Describe Yourself (I’m Still Scared To Use Hinge)
Pretty bitch (when it’s three am and i’m looking at myself in the mirror and my ego is getting the better of me, otherwise i think my face is too ethnic—the ancient aztecs would’ve loved me though—and too white at the same time)
Compulsive—
I compulsively and impulsively do things
(do i have adhd? should probably get tested so people stop asking)
I am staring at my body
At the funhouse mirror in the county fair
All long hair and petite and wide hipped
(some white lady once told me i had ‘mexican hips’ and i should’ve clocked her if she wasn’t so old and i’m still not entirely sure what that means but that’s a weird thing to say to a latin girl when she’s nineteen, no?)
I feel observed,
In public
Like I am constantly being baited into social error
I crave and detest attention
I like to read
(and at night i will gaze upon such nonsense it makes me sick and i begin to hold a personal grudge against Garth Ennis)
I want things I can’t have, (like, i want lemonade but not this lemonade, the lemonade from two summers ago)
Would you still love me if I told you everything wrong with me? If I told you my fixation on religious imagery stems from—
I like to paint
(if i love you i’ll make something in your image and also i can’t really remember when i was eight years old and my favorite color is a green i’ve tried to find my entire life and will probably never be able to see again because it was the center of a lake on a roadtrip through the yukon when i was small)
I’m young and dumb
(but i feel so old it hurts—I blame this ⅖ on the expectations of the religious sect—cult??? jury’s still out—and all the guilt and the violence that came with it and the other ⅗ on bad blood and familial tradition)
Would you still love me if I was a worm?
Would you still love me if I told you I couldn’t sit with my back to doors? Or that if I don’t check behind the shower curtain, I am confident that I will be Psycho-ed? That I can’t stand loud noise in or outdoors? That I am a slut but only of the soul, because I want you to eat my mind or some other dumb shit I might confess on account of a sleep-deprived high?
Would you still love me if I said men scared the living hell out of me? On account of the reception of violence from them since I was just a baby? That I once crashed my bike while trying to get away from catcalling and rode home with gravel stuck to my bleeding knee?
I’m good with animals and small children and my roommate’s cat literally won’t leave me alone
Would you still love me if I told you I hated vulnerability? That if I said I loved you, I’d immediately ask you to take me out back and shoot me? That I feel like I present the illusion of it and so people always tell me everything because I'm just so goddamn trusting? Because all people want to be believed.
(And, like religion, i believe until it makes me sick.)
That,
my favorite songs are Ethel Cain’s unreleased, and AC/DC, and Gaga and just about everything except country (best friend gets in my car and is stunned by the rapid switch from Danzig to Pop Smoke to Dolly)
and every sibilant sound that my mind latches onto
and i also latch onto you
I really like trees and the beach
(please want me,
please like me)
Treating Sirens
Solis sat atop the bordering walls of the Great Albedion. Her legs dangled freely over its lunar stone face. She did not need sitting, but she sat. Her hair, with its fiery hue hung nearly as far as her feet, draping in front of her face so she watched the capital tiles below through its ribbony slits.
It was snowing—without the sensation. Crystal snow against her face and the faces of her friends. Like tiny bubbles caressing their hairs. If it was a substance meant to be felt then she’d lost the ability to do so long ago. She’d been getting used to this thing called apathy...
But the words escaped her mouth anyway, in a foreign way: “Aren’t you getting tired of this?”
Below her, Freeder crouched over the tiles patterned upward to look like grass—it was incorporated in her training, to know of things like ‘grass’. A crazed smile on his face like he were laughing at a distant memory, always.
She supposed the question wasn’t meant for him. Solis leaned to her left, then tilted her head so her hair fell away from her eyes. She kept them open wide as she placed her gaze on Zen. He was fascinating to look at. Short black hair and dark focused eyes like he always knew what he was looking at and why.
He watched Freeder continue to paint. Though in his hand, Zen rubbed the flat of his weapon—a black dagger to match the rest of his look.
The question was his now, but he did nothing with it for a long while. Then finally—“Years ago”—he answered. Sheathed his dagger, then its chain. Then turned to face her and returned a question: “Wanna quit?”
It burned to hold his gaze. She didn’t like when he stared back at her, but liked Zen, so she held his stare as long as she could. Then set her sights back on Freeder in the fake field.
His hair brown and wavy and almost catching his shoulders. She liked to pull his hair and watch the curls pull back. In a way, Freeder was focused too. Solis saw it in the way he held his painting tools. His hands steady and fluid as they traced over cheekbones and earlobes. He dipped his utensil in some more of the blue scattered across the tiles and kept going.
Freeder’s weapon was his painting tools as the chained dagger was Zen’s. Solis’s weapons weren’t meant for her hands. They were meant for her mind, but this was preoccupied now.
“Quit.” She thought, loudly. She’d never considered it before. Or maybe she had, some time before she’d lost her focus. ‘Before the incident’ is what Zen would’ve said, but she didn’t remember any incident.
“Yes,” said Zen. “I mean: be free. Free from all of this.”
The crystal snow became loud in her ears. A sensation she felt. “How...”
A faint siren lit her vision. She shook her head; shook it away.
Looking at Freeder’s canvas from her vantage point, Solis decided she didn’t like this planet very much. Maybe it was the sensationless snow or the blue of its people’s blood, or the way her mind seemed to unravel the longer she stayed.
“We can pay our proprietors a visit. And kill. Not for them but for ourselves. To free ourselves.”
But then Solis would have no direction. She would have to allow her thoughts to burst down every road and try to follow. Her mind would have to unravel further until she would fall apart.
“No!” She yelled, shaking her head, stripping away the sensations. She did not want that.
