100 Stories, 100 Days' Journal|
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100 Stories, 100 Days' LiveJournal:
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|Saturday, July 16th, 2011|
A Day In The Life
~The fluffy little sheep pranced around the lush green meadow. Simon felt deep Pleasure
. He awoke in a good mood. As always.
The sleeping cradle's prosthetics detached the bleeder/feeder tubes from their respective nozzles on his lower abdomen. His neural nanonics gave him a mild surge of adrenaline. He was ready for a New Day.
He put on his sleeveless coverall and house slippers and went to prepare breakfast for his Mistress. ( Life here On Assignment was much simpler than back at the Karaal...Collapse ) Current Mood: calm
|Tuesday, January 18th, 2011|
“Bright Blossoms, Divine Wind”
“Wake up, darling,” Zeev cooed softly in Neela's mind.
She drifted up quickly. “Time?”
“Approximately ninety minutes till emergence.”
She opened her eyes. In the soft light of Zeev's cockpit, holographic data flowed steadily. Sitting crosslegged in the Pilot's Cradle, she took a deep breath, held it, let it out with a sigh.
“Commence?” he asked, this time audio.
“Commence,” she replied flatly.
The launch bay in the belly of his hull powered up, its hundred cradles clicking and humming, at the far end the Stygian gray surface of the loading portal turning a shimmering bottomless black, all preparing for their 'guests'. ( A micro-portal opened in Zeev's com array, sent a burst message, closed...Collapse ) Current Mood: calm
|Monday, May 31st, 2010|
anna likes to die
Anna has every reason to kill herself. Never underestimate a person with reasons or you may become one. I know the reasons, almost in memory. She worries that if one night she were to kill herself, no one would know her reasons for doing so. But she has as many plans for that as she does reasons.
Before turning on the gas stove, or closing the garage door, or dragging a vertical blade down her arms, Anna has a routine that is just as fatalistic. I see the remains of this plan every day, at the same hour. The U.S.P.S. delivery driver brings another sealed manila envelope to me. Inside is her suicide letter.
It is my hope that as this letter arrives to you, I am dead. Be sure to put some water in the dish for my cat, for she thirsts, I’m sure you understand.”
I keep every letter she sends me in the same box, dated. The stack is pretty friggin high now. Every time Anna decides to kill herself, which is every afternoon for 4 months, she writes a letter to me, drives to U.S.P.S. and has it sent to me at my apartment here. I never really grasp at why she doesn’t succeed, because the letters never stop coming.
( Read more...Collapse )
|Wednesday, May 5th, 2010|
We argue about imaginary people, the ones I write about. She finds the stories written down on the back of sales sheets from my job. It really puts June in a rage to see that I have written anything about another woman, regardless of whether or not she’s imaginary or not.
"I don't know why you have to keep doing the same tired old routines about the same tired old stereotypes. You always write women into being these beautiful crazy demons, or absolute angels, there is middle ground you know, and real women don’t live at these extremes that you think are so funny and true. Your ancient archetypes are old hat."
She finds the stories though, usually in my binder of sales sheets, and she holds them up as though it’s some other womans clothes she has found in my bedroom.
"Who the fuck is this? WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU WORD FUCKING IN THIS STORY? If I ever find another woman on paper in here, it’s going to be a hell storm of rage on your life. I will felonize on your body."
Occasionally, June will prove my theories extremely right. I think its got something to do with the fact that you should never date a woman who has a month for a name. It gives them unnatural powers, maybe from nature, perhaps that would make them natural, I’m not sure.
remainder of the story at http://willterrytragic.livejournal.com/34873.html
|Tuesday, April 20th, 2010|
credit system suicide
I tracked across the train yard with Baskins trailing a white Sudafed color behind me talking and talking. I kept a good check on the compass, and made sure my direction was continually southwest. You can’t travel in a straight line through an entire city though. I occasionally had to veer south or west. When I would go south, I would feel the pressure of work wearing me like a strait jacket. To the west, the death dial tone.
Baskins kept rattling on. I started laying things in his path to thwart him. I would turn over abandoned shopping carts, break discarded beer bottles, I even tried to scale a barb wire fence but he was already on the other side by the time I got stabbed by barbs. Nothing is worse than fake work friendships. You associate with those people the way cashiers associate with condoms. They really have nothing to do with each other but under formally uncomfortable circumstances, they interact.
(remainder of story at http://willterrytragic.livejournal.com/34390.html
|Monday, April 19th, 2010|
"Because I save lives Will, that’s why I love lifesavers candy.”
There is essentially only one thing you will be trained on to work at the
Suicide prevention call center. “Identify the person as a threat to themselves or others.”
Beyond identification, there is no other training.
I get curious, because I view this job as like a low level doctor, saving lives across phone lines. I asked, once we verify that a person is a threat to themselves, what do we do?
"You transfer them to a trained self harm counselor".
You have to ask questions; have to get them to talk about themselves.
Identify the threat is our motto. Baskins always wears all white. White car, white pants, white everything, except for his teeth.
"I guess you didn’t hear", enthusiasm in his voice makes me feel sick; "I pulled three people this morning from the grips of death. I am Jesus.” He laughs and points at the bulletin board. Next to his name were three happy face stickers. Far beneath his name was mine, with empty space and a few sad face stickers, because I’m not very good at this job.
(rest of the story at http://willterrytragic.livejournal.com/34110.html
|Monday, October 5th, 2009|
The Return Of The Bunny - He's More Rabid Than Ever...
I know that probably no one is going to see this because it has literally been over a year since I posted anything, but it's worth the effort.
I am starting a literary blog on LJ, and it is only for invited friends. It will contain the ongoing content of a large historical fiction project I've been working on for almost two years.
If anyone on my friends list, or from any community who has read anything of mine they liked in the past, just reply to this post and let me know if you'd like access to the Literary Journal. It is untitled yet, but within the day, the page, and its title, will be up for all to start checking out. So, if you're interested, let me know so I can add you to the allowed readers list.
