When I found you

I was looking for a pit bull terrier.

Then the first day I saw you, I asked, what's that funny looking thing right here? I was told your breed was Teddy Bear, an adorable Shih Tzu Bichon Frise mix. I was immediately smitten. I went home without you, for time to contemplate how I could give you a perfect home, and all I could think about was what your name should be.

Your name was inspired by a character in a sitcom that I watched much of with my family, and had been watching with them the weekend before I found you. This character was spunky, adorable, and clever. It just made sense.

Penny.

I returned for you the very next day.

When I lived with you

While I only knew you for a tragically short time, you had enough personality to last a lifetime. Despite the conditions you came from, you had a heart larger than the size of your tiny body. You were playful, loved being held, and had the cutest little bark.

Although initially apprehensive, even Aslan could see what a gentle spirit you had, and you took to him instantly. You loved to hide one of my slippers the size of your body in amusing places. And you loved to dig around in the soil of my plants. I didn't care.

You were endlessly energetic and happy. And Penny, you were fearless.

You had a particular obsession with the little ribbon bookmarks lazily hanging out of the pages of my stacked books, a testament of my inability to finish them all, as if an archeologist keen to unearth immeasurable treasure. Your mischievousness was beyond charming. We had endless fun running around the courtyard together. You would tirelessly chase me in circles around the trees, stopping only to peek around the tree I was hiding behind. You had a delightful affinity for sticks, especially the sticks that were far too large for you.

I searched for your sticks, after you were gone, and I found it. Your favorite stick. I will cherish that little wooden gem for the rest of my life.

When I lost you

I had never been in a "quiet room" before. There were plush chairs and sofas, blankets, and treats. There was a soft light emitting from the lamp in the corner of the room, and a TV showing a waving ocean. It was meant to be a comforting place, but all I could do was curl up in a ball on the cold, hard floor, while I waited for them to bring you inside. That wait felt like years. Years that shouldn't have been stripped of your innocent life.

I was told I wouldn't be able to have much time to spend with you, because you were failing fast. When the doctor entered, you were wrapped in a blanket, with an IV attached to your right paw, that cruel, compassionate vessel that would deliver the substance of your final resting state.

This is what I could see with the tears in my eyes.

As I held you, I could see you trying to open your eyes. You were quietly whimpering, through that special little underbite that drew me to you. It sounded like you were pleading for your life, and I will never unhear it. I'm sorry Penny. I feel like I failed you.

Also, I lied to you. I told you it was going to be okay, knowing it wasn't. But I also whispered to you continuously. I wanted to make sure that if you could hear me, the last words you heard were how happy you made me, how you were so brave, and how much I loved you.

There isn't an afterlife, Penny.

If there were, you would be bouncing around in a beautiful place humans call heaven, which makes sense, given what an angel you truly were. And I will never see you again.

Maybe I lied again. Maybe there is an afterlife, after all.

Because I feel like I'm in hell.

Anamnesis

I wish that I could love another puppy like I loved you, one day. But Penny, you are irreplaceable. My heart is broken, and I have to save the little pieces left of it that I can, for Aslan.

You were bred to be appealing to hopeful homes, held captive by your breeder, ultimately your executioner, until you were forced behind a window in a monstrously small space, on display like a living trinket. And I fell for it. Though, in my defense, how could I have not fallen for you.

Before I discovered your little body was ridden with illness, I thought I purchased you. But once I discovered how inhumanely you were treated, I thought I rescued you. Now, I don't know. I just miss you, Penny.

Moments before rushing you from our vet to the hospital, the store you came from offered that I may return you instead. Return you. Like you were some sort of faulty Teddy Ruxpin I got at Macy's.

It may sound callous, but at moments I think that justice for your companions isn't worth the expense of your life. I wish I believed in a higher power, or even a reason or purpose for bad things that happen, but I don't. Your life was cut tragically short, and no iota of justice, or divinity, exists.

I'm fighting for you. So many of my friends and family are fighting. I promise you, I'll never stop.

#hernamewaspenny

After goodbye

Shortly after I told you goodbye, your new plush toys arrived. I selected more toys for you because you seemed to love them so much, because you loved playing with your skunk and little purple hedgehog. And Penny, I would have given you anything. I set up a playpen next to my desk, so you wouldn't have to stay in your crate while I worked. I wish you could have played in it, next to me, every day. I had plans to take you places to play to your heart's fullest content. You had SO much life to live. And I wanted to spend all of it with you.

