Bandwing Grasshoppers
I carefully inspected the cold glass jar in my small hands. Searching for any trace of tampering. I didn't see anything suspicious about the jar, nor the liquid it contained, so I went ahead and poured a small amount on my food.
A common meal at my house was pan-fried trout, steamed rice, and a simple salad. My parents would eat on their TV trays in the living room, and my brothers and I were left to serve ourselves. We kids usually were not even alerted to mealtimes; it was up to us to pay attention to things like that.
During the summer, my brothers and I would chase and catch grasshoppers in the tall weeds of our backyard. I liked the loud crackling noise these particular bugs made when they jumped. Oh, and when they did jump, what a beautiful surprise they revealed. Their hidden underwings displayed a bright flash of color as they leapt. I caught and lovingly inspected as many as I could, always looking for subtle differences in each as if they were exotic flowers.
However, we usually did not catch them to gently admire. No, quite the opposite-- we mostly caught them for bait. We would break their colorful wings to make them stay open, pierce a hook through their thorax, and then toss a hopeful cast from the nearby creek bank.
The first time I skewered one, I found that a thin, dark fluid leaked from the grasshopper. I made the mistake of exclaiming in my weird little kid way that it kind of looked like soy sauce I then proceeded to sniff it, for whatever reason.
"Don't lick it, STUPID!" My brothers laughed, braying like a pair of jackasses.
It didn't matter how many times I swore I wasn't trying to taste it, my brothers were never going to let this one go.
From then on, anytime they saw me use soy sauce for my steamed rice, they would raise their eyebrows teasingly and cock their heads, laughing, as if to say, "Are you SURE that is REALLY soy sauce?"
For the longest time, I would check the bottle prior to use. It didn't trust my brothers one bit. I had to make sure there were no grasshoppers floating in it.
Suprise!
It is my first day as a sarcophagus and I awake and start coughing cause within this coffin is all this dust, but perhaps I should have expected that. Pondering the etymology of that common modern word for casket...
Wonder if coffin started out as a verb phrase? Guess they couldn't call it a Body Basket.
But I die I guess... I mean... I digress.
-Fin-
Halo
Were it not for the ever-present beat of my circadian rhythm and the reliable commotion of traffic filtering through the flimsy walls of my one-bedroom apartment, I don't think I would have gotten out of bed today. Don't worry, I'm not depressed. I'm just a loser with no direction in life who got himself dumped last night. Still, gotta be a human right? So after a few minutes of staring at the ceiling and praying that the last 24 hours had all been a dream, I got out of bed and put on some pants on a Saturday morning at 10:00 am.
I know, I'm an American hero.
I checked my phone, and sure enough, there was the dreaded text message. "I don't c this going any where, Ted, so it's time we both moved on.. sorry" Frowny face. Brocken heart emoji.
It would have stung less if she hadn't also stood me up on our anniversary. The bad grammar added insult to injury... And the emojis. And the fact that she decided to end a year-long relationship with a text message shorter than most of her tweets. I'm pretty sure that she was drunk when she sent it, but considering she hasn't responded to any of my messages since, I'm also pretty sure she meant it.
Sighing, I tossed the phone onto the bed and trudged into the kitchen only to discover that I had run out of coffee. Blinking stupidly at the empty bag, I was about to go back to bed because there was the point in living in a world without coffee. Then there was a knock at the door. A feeling of dread washed over me wondering who the hell it could be. Any hope that they would just go away disappeared when I heard another more insistent knock a few seconds later. I answered the door.
I was greeted by the face of a friend my girlfr- my ex had always hated. She gave me a sad little smile and said, "Hey, you're up!" Like it was an accomplishment.
I grunted, unenthusiastically rubbing my eyes. She held up two coffee cups and a box of donuts and offered, "Want to talk about it? Or play some Halo?"
At that moment, I felt like I had been trapped underground, and she had just dug me out. I could have kissed her. Instead, I took the coffee and said, "Halo."
The sun was setting as the old version of me sat alone on the edge of the cliff. My mind was consumed with the overwhelming pain of my Borderline Personality Disorder. The memories of childhood abuse. Not only did they neglect me but my parents sold my body to other adults. The trauma of my CPTSD weighed heavily on my heart. I couldn't take it anymore. I took one last deep breath and jumped.
As my body hit the rocks below, my mind was suddenly jolted into a new reality. I was in a new body, but I felt like me. I looked around in confusion, trying to make sense of what had just happened. I had died, but somehow my mind had transferred into this new body.
I walked around my new surroundings and saw that everything was unfamiliar. I felt a sense of loss and sadness for my old life and my old lover, Christopher. I had been so consumed by my anger and sadness that I had been unfair to him. Now that I was in this new body, I hoped I could start therapy and learn to control my emotions.
As I walked through the streets, I couldn't help but notice that this new body was just as beautiful as the old one. I felt a sense of hope that I could have a fresh start, and maybe even find happiness again.
I eventually found Christopher, but I had to pretend I didn't know him at first. As we spent more time together, I realized that I still loved him. He saw the changes in me but also the familiarity. I admitted I was his old lover when he asked me to prove it. So I told him the story of watching Doctor Strange secluded in the mountain on his phone. I had got scared and jumped into his lap. He came realize that I was his old lover in a new body. We fell deeply in love all over again and I knew that I could make him love me even though I had to pretend I didn't know who he was at first.
