He was cradled in my husband's arms when I came home from work that day.

"Oooh [cooing sounds]! How cute! Whose puppy?"

My husband looked at me through long lashes with a tentative smile and said, "Ours."

Which led to our last screaming argument, his leaving the house to cool off and a few weeks of simmering. I have severe allergies and would become the de facto caretaker even if my husband claimed he would take care of him, so, I was not thrilled.

The puppy stayed. We named him Kara, which means black in Turkish. My husband had found him in a auto mechanic shop being abused by the pitbull daddy - apparently because he looked more like his Rottweiler mum. He was covered in oil and being pushed away from his mother's milk repeatedly. So, my husband felt compelled to save him. He wrapped him in a towel and brought him home.

He threw up oil all over the backseat during the drive. My husband bathed him until the water ran clear and Kara was the beautiful black and brown puppy I found in my husband's arms.

How could I banish him after hearing his story?

My only condition was that he had to be a sweet dog. All the stories of violent Pitbulls had me very concerned since our son was five at the time. (And overjoyed to have a puppy as you can imagine.)

I needn't have worried. Kara was the sweetest dog you've ever met. He almost never barked so if he did, you knew something was wrong. He loved people and only ever barked at two: and they deserved it. One was the contractor who took our money and ran.

Kara was so smart. Regardless of which bus my husband took home from work, he could feel him coming and would go wait in the corner of the garden a few minutes before the bus came. Then he would run the whole length of the garden as my husband walked up the street. He would wait on the front lawn, sitting yet tail wagging, with barely contained excitement.

He wasn't allowed on the furniture, but often, towards the end of his life, I would come home and find him curled on the couch or the recliner. He'd look up so happy to see me, then remember, uh oh, I'm not supposed to be here. Slowly, he would get down, tail between his legs and go to one of his doggie beds as I tried to keep a straight face.

He brightened our lives for ten years.

I am that guy

Ever step on a piece of pink chewing gum?

While wearing new shoes?

To an interview on shag carpet?

And did not know?

Ever locate an empty bathroom stall?

But not one with toilet paper?

Until it was too late the change stalls?

And too early for this to happen?

Ever follow a shopper from a store?

Hoping to get his perfect parking space?

The one another car is zeroing in on?

And the shopper changes his mind about leaving?

I am that guy

I fart in elevators

I steal your food

I hide remote controls

And I never, ever will stop clicking your pen as I walk away with it

I place a single Lego on your steps for your bare foot to discover

I leave only a small swig of milk in the carton just before breakfast

I drip ice cream on the seat at your favorite restaurant

I even slow to turn right without using a turn signal into a parking lot,

Just so you can’t turn right first out of the parking lot

I make sure the pens at the bank on the ends of chains have no ink

I misplace the file you have to use for a meeting in five minutes

I leave shopping carts so the wind will push them and your car will catch them

I microwave mackerel in the office microwave,

And you know I won’t be there when you discover the mess or the smell

I talk loudly on the cell phone when in line in front of you

I leave the printer without paper

I wear too much cheap cologne

I TYPE EVERYTHING IN CAPS

with too many exclamation points!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Why?

Because I can.

Because I am that guy

And you’re not

When I felt time slow down,

the frigid air seeped into my skin

and iced me from the outside in;

at Their touch I began to burn.

I could hear the timid laughter of the river;

as it lapped against the banks I felt a shiver,

that writhed from Their fingertips up through my spine.

The blurred yellow of the streetlamp made us gold

and as my nose touched Theirs, They said it felt cold.

Spiced little clouds billowed from our breath into the night.

In this moment time slowed down,

and suddenly I knew everything I had been trying to hide;

the parts of me I had sealed in a bottle and thrown out to the tide,

never needed to be kept inside.

As we stood entwined on the bridge,

between the world I knew and the world that could be,

I knew I could sink into the milky blackness

and would emerge the as the Woman I dreamt to see.

I get to choose.

