“When am I ever not at a party?” At first I’d been a bit pleased that Bram had called–because I’m a narcissist that likes attention. And because it’s unlike him to have gone so many days without checking in, considering the circumstances. But now he’s kind of pissing me off. As usual.

I’m standing in the corner of Castle of Stuff, shaking my head at Jamie, who’s at a stuffing station just a few feet away. He’s holding the fabric exterior of a goose against the end of a tube, watching the cotton-candy colored, glitter-infused stuffing churn through the clear pipes that fill the ceiling of the warehouse-like building. He keeps pointing and grinning at me as he watches his goose get filled from the inside. It’s really the kind of stuff only serial killers should enjoy.

“Are there kids there?” Bram sounds more than a little surprised.

I turn towards the wall, attempting to use my body as a sound shield, but shrieking kids run by with their own stuffed animals. And to imagine that Eve has a little brat like these. What a horrible thing to have to look after. “Maybe,” I reply darkly. It's Eve's fault for having her birthday at place clearly designed for people a fifth of our age.

There’s silence on the line, and I sigh deeply. “So. What do you actually want?” I ask him, eyes catching on Eve. She’s standing beside Jamie, looking as young and pretty as she was in college, nailing a simple-but-elegant style but still able to pull off hip, almost-in-your eye, dark bangs. She looks like the world’s most picturesque mother as she smiles and hugs her daughter to her side. There’s no way she’s really that happy to have to take care of a tiny carbon copy of herself, right?

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised; we never liked the same things.

Eve, by her own making, was my best friend in college. We had no similar interests, no overlapping classes, and completely different home lives. Eve went to church every week, I went day drinking; Eve studied calculus and linear algebra, I slept in during my english literature classes; Eve visited her parents and three siblings often, I made any excuse to not see my mother. But she’d been determined to befriend me, so eventually I gave in. Somehow we were roommates for three years.

And now our lives have branched in even more opposing directions, if possible. She married a nice, if boring, nurse. They have a kid and two dogs. They live in a little affordable house in Minnesota. Every year on her birthday I get to hear how fucking happy she is. It’s sickening. I don’t know why she puts up with me.

“Hello?” I’ve completely zoned out, but Bram still hasn’t said anything. What is wrong with this man?

He makes a “hm” kind of noise then says, “Sorry, Masie. I’ve gotta go.” I stare at Jamie’s finished goose, which he’s holding up like Simba, as the line goes dead.

How utterly rude. He calls me, and for what?

I stomp back over to Jamie and Eve and Mini Eve. Mini Eve looks at me through her matchy-matchy dark bangs and points at my pink combat boots. “I like your shoes.”

I am spared from making conversation with the child because Eve asks me, “What is it? Work?” She’s looking at me all doe-eyed, which is how she used to get me to do things in college with her. The worst part is she’s not being manipulative, that’s literally just what her eyes are like. She’s probably half deer.

“Yes,” I say distractedly, since at the same time Jamie is trying to hand me the limp body of the unfinished tiger I’d picked out.

“Was it Bram? How is he?”

I’m holding the tiger by its back leg, letting it dangle in front of me. I can’t help that my eyebrows raise as I look back at Eve. How is Bram? As if I would know. As if she should care? It takes me a second to think of something to say. “He’s really great. He’s doing just fine. Loving life. Just like you and mini-you.” My voice comes out bitter.

Jamie steps on my foot. He really must’ve put some force behind it because I feel it through the boot. This is why I hate hanging out with Eve, it makes me feel like a small dog yapping at a big one for no reason.

“Oh.” Eve gives me a thin smile; she’s not stupid. She takes her daughter by the hand. “We’ll be by the glitter tornado.”

As soon as her back is turned Jamie throws his newly-birthed goose at my head. I’m too slow to dodge, and it bounces off the side of my face. “What the hell?”

He holds up a pointer finger. “There are children around here.”

“Ok. What the fu–”

“You haven’t said a single nice thing to her all day! You begrudgingly said ‘happy birthday’. The first thing you said when you saw her was ‘have you had work done?’” Jamie’s finger is now pointed accusingly at me.

“Oh, right, because you weren’t thinking the same thing?” I fold my arms.

