak days of insanity and loss.

Whatever the force, it was bending her double. Sobs purged her already empty stomach, sending her scrambling for sink, toilet, trashcan.

Photo: idontcare300

Fistful

Grasshoppers thumped against the side panels; heavy, humid air clung like an old lady's perfume; I could taste the impending harvest; the air smelled green like eating a fitful of grass.

Photo: bagi1992

Broken House

Aislin stayed in bed, pulled the blankets up further, and curled up tighter. She'd only been awake a few minutes but already knew that he was mad. The bangs of kitchen cabinets and sliding chairs came up the stairs. Aislin either needed to confront the problem or face spending the day under his cloud.

Aislin descended the stairs while pulling on a robe. Gideon was eating Cheerios and watching the news with the television blaring. His jaw muscles flexed and twitched with each heaping spoonful.

"You should stop pouting. You broke shit the last time."

"I fixed the door two weeks ago. What's your problem?"

"You were so mad you broke the house. Why don't you just tell me what I did before we have to move?"

Photo: EyeForPhotography

Curtains

With each word and sob her air supply shrunk and breathing in carpet fibers became more painful. His forehead slammed into her temple and he began to lick her exposed ear. The blow had rattled his composure and his grip on her jaw loosened.

Peri gulped air into her lungs and colors returned to sight. Cheap lace curtain billowed in the warm night breeze. Windows glowed sallow from the sodium vapor streetlamps. Blue light filtered in from the digital clock on the microwave in the adjoining kitchen. Red blinking light from a recently unplugged alarm clock in the hallway lit his contorted face.

The color reminded her that there was much to live for.

Fight. Now’s the time to fight.

Peri slapped Quinn’s stubbly face. His head barely moved with the blow and he grinned with the pain. She pounded her fists into his chest like a trained monkey pounding on a drum. Quinn, again, didn’t move but thrusted harder.

She finally grabbed his hips and dug her thumbnails into his inguinal lymph nodes. He rocked back on his knees away from her. Peri planted her foot in his chest and kicked him over.

Photo: OrochimaruCriesBlood

In Flight

I leaned my head against the cold window, wishing I could fly back to Colorado and crawl back into bed with Albert. Happiness was a good man to come home to even if he was a dog.

My boarding call sounded. I walked to the gate, handed the gate attendant my boarding pass and ID. She smiled and said I was the last to board. I boarded, found my seat, settled in, and began reading the novel I picked up in an airport gift shop.

After takeoff, I couldn’t read any longer. I stared out the tiny window, watching the Great Lakes recede. I was always sad while in flight. Those hours spent suspended above the earth are the worst and loneliest hours: waiting to leave one place to arrive in another. Some small slice of misery served on a platter of transportation.

The last time I’d made this flight was for my mother’s last days. She’d remained stoic all the way until the end, smiling through the pain as cancer ate away at her flesh, and grasping her favorite Bible. In her presence I mirrored her strength, alone I was reduced to childish displays of despair. My mom had been an unfailing example of a strong woman. Sometimes I took her advice too much to heart, I tried too hard to distance myself from emotion only to be overcome with it.

The flight lasted only an hour, but it must have been one of the most excruciating hours of my life. I dreaded even landing in Iowa. It was almost as if I would be swallowed whole once my foot hit the tarmac; the soil of my home state would devour its lost daughter. It almost felt like I’d betrayed the state by running away, but how does one betray a state. This wasn’t Texas now was it?

interchangeable cog

The smoker’s lounge in Chicago was filled the usual corrosive cast of characters. The one asshole on the cell phone whose self-importance was so overwhelming that he was yelling so everyone could hear his conversation and see how impressive he thought he was. The token techno nerd was typing frantically on the smallest laptop I’d ever seen.

So many unconnected lives in one room. Lives seemingly unrelated and not intertwined. Yet, we all feel the same things: pain, joy, love, despair, hatred, and fear. All human experience is the same yet profoundly different. All of us striving not to be an interchangeable cog in the mechanism of the world. I wondered where I fit in this machinery. I hoped I wasn’t the squeaky wheel.

