Peculair Pointsettia #8

The dried roses are really real. Tangible. This isn’t fiction. I have them here, somewhere in my apartment. It’s one of the few real, made-in-a-story-book things I have. I was graced with three yellow-cream roses for my birthday. The tips were tinged with pink, like they were brushed against a water-color sunset before being plucked.

He had smiled when he saw my expression. Someone had finally given me roses. I wanted to honor them, and what they meant; so when they started to wilt, as all things do, I hung them over the table from the cheap apartment chandelier. The plated, flaking brass and brittle glass of the lighting fixture seemed odd, in contrast to the fading natural color of the roses. They were there, reminding me of what they could/might symbolize. Slowly the petals would pucker as age came. Upside down, the nutrients in the stem would make there way to the other end, using gravity as a laborious slide to preserve the bloom.

He would see the quaint bouquet hanging there, and his eyes would shine.

We grew together, learned about each other-both habits and flaws. He gave me roses again. Red ones, symbolizing passion. Once they started wilting, I decided to try to dry them again. I tenderly positioned and arranged the blooms, petals splayed to show the wonderfulness of the whorls and flares that make a rose a rose. But then I closed the embrace, between newspaper and unused textbooks. When I checked them a week later, the blooms were molded, and I had to throw them away.

It’s okay-you can’t save everything.

And one day, he stepped away. He didn’t think he loved me. He couldn’t understand a choice I had made. “But you gave me roses…I had hoped”.

They are still here somewhere, in my apartment. Stored away with a few other gifts, I’m told I should give back. More hidden by the memories I try to avoid, than by any physical obstruction.

But he gave me roses-and that’s a start.

Rules Amendment

At the end of this week after the vote, there will be 13 players left in the game.

There will only be one TKO posted per week for the last four weeks of the game. Prompts will be posted Sunday evening. Responses will be due by Saturday at noon (PST). Players will then vote for their least favorite responses before the end of the voting period (Sunday at 11pm PST).

At the end of week 5, two players will be removed.
At the end of week 6, three players will be removed.
At the end of week 7, two players will be removed.

That will leave six players for the last week.

Vivid Violet #8

Jennifer's Stockings.

I'm afraid I live in a keepsake-free world. My ancestors have not seen fit to pass anything down to me save varying degrees of love and disappointment, and a rickety compliment of genes. A large square jaw for example, has been handed down the male side of my family like a slab of beef for three generations. I keep it fenced off behind a beard, where it cannot harm people.

Jennifer was a woman I met in the year before I left the country. She was tall, almost matching me in her heels. She had a funny way of strutting: the reverse of the usual chest-out/tummy-in/ass-out elongated 'S' of walking womanhood. Jennifer would fold her shoulders around the front of her rib-cage - hiding her breasts, and then leen way back, cantilevering her pelvis forward and scrunching her butt away into nothing. Her chin she would bury into the hollow of her throat; her eyes tucked away behind double fortress walls of fringe and brow.

I met her through a dating agency, when times were lean and I was meaner; a voicemail service for the chronically shy. You wouldn't believe some of the replies I would get to my insufferably chirpy extrapolations around the theme of: "Hi, I'm J., I'm a twenty-five year old guy, so-so tall with long dark hair and a winning etc., with a degree in advanced blah, hoping to meet an outgoing woman for x, y and z." Some women's voices would shake so much the phone would tremble as I listened to them stagger through soap-opera couplets and Cosmopolitan manifestos of self. Jennifer however, was cool, collected, and creditably calm.

We met in a suitably chique cinema bar, where the drinks aspired to be expensive, but never quite got there, and the films were always, always in black and white. And French. Or Scandanavian. Or Russian. Or all three. It did its job, lending us coolness by proxy. Hunched up and raincoated, crouched over our drinks, we attempted to smolder.

"Oh I've never been here before." Liar.
"Yes, I've always wondered what it was like inside." Liar.
"Did you like the film..?" You chose it, you'd better.
"Yeah... It was very moving... Imagery compelling." Liar.
"So, you're an artist..?" I think you're a sponger.
"That's right." I am a sponger.

But still, despite the appalling dialogue and the lack of a discernable plot, the actors were pretty enough together for the studio to green-light a sequel. We agreed to see eachother again.

I don't know about you, but I like scummy pubs: Raucous, smoky, labyrinthine and snug - any romance to be had must be carved out of the air with a trowel. You must sit close, you must lean closer, pouring breathey-drunk words half-heard into eachother's ears - enclosed, enfolded in a little coccoon of hormonal fug. As the bell for drinking-up ding-dongs, we kiss triumphantly, our faces flushed that we have succeeded in winnowing out a little love against such odds, in such an unlikely place.

As we stagger out into the night, neither of us I suspect, remember anything much of what was said, though in contrast we remember sparklingly well the slick feel of lip on lip and the sherry-sweet mingling of our cocktailed spit. We hold eachother's bodies tight as we weave through the throngs on alcohol-autopilot to my place, always my place.

Thank God for Mincabs.

Home now, giggly fumbles on the stairs. The clinking of glassware; the gurgles of emptied liquor-bottles - the scents of sticky Banana liquer, and some weird minty shit that got found under the table after a party and stuck in a drawer. Anything to repair the alcoholic shield-wall of anti-reality we've so painstakingly constructed. Candles, of course. And music. Slow dance groping. And bed. And skin, and sweat, and legs and arms and in the way and there we go and is that nice and owch that hurts and whoops it fell out and is that okay and hang on a minute and not like that and oh well okay and is that good oh god it is oh god it is and ohhhhhhhhhh.

You get our drift. You've probably been there. All porn films look the same after a while.

The biggest surprise for us both was in the morning. We actually didn't feel too bad. We didn't hate eachother. A bit blurry round the edges perhaps, a little tired - but we could speak, and our laughs still worked, and when we looked inside for where our regret would usually be, our chagrin, our shame, we came up empty. Worth a communal smile. I got Alka-Seltzer, hot buttered toast and tea, and she remained blissfully naked, save for her stockings, rolled-up and rucked-up down to her knees.

And when Jennifer left, she gave her stockings to me; a tip perhaps, for services rendered. :)

TKO #8, Group #2 / Results of TKO #7

TKO #8 [Personal]

Write about a keepsake you have. As always, fiction is allowed.

Two people will be removed as a result of this prompt. Post is due on Sunday at 4pm (PST).

REMINDER! Next week the two groups will merge. I am contemplating a slight rule change after the merger but I'll update you when I have made my determination.

Results of TKO #7

Magical Merrigold is removed as a result of inactivity. There is no vote this week (again).

Classic Carnation #7

I stood on the edge of the railing and watched as people moved through. Older couples on second honeymoons, tour groups of Americans wearing fanny packs and sneakers, and other interested people moving up and down the beautiful spiral staircase and I inspected every one.

He was late. He was always late. Then again, some things never change. The moment I made the decision to study in Italy, I had no intention of calling him. I'd promised myself to not allow him to know that I was there. But a night of one too many glasses of free grappa and whispered compliments from Italian men gave me the confidence to pick up the phone. So here I was at the top of the staircase in my new pumps with a bit too much cleavage, staring down into my past.

He was a part of me that I'd long since gotten rid of. He helped me through some of the most difficult times in my life. Saying good-bye had not been an easy task. We met on the concrete courtyard of our high school. There'd been a fire drill and I tripped into him trying to startle a close friend.

We spent the next few years sharing everything from inside jokes to inappropriate jokes, sad stories to sex stories, insignificant moments to instrumental moments. We went through significant others like cars in a toll booth, and when we'd find a relationship that lasted, inevitably we'd end up cheating with each other. We spent years denying the attraction. We left for college and couldn't handle being without each other. But being together changed our dynamic and it was never right. Time passed and we grew apart. Quickly. Too quickly.

I started doing things in college I'd never envisioned myself doing. I decided to study abroad in hopes of getting away to find myself again. I chose Italy before I found out he'd been stationed there. And the first time I'd visited the Vatican, I spent hours at the top of this staircase thinking of him. How he'd remark about the history of the church and the museum before pontificating on the role of God in his life and asking me about my relationship with Christ. I'd dodge the question with some generic answer about it being "personal" and then spiral into something else.

He'd been the one to bring me to Christ. I thought that I was thankful. When my faith had been tested or had wavered, he'd been there to see me through. In some ways, he had been my personal savior, my guardian angel who'd protected me in the rough times and celebrated me in the great. The further we'd grown apart the less I realized I was going through a crisis of faith. Then it hit me, it wasn't the faith in Christ I needed. I simply needed faith in him. There was something about the way it felt when he was postured next to me. Something comforting about the words "It'll be okay" being uttered from his mouth. Without him, there was no God in my life, no savior, nothing.

Someone once told me that people need religion to give them something to live for. That religion is not a relationship or belief in a deity, a set of rules and morals to live ones life by, it was a manner of justifying existence. As humans we're constantly looking to answer the question "why", especially when it concerns ourselves. Thus the greatest question for man is the reason for his existence. Most people run to religion as a safe haven. Others choose charity work, drugs, academia, or any combination. It is a driving force. That same person then postulated that hell was being unable to find that justification.

After spending twenty minutes searching for him on the ground floor of the Vatican, I was watching a tourist group pass when I saw him. Tall and lanky in a well-tailored suit. Military service suited him well. He stopped and looked up through the crowds looking for me. When he caught my eye he shot me his million-dollar smile and waved. And that was my cue. I smiled, winked and waved back. And in one fell swoop, I hooked the heel of my crimson pump on the railing. The sparkle left his eyes as they were hooked to mine as I gathered my balance, hopped, and flew over the stairwell into hell.

Sociable Sunflower #7

We arrived 40 minutes before the evening game started. Mariners – Red Sox. Safeco Field. Seattle.