I hope to see many of you old familiar friends, and plenty of new ones!
|Tuesday, June 16th, 2009|
|Tuesday, May 19th, 2009|
|Monday, April 27th, 2009|
“So Will, are you gay? We as a collective of intelligent well meaning men here at the Austin Recovery Detox Center have already decided the answer to that question for you. Yes. Yes you are. You enjoy me Will. Just admit it. Now in direct opposition to the average response that most selfish idiot guys would give now knowing this, we have decided to take pity on your stance and allow you this great privilege. Since none of the staff here will ever suspect you of hitting on the girls, since you’re so gay, we want you to carry our secret love letters to them across the hall. This is a great privilege and don’t take it lightly. WE are going to reward you by allowing you to hang out with us and we will pat you on the back, encouraging you to thrive despite your social handicap. Deal?”
Well, how could I refuse such an open opportunity for genuine comradery here at the rehab center? Since male female interaction is frowned upon I decided that I would take on this task with spirit of altruistic philanthropic enthusiasm.
“Yes I would be happy to. Can I watch gay porn on the TV late at night now without being hassled?”
“Come on will, don’t push it. Its enough that we let you hang out with us considering all your philosophical non sensical psycho babble rants that we all endure hourly.”
So I made the deal with these guys. It’s funny that even though I am not gay and love women that I would agree to this rouse. I could help these guys get a clearer understanding of man woman relations through pen and paper.
As soon as this was decided upon the conversation turned, or rather skidded, back to where it was before all this intrigue began.
If you ever want to see what men are really like, observe when you can (through high technology surveillance gear and stealth) the sort of conversations they have when no women are around.
Jock boy 5000, as I call him, loves to inform us of all the Olympic style acrobatic sexual endeavors he would like to engage in with Nancy, The girl in 4c across the detox hall.
“I would bend her over a copy machine and man handle her severely. This would be done best if she were actually doing some sort of copying at the same time. She should be collating this essay I wrote about how incredibly extreme I am at all things involving manliness, such as opening jars and shooting animals with a BB gun. 5000 copies of that and then I pull her hair right out of her head giving her a business card for an inexpensive salon. The last thing she would hear me say would be “Take that mop of yours into the shop, is broken”
Pseudo Sensitive kindness Kenny was next to tell us his great act of self deprecation that he would like to have with sally from 6b.
“The easiest way to get these girls guys let me tell you…” (All the guys circle around him like a huddle for an asshole seminar) ”… You have to come out on this pretense that you are super sensitive to the female plight. Read the following books…” (jock boy 5000 can’t read so he leaves) “… The feminine mystique, The Story of O, The Yellow Wallpaper, and the Bell Jar. Once you’re well versed in all this you need to listen to Tori Amos and Ani DiFranco. Then when said girl comes around the coffee table, look up rather passively and start humming a song by jewel or Sarah McGalgin. This will always inspire a conversation from said girl. Remark about how much you enjoyed reading “He’s Just Not that Into You” and exclaim that you don’t understand why men these days are so insensitive. This will be a clue for her to tell you her life story. Which she will, make no mistake. Use this method to fake interest. Maintain eye contact until she looks away, this is a good time to scope out her rack or her legs. When she looks back put on this display of supreme interest in whatever she was blathering about. Just repeat the last few words she said like a parrot and append with “Wow your perspective is down to earth”. Women love the down to earth shit. As if there were a class of females who didn’t adhere to the laws of gravity and floated around in this atmosphere of above groundness spitting on all us soil sided idiots. I mean come on, women can’t even drive let alone fly. Anyways said girl has totally bought your lie now. This is where the real magic begins (huddle intensifies). When she begins to come around again do the same act to her best friend. Ask her friend to meet with you later to watch “The Notebook” on DVD. Then never call either of them, ever. Watch them destroy each other in a fit of imaginary jealousy. It’s incredible. “
An insane amount of high fives and “MAN!”, “DUDE!”, “BRO!”, BROMAN!”, and “DUDE MAN BRO!” went around the table in a flash of unintelligible monkey talk.
Hyper extended Emo Aaron was next (super emo because his name starts with two vowels)
“For me it’s pretty basic. I call it the “wait around”. You make friends with a girl and then you remain only friends for as long as possible. Plan for strenuous amounts of secretive masturbation. Once she begins to trust you she’s going to have you around at all times to reinforce the delusion that guys can be friends only with girls and listen to her incoherent estrogen frivolity. Eventually you will be at her sides at all times while she tells you how hard it is to meet a good guy. All the while when guys try to date her that’s when you really come into play. You call her, text her, and show up all the time while she’s on these dates. In her flurry of trying to explain to her date that the two of you are just friends he like all guys is going to become very jealous and never call her back. Then she will come over to see you in her state of emotional paralysis. “No guys will ever like me!” Just in this moment of weakness you swoop in like an eagle with huge balls. Start making out with her. Man handle her body. In her diminished ego state she won’t be able to fend off any attempt from any guy at that point. What started out as a plutonic friendship has now evolved into sex. Me 1. Insecure Girl 0. “
Guys love to throw around the word evolve like rice at a wedding. As though friendships actually mutated through thousands of adaptation before flourishing into new benefits such as sex and sandwiches. I could think of no one else to carry these guys’ letters to these girls in rehab. So I am on the job.
Jock Boy 5000 has a severe interest in Nancy. In synopsis, Nancy is an uber intelligent pro womens lib crocs wearing crystal meth addict. I’ve heard her harangue on topics ranking from sexual discrimination in the work place to veganism. While she usually makes good points, all the guys only gather around to watch her limber frame gyrate around like an hourglass on a tight rope. Unfortunately this is misinterpreted on her part as acceptance and understanding. None the less I decide to take Jock Boy 5000’s letter to her myself. Once I was past the flushing of the fluorescent lights I opened his letter. It read
I really loved hearing you talk about female rights. You are so right. I find it hard to swallow that these sorts of things still occur with regularity. Where’s the equality. I just wanted to tell you that if you ever want to listen to Indigo Girls and talk …”
The letter trailed on into untold dimensions of self delusion and hypocrisy. So I ripped it into pieces and wrote my own letter in his hand, which wasn’t hard to do since he wrote his letter the way a crippled fourth grader finger paints.