I hated airports and most especially I hated lay-overs. This hour of idle time to observe other people is not good. The chick next to me in the J. Crew, Polo garb had at least 3 inches of underwear showing above her belt. She was stretching like a yoga instructor. If someone were truly in touch with their life force then they would know how much their underwear was showing. I constantly wondered what others thought of me in this context: a mop of blonde hair, brown and freckled face, and a body that betrayed years of abuse in the outdoor gymnasium that is the Colorado high country.

burned for a beer

Irritated, I crawled out of bed followed by Albert. I stood, wrapped a sweater over my nightgown, and headed for the kitchen. I stared into the refrigerator debating between a Coke and a Heineken for what seemed a lifetime. I decided on bottled water; although, I burned for a beer.

I wandered around the drafty house needing something to occupy my mind. Unlike the luxurious bedroom, the rest of the house was sparsely furnished. After years of moving around, I hadn’t accumulated many belongings and was tentative to buy anything new: I wanted little to chain me down.

I rambled through the house obsessively setting things right: a crooked picture on the wall, a couch that wasn’t perfectly parallel with the picture window, and the computer monitor that was tilted at an odd angle. I gazed at the pictures that lined the modest mantle. Each one told a different story of my life in order: picture of a miniature me playing with my grandfather, my toothless grin in third grade, David and me at Freshman Homecoming, high school graduation, wedding pictures, an unhappy picture of me at college, grad school graduation, and a Polaroid of me getting the keys to this house. The only things missing from this timeline of photos was David’s funeral and mom’s headstone.

As if under a wizard’s spell, I dug the dusty suitcases out from under the bed and began to fill them. I hadn’t used the suitcases since I moved to this mountain valley two years before. If I traveled, I required only an overnight bag or a camping backpack. I was unaware I was packing until I was nearly done with the task; I wondered if it was the lingering effects of the sleeping pills. The suitcases were happy to receive sweaters, jeans, and the like. Packing for winter in Iowa was no light task.

Sandman

I stepped into the downstairs bathroom, downed two Tylenol PM with a glass of Alka-Seltzer, and brushed my teeth. Years of insomnia led to a slight dependency on sleep aids. The average person can fall asleep in 15 minutes or less; on a good night I can find slumber after about two hours.

Albert watching, I crawled into bed, settled in, and whispered his name. On cue, he bounded into bed and curled up next to my back. I designed the space myself. The queen-size bed was elevated above the rest of the furniture. Decked out in deep purple and sky blue velvet the bed faced a large bank of windows. I intended the space to be the ultimate in comfort to entice the sandman.

Sleep had never been a good friend. I would put it off as long as possible only to give in willing and take as much as possible. I often felt like I’m about to drop to the floor and die yet I do not wish to sleep.

Each night before I turn out the bedside light, I try to think of all the daily happenings that I should be thankful for. This night I was very pleased with my day. I’d relaxed in the last of the autumn’s afternoons. I’d prepared the flower beds and other plants for the long winter ahead. I relished the sunburn that blushed my cheeks: a warm kiss from God.

Photo: Tortured-Raven

Goodnight my love...

The sun has moved on to char the other side of the world.
Tonight, sweet sleep will not pour into me.
The sandman has forsaken this widowed soul.
You now slumber with angels forever more.
Goodnight my love, to every hour you sleep tight.
I wander these broken streets tonight.

Under the stroking hand of hushed sunset,
You walk beside me laughing, ever watchful.
Other times, I walk in your luminous shadow.
Your memory eludes me down this meandering path.
Goodnight my love, may you doze without fright.
I roam these broken streets tonight.

The first stars awaken for the night ahead.
I can no longer make a joke of the pain.
No mental stand-up riffs about death
Will quell this terrible longing.
Goodnight my love, may your dreams be happy and your head light.
I tramp through these broken streets tonight.

In the treetops the wind whistles a lonely tune.
I drank too deeply of my grief. 20
I find myself drown with cups of despair:
A poor vintage, bitter and morose.
Goodnight my love, may sleep hold you in the candlelight.
I pace these broken streets tonight.

The city of my love sleeps in the sound of falling snow. 25
My heart wails with an unheard concave scream.
All I do is wipe away cascading tears,
And police the demons tracking me.
Goodnight my love to all that is pure in your sight.
I slog through these broken streets tonight 30

The relentless moon strips back night’s black hood.
What if all we have is what lies here,
This lonely world, this troubled place?
I’ll have no reason to sleep or ever to wake.
Goodnight my love, don’t let the bed bugs sleep too tight. 35
I crawl through these broken streets tonight.