The Parentals gave them order. They gave them targets. A place to go and people to kill. She did not have to think this way.
“You used to want this, Solis. We used to fight for it.” He turned to her, his eyes blazing. “To be free. Remember,” he urged her, but his words painted violent sirens across her head—their lights and their noise. It hurt. He was hurting her.
She shoved him. “No!” Why had she asked him silly questions? Zen’s brain was not like hers. It knew things. Knew its path. It did not try to stretch itself apart.
She stood and backed away from her friend, taking a battle stance that felt comforting. The crystal snow picked up between them. He mirrored her, ready for her attacks, always.
She readied her blades, they flitted by her back in the shape of a bird’s wings. Many blades working separately, but held together by her mind. They spread on either side of her, pointing their fangs at Zen, but she didn’t want— she never wanted to attack him, even the times when she did, so she screamed in anger.
She felt Freeder’s eyes on them. He would understand. Zen had said the incident had changed him too. His mind used to work like Zen’s and now it was fractured like hers.
The Parentals were punishers in this way. They’d set their children on planets that needed treatment and release, but the three of them had received treatment before too. Zen had told her himself. And Zen had received it too. That was why he could not fight for long. He needed sitting.
He should be sitting now. Not thinking. He looked tired.
She shook the sirens away.
A streak of blue paint cascaded down the air between them. Freeder’s paint. He stepped through it, crouching upon the Great Albedion even though he used to be below. His paint acted as a tunnel, ridding away long distances of space within the time it took him to flick a stroke.
When he stood, he faced her. His smile aimed at nothing as he watched a spot of nothing. But he was against her; their thoughts were united against her. She screamed again.
“I’m sorry,” Zen said, “I won’t bring it up again, until you’re—... until—”
He gulped then. His face twisting. Pain from inside him unleashing. It was the Parentals’ treatment. Like her sirens, and Freeder’s smile. This was why he should be sitting. But that’s not what he did. It was in a second that all his energy gave out at once. Freeder acted first, lunging his leg back with his strange fluidity, he caught Zen with his calf then pivoted to face him and rested him gracefully down.
Solis was beside him in an instant, her blades clattering to the ground in whichever way. She cradled his head, watched his crystal cold sweat. Freeder slid his painting tool from his ear and tried to use Zen as a canvas. Solis roared at him and tried to slap away his hand, but he dodged and grinned at her.
Pinks and reds and lightning whites shot blades through her brain. They tinted her sights. She needed guidance. Someone to tell her what to do or where to go or how to help him. The parentals were her direction, but Zen was her stability. He was the ground that kept her standing.
Not Solis. Zen needed help; he needed treatment. But this treatment was eating him.
She was cold.
The snow was cold, and she was scared, and they were all in pain, and she finally understood.
It was not treatment that they needed, but release.
Tomorrow
It's posturing, I know. "I could find another you tomorrow."
I swallow a grimace, my eyes drawn to the wall, fingers slack on my phone.
"I could have as many girls as I wanted by tomorrow."
I nod, unmoving. But the thing, dead and un-beating in my chest stirs uncomfortably.
"I've dated a writer, I'm already immortalized."
I clench my jaw, wondering when my words became so meaningless.
"You never said sorry when I was hurt."
I know that isn't true. But what is to kick a rock in a river, other than to look stupid? I am aware of my wrong doings, and yet there has always been more wrong. In my tone, in my manner of feeling.
"You're way more emotionally immature." No, because I do not talk like this.
My cadence is easy when I speak, my eyes hardened in my reflection and my words carefully picked over. "Okay. If that is what you believe." and I respond with such a draw string reaction each time, that I notice each irritated teeth click and memorize each draw of the brows, like perhaps I could be understood through a screen.
Only when ive had enough, when that dead, un-beating thing chest stirs do I say I am going, and that is when something is obviously wrong. I say "think about it." they say, "Can you communicate for once?"
But perhaps, tomorrow, I should care to.
Sharpshooter
Sharpshooter
The sun was high about mid-afternoon, and my back was starting to hurt because of the long ride on my horse. It's hard trying to find someplace new. Just over the horizon, I see a tall church and a water tower. I hope this town is better than the last. I ride into town. It's small and not really what I'm used to but it´ll do fine. Everything in this town is on one big dirt road: a church, jail, general store, and a saloon. The saloon looks rundown yet lively, there’s music and people yelling just my kind of place. I push open the door and I’m hit with the stench of smoke and hard liquor. Poker tables line the walls where guys are lining up to play. Every table is full and flipped tables and chairs block the path to the bar. I maneuver around the overturned tables and chairs to the bar, it’s cleaner than I expected it to be in a shaggy place like this. I ring the bell and an older gentleman comes limping out of the back. He has a thick white mustache and a bald spot on his head.
“What can I get you, sir?” He asks I look up at the wall with all the liquor.
“I’ll take some whiskey,” I say
“Coming right up.” He ducks under the counter and grabs a glass and starts to fill it.
“Oh I meant the bottle, I’ll take the bottle,” I say. He seemed a little surprised but he handed it over.
“Do you by any chance know where I could get a room”
“Why absolutely, we have rooms upstairs you can get room 5,” He says, “Upstairs straight down the hall.”
