“Let me get this straight, you want me to... suck your dick?”

"Not in so many words, but yes” God leans back, casually stretching his arms above his head. His white robe billows about him gently in the breeze.  We’re sitting together on a white park bench. In the distance I can see children running around a brightly colored playground. Birds chip in the trees overhead as glittering rays of sunlight stream through the foliage.  "Consider it... a test of faith."

“What does the Messiah's manhood look like anyhow?”

“What do you think it looks like?” God muses, prophetically.

“Like a big shiny golden dildo?” I shrug “Maybe some halos around it for good measure? And miracles shoot out the tip-- to give sight to the blind or cure polio. Or maybe God’s immaculate-ejaculate cripples you?”

God laughs. It’s a hearty sound like Santa Claus and every TV sitcom father rolled into one. “Really? I’m the same guy who dreamed up platypuses, aardvarks, and elephants… I made you in my image, and you think my divine-ding-dong is some gaudy sex toy?”

“Haha, gaudy. God-y.”

God chuckles “You always did like puns.”

“That’s the thing, you’re all knowing and all seeing. You already know if I’m going to do it or not."

“I suppose” God shrugs nonchalantly.  

“So why even bother with this conversation?”

“You watched Titanic seven times in theaters.” He scratches his beard absently.

I sit there in silence. Sometimes it’s easy to forget He knows all things.

“Yeah so?”

“You already knew the ending. That doesn’t keep it from being a good movie.” He elbows me playfully. “And how does it end?”

“Jack drowns.”

“No before that. “

“Jack draws some boobies.”

“After that.”

I sigh. “The ship goes down.”

“Bazzzing son!” God makes some finger guns and points them in my direction playfully, a wide grin plastered across his face.   

“That’s another thing. If we’re all your children, y’know lambs and such isn’t it incest to suck-off my savior?”

“Sure, you’re one of my creations. But you’re not my son” Got makes mock stigmata on his wrists, and then extends his arms out from him at his sides like a man on a cross. “You guys nailed my one-and-only to the wall, remember?”

I look down, dejected for a moment.  God puts his cross-bearing-arm around me. It’s warm and comforting. God continues: “You’re more like, if I made a crude drawing and then jerked off to it.” He gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I still remember that by the way. You were one horny thirteen year old. Beating off to boxy boobs and triangle shaped vagainas. You’re definitely no Jack Dawson.” He’s rubbing both my shoulders now. His grip is so strong. I can feel his warm breath on my neck. It’s intoxicating, smelling like peanut butter and cinnamon.

“But isn’t it wrong?”

God smiles. “I impregnate virgin girls without their knowledge or consent.  I make fathers set their kids on fire.  I kill a bunch of innocent little babies because some people didn’t decorate their doorways the way I wanted. I drown half the planet, and give you guys a little rainbow at the end to say ‘oops sorry, my bad’... "

The will of God is strong. His hands are at my neck. Pushing and prodding my head at a slow sinking angle, like the Titanic going down, down. down.

“Heck the first guy I made… he wanted a girlfriend. And I could’ve easily made him a brand new person; I literally just made him out of nothingness five seconds earlier.  But instead, I made him give up his rib, just so he can fuck his rib. His own rib! Isn’t that twisted?  And you think a little fellatio bothers me?”

“Mhmmn mmm mhhmmm...”

“Shh… don’t talk with your mouth full my son.”

In the distance I can hear the children laughing and running on the playground.  The birds chirp overhead as the leaves rustle in the trees.  

And then, sirens.  

- - - - 

On the news that night, two men are shown led away in handcuffs: "...a local man and an escaped mental patient claiming to be God were caught engaging in sexual acts in a public park... "

Myrna is 84 years old, five feet tall, silver hair, bad knees, never married.

I was surprised when she asked me to be her maid of honor.

We’re not related. I’m her rabbit-walker.

Her pet rabbit, Monty, is extremely obese. Myrna overfeeds him. Every day around noon I come to her house in West Hollywood, clip a pink collar around the silky white fluff on his neck, and coax him around the block. Poor bun is so heavy he can’t even hop, I have to nudge him forward with my foot. It takes about an hour. That’s my career right now. Poking and prodding chubby little animals down sweaty Los Angeles sidewalks.

Myrna told me about her impending wedding a few months ago, showing off the ring on her finger as she handed me my check.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” I asked.

“His name is Tom,” she said, “I met him at the senior center.”

She asked me about the maid of honor gig casually, slipped it into conversation while she bounced Monty on her lap and poked a carrot between his wriggling lips.

“What about your friends?” I asked.

“Dead,” she said, waving a hand.

“Oh. Sorry. All of them?”

“Yep.”

“And your family? Any nieces or cousins or...”

“Dead.”

“Oh...I’m sorry.”

“Nah, just kidding, they’re alive. I just hate them.”

I stood quietly, rubbing my thumb over my check, thinking it all over, trying to refuse without seeming impolite. Last time I was in a wedding party, the bride peed on my hand a little as I was holding her dress so she could use the toilet. And there was no soap in the dispensers in the hotel bathroom.

“C’mon,” she said, snapping me out of my memory. “You look like you know how to party.”

I looked down at my grimy sneakers. I pictured the tattoo on top of my left foot-- the most painful location to get a tattoo, which teenage me thought was real hardcore. A big red heart and the name Sheldon.

Finally, I looked up and smiled at Myrna. “Okay.” And that was that.

I took Myrna wedding dress shopping a week later at the David’s Bridal on Pico Boulevard. She wanted something really unwieldy and eye-catching, which meant I spent hours hooking and zipping and pinching and shimmying scratchy, puffy white material over the constellation of moles on her back. Myrna wasn’t modest -- she stripped down in the middle of the store, seeming to enjoy the attention of the other scandalized brides-to-be.

Myrna paid $7000 for her wedding dress and my hot pink bridesmaid dress without batting an eyelash. Just rifled through her overstuffed wallet and handed the smiling cashier a sleek black credit card.

Afterwards, we went for fro-yo and ate it in the car on the way back to her house.

“So, $7000 dollars,” I said. “That’s a lot.”

“Is it?” she asked, mid-lick. “I’m an old woman. Never married. No kids. Healthy pension. The fuck do I care?”

I shrugged.

“You ever been married?” she asked me.

“God, no.”

“Ever come close?”

“No. God, no.”

“You a lesbian?”

“No.”

“Because just to let you know, if you were a lesbian, you could marry a lady. It was on the news the other night.”

“Yeah I know. I’m not, but thanks.”

“Hey, I get it, men are scum,” she said, practically spitting out the word. “That’s why I never bother getting married until now.”

“I’m sure I’ll find someone,” I said.

“Eh,” she said, licking her spoon clean.

That night I went home to my apartment. Actually, it’s the apartment that belongs to my friend Angela and her husband Tony. Angela’s pregnant -- sorry, Angela AND Tony are pregnant -- which means my room will soon become the baby’s bedroom. They’ve already painted it pastel green and set up the crib, and now Angela’s hovering at my doorway with an encouraging smile, holding up her laptop to show off a Craigslist listing for a 2-bedroom apartment in Culver City that’s shared by three college-aged men, all named Rick.

“It’s so cute,” Angela says. “They describe themselves as short Rick, tall Rick, and fat Rick. And they’re all in film school.”

“Adorable,” I said.

“You would share a room with short Rick. He’s the cutest. Look.”

I groaned and rolled over so I faced the window.

“Honey,” Angela said.

“I’m looking at places. God, just give me some space.” I buried my face in my pillow.

I heard Angela snickering and rolled back over to face her.

“Love you, baby,” Angela said, turning to leave, switching off the light. A million little glow-in-the-dark stars they stuck to the walls and ceilings peppered my vision.

“Love you too.”

I kicked off my shoes.

A few weeks later, I helped Myrna send out wedding invites -- she wanted someone with a “young, fresh tongue” to lick the envelopes.

I scratched between Monty’s ears, plopped down at the kitchen table and pulled a stack of the invitations toward me.

“Who’s that?” I asked, looking down at the glossy picture of Myrna hugging a ruggedly gorgeous 20-something with a little poof of a man bun hugging the top of his head.

“Tom,” Myrna said, pointing to his name in purple cursive hovering over his head and tapping it with her fingernail. “Duh.”

“Wait… Your Tom?”

“Yeah! He designed these himself. Little basic if you ask me, but he was proud.”

“I thought you met Tom at the senior center.”

“I did. He’s the water aerobics instructor.”

Ugh. I pictured Tom, fuzzy-chested, clad in a speedo, cradling a spandex-clad Myrna in his arms and spinning her around in the shallow section of a pool.

I shut my eyes, tried to find something to say to her that wasn’t insulting.

“That’s great,” I said.

“Isn’t he a looker?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

I Facebook-stalked Tom that night. His page was mostly private, save for a few shirtless pictures and mountain landscapes, but there was no trace of Myrna or their relationship. He had a German Shepherd named Spaetzle that he liked to take on him with hikes. He brewed his own beer. He’s been to Coachella at least once. He had 743 friends.