Clouds hung low overhead but the sun still peeked through. At 78 degrees, the temperature may well have been perfect. The signs that this would be a night to remember should have been obvious.

I came with my cousin Tom, his girlfriend Kasey, and his best friend who shared my name, Kyle.

We walked up to the gate and bought cheap tickets. Third level. Third base side. Third row up.

We headed into the stadium. As I was a tourist, Tom insisted that I take a good look before heading to our seats. We walked around, and I absorbed the aura of Seattle baseball. The bratwursts grilling, the fans yelling, the beer flowing, the bat cracking. Marvelous.

After walking around the first level, I decided it was time to head up to our seats. “Okay, Kyle, er, cousin Kyle, do you want to walk the long way or the short way?” Tom asked.

“Long.”

“I was afraid you’d pick that. Doesn’t matter, it’s cool.”

I followed Tom and the gang to something I hadn’t seen walking in – a tall concrete staircase up to the higher levels. The spiral staircase, spread out spaciously as if it could unwind under our steps, stood before us. It was almost elegant, like it didn’t belong at a baseball stadium, a place of rowdy drunkards and family trips.

We looked upward to examine it. The staircase was deserted, most likely because people like the short way when you already have to walk quite a bit just to get to the stadium.

We walked up the staircase, taking our time. In the innards of the stadium, we could hear the restless roar of a crowd ready for a game to begin. Alone on our staircase, we didn’t talk, even Tom and Kasey, who always find something to talk about.

At the top of the staircase we came back to our senses and the other Kyle, who had consumed several beers in a matter of minutes before the game, starting yelling random obscenities. “If anyone approaches us, I’ll just tell them you have Tourette’s,” I said. The rest of the group nodded, and we walked to our seats.

The game started off well, with the Red Sox’s pitcher throwing 40-some pitches and giving up 3 runs in just the first inning. The innings passed and we drank Henry Weinhart’s and Miller Lite. We yelled the obligatory “My mom throws better fastballs than you,” and even did the wave once.

Although our team struggled to earn their hits and the Red Sox kept up with us, the excitement was high. A home run here, a single there, then another home run. At one point, Tom insisted we start dancing whenever the camera captured people for the big screen. We tried several times without any luck. But we were still winning, so everything was fine.

Finally, at the beginning of the eighth inning, everything lined up. An AC/DC song began playing and Kyle started doing what he called “the monkey,” where you swing your arms in front of you up and down on rhythm. I followed, then Tom followed, then a camera followed us and we were on Safeco’s big screen.

There we were, two Kyles and Tom, dancing as if we were 10-years-old again. Nothing could dampen our spirits, not even the smug middle-aged woman who screamed, “At least we know how to dance in Boston!”

The rest of the game we stayed high from our moment on the big screen. The beer didn’t hurt either. At the beginning of the ninth inning, the Mariners were up by one and the Red Sox were sweating. They worried so much they forgot how to hit, and our pitcher threw three strikeouts in a row. K-K-K.

After the final strikeout, we headed for our unusual staircase. Going down certainly would be different than going up. This time, we had something to talk about and celebrate.

We walked down the concrete staircase energized, alive. We walked through the crowds arrogantly happy and didn’t feel like being polite Seattlites, the kind that shake your hand and say “You played a good game. Can I get you a latte?

We made it our business to be number one fans. Every person who passed by us in Boston apparel received a loud, juvenile reminder that they had just lost.

Our favorite lines:
“Red Sox suuuuuck.” Clap—Clap—Clap-Clap-Clap
“Boston whooo?”
“The Red Sox are awesome! Good job! High five!”

We finally made it down to the bottom of the staircase, and Tom looked at me. “Not a bad time for your first night at Safeco, huh?” he said.

“Not bad at all.”

Pleasant Plumeria #7

I would rather break off my own fingers than hold his hand another millisecond.

"What's wrong baby?" he asked, as her hand dropped from his grasp.

"Nothing, sweetheart," she smiled back, "just feeling a little sweaty."

"Should we switch hands? I can walk on the other side and that way this one can take a breather!" His grin was huge and genuine as he lifted her hand to his lips to plant a kiss on her knuckles.

Ugh, why does a kiss on the hand have to be MOIST?! What, is he marking his territory?

"No, that's okay, hon. I can walk without any assitance." Her step quickened a bit as she continued up the winding staircase, putting some distance between them.

"Hey, wait up, I wanna be next to you. I don't want to be away from my baby!"

"You're not away, you're right there behind me."

"Yeah," he said, sidling up alongside her, "but I want to be as close as possible, don't you?"

NO! I can't breathe, just let me walk for a MINUTE without you sucking the life out of me?!

"You betcha." Her teeth were gritted as he slipped his arm around her waist and drew her tightly against him. "I just don't think we really have to be hugging while we walk up the stairs, you know?"

Laughing warmly, he nuzzled his nose into her hair and kissed her on the neck. "I wanna be hugging you ALL the time, honeybunch."

JUST GET OFF ME GOD DAMN IT!! I CAN'T STAND THE SIGHT OF YOU AND I THINK YOUR SMILE IS GONNA MAKE ME PUKE!!!

"JUST GET OFF ME GOD DAMN IT!! I CAN'T STAND THE SIGHT OF YOU AND I THINK YOUR SMILE IS GONNA MAKE ME PUKE!!!"

Her scream echoed throughout the marble halls of the museum, and the patrons all stopped in their tracks. Somewhere near the fountain a program hit the floor with a dull thud.

"It's our honeymoon," he croaked out, his throat rough with emotion, "what's the matter with you?"

Holy shit. What have I gotten myself into?

Defiant Daisy #7

We started climbing in the morning, before most of the people got there.

I’d never been before. He told me that it was a difficult climb but that the view from the top of the tower was definitely worth every sweaty and crowded step. So, like the tourists, we started to climb. There really wasn’t anything to look at aside from the other people struggling with the stairs, so we started to talk. It was...amazing. I’ve never connected with a stranger like this before. He was easy to talk to, and, more importantly, we slide into an easy and comfortable silence when there’s nothing left to say.

He told me about his childhood, about being the only jock in his advanced chemistry courses and the only chemistry geek on the football team. I told him about my photographs and laughed awkwardly about how somehow I feel more comfortable behind the camera than in front of it.

And suddenly, it was as if years have passed, although we’ve been climbing for less than an hour. Somehow we had achieved the laidback intimacy of friends who have known each other for years, and I didn’t even know his name. Everything else about him – sure. His hopes, his fears, his memories. But not his name.

“Ever been in love?”

I paused.

“Well... I tell myself I have because it makes everything I went through for him seem more worthwhile. Right now, I’m on hiatus.”

“Hiatus?”

“I am finally starting to like who I am, but I never like who I become. I don't know what it is about relationships, but I always feel it coming, like when old people know that it’s going to rain or when dogs take themselves out to the woods and lay down to die. And I hate it.

I hate it because I know it’s the beginning of a downward spiral, that we can only climb so far, and we’re almost there. I can’t look back because I’m going too fast. I can’t look down because I’ll realize that there’s nothing left to do but fall or go back from whence we came.

And I run and I run and I run but I never know where I am and I always forget to breathe. and he’s there - in my head - wherever I am, and I’m there - in his arms - whenever I close my eyes. However many times I jump without looking or talk without thinking or cry without laughing, he’s there to catch me and console me and hold me close.

I don’t even know what I’m running from. Not from him. There's nowhere I'd rather be than where I am right now, falling asleep in his arms and getting lost in his eyes. But I’m scared, and I'm running from me even though I always catch myself.

So, I guess I’m on hiatus to give myself a headstart before I have to start to run again.”

A few minutes passed, and I was convinced that I had managed, in thirty seconds, to completely alienate and terrify a stranger who had regaled me with his life story for thirty minutes. Before I knew it, I felt a sudden gust of wind and realized that we were at the top of the tower. We walked over to the screened-in side and stared out over the city. He quietly spoke again, but he wasn’t speaking to me in particular – it was as if the expression was so natural that he just couldn’t hold it in.
“In the hundreds of years this cathedral has been here, buildings have been built and have fallen; people have come and gone; love has blossomed and faded away. Somehow, though, in the decades I’ve been coming here, the perspective I get is always the same.”

Simple Sagebrush #7

There are the moments where you can envision the options sitting in front of you. Practically see them happening. Imagine in the part of your brain that fills the fuzzy area between fantasy and reality.

Every day, I see myself plummeting to the bottom. Every day, I step back and tell myself it's not going to happen. I'm one of the very few that actually take the stairs every day- the elevators, while much more crowded, serve the coffee-sipping, newspaper-reading masses much more effectively. Walking up this many stairs would spill the coffee all over their financial sections, and that would be a shame.

So each morning, I walk up the stairs. I try to put spring in my step- the comforting regularity of each step, curving just a bit at the edges, taking me closer and closer to the day. The wood has been worn smooth from decades of hands steadying themselves and there is a distinct wear pattern where feet landed, step after step, on the carefully carved wood. These stairs tell the story of hundreds of thousands that have come before me.

Anymore, they're practically ignored. I like the loneliness. The few minutes to commune with myself and those that took the stairs before me. I use those three minutes to convince myself that this day will be different. This day I will enjoy the job. This day I will tell him hello. This day I will forget the airline bottle of vodka in my bag.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I stand there. I look down. I can practically feel myself taking two steps forward, and- whoops- missed the step. My muscles clench as if I were trying to catch myself. I close my eyes right as I would hit. And I tell myself not today.

This repeats, in reverse, at 5pm every day. Today, though, the alarm went off. The elevators closed. Everyone is walking, slowly, down my stairs. They're not appreciating them for what they are, but the security guards yelling at us to get out probably have something to do with that. I am not moving. I am standing at the top of the stairs.