I’m so tired of hearing your incessant babbling you silly feminazi. God made a job for women, it’s called shut up and be a secretary. Other than doing the dishes and making me a sandwich there is much else for women to do. It’s funny that you gallivant around telling about liberation when you carry a miniature mirror in your purse everywhere you go. You know engaging this self imposed vanity addiction isn’t doing a thing. You are not liberating anything by making the CEO of Mary Lay (whose a woman hating bad ass mega man by the way) rich with your narcissistic bull crap. Anyways I’ve enclosed an essay I wrote about my manliness. Sometimes I’m so manly I think I have four testacies, two in my crouch and two in my peck muscles. If you ever want some incredible sex, come find me in room 3d. Other than totally rocking your world with my sexual prowess we have no other business.
Jock Boy 500”
I fold up hiss essay and put it in with letter. Pseudo fake womens lib guy used purple ink on his letter so its dishonesty is color coded. He wrote to Sally, who was just a kind hearted working girl who never said much and kept to herself. Girls like this are the easiest targets for this kind of guy. They single out the wounded in the herd and attack, smiling all the time and hiding their fangs beneath a cloak of pretend intellectualism and other rubbish. His letter read.
I can’t help but notice how pretty you are. I’m not saying that is there is to you, I’ve just noticed that first because you never talk. Why? You seem like an intelligent girl who probably has a lot of things to say. So I’d like to hear what you have to say. Don’t get it wrong I’m not one of these guys who picks up on girls in rehab. No, no, no. I’m just looking for some good conversation (lies have many syllables). If that is ok with you ill be in room 8a”
Ripped to purple pieces in a flash of my hands. I took out a sharpie and wrote a letter in his hand, which wasn’t hard since he wrote like a cardboard box with dementia.
I’m feeling better today. Finally they took down that picture of me at the clinic. What a hassle that was. What is genital herpes anyways? Anyways, I wanted to proposition you for some random sex. I don’t believe in protection but you can wear a female condom as long as it doesn’t make me feel funny. Sound good? Awesome! I got to go, things are itchy.”
Wanna be friends guy wrote the last letter. He was addressing Sarah, a girl who was suffering from bulimia nervosa and turrets. His letter read
I’m looking for someone to talk to. I don’t really want anything more than a friendship with someone who is a good listener. All these guys here are so macho it makes me puke. Guys just don’t know how to be friends…”
It continued with explicit contradictions and deceptive manipulation. Its amazing how fast my hands can turn a piece of paper into scraps at the bottom of a trash can.
I pen out a new letter in his hand which was difficult since he wrote in this cursive interpretation that resembled the queen of England writing from a calligraphy machine.
Im rather lonely. I just got divorced from my wife but that’s ok. She never shut up and was too fat anyways. Whatever, my kids are always going on and on about stupid things like “Feed me! Does bleach taste good? Paint chips everywhere!” blah blah blah. If she never had them she wouldn’t have gone through that nine month chubby awkward phase, from which she never really recovered. In any case, I just wanted to let you know that I’m here for you. And by that I mean, my penis is here for you. It that helps out, im glad to be of service.
Pretend Friend Guy”
|Tuesday, April 14th, 2009|
Call Center Confusion
I guess the best way to start this is to say that it all began as a mistake.
Taking out a girl under the random duress of this city always ends in confusion.
I sat in the foggy orange glow of several candles at the spider house tea lounge.
I was at a table with seven or so rather interesting people. One of them was a girl who was getting a tarot reading from a brunette on my right. I wasn’t really all that caught up in what was being foretold. When they came to the end of it they suggested that I try getting a tarot reading. Now, I’m not really one to have someone dive into my psyche by means of random selection but I did it anyways. After all I had said nothing at the table for the entire night so there was no way this reader would be able to see into my mind and know what was troubling me.
“Grasp the cards in your hand and think of a situation you are seeking answers about”
Simple enough. Grasping the cards in my hand I thought to myself,
“What should I do about this girl sitting next to me. The one who invited me here tonight. What should I do?”
After repeating this inquiry in my mind several times I felt rather assured that this psychic would never be able to know what I was saying to myself. After all, the girl in question was sitting to my left looking very engaged in whatever was about to unfold. A few moments of whisper talk passed and a waitress brought us our drinks. The look in her eyes suggested to me that she could see from the server station that bad vibrations were in place.
(remainder of the story is at
|Tuesday, March 24th, 2009|
I left my job with the intention of driving home.
All across the downtown sector of Austin, people are in the spinning chamber of inebriated communication failure. Drunk and in the arms of their lovers, they pass me by with the brevity that airliners have when passing overhead. I watch them stumble about in the warm abyss of human contact that they have with one another. I want to live in the same warm void that they are in. I wish I could maybe just vacation there, even have a timeshare, rather than being a tourist who drives through it unable to get out of his car.
I run into my x girlfriend, who is walking downtown with a baby strapped into a harness on her chest.
She is drunk, and drinks in hand; she is getting more drunk in front of me.
I had already resolved not to hang around her anymore for several reasons.
But I am unable to tell her I cannot see her when she asks me to walk around town with her.
As the day continues, her ability to walk is encumbered by her constant drinking.
She continues attempting to get into various bars and musical clubs which will not permit her due to two facts.
a. She is already drunk.
b. She has a living human being strapped to her chest.
I decide I need to get her home safely, she can no longer walk, and she is becoming a hazard to the child attached to her. I ask myself.
What are my motives for hanging around her?
Am I doing it only because I pray that she will kiss me at the end of this debacle, or am I actually concerned for her welfare and that of the baby as well?
I don’t know which one was the reason.