I felt like I was indirectly assisting in some sort of criminal plot. Obviously this dude was taking advantage of Myrna. Myrna, the little old lady who dropped $7000 on a wedding dress, has lived in the same house since 1967 and takes her pet rabbit to the groomer every Wednesday.

But it wasn’t really my business. She wasn’t my grandma. He seemed to make her happy. What was the point of pointing out a scam this late in the game?

Besides, what the hell did I know about love? About marriage? Maybe they were actually happy together.

I planned Myrna’s bachelorette party for the weekend before her wedding. She didn’t want to invite anyone else -- just the two of us. She wanted something fun and wild-- a night to remember.

I decided to take her to a dueling piano bar; I went on a pretty adequate date there a few years back. She came out of her house wearing a sequined miniskirt and a tank top. Her lips painted bubblegum pink. “We’re going to the club, right?” she asked, striking a pose. I smiled.

Later, Myrna downed a peach martini at the piano bar in one long sip.

“When do they put up the poles?” she asked, burping.

“It’s not that kind of place.”

Myrna looked shocked.

“You took me to a regular old fuddy duddy bar for my bachelorette party?”

“It’s not regular, they’ve got live piano music. And you can request songs.”

Up on stage, a pianist was banging out an impassioned cover of Don’t Stop Believing.

Myrna rolled her eyes.

“God, and I thought I was the old woman.” Myrna set her glass down.

“I’m done. C’mon, let’s go find a real club.”

She slid off her chair and marched toward the door. I left a few twenties on the table and followed, grumbling.

We teetered down Sunset Boulevard, my low heels clacking next to Myrna’s bejeweled flats. She turned right into the skeeziest club I’d ever seen, dim and dank and cloudy with smoke. She brushed past the bouncer like she owned the place.

Myrna started dancing as soon as she crossed the threshold, shaking her hips, jiggling her arms, swinging her Vera Bradley purse around, grinding up on men and women, plucking drinks right out of their hands and tossing them back.

“Never take the girl’s drinks, they could be drugged. Saw it on Dateline NBC,” she yelled into my ear.

I felt nauseous. The staccato of EDM and drunken shouts and cheers as blood pumped through my head was driving me mad. I had a few drinks in me, and I hadn’t been in a club like this since I was 18. “Myrna, I think we should go. I’m not...really...comfortable.” But Myrna was burrowing herself into a throng of hip millennials.

Myrna shimmied backwards and bumped into a young, passionate couple-- their hands all over each other, their heads pressed together, their eyes closed.

The impact broke their trance and they looked at us.

“Tom!” Myrna shouted. And the music seemed to stop.

I’d recognize that man bun anywhere.

Tom gently pushed his dancing partner away, guilty. She glommed onto another man in one fluid motion and kept dancing, swinging her long, dark hair around.

“Myrna.”

Tom was wearing a sweaty gray v-neck. His hair looked greasy. His face was flushed. His nostrils flared.

He was holding a sweating glass of beer in his hand. Not knowing what else to do, he buried his face in it.

Myrna turned to me, beaming.

“Liza, this is my fiance, Tom. Tom, Liza. She walks Monty.”

“How do you um, how do you do?” Tom sputtered, wiping away the condensation on his lip and holding his hand out for me to shake.

I stared down at the hand, then up at his stupid, gorgeous, chiseled face.

I felt something bubbling, starting in my toenails and shooting up to my teeth. I bared them at Tom.

Then I took his outstretched hand and grabbed his elbow with my other hand and yanked him down hard so he torpedoed face-first to the floor. He hit hard and tumbled like a rag doll, pin-balling off of dancing people’s shins.

He clutched his crushed nose, blood seeping through his fingers.

“Flllurrck!” he gargled, barely audible over the bass drop. “You brrgghhlitch!”

Myrna looked up at me, shocked, her drawn-on eyebrows hugging her hairline.

“Run,” Myrna demanded, pushing me back towards the door.

We scrambled a few blocks away from the bar into a tiny, dirty alleyway, hid behind a dumpster, caught our breath, and then I got us a Lyft home. Rhonda, the Lyft driver, eyed us in her rear-view mirror, suspicious. We were an odd couple if there ever was one.

Myrna looked over at me and grinned. She patted my leg and leaned toward me.

“Well, guess the wedding’s off.”

I sighed. “Men are scum,” I said, flexing my hand. “I can’t believe he cheated on you like that.”

“Oh, I don’t care about that,” she said. “But I think you ruined his lovely face.”

She squeezed her nose and grinned.

“I can’t marry a man with a busted up honker.”

I tilted my head, confused. Not sure whether to laugh or cry.

“So you’re not upset. At all?”

She shook her head.

“Nah. I was only ever in it for the arm candy. Easy enough to find in this town.”

I blinked at her in disbelief. She smiled and leaned toward me again.

“But someone who would do that for me, what you just did, that’s rare.”

She squealed and patted my cheek. “Thank you, my girl. For all of it.”

I was too confused to reply. I kept searching her face for a hint, a sign of weakness, of sadness, of anger, of vulnerability, and I only saw love.

"Ugh, I'm drunk," she announced, leaning back in her seat.

"Me too," I said, "And my feet are killing me." I kicked off my shoes.

Then Myrna looked down at my foot and squinted at my heart tattoo.

“Sheldon. Who’s Sheldon?” she asked. “An ex?”

“My old pet rabbit.”

And we busted up laughing the rest of the way home.

Carl was haunted by the desire for a writhing, visceral experience. The last days of the school year were gaining on him like a black dog with it's tongue hung out, and he hadn't even made it to first base with a girl in West Jefferson yet. This peer pressure of High School was punctuated further by his sex-plagued buds who all stood out on the back lot of his school telling seedy stories every lunch hour or chance that they got. The premise of these lusty tales seemed to become more and more fantastic each time, and Dave Grisham was the biggest of all the shit-shooters. According to his always highly descriptive exposes, he had already experienced the highest imagined and sought after dream that all his avid listeners were sexually aspiring for. His claim was to have gotten laid by two girls at once, but now he was busy revealing a secret about his older, weirder cousin Frank. No detail was too disturbing for Dave, and Carl had this sneaky notion, as with many of Frank's candid exploits that had been revealed, that Dave was merely using the identity of his cousin Frank to displace his more obscene perversions into. Frank was like a voodoo doll for Dave's psyche. Despite all this, Carl was still jealous of these perverse experiences.

“...So my cousin's got a real sick trick. He likes to push his own limits, and stick beer bottles up his ass. 40 ounce bottles especially. I caught him in the attic once with one of them bottles spiking his butt, and he about freaked, and looked like he was about to shit a brick when he saw me! I tried to warn him that his Mom was gonna be home soon from her work at the diner, and he flips the fuck out! Tried his hardest to pull that fucker back out, but that bottle was stuck good! I had to grab the bottom of the fucking bottle, and my fingers kept slipping on the slippery glass. Finally we got the bottle out, and his fucking Mom pokes her head up from the attic door. She sees me with the bottle and him with his pants off! I haven't gone back to Frank's house since then. He called me yesterday though, and told me that his ass has gotten so fucking loose that he fell asleep on his couch after taking a shower, and he woke up to his dog inside of him! I don't know whether to believe him or not, but that guy is sick!...”

Oftentimes Carl was aware of the oddity of being the one who was singled out to experience his vantage point of the world from his own particular perspective. It was sort of like he was watching his own movie being played out, and as he continued to tune in to Don's story he became more and more aware of his own existence coming into play. It was like the other boys were tuned out suddenly, and a spot-light from above had engulfed him. It was a strange wind had suddenly swept him up, but he liked it. The summer was starting to seem like it would be a plethora of possibly realities and memorable experiences. Dave's 'Cousin With an Loose Ass' story was losing sordid steam, so Carl tried to jumpstart the conversation by throwing a naked thought into the ring of fiery lust.

“Hey, Donny, remember that girl, Sadie, you said you almost made it with last week?”

Don looked at Carl with some embarrassment, and then smirked, and reached for his wallet. After pulling a picture folded several times from behind his school I.D., he passed it around to the other guys until they had a good long look, and then handed it to Carl. It was a naked woman, exposing her unshaved privates in the center of the picture. Carl was fascinated by her. She looked older then most girls at Jefferson. Striking a pose with her back to the camera, her ass sat on some huge wooden coffee table behind her outstretched legs. She gave a knowing, pouty glance from the side of her sexually aware face. Her gaze said she knew where sex was, and was waving to you to help you reach that desperately sought mountain top. Carl's eyes made the climb up her shaved legs to the patch of shadowed mystery between her legs. Dave could tell Carl was awestruck, and asked him if he wanted to have her number.

“Naw, man. I really don't give a shit! Look her up, I think she's too crazy for me. If you haven't gotten laid yet, Carl, you should definitely dial her. She works at the Woodlawn Mall that's out on Highway 1-80. Some place that makes cookies I think. Keep the picture, dude. I got another dream girl on my mind anyway.”