Today is my birthday. My 10th birthday. In the shelter, this means I get to choose one foodstuff from the pantry. I heard so much about the variety of flavors and tastes from the old days. Before she died of the sickness, my mother told me of chocolate and strawberries and even something called chips. I never believed all of the stories about these foods. I don't even believe they ever existed.

But that was then. Today is my 10th birthday and I get to choose.

My friends told me to pick the biggest thing I could find. Others said to go for the one that has no smell for it must still be good after the 16 years since the war. My best friend wants me to take my time and get something I could share.

Not today.

Not from the pantry.

I am going to make the most important decision of my life and take a bite out of history. I am going to see if all of those pictures in the books and magazines were just lies or something so much more.

I am hoping for so much more.

I have 2 minutes to choose once the door opens.

I need only 2 seconds.

I see it right in front of me. I heard about it during story time about a ritual called, "Halloween". The teacher (who is now blind from the light from Day 1) told us about it.

And there it was for the taking.

I chose a "Snickers".

Bite size and factory sealed, I started to salivate at the possibilities.

But not for long.

I tore into that wrapper and ate it all in one bite.

I was in Heaven for the moment. That one moment where the misery of the war doesn't dictate every single action of my life. That one moment that makes me wonder if all of the old stories were true. Did people actually live topside? In the air, unprotected? Is there really a sun? And if so, what does it feel like to be warm? Or safe? Or clean?

12 seconds into my 10th birthday and I finished my present.

All that I have remaining is a memory of what I missed.

I go to bed hungry and cry for yet another reason.

I purchased some

thumb tacks today

to hang

my fractions

of time

Attached by

thick red

string

and blood

soaked

cadmium

Inspired by

true crime

and Goya

Raygun

snapshots of

this life

deconstructed

and dismantled

until the victims

all look the same

a collage of

emotional

Man Ray

a psychological

mural of

Monet

I'm 31 and I live in Florida in a one bedroom apartment I share with a coworker. I sleep on the living room couch.

If you follow me I can show you exactly where it all went wrong…

It was a cucumber sandwich on the beach of the Black Sea.

Sand in my teeth

or wait maybe it was the watermelon seeds from last winters last meal.

In any case

I was mixing low grade ecstasy into a glass of whiskey when all of the sudden

I remembered my best friend yelling over a pay phone at me 9 years prior “this isn't a fucking Burroughs novel Julia” and slamming the phone.

I dont know about that, it could've easily been a bestseller, except he was dead and I didnt have a pen to write with.

So there's that,

I thought

Yeah

Let's see

How words survive…

They can spend centuries atop our barbed wires

Render us useless in our mutterings

we make in the hopes to retire in a quote.

And

Eyelids are fenders

That crash

Into strangers

In the hopes of explosion

But all we end up getting

is ourselves caught in crypts and gravestones

And here I am

Where the fire escapes are fire hazards

Where the alley ends and meets my throat

sore from screaming into a scream and 2 blocks past the pizza parlors,

coffee shop teenage tragedies

and hipsters with cracked voices.

I’ve got a morticians lens eye view of the strangers finely tuned to a beat my heart forgets to ache to

Crazy impossible nothings

This is the border

I come to at the end of the page

This is my impulsive army

All the incarnations of me

Hund. Son of Dog. First of his name.

Thicc boi. In neck, in body, in mind.

Wants to fetch stick. But won't bring it back

Thinks there is endless supply of sticks.

What is personal space? Something for lesser dogs

Everything is a seat for Hund

Feet, lap, couch, car, table, shoes.

Sporty guy. Loves to run, loves to swim

Loves to hunt rats in the kiwi vines

For the sport and also his human's 'GOOD BOY!'

Best friend is Luna. Brown Kelpie with underbite

She's cute and loves to wrestle and swim in waterhole.

Life on the farm is full of adventure

So many things to bark at - Hund is a big security boy

Human doesn't always appreciate high level of security

This bamboozles Hund.