Could I do this to my stairs? Could I place the image of my broken body in the minds of everyone on these stairs? Would they appreciate them more? Or avoid them even more fastidiously? I take a step forward, looking directly down. Time is repeating in circles and moving forward at the same time. And so few appreciate it. One more day. One more step. I see both choices, but I can't see the end of either story.

Perhaps tomorrow.

Pensive Peyote #7

The Modern Day Expressionist

Left. Right. Left. Right.

Up and up.

“…and on your right is ‘The Violinist’ by Marc Chagall. Notice the underlying passion present in the violinist’s face and arms? See how he sits on the chair playing his violin without a care in the world. Even the fiery-colored tree in the back or the small bird on his shoulder cannot distract his attention from what matters most to him. Chagall was a violinist himself, and some say the violinist has an almost childlike expression on his face in this work…”

Oh fuck the Expressionists and their sloppy mixtures of color and flawed perception of detail. Give me the true details! Give me the truth! Something alive! Give me a Gustave Courbet or even a da Vinci!

This is where an undergraduate art history major from Yale gets you…showing off the famous artwork of the moment at some uptown yuppie art museum.

“As we move up to the next level, you will see ‘The Praying Jew,’ which is another Chagall work. It is generally agreed upon by most art historians that Chagall purposely included religious undertones in most of his work, but this particular painting is one of his most explicit references. Some say this was intended to portray prayer as a deliberate action taken as opposed to a fleeting afterthought in time…”

About time the man swallowed his pretentious flicks of the paintbrush and actually created something explicit. Ironic that an explicitly religious painting is the one I like the most out of his work given the fact that I’m an atheist.

This is the problem with so many people…they believe in so much, feel and know so many things; yet, they won’t just come out and say what they believe, say what they feel. Modern day Chagalls running around all over this city portraying a blurred, often confusing image of what they so clearly feel and think inside. It drives me crazy. Thank God I'm not like that.

“…and on the last stop of this tour we have ‘The Blue Rider,’ which is also known as ‘Der Blaue Reiter,’ and ‘Composition VII,’ both by Wassily Kandinsky. ‘The Blue Rider’ is often cited as Kandinsky’s most important painting of the early 1900s whereas ‘Composition VII’ is cited as the most complex piece he ever painted. As you can probably see, ‘The Blue Rider’ has a very tranquil, almost peaceful expressionist characteristic whereas ‘Composition VII’ is more a more rigid form of Expressionist artwork…”

Holy Christ! What the hell was Kandinsky smoking? I can make out the cloaked rider on the horse in ‘The Blue Rider’ but I have no idea what the fuck the ‘Composition’ even is. The most complex? How ‘bout the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen?

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your attention on this tour. The Expressionists have made a popular comeback in the contemporary art world, and we appreciate you taking time out of your day to see some of their work. If you would like more information, you can visit the visitor’s center by the main doors on your way out…”

Oi, thank God that is over. Time to head home and think about something other than random Expressionist art. Why do they even call it ‘Expressionist’ in the first place? Just about every Expressionist piece I have seen doesn’t express anything in a clear and concise manner. I think I was onto something back there…modern day Expressionist. That’s what the majority of us are. We may not paint or create works of art that will be revered years down the road as ‘brilliant’ and ‘moving’ by Starbucks coffee wielding yuppies enjoying the comfort of their retirement funds.

“Honey? Is that you?”

Huh? I walked all the way home already?

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“How was the new job?”

“It sucked.”

Meaning I wanted to impale myself with the fountain on the first floor…

“Oh! I’m sorry…listen, can we talk?”

Now this is always a good sign…

“Listen Maureen, you seemed obviously upset with me the other night and instead of staying here to work it out, you stormed out the door and didn’t show up until nearly 4 a.m. I was worried sick about you, and I still have no idea what happened!”

Yeah…I did do that, didn’t I?

…

“And what’s worse, whenever I try to talk to you about something like this, you do what you just did and sit there, staring at the wall and saying nothing. How am I supposed to figure out what you’re thinking? Read your mind?!?”

Jesus, she’s starting to get really pissed. I should probably say something…

“…fine! I’m leaving to go back to my place. I love you so much, but I cannot deal with a one-sided relationship in that respect. If you finally decide you want to talk, you know where to find me!”

…

What am I supposed to say? That I love her and I can’t say it? That I want everyone around me to just be upfront and honest about their feelings, desires, beliefs? Even though I’m not willing to do that myself?

“Wait! Laci…I…”

“I know that I didn't talk to you when I should...I was..."

Unable to articulate something so painfully obvious to both of us when you seem to have no problem telling me you love me?

"...tired, that’s all.”

“Goodbye Maureen.”

*sigh*

I guess I should go to bed and try to salvage this mess tomorrow. Can't wait to talk for eight straight hours about useless Expressionists.

TKO #7, Group #1 / Results of TKO #6

TKO #7

Be inspired by this photograph. Write.



One person will be removed as a result of this prompt.

Results of TKO #6

Playful Poppy is removed as a result of inactivity.
Eager Eucalptus recieved the most votes

Eager Eucalyptus #6

It was over.

All of it. Not just the good times or the bad times. Not just the laughter and not just the tears. Absolutely everything had finally, at last, once and for all, ended.

It was hard to know how it had begun. There were the usual suspects: war. Famine. Plague. Death. All of them played their role, but the story is hardly worth retelling now. The only thing left for me to wonder was: why not me?

I'd been spared. Didn't fight in the war; had plenty to eat; didn't get sick. Still alive. The last man in Oklahoma, and so far as I knew, the last man in the world. The radios stopped working months ago; electricity doesn't run and all the water mains have burst. Animals have started to inhabit all of the houses here, and so now it's my turn to leave.

Where am I going? No idea. The compasses don't work, the maps are all gone. Besides, who cares? I can see the world--but there's nothing more to see. Not even bodies. The bodies are all gone, and it's like humans never existed, but for the empty, magnificently irrelevant cities we left behind, all decaying now. 

I'm checking for others, I suppose. I have no real hope anyone else survived. But if my chances of survival were one in a million, then there should be... well, thousands left. If it was one in a billion? I've got five friends out there somewhere.

Are they dead? Are they looking for me? Are they hungry? Did they get killed by a bear? Did they give up and kill themselves?

Don't know. But as I leave town, the memories of my friends, my family, all the people I'll never see again, nip at the edges of my vision. I can almost see them there in the shadows. Almost, but not really. I'll never see them--or Oklahoma--again.

Loyal Lilac #6

They were my favorite and least favorite times of day, respectively. I walked to work at dawn and walked home at dusk. Dawn was the most beautiful, peaceful time of day to be out.

I also got to be away from home. I knew I had at least 10 hours where I could escape from my troubles and “home” which really felt more like a prison lately.

I dreaded that walk home because I knew what would be waiting for me. And don’t get me wrong. I love my children and I love my wife, I just feel trapped.

Stephanie and I have been married for 17 years now, and our four children make me so proud to be a dad. But sometimes, I hate them. It’s a difficult thing to admit, and I know you’re supposed to love your children and your wife, but I just can't.

I’m not a bad guy. I should never have gotten married so young, and especially not to someone like her. Steph is smart, beautiful, caring, and I just don’t love her anymore. Should it really be so hard to make a marriage work?

In all these years, though, despite all the difficulties, I’ve never strayed. Never cheated. Never. Until recently.

When I met her, I thought she was sweet, cute, pretty, outgoing, and a little loud for my taste. I held back. I didn’t engage with her. She asked so many questions. I gave her one-word answers. She didn’t give up. Eventually, we became friends.

Her name was Samantha, but she went by Sam. She flirted with me and I didn’t flirt back. I was so good at giving the impression I wasn’t interested. She, too, was married. This was innocent and casual and we both knew nothing would ever happen.

Then, little by little, she broke me down. We started spending more time together. I started to miss my walk home at dusk by hours, calling home to tell my family not to wait up, that I had to work late. Sam was special. She made me feel like Steph couldn’t. She was exciting. With her, I was never bored.

Each time we had sex, both of us cheating on our spouses, we said it was the last time it would happen. That now, we were done. We were both in love with other people; we couldn’t ruin our relationships. We didn’t want to get emotionally involved with one another.

So for a while, we would stop. But I could never stop thinking about her. So once we were together, it would happen again. And again. And again.

Finally she broke it off. She said she loved her husband and didn’t want to see me ever again. It pained us both.

And now, here I walk, walking home to a life I don’t want to be living. Thinking about someone else, wishing I was with her.

Loud Lily #6

For the past two weeks my jogging outfit had lain untouched on the plush green chair in the living room. Every night I would place each piece on the chair as if someone who had been wearing the clothes mysteriously disappeared; the shoes at the foot of the chair, the shorts on the seat, the shirt draped on the back. It was the only thing I did when I got back home from the hospital two weeks ago, and this morning was the first time I put them back on again.

I stepped outside and was surprised to find that the leaves had already begun changing colors. I hadn’t been paying attention and it was already autumn. I wondered if bears experience the same disorientation whenever they wake from hibernation. I wanted to ask a bear how long it took to get used to being outside again.

Jogging was one of the many cutesy couples things we did together. He invited me two years ago, after we had been dating for a month. I wasn’t particularly fond of it, in fact I grew to detest it over time, but David had this rigid idea of the perfect relationship and I was happy to spend time with him.

It was 6:30 according to my watch. If David had been there, he would’ve made sure I stretched my legs. But he hadn’t, and I was on a tight schedule. I started running.

I used to have this theory that the only people who enjoyed jogging were dumb people. I reasoned that the ability to ignore pain signals to your brain and to continue performing the same repetitive task required an especially low intellect. This was one of the different ways I justified our relationship. I could compete with other girls because I was smarter, had a more interesting personality. Neither of my theories, it turned out, had been true.