I take the whiskey bottle and head up the stairs. I wobble down the hall and open the door. It smells like smoke, it’s a small room with a bed in the corner, a coat rack, and a side table by the bed. I walk over to the coat rack and take off my hat and gun belt, I walk over to the bed and jump on the mattress, it molded to my back and it feels great on my back I begin to shut my eyes. I awake to the sound of gunfire outside. I hop out of bed it’s now dark and I can’t see a thing anymore. I feel for the wall and follow it to the coat rack. I grab my gun belt and put it on. I look out the window, the road illuminated by the midnight sky and the flash of burning gunpowder. I head for the door and as I’m about to turn the handle I hear voices outside the door. I put my back against the wall next to the door jam waiting, a shot goes off and the door flies open. Two men run into the room which is now being lit up by the hall light. Both men are built one taller than the other. I draw my revolver and walk in front of the door.
“Okay, fellas what’re we doing in my room,” I yell
“Well well, why don’t you just scram,” the taller guy said with a little fear in his voice, their facial features looked almost identical like brothers.
“You trying to rob me?” I ask.
“Course we are, why do you think we’re here,” they say, “I wouldn’t mess with us boy, we're in the Goodman gang.”
“That supposed to mean something to me?” I reply I ain’t too sure what the Goodman gang is but they can’t be that good if I caught them breaking into my room.
“It will in a minute boy,” the small guy says, “We are gonna kill you.”
“If you were gonna do that you would’ve already done it,” I say, I reach for my gun and unclip it from my belt hoping to scare them off before I have to use it.
“Fellas I suggest y’all leave now,” I say.
“How about no!” they yell.
The Taller guy charges at me. I draw my gun and shoot him twice he falls to the floor with a thud my ears start to ring. I feel a large force tackle me and when I open my eyes I see the short guy standing over me with a knife in his hands.
“Shouldn’t have done that” he says.
He brings his arm up ready to stab me, I kick his leg out from under him and he loses his balance falling and dropping the knife. I stand up and grab the knife from the floor and throw it down the hall. I turn around and see him in the corner of the room holding the coat rack. I grab the small lamp on the side table.
“We gonna do this or are you gonna sit in the corner all day” I yell.
He runs at me with the coat rack but trips over his buddy in the middle of the room. He lands on the coat rack and winces in pain. I bring up the lamp over my head and smash it across his stomach. Broken glass goes everywhere. I turn to the bed and grab the sheets where I tie him up. I limp out the door and down the hall to find help, at the bottom of the stairs I look where the bartender is and see his lifeless body draped over the bar.
“Damn, that was a nice guy,” I say to myself.
“Yeah, he was,” a voice says. I look over to the far wall and see a man sitting at the poker table with his hat just over his eyes. He groans as he gets up from the table. He's tall and older, probably in his 40’s with a black suit, hat, and gold badge.
“Sheriff,” I ask,
“Yeah that’s me, Sheriff Mitchell,” He says, “You new around here.”
“Yeah and I don’t mean no trouble or nothing but there's a few guys upstairs for you.”
“They dead?”
“One is for sure the other was still breathing,” I say, “ Who were those guys anyway they said the Goodman gang?”
“They’re the gang that thinks they own this town”
“What are they after I ask,” I say
“Ever since we killed their gang leader a few months back during a raid they have terrorized the city,” He says.
“I need a job,” I say, “You need help protecting these folk I’m your guy”
“Okay you start tomorrow,” he says.
We shake hands and he walks out of the saloon, I turn to head back up to my room, I open the door and see the mess I’ve made. The room is completely trashed, the lamp and the coat rack are still laid out on the floor, a pool of blood formed where the tall guy lay, and the short man groaned. I shut the door and head back downstairs. I walk towards the bar and take a bottle of whiskey off the shelf. I see some apples under the counter too so I grab those and put them in my pack. I walk outside the saloon doors and go around back where I greet my horse. I pull out the apples and give them to him. I found a pile of hay to crash for the night, I popped open the bottle and started to drink myself to sleep.
I wake up to a horse's face against mine startled. I jumped out of the haystack prepared to fight.
“Woah pal settle down,” he said, “you wanna help me with the Goodman gang well lets go”
He throws a rifle into the hay bale. I pick it up and sling it over my shoulder.
“Where are we headed” I ask
“Well since you were late getting up they’re gonna be here any minute,” He replies, “I need you on the top of the saloon.”
Without hesitation, I turned to the rusty ladder that led up to the roof and started to climb. There wasn’t much on the top of the roof other than the slight cover the sign gave. I peeked over to see the sheriff sitting on a rocking chair near the General store. I hear the sound of horses coming in fast and sure enough to the south of the town, there are 7 men on horseback riding into town. I see them hitch their horses at the General store. All of them get off and approach the sheriff. They start to yell but I can’t make anything out. I watch as the sheriff goes into the General store. Suddenly a shot rings out and one drops on the porch of the store. All the gangsters open fire on the general store. I unload my rifle in their direction. I can sense the fear as they get on their horses and run. I get up running towards the ladder and I slide down as quickly as I can. I sprint across the road, my heart still pounding with adrenaline. I stop at the porch staring at the door now riddled with bullet holes. I swing open the door to see the sheriff lying on the floor.
“Sheriff where are you hurt,” I say blood pooling around his body he lets out a groan and I kneel beside him.
“You’re going to be ok,” I say.
He takes the badge off his shirt and hands it to me with his final breath he says, “Go get em”
Right then I was given a purpose to find the people who put him through this, I will find them and I will kill them.
Don’t not Look Down
There's no way.
I look right, sheer wall. I look left, same thing. With my last ounce of hope I turn around, and what I find is an overwhelming sense of confusion, as if I was expecting a magic escalator out of this canyon. Stomach free-falls to my knees. Heart starts pounding in my throat. Legs go limp and I collapse into the dirt, narrowly missing a cactus. What was once an inkling of hope has now deteriorated into full blown panic. With fists clenched I start to hyperventilate; breathing as fast as my heart is beating. This is it. This was my last mistake in this life. I should have never rappelled down here. Tears disappear into the sand as I continue to gasp for air. I stare at the sky, thinking it will be the last time I see that beautiful blue.