Like blood out of a wound, silence wells.
You have returned my faith to me,
No one could have given me any greater a gift.
Grace brought you to me; fate robbed you of this world. 40
Goodnight my love, this is the end of your plight.
I lumber through these broken streets tonight.

The full moon hangs in the trees like a lost balloon.
Under these cold, dead stars I petition,
God will give you back to me one day. 45
Then you’ll whisper “’Twas only a nightmare.”
Goodnight my love, go on your heavenly flight.
I stumble over these broken streets tonight.

Wind flings tattered clouds across the lunar face.
The shroud of night conceals all flaws. 50
I search for beauty concealed in the tragic.
Yet, no light can fill my frozen soul.
Goodnight my love, may your fears by trite.
I stagger these broken streets tonight.

Overhead nighthawks dive, soar and barrel loop. 55
Sheltered under a magnolia, not yet in bloom,
I slide ever downward into reverie.
Memories stacked like logs awaiting a fire.
Goodnight my love, nap in perfect delight.
I blunder through these broken streets tonight. 60

Cold fingers of snow are warmer than a lover’s touch.
You were the siren calling me home.
When the demons came I clung to your adoration.
Can you understand the fractured person I’ve become?
Goodnight my love, float away like a child’s kite. 65
I scamper through these broken streets tonight.

The wind subsides with a whistle-hiss of a departing train.
Nothing but time stirs in the trees.
The night is still as ashes in an urn.
But life continues churning within me. 70
Goodnight my love, may fortune be at its greatest height.
I limp through these broken streets tonight.

The vaulted sky is an inverted porcelain bowl.

Brown Paper

With large envelope clutched stood Betty.
Slight woman built from an Aspen:
Sapling braches for limbs and topped by
a wiry, white, mossy perm dripping sad.
She, Shiloh, said, “For me?” taking the mail.
Shi studied handwritten scratchy scrawl.
Revulsion, rage ran a cold finger
through her pooled nerves: tattered and frayed.
“Is that you?” Betty inquired pointing at Lola.
Shi nodded, “Yes, it is. A nickname, yes.”
The Aspen wilted bidding a goodnight.
Shi dropped the package onto the floor.
Pouring a drink – vermouth, olives, vodka –
Pulling a chair into the middle of the room
Shi sat with martini in hand glaring
At the past that had grown spindly legs,
scampered into her life and began
staring up at her like an insolent child.
Lola. Even after much silence, still a joke.
A sexual joke to that son of a bitch.
He called her Lola after the wedding which
Tied her to him and him to her mother.
A nickname from a favorite old book,
Shi likened it to being older, mysterious,
Every child desires a personal mystery.
He called her Lola until mom died.
Shi was twelve and he being forty-eight,
When murderous cancer took mom away.
He took her to bed, dead mother’s bed,
Tickled her, she laughed, he raped, she fought.
He called her by her full name – Lo. Lee. Ta.
He consoled, she cried. She left, he cried.
One bark, Shi was pulled from her cruel mind.
Pete barked again, whined looking back at
The squawking albatross in brown paper.
“Nothing good can come of this,” Shi whispered.
Pete could not be calmed or soothed,
He remained at attention – a soldier
Too frightened to stand at ease.

Quelling Night Terrors

Alex leaned her head back against the wall
Shower water rained down on her breasts
Hunter leaned in kissing her collarbone
The pain of past loves lost dissipated
Thoughts of a dead husband washed away.
Although Alex wanted to weep with joy,
Hunter had yet to see her sad torment.
Alex had hidden the daily tears from him,
From the world, from even the closest friends.
Yet, nothing could hold back her happiness,
Not today, not tomorrow, not again.
She would no longer be brought to her knees
By grief, by depression or by hatred.

Hunter moaned. She massaged peach shampoo
Into his thin black hair. The smell of mom’s
cobbler wafted through the small dim bathroom.
Candlelight flickered beyond the curtain.
Hunter’s tight athletic frame quivered when she
Pressed her fingertips into the back of his head
A pressure point to free a demon headache.
“You amaze me,” he said with a whimper
planting his face in her chest suckling and
caressing each taunt nipple in time.

The past weeks were built on commonality:
Conversation, baseball and martinis.
Hunter reminded her of the dead love
Whose grief had haunted her for seven years.
Hunter opened doors like a gentleman
Without insulting her independence
He held her tight when night terrors shook her
From her fitful slumber. Horrible dreams:
Watching loved ones violently slain,
Nightmares of lust in her step-father’s eyes.
Dark alley corners where the rapists plays.