I turned right on Belvidere Street. It was 7:00 now. My pace had slowed significantly. I was nearing a small section of road that had no sidewalk and had been closed indefinitely for repairs. It was a popular spot for regulars. On my left, two girls were stretching and laughing. I thought I recognized the one who was bent over. She looked like a girl David would have flirted with. I sped up.

At 7:30 the convenience store that we usually stopped at crept into view. I glanced at my watch again. It was too early. I needed to keep going.

This has been done before, I thought. A deranged person who started running and never stopped. This is not original. I double-backed.

I don’t distinctly remember being in the convenience store. I must have been operating on autopilot. I know this because I bought two bottles of water, something that didn’t occur to me until I was sitting on the bench under the shade.

It was 7:45. By now the priest would be asking if anyone had anything they wanted to say about the deceased. Heads would turn, scanning the room for my presence. I was the girlfriend. I would be expected to say something. My name was on the program.

It had been his mom’s idea to start the service when David usually woke up. I was the first person he saw every morning, so I should be the first to speak. Even when I was on the phone nodding and “yes ma’am”ing over and over I knew I wasn’t going to do it.

I finished the first bottle of water and opened the second. Not knowing what else to do with it, I poured it on my hair, grateful that I hadn’t worn a white t-shirt this morning, a fact David wasn’t likely to appreciate.

The day of his death I had spent all day in my room making a list of pros and cons, because that morning he had eyed five other girls and three of them eyed him back. When the list became too extensive I flipped a coin. When I realized that the coin was irrational I played video games. When I realized shooting zombies was unproductive, I returned to the list. After seven hours I realized that these were not signs of a healthy relationship, picked up the phone, and called his cell at 4:30 pm. I left a message saying that we needed to talk.

A month or so later, my friend Vanessa, who was a candy striper at the hospital, broke into his file and copied the whole report for me. He had been declared dead at 4:35. The decision had been made for me.

Sometimes I think about the voicemail, some data file containing an otherwise groundbreaking message that was never received.

But at 8:15 on the morning of his funeral I finally thought about the pros side of the list: the surprise party for my 19th birthday, how he made the worst-tasting chicken noodle soup when I was sick and how he would pout whenever I made fun of him for it, the fancy restaurant on the first anniversary and the rose petals on his bed the same evening, the midnight walks around the neighborhood, the awful poem he wrote me and the bonfire we had to celebrate its burning, the way he always found some way to be touching me even in front of his friends.

I stood up and began walking back to my house. The shin splints were painful, but I knew I deserved them. If I hurried, I would be able to make the reception.

Cool Cactus # 6

You know the question I get most often? I mean, besides “Please, please don’t kill me” (which really isn’t a question anyway. The question I get asked most often is why did I choose the life I lead? What made me become a supervillain? And the answer is really quite simple. I did it for her.

You see, when I was just a boy, something terrible happened to my older sister. She was running in the park, near dusk, like she always did, when she was grabbed from behind and dragged into the bushes. My parents refused to tell me any details, but I knew it was something horrible. The police eventually caught the guy, and he went to prison. But that wasn’t good enough – not for me. The attack on my sister woke something terrible in me. I was only 12 when the parole board let him out. I remember my sister being in tears. But those bureaucrats in their white shirts and black ties said he’d been rehabilitated. I knew better. I’d been doing reading. Those kinds of people never get better.

They didn’t have the sex offender registry back then, but if you were resourceful, you could find out where an ex-con lived. And I did. What can I say, I was a precocious kid.

I took my dad’s gun and I snuck out of the house late one night. I knew he liked to drink at O’Mally’s pub, and then take a back alley home to the hovel that was all an ex-con could rent. I waited for him in a dumpster, surrounded by the putrid filth generated by the poorer neighborhoods of a city and when he came stumbling by, I rose out of the trash and shot him in the back.

I thought it would be hard. But it wasn’t. The gun jumped in my hand, which scared me a bit and caused me to fire again. Maybe it was the fact that I didn’t see his eyes when I first shot him that made it easier. But I stared into them as he lay there, instantly sober. I saw the fear in his eyes as his blood pumped out onto the dirty asphalt, and I felt good. Maybe now he knew how my sister felt. And it was that thought that led me to the coup de gras. Staring deep into eyes as I stood over him, I aimed the gun down toward my feet said “This is for Donna” and fired a final shot, right into his groin.

That was the only time he screamed.

And that was what brought me back to reality. I dropped the gun and ran.

It didn’t take the cops long to show up at our door. I made a tearful confession and threw myself into Donna’s arm, weeping. She hugged me fiercely and whispered something in my ear before the cops took me away.

Given the circumstances, I was only given a year in juvie. The psychiatrist said I’d been scarred by the incident with my sister and I just needed some time for examination. Back then, the psychiatric defense wasn’t used so often, so the judge was more sympathetic. Furthermore, it turned out the guy had attacked another woman the night before.

In those long dark nights, as I listened to the other troubled boys, two thoughts kept me going. First, I thought about how good it felt to get my revenge. And I plotted to get the bastards on the parole board who’d let that monster go free.

And the other thing that kept me sane were the whispered words my sister spoke to me before I was ripped from the home I loved.

“Thank you.”

Fiesty Fern #6

A lone silhouette walked down the middle of a winding road into the setting sun. Angry brushstrokes swirled through the orange sky as if collecting their efforts to swallow the traveling figure.

Shane sat and stared at the painting for an hour before his new “mom” called him to wash up. He called her Sheila, if she was lucky. She had asked him to call her “mom” if he was comfortable with that. He was not comfortable with that. He wasn’t going to live with these people forever; it’s not like his mom died. She lived in the next town over with his dad.

The painting in this new house made him want to leave. Not because it was a bad painting, or because he didn’t like it. It made him want freedom again.

Yesterday he had been a free man. No small accomplishment for someone yet to grow hair on his balls.


“Get back here you little bastard,” Shane’s father, Chuck roared. The irony of calling his own son a bastard was lost on him.

Shane had just gotten home from school and hadn’t anticipated this welcoming. The principal said she wouldn’t call his parents. Shane ran down the hall to his room, careful to avoid the pile of unwashed laundry his mom planned to get to later. Chuck used the weapon at his easiest disposal to stop Shane. An open, but full, can of Old Style beer hit Shane between the shoulder blades, and he crumpled like a second pile of clothes.

The dirty, thick smell of cheap beer forced its way into Shane’s nose as the can slowly emptied, soaking though his T-shirt.

As Chuck moved across the living room, he slid off his belt. Stumbling, he placed a hand on the plastic covered, flowery patterned sofa, for balance. After regrouping, he took the last few steps down the hallway toward Shane. Chuck held the buckle in his right hand, using the notched end to hit his son.

“You got suspended from school! For fighting! This will teach you to fucking fight,” Chuck said. He repeated the last sentence with each blow.

Shane was curled up with his hands over his head like his teachers taught him during school fire drills. This position might protect against falling debris, but it left his back wide open to Chuck’s assault. An errant shot cracked against his left hand; the unexpected shock of pain sent him crawling down the hall to his room and under the bed.

There he sat, telling the dust bunnies of his plans to escape, until he heard the signs that Chuck was going to sleep. His mom had come home hours ago and hadn’t asked why Shane was hiding during dinner. Shane heard a can lightly bounce off the top of the trash can and crash loudly to the floor. The door to his parent’s bedroom slammed shut. Chuck’s body collapsed noisily into bed.

Since he was suspended from school, staying home with his unemployed dad was the alternative to running away. Shane opened his window and left.



For almost an hour he had wandered the streets freely, like the figure in the painting. He had splashed in puddles, which he had never been able to do before without punishment. He only looked one way when crossing the street. He was also hungry, since he had missed dinner and there was no easy way for him to find food.

The police had picked him up and had noticed the fresh welt forming on his hand. They found a dozen more, along with a can shaped bruise, on his back. Shane spent a sleepless night in protective custody with his knees tucked under his chin, freckled arms wrapped tightly around his shins. By mid-afternoon social services had somehow found him a temporary foster home.

Since arriving at Sheila and Mike’s (her husband, his new “dad,” he supposed), Shane had done nothing but stare at the painting. He was still six or seven years away from legally having the freedom to wander down the middle of a road toward a sunset. At least, without some form of legal guardian to tell him walking down the middle of a windy road is stupid.

“Shane…Mike, dinner’s ready,” Sheila called from the kitchen. The fact that dinner would be ready soon had been evident for about ten minutes. Some sort of wonderful smell, which made Shane have to tighten his lips together to keep saliva from leaking out, had filled the house. Nothing his mom had made ever smelled like this. Not that it was easy to smell anything in that house over the cigarettes and spilled beers.

Grudgingly, Shane got up and sat in his chair. A plate of steaming hot lasagna stared out at him. He thought about the hungry freedom of the road that he thought he wanted. He thought about the mac and cheese with cut up hot dogs his mom had probably made.

Mike and Sheila asked him questions and didn’t yell when he ignored them. They didn’t force him to eat by raising a threatening fist. They didn’t get obnoxiously excited when he took a bite of the cheesy, meaty meal.

The food tasted better than anything he had ever eaten. He sat for the rest of the meal, savoring that one bite.

Shane returned to the couch, and he sat with the TV off, staring at the painting again. After an hour, he drifted into sleep there in the living room. He hadn’t slept in a room without a closed door for years, but he didn’t wake when Mike carried him to bed.

Racy Redwood #6

“You know,
Marissa,
I wish I can show you
how your father looked like.
You know I don’t lie, right?
The truth is,
my sweetheart,
I burned
every single photo
I had of him.
Even those with me in it.
Or with other people.
I can’t even be bothered
with snipping him out…
Just burned all the photos in one shot.”

Betty spoke as if she was dispensing soup to the elderly patients in her ward.