It's intensely hot in this desert, but I start feeling cold. The lack of oxygen from shallow breaths dwindles my fire inside. Despair helps to weaken the flame by attrition. But before it finally goes out, something inside tells me to check again.
"What?"
"CHECK AGAIN! How dare you give up so easily!" Like I just smacked myself in the face.
My breathing starts to return to normal, tears have stopped falling, and the pigment returns to my palms as I release my clenched fists. I dry my eyes to take another look at my cage, but these walls may as well be glass. My rope hangs down 200 feet but I don't have the strength or the tools to climb back up it. With rock climber's eyes I scan again, searching for any possible route up.
Aha! There's hope after all! Hidden within the shadowy side of the canyon, two walls meet perpendicular to each other. A dihedral, off-width crack, possibly big enough to be a chimney. I must investigate further.
"Ok, deep breath." My strength returns alongside the fire in my soul. "I will not go down without a fi-- FUCK!" As I place my hands at my sides to help myself stand up, my left hand, at full force, slams into the cactus I barely missed when I collapsed. "MOTHERFUCKER THAT HURTS." I scream at the top of my lungs, then seconds later echoed back from the walls. Yelling that loudly made me feel even better, like I forcefully expelled the despair. Mumbling more swear words to myself, I remove the cactus spines. Once more I try to stand up, this time mindfully aware of the cactus.
Hand now throbbing, I make my way toward the dihedral. The closer I get, the bigger the crack gets. This looks like a chimney... even better. I feel so small as I gaze directly up the wall, but luckily I am the perfect size to fit into this off-width chimney and stem-climb my way up, the way I imagine Santa Claus gets back to his sleigh. I take my time inspecting every inch of the route, and I notice the chimney gradually gets more narrow towards the top. From my view, it looks like the narrowest part at the top will be my biggest challenge.
Heart starts racing again in anticipation. There's a weight in my stomach urging me to keep my feet on the ground, but I don't listen to it. This is the only way I can continue living, the only way I can see my family again. I reach down to grab a handful of dirt and rub my hands together to dry my sweaty palms. I wear my pack over my chest and tighten the straps, then commence my ascent towards freedom.
I am grateful this side of the canyon is shaded because it's made the sandstone feel much cooler to the touch, helping my hands stay dry. The chimney itself mysteriously makes its own wind current, but it's cooling me off. The beginning of this climb is wide enough to stem climb. My back rests on one side of the wall, hands pressed upside down next to my hips, and my feet smear vertically on the other side. To my right, the canyon, to my left, the dark slot of the chimney. I start inching my way up. This will help me conserve the arm strength I will need at the top. This type of movement is like a vertical crab walk; I place one foot above the other, use the counter-pressure from my hands to elevate my body, and then repeat, alternating my feet. I must always keep at least one foot on the wall at all times, otherwise I would fall face-first into the wall, and then straight to the bottom. I continue this trend upwards, the distance between myself and the ground ever growing. I only have my will-power to cheer me on. My left hand still hurts, but not enough to deter me from my goal.
With my eyes strictly locked forward, only looking at my shoes, I refuse to look at how far up I've made it. Instead I look up, and I'm met with a joyous fear as I see the width of the crack begin to shrink. Well, that must mean I'm almost to the top! And without thinking, I immediately look down to see how far I've come. The dizzying height makes me lose my focus, my hands instantly perspire and slip out from under me. My heart nearly jumps out of my chest as I scream in terror. I use the back of my head and shoulders to stop myself from falling further. I may have slid only a foot, but the shock itself made it feel like I was on my way to the bottom. Now I'm wedged in an uncomfortable position, with my head aching from smacking the rock, and a racing pulse in my throat. My feet sit well above my body with my shoulder blades and head pressed firmly against the opposite wall as my only lifeline. I hold back the tears, wipe these sweaty palms on my pants, and take a deep breath. I look out to my right and find the bright side; the view is lovely from up here. And my adrenaline has spiked to levels never felt before, giving me the high I need to continue.
I don't know how far it is to the bottom, but it wouldn't matter. It's far enough to remember every bad decision I've ever made on the way down. After I calm myself and remember my goal, I reassess the situation. I need to get my body back perpendicular to my legs. The only way is to dig my elbows into the rock behind me because my hands can't get enough traction from this angle. I push away the looming terror of there being nothing but 150 feet of air below me, ending in solid rock, and I focus on the 50-plus feet I have left to go. I clench my teeth, and yell loudly in pain as I use all my strength to get myself back to position. I can't see them, but I'm sure my elbows are now bleeding, like I painted a petroglyph that no one will see. I am out of breath. I want nothing more than to rest, but I can feel my strength fading. I must use this adrenaline boost before it wears off.
As I continue upward, I can't help but think how surreal a feeling this is; wedged between two monstrous rocks yet feeling like I'm floating on air. Death just one more slip away. If I could actually float, it would solve several of my problems. My knees are now pushing into the pack on my chest. This is as far as I go with the crab walk. I look up, and I guesstimate there's about 30 more feet to go. 5 more body lengths, not bad! I'm so close I can almost taste it, but I still have a long way to go. I feel incredibly scared, but almost proud of myself for how far I've come. No sense stopping now. I put my left foot under my hip, and push my body upwards, essentially standing up. I look down at my right foot, and see the only part gripping the wall is the toe. A scary sight as the drop looms beyond. I slowly bring myself back down to sit on my calf, and from this position, I can bring my right foot up to a more comforting spot. I'll sit here for a second.