I am able to get a friend of hers to drive her home.
Yet she, in her drunken motherly state, tries to kiss me as I leave her in the hands of her capable friend.
I keep my face rigid and so she ends up kissing my cheek.
“I love you will”
In my head walking away I say to myself, “I wish you did Carrie”
To process these feelings, the next day I decided I needed to go to a Sex Addicts Meeting.
I had never been to a sex addicts meeting, but I felt I needed to hear a solution to my constant obsession about wanting attention from the opposite sex.
Driving there I am becoming increasingly desperate and alone.
In my mind, I know my patterns of behavior to attract women.
I will stand in the corners of rooms in the dire hope that they will notice me and dedicate their stare in my direction.
Everything I say in front of an attractive woman is a lie.
It is all formatted through a pretend intellect filter to make me seem funnier and more interesting than I really am.
All my actions of movement and consideration are almost entirely geared to make them notice me.
I read books about womens liberation so that I am well versed and appear to have understanding about the feminine mystique as well as the female condition.
I listen to Ani DiFranco and Tori Amos.
In my heart and soul I know that I respect women far beyond their appearances yet I Am completely powerless over the state of unrest and confusion that a beautiful woman will put me in when she asks me a simple question.
Questions that in my mind require an hour long speech to honestly answer.
Such as “How are you doing will?”
I want to say “Well how much free time do you have?”
Maybe the polite thing to do is lie and say “Im fine”
I will be convinced that a girl is talking about me if she looks my way for a fraction of a second.
I know that she is thinking of me when she is talking to him.
These are all things I am thinking about as I walk into the Sex Addicts meeting.
I disclose that I am a newcomer and that I would like to know
“What is the solution?”
Expectations are concrete foundations for disappointments.
They did not really have a solution; they shared about their common problems.
There was an attractive girl I knew there, and it made me a bit sad to think that she suffers from something that I suffer from.
She is so beautiful I would assume the world is on a platter for her.
My assumptions are always wrong about women.
I explained that I was in a conflict of two emotions.
On the one side I am extremely desperate for human contact and interaction.
On the other side I am utterly terrified of how I will act around someone who takes the slightest interest in talking to me.
“Make sure you’re not too hungry, angry, lonely, or tired will”
Someone once told me.
Hungry I can take care of, tired I can sleep off, angry I almost never get.
How do you just erase loneliness out of your life?
When I know that any attempt by me to bring women in my life will only end in doing them a grave injustice.
Chaos in my life has the potential for a cross contamination crisis.
I leave the meeting with more discomfort than I came in with.
I went to an AA meeting later that night.
Sitting in the meeting with my eyes closed.
Watching everyone around me happily interacting with one another with COMPLETE
IMMUNITY to social anxiety.
It was baffling.
How happy and interactive they were.
I wanted that.
They seemed to be able to talk to each other with such ease and they cared for one another so much that I felt almost inept and ignorant for not being able to do it as well.
I realized than that I was not in danger of drinking or using drugs again.
I was in a far graver sort of dire straits.
I was ready to make the ultimate sacrifice; I was seeking that ultimate solution.
I’ve tried to kill myself before.
I was too tall when I tried to hang myself.
My feet hit the ground.
Ligature marks never heal.
I call a suicide prevention hotline.
Just really to talk to someone.
To ask them if family members eventually get over the grief that surrounds the loss of their child.
I am put on hold.
The hold music was Rachmaninoff classical music,
Violins, cellos, and tympanis.
Rachmaninoff made some long songs, this was one of them.
I wondered if classical music convinced people in research trials not to kill themselves.
(what is the control group for that kind of research study?)
When someone finally answered I hung up and wrote this.
|Tuesday, March 17th, 2009|
Crossed Genres accepting submissions for SF/F/WESTERN Issue
Crossed Genres is now accepting submissions for the upcoming SciFi/Fantasy WESTERN
issue. Guidelines are available on the submissions page
. Submissions to the Western issue will be accepted until March 31! We want to see Steampunk elves in 10-gallon hats!
On April Fools Day, Crossed Genres will release its SciFi/Fantasy HUMOR issue, which includes a cover by the outstanding Alexandra Prillaman
and an article by none other than Fantasy Humor legend Piers Anthony
The Humor issue will also be our first issue released as a PDF download and on Kindle! And a wonderful short story, "Archimedes Nesselrode" by Justine Graykin
, will be available as a professional recording, read by the author!
April 1 will also be the date Crossed Genres begins offering a one-year (12 Issues) subscription to the PDF edition for only $19.99 (the last two e-issues of your subscription are free)! Get each issue emailed to you automatically every month! Current Mood: sleepy
|Tuesday, March 10th, 2009|
Affection Exchange Program
Just the strange blue gray color of the affection interchange building is enough to make you feel alone.. The outline of the building is so unfriendly that sometimes I'm amazed that i don't get cut into organic ribbons just walking through doorway. Its like a blender with a doorknob. This is my third time to apply for the love stamps program. If by some miracle they accept me i will be able to receive a federally funded amount of government approved affection from a person matching my demographic profile.
Fluorescent shadow boxes hug every corner of a linoleum hallway as i escape a near death entrance though the slice of the revolving door entrance.
The hallway splits into two long lines . Two bright red signs illuminate from opposite ends of the hallway. The longest line belongs invariably to the sex interchange program applicants. Mostly males, 25-35, middle class, blue collar, lonely, distraught, divorced perhaps. Alimony blues and child payment stories of the single life beat. On the other end are the applicants for the affection interchange. Scanning the line i see that it is mostly women. Shy, tragic looking, occasionally goth, clutching band labeled purses and rectangular outlines of ipods in the back pockets of the tight fitting designer jeans. A few guys too. mostly emo types. The occasional obviously married white picket SUV driving man trying to find a pathway out his marriage that wont look too bad on divorce paperwork.