We were happy together and I was finally able to heal from the severe abuse of my past. I looked forward to a bright future with Christopher, grateful for the second chance at life that I had been given.
Together, Christopher and I embarked on a journey of love and self-discovery. We hiked through the mountains, taking in the beauty of nature and the freedom of being together. We attended cosplay conventions, dressed up as our favorite characters and lost ourselves in the fantasy of it all. We even started a collection of old VHS tapes, watching movies under the stars and laughing until our sides ached.
As time passed, we grew closer and closer. We started to build a life together, creating memories that we knew would last a lifetime. We were each other's safe haven, and we knew that we were meant to be together.
As we grew older, we never lost the spark that had brought us together. We would still go on romantic adventures, like taking trips to the beach or watching the sunset from the top of a hill. We were always there for each other, through the good times and the bad.
Eventually, our time together came to an end. We knew that we would soon have to say goodbye, but we were at peace with it. We had lived a full and happy life together, and nothing could ever change that.
As we lay on our deathbeds, holding hands and gazing into each other's eyes, we knew that our love would never truly die. We were buried under the same willow tree, our love forever entwined in the roots and branches. And even in death, we knew that we were still together, forever and always.
Fleeting Flowers
Quiet. Forever. The rose wilts.
Bubbly. Burst.
Despite my pleas, the phone will ring eternally.
My heart yearns for the argument while we dined.
A moment to engage.
A second to celebrate.
Hollow. A candy shell, melted, empty.
My love. It is forever. and ever. and ever.
But my flower has wilted.
Serina and Grace
Hers was a beauty uncontestable, adorned with jewelry and lace. Never worked a day in her life but she was all business--never giving a moment to anything that couldn't make her money or make her come. Where others merely threw their riches, their promises, their luxurious temptations, I threw my heart (along with... riches, promises, and temptations). I would have given anything, everything--all I had--to win her smile. The way her eyes looked on me in favor was worth any favor I could supply. They were a deep, penetrating blue, almost unnatural in brilliance. Lips not full, but full of passion. Her nose was small and cute, not pointed or round, but somewhere in between. I remember the way her nostrils twitched when we passed by the bakeries and she'd lift her face to the sun, close her eyes--breathing it all in. She'd catch me--breathing her in as well. "See something you like?" her coy lips would ask. "I'm still looking for something I don't like."
To touch her bordered on sin. Her hair was silk in my hand. I remember her shoulders--gentle and smooth--Bahamian tan from floor to cieling. And the way her stomach quivered under my fingers when I "accidentally" touched her too lightly. Breasts tantalizing and full, nipples on high alert with every inconsequential brush. Every curve, every inch of flesh--warm and alive and ready.
She wasn't one to steal men's hearts, but she owned their eyes without ever asking. High heels and French manicures, spa days and champagne. Only the finest, only the best, nary a blemish would do. The promises made, she held me to task. Whatever it took. My days were long, but these eyes of mine were very, very pleased.
I spoke to her of Epictetus, Aquinas, and Locke; jested at the expense of Pericles or Don Quixote or even Freud. Unwaveringly, she'd look me straight in the eyes...
"Who?"
Hers is a beauty hidden beneath denim and flannel, leather and sweat. Her hair shimmering in the setting sun as she brushes her Friesian mare. Her eyes are steel and see through people like glass. Friendships are few but also steel. Fake doesn't last. She neither gives nor accepts excuses, and rarely has the occasion to do so. She taught me the difference between being confident and being aggressive... and the importance of having both at the ready. She hadn't paid enough attention to the pain to recall the origins of her scars. She cares not for philosophers, knows little of lore, since most of life's problems can be solved with things that runs on diesel, a good pair of Ariats, and an honest evening prayer. I'd give anything, everything--all I have--to win her smile. My days are long but this heart of mine is very, very pleased.
She's not keen on people's judging eyes. Most men don't give her a second glance... if they know what's best for them. But, like I did, some still do. Still, the reward is worth the regret. "See something worth dying for?" she threatened. "Yes, Ma'am," I said, "I do."
The trouble with wild animals is they can tear you limb from limb, but I've never been one to find complacency at safe distances. Every moment with her was like winning the trust of a something untamed. One wrong move and she'd vanish on the wind. It took a great deal of time, but eventually, she let me come near. And since then, she's torn me limb from limb more times than I can count. What has grown back, in place of the man I used to be, is unrecognizable. I wouldn't have known for sure, but an old friend happened my way, and she knew in an instant (as women always know in an instant) that I was nothing remotely similar to who or what I was before finding Grace.
I'm still creative, still chivalrous, still playful inside. Mischief is now cynicism. Vengeance now pity. I will not claim that the foul things are no longer inside me. I only profess that this new me has the will to keep them from manifesting. They say to forgive and forget, and especially yourself, but as difficult as is the former, the latter is as much unwise. Try as we might to forgive our own sins (as we must try), and regardless of our success in doing so, we must not forget, ever. It is our regret, that sense of guilt, and our deep lamentations--the incessant and brutal reminders to never repeat those beautiful sins. "Did you see the gorgeous girl at the table across from ours?" and I look, genuinely, straight into her eyes...
"Who?"