I put my pack on the correct way, and after about a minute, I stand up again. The wind now blowing harder than it did on the ground. If only I had wings then I could ride this updraft to the top. Wish I had a Red Bull... No, stop daydreaming. For another 10 feet, I alternate my feet up the walls until I get to a point that is too narrow for my head. Now I will have to lean out over the drop. I felt safer stemming up between the walls. I'll be very exposed now. I summon all my climbing knowledge and decide that lie-backing will be the best technique. I will have to reorient my body the other way and walk my feet up the wall that my back has been resting on this whole time. Then I have to let my body lie back towards the floor of the canyon, with only my hands keeping me from the backwards free fall. Sounds like freaking fun.
My left leg starts shaking uncontrollably, known to climbers as the "sewing machine leg," felt when fear of the height outweighs the focus you should have on your body. This is not the time to have sweaty hands either. I just continue making the most efficient moves I know how to make, and eventually I forget about the leg, and it stops shaking. I place my right hand above my right foot, hoping the sandstone absorbs most of the moisture. Then, I point my left foot upwards and place my left hand above it, matching what I'm doing on the other side. I summon my inner Spiderman and pray that my feet don't slip out from under me. This is my crux: The hardest part of this entire ascent. I hold my breath. My back is facing the valley below, and in a desperate act of faith, I simultaneously fall backwards into the other wall and move my right leg opposite. Success. I can breathe again. Now for the real leap of faith. I slowly shimmy my feet out towards my left, and I inch my body towards the edge with them. With my left hand, I press my palm firmly on the wall next to my face. I turn my body so that I can use my right hand to grip the 90 degree edge of the crack; fingers pointing inside. I start to lie my body over the free fall as the sun pleasantly greets my face. Then gracefully bring my left hand beside my right. No time to waste, this expends a lot of energy. I find my sync and walk up the wall in rhythmic fashion.
15 feet to go. 10 feet... 5 feet... uh oh. I can finally see the desert carrying off to the horizon, but I seem to be stuck in this position. My feet are standing where I need to grab to pull myself up and out of this godforsaken hole. GODDAMNIT. My hands are starting to feel weak. I can feel them about to slip off at any second. Fuck it... I pull myself forward, and with my only attempt I stretch for the top of the cliff. My shoes give way to gravity, and as I begin to fall, my right hand catches on the edge. My whole body hanging on by one hand. I throw my left hand beside it, and do the only pull-up I ever want to do again. I lay there, legs still dangling off the edge, and I start to weep. I made it. I wipe my eyes, slowly stand up, and aim both middle fingers at what was once my prison. The place that could very easily have claimed my life. I never want to see a canyon again.
Three Men May Keep a Secret if Two of Them are Dead
Three Men May Keep a Secret if Two of Them are Dead
May 14, 2024
Bob looked nervous. It wasn’t his job to drive the truck today. It wasn’t his job to drive the truck at all. The light took a long time this morning. Facing uphill, in a double clutched stick, hoping his cargo didn’t shift, hoping his truck didn’t stall, all occupied Bob’s thoughts.
The baby carriage rolling across the street should have instead.
Phillip knew the gig was up. He heard his associates saw him talking to a cop. As such, Buffalo was no longer his stomping grounds. He could take a bus or a plane or a train out of the city. He might even get away with this, if he was lucky. Instead, Phillip opted for a more reserved approach. Instead of riding, he drove. They would never be looking for a cab driver or a school bus driver. All he needed was to get past I-90 to Niagara Falls or take I-90 to Erie. Neither would be a good idea on a school bus. In a cab, either may work.
Simon was adverse about prison as anyone would be. He knew of two loose ends and two fixers he could afford to guarantee they would not be loose for much longer. Bob’s family was his life. His little girls provided little in the way of resistance when apprehended on the way home from school today. His fixers sent the message and Bob would understand. He would not like the message, but he would like the mess even less.
By 3:30 that afternoon, the stroller’s owner, a young mommy with a handwritten note addressed to Bob, initiated a predictable response. Bob’s truck rolled down the embankment, backwards, into the path of a fixed 1000 pound LPG tank. The collision led to a fire which led to a series of explosions. The resulting BLEVE incinerated the remains of the driver and the truck he drove.
Simon tipped his fixer for a job well done.
However, Phillip was not as easily persuaded by his ex-wife, now held in captivity. She held a grudge and kept secrets, but only as entertainment would she prove useful. She would be tortured for information and disposed of as fertilizer. Phillip didn’t care. He viewed Simon as an exit to alimony. Kill her off were his last words on the diner’s pay phone.
This left his sons as leverage. Both were grown and deployed overseas on a destroyer and a submarine. In Simon’s time frame, they were untouchable. That would be problematic. Phillip could evade pursuit confident of Simon’s impotence with kidnapping. Simon would just throw more money, hire a few more fixers, perhaps even activating a sleeper, all to locate Phillip.
It had to be done and it had to be done soon.
And by 10pm that day it was.
Phillip came to call on an old girlfriend in Erie, PA for dinner. She was always up for a free dinner and conversation. Someone had anticipated this and waited. It only took a single shotgun blast and both bled out on the pavement. The shooter disappeared into the night. The police found no reason to investigate what they already were told not to investigate. A few collected envelopes with cash. A few more more a notch or two higher on the next promotional list. Simon learned of the confirmed hit and retired early for the night. His trial would begin next week and he would not have to increase the presiding judge’s allowance after all.
His secret safe forever. His actions merely justifiable as insurance, proving once and for all, Ben Franklin’s words of wisdom are more than just a phrase in some almanac somewhere.
Today, these words had more life than those who should have read them.