That day, I should have been giving you your new toys. Instead, I had to select an urn for your innocent, tiny body's remains. You deserved so much more than this, Penny.

I'll never forgive them, and I'll never forget you.

12 days. For 12 sweet days, you were my little one. Penny. For 12 days, you were finally free, to live outside, in the world. Though cruel, that world was full of people who loved you immensely.

I'll always wish more of those days were spent in our little, cozy home, than in that cold, sterile hospital. A place, I will soon learn, of profound sadness, one that can never be wholly articulated.

I was ready to show you the world, when I thought it was a beautiful place. Now, you're simply a memory, reduced to photos and videos, a few keepsakes to remember you by, and a sea blue folder icon on my computer containing the paperwork that documents the tragic end to your innocent life.

This world, in fact, isn't beautiful. You were beautiful.

You were perfect. Far too perfect for that cruel, unforgiving world that didn't deserve you. I know I didn't deserve you.

Penny, I didn't realize that I had a spirit, until I found myself with a broken one.

For 12 mostly joyful days, you taught me patience, unconditional love, and how to live with that spirit. I hope I was able to make you happy during the time we had together. I hope I was able to enrich your life a fraction as much as you enriched mine. Though devoured in sorrow, I would never give those days with you back, baby girl.

I'm eternally devastated it couldn't be more.

In the shadows of our love,

A secret grew, A tale of wealth,

where loyalty withdrew.

She found solace in the glittering gold,

Leaving behind the warmth we used to hold

The moment we spent together.

Her pockets deep,

her promises grand,

She traded our dreams for a richer land.

The sparkle of diamonds,

the lure of the new,

Blinded her eyes to the love that was true

I watched in silence,

heart heavy with pain,

As she walked away,

leaving love in disdain.

For money can buy many things,

It’s true,

But it can’t mend a heart that’s broken in two.

So here I stand,

with lessons learned,

Love can’t be bought,

it’s something earned.

And though she chose the wealth over me,

I find my strength in what love should be

The hope to find true love although rare.

No, he was not like the rest.

In a world that was on fire,

he refused to burn.

When facing death itself,

he looked death in the face

and said FUCK YOU.

In the darkest hour of tragedy,

he stood tall

with honor

and resilience.

No, he was not like the rest.

Maybe it was the yellow

spark of lightening in his

deep brown eyes.

Or the look of determination

on his face when you would

tell him he couldn’t

do something.

No, he was not like the rest.

Falling down an eternal abyss filled with

agony and death

waiting at the bottom,

he fought with every single ounce

of will and might left in his body to

see the sun again.

And one day the sun will rise

and shine with him.

No, he was not like the rest.

You could speak over one

hundred languages,

meet one-hundred

people

and time travel one-hundred

years to the beginning of

time,

and you will never meet another

like him.

Your thunder coursed through me,

a pulse of blinding, white light.

Insatiable

Curious

Piercing and smart,

left me a soft touch,

and sharp bite.

T.E. Pastiche ©️2024

He met his moment

of defeat

with a quick stare

of disbelief

as the ghosts slowly

gathered at his grave

they welcome him there

with nothing to share

only to witness his transition

behold the ferryman with

a blood red bang

and so his fate was sealed

he lost his head

and now he’s dead

yet thanks

you for

your solemn

disposition

Of this one thing I’m most certain: Hell is suburbia.

Green grass lawns manicured and mowed into illusionary perfection, stand in defense to these cookie-cutter, monoliths.

Ordinary flowers surround these monoliths, congregating in impeccably planted rows beneath the sills of double hung, front windows complete with simulated divide, whilst HOA compliant, composite, Lily-white, picket fences stand at attention, guarding facade after facade — in hell.

Sidewalks are little more than an afterthought here (in hell). A slipshod courtesy of quick-dry cement poured only for appearance’s sake.

The welcoming front walks gently ushering you in from street to home have given way to stamped, concrete paths leading from asphalt driveways off of standard issue, double-car garages. These faux stone passageways of course are lined with the usual flowers. Pansies, petunias, maybe a smattering of alyssum or flox to fill in the blank spaces for good measure — all of them debutantes clamoring for best in show.