Carl was thrilled, and his buddy Dennis could read him. Dennis clapped him on the back as Carl gathered up a bag of books, and headed home in a jiff. Dennis yelled something about condoms, but Carl was already two blocks from the school in a fever race to get home. He already had a story he was cooking up in his mind to tell Sadie how he acquired her photo. He was planning to play the good guy that had seen her naked, and wanted to be a gentleman and give her her photo back out of a deep sense of honor. Luckily his asshole step-dad wasn't home, so he wouldn't get shit for being home early. Carl dashed to the bright yellow phone that was planted on his living room wall beside his plastic wrapped couch. He peeled it off the wall, and felt, as he often did, like he was peeling a banana because of the phone's flamboyant color. The land-line on the other end rang, and rang, and Carl became increasingly more nervous with each ring that dropped into a well of darkness. Finally, when he had almost given up hope, a voice on the other end broke the silence that had prevailed for so long. It was quite womanly, and full of breathy persuasion, which was more than Carl could dare to have ever asked for.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Carl, who's this?”

“This is Sadie. I don't think I know of anyone named Carl. Although I could be wrong.”

“Uh...you don't know me...Sadie, but I know this guy named Don that has a photo of you, and...uh...I got it back from him, and I wanted to give it back to you. I just thought it was wrong that he was passing you around to my friends like it was some kind of a trophy. I thought maybe you'd want it back.”

“What! Oh, Don, yeah. He was showing my naked picture to other guys? What an dick! Yeah, thanks for getting that back, Carl. That's very sweet. I work at Chocolate Mountain on 1-80, near the Taco Hut. Can you meet me there tomorrow?”

“Yea, sure! I'll meet you at 6, is that cool?”

“Thanks, Carl!,” said Sadie, and then she abruptly hung up.

It was like a spot-light somewhere in space had been shut off, and Carl felt like his eyes, and ears; which had seen and heard so much, were suddenly forced to adjust to the darkness of her now pronounced absence. He didn't even know her, but he already sort of felt that he loved her in a way. The way Sadie said his name really stuck with him like a pin buried in his mind's cushion. Carl had a heady purpose now, and he felt the sensation of a fresh quest tickle his spine with a raw electricity. He would steal the forgotten bottle of wine from his Mom that she had long since hid after Christmas in the cellar that was adjoined to his bedroom. He shuffled down the musty steps and saw the object of his desire nestled amongst rolls of holiday wrapping paper. He snatched the wine with earnest, and gingerly arranged it in his backpack. Then he tip-toed back upstairs into his bedroom, and waited for Mom to announce it was dinner. They were having stuffed Eggplant tonight.

It was Thursday morning, and he was rushing out the door like a shot gun bullet. Carl had an agenda today that required him not to return home for his usual injection of Music Television on Youtube, but rather skip the end of class in order to arrive at the transit center in time to figure out the pain in the ass bus schedule. He had to find the bus that would get him to 1-80, or at least close enough to the highway so that he could walk there. All he could think of was the ass in the picture, and the exposed nipple of the side of her right breast which poked out because Sadie was glancing back in the photo. School meant nothing but old books to Carl, as he only inhabited the flaming circle he had fanned of his ever increasingly aching desire. Carl imagined Sadie's reaction when he helped her recover her property, and also her tampered dignity. He saw her glowing with the pure delight of a woman that has been reborn. He then saw her clothes fall away like useless fetters, as he advanced on her with a knowing glint in his eyes. When he had roused himself from his daydream he discovered that it was the No. 12 that would bring him close enough to 1-80. Without skipping a beat he bordered, and then lapsed back into his reverie of soft flesh, and fond worldly pleasures. For all purposes, his body was on autopilot, but every time Carl remembered a certain business or landmark his eyes flashed with the living light of memory, as he processed his many whereabouts with the sly interest of a snake who studies his environment before slithering on through this hot mess of life. Soon he was in Woodlawn Mall, and waiting at one of those seats they provide for the dazed, and crazed that need a brief place to perch, and observe the ongoing madness. People continued to float by in designer clothing, gaping at the windows of designer stores. Perfume wafted out of the open stores, with the promise of eliteness, and jealousy from your peers that was only a credit card away. Carl thought about his cell-phone his Mom had given him to keep in touch. He hardly ever used the thing, but to stay in touch with his Mom. The responsibility of connecting with her later tonight and explaining where he was hung heavily on his mind.

Two hours later, Carl was still sitting on the stool in a close proximity to the Chocolate Mountain. He was still trying to gain more confidence when a pretty face with entirely too much makeup on it appeared in front of him. It was Sadie from the picture, and she was in a green uniform, with a cute green hat. Her top appeared to be a green apron with bits of cookie on it, and a name tag. Carl thought she was gorgeous, although a lot older then she looked in the photo. She had to at least be thirty, though she looked a bit younger then that. Her age excited him though, because he adored older women. So wise, so much mystery, and heavy on the much needed experience! He wouldn't tell her that he was a virgin. No one wanted to hear that. Carl didn't know what to expect now. He was so use to dealing with parents when he hung out with girls. As they walked home he felt an immediate connection with Sadie, however. Instantly, when they passed through a tunnel that went under the street, she slipped her fingers in his, and squeezed his fingers a couple times. The approaching summer was becoming obvious. There was signs of beauty and budding flowers everywhere. The night was stealing in swiftly though, and the cool of it was greatly appreciated. They had been walking down Kingsley Street for awhile, and passed a few dozen streets, when Carl noticed a church to the right of them. He squeezed Sadie's hand, and pulled her over to the back of the church to sit in the grass and talk. It was such a secluded and dreamy place, and they both watched the sun escape behind the hill. Before they knew it, their lips were locked, and they were shedding clothing. Carl found her secret place with his tongue, and they immediately were charged like two glowing leaves laying atop each other, that lit up like the color of fire during a glorious sunset. 

(To be continued)

©

2017

Bunny Villaire 

The ‘f’ in my own ‘family’ stood for flogging. We were bred with it. It was a dietary requirement. And no, don’t be fooled by the title, there was nothing sugary about the experience. Not to us. It was only sweet for our parents, especially Mama. Mama could be too tired to cook, but let her find out that we left a chore undone, or an errand unattended. Her muscles would spring to life. Yes, for beating. She was always, it seemed, gunning for some sort of cane prize.

It wasn’t as though my younger brother, Akin, and I liked to be mischievous, sometimes we were simply unlucky—like the day I was bringing my parents’ meal from the kitchen and was about to set it down when Mama asked me to bring her an extra plate. Then some accursed, godforsaken witch of a housefly found no better moment to perch on my earlobe. Both hands occupied so I couldn’t swat it, I raised my shoulder to attend the itch—a motion, most sadly, Mama would misinterpret.

“Eh-ehn, am I the one you’re shrugging your shoulder at because I asked you to bring me a plate? Go and bring me that cane.” That was the format for guaranteed punishment: a rhetorical question, masquerading as an investigative inquiry, followed by an imperative statement. To attempt either answering the question or appealing the order only fetched a bonus pre-punishment slap, so what was the point? Discipline received (with swollen arms and a bruised knee as testament), and dinner forfeited (my favorite àmàlà and ewédú), I made sure I killed off all the insects I could find in the house that night. And the next day.

Mama’s motive for beating us, as she put it, was that the world was just too rotten and she couldn’t, wouldn’t, allow her two boys be corrupted by indiscipline. Her mantras included the Proverbial “…a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame,” and “Train up a child in the way he should go…” The day she would upgrade our caning ration, she invited us both to sit down and lamented how we—I, actually—had not been taking my studies seriously considering I had the Common Entrance exam in a few months. Then she tasted her tallest finger and leafed through her unclothed Bible before proclaiming, “Withhold not correction from the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod…” Akin and I went flat on the floor at ‘rod’. As I begged her to be lenient, and Akin pretended to pass out, she continued reading, “…if thou beatest him with the rod he shall not die.” There was no going back.

While it was the most popular, flogging was not the only method of instilling discipline. Mama could also ask us to ‘kneel down, raise up your hands and close your eyes’ as our school teachers did, with Mama’s version including, ‘and face the wall.’ I never quite understood the eye-closing and wall-facing part, but I understood that an unexpected lash would attend the buttocks if our raised hands showed any sign of drooping. Alternatively, it would be the dreaded ‘Lọ f’ìka ẹ d’ólè s’íbèyẹn!’ meaning “Go and plant your finger on that spot,’—a punishment that was akin to the posture in hopscotch when you are about to pick up the stone, but in this case, you would be forced to freeze. The actual torment was the clear instruction to never change legs or switch fingers. It wouldn’t take more than 15 minutes for a union of sweat and tears to begin the solemn procession of tumbling off the tip of our noses.

Did I mention that Mama had uncanny prediction accuracy? If she told us ‘Spoil that mousetrap and see what I’ll do to you,’ we could as well begin to weep in advance, because by either extreme caution, or a complete absence of the same, we would engineer the fulfillment of her prophecy. Was it when, while pouring her some drinking water, gravely mindful of her strict, not-too-low-but-not-to-the-brim policy, Akin’s trembling hands overfilled the china cup, wetting her wrapper? Or how, despite warnings against handling hot things without a cloth, I would attempt removing a clay pot of fresh gbègìrì soup from the fire with bare hands, ending up with a shapeless, canary-yellow sea dotted with black shards staring back at me from the sandy kitchen floor? After earning a fat knock on the head that he would nurse all week, and after I acquired her fingerprints across my cheek, Akin and I needed no telling: Mama never threatens. She assures.