The Story Bone
I was blessed with a deformity. Linking my modulla-oblongata to my cerebral cortex is a story bone. I discovered this personal anomaly about six years ago, believing it to be just another part of a mostly scattered brain that seldom sees use, much like the part that is in there for the express purpose of deciphering poetry, or the way too thin slice that is supposedly dedicated to resolving algebraic equations; those sleepy sections of my brain which always lie lowest when called upon for duty, but I was wrong. It seems that for all of those undiscovered years this story bone I have was actually hard at work up there, collecting trivial data; facts, figures, moments, sayings, useful little behavioral oddities in myself and others. This little bone was observing, categorizing, possibly even unknowingly creating experiences to be gnawed upon at a later date. No one would have guessed there was something in there so hard at work. Well, maybe my mom might have guessed, certainly not my dad. My wife was absolutely flabbergasted to find that I had a bent for storytelling, but then we were twenty years “in“ when the bone was discovered, and my brain had given her few previous indications of activity… but then it wasn’t my brain she married me for, was it?
You have found your way to this site, so I will presume that you possess a story bone as well, though yours may still lie dormant, so that you have no idea what I am talking about. For this reason I will try an analogy to better acquaint you. With nothing else to compare this section of brain too, and having one currently lying at my feet, I have chosen to use a dog with a bone, thus the title. You have observed, I am sure, how when a free-willed dog happens upon a bone in the great out of doors she will pause before approaching it. She will circle it, inspecting it from many angles, giving it a wide berth and testing its scent before creeping still closer, her nose curious, her mouth watering, yet allowing her cautious instincts to remain predominant, as this is a confusing situation. ”Who,” the dog wonders as it creeps forward, “would leave a perfectly good bone right out here in the open where any dog that chances past might find it?” Who indeed? So the dog stops her creeping to take a sly glance around for a moment, her posture tense, her head lowered, her eyes raised wide, expecting… someone? But the way seems clear, and all smells kosher, so her nose sets back to working til she has crept overtop the bone. After one more quick glance she picks the bone up with careful incisors before dropping it again and taking a quick leap back, feeling out for booby-type traps. When nothing happens, emboldened, she will pick it up for real this time, harder, testing its mettle with her jaws. Satisfied she trots, prances more like, proud of her find to some more likely nearby locale where she can lie down in a dewy, grassy spot grown cool and thick under the warm morning sun. Here she will drop the bone again for another look around and give out a happy, slant-eyed pant before reaching a clawed paw to pull her treasure closer up between her knobby knees for enjoyments’ sake.
Now, hopefully you can see what I mean when I say “story bone”.
Because I am the same with a story as that dog is with her bone. Satisfied with this idea I have found I must take time now to gnaw over it, to claim ownership of it, and to give it a good working over until the delicious marrow is freed from it’s hardened shell to the delight of my more delicate senses… and hopefully to the delight of a reader’s as well, though that is not the end game. The real thrill is in finding that my curious nose was right! That there is something up there! Some indescribable sweetness inside that time-toughened shell of mine that has waited all this time to ooze satisfyingly out onto a late-night blue-screen. And I have used it enough now to know the bone is there to be dug back up at will and re-enjoyed, and oh, what a delightful pleasure that knowledge affords me.
I have a story bone!
Of course, I would like to write better, but not so much to the point that I would actually try to improve my writing skills. I mean, I have no interest in taking courses or some other such nonsense as that. It is more-so like a wish to be a better writer; a sophomoric fantasy like wanting to hit the big home run in the championship game, or to have the head cheerleader call me up after school one afternoon straight out of the blue. Writing better is one of those things that is never likely to happen, but is of little consequence regardless, as what I always was capable of was stealing home plate after a bunt single. And Meg Bell (who was certainly no cheerleader in the classical, nor costumed sense) did call me up after school one day with a rather incredulous offer, so… cheerleaders-schmearleaders, say I. Bigger ain’t always better! After all, in the grand scheme of things is a run scored not a run scored? Does it really matter how far the ball travels so long as you have rounded third base and are digging for home? Meg Bell would not have thunk so (but that is a different… and probably better story).
Say, where did I put that darned bone anyways?
But anyways, by wanting to “write better”, in my case I refer to the more refined aspects of writing; typing, spelling, sentence structure… the trivial technicalities of writing, those things that make a story easier for a reader to continue his navigation, and which possibly even makes the writing itself easier (I wouldn’t know much about that). You see, it is never my intent to write for perfection. I write for the juice of it… the marrow. I gnaw the bone. My words, when it is good, when they are good, come out of me with the build-up and force of an ejaculate. There is no time for punctuation. No room for worry. There is only a splatter on the page, with no thought of facial expression, or sounds made, or toes curled as the scene sets, watching as the character comes to life, waiting, his drama building. Not until “it“ comes, that is... the resolution; that deep breath at the ending, along with the realization that this thing that happened to my poor character did not and could not happen alone. There is someone here along with him to consider, someone coaxing him towards the final thrilling paragraph… a faceless, fantasy reader. Eee-cads! But I hope I have pleased this lover of stories as she has pleased me by riding along with!
And that is the time for sad reflection, the end. That is the time to recall the misplaced comma, or the run-on sentence, those uglinesses found in retrospection that will drive your reader into the welcoming arms of another’s words, and you to a lesser writing app where your short-fallings are as yet unrevealed. Proofing is not the fun part, though your reader will appreciate some careful, introspective examination of narrative styling and dialogue. Don’t be proud. Gnaw the bone. Skipping this step while caught up in a writer’s high is an easy though deadly mistake, and has embarrassingly driven more than one typo-prone writer away from Prose forever, thank God.
