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

Geppetto

Dr. Moretti’s office was near the Palazzo Grassi just off the Grand Canal. It seemed like Pinocchio would stumble out of the office at any moment as it resembled Geppetto’s shop from the original Tuscan tale.

“Ms. Ryan?” Moretti asked.

“Please call me Lyn,” she said shaking the man’s withered hand. His face bore the weight of his patients’ confessions.

“Then call me Howard.”

He led her into a small room packed with books and illuminated by dozens of flickering candles. She sat in a leather wingback chair facing the diminished man in distinguished clothes.

“What seems to be the problem, Lyn?”

“I’m lonely.”

Photo: loveandforever

Venice

Dripping and naked, she searched her spartan hotel room for her cell phone. A trail of clothes led from the door to her rumpled bed. The phone had spilled from her purse as she’d peeled her skirt and stockings off the night before.

The only message was from Alexander wondering where she was. It had been his idea to see a psychiatrist. What he didn’t know, however, was the only doctor actively treating her illness was in Venice, many miles from their home in the mountains of Colorado.

Photo: passenger

Warm Wine

The night before she’d been drinking from a warm bottle of Riesling still in the brown paper bag and staggering the Venice streets like a wino. The bottle was only one method to quiet her racing mind. Sleep was no longer possible as her thoughts did not stop falling from one nightmare into another. She'd craved something beyond wine--thick, red, sweet, iron.

Photo: NGPhotone

Chipped and Ragged

Shortly after the murders, I couldn’t bare the thought of walking into that house, so I put it on the market. I can say from experience it takes two years to sell a house where someone was killed. Now I longed just to walk around the old house, to feel the smooth banister under my hands, to light a fire in the dining room and hear Jonas swear because he can’t get the flue open. I dreamed of playing a Billy Holiday record on the Victrola that used to stand in the living room and dancing with Jonas to prepare for our wedding dance. Watching the house slide past the passenger window drew tears. I quietly wiped the tears away hopeful Jon had not seen them fall.

I was unable to look at Jon or the street. I focused on my hands. My hands seemed to be at least forty years older than the rest of me. The nails were chipped and ragged.

Imaginary

“The feelings I have for you are real and I don’t want to see you go.”

“Are you prone to imaginary feelings?”

Little Billy

“Do you think the single mom of four living in the projects just outside town gives a shit about how NAFTA is paying laid-off middle class factory workers to become nurses and computer programmers? She’s worried if the food stamps are going to last the rest of the week because her meager paycheck has to pay for little Billy’s penicillin because he has another ear infection from sleeping in a drafty bedroom in their run-down, government subsidized apartment. Little does she know, Billy is developing an allergy to the antibiotic, because of his repeated exposure to a moldy bathroom, because the slum lord won’t pay to replace the vent fan. And the guy getting a grant to become a programmer doesn’t realize that the job waiting for him after graduation is being sold to India at a fourth of the American salary.” Brigid paused and fiddled with her medical alert bracelet. “I like smart people who disagree with me, because I need to know my opposition before engaging in an argument.”

Photo: egoodwinart

Silly employees!

Not articulated

Sid had rattled on about decentralization of the governmental social programs for at least five minutes before he noticed Brigid’s expression. She’d covered her mouth with a tight fist and her eyes didn’t leave his lips as if watching the words fall and waiting for the right moment to grab them and run.

“Did I misspeak?” Sid asked, replaying the argument in his head searching for a fallacy.

“Nope.”

“What’s wrong then?”

“Not a thing. I like smart people who disagree with me.”

“But I don’t disagree with you."

“You do. I just haven’t articulated my argument yet.”

Reaganite greed

Brigid wanted to be part of an amazing convergence of talents like Haight-Ashbury of the sixties and New York City’s lower east-side of at the cusp of Reaganite greed. Born in central iowa and hiding in the Rockies, she doubted she’d ever witness such synergy.

The visionaries of the late sixties were killed by pharmaceutical curiosity, the lower east-siders died of a disease that even the president was too ashamed to give voice too.

“Did you know that President Regan never said AIDS or HIV publicly?”

“Hello, non-sequitur.” Sid said. “Where did that come from?”

Brigid shrugged and wondered what would kill the demigods of her generation: drugs or sex.

pic: UGOPOOPY

Therapy

After an alcohol poisoning, Robin was required to meet with Marc weekly to discuss the choices he was making. Like a scene pulled from Good Will Hunting, Robin was silent for the first session. The second session was a diatribe about Nietzsche and nihilists. It was in the third visit that Marc was able to kick the door open. He’d never forget the physical and emotional regression he witnessed that day, although he’d seen it happen once before.

Photo: Tngabor

Self Portrait Day 2

Domestic beer

Aislyn faced the bar, and stared at the neon domestic beer signs, NASCAR plaques, an infamous picture of Babe Ruth, and small placards denoting fried delicacies served in red plastic baskets. Each person's face was cast with an eerie red glow; each one marked by bad marriages and multiple children. Familiar faces from high school telling the familiar stories. The bartender, a large man with COOP tattooed down his forearm, walked up and nodded to her. He looked like an ex-boyfriend and probably was. Aislyn had been popular with the opposite sex in the days before college--a lucky combination of running five miles daily and the Irish baby feeding breasts.

photo: EviDO