(rest of the story athttp://willterrytragic.livejournal.com
|Friday, February 13th, 2009|
saint valentine has beheaded by a roman mob for marrying christian couples.
happy valentines day.
|Wednesday, February 11th, 2009|
I had gotten into the habit of waking up in the morning and being confused. Sometimes mornings are very interesting when you didn’t expect to live through the night. This was one of those mornings. My heroin habit had gotten to the point where I would consume enough to put me asleep, at times I hoped permanently. The pattern of waking up and looking back at my bed to see if my body was lying there being regular practice. This morning I woke up and I noticed the power was out. I looked around my apt at the articles of substance consumption.
Empty syringes, empty bottles, open water balloons, dirty clothes, manuscripts covered in my own dried blood, empty typewriter ribbons unsprayed, guitar strings looped into mini nooses, receipts for laundry and gasoline, a hundred cds all reflecting the early morning sun, and a sharp intelliwriter typewriter still plugged in.
Making my way over to the mirror I do the habitual “look at my bed to see if I’m there dead”. Slumped in the covers in my clothes was a tall figure resembling mine. This was a drastic moment. I thought to myself, that’s my body; I must be, what’s the word, not alive? Dead. This was a bit relieving; looking around I deduced that I was in my apartment. The thought came to me oh shit, the after life is my apartment, and there is no electricity.
I began rummaging through my drawers and I found out that in the afterlife there was not an indefinite supply of drugs. WHAT? No drugs, this is not heroin heaven. Now that I was recently dead I decided to enact all the things I thought the deceased get to do. I examined my back. No wings. No feathery carriers to the celestial beyond. Hmmp. I really wanted to fly. Oh well. Maybe I have gills I thought. I put myself in the bath, the water stopped at my stomach.
I said “do you have to pay water bills in the afterlife?” I held my head underwater but I couldn’t breathe. Not able to do this either. Maybe I’m invisible and invincible then! I went downstairs and took out a kitchen knife and placed it against my skin. Well, the laws of physics are still applicable here. The bible said nothing of this whole gravity thing as far as I can remember. Lets see what happens. I drew back the knife against my palms, sharp pain bounced through my head. Blood spilled unto the floor. Pain? But I am dead no? Damnnit this must be some urban purgatory. I saw my neighbor transfixed in his yard, I thought he too must be dead. We are all just ghosts. Wait, did he die last night, the same time as me? Did nuclear fallout rain sulfur on all of us in our sleep? This being dead thing is getting to be a drag. Opening my door I see a notice from the electric company about turning off my power. I had a right mind to call them and request a reactivation due to my recent demise. Purgatory electric rates are sky high! A phone rings in the hallway. Picking up the receiver, its my job. Am I coming in today?
No I said “I have died. I don’t believe I can work the grill well since now I have ghost hands.” They decide I need to come in regardless. Do you get overtime in the afterlife? I wished I were alive again, at least then I didn’t hope for things to be different. I go back upstairs and examine the broken elements of my room from the night before of shooting opiates. Looking at myself in the mirror, I see that there are black circles under my eyes, dried blood on my arms and hands. My clothes tear at my ribs from the wear of cooking oil solidifying in the night. Man the afterlife is a dirty place. My alarm clock rings off its nine volt battery supply. Well, I said, all these people are dead. The radio said “We have the greatest deals for your deceased loved ones here at garden hills funeral homes” Funerals? But I’m past tense alive. The dead hold no funerals. I thought then that now would be a good time to make funeral arrangements for myself. First I called the ambulance to collect my body. 911.
“911 what’s your emergency” I say “ Someone has died. Send a hearse. “ The operator responds “Are you sure this person is dead”. I say well, “yes I am quite sure I am dead. I am looking at my corpse in my bed, and I cannot fly or breath underwater I have some serious questions about “ and then the thought came to me, that this operator was likely a ghost herself. What could the paramedics, being ghosts themselves, do for another person who is dead? What sort of medical equipment do phantoms cart around to revive their fellows to being. At that point I was confused so I hung up. I call a newspaper to put in an ad about my recent status as rigor mortis. They ask me,
“ Are you a family member?” … I say “ uhhh… yea. He was like a brother to me. I knew him well. Hey do I get a discount for having a death in the family? You know like a what do they call it?”
The clerk responds, “We do not offer bereavement discounts for obituaries. “ and they hung up.
Pulling back the sheets on my bed I realized with stark brevity, that it was not I in the bed no longer alive. It was my x girlfriend in my clothes.
She must have stayed here last night. I didn’t remember. Still, I have to go to work and someone needs to clean this blood. I guess I could consider this a lousy reincarnation. I came back from the dead, and I came back as myself. How dissapointing.
|Sunday, February 8th, 2009|
comes in threes
She speaks for thirty minutes; I nod and smile adding encouraging addendums to verify that I’m listening. If it were possible to be not listening more than I already was, I think that would be incredible. No, I am watching. Because her mannerisms of delivering these graphic tales of adolescent Texas life is far more absorbing than anything she is telling me. She could have been revealing to me the account number to an open bank account with 10,000 dollars in it and I would just nod and say
“Oh I agree”.
Fluttering eyelashes and the long velvet hair being tossed out from in front of her eyes was all the communication I received. I watched this language, this display of incredible naturalness, this jaw dropping account of living paradox; this girl has to do nothing to be wholly mind consuming and sight absorbing. She accomplishes all of my attention without even moving much more than a few hand gestures and a few lip dances.
How is that women can accomplish so much and not even move? I’ll never know. I realized at this point that it was my turn to talk. A decaying silence filled the empty restaurant like a flood of mercury. Magnetic alkaline metal fills in my mouth because whatever I try to say likely sounded like a thermometer trying to talk.