The night before he’d woken her twice
enveloping her in a bear hug as
she thrashed, kicked moaned and wailed
The first instance she’d leapt into his arms
Later she shrunk down in the bed hiding behind
Numerous pillows and a down comforter.
Blue eyes wide mouth locked in a silent scream
Alex stared in shocked horror at her beloved.
Hunter, now, embodied her deepest fear:
Love, being loved, receiving love, being
Opening her heart to the chance of pain.
Yet, Hunter was there with open arms.
making her feel beautiful despite
Years of being advised to the contrary.

Alex looked into his opalescent
Eyes. A previously impossible
Task, too intimate. “Where did you go?” Hunter
Asked dumping shampoo into his own hands.
“Nowhere,” she mumbled locked in his eyes.

I pulled up to the house, shifted my mother’s Neon into park, drew a deep reassuring breath, and stepped from the car. The house stared at me daring me to enter. The red colonial brick and white trimmed windows glared now more maliciously than I’d remembered. It was the kind of house I’d yearned for as a child, a place where white picket fence dreams transpired. Today, a sadness as cold as the Iowa January day seemed to be sprinkled over the property.

My husband, Sean, had grown up in this house. I’d always ascribed warmth with his presence; a happier day while he’d slept under the eaves. However, AIDS robbed us of his physical warmth eight years ago. His mother, Maureen, discovered the comfort of razor blades six months later. David, Sean’s father, was the only inhabitant left standing until a year ago when an infection overran his life cup. I now owned the house.

I opened the front door and was greeted by silence. It was the sort of silence that promised to chew you up and spit you out on another edge of reality and I looked like lunch. What had I expected? The haunting of ghosts, malevolent spirits, or eerie horror movie music.

The lawyer had paid a cleaning service to make the house presentable. But it felt almost lived in. I wanted dust bunnies and the moldy smell of a closed up house. I wanted it to feel dead.

Photo: mytragicblood

Aftermath

Emma stared down at the brown flecks of dried blood floating among the yellow bile. Vomit was now the only color in her expansive, antiseptic bathroom: fluffy white towels, white shower curtain, thick white bathmat, and white walls. Her chest thumped at irregular intervals as vital potassium and electrolytes swam in the toilet. Sweat rolled down her face, dripping off her nose into the toilet. Stomach burned. Sinuses were on fire from acid forced through delicate passages.

“Em, please open the door,” Quinn called, knocking on the locked door.

Her diaphragm contracted at the sound of his lilting voice, and Emma thought she was going to split down the middle. The fireworks began again: explosions, blinding lights, cacophony. Emma screamed through each heave. Her screams were then silenced by blood caking the insides of her mouth. When the last of her insides were out, she laid her head down on the cold tiles and wept. The booms and bangs ended as she was lifted from the floor.

“Don’t touch me!” she screamed, slamming feeble fists into his chest. “You’re going to kill me.”

“You’re sick,” Quinn whispered, setting her into bed.

She wanted to melt into the pale, blue sheets.

“You’re killing me. Opened me up and tore a hole.”

Quinn disappeared and Emma sunk her shaking, naked frame into the soft bed, willing herself to dissolve.

“Plop, plop…” Quinn sang thrusting a fizzing highball glass at her.

Emma took the cup, drank it in one long pull and chucked it the wall. “There is something distinctly satisfying about the sound of shattering glass,” she said as she faded into the unconscious with a grin.

Photo: janosnovak

Muddy Sheen

Emma leaned her head back into Quinn’s hand as his fingers splayed though her blonde tresses, pulled at curls and lifted her lips to his. His tongue deep in her swollen, chapped mouth.

Their clothes came off in waves. His suit jacket. Her heels. Kissing. Her shirt. His Armani tie. Fumbling. His shirt. Her belt, badge, and cell. Fondling. Her jeans. His pants. The trail of clothes through her spacious Upper East Side apartment was a testament to passion.

Everything about Quinn was thick and rigid, from his sculpted arms to the muddy sheen of freckles that looked like a coat of war paint. He stared down at her petite yet muscular frame held in the light of the westering moon that drifted in through the blinds. Against the dark blue sheets her pale skin was luminescent. Her face went lax as the body took control, the eyes drowsy, the mouth slightly parted. Emma stifled the sound that wanted to come out because it was too desperate and pained. He pressed his groin into her naked thigh – heat seeking the moist.