“We see her once a year, Masie.”

“Yeah, exactly. Once a year, so what’s the point? I don’t even know her anymore, and she definitely doesn’t know me. Why bother?”

“Because that’s what friends do. She’s making an effort.”

I laugh. “Making an effort to what? She gets to see me once a year and go, wow, thank god I’m not like this crazy bitch. I’m probably just entertainment for her cute little family, just a reminder of how great she’s got it.”

Jamie’s nostrils are flared, which only happens when he’s really mad because he thinks he looks like a bull when it happens and he tries his best to avoid doing it. “You’re literally so self-centered, Masie. This is her birthday. The world doesn’t revolve around you. I’m your friend, right? I make an effort too. I call you even when you haven’t talked to me in forever, I invite you out when I know you need someone to go with. I let you talk about yourself for hours even though you never ask if I have anything new or different or hard going on. Everyone else has their own life, how can you not see that? And if you don’t want to make an effort, then fine. We won’t either.”

I’m so shocked I literally drop my tiger carcass on the ground. Jamie and I have fought, but not like this. “Is this about something I said last night? Because I was drunk and I don’t really–”

Jamie shakes his head. I think there are tears in his eyes. “No, Masie. But speaking of, when you find a new friend, you should try apologizing to them and not just giving excuses.” He juts his chin into the air. “Now, Hank Featherford and I are going.”

“Hank–?” He swipes his goose off the ground. It's probably a better friend than I am. “Wait. Hey, I’m sorry, Jamie. I–”

He turns on his heel, Hank Featherford clutched against his chest. He’s definitely crying. “I’ll be at the confetti waterfall. Please don’t follow me.” He sniffs.

I scoff, then cringe at myself. Be nice, be nice. “Hey, wait. Is this about us or is this about Eve? Because, honestly, I wasn’t really that mean to her. But we can sort this out!” He’s not listening. And really, I don’t want to go any closer to the confetti waterfall anyway. So I pick up my sad tiger and take a few breaths. I’m not gonna fucking cry when there’s a seven-year-old two feet away, clutching a bright blue dinosaur body and waiting for the stuffing station.

I try miserably to smile at him, and then wander away.

--

(previous chapter)

pt 21: https://www.theprose.com/post/816609/contradictions

1) Phone Sex

A. "Has anyone ever told you that you have a really sexy voice?"

B. "Yeah, I used to work for the radio station when I was in college. You should hear me whisper."

C. Barely audible bedroom whisper in his left ear, a little raspy with unbearable sexxxy resonance..."Get the fuck outta here creep."

2) Mean Spirited

A. "I think this roommate situation will work out well, but there's something you should know. There's a ghost that's been fucking with me. He tried to kill my last roommate. His name is Jameson."

B. "Okay, that's cool. Good to know. Lucky for you, ghosts love me."

C. Six months later: Fucking Jameson knocked over my whole goddam box of Goldfish just to be a dick. What a monster.

3) Ghosted

A. "Where are you? What happened? I'm so confused." Radio silence.

B. Unanswered texts = 37. Unreturned phone calls = 15. Profound voicemails = 1.

C. "I've decided to leave you one singular voicemail since you're ghosting me after 4 months together. It's called Casper the Cowardly Ghost. I hope you like it, you stupid mother fucker." **True story. I did this** :) :) :)

4) Lie with the Dogs

A. "Your boyfriend left you because you have a terrible singing voice."

B. "You didn't deserve to be ghosted."

C. "I'm a nice dog."

5) Nightmares

A. "How's your novel coming along?"

B. "Not great, but my mean dog and Jameson believe in me."

C. Unwritten chapters = 37. Thank God my radio silence has a sexy voice.

I expected it — I was notified

I accepted it — aware and clear-eyed

Therefrom came the scheduled rendezvous

My Star Caller, punctual, followed through

As ethereal, mega-headed, and telepathic

In agreement with my intuition

It accepted my precondition

It would not communicate

Or otherwise concentrate

With anyone else extrasensorate

Lest a whirlwind of complex humanity

Confound it in cultures contradictory

I needed to break it in gently

To the foibles of mankind's assembly

And risk not, tragically, alienate

I considered first contact, at least,

With a rabbi, an imam, or priest

But even that could involve trysts

Of subtly misread, misunderstood risks

Simple mistakes incompatibly mutate

No, I needed to go even humbler

Lest make the usual human blunder

Of solipsistic hubris, misassumption,

Leading our summit to fruitless disjunction

Essential to avoid the ill-passionate

Who should I deem it meet

To avoid our unavoidable conceit?