(remainder of story at
|Saturday, January 31st, 2009|
It happens before I know that it is here. This occurs to me in a certain predestined order. When this confusion begins, it becomes apparent to me that there is a cigarette in my lips. As I am lighting it I decide that now would be a good time to smoke, because I’m feeling antsy. Also here I become aware that my shirt sleeve was on fire. I bought this shirt from a thrift store but when I paid for it the clerk informed that he just notified the police. He politely explained that I stole this shirt a week ago and showing up now to pay for it was a confirmation of my certain criminality. I felt a bit confused. The doctor who explained Motivational Mnemonic Dyslexia to me seemed to have the answers to my questions before I asked them. I wondered if he had situational foresight. He said:” Yes, you might set certain events in motion before the motive and reason are apparent to you. Things may surprise you. Crisis may arise in ways you are not able to predict. For instance, you may decide to come to a doctor’s office only to find out after your real purpose for the visit. You may also engage in activities that you don’t fully remember. It is a sub conscious method of your mind to protect you from emotional harm” All this was a bit alarming, because I knew then that I had certain questions as to what this condition would do to me. What the effects would be. His precognitive abilities seemed to mimic my own dysfunction. He could see well into what was about to happen. Where as with me, things would happen and I would only know afterwards why I had done them. HE was my inverse. It was in this memory that I saw the small flame on my cotton sleeves crawling up my arms, my shoulder burned a bit, yet I knew this fire had a purpose. First of all, it lit my cigarette.
It was a few moments later that I noticed that I was on the telephone. A static charge of information was coming to me through the circular earpiece, it was a girl. She was telling me that she would like to see come over. “Can I stay with you tonight? I’m alone here”.
I replied, “I already feel guilty. The resentment and emptiness are surely already filling in you. Would you like to meet me at the coffee store so we can end this promptly? You are dumping me right?”
She informed that she intended to come over. The flames were now climbing up to my neck level, so naturally I eased my appendage over to the candle that some one had set out next to my bed. It lit miraculously and the orange ember glowed like a pixie in my dark room. I dumped my cup of coffee on my arm and it was cold. The flames receded on my arms and I felt relief. If she is coming over I decided I need to be ready.
I immediately took off my clothes. Standing there in my room disrobed, I began to recite to myself,
“This will be over before it begins.”
That was a comforting thought. It became apparent to me that she was already gone and I missed her for leaving so early. The wax from the yellow candle began running onto the paper beneath it on my side table. I stood entranced by the miniature ember effect of the minor fire contained safely in my room. A group of headlights began dancing the illumine iridescent foxtrot in the window bars outside. A loud explosion sound filters through the walls and I see a fragment of tire hit the glass between the outdoors and me. An angry neighbor is pulling out a piece of wood with a nail in it from his car tire. Someone had put it beneath his car to thwart him for some reason.
The eyelike lamps of the halogen traffic passed me by at a horizontal level. Always parallel to the ground. My neighbor trips over a fire extinguisher in his lawn as he is screaming expletives into the lithosphere. I wondered who would do such a thing. The fire exinguisher that he tripped upon rolls out into the street and lays in the yellow lines in the pavement. The red exterior of the canister blends with the transportational direction indicators. The neighbors’ loud words roll in between the street and the puncture wounds on the Michelin. I began to notice the fear then.
Doctor: “If you find yourself in a confusing dilemma that you don’t quite grasp, call me at this number. Ill be brushing my teeth when you call”
It’s a bit alarming to be standing in the doorway to your house naked holding an empty cup of coffee and a once lit cigarette. I am dressed when I hear something fall in my room. By examining the candle I can see that someone cut in the middle with a razor blade at one point therefore when the candle burned to a certain length it would topple over heavy with its own gravitational pull, falling into the sheet of oily paper underneath which caught fire immediately I guess.
A dial tone is ringing in my ears as a doctor is explaining to me that I should,
“ have extinguished the fire before It began.”
I was angry before I spoke with him. Curtains in my room are catching fire. Ceilings in my room are becoming blackened. They began to blend into the overhead of sky as I am running out to my neighbor. He is still yelling into the nightly abyss. I ask him quickly for his fire extinguisher but as it turns out someone set up a nail beneath his tire and then subsequently he tripped over the extinguisher. It sits in the middle of the road. Grey smoke is billowing out of my house, as car lights swerve around me like polar similar magnets, pushing away from each other. The sounds of engines truggling to avoid contact with my skin are like a mechanistic roar. Yellow lights are flashing all around my eyes and spinning out as a Camry with a street post to my right.
I’m grasping the extinguisher with one hand as another fire looms in the Camry now. A decision has to be made. My room is on fire, the car is on fire, and this doctor is still in my ears telling me,
“there is no situation that will arise that you cannot ultimately handle. I think, actually I know that you will be just fine. The abrasions your arm will heal well.”
“I know doctor”. I say “but which fire should I put out?”
He tells me,
“You’ve already decided.”
Running over to the house I pull back the trigger a bit distraught and despondent at the fact that I would rather save my house than a dying person on fire. The pin ricochets silver against the door as I pull the handle expecting a white puff of fire killing material to stream out instantly like some chemical angel. But it’s empty. Someone emptied it before hand. That’s why it was in my neighbors yard I guess. The structure is fully engulfed at this point. Allowing it to burn to the foundation is probably a good idea. A bus is stopping across the street and two figures get out. It’s my doctor and it is her walking slowly and almost in unison. He begins applying some cream to my burned shoulder as she, I noticed her then really, noticed how attractive she is, as she is asking my why I would do such a thing. Set fire to my house? Decide to save it before a human life? I couldn’t answer then but the doctor paused before telling her
“Clearly he feared speaking to you and he set in motion a series of events to avoid your arrival and interaction. Some primal fear pushed him into acting without the foresight of knowing why it was being done. He has Motivational Mnemonic Dyslexia”
I knew then that an innate but ever-present fear of this woman, this doctor, and fire. It seemed to that while I had them all there, it would be a good time to explain to them my plan. My plan to set a fire. I know of ways to do it. But it takes a long time to explain. I think I would like a cigarette first.
|Wednesday, January 28th, 2009|
It took me about 17 minutes to piece together the fact that she had it left in my pillow case entirely on purpose. I sat in my head deconstructing the night in reverse trying to place when it happened. Surely this was no accident and the actual weight of the intention behind it was obviously in tons. I remember her walking through the door, and a Mazzy Star on “Rhymes of an hour” began to skip a bit. The 40-watt incandescent bulb in my side table lamp seems to flicker like a lighting bug in a jar. I was getting signs and subtle clues from a larger force that things were not entirely right.