Royal purple, demure pink and snowy white flowers lie low to the ground, patiently awaiting their inevitable conclusion by some kids playing in the front yard as their mother stares absently into the void hissing a curt warning,

“Mind the flowers, please.”

This sets off a chain reaction, and without missing a beat, one of her brood of brats does the unthinkable as he accidentally tramples a small patch of pick-me pansies and petunias.

It always starts with a lip quiver.

Then the sniveling.

Little Johnny, or Stone, or whatever the year they were spawned dictated they “should be” named according to the latest edition of Parents Magazine, predictably amps up as a last defense against the very predictable shift in tone from his reptilian mother. Just moments before, her voice, a barely audible, hiss has transformed to one of despair and complete disgust.

“God dammit! I told YOU to MIND the FLOWERS! And instead of listening to me, you’ve ruined them. You’ve … you’ve killed them. Look at them, they’re DEAD now and all because you just can never pay attention to me, can you?”

His sniveling gives way to tears.

Little Johnny, or Stone, or whatever the brat’s name is, begins making a sincere attempt at remorse for their transgression against his mother’s pick-me pansies and petunias: herbicide. Pansy slaughter in the first degree — an assault on their mother’s precious, pick-mes, resulting in a slight, albeit significant, tear in her false facade and carefully crafted, fragile psyche.

Vacant eyes paired with a sadistic grin spread across her face.

“WHY are YOU crying? Don’t cry. STOP crying. This is NOTHING to cry about. Please stop crying. Mommy’s upset enough as it is right now. I don’t need YOUR crying on top of ALL of this,” she says motioning to dearly departed pick-mes.

Little Johnny, or whoever the fuck, has his mother to thank for for what comes next: full on, ugly crying. Tears start rolling down his tiny, reddened face, followed by the beginnings of snot bubbling from the tip of his nose as he makes odd, strangling sounds before wailing out,

“But you said I KILLED THEM!!! I didn’t mean to KILL your flowers MOMMY. I’m sorry… I’m … sorry. I’m … so …sorry. I’m sorry I KILLED YOUR FLOWERS! I didn’t …mean to .. do it.”

Locking her dead eye stare on Little Johnny, “They’re pansies and petunias,” she says coldly.

Right on cue.

In an effort to patch and smooth any discernible cracks in her veneer, Mommy Dearest first clenches her jaw, then pats her overly highlighted, blonde hair into place and smooths her slacks before putting on a grand show.

She sweeps in, expertly, pulling her little monster to her chest. A cunning performance all her own, complete with the sweep of her little sinner’s hair from their leaking and reddened face: the world is her stage.

Her tone softens.

“There. There. It’s no big deal. Mommy can get some new ones when we go shopping later today. You can even help me pick them out. Would you like that? Would you like to be my little helper?”

A very well rehearsed smile cracks across her plastic face revealing straight and overly whitened teeth as Little Johnny Herbicider’s sobs begin to subside and he nods,

“Yes, Mommy.”

Another rehearsed and fluorescent smile, splits across her face,

“It’s okay. I forgive you Johnny.”

Bravo. You’ve salvaged your makeshift reputation as Suburban Super Mom.

Hell is suburbia, and Little Johnny is so fucked.

____________________________

I’ve always marveled at these facades. Paths of stone pavers (stamped concrete) edged by the delicate, white lace of alyssum or bright and cheerful, creeping flox, polka dotted with perfectly placed pink and purple pansies and petunias smiling up at you, inviting you inside ...

I was 29 years old with a toddler when I bought my first home in the suburbs. A tangible sign that I too had made it.

I was 33 with two kids when I lost that home, like so many others, in 2008. I felt like a complete failure. An embarrassment. I was deeply ashamed, but still set my sites on having it all again as a way to soothe my bruised ego.

It would be another 3 years before my sons father and I would move back out to the suburbs. I was more vested in the dream at this point. I didn’t just want a house, I wanted a home. I wanted everything to be just right, but at no surprise to myself, I leaned very quickly (again) I would never manage to truly fit in with your average, suburban super mom because I don’t play their games very well.