Still, all too often, my brother and I seemed to discard prior warnings and revisit our old ways. One Saturday afternoon after chores, Akin and I left the house without permission. Not that we could have sought it, because neither parent was home. The whole thing was my idea; Akin hardly had the courage to break rules anymore. I, on the other hand, was bored out of my wits and needed some rowdy company. We just had to make sure we were home on time.

We visited our neighbour’s farm first and climbed and plucked and consumed all the cashews we could stomach, throwing up when we could go no further. We had spent over three hours there when Akin suggested we head home. I was about to succumb when I realized how bad an idea it was: our shirts were littered with cashew juice, one of the most stubborn stains I have encountered in this life. If Mama spotted or sniffed it, our alibi was blown. So I suggested we go play soccer with our friends. The dust would mask the cashew stains as long as we ensured that we slid and rolled abundantly on the pitch. It seemed like a brilliant plan but when we got to the pitch, and our team kept winning, it was almost impossible to leave. Akin pressured, but I kept reassuring him we would go home after the next win. It wasn’t until a teammate kicked the ball far into a thick bush, and no one volunteered to retrieve it, that everyone dispersed. Our curfew was “6pm sharp” so when my teammate glanced at his watch and casually declared that it was “past 7”, I took some relief in knowing I wouldn’t face our parents’ wrath alone. Chastisement is worse without a partner in crime. At least in this case Mama had no basis for her “Can’t you see your brother? Is this how he behaves?” statements. When I searched, sang and screamed to no end however, I realized how undone I was: Akin had gone home without me.

Stopping two doors away from home, panting like my heart would find its way out any moment, I bent down and locked two straws of spear grass together, then plucked a lash from my left eye and buried it in the hair atop my head—two of the sure-fire charms my school friends told me guaranteed their parents forgot to punish their wrongdoings. Remembering how little of an amnesiac my own mother was, doubled my pace. And my blood pressure.

I approached our front entrance, hesitant. The door was ajar. I peeped in between the door and its frame through the gap occasioned by the hinge. I squinted, widened, cupped the edges of my vision, but the lantern’s flickering light was inadequate to make out anything. Two taps on my back and I instinctively went flat on the ground, confessing, “Mama, the hosts of heaven are my witness, I went in search of Akin not knowing he came home by another route. He went out, plucking cashew all afternoon. In fact, his friends also told me that while they were playing ball…” I paused. Something was not right. Mama would have cut me off mid-sentence, even for the most valid of excuses. As I contemplated looking up at her face, and considered whether I could afford the extra penalty that would attract, I heard a sound. A cackle. Then sniggering.

It was Akin.

I sprang up, bent on vengeance—both for his ditching me and now for disrespecting me. Pleading filled the air, as we swapped positions. He gobbled my forgiveness before I was done cooking it up. Then he gave updates: As expected, our parents had been asking of me, but he covered for me, telling them I left my shoes back where we went to play ball. I thanked him, although I wondered how such explanation could fly. How would I trek over four kilometers and not realize I was barefoot? He said Mama was busy in their room and I only needed to make it to our own room unnoticed and start snoring. Tomorrow morning, we would outwit her in the time-of-arrival debate since she was not there when I came in; he was. My tense shoulders caved in as I smothered Akin in an embrace reserved for brothers.

So, tip I toed, hoping to make it safely to our room. In the low light of the lantern dimmed by its smoky shade, I saw two long, thick sticks—bigger than I’d ever witnessed—behind the kitchen door. To think, retribution had been chilling by the corner all this time, awaiting my arrival.

I was almost out of the passage when: “Olúwamúmiboríogun.”

Now, that was disturbing on two levels: One, my full name was only mentioned when I had committed a serious offence. Two, that was Papa’s voice. While Mama beat us as frequently and as soundly as she could, Papa hardly did. But whenever he had to, it was a guaranteed grand style thrashing. And knowing Papa, this was about more than flouting curfew.

“Y-ye-yes Papa.”

“Welcome,” he greeted, punctuated by the sound of the main door latching behind me. In slow motion. Paka…paka…paka. Triple-bolted. Fate sealed. No neighbours could intervene. “Come,” he said, grinning. He was just a couple feet away but reaching him seemed like a holy pilgrimage on foot.

“Father, I’m not worthy to be called thy son,” quoting the prodigal son from our Sunday School memory verse, as I prostrated right where I was. If disownment was the alternative to death via thrashing, my choice was clear.

“What nonsense! You’re indeed my son. And will always be.” Disinheritance bid unsuccessful. Then he motioned at something. Now, unlike Mama, Papa always went to the imperative statement; he had no time for rhetorical questions. He would only summarize the purpose of the thrashing after it was over, like, “Next time you won’t go and break somebody’s louvre blades with a ball.” So, I stood in front of him and awaited the imperative statement.

“Go and bring those canes.” He added for effect, and apparently to heighten my torment, “They are ALL yours.”

My eyes followed his outstretched hand from origin, across my head and to, my goodness, the back of the kitchen door. Yes, where stood the two skyscraper sticks that would draw the curtain on my sojourn in this world of sin and flagellation and death. This was the end; it couldn’t be any clearer. From far off in the galaxies, I could hear Papa’s favorite song from his phonograph playing in my head, my thumping heart replacing the bass drum as Jim Reeves sang, Take my hand…precious Lord, lead me home.

But Papa would interrupt the flow and abort my levitation, bringing me back to the parlour where I was now inching my way towards the kitchen, bum and boxers united by sweat. He smiled.

“Your headmaster said you passed your Common Entrance exam so I stopped to buy you some sugar cane. You like them, don’t you?”

Where Phantoms Dwell

 The chilling murmurs sifted through the trees, — stealing strength, — like a dry desert breeze strips the moisture from parched souls.

“Leave the prisoners,” the haunting whispers. “Trespassers will die,” mimicking the wind as the many voices overlapped and repeated in rhythmic cadence, — dancing within the leaves of the forest, — lingering in a hushed stillness,—hypnotically allowing fears to grow.

Superstitions fed the weaker minds of the throng. Surely ghouls of the long forgotten were casting their spells, sapping our power, readying to feed on our drained flesh.—— At any moment the demons will pounce.

Leaders of the Yak·a·taw·wee·kee·tuo barked orders. Their subordinates drove the newly acquired slaves on. Porters labored under the weight of supplies and stolen goods — ivory and meat. The entire company unnerved: — following the wide path of the pachyderms, — darting glances, — straining for the unseen hosts.

Panic loomed, but there was only one way to move under the heavy rods of command. Down the trail they pushed, — through the shadows of the steep walls of matted vegetation. Beneath the canopied tunnel they pressed on. Greed to maintain their plunder drove the raiders to harsher methods: prodding the imprisoned with spears, thrashing the slower across their backs with the blunt shafts of their weapons.

The demonic roar thundered as a strong wind ripped through the upper terrace of the primal forest. A storm was brewing and the demigod’s power over the weather incited further dismay. Was the inhuman sound awakening his children? Are the Nephraceetan near?

Then the whispers of the long forgotten renewed: foreboding,— mesmerizing. Even the bravest were terrified among the throng: the grim, ghostly message, — pausing, — replaying, — from somewhere hidden far behind the dense walls of growth. Ever moving, ever drifting, the song followed the raiders as the priests and soldiers guarding their captives turned and looked, spun and stared, spying the gloom for the dark spirits wandering the haunted jungle beyond. But not a hint of flesh could be made. Not a spark of human movement could be discerned.

For hours the party fought the madness. Soldiers cried out pointing. Crumpling to the forest floor they would die; feathered-messengers-of-death, silently stealing life-after-life.

Others would turn in the direction of the tiny spears’ flights, only to be struck down from behind. And then an array of silent missiles would dispatch more of those foolish enough to try and catch a glimpse of the demons of the forest.

But always the whispers would renew. The melodic tune painting one thought, “Free them or die,” echoing in its rhythmic chant.

A large contingent of men charged into the brush, perhaps believing they could take the fight to the enemy. They were heard thrashing through the heavy growth as the party steadily moved deeper into the tangled mass of vegetation away from the caravan. Then the screams began: one, then another, agonizing shrieks,— then silence. None returned.

“We must leave this place!” cried out one of the soldiers.

A nearby priest drove his spear through the agitator’s back.

“No one leaves,” barked a commander from behind. “Do you wish the wrath of the Magus upon…?” The leader clutched his chest. A missile pierced his heart and lodged in the hip of the priest in front of him while the holy man was extracting his lance from the vanquished instigator.

“Run and live!” the haunting song offered.

The priest stumbled under his injury, and then tripped; but twisted, landing on his face opposite the wound. An arrow pinned his head to the earth. His flesh quivered in spasms then went limp.

“Leave your spoils,” was weaved into the melody as the sky darkened over the heavy canopy. A torrential storm was brewing.