She dropped her bag at her side and began to slide her coat from her shoulders. The tragedy tattoo on her shoulder shone out to me in the dim astral illumination. I watched her walk in slowly diminishing concentric circles around my bed telling me the several events in her life that led up to meeting me that day in the community food kitchen. For a girl with striking green eyes that shone in alarmingly rare fragments of optic opportunity, she never looked anywhere except into my eyes. For a dame with such angelic features, I began to under stand that she was here to cause harm to me.
Sitting beside me, she unfolded like an origami rose. All the creases in her character began to flatten and unwind in front of me. I sat fixed and perplexed. Why she had come here, why she had gifted me with the common curse of attraction, I had yet to know. Still now I stand holding this item in my hands knowing she left it here on purpose to give me some invisible message. Earlier she had begun taking off items of clothing at random stating that it was rather warm in my room. First a sock, then a scarf, followed by a stocking. Noises of my roommates in the hallway provided a backdrop of noise information behind us.
Although she was coming undone here, outside a revolving system of daily activities continued to occur with the regularity of a well-maintained machine. The hallway light ignites from its ceiling shackles; a hand releases from a leather glove and begins to reach into my shirt. The bathroom faucet cascades city water through the porcelain glittering catch. She looks into my hands at my sides. I hear a whisper she lets go like a feather in a delicate conversation breeze.
“Let go will”.
Someone releases a glass in the kitchen foyer; a cup shatters to the ground broken shards chase each other into unreachable depths beneath all the modern appliances of daily living/ slavery.
“Just let go will”.
A radio hums in the next room, as a roommate dials through the static intervals of the AM range, white noise permeates through the thin walls, he finds the desired frequency and a slow serenade turns his room into a mezzanine for the play about to unfold into my stage/room. Sitcom theme songs and commercial grade lighting patterns dance in the spaces beneath my door from a nearby TV set. She’s asking to “let go” to the theme of “My so Called life”. All my judgment about wrong and right, situational ethics and moral applicability fade into the patterns of color on my floor. So I release the tension in my hands, my fists become retired sentries. Open hands and open eyes, I allow her to wrap my arms around her. She directs me; marionette strings hang in the invisible cavities between us.
“Trust Me,” she says.
Every light in my room seems to dull into a candle, the sounds of the bustle outside all whisper down to a deliberate hum, all the roommates just freeze for a few minutes. I felt atomic clocks malfunction; I sensed a snowfall in Boston come to a standstill. All street side pedestrians caught in the outdoors walk beneath a motionless snowstorm, where all the flakes hang like white chandeliers above the skylines and neon displays. A reverb in the Mazzy Star song hangs on for a second longer that indefinite. I still have abrasions on the backs of my hands where I was pinned against the windows behind my bed. The latch that locks the windows shut is a semi permanent fixture in my hands.
Now I stand here reviewing the destroyed room I occupy; a broken lamp, a window out of frame, a spilled glass of water a door on one hinge, and hair tie in my pillow case. All the broken events that took place here. I can retrace who was here simply by examining the forensics to the scene of the rhymes that took place within an hour. She leaves disappearing ink in all her footsteps. Only you need the right kind of eyes to see where the heels meet the hardwood. It’s almost invisible. Now I ask myself the real meaning behind her leaving this hair tie in my pillowcase. There is a larger meaning to be extrapolated here. Is she suggesting that I am simply a restrictive element in her life, that I hold her back in some metaphorical sense? Perhaps she feels liberated by revealing this to me. This may be the symbol of emancipation. On the other side this may be a Freudian suggestion that she wishes to be restrained in some elusive manner. I might need to examine a more primal element to our nightly encounters like this one before. Is it conceivable that this item left behind is a manner of saying she longer needs to see me? Thereby releasing a token of sentiment to me. A calling card so that I seldom forget the way windows feel on the backs of my hands. Now surely there is a larger more abstract meaning here. If I simply step outside myself and stop being so analytical I could develop the reality of the situation.
It could have been entirely accidental and therefore a more sub conscious matter of her hidden agenda revealing itself to me. I may better fill her needs in this way. Without her awareness she is telling me to call her. I can inquire to her about the logistics of the situation. Surely she will understand my interest my concern and she will most definitely appreciate the advance work I have done into figuring out this conundrum. She will be relieved to know that the footwork has already taken place so she can enlighten me with the conclusion she has already prepared im sure. I dial her number into a rotary phone; I take my time so I can adjust to the series of indeterminate clicks that spin around the circular dial like a communication Ferris wheel. A female voice activates on the far end of the copper two-wire phone line. Her voice is unromantic, unobtrusive, and unalarming. Yet the female quality to the sound of her makes me defensive and afraid. I politely explain all the work ive done, and I lay out my questions in an outlined manner so that she is best equipped to answer them.
“Surely Mary”, I say “I have consumed the questionable nature of this dilemma and while I want just as swift a verdict on this as im sure you do, I cant tell you how much stress has incurred on me to discover that you wish to communicate to me this way. Leaving items of female accessory strewn about like a tornado courier darted about in my room spiraling your possessions into various locations of strategic importance. Let us be face to face with each other. Tell me what you are really saying by leaving this important thing in an important place. Your hair tie in my pillow case?”