Slowly. Gingerly. Carefully. With much compassion. Pausing after each mouthful. Checking carefully to see if the previous spoonful has already gone down well. Whether there was any wiping necessary. Whether everything has been taken in.

The pretty little girl looked back into Betty’s eyes. Eyes that spelled sadness. And the burrowed eyebrows gave her confusion away.

Betty picked up her cup of tea from the coffee table and stirred a few times more, even though there was no more sugar in need of stirring. She put it the teacup down, and reached out for Marissa’s hand.

“Marissa, my Sweetheart, I was only seventeen when I was pregnant with you. I lived in a small town in the suburbs where everybody knew everybody else. Which is a wonderful thing. Until something like that happened.”

Sigh. How am I going to expect Marissa to understand.

“Marissa, your father and I loved each other. But timing was all wrong. When I found out I was pregnant, your father was only nineteen and had received a prestigious scholarship in NYU. Marriage was out of the question. For him. He had fought a lifetime to get out of that small tall. So timing was bad. But I want to keep you, my dear. I did not want an abortion. And I knew Grandpa and Nana would be hopping mad. I thought they would kill me when they find out that I would be having my baby out of wedlock. And your father’s parents would probably insist he marry me. The way things would be done right in a small town, you know? And there would be chaos. And I loved your father. I wouldn't want to drag him down.”

Strangely this appears to be a bit easier than expected. Betty knew she would have to explain to Marissa one day eventually. Perhaps it's the way Marissa is listening intently and calmly, Betty felt as if she was telling someone else’s story. It seems a lot easier that way.

“So, when I was about 4 months pregnant, I decided I had to pack up and leave the town. Make things easier for your father, for everybody. Before everybody start noticing I was pregnant. So the very day after Grandpa and Nana have driven to visit my Cousin Nelly who just delivered a baby in the next town, I packed my bags. Without anyone knowing.”

Ok, now the memories are starting to come back and it starts to hurt again.

“You know, Lisa has been my best friend since childhood. Yeah, Lisa my superwoman-lawyer-friend, Lisa. She was driving me to the train station. She thought I should go see your father once last time. In case he wants me to stay. I didn't think things would change but I guess I wanted to believe in Lisa.”

The memories are flooding back now.

“But no, he didn’t change his mind. And he didn’t say a thing. I guess, I do remember how your father looked like after all, Marissa. He looked like a tree, a deeply-rooted tree for something not very tall, so rooted he can’t move, a tree in the middle of the road.”

“Marissa, my dear, the only picture I have in my head, is a man standing in the middle of the road outside his house, with his hands in his pockets, as if they would wave goodbye by themselves, if he didn’t keep them in. Even the two old trees we had known for all our lives were swaying in the wind, as if to say goodbye but he just stood there.”

“The sun was setting, and we should go soon to catch the night train. So I had to go. Did I tell you they say the sunset view in our town is legendary? Or so the folks there think anyway. They don’t travel very much I guess.”

“No, I didn't cry, Marissa. I was determined not to. I thought I should match the nonchalance I see in your father. But as we drove away, I looked behind through the back window of Lisa’s car, hoping to see your father wave once at least. Just once. Or perhaps running after the car, trying to stop me from leaving... I kept watching until I couldn't see him anymore. But as he became smaller and smaller... he remained stuck to the ground, with his hands were tucked away. Only the trees were waving.”

“I am sorry I burned all the photos away. But I love you, you know that, right?”

Hip Hibiscus #6

I'm in the way
I'm on my way

I keep seeing magnified parts of the same whole
becoming stretched out.

Too small for these hands to fit
Instead I'm just poking air holes
in the atmosphere to hold breaths
and save it

The vibration of glowing orange
glows radiant in my blood stream
permeating through this paper bag of skin when wet and soaked


Its brown a background

to compliment the others

when broken into cubes

that mapped my tattered flag


With the anticipation of evolution
of more dictionaries

staggering gracefully to the cutting card boards
of billboards and lighting up grids

Better vision to see through muddy orifices
that are cancerous on the concert sidewalks of my favorite bars
and what used to be some kids gum on the floor

A past life
Its half life
of you and me as we or not at all

as casual dismissal across glances

Where nothing happens

and i am a parody
of every stranger
you've ever met

a colleague of infliction
god have me manifest

so you could see it move
and be animated

don't stop your car
when you see me on freeways

don't say why
don't stop your car
just look

I am on my way
i am in the way

I am on my way

Peculiar Poinsetta #6

Gah, I can’t remember the poem.

Wynkem, Blynkem and Nod one night sailed off to a silver moon.

That’s how it started at least. I forget the rest. Mom would read us that once in a while. Each one of us would take turns, being Winkem, Blinkem and Nod, trepid adventures who sailed to the land of dreams on a starry ship made of baby’s breath. Or something like that.

We are back again: watching the sunset unfold, almost waiting for our dream alter egos, to sweep us up with sunset ropes of glinted gold. My older sister is leaning against the truck underneath the tree, chewing a piece of grass whose youg stem tastes sweet. My younger one is sitting underneath the oak, humming a song she almost remembers. It's been a while since all of us were lazy togther. I'm the fool--standing in the middle of the street, watching the waves of gold as they slowly fade to night.

Here is where childhood was for us, the old truck, the road and the old farm house, but now through adult eyes, corrupted with age. It sounds too idyllic, but we really did wake up to the rooster crowing and fell asleep to the sound of cicada singing their rough, but comforting song. Sleeping without air-conditioning, and smelling the warm musk of wheat as it ripened. Hard work (most of it involving some kind of manure) took place. 4H Clubs, showing chickens and the trip to the fair, where mid-west romance was set. Boys with farmer's tans, hair bleached by the sun and heat. Smelling of hard work and cheap cologne from Kmart.

But we all went away. Settled. Letting us believe that the steady rythm of childhoods summers would come again, if only we worked hard enough. It’s easy to see that now, waiting for Nod’s glinted rope. The smell of the highway, of tar and gravel and exhaust is right there, waiting for real life travelers to make its use. After the fourth, all of us will take this road, two north and one south. One back to school, the others to jobs that pay the real-world bills.

But we are back here, remembering watching the sun set and talking about superficial things. But all of us secretly waiting, trying to remember, and looking for Nod’s glinted rope.

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
  Sailed off in a wooden shoe—
Sailed on a river of crystal light,
  Into a sea of dew.
“Where are you going, and what do you wish?”
  The old moon asked the three.
“We have come to fish for the herring fish
  That live in this beautiful sea;
  Nets of silver and gold have we!”
                    Said Wynken,
                    Blynken,
                    And Nod.

http://www.compassrose.org/uptown/wynken-blynken-nod-eugene-field.html

Vivid Violet #6

Negative Spaces

Don't worry.
I'll stop.
I'll help you.

I'd been checking my e-mail when my son's lego tower had toppled.

"Daddy" he'd said. "When you gonna finish lookin' your 'puter..?"

"Soon" I'd said, for the umpteenth time. "Soon."

So he rebuilt his tower, this time the design both higher and even less structually conventional than its predecessor. His construction teetered... It swayed... And collapsed in a multi-coloured rain of plastic bricks. Its creator began to wail. "Daaddeeee..."

"Don't worry." I'd said to him.
"I'll stop." I said.
"I'll help you."

And with that, with those eight simple, everyday syllables, my life started to unravel.

It started with a tic. My off-hand would flip on its wrist, and the fingers pinch together convulsively - just for a split second. As if they were catching a fly. It didn't happen often - only if I was stressed, or tired. If I thought anything of it, it can't have been much, I don't remember worrying over it. Then there was what happened on the phone. I doodle while I talk, but I mean, everybody doodles.

This was something else. When I surfaced after a fifteen-minute conversation with some insurance guy over a niggle on payments, I found my left hand had sketched a thumbnail picture of a winding, wooded road, at what looked like dawn or maybe dusk, skewed on a slight slant off to the left, with a single figure standing in silhouette almost straddling the white line. There was a well-chewed HB-soft pencil clutched between my fingers, an unfinished line still under the point. Almost as if it noticed me looking, the hand put the pencil back down on the pad. I flexed it experimentally, the wrist ached slightly. I sat down, suddenly exhausted.

I picked up the sketch and squinted: it looked familliar somehow but I couldn't place it. "I'll stop." I said out of the blue. "I'll help you."

It got worse from then on. The doodling. I woke up with a hangover on the sofa after a dinner party my wife threw, only to find the road scrawled all over the cushions in smudged biro. I got a strange call from my Mother on her sixtieth asking me about the little scene she'd found inside her birthday card. I could have sworn I'd dashed off 'Happy Birthday Mom xxx' just like every year before. The final straw came in the Summer. It was our custom to sleep nude when the weather got too humid to bear and that night my wife awoke to find me, still fast asleep, drawing the road on her back with her eyeliner pencil.

She packed me off to a shrink after that. The same one that's just woken me up. Dr. Brunel.

He's clutching a handful of papers; he looks pleased with himself: Cheshire cat grin and one-hundred watt eyes. He snaps his fingers in front of my nose again, just for good luck. "Wake up Daniel." He says, "You're awake."

My hand hurts, and there's an indent on my index finger matching a groove on my thumb. What has he had me up to..?

First he shows me a slightly better defined version of the sketches I've grown used to over the last few months. You can see the leaves on the trees, and that the figure is a woman: close-cropped hair, flaring like a halo about her blurred face.

"You drew like a machine." Brunel says excitedly " - Like an automaton, you're the best example of automatic writing I've ever met..!"

"Great, do I get a discount..?" I ask, rubbing my wrist.

"And look here - I'll bet you've never seen this before. I asked you to zoom while you were under."

He passes me another sheet of A4 - this one's a close up on the woman's face. Jutting out stark and harsh from the paper in charcoal hardpointing. She'd be pretty I guess, if she weren't screaming. I've done her gums well, and her teeth gleam like pearls. The tongue rears out of her mouth like a snake, I can almost imagine it hissing.