Likes to jump. In human's arms, back of ute

Will climb avocado tree, 'cos that makes human laugh

Rides in car are fun. The vet is not fun.

Please no more vet for Hund.

Favourite thing is barbeques

And parties. And sticks. And pats. And swims in waterhole.

And running. And bones. And dinner. And cuddles.

And chasing the car. Or tractor. Or motorbike

So many favourite things. Life is good.

There's nothing pretty about writing, its a parasitic, vile process. At least that's what my teachers taught me.

There's no relief in the end either, it's a constant haunting. A stomach ache turned acidic requiring surgery overseas. Where you find yourself in some pale blue painted room and the attendee has bad dandruff and smells like communist era cologne. I would know, trust me.

They have it all wrong on the television, they have us either living eccentric lives with perfect teeth and antique brooches or dying in the gutter with distended bellies and black livers.

What about the ones who make it out alive and live to write about it later?

What about the sleepers?

When I write I'm either pooping or I smell like a 5 day old pizza left out on top of the stove.

I'm madness. confident with a lowercase “c” because I'm always in battle with my ego. Is this too much? Am I too forward? Too sure of my own shit and history?

They had it all wrong.

What happens after the pupil has outgrown the teacher is complete anarchy, a systems failure, an existential fucking crisis. No one talks about this.

He wrote about the big SAD and I chased it. I ran after it hungry,

cough

cough

dying cough.

I fucking nearly died, for good, that 11th time

It wasn't until after the fires had nothing left to burn and flames licked the last version left of me that I finally realized… He was writing about a life only I knew how to live and he was the one who died chasing it.

We have convinced ourselves this is the normal way to live, but there are siestas, and beyond, elsewhere. My cramped window shows me that there is more out there, but the vocation has drained too heavily for me to go out and enjoy it. To some extent, the job will always have all of me if it takes my time, takes its toll. What's the percentage work/life balance break down on that? Nevermind, don't think of that. Don't think of anything in fact. The more you wonder why it is to be this way, the sooner you escape the machine, and no one wants that. To leave it all, in the RV, New Mexico, maybe old Mexico, switch from frantic coffee to vibe tea. This would surely end the relationship hardship we've been experiencing, since we got together, day 1. My ex actually gave me this typewriter, and many other things. I sold it when times were tough, and then managed to buy it back. I like old discarded things the world would consider useless; everyone's forgotten everything, as if we can stand alone as a new form of species, humanidy, nothing to learn from anyone else. Regardless, my writing is all I can muster these days, but it's something, as there must always be an outlet; for no matter how we spend our days, we will still always be contained to our own self, a singular life of earthly limitations. Thus, our imagination, our thoughts, typed or not, ultimately provide us with the truest freedom possible. Now back to the grind!

I burn with discontent. Frustration is making me turn sour. The grey of the office is slowly seeping into everything. Now, my relationship is grey, my friendships are grey, my food is grey, my apartment is grey. I'm so tired and frayed by the relentlessness of work, bills, pressure to perform, productivity, unrelenting standards - some days I wish I could just curl up, fall asleep and never wake up.

Sometimes, my dreams are in full colour. Rich, verdant landscapes, filled with golden sunshine and people smiling with contentment. So different from the pallid faces and thin half-grimaces of people I see on the bus, or around the office.

I drown my sorrow in an endless stream of limited television series and junk food. I pretend I'm part of their world, caught up in the fictional dramas and pretend realities that feel so much more real than my own.

How I longed to be an adult, when I was a child. Longed to escape the monotony of the school classroom, the emotional horror of my parents abusive marriage. Now I'm stuck in my own loveless relationship, frozen by insecurity and the fear that I am unlovable, that this job, this relationship, this life - is all that I deserve.

I feel I have been buried alive, that each breath is more laboured than the last. I wish I could write of dragons and magic and love, but that requires hope and creativity and my well has run dry. It's cracked surface is dusty with want and neglect. And there is no rain on the horizon.

My heart is broken, yet I can't feel it hurt - because all that's left of me is pain.