Another leader barked orders and crumpled to the ground. Then another priest fell dead.

“You will all die,” whispered the phantom’s tune.

Dark clouds rumbled, warning of the impending deluge as a strong wind shook the treetops; — pushing through the tunnel like pathway, it breached the walls of vegetation, almost blinding in its force. And riding its wake, the Blackfoot war-cry thundered as if it was the source of the blow.

Chaos erupted as soldiers and priests, abandoned their charges. Porters dropped their loads and bolted for freedom away from the coming death. “Jad·u·at·wah·que is angry! Run—run,” the frightened cry.

Only the bravest stood their ground as they watched their comrades flee.

“Come back cowards,” was shouted.

“To arms!” was ordered.

“We must hold the spoils.”

The remaining raiders spanned out, circling the prisoners with spears held ready, awaiting the charge from both sides of the forest.

“The high priest is watching. Hold your ground!” Leaders demanded throughout the lines.

But nothing happened.

The soldiers and priests’ anxieties intensified.

“Show yourselves!” was yelled by someone.

“We are the children of Inc·u·bison!” shouted another.

“Our god devours all opposers.”

The words evoked courage, but fear wasn’t so fleeting.

Their bravado was answered by silence.

Time passed. A calm set in. Small mammals again barked and clucked. Birds whistled and chirped in the high branches:—the terraces and balconies of their woodland home. But the shadows grew as the minutes dragged on. Men adjusted grips on lance and javelin, spying the forest for sign, darting glances up and down the lines for courage; but all was still.

Lightning flashed, penetrating the upper canopy. Its filtered-brilliance cast a glimmer into the shadows of the dense foliage. Ghostly silhouettes appeared and disappeared among dark underbrush.

Raiders braced for war when thunder shook the very foundation of the jungle.

Startled by the voice of god, the Yak·a·taw·wee·kee·tuo panicked. And with their enveloping fear, the Blackfoot’s demonic war-cry erupted as the devil-god’s horde charged from the fringes of the darkness beyond.

* * *

Tawque braced against the storm as the wind swept through the jungle, launching forest debris with forces that ripped free branches and leaves and pushed over trees. Would nature’s fury put a hold on his plan? Revenge was within moments of his grasp. In anger and frustration the Blackfoot lifted his head skyward as the gale lulled in its wave like pounding. He filled his lungs and his rage thundered forth. His powerful voice boomed into the sounds of the storm, carried as if on wings, it echoed over the enemy caravan.

He dropped his head with his depleted breath and opened his eyes. To his amazement, the enemy were scattering.

Tawque watched their flight with satisfaction. At least half of the men guarding the caravan had broken ranks. They fled, continuing along the trail in the direction of the City-of-Sacrifice. Men were ordering their return, but none retreating were listening.

Tawque smiled as he looked to the heavens. Great Spirit, you are with us this day.

The odds were now in the favor of the clansmen, but there was no guarantee the fleeing cowards wouldn’t regroup. If they did, it would spell disaster. Tawque had to allow sufficient time to pass. He crept through the brush, near to Key·ol·te·ton. “Send two trackers to follow the deserters. Make sure they don’t change their minds. Have the rest of your men hold for my signal.”

Key·ol·te·ton nodded and with the chattering of forest creatures, he related the plan. The jungle seemed to come alive with animal life.

Tawque studied the caravan. He could tell their resolve had vanished. Men were shouting among them, but their nerves were played out. The hours of the haunting whispers; the silent death, picking away at their numbers, the enemy was completely demoralized.

The Blackfoot warrior looked to Key·ol·te·ton, Were the deserters gone for good?

The clansman seemed to read his mind, nodding.

Lightning rippled across the jungle sky. Night would fall soon, but the storm was already upon them. Within the flashes, Tawque could see his enemies cowering. And as the flickering display faded, Tawque rose, fitted an arrow to his bow, and roared the challenge of the Blackfoot.

The fury of the clansmen answered his call and the attack burst from the jungle’s fringes. The clashing of wood and flint sounded among the cries of anger and screams of fear. The hunters, driven to war, stormed the caravan to free their wives and brethren.

Among the throng, the mighty and terrible Blackfoot charged. None could slow him as his sinews rippled under the power of his recurve. Fletched messengers ended the course of three before he drew in close. Shifting his grip to the extremities of his bow: the warrior reverted to the swinging of his instrument and blocking blows. As a man with a sword he weaved and spun; the taut alien cord severed spear and arm, neck or leg as the warrior danced through the enemy throng. And on his lips the terrifying cry, a demon’s roar, that shook the enemy down to their core.

“Death to all!” the clansmen chimed in. And in the end not one Yak·a·taw·wee·kee·tuo raider was left breathing.

* * *

The Golden City: hybrid fantasy novel based on Native America mysticism and a city of immense wealth, readers from young adult up, 100,000 plus, Glenwood Carol O‘Dell. With the appeal of fantasy and time travel weaved into a tale with aliens, how could you go wrong?

The legendary Blackfoot-warrior, Tawque is cast back to an age when demigods and saber tooth’s still roamed the earth.

Synopsis:

Imprisoned,— Haiwi’s fate is sealed as sacrifice to a great dragon god; yet the time traveler Bobby reveals a coming deliverer: Haiwi escapes certain death with the help of Tawque, and together, discover a world of their own making. But the dream is short lived when she is kidnapped and returned to her homeland, “The Golden City.” At first Tawque is accepted as a hero; but if the truth of his love for Haiwi is revealed, death will be swift. The King and custom demand Haiwi marry royalty and after the primary suitor is killed, Tawque is sent into exile. The King is assassinated and Haiwi and Bobby must flee for their lives, winding up in the forbidden forest: peopled by the Nephraceetan,— children of the gods with a taste for human flesh; and Marshals of the Guardian Empire,— “Alien War Gods” from the Blackfoot’s own past.

As an outcast, Tawque must overcome the perils of time and tradition, lost in an unfathomable world of mystery and intrigue, only to find his love trapped and at the mercy of fate.

The Golden City will appeal to all ages that love science fiction and fantasy, written in a classical, pulp-fiction style. I am working on my fourth novel, “The Devil’s Remnant.” I mostly write in a classical style. I’m quirky, and although I work as a machine tool builder in the real world, I live fantasy. Currently residing outside a small town in the California Sierras, I love to hunt and fish. Worked with horses in my youth, farmhand, and love to play chess. 

For more on me:

https://theprose.com/post/139472/who-am-i

* * *

https://theprose.com/post/135294/the-golden-city-i-posted-the-first-300-words-for-a-contest-but-i-thought-for-any-that-wanted-to-continue-i-would-post-the-full-prologue

Chapter 1

https://theprose.com/post/135238/the-golden-city-chapter-one-prison-bonds

Chapter 5

https://theprose.com/post/155256/the-golden-city

Chapter 8

https://theprose.com/post/136480/the-golden-city

Chapter 12

https://theprose.com/post/246382/the-golden-city

Chapter 20

https://theprose.com/post/246680/the-golden-city

Chapter 52

https://theprose.com/post/136801/the-golden-city-chapter-fifty-two

It was summer, 2005ish. Everything was set. We had the keg, the beer bong clean and ready. Cigarettes were bought, and the liquor was on its way, mostly gin, because that’s what college kids drink: gin. This was going to be the best random summer college house party of all time. And, also, the random summer college house party that was going to see me become a full, entire, man. I was freshly 21 years old and still a virgin. I was fine with it really. It was not the biggest deal to me. I hooked up with plenty of girls, just never went all the way. I was more curious than frustrated. It was like my roommates and all my friends were eating this really delicious pie, but I was not eating the pie. It was right in front of all of us, everybody eating the pie, and I’m just sitting there, not eating the pie. I like pie. There was no reason for me not to eat the pie, so I said to myself, “Well, I think I’m going to have some pie now.”

So I set it up. I had been working an angle with my roommate’s co-worker at the pizza joint they worked at for the past few weeks. We flirted, lots of smiling going on; there was real chemistry between us. She would give me free beer. I would hangout by the register, and we would talk about easily agreeable subjects. It was preposterous. But it was totally on.

I texted her to make sure she was still coming. She said, “Most definitely,” followed by “I’m bringing a handle of vodka.” Awesome. All I had to do was show up, act semi cool, and not black out. This was it; I was going to get laid. Now, can I bare my soul to you all for a second? I feel like I need to explain that I was not really that attracted to this girl. I just noticed she was into me, and I felt like I had a pretty decent shot at finally loosing my virginity, so I took it. Man alive! That sounds awful saying in writing, but it is absolutely true. That is exactly what I was thinking. That’s just the way things are, I’m sorry. Sorry, not sorry. I’m not sorry.

Mid-party. Things are going swimmingly. I have a good buzz going. She is very talkative. I was totally killing it. I’m smoking cigarettes, telling jokes. We bond over how much we both love Outkast and how nobody really raps quite like the Andre, because, you know, we totally knew who could and couldn’t rap. We just knew. Then something very important happened. I said something witty and charming and she laughed, and mid laugh, she reached out and touched my arm. Ding. For those of you who don’t quite understand what I am inferring, this means she had decided that she was going to sleep with me, no doubt.