Fair warning: In your rush to share the tale, don’t fail to tell it well! Gnaw the bone.
I have been guilty of rushing myself, and most certainly will be again. I do get tired of proofing. Especially as my bigger OCD problem lies not with form or punctuation, but in seeking the perfect descriptive word, for the perfectly descriptive sentence. I am more particular about character names and settings than the reader could possibly care about. Those are the kinds of things I notice while re-reading and I change them, and change, and change them again while the poor grammar remains bleeding on the sidewalk in desperate need of resuscitation. It is good that I am not an EMT, else bodies would pile up while I straighten ties and re-apply lipstick.
I am very selfish with my story bone. I enjoy it best alone, so I dig it up in the early hours while the world sleeps. The bone is a fickle and moody thing, so I never know what I will get once it is unearthed. Sometimes it tickles me, and sometimes it makes me sad. Sometimes it is angry and sometimes grateful, or maybe those are my thoughts as I chew the fat of my mind, it is hard to say which, but no doubt it would not happen without the bone, so to it goes the credit. I have fashioned myself it’s tool, rather than the other way ’round. I do it’s bidding willingly, as I would miss it if it went away as I suppose it could, just as it appeared to me, dropped down from out of the ether.
So the credit for any success I have enjoyed through my Prose ramblings, the nine likes and two reposts, must go to my story bone, as I am nothing without it. It seeps the goods out while I merely chew and lick, and lick and chew until satisfied. And once satisfied I carefully re-bury the bone in its secreted spot so that it cannot be found by another. (Oh, to think of the joys Pooky-Bear might discover were she to happen upon my bone, and the stories she might tell from it, heaven forbid.)
So there it is, per ‘Ol Huck. If you want to be a writer, go to school and learn technique. But if it is stories you must tell, damning the formalities, then you‘ve got to be a dog. Go find your bone and chew it. Suck the life and marrow from it. Exhume it often and then re-inter it for another day.
So there. You are now in on the secret, and it is the only way.
Find your story bone, young pup, and give it a good gnaw.
Rabbit Hole
Okay, let’s think of nice, relaxing things. Writing, yeah, I like that, although writers don’t have much of a future anymore, not like before anyway. With AI, nobody looks for writers, painters, or programmers. This AI is going to replace us. Soon we’ll have an android at home, like in the game Detroit: Become Human. I loved playing it, but now that it’s closer than ever, if they were to kill us Terminator-style, I’d understand, but to replace us and leave us without jobs, without value, without goals, without anything… there’s nothing worse than having nothing to look forward to, nothing that excites you. It’s like being in a depression. Oh no, here I go down the rabbit hole again, let’s focus. Okay, my phone still has no coverage or internet signal. AI controls everything, but if you lose your internet connection or your digital device, you lose your life. You have nothing—no social networks, no friends, nothing to read, no terrible news to complain about. You’re cut off from the world, unable to talk to anyone, without access to your photos, documents, things you’ve written, basically your memories, because we don’t have memory anymore. They fill our minds with useless information and advertising that we don’t need at all while we forget how great we had it at our favorite singer’s concert last week. I don’t even have that memory because I was recording with my phone, a phone that now, without battery, is as if none of that ever existed. The Great Blackout, oh my God, they say we’re going to lose our lives. I don’t even have physical books anymore, only online games and magazines, we’re going to lose everything. Oh no, focus again, no, I can’t, yes you can, focus quickly, someone will soon notice you’re trapped in the elevator and they’ll get you out. Don’t think about the bad stuff, focus on the good. Let’s see what I have in my bag, I don’t even have food or water, great, I’ll probably survive for about 5 minutes. Why do I never bring anything? Oh yeah, because my bag gets heavy and my back, which is already a mess, gets worse. Just what I needed. I’m starting to get thirsty, my throat is dry, I’m coughing, I’m having an allergy attack. How can pollen get into this space of less than one square meter? I don’t think it’s that, you’re paranoid, go back to thinking about good things, like what you were going to do today. I had a date, well, considering what time it is, I think I don’t have it anymore. Is it me or is it getting hotter here? Oh no, it’s not heat, is it lack of air? No, calm down, you’re a hypochondriac. Well, what floor was I on? It’s only the fifth floor, there’s not that much height below in case the elevator ends up falling because of my own weight. I don’t weigh that much, even if I cheated on my diet, the cake I ate last weekend couldn’t have made me gain that much weight, could it? How can something that weighs less than a kilo make me gain two kilos? Can someone explain that to me? Anyway, don’t look down, just don’t think about that. Wait, is that a spider over there? In that corner? Oh no, a beetle? Please don’t tell me it is, alright, just, step on it, come on. Oh no, imagine if it was a bee and it stung me in this space where I can’t run away. Maybe it’s just a speck of dust, don’t move, oh God, it moved, it moved! “Is there someone in there?” Yes, yes, there’s someone in here, me and the beetle, I mean just me, please! “The elevator got stuck between two floors, we’re going to open the doors and get you out, okay?” Okay, I can do it, it’s over, everything will be fine. Oh my God, I’m drenched in sweat, how am I going to go to work like this? I look like a wet hen, and let’s see, oh no, I smell terrible. What the hell are deodorants for anyway? They only smell good when you just got out of the shower, right? Perfect, why would I want to smell good when I already smell like soap, huh? “Give me your hand, miss.” I’m trying but I can’t reach it, I can’t reach. “Please, I can’t open the door anymore, give me your hand, don’t unbalance the platform, miss.” Unbalance? I don’t weigh that