Brunel's been playing with me like I was some kind of organic video-recorder - the next sheet is the same full view, but dated and timed: gaps left in the crosshatching tracing digital letters and numerals.

11:sept:1989 03:11 am

"That date mean anything to you Daniel..?" Brunel asks expectantly.

I shake my head, "I'd have been at university I suppose." I say, "Freshman year." I hate it when Doctors use your first name. What are we... Bosom buddies..? Will he be coming to my kid's birthday party..? Will it stop him looking at me like I'm some species of bug..? Or taking my money..? A whole lotta 'nos' queuing up to answer those rhetoricals.

"So neither the date - nor the picture itself - mean anything to you..?"

"I kinda remember the picture, but that's it - I couldn't tell you where it is, or if I've been there."

He hands me the last picture, this one printed on slick photgraphic paper, still smelling of ink:



And then I know.






Brunel's saying something about extreme stress, and pictures getting imprinted as negatives on the synapses of the brain, but it doesn't matter.

I know.

The trees flash by - lit strobe-light bright by the headlights of my car. I'm fucking off my head - laughing, punching the horn, shaking my head like a wounded bear; joke-shop eyeballs jiggling like marbles in my skull - the cat's eyes blur by under the hood - fireflies weaving across the sweating tarmac like lines on an oscilloscope: neon-bright pixels leaking off a damaged fluorescent screen. I see her far too late of course. I'm not sure I even recognize her as different from the telegraph poles flanking the road. I only brake after I feel the impact. Something flies up over the roof like a giant white bird. The car slows. My arms are wood, my neck a metal ratchet as it cranks round on my shoulders. I cannot get my hands off the wheel. I see a slumpen mass on the asphalt behind me, lit up a bloody red by the brake lights. The car still doesn't come to a halt. I shout through the open window:

"Don't worry."
"I'll stop."
"I'll help you."

But my foot slips off the brake and her body winks out into the murk. My eyes not leaving the mirror I flail like a child at the sea-side, my feet hunting for the right pedal to tread. The car moves further away on its tyres. The gradient of the hill slopes away. Nothing to do with me. Then I hit the gas by mistake. The car lurches and speeds up. Everything seems too hard. I can't get my hands off the wheel. Can't concentrate. Can't get my hands off the wheel.

"Don't worry."
"I'll stop."
"I'll help you."

But it's only a whisper this time. The car just won't stop.

The doodling stops after that. But I start to wake up at odd times in the night with my car keys clutched in my hand - squeezing them hard enough to leave welts on my palm.

On September the first I wake up at two am in the morning - in my car. The engine idling softly, exhaust pluming out into the night air. I can't seem to get my hands off the wheel.

On the eleventh I drink a whole thermos of coffee and stay up late with the kids at my side, watching old cartoons and scoffing popcorn. My wife goes to bed at one-thirty, even though I beg, literally beg, for her to stay up with me.

It's half-past two now and the children are asleep on the couch, out like little lights. I catch myself nodding. I cat-

- The trees flash by in a strobe-light blur; the asphalt rasps under the tyres like the low, grating yowl of a cat in pain. I hit the brakes but my foot slips off the pedal, leaving blinks of red in the mirror. The car does not slow. It's too late anyway, I'm reaching the crest of the hill.

I see her framed under the trees, clear as day. But when the car hits her this time, she doesn't fly away.

The hood crumples up around her hips like a wave hitting a breakwater, and I dive through the exploding windscreen like a lover into her waiting arms.

She holds me down on the warm road. She's a human-shaped hole in the universe. I see galaxies whirl in her breast and stars flare in her belly. It hurts when she puts her fingers in me.

"Don't worry." She says.
"I'll stop." She says.
"I'll help you."

TKO #6, Group #2 / Results of TKO #5

I'm sorry I didn't close TKO #5 and post this last night but I am very sick.

TKO #6, Group 2

Be inspired by this photograph. Write.



Due Sunday 4pm PST

Results of TKO #5

Musical Mum
Odd Orchid
Thrift Tulip

are all removed due to inactivity. No vote this week (again).

Classic Carnation #5

He didn't look like a genius, he looked more like my ex-boyfriend. Maybe that's what made him catch my eye initially. That or the fact that he looked like Jason Mraz: about 5'10", dark eyes, and a sideways trucker hat. Whatever the case, I recognized his face when we watched the security video.

A slow night. About par for the course on a Monday night. Fifteen minutes until close and with two customers in store, Phil, the cleaning guy, walks in. He's a nice man and says his "hello"s and "how are you"s to us all as he walks to the back room to prepare all of his cleaning supplies. I was helping a woman with a tear-stained face find The Notebook when I heard Phil from across the store.

"WHAT THE FUCK? WHO DOES THIS? SERIOUSLY, WHAT THE..."

"I'm so sorry about that ma'am. That's our cleaning man, sometimes he forgets we have customers. Here it is, is there anything else I can help you find?" Her face turned bright red like she was fighting back more tears. She shook her head no in reply, thanked me for my assistance, and walked away mumbling to herself. I turned in the direction of Phil's yelling when I saw him angrily marching toward me.

"You have got to come and see this. Have you been in the men's bathroom?"

"Not quite. Kinda off limits for me." I smiled, but he was in no mood.

"Go into the men's bathroom."

"I can't." I felt awkward having this conversation even with no customers around.

"Oh, I beg to differ. No one is going in there right now." He motioned for me to follow him and without much left to do for the evening, I did. We were still a good fifty feet from the bathroom when I began to notice what had happened. "Watch your step!" He warned as he took careful steps around what looked like muddy footprints.

"Ugh, I think I'm good. I can smell it from here."

"Oh no, wait until you see it." And he opened the door.

The rush of air from out the door ravaged a full assault on my nostrils and continued to my insides all the way down to my stomach. I peeked my head in and sure enough, there it was in the middle of the handicapped stall, like brownie batter in your swimming pool. "AWW GROSS!!" I yelled and ran off coughing, Phil laughing behind me.

Thanks to a slow evening, we finished closing relatively quickly and while Phil was finishing cleaning, my manager suggested watching the security video tapes. Unable to pinpoint the exact time the incident occurred, we rewound the tape until the footprints he'd left disappeared. We watched gray-scaled men scurry backwards in and then immediately back out of the bathroom while giggling about the events of the evening. "Stop stop stop!" I uttered as my manager hit pause.

"Too bad he's so cute." Ani said.

"No way! I saw this guy tonight! I helped him find Hitch and he made some campy joke about needing relationship advice. I wonder if that was before or after all this. I mean, he didn't smell. Oh well. Guess we should put him on the alert list."

"What would it say? 'Attention Employees: Be on the lookout for a customer who uses corny pick up lines. He's about 5'10", dark hair and eyes, last seen wearing a hat with mesh backing. Recently defecated in the handicapped stall in the men's restroom. If seen, please place an out of order sign on bathroom door. Thanks, Mgmt'?"

We laughed for the rest of the night, and despite his inappropriate behavior I couldn't help feeling sorry for the guy. And although the line was cheesy, I couldn't seem to get him out of my mind.

Sociable Sunflower #5

He certainly didn’t look like a genius, he looked more like Charlie Chaplin on cocaine. Short. Black hair. Thick mustache. Used out.

But I wasn’t bothered by how Simon looked. All that mattered was that he had blow, and I was desperate. Ever since the last dirty bomb went off downtown, access to cocaine, hell access to anything contraband, had been stripped down.

You’d think the black market would sustain itself better than the national economy, but it’s wrong. Everyone’s been so high on fear lately that they don’t need drugs. And since Patriot Act IV went into effect, people have been deathly afraid of getting caught. Five years in jail minimum, no matter how much blow you got or who you know.

We stood in the back of the pitch-black alley, just me and Simon. Must’ve been getting close to 1 a.m. I could smell prostitutes, maybe a few homeless drunks, in the cool air.

While Simon struck me as a washed out poor excuse for a dealer, I still had respect for the guy. Reminded me of my high school principal, who actually sold me a hit or two back when I was sophomore. They both had balls and they wouldn’t let higher powers scare them from what they wanted to do.

“You got the cash?” Simon inquired.

I opened my wallet and promptly threw down my money. “150,000 yen,” I said. “It’s all there. Go ahead and count it.”

He counted slowly, then nodded. “We’re done here,” he said. “And don’t recommend me to your pals. I don’t have much left. Once I’m out, I’m out. The supply’s drained.”

I stuffed the small ivory-colored bag into my pants pocket. I stepped out from the alley, looking left and right to make sure no one had seen me. I couldn’t afford to be caught. Everything’s grim enough, prison would just be too much. It’d likely kill me.

The neon glow of the Masquerade strip club caught my eyes as I walked. It sobered me up and reminded me of my responsibilities. People to protect, democracy to enforce. I walked back the same way I had originally come down.

I stopped just before my patrol car and looked through the windshield. Empty. My partner Jermaine must’ve still been inside the strip club “checking out a lead.” That’s what we called it whenever we were somewhere we shouldn’t be.

He must’ve been in there for an hour. Too long.

I headed to the tinted double doors of the club and stopped in the entrance. The overweight bouncer looked at me and then looked toward the back door. I took his signal and headed to the back, barely noticing the dancers. As I began to push the back door open, Jermaine came through.

He was smiling wily. “Did you get your fill?” I asked. “I could ask you the same thing,” he replied. We walked straight out of the club and back toward the lonely car. “Maybe we should get some food,” Jermaine said. “I have a feeling we’ve been off the clock a little too long,” I replied.

A short pause.

“Remember, we have a job to do,” I said starkly. “We’re Seattle’s finest.”

Jermaine stared at me for a moment. Then he laughed and I followed his lead.