We get deeper into the night, and I am very relaxed knowing that I’m going to hit an exciting milestone in my life in a matter of hours. What I did not notice was my special lady friend continually making her way to the kitchen to take vodka and lemon lime lacquer shots, by her self. There is no telling how many she took, 8, 9. That’s just a guess. She took a lot. Then she started taking beer bongs. I know for a fact she took it least two. She was a beast, and that’s when things starting turning for this young lady.

It’s like 2:30am in the morning now, and most everybody had gone home. Those left were standing around the kitchen, winding down, getting ready to call it a night, everyone but her, that is. She slams another shot and can barely stand up now, and my heart begins to sink a little, as I realize she has gotten too drunk. But before I can really even begin to feel bad for my situation, she begins to speak. She professes her undying love for MY ROOMATE, her co-worker! She looks at me and says, “I’m sorry.” There was a stunned silence for about five seconds, and then we all busted out laughing. She was mortified, obviously, and ran to the bathroom and locked the door.

Now, at this point, I’m already over it, honestly. My roommate was and is a dreamboat, and an overall awesome dude, so I could not be mad at him about it, and I really wasn’t into the chick anyways. So we crack another beer and laugh about what just happened a little more, kind of feeling bad for the girl, but not really. We say bye to the rest of our friends, and then my roommates and I go check on this poor girl who has been locked in our bathroom for a good thirty minutes now. We knock on the door, ask if she needs water, and don’t hear a response. Great, she has passed out in our bathroom with the door locked. And then she erupts. We hear her begin to vomit, pretty violently, which goes on for about five minutes, which then turns into moaning and self-loathing.

Ten or so minutes later, she still will not answer our offers of assistance, and then we hear her begin to say some very unsettling words. “Oh my God,”, “that’s so disgusting,”, “it’s everywhere!”, and “how did this happen?” And then we smelled it, and it was bad. Her moaning and drunk slurring turned into panic and disorientation. It sounded like a war zone, the toilet lid being slammed, water running, toiletries being knocked off shelves, and it was at this time that we all got a little scared. She will not talk to us. We don’t know if she was hurt or just really sick, but it was pretty apparent that it was not good, and more than likely, poop was involved in some form or fashion.

The door handle finally begins to move, and she starts to open the door. The three of us don’t know what to do, so we hide behind the couch. Now, what I am about to tell you is shocking, and pretty disgusting, just so you know. Home girl waddles out of the bathroom with a bath mat wrapped around her waist and bee-lines it for my bedroom. She stumbles around for a minute than comes roaring down the hallway like a drunken monster wearing my GOOD pair of basketball shorts, and she runs out the door to her car and drives off. We come out of hiding and slowly creep over to what was our bathroom, and what we saw was like nothing you could possibly image.  

It was literally everywhere, and when I say it, I mean poop. She pooped her pants. Right in front of the toilet was a massive pile of shit on the ground, and her poopie-panties and skirt lying next to the dinosaur portion of poop. It gets worse. She took all of our WHITE towels out of the closet and tried to wipe up the poop, but because she was so sloppy drunk, she just ended up smearing it all over the place. It was on the walls. Poop handprints on the shower curtain, poop in the sink, all over the counter; it was even on my roommate’s girlfriend’s curling iron. How do you get poop on a curling iron? It was a dookie massacre. I think it’s safe to say the moral of this story is…pooping all over someone’s bathroom is not cool, and really gross. And maybe there is a tinge of I-totally-had-this-coming-due-to-my-objectification-of-this-young-woman-to-satisfy-my-bodily-wants-and-desires. I don’t know.

I will never forget the day I met Raphael, as it happened to be the same day I finally stopped believing in love, and everything else, for that matter. It was a gloomy winter Wednesday. Absolutely horrific. The rain was coming down like crazy. I was almost certain it did so out of spite, knowing I had forgotten to bring an umbrella. I was walking along a quiet street in Berlin—yes, we have dull streets here, too, believe it or not; it's not Schicki-Micki1 überall—soaked to the bone, and far too busy indulging myself in self-pity, trying to make up for all those years my pride had prevented me from doing so, when some mysterious urge compelled me to look down and behold a weird business card:

Raphael: Personal Guardian Angel

rapha@yaya.com

Raphael? A personal guardian angel? Oh, puh-leese! I can't say I was surprised. After five years of living in this city, I found myself reacting as does every fellow—or wannabe—Berliner when encountering another obscenity or oddity: a shake of the head and a smirk, accompanied by the notorious shrug. People warned me about Berlin, saying how incorrigible it is, but I thought they were exaggerating. Well, they weren't. Impossible things happen daily in this fun-loving hipster paradise: From those weirdos who talk with their imaginary friends on the subway; to that stranger last week who claimed to have met me in a former life; to that French bartender at my local Kneipe2, who also happens to be a psychic for pets. Say what? God only knows what led me to pick up the card and put it in my pocket—but I promptly forgot all about it, for the time being.

Caught up in thought and my own misery, I let my feet carry me home. I had left work early that day. My excuse? I said I was sick. I wasn't really sick-sick, but it wasn't a lie-lie either. I just had to get out of there. I couldn't stand even one more second sitting there, in my cubicle, the same cubicle I'd been sitting in for the past five years of my life, forced to listen to that never-ending, meaningless chatter of my coworkers. I really don't know why I lost it that particular day. It wasn't the first time my heart had been broken. Shitty days happen—that's life. Get over it, right?

One minute I was sitting at my Mac, going through a tiresome financial report my boss had sent, and the next I felt like I was about to throw up, cry, scream, pluck my hair out, and tear down that fucking cubicle, all at the same time. But I didn't, of course. I sat there for one more hour, staring blankly at the ninety-eight-page PDF report in disbelief. Five years. Five years of my life had vanished—just like that!—for a job I hated. It wasn't that the job was boring, or that my boss was an asshole—he was actually a nice guy, decent and fair, and so were my colleagues. It was fear: Would I still be doing this from now until retirement? From now until death finds me? From now until the end of time? Life was so full of promise on graduation day. They told me great things were in store. Where were those great things? Eh? Fucking liars! How did I end up being one of those people enslaved in a cubicle, like some “Dilbert” character? And what was this? Was I finally having the nervous breakdown I’d always expected? At twenty-eight? Aren't you supposed to be older when this shit happens? Alright, I was being a tad melodramatic. But we're all entitled to embrace our inner diva-bitch from time to time, right?

I was so busy hating the entire world during those fifteen minutes that separated me from my beloved bed, I hadn't even noticed the fancy-suited business woman appear from around the corner. She was running on her pointy high heels, trying to avoid the rain. The collision was inevitable. The folder she carried flipped open, her papers flew above our heads in all directions, then dove straight into the puddles below. I mumbled a few distressed Entschuldigungs3 and knelt beside her, handing her some soaked papers I had picked up from the pavement. She swore quietly in German, assuming, as most Germans do, I would not understand—after all, my American accent was quite noticeable. But I did understand. I forced a fake smile, pretending to not have heard her insults while I held back tears, then ran the hell out of there, leaving her passive-aggressive grunts behind me. Why did my walk home seem so long all of a sudden? I didn't want to think about all that had happened, yet I was forced to, because I was walking in the rain, hating myself and everybody else, and there was nothing better to do.

How could I have been so stupid? So fucking stupid? Me and love? Who am I kidding? We've never really got along. Even when we did get along, we didn't. I don't know why it took me so long to see that—twenty-eight years, to be exact. It's funny when you think about it. I don't really have any reason to complain about my life compared to others less fortunate than myself, but when it comes to love, I feel like it's a battle I’ve already lost even before it had begun. I mean, there were signs all over the place—hell, sirens, alarms, you name it. I just chose to ignore them. Nothing is easier, right? There's a problem? Ignore it and hope it goes away by itself. The truth is overrated, trust me, I know what I'm talking about. From my own experience, I can say the truth usually sucks. After you hear it, you're never the same. You're either scared to death, inconceivably sad, frighteningly angry, or deeply disappointed, all of your dreams utterly crushed.

I don't know who's responsible for our belief in romantic love. Are those pink and red Valentine's Day cards and heart-shaped chocolates to blame? Or those chick flicks? What about those ’80s songs we grew up on—“I Want to Know What Love Is” and “The Power of Love”? Are they to blame? If I didn't know better, I'd say that romantic love is a universal religion. All humans believe in it. Complex rituals surround it: holding hands, hugging, kissing, caressing, yearning, flirting, and more, much more, but also chest pain, difficulty breathing, sleepless nights, unwanted tears and swollen eyes. Oh yes, and self-hatred. Like many of you, like every true believer, I let them—whoever they are—convince me that love exists. Blindly, without asking questions or doubting its existence, I kept on looking for love in all the wrong places, hoping it wouldn’t be long before I found it. Until that unfortunate Wednesday.

Earlier that same morning, I was still in bed with Lucas—a gorgeous six-feet-two Argentinian to whom every possible positive adjective could be attached. I ran my fingers through his thick brown hair and blurted, “I think I’m in love with you.” Lucas was lying on his back and I was by his side, looking at him while he stared at the ceiling.