much, no, you don’t either, please, I already have enough with my cat’s judgmental look every time I have dessert at home. I can’t reach, I can’t move, I can’t, oh no, don’t tell me I’m going to faint right now. A little more, just a little more, everything is spinning around me, but a little more, “miss, please, give me your hand…” almost, I’m almost there. Does it smell like smoke? I don’t smoke, I used to smoke but not anymore, I overcame it like a champion, it didn’t cost me much, I just gained 30 kilos in the process and a whole wardrobe of new clothes. “An elevator component has burned, we have to get out of here quickly, miss, hurry up” don’t you see I’m already doing it? Can’t you open the doors more? I can’t fit through here, open it more, I don’t fit, ugh, what a cough, it smells burned. Where is the man? Wasn’t there a man here stretching his hand? Has he disappeared? Or is it the smoke that doesn’t let me see anything? Hello? Is anyone here? There’s something here, it must be the man’s hand, it’s metallic, it can’t be, well, grab it anyway, oh, it’s come loose, what was this? The elevator handle? Ouch, my back, great, at least my fat ass stopped the fall, hello cockroach, now I can see it well from the ground, yes, it was a cockroach, great, it’s climbing up my leg, I can’t move or see anything, it smells too burned, well, this is as far as we’ve come. I can’t breathe. Goodbye. The alarm clock. “Wake up sleepyhead! It’s my birthday!” “Son, I know it’s funny to you, but how many times have I told you not to put your hands in your aunt’s face?” Ugh, I’m finally breathing again, what happened, God, I’m drenched in sweat, what time is it? So late, ugh, today is my nephew’s birthday, I have to go pick up the cake, although I’m not going to eat it, I’m on a diet, but skipping it for one day won’t hurt, and the piece of cake I eat can’t weigh that much, right? 250 grams? As a maximum I should only gain a few grams, shouldn’t I? That would be the logic, I think.
Four Sisters
Summer has always been the star of the show. When she arrives, she makes sure everyone knows it. She times her arrival perfectly to steal attention away from her sister. The moment Spring steps out of the shadows and starts to shyly show her warmth and beauty, Summer pushes past her and steps into the spotlight. She makes sure she shines brighter, hotter, and greener than Spring ever did. She is far too proud to believe that most prefer her sister over her.
Summer’s reign does not last long. Once she has had her time on the stage, she is deposed by her sister Autumn. Autumn works slowly, creeping behind Summer, bringing her chill to gradually, but steadily, push Summer out of the spotlight. As she creeps, she distracts the world with gorgeous hues of red, orange, and yellow and the promise of cool, comfortable evenings that are a welcome change from Summer’s oppressive heat.
But Autumn doesn’t work alone. She only sets the stage for the coming of Winter. Winter is the cruelest of the four. Her presence blankets the stage and sucks the color and warmth from the room, erasing all memory of her sisters. Her hold on the spotlight lasts longer than any of the others, clinging far longer than the audience would like. Some are bored by her unchanging, cold performance; some rail against her harsh, desolate temperament, but all long for the return of Spring.
When the first sister finally reappears, she teases the audience, barely stepping a toe out from behind the curtain before retreating again, leaving the audience alone with Winter. But with sluggish progress, Spring finally makes her way back into the spotlight, gently ushering Winter off the stage, and the audience welcomes her warmly.
i can stop whenever i want to.
The clicking on my right. Long nails, dry skin. She always starts picking at her skin when she is on the phone.
Click. Click. Click.
Let's try this again. I press my fingers into the chords, pluck at the strings--
Click. Click. Click.
"What is the name of those actors in the..."
In the movie we saw two hours ago.
I stop altogether once again, "It was So and So."
"That's right, So and So were in the Movie we saw."
Trying again to pluck at the strings--
Click. Click. Click.
The cats scream at each other on top of the staircase.
Tummy recoils. Banging on the wall to scare them off because he hates the sound of the cats screaming, and I hate the sound of him barking at the cats to stop.
Click. Bang. Click.
He comes downstairs, stands in front of me, starts asking me to play So and So song.
I try to pluck at the strings, looking for the chords on my phone,
but he is asking for eye contact. He is still standing in front of me. Talking.
Telling me to sing. To play. But also to listen. To call on the cats. To play what he wants. To talk about rent. The incoming electricity bill. The war in Palestine.
But to--
Click. Click. Click.
The glass in the kitchen clangs against the counter, knives in my ears. The wind outside rattles the branches; an open oven that is much too hot.
Windows are still closed.
Click. Clang. Eye contact. "Go ahead and sing, it makes me happy when you play."
Click. Clang. The windows rattle from the heat.
Every time I inhale it feels like what comes in is chlorine. The air outside is the same as the air coming in. I can't tell anymore, am I--
Click. Clang. Windows rattle. Am I breathing? Click. Clang. Windows rattle.
Cats scream.
My phone screen lights up. Is he okay? Is something wrong? Why won't he talk to me like he did before--
Click. Clang. Windows. Cats. Phone. Guitar. She laughs much too loud, slaps her hand against her thigh, and he bears his teeth at her in irritation, claps his hands together and bangs the wall to scare the cats and I keep wondering what is my problem, what is going on, the rug is itchy and smells of mildew, my finger is bleeding, I want to throw up, I can't throw up, they will ask what is the matter with me and it will be worse, I can't throw up if I can't breathe, what if he dies and all he remembers is me being unkind, what if this is it, why is my mouth so dry, have I even changed when everything else has not, am I imagining that we are falling apart because--
stop talking, stop talking, stop talking,
I want to scream, my hands are numb.
I quietly finish the rest of my drink. Deep claustrophobic breath.
The shaking stops.
The world quiets down for
just a single moment,
and I do not know
how much longer
I can actually
go on.