We stood on the street, laughing, cursing at the clouded sky. We were kings of nothing important and that’s the way we liked it.

Defiant Daisy #5

He didn't look like a genius; he looked more like someone who was somewhat lost. He moved with calculated hesitation, but his cocky stride belied the aloof attitude that he tried so hard to convey as he walked into the bar. He gazed around as if he had never been there before, even though he had come in on every shift I had worked that week.
As if he were on a track, he came up and sat on the first stool he saw, next to a lonely and bored looking man. “Vodka rocks,” he said, with the same bored tone that he had used the nights before. As I poured his drink, he went through the same motions – pulled a Treo out of his pocket, glanced at it, shook his head in disgust, and turned it off; took a big swig from the glass and sighed heavily. His mark was a man who could only be described as average and who possessed infinitely more disinterest than Jack could ever feign. He didn’t take the bait.
A cloud of annoyance passed through Jack’s faded blue eyes. He looked the man up and down, as if he could somehow gauge what would grab his attention from his worn suit and loosened tie. After a few more minutes of silence (and a few more swigs of vodka), he made his move. “Hard day?” Oh, please. You would think that a seasoned hustler would have more in his arsenal than pickup lines you’d find in Maxim.
The mark glanced over at Jack, and looked him up and down, as if judging whether or not a response was merited. After a lengthy pause, he sighed, said, “Sure”, and took another swig from his scotch.
Jack was obviously ruffled but did his best to hide it. Like a spoiled teenage girl, he did not know how to react to being ignored. Should he try again? Maybe with another fail-safe line from his arsenal? What if he moved down the bar, found another mark? No, no, this one’s too small and quiet – everyone had seen him get rejected the first time. His only option was to cling to what was clearly a sinking ship. And so, there he sat, like a deer in the headlights – trapped in a situation that he knew he couldn’t win.
I pretended to wipe down the bar and refill the ice as I continued to watch Jack’s chances unravel as quickly as the moments ticked by. He started to look more and more anxious. The mark, who continued playing up his disinterest and nursing his scotch, caught my eye and winked. He was a regular, and a fairly friendly guy. Generally kept to himself, tipped pretty well - the kind of customer you really want on a weekday happy hour like this one.
He finished his scotch, laid down his tip, and turned to Jack. “You play?”, he asked, gesturing at the pool table.
Now Jack looked disoriented. Either fate had smiled on him by laying completely easy prey in his lap, or something was seriously wrong.
He took a swig of his vodka to buy more time, looked over at his mark, and said, “Well, I used to. Sometimes.”
After a few moments of earth-shattering silence passed, Jack finally broke his disinterested silence. “You?” he asked, trying with all his might to maintain a semblance of indifference that had long since been lost.
The mark smiled, shot me a knowing look, said, “Maybe another time”, and strode out of the bar.
As the doors swung shut, Jack, without missing a beat, slid down the bar to another lonely businessman, and started again: “Vodka rocks.”

Magical Merrigold #5

He didn’t look like a genius, he looked more like the dull jock type. Strong jaw line, broad shoulders, sandy styled hair - baseball hero build, not math wizz kid. Regardless, I still found myself drawn to him. From the moment he walked into my classroom, I was fascinated. He is the type of boy I would have daydreamed about when I was in the 10th grade.

What was this beauty doing in my Advanced Calculus class?

A couple of class periods passed and it became evident, that he was bright. He was quick in his calculations and imaginative with his problem solving style. As one of the more personable students in class I looked foward to seeing him each day. Slowly he dissolved from the boy I daydreamed about in highschool, into the man I dreamt about now.

Although I did say I was initially drawn to him, I swear I never had any intentions of pursuing that attraction. I can’t explain how/what/why it happened; I was naïve to the whole process. The next thing I knew we were in love. I hate the thought of him seducing me, or I seduced him, I like to think that it was some sort of serendipitous plan guided by the angels.

Thus far we’ve been successful at keeping our secret. This makes me glad, but at the same time it kills me. I want to shout on a mountaintop, "I’ve finally found the man I want to spend me life with!" I want us to be one of those PDA couples at the movie theatre and bring him home for thanksgiving dinner. Sadly, we have been deemed taboo. We can't share the same luxuries as every other couple.

So, we wait. For the semester to end, for the 18th birthday, for the next secret loving making rendezvous. Why must we hide? Why must we wait? How can anyone tell me this is wrong, when nothing in my life has ever felt so right?

Pleasant Plumeria #5

He didn't look like a genius, he looked more like a troll doll. Okay, granted, his hair didn't stand on end in a day-glo pouf, but from the fat little nose to the widely spaced eyes to the round belly, the kid was a dead ringer for a Russ troll.

To be fair, I guess I'm not sure exactly what a "genius" looks like. I mean, there are plenty of stereotypes out there about the image of the smart kid--in fact, the last really intelligent student I taught was as stereotypical as one could ask for. He was short, thin, and Asian, with thick glasses even at the age of four. He wore striped polo shirts and mini-docker pants, and all he wanted to talk about was space, dinosaurs, or the imaginary nation he had just created. Andy LOOKED like a genius, and he lived up to that expectation.

Ryan, though, Ryan looked like the end result of his parents' genes battling each other for supremacy. His mother's Chinese heritage won out in the eyes and the dark, silky hair, but his father's American influence was obvious in his goofy freckles and big potbelly. Some children of mixed ethnicities seem to be blessed with the most attractive and exotic features of each. Taya's African-American and German backgrounds combined to make her a caramel skinned, blue eyed beaty. Khye's Korean and African-American backgrounds mixed to create a child with smooth, warm skin and mysterious almond eyes. But not Ryan.

Like I said, he definitely didn't look genius-esque, and at first it didn't bother me. Who cares how a four year-old looks? He's four, he's supposed to grow into his quirks. But after people kept telling me how brilliant he was, it started to chafe. The kid barely spoke in class, he refused to answer questions at circle, he wouldn't eat lunch...this is not how a genius behaves. I finally got downright annoyed when this alleged prodigy conked another student in the face with a block because she stepped on his toe. I pulled him aside to try and badger some sort of logic out of him, and the response I received? His shrill screech inches from my face, and a conk on the head of my own.

I was done. Where was the brilliance? Where were the endearingly clever questions and fantastic stories? All I had gotten out of this child was a mushrooming sense of annoyance and a pounding headache.

Gritting my teeth and holding my head, I stared at him. His wide, inky dark eyes stared back at me, stoic after his outburst. For the first time in my teaching career, my frustration completely boiled over and I felt hot, angry tears come to my eyes. I was at a loss as to how to handle this little miscreant, this "genius" who was terrorizing my classroom. I stared at him and bit back my tears and stared some more. I figured we were at a stalemate until I managed to pull myself together and craft some sort of disciplinary action. That's when he did something that shocked me even more than a chunk of wood to the noggin.

His little face crumpled, he burst into tears, and he threw his arms around my neck. When he spoke, I finally understood what everyone had been saying for so long.

"I'm sorry Miss Marie, I'm sorry! I didn't mean it I just felt the mad go from my belly to my hand and it came out at you but I didn't mean it! I love you a lot and I don't want you to hate me anymore!"

The perceptiveness of this small person astounded me. All of the skepticism I'd harbored towards him, all of the second guessing and negative thoughts--he'd felt all of it. As much as I thought I had kept my opinions to myself, I had been transparent to him. He wanted to be good, but faced with a new authority figure who treated him like he was an asshole, he responded in kind.

He didn't look like a genius, but he taught me more about expectations and their ramifications than any psychology or communications class ever had. He didn't look like a teacher, either, but then, I probably didn't look much like a preschool student myself.

Pensive Peyote #5

He didn't look like a genius, he looked more like the same nameless face I pass on the street every single day. You know the type…the dark, perfectly gelled hair and overly tanned skin. The “I want to be so Prada, but I’m not even close” reputation, and the perfectly positioned aviator sunglasses with their platinum plated frames. Ugh, I hate this city more and more every day. Not only is there a toxic feeling to the mere utterance of the phrase “L.A.” there’s also the Hollywood sleazes that tend to interrupt my nice little cynical day.

Somehow at the age of 27 I ended up in the hell of hells. Commonly referred to as “hell-A” by those of us who recognize the place for what it is, I was sent here by an easily excitable mother who believed that my full-ride theater scholarship to some nameless east coast liberal arts school meant that I was ready for the big time.

“Why spend money to supposedly develop the talent when you already have enough for their recognition?”

Great reasoning. So good in fact that aside from an appearance as an extra on a few soap operas, I have managed to create an artform out of responding to audition calls. I thought that acting was supposed to be my artform, but apparently I’m more of the auditioning kind of artistic genius. Oh, and the appearing as a fucking extra on only the worst television genre on the planet kind of artistic genius. That too.

Whatever. I have talent and I know it. That’s all that really matters. I’m pretty sure that Jodie Foster and Julia Roberts weren’t judged for the lame gigs they did in the beginning in order to get by. For some reason the most wretched city in the world is also one of the most expensive to live in. It must be the Hollywood “experience” that drives the real estate prices up. This audition is the turning point and even boy wonder over there in his overly priced suit and sunglasses can’t throw me off my game. In fact, mocking his ridiculous attire and demeanor might do me some good…

She didn’t look like a genius, she looked more like the band groupies running around the underground music scene. You know the type…the platinum blonde hair and orange “spray on tan” skin. The “I’ve been to Phil Spector’s house this many times, teehee” girl sporting the overly large sunglasses with the thick fake diamond-studded frames. Yeah, guess what? He’s on trial for murder you idiot! His victim was another girl just like you…too bad it wasn’t you. Maybe I should move back east to New York or something. At least then I could find some serious artists.