Lucas chuckled, his blue eyes still avoiding mine, and said, “You are something else, Jules! Always such a goofball!” He laughed, turned on his side, and started to tickle me.

“Stop!” I demanded, laughing as well. I didn’t even have time to grasp what had just happened; what I had just told him. The last thing I wanted to do was to laugh, but those damn instincts forced me to.

“Say the magic word!” Lucas said, refusing to stop. I was twitching and laughing hysterically when Lucas brought out the big guns and said, “Any man would be lucky to have such a good friend with benefits like you, Jules. Really. You are by far the best friend with benefits ever!”

“¡Por favor! ¡Déjame en paz!4” I called out of breath. Lucas stopped and flipped on his back again. I sat in bed, my back turned to him, and gathered my breath. Shit. What did I do? What the fuck was I thinking?! This has got to be the worst moment of my life! I have to get the fuck out of here!

Lucas patted the bed and touched my bare back. “Come on, Jules, get back in bed, we still have time for another round before work.” He wrapped his arms around me and kissed my neck.

God only knows how I managed to play it cool, acting as if he hadn't crushed me completely. I forced myself not to shed any tears while still in his bed, threatening to punish myself if I did—If you cry now, no dessert for the next six months! If you cry now, no vacation for the next two years and you will suffer all winter long in Berlin!—that sort of thing. I released myself from his grip and stepped out of bed. “I can’t,” I said, “I have an early meeting.” This was a lie, of course. I ran to the shower, brushed my teeth and washed my face, put on my clothes as quickly as possible, and left his place. Without an umbrella. I couldn't wait to get to work—that's before I knew about my upcoming meltdown, mind you—so I wouldn't need to face the cold, harsh truth: Lucas didn't feel the same way about me, nor would he ever. You can tell by looking into the other person's eyes. You know when there's something there, and you know when there isn't.

Only a few days before, we had been hanging out at some Kneipe in Neukölln, Lucas, me and some friends, talking about this very topic—love. After a few shots, Lucas had declared that all emotions were merely caused by a chemical reaction in the brain. We are basically only flesh, bones, and organs—according to him—a walking mess with millions of atoms. Because we can't deal with this truth, we tell ourselves that we have souls, that we each have a density, and that love really exists. Well, after having been his...whatever for nearly seven months, I concluded he must be a robot, like many other people I had met in Berlin. Too bad I had realized this at roughly around the same time I finally admitted to myself that I was in love with him, despite my attempts to deny it, to fight it. He was the first guy in the world to whom I had said such a thing. I was determined to make him the last. I will never get my hands dirty again with this BS, I thought.

***

1 Schmancy

2 Pub

3 Pardon

4 Please! Leave me alone!

Simon & Schuster Challenge

Title: "Why Am I Not Working?"

We’re waiting for the “the buses.” It’s looking cold and not at all lucrative. I recognize that I feel out of place, uncharacteristically watching the clock. Sitting under the crisp white open tent, she says to me with cautious deliberation—it’s clearly been on her mind: “Everybody keeps asking me; that is, everyone that knows you, and knows me obviously, or us (alluding to her husband), keeps asking: ‘Why are you not working?’”

I’m at a loss. I picture myself suddenly, rib-cage unhinged, gears out of kilter, screws loose, bolts missing, time tossed… I feel (understandably?) broken… My mouth gaps open a little, but nothing comes out. I reflect inevitably on all this “intangible good” I thought we were making… writing, sketching, painting, teaching, critiquing… all vanity to be sure, paired with an exaggerated sense of self-importance, no doubt…

“I know, I know… I tell them you’re still… grieving. Cause how can you adjust to a whole half of a…it’s not as if it were just two…” her voice trails. “You were feeding off of each other,” she finishes up. She looks at me closely, as if to check how many pounds the skeleton has lost, though I had previously reassured her that I was about the same (give or take) since she saw me last, when she asked in the usual way: “How much do you weigh?”

As one whose heart is heavy and whose house is fully haunted, I don’t know how to begin to explain that honestly, Grief and I are not yet personally acquainted, despite admittedly congenial circumstance. I’m convinced that serenity and sincerity are etched in my face as I listen to her with full attention, focusing on her matching silver eyes and pulled back hair. “You don’t seem happy,” she frowns, drawling out the last part of the conundrum, sounding suspiciously a lot like my sister, which I immediately mention as a caution.

She likes to read so I’ve brought her two of my poems on the theme of grief and death and dying hoping to reassure her against the negative. I see immediately that she isn’t at all taken. I didn’t write them for her, so I let it go ungrudgingly, without reservation… I feel pretty confident that I understand what she prefers; and it’d be possible to please her… What author doesn’t try to seduce the reader! but not this time. I see my thoughts skip across the surface, ripple a bit, and sink like a ship.

“Words are important to you.” I start; of course they are.

“They’re not to your sister,” she oddly remarks and taken aback I make a reflexive self-deprecating joke. (Truly, my sister is more talented than I have ever been; more easily gifted, though gone so, lazy?) She laughs and says she likes how I make such an effort to speak, like I’m reaching somewhere in…

Instantly I see a very sharp quill, slipping through this nearly emptied well with precision; scratching the crusty base raw, as if to make sure it never runs out… The ink is not red, that would suggest a deficit in my mind; nor is it black as that too would be loaded, so I see it as a deep rich value of plenty that drips from this fingertip… To my friend I say nothing. She worries enough as it is.

She reciprocates my earlier question: “If you could do anything at all—money no object—what would it be?”

“Think and sit.” What!? Do you not feel the need to make Anything? I raise my shoulders delicately; there would inevitably be some by-product… I’d like it to be few and spare and well thought out… Shared eventually. I tell her about that amusing notion of Intangible Goods, and she cackles; with a smile I imagine her retelling it over the dinner table, with others sitting, and laughing... The wind kicks up. We’ve got lots of time to kill. The air is dank, and we do our best to match the chill.

The Market is a ghost town. They call it “Medicine Wheel.” I’m not sure why. I surely asked last time around; and the answer must not have satisfied, as it didn’t stick; and fantasy apparently wasn’t on, or I would have made something up. We’re still waiting for some sign of real customers, though the vendors do their best to make, as my Father would have said, the illusion of a buying “crowd.” Having previously cracked in turn that she would be happiest as a Farmist, working creatively with soil and clay—planting, sculpting, drawing, raising those horizontal-eyed kids that grow quickly into stubborn old dairy goats—our conversation slowly turns grave. My friend says almost flippantly, but with deep underlying despair, that she nearly served up legal papers to her husband a month ago, things coming to a precipitous drought. I gasped with shock, for him; I said, tactlessly for her, that it must have hurt him so! He is seriously ill. But she said to my horror that she just couldn’t CARE anymore! and had snapped at his lack of determination and will… he is back at therapy and she is carrying on hauling and turning the never-ending manure and weeds, which she maintains that she “loves and needs” …now they are seriously contemplating the inevitability of shutting the farm.

As a final effort, she has gotten a single calf to sell for veal. I am puzzled at first, then shocked and appalled. I begin to grasp what she isn’t saying. One slaughter will yield more than a whole season’s harvest. Sustainable living is not sustainable at all. The sacrificial cow is to get them through the winter. And I shiver at the proximity of Fall. Somehow in this cold damp Spring, Summer doesn’t seem to exist at all.

I make my apologies like a madman that this year I cannot commit to helping out at the farm, new employment surely on the horizon, feeling so selfish and guilty, knowing I could force myself to it though very much unsuited… She raises her fingers in protest, and claims dramatically and exaggeratedly that I have saved their skin the passed two years as a farm hand. Talking does her good and she says so. Perhaps when things get settled there will be more time… I wonder aloud if it isn’t in my character to always be…u n s e t t l e d? She laughs; if it isn’t the truth, it’s a dead ringer. A customer appears from underground; buys some goat’s milk soap, a bottle of lotion, to my delight even a painted rock… and gives Thanks! Somehow we’ve made each other’s day, in a strange inexplicable way. In this momentary exchange where we’ve all been convened, we breathe a little easier despite the thickets of the night already trying to bind our ankles to the toils of tomorrow. I carefully pull my feet up onto the crossbar of my chair and raise my eyes as another solitary soul surfaces and smiles back…

We had a tradition, in our shabby college apartment. There a single blank wall inside, stretching from one bedroom door to the next – maybe eight feet in diameter – with an ugly metal utility box to the side. We liked to hide this wall in creative ways: with a tapestry, then another, then a holiday ensemble, complete with cut-outs or wrapping paper or whatever matched the occasion.

The latest occasion was St. Patrick’s Day, but it was stretching toward mid-April. Easter was approaching. Maybe we would have time to decorate for it. Maybe not. Finals were also approaching, and we were all beginning to wear thin with the stress. Still, the wall had rapidly become an annoyance to walk by. It stood almost mocking – like a reminder of the past I was trying to forget. I wanted to take it down.