They had manicured lawns with perfectly planted flowers done by landscapers, where I did my own landscaping complete with wildflowers and what I’d planned on being an eventual, lawn-free zone. They drove Mercedes and had Prada bags they’d bought on credit cards they opened in their husband’s names, and I had a KIA and whatever treasure of a handbag I’d thrifted at Savers. They drank wine and popped pills from sun up to sun down, and I made artisan loaves of bread and tried my hand at cheese making for fun between volunteering at my kids school and taking care of my home and working part time.

I was good with it mostly, or so I thought.

There’s this first line of defense meant to disarm you out in the burbs. It comes in the form of direct eye contact, a big fluorescent smile, and accentuated wave from across the street, with the well-intentioned promise of grabbing coffee or having drinks sometime. This of course matches the expansive green lawns, beautiful landscaping, and one of four to six model homes they’ve picked out and embellished with upgrades to give the home ”some character.” All this alongside nice cars and nice clothes in a neighborhood with good schools for your children.

Then you start to take it all in, taking note of things like walkways that lead from the driveway to your home instead of having one from the drive and one from the sidewalk. Or how the houses are set farther back and further apart than you’re used to, but not in the quaint way you see in rural, Main Street communities across America. You begin to realize the status quo isn’t in diversity, but in force-fed homogenization.

You soon realize this is all set up to keep people apart, even when they’re together because keeping up with the Jones is exhausting for some, and soul crushing for others.

Day drinking, pill popping and shopping addictions fueled by credit cards secretly put in their husbands’ names is as unfortunately common as their husbands having not so secret affairs and drinking problems — which then usually triggers revenge affairs, sometimes immediately followed by divorce, but more often is followed with reconciliation. At least until Mommy Dearest can find another man to support her lifestyle with the kids.

Nobody dares talk about this either. You’re not supposed to talk about such banal things. It’s seen as impolite and vulnerable. Sure, the PTA bunch will gossip about it, especially if you’re not one of them, but they don’t really talk about these things in any meaningful way that shows any sort of compassion. You’re just expected to get (more) therapeutic Botox or lip filler, retreat back to your cookie-cutter monoliths, uncork a bottle of wine, wash it down with a Xanax or two, and set out to die a slow and unremarkable death that manifests it’s emptiness in things like passive aggressive behaviors or narcissism.

No thank you.

I have found this to be true no matter where I’ve lived. I’ve lived in suburbs of Chicago, the greater Portland, Oregon metro area, the Northshore of Boston — suburbs are suburbs, and suburban moms of school age children are a creature all their own. You can either play the game, or you can’t.

But know this, whether or not you play the game matters not, because Hell is suburbia and Little Johnny is still so fucked.

A.B.K. ~ ©️08/31/2024

Four writers were approaching, and the wind began to howl...except replace wind with bloodletting of words, and ink into veins from these authors blessed and crazed with no other way to let it out, than to put it across a screen, and into our hearts with only pure aim.

Here's the link to the show:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1s3J_TYQqaM

And here are the pieces featured.

https://www.theprose.com/post/828745/king-of-california https://www.theprose.com/post/828053/the-drug-in-me-is-you https://www.theprose.com/post/828235/mile-run https://www.theprose.com/post/828263/the-only-shore

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

why exhaust the point

with prose or long poetry

haiku and piss off

...

8/30/2024

By day and unanalyzed 'happenings'

my mind may be at rest and the sunshine

and my happenings able to be enjoyed.

The light creates and illuminates

our illusory lives.

Yet there is something that remains untouchable.

We can see in front of us but if desired

to look up and behold directly,

our astute vision becomes too intense.

So, we are content with such illusory reflections

of light. The sun is too fierce for decent eyes-

a disquieting truth we dare not confront.

Tonight

Sadness pours thickly cruel

7 shades of 7 evening screens,

That spill their witch capped clouds

Upon my tear stained sheets,

Seeding gnarled tree dreams

’Round the heart’s mummified leaf.

Beware the watchdog of night,

Whose nerve shredding barks

Are black knives that bite.

Tonight

Sleepless desire

Sweats out blood droplet stars

To provoke a rupture of colour

Upon the inky nether’s funeral bedspread.

Beware the watchdog of night,

Whose nerve shredding barks

Are black knives that bite.

My portentous hope for daylight’s torch

Is a lip swollen cage of grimacing want,

Where the floodgates close earlier than I can rise.

I loathe your phantom embers.