I thought L.A. would be the start of it all. I wasn’t interested in the mongoloid summer action movies that tend to spawn a dozen stupid sequels, prequels, trilogies, whatever. I wanted to make serious art. Something that really moves people and makes them think. But no, I’m stuck in the Hollywood hills with poodle-skirt toting dipshits like that one over there. What is she thinking with that? Doesn’t she realize the 50s were over, oh, about 50 years ago?

Whatever. I’m a serious artist. She’s a fashion accessory. She should really consider just auditioning for billboard ads and magazine ads…they don’t require talking. Or feeling. Or acting. Does she know what it feels like to really feel the art? To really understand what the characters are feeling…thinking? I highly doubt it. Maybe I should consider Broadway. Maybe theatre in the way it should be experienced. The greatest artistic geniuses find their starts there; maybe that’s where I’ll find mine…

“Cooper?”

“Yes?”

“Angelina?”

“Yes?”

“You two are next. This will be the physician assisted-suicide scene. The doctor will be coming in to administer the lethal dose of drugs but first he will reveal to the patient that he is actually her father and he’s so sorry for what he’s about to do. Angelina, you will obviously play the patient and Cooper, you’ll be the doctor. Okay?”

“Okay” they said in unison.

Too bad I don’t actually have lethal drugs.

Ugh, does that mean he has to touch me in this scene? Gross.

“Hi! As you’ve heard I’m Angelina…so…how long have you been an actor?”

“I’m obviously Cooper…I’ve been around a few years…you?”

“Oh, the same…off and on appearances…soap operas mostly, you know? Looking for my big break!”

“Yeah…me too…know what you mean.”

…

Hopefully this scene is over soon. He’s just as much of a tool in the verbal form as he is in the physical form. And he claims to be an actor…hah! I’ll never turn into this guy.

My god, what a ditz! She’s about as loud as her damn poodle skirt…and as obnoxious. What an actress she must be. I’ll never turn into that.

“Okay you two! Lets go!”

Wow, what a couple of schmucks I have here…as soon as I end this scene I’m getting them both out of here! And what the hell are they wearing?!?

Simple Sagebrush #5

"He didn't look like a genius, he looked more like the quiet, thoughtful friend we all turn to with our questions."

"They're mostly full of bull. Listen, I know you're watching this wirecast because you expect to meet the man these reviewers have been raving about. 'The first public interview ever! Meet the Genius behind these words we all know by heart!' Advertisers- they make it sound like I'm about to give birth or grow a second head, all on intercontinental wire. Is that why you're tuning in?

"Or perhaps you're hoping for some revelation of a deep dark secret that will forever discredit me. A double life, or, Gods forbid, an opposite-sex attraction. That's not what you're going to get. You're also not going to be getting an impassioned declaration of disagreement or agreement with - well - insert your favorite social issue here. Still interested?

"The wire writers started calling me 'genius' five years ago - and through no fault of my own, may I point out. I despise the term. Too overblown, too self-important for my line of work. By calling me a 'genius' you're asking me to fulfill your expectations, to be everything you expect a genius to be. I don't 'save relationships' 'change lives' or 'speak to the soul of a generation.' Those are all words that have been crammed onto dust jackets and into introductions by overenthusiastic editors and mistaken intellectual suitors.

"The man you are all calling is genius is truly nothing more than a shell you're pouring your own hopes, dreams, and expectations into. You call me a genius because you think these ideas are mine, and you think they are better than yours. That these ideas haven't been hashed and rehashed a thousand time by academics, drunks, and thousands of people just like you.

"Don't get me wrong. I believe everything I wrote in those books. You've studied them, maybe made your own notes in the margins, even taken the class. What you've all missed, though, is the point. You think that one critically-proclaimed 'genius' is going to give you the answers about life, love, and philosophy you've been looking for.

"Fine. Here's the big revelation. I don't know. I'm as clueless as you. You may very well have the idea that proves me wrong - and you're probably right. So quit listening to me. Quit calling me a 'genius.' The only idea I've been espousing this entire time is that you need to start thinking for yourselves.

"The label of 'genius' is nothing more than your way of convincing yourselves it's OK, it's 'justifiable' to find yourself somehow inferior. Of course I don't 'look like a genius.' No more than you. Quit talking yourself down, using this word to tell yourself I'm somehow better. The simple truth is, you need to shut the hell up. Look inside and meet the genius you are.

"I look forward to being personally introduced."

TKO #5, Group #1 / Results of TKO #4

TKO #5

[Story Starter]

Begin your post with the following:

He didn't look like a genius, he looked more like...

Due Wednesday at midnight

Note: two players will be removed as a result of TKO #5

Results of TKO #4

The following players are removed by default for not posting in response to TKO #4. No vote is necessary this TKO.

Deft Daffodil
Humble Honeysuckle
Lucky Lavender

Loud Lily #4

Considering the situation, and because Irma had been working for them for ten years already, the airline company decided to fly her first class to her home in Dallas as a gesture of support.

Under normal circumstances, Irma might have been worried that she was underdressed. All the other first-class patrons were wearing cocktail dresses or business suits. Then again, under normal circumstances, Irma wouldn’t even be in first-class to begin with. Besides which, any potential fear of feeling out of place dissipated when the lady with the large lime-green bag, bright red hair and blue nail polish took the seat next to her.

That was thirty minutes ago, before takeoff. Before the lady with the green bag had started talking.

Theresa, Irma had learned, was on her way back to Macon Georgia after a lengthy stay with her business executive son in Los Angeles. The bag had been a gift from her six-year-old granddaughter. For the first thirty minutes Theresa had avoided asking Irma any questions, perfectly content to rattle on about her son’s ritzy LA life. Irma was slightly annoyed and refused to make eye contact, but felt that it might be possible to survive the trip so long as her seatmate wasn’t interested in finding out about her life. And then a bomb fell out of Theresa’s mouth.

“So,” Theresa sighed, “business or pleasure?”

Irma wasn’t sure how to answer the question. Her first instinct had been to say business, but of course, it wasn’t official. She wasn’t being paid. After thirty seconds of silence, during which Theresa gave a small cough to remind Irma of her presence, Irma replied, “Both”, followed after a short pause by “and neither.”

“Don’t worry sweetie,” Theresa said, patting Irma’s forearm, “I know exactly what you mean.”

Irma doubted this fact, but was grateful for the break in conversation, and continued staring forward in the hope that the lady would understand that she wasn’t interested in carrying on the conversation.

After fifteen minutes of silence Beth, one of Irma’s co-workers and close friends, took the opportunity to approach her with a bottle of champagne.

“It’s just a little gift from me and the other girls”, Beth said, holding it out for Irma to see.

Irma peered around the side of Beth to see the other flight attendants standing in the wait station staring at her.

“Thank you,” Irma said, taking the bottle.

“If there’s anything else I can do for you-“

“Actually,” Irma began, handing the bottle back to Beth, “I’d like to get some of this now if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Beth disappeared into the wait station and drew the curtain closed.

Theresa, who had been listening to the exchange while reading her magazine asked, “How is it that you know the other flight attendants?”

Irma, still looking at the closed curtain, responded, “I work with them.”

A small sigh of understanding escaped Theresa’s mouth.

Beth returned with the bottle and a glass full of champagne. She handed Irma the glass and set the bottle in a container on the side of the seat.

“You okay?”

This was a question Irma was already sick of answering and would become increasingly infuriated with over the next several months, which is why she tried so hard to deflect it.

“Yeah, how much longer?”

“A little under an hour left,” Beth replied before adding, “weather allowing of course.”

The mention of the weather was an inside joke between the group of flight attendants. Not a very funny one, but something that helped them remember what they did and how they were special. Irma only nodded as a response.

Beth grabbed Irma’s shoulder and whispered, exactly loud enough for Theresa to hear, “I’m really sorry about David.”

Immediately Irma regretted not laughing at the weather comment. She hadn’t wanted to discuss this with anyone, not at least until she was home. And now Beth had let it out, had practically yelled her secret for the whole plane to hear. She wanted to hit Beth, but the small part of her that knew it had been intended as a kind gesture took control. So instead she mumbled, “Thanks”.

Irma had expected Theresa to explode with questions the second Beth walked away. When she hadn’t, Beth took a small sip of champagne. If she had been paying attention, she would’ve noticed that Theresa had pulled her lime-green bag out from under the seat and set it on her lap. If she had looked over, she would’ve seen Theresa staring at a wallet size photo she held between her thumb and forefinger, a photo of a red-haired teenage girl in a cap and gown.

Instead she took another sip of champagne.

“Husband or son?”

The question had been so unexpected that Irma almost dropped her glass. This time she did look to her left and she did see the bag in Theresa’s lap, but not the photo. Theresa was looking out the window.

“First-born”, Irma replied to the back of Theresa’s head. She waited ten seconds for a response, or even a sign of life. When none came, she returned to her position and took another sip of champagne.

Theresa didn’t speak again until the end of the flight, when they had arrived in Dallas. Irma was getting off the plane. Theresa, presumably taking the same plane to Atlanta, remained seated.

Irma had retrieved her suitcase, stuck what was left of the champagne inside, and begun walking when she felt a hand tightly grip her wrist.

Irma’s first instinct had been that she had violated some policy and was being apprehended. Perhaps she wasn’t allowed to take the champagne. But then she heard the southern accent.

“Redecorate”, Theresa had said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Redecorate”, Theresa repeated. “After the funeral. It helps.”

Irma nodded.

“And write down what you eat each today, because you’ll forget to eat anything at all.”

“I will”, Irma said, for the first time making eye contact with this lady who, up until thirty seconds ago, had seemed so alien to her.

Theresa, satisfied that she had been heard, looked away and released her grip. Five blue fingernails disappeared from view.

Years later Irma’s husband would remember how, all through David’s funeral, Irma kept looking at her wrist, as if she were checking the time.