A roommate in the hallway stumbles over a cable beside the answering machine. I make out the words “Will, it’s not even my hair t…” The ‘T’ lets go because my roommates’ clumsy nature detaches the phone cable from its plastic copper womb and the line goes silent coffin mode. I didn’t even get to fill in the gaps of the last words where she was surely going to reveal to me the purpose behind this possession. Maybe she was meaning to say “Will, its not even my hair telemetry” That would explain that this was a different systematic method of conversation. I had interpreted the elements all-wrong. Though my room is still in a mess, though my door is still on one hinge, though my wrists still feel like windows…
|Saturday, January 24th, 2009|
"The most important thing to remember is that i started the fire.I am the one who decided it would be a great idea to pour bacardi 151 on the open grill at the party. I smashed the bottle in the confusion. I spent the rest of my new years eve pulling shards of broken glass out of my face with safety scissors. I wrote a letter to the manufacturers of Bacardi explaining that i didnt take too kindly to the fact that their alcohol was so flammable and that their bottles broke so easily. They wrote me back with a letter stating that the flame resistant cap on the bacardi 151 bottle only worked when the liquid was in the bottle. I stared at that letter for a long time trying to figure out what it meant. I think it meant i had a drinking problem." My date from across me drops her drink to the concrete. Maybe it wasn't the best way to break the ice on a first date but i have no inclinations towards moderation in conversation. She says to me in a hush tone, "Maybe we shouldn't be at a bar". I disagree by ordering another drink. She was feathered in fishnets down her sleeves and eyeliner in delicate circles running down her blue iris. A few raggedy patches were sewn into her jacket which hung like a black shadow on her shoulders, draped in opacity. I asked her to meet me at this dive if she wanted to talk more about literature. "The scars healed but i still cannot walk into brackenridge triage without remembering the way blood stands out so well on linoleum when its all lit up with flourescents. Hospital staff dont like it when you tell them you spent the last 8 days trying to find out if the imprints on your wrists are from some strange bondage encounter or a hospital bracelet. Or somehow both." She palms her phone and pretends to take a call. I dont mind. I take a bar match and strike it against the back of the booklet. A yellow blue flame whispers out in elliptical carbon reactions to the atmosphere. Looking at the mini fire i began to wonder how that fire at the grill got so out of hand. I thought that rum would taste good on steaks. People pour alcohol on cooking food right? SO why not bacadri 151 on an open grill? I studied this dame against the power lit backdrop of the austin downtown skyline. THe chase bank building with its crescent circular mandala like logo looms behind her ears and encloses an almost silver halo above her head, a thousand feet away. Shes looking away, maybe im boring her. Usually i can tell by the way they stand, impatiently turning their back to the wind. Doing all the deliberate and unconscious gestures that women can carry out with malicious grace. I search my brain for something to say to ease the moment. I open my mouth as a strange guy is approaching us. It seems from his manner of walking that he knows her. Its all revealed to me in that ridiculous pace that says "Im not swaggering, i walk like this all the time" Her eyes fill with a saving light and her silver necklaces catch a relfection from the overheads and shines a refractory light in my eyes. IT was gods flashlight saying to me "Nice try". They exchange some kind of hellos, i think. WHere did people learn to give eachother salutations with such vague underpowered statements as "SO good to see you", "Always a pleasure", "YOure looking wonderful." When i saw her initially at the bar i took her by the hands i quietly explained that "Im afraid i might inebriate myself and divulge some repressed emberassing information about myself. I know i picked this bar as our place to meet, but really the amount of people here makes me nervous. YOu're a woman right? Of course you are. Does the natural chaotic rhythm of the universe ever make you feel like gravity is earths way of maintaining a continous love affair with humans. Gravity is the earths pickup line. What can i get you to drink?" I mean lets be frank and honest with eachother about what we are thinking. I could have just said glad to see you. I wasnt that glad to see her. I was only taking some suggestions from a psychiatrist about exposure therapy to overcome my social anxiety towards women. Expose yourself to social situations that normally baffle and slowly it will go away. The guy and this dame are still exchanging bland small talk about traffic or the weather or politics or the price of bread or the price of gas or the price of meaningless conversation. I guess i bought this one so i get this one free as well. Two boring surface level conversationalists for the price of one. I get bored watching the dome of night buildings around the three of us illuminate her eyes like 50 story candles, all driven by the wattage of the cities power supply. I get bored watching this guy empty his vacant life unto this dame with the kind of interaction you have with your barber when hes cutting your hair. You just talk to fill the time youve paid for here. Thats not why i came here. I came for exposure therapy at $4 a glass. I meander something to her about catching a yellow cab back to south austin becuase i think now that this guy is here "you can enjoy some meaningless drivel leeking out of him like condensation on a pitcher of beer. Drink in eachother. I hope he entertains you with his extensive knowledge of popular music and american idol." I start turning away but she grabs me by the collar. Now here is a delicate moment. I had no intention of interacting with this girl on any level that involved direct contact. Eye to eye across a table, that is as far as i had planned. When her hands brushed my neck i felt the sense of defensive belief and intellectual shielding completely disarm in me. She followed through by taking my hand and pulling it to her waist allowing me to hold her there. She asks me if they can "share a cab with me back to south austin?" I was completely undone. An unwound ball of electric yarn.I agreed against my better judgement, A cabs doors unfold in front of me and i push to the far end against the window. The two acquainted friendlies get in next to me. I do remember the reading on the pay meter of the taxi when the two of them start making out. Her legs pressed against me tightly as their sounds of interaction heighten. For whatever reason she was gripping my hand tightly as she was kissing him. They kissed the same way they spoke to eachother. Almost no zeal or passion. Just informal interplay. No more effort than someone would put into filling up their car with gas. They pulled at eachother they way dull magnets attract when they've lost most of their charge. The laws of attraction can only go so far. I get a little out of place at the corner of oltorf and lamar so i let myself out. When you step out of a moving car, you wanna do it when the car is driving straight. Tuck your hands over your head and prepare to roll. When i left the moving taxi, it was in mid turn so i rolled into the sidewalk curb. Cheek first. A business card from my front shirt pocket flies out in front of me and lands under a streetlight. It's from my psychiatrist. The slogan on the card reads "Exposure is the pathway to healing" I wondered if exposure to gravel wounds and concrete burns led to healing as well.
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