Quinn’s hand stroked her cheek and jaw line. His hand slid down the front of her throat with a gentle massage and Emma was submerged into a memory twenty years old and no longer solid. Time rippled back on itself – moments and memories undulating. A fluid hand held her aloft by the throat before …

Big Change

Danny pulled off his hat and rumpled his dyed black hair; slid off his sweatshirt, and shucked two layered tee shirts. Danny’s shoulders were small, like that of a young boy, and he hunched so that his collarbones seemed the only thing suspending his dirty white undershirt. Wearing layers upon layers of shirts was an attempt to avoid comments about looking sick or like an Auschwitz escapee. The sallow, flickering light only emphasized his concave chest and prominent ribs.

Danny stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes never left those of his green-eyed reflection as he removed the steely rings piercing his lips, ears, nipples, and septum. The nautical stars inked across his chest seemed to twinkle in the uneven light. Next came the scissors as he cut off large chunks of his hair and tossed the strands into an empty grocery bag. Once he’d cut down the longest parts he went over his head several times with electric clippers using a shorter guard each pass until he was satisfied. It wasn’t the jarhead cut his grandfather had given him every summer of his childhood in this same bathroom, but it had changed his appearance enough that none of his Eastern friends would be able to recognize him.

Maytag

The panel behind the Maytag's knobs lit up and glowed pink. Bought in a time when appliances were as revered as a new family member, the machine with backward dials and luminous glow seemed like a relic from a utopic, parallel world. Danny touched the panel and marveled. He'd covered all the basement windows with aluminum foil hoping that they neighbors wouldn't notice a squatter, although the nearest neighbor was two miles away down a different gravel road. The Maytag bathed the utility room with bubblegum cheer--chasing spiders off the web and evicting the boogeyman, all the while washing his hand me down yuppie uniforms.

Photo: spacesuitcatalyst

Patrick had transformed the dorm room into a neatly appointed space. By removing the acoustical tiles from the dropped ceiling and exposing the industrial pipes and duct work, the boy had created a modern loft feeling. A pale blue area rug softened the two exposed brick walls as did silken silver bedding.

Jonas scanned the walls looking for clues as to the tenant’s whereabouts. The walls were covered with art posters, ephemeral reminders of events, and conspicuous holes where loose clumps of tape hung. The closet and chest of drawers were empty save for a few ratty tee shirts, a pair of worn out flip-flops and a battered sketchbook. Jonas imagined the packing, but not the inciting incident.

Jonas settled onto the bed with the sketchbook and leafed through the pages: a cornfield, a stately farmhouse, a rail yard, and a water tower. Jonas looked from the drawing to the wall. The promotional poster boasted an art opening in Denver with an almost identical water tower. Jonas glanced at his watch. Almost four in Colorado, he should be able to catch someone at the gallery.

A Stray

Patrick packed the most precious of his possessions—his artwork—into plastic bins and loaded them into the storage unit. He could hear the planes overhead arriving and departing from Syracuse Hancock International Airport. He clicked the padlock shut and started hiking for the highway. He knew it would be easier to hitchhike the farther west he went. He, therefore, knew to be patient in Central New York where the only logical place to go was west.

His converse sneakers and the weight of his Kelty backpack were the only things pushing him up the hill to the I-81 entrance ramp. It only took twenty minutes before someone picked him up. A huge red diesel truck pulled onto the shoulder, its bright tail light illuminating a fire fighters license plate. Patrick looked to the stars and said a little thank you. Firemen were suckers for strays.

Photo: Lasaraleen

Tattooed Angel

The tattoo of his guardian angel was just a reminder of how many times she'd failed him. Danny's body was broken by his daddy's pipe wrench across his back and knees ending his scholarship football career.

Aislyn wanted to take this boy home, kiss all his wounds and scars. Hope that her love and tender care could heal his broken spirit. She knew, however, he might be too far away and beyond her reach.