I started with the sparkly green clovers, artfully tilted together at the center of the wall. They were made of construction paper, and the first one ripped when I tried to peel it off. I carefully undid the back taping, trying not to tear the decoration further. Maybe I could re-use them next year. The decorations had cost a pretty penny, more than I could afford at the time. I didn’t regret the purchase, though.

I remember putting the whole thing up a few hours before our party was to start, with my roommate crying in her room about her latest worst-thing-in-the-world-of-the-week. She was like that. It was always one thing or the next, this or that. Right now, it was a speeding ticket. I could never understand the logic – how someone could get fed up about something so minor as a speeding ticket. I wish I had the luxury of worrying about details like did.

I went back to work, slowly taking the clovers down until only the center strip of the wall faced me. It was bruised and ugly in spots, and I remembered why we wanted to cover it up. It wasn’t so bad from far away, but close-up I could see all the dirt and stains.

My eyes trailed the pattern forehead level dents, created that one time my friend Nick drunkenly attempted to handstand against the wall. As the dents indicate, it hadn’t gone so well. I remember laughing though – genuinely laughing – unlike the forced smiles exchanged these days. No. In that moment, we were still best friends. In that moment, we were happy.

Next, it was time to rip down streamers – alternating shades of light and dark green. The streamers wouldn’t be worth storing, so I threw them away.

I remember Nick playing with them at a pre-game a few weeks earlier. Twisting them up as tight as he could without breaking the strands, then watching them come apart. I had been leaning against the wall, casually observing his work, when he turned to me.

“Promise me we’ll stay best friends forever,” he had said, his eyes suddenly wide and serious, without the casual laughter they had held before. He got like this when exceptionally drunk – all mushy and sentimental – and the best thing to do was humor him.

“Nothing could tear us apart," I remember replying. I remember meaning it too.

All in all, the wall took around two hours to put up and around twenty seconds to strip down. Back to where we started, just me and the ugly white. Pink splotches decorated the barren mess too, along with the handstand dents and dirt and stains from God-knows where. The whole thing was imperfect and gross; I already wanted it gone. We didn’t even own the apartment, and would probably have to pay for damaged paint or whatever.

Something about the wall bothered me though, in a dark, disturbing way. I couldn’t put my finger on why, but the disgust ran deeper than the unsightly appearance or reminder of impending paint fees. The wall looked mocking almost, laughing like it knew its stains had ruined the appearance. Like it knew just how much it bothered me.

---

I ordered a new tapestry a day later, a fading pattern to different shades of blue. We hadn’t hung blue on the wall before, and the thought made me happy. Blue was comforting. Blue was new. Blue would be here in approximately ten to fifteen business days. All I could do was wait.

Meanwhile, the wall was becoming worse. I began to avoid it, when I could. I resided on campus most of the day, or spent my time in my bedroom, with it out of sight. The hard part was the in-between: those thirteen steps from my bedroom to the apartment door. I could handle those thirteen steps, at the beginning. Each day I would wake up and prepare myself to confront the wall. It became a battle.

As the days went on, facing the white got harder and harder. Sometimes I would lose to its hateful gaze. I cowered in my room instead – terrified – while trying to think of creative excuses to email my professors.

Sometimes the problem was getting back in. I would sit in our apartment hallways for hours on end, trying to build up courage. Occasionally I’d sleep in my car.

Throughout the wait, I tried to maintain normalcy. At least, as much as I could. Because I was not crazy. I know I sounded crazy, but I was not crazy. Okay? I needed new paint, not therapy. I just needed the wall gone. At the sixteenth day since ordering that new tapestry, I called the shipping company.

I remember hearing the words backordered and I remember hearing screaming. It was deafening; wretched and terrible, filled with vulgar words –

“FUCK YOU, YOU PIECE Of FUCKING SHIT, YOU DON’T CONTROL ME, YOU –“

“Ma’am? MA’AM. Is everything okay!?”

It was only when the police rushed in that I realized: I was the one screaming.

I think the incident scared my roommates, because they began treating me like I was breakable, like they were afraid to set me off. Whispers and hushed conversations, abruptly halting when I entered the room. Hesitancy before asking me questions. Words thrown around, like “trauma” and “PTSD” and “neurotic.” Things like that. They thought I didn’t notice.

They spread the word to our friends, though, because breakdowns make for juicy gossip. More than ever, I felt alone. Nick kept his distance, too. A part of me began to hate him for that – for not defending me after everything. So much for forever. Yet, through it all, I kept my promise to him.

My mom called earlier today, a week and a half later. I had not left my room for approximately three days. But I hadn’t wanted to worry her. So, when she asked how I was doing, I told her I was great. I didn’t tell her that I was failing three classes, because then she’d worry about my scholarship. I didn’t tell her that I felt empty, that the wall was killing me a little bit more every day. I didn’t tell her about that night or about Nick and how we were slowly falling apart. Maybe I should have. Maybe things could have changed.

Instead, I listen now from my bedroom as my roommates entertain friends in the living room. They have the stereo on – some throwback songs from when we were kids. I can’t tell how many people are here, but I can hear the excited chattering, the laughter. Their happiness seeps through the walls. My chest tightens.

I’m lying on my bed, too afraid to make a sound. God, what if they don’t know I’m here? What if they do? I can’t leave my room because of the wall, and even without it my sudden presence would make the situation too awkward.

I can feel my heartbeat rising. I pick out Nick’s voice from the rest. It hurts. Here all my once friends are, going about life like I never mattered in it. Maybe that’s harsh. Maybe it was my fault –

(Promise me you won’t go to the police. It was a mistake. If you care about me at all you’ll keep this to yourself. Please)

– maybe I should have been selfish. Maybe I should have never agreed to keep my mouth shut. Oh No. Maybe I never should have told Nick I’d keep my mouth shut.

I can feel my pulse through my throat. My hands are shaking and I feel trapped – I feel trapped and the world is closing in – my chest feels light and my head feels heavy and I can hear them joking outside my door, joking and having fun and it’s all too much and I can see him, I can feel the too long glance and that brush of cracked fingertips and I can see myself brushing it off like nothing at all –

Somehow I end up on my hands and knees. The world is silent except for my breath and the beating music of the pregame on the other side of my door. Don’t Stop Believing is on. I can hear the room singing it.

Don’t Stop, Believing, they chime. Hold on to that feelin’ –

It’s the end of the song, a crescendo to the final notes. Everyone is off pitch. I fall to my side, rolling to face the ceiling.

Streetlights, I hear. peopleeeeeee – they hold out the word, changing keys. It’s the last line, and then the room goes silent. I hear them shuffling around, gathering their things before heading to the bars. I continue to stare at the ceiling.

Ceilings are nice, I decide. They don’t get messed up and spilled on by people. They stay blank – the perfect white. Untouched by our human messes. Walls let us ruin them.

I feel calm, after they leave. Detached, almost. There’s a heaviness in my bones, like the apartment itself has faded into nonexistence. Like it all was just a dream.

But it wasn’t a dream. This was real. It was all so fucking real.

Mechanically, I feel myself standing, and I feel my blood pounding in my fingers. There’s ball in my chest, slowly churning hotter and hotter.

I walk over to the kitchen cupboard, and pull out a toolbox. My mom insisted we keep one, though we never used it. There’s a hammer inside, and I feel the weight of it in my hands.

I think of Nick. I think of our promises.

(Promise me you won’t go to the police.)

He’d been the one to find me. It was his house, after all.

(Promise we’ll be best friends forever)

Best friends. That’s what he introduced me as – his best friend. I remember the elation of hearing him say it. I had never had a best friend. But that’s what he told his dad we were. Best friends. I had a best friend.

I turn and face the wall. It truly was hideous. I look. I feel the hammer. The wall cracks like lightning, before I realize what I’ve done. The hammer lies on the floor.

It feels good, I realize, and then suddenly I’m attacking the wall, and metal is hard and adrenaline is flooding in and I can’t stop, I can’t stop I cantfuckingforget because I see them in the wall – I see Nick’s dad and I see him lock the door and it’s all so wrong and I see Nick and his face when he realizes what his dad did and I see those terrified eyes – itwasamistake it was a mistake please don’t tell the police it was a mistake –

(Take it, that's right, just like that, baby)

(Stoppleasestop PLEASEFUCKING STOP)

(SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH AND TAKE IT YOU GOD DAMN SLUT) –

And somewhere along the lines I’ve dropped the hammer because it isn’t enough and I need to feel this - I need him to feel this.

The wall is turning red on the edges of where I hammer it so I grasp onto a cracked part and rip because this fucker is coming down and there’s so much red – God, there’s so much red but I need to keep going I can’t stop going –

And the world begins to blur. I steady myself, and I blink. The apartment is silent again. The wall is a scarring of browns and cracked white, a midsize hole tinged with the scarlet. I can feel myself fading.

Through the hole, I see my bedroom. On my desk is a mirror, and I catch sight of my reflection. I see my features, the light hair, dark eyes. The too big nose. Somehow, these parts don’t add up to me. To who I am. I don’t recognize this reflection. I can feel something wet drip on the edge of my nails.

Maybe this is who I was once. Before Nick. Before the wall. But this girl is dead.

I feel a pull, dragging at my conscious. I close my eyes, and let it take over.