Guest Room

Robert led me up the oak stairs into an expansive hallway. We passed an open door leading into a book lined study, another open door revealed a small room littered with exercise paraphernalia. At the end of the hall Robert opened a door to reveal a palatial bedroom. At first I though it was the master bedroom, but by Roberts’s body language I could tell it was my room. A large oak four poster sat prominently in the middle of the room. It was adorned with a white down comforter and enough matching pillows to cushion a fall from the highest peaks of the Rockies. The walls were a deep indigo blue in strong contrast witht eh white bedding and the oak. There were two doors leading off the large room, presumably into a closet and into a bathroom.

Photo: LilyEvans7

Human Condition

He possessed the honesty and politeness only a former addict can muster. Addiction recovery seemed to rid the mind of all inhibitions much like the abused substance freed the body. Tom had lost the inner censor. Years of AA had freed him to discuss the worst of the human condition - his.


Photo: jzcj5

Marc watched her nimble fingers at work: mincing garlic, chopping parsley and de-veining the shrimp. She possessed the quick and economical movements of a practiced chef. Aislyn place the fresh herbs into the melted but not boiling butter and olive oil mixture in the copper bottom skillet. Marc watched her hands as though she were a culinary magician poised to pull an herb roasted rabbit out of the seasoned air.

“How do you feel about Chardonnay?” Aislyn asked, holding up a bottle of deep green glass with a hand written label across its front.

“Nothing by Night Train in my house growing up.”

“You’ll love this,” she said adding a splash of the wine to the skillet.

“Where did you learn to cook like this?”

Aislyn smiled at the amazement in his voice. “I slept with many, many wealthy men and acquired a taste for the finer things.”

“Seriously?”

“I dated a lot in college and most of them were from well-to-do families. The men that found me attractive usually had savior complexes and endless resources. At the time, the only way I thought I could pay them back was by blowing their mind or other things.” Aislyn added the peeled and de-veined shrimp into the bubbling oil.

Gold Digger

“I don’t think your secretary likes me,” Aislin said, setting her camera bag on the client sofa in Lex’s office. The office was obsessively neat. Books arranged by the Library of Congress Cataloging system. Legal pads were stacked perfectly parallel with the desk edge. The décor seemed to come straight from an exclusive, east coast country club: deep leather chairs, mahogany paneling, and pleated plaid curtains.

“Elaine is harmless,” Lex said.

“Yeah, right.”

“What does that mean?”

“She’s like Grandmommy Dearest,” Aislin said, plopping down in the leather club chair facing Lex’s desk. “How did you find her?”

“When I was hired, I was issued a secretary. Teresa was a holdover from the previous deputy DA who was afraid to fire her. Teresa was a single mother with a large chip on her shoulder and was dying for an easy meal ticket. I was able to document several of her blunders and fired her. Teresa sued and lost.”

“And Elaine?”

“I interviewed a dozen people and hated them all. Elaine’s husband had been a small town lawyer in Northern Iowa. As a recent widow, she wanted a job to occupy her time. I liked her sassy attitude, so I hired her.” Lex shrugged as if the question were answered.

“She’s a gold digger.”

“I beg your pardon. Elaine is not after me.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Aislin reconsidered her argument. “You’re a prosecutor, so you’re aware of victim blaming.”

“Of course. What’s your point?” Lex was getting agitated. He didn’t like being cross-examined.

“Victims are quick to blame other victims. You’d never put a rape survivor on a jury of a rape trial, am I right?”

Lex nodded.

“One victim never believes another victim because no one could feel as much as pain as the first victim.”

“What does that have to do with Elaine?”

“She’s a gold digger and thinks I am too.”

“Elaine was one of the first people to believe in me. When I came to Newton, I couldn’t even get the cops to talk to me. Everyone saw me as a silver spoon hotshot out to make a name for myself. Never mind the five years I worked as a junior prosecutor in Des Moines.”

“Your secretary believes in money, not you.”

Photo: robmmad16

Rain

Aislin ran through the rain, her white shirt soaked through to show a collection of star tattoos peppered across her chest; heels clacking against the pavement; yesterday’s newspaper held in place of an umbrella; hair matted to the sides of her face. She looked to the sky with eyes closed and smiled at her mid-day shower. People watched her run past, and men cat-called. Some women smiled, while others turned to girlfriends to discuss the vulgarity of a woman being pleasured on a city street. Aislin laughed at all of them huddling under awnings and shop doorways.

She stepped inside the gallery and shook the rain out of her hair as a dog shakes off a bath. Puddled rainwater gathered at her feet as she waited for a staff member to appear.

Photo: Ragdoll-x3