Who, from it, should we dutifully hide,

Those it couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't abide?

The very same saboteurs who pontificate

Where are the Kings, Mother Theresas, and Ghandis

And the Mandelas we ideally embrace so fondly

When sidestepping the ubiquitous, quotidian cruelties

That the rest of us wear so proudly as jewelry?

The deceit, invectives, and racism used to subjugate

It turns out I met it, impotently, to befriend us

But with no one I trusted to fairly represent us

Until there appeared a proxy enchanted

Who was always there but taken for granted

Man's best friend, incarnate

He greeted the being satisfactory

With wagging inquiries olfactory

Opened its mouth to invite it

And have faith his jowls wouldn't bite it

More than enough to appreciate

This oral seduction inviting to trust

Between dog and Star Caller was decisively sussed

Giving the gentle but powerful canine

The benefit of the doubt without reading his mind

Neither a biting-the-hand-that-feeds-it correlate

"For surely," said Star Caller, "this gentle sentience

Could tear my flesh apart in temperamental violence.

But taking my limb so softly, with such teeth

Dignifies sweet innocence underneath."

Host and guest forged a whole world's fate

"I've seen enough," concluded Star Caller.

"How can I wreck a planet that's smaller

Than the love such a creature has for its friend

And who will live for him till the very end?"

Without judgment, scoring, or debate

Star Caller returned to the skies, aimed at his Sun

To report back to those whence he had come

En route called, but once, via quantum transmitter

To put down a deposit for the pick of the litter

He died in the winter of his 32nd year

Coming home to a place he'd never been before

He couldn't leave yesterday behind him

You might say he was dead all along

You might say he lost the keys to the door

When he first came to the desert his life was far away

Off the trails, hanging by a grain of sand

All his dreams broken and he wished he cared more

It keeps coming down and he won't last much more

In the Godforsaken Desert Lows

I've seen it snowing sand on the moon

The sunlight behind the night sky is louder than we know

Godforsaken Desert Lows (Godforsaken lows)

Godforsaken Desert Lows (God only knows)

He fell from idolic mountains

He hit the dusty roads below

He couldn't see everything he was meant to be

They say he went crazy

When the sand blocked the sun

He couldn't make friends with the moon or memories

Now we walk without him

With his desolation and dunes

Seeking forgiveness with every step we take

He lost sight of himself and we can't ever understand

The turbulence of a lost soul in wasted desert sands

In the Godforsaken Desert Lows

I've seen it snowing sand on the moon

Talked to God but he didn't reply

Godforsaken Desert Lows (Godforsaken lows)

Godforsaken Desert Lows (God only knows)

Now his life is full but it's over

And our hearts know a new kind of fear

Complicated hearts we can all understand

Weeping under mountains instead of climbing some more

We're all scarred from our own Godforsaken wars

In the Godforsaken Desert Lows

I've seen it snowing sand on the moon

I've seen a man lose his life too soon

Fuck these Wasted Desert Lows

Godforsaken Desert Lows

I've seen it snowing sand on the moon

Strangers around the campfire and everybody's low

We're all wasted in these Godforsaken Desert Lows

It's beneath the sand

where all is buried

in desert low

like a pearl

the pool

Beneath the sand

down where it's

neither

hot nor cooled

Beneath the sand

of Time

where all lies

in waiting

Beneath the sand

drawn for its own

full occasion

by the tide

Beneath the sand

the pull of water

dips anew...

Beneath the sand

the desert Moon.

11.26.2023

The Desert Moon challenge @Huckleberry_Hoo

For the last few years, I've been obsessed with gender relations. I watched countless hours of YouTube videos on the subject from many different perspectives. What I found is that there is a lot of bitterness out there from both men and women.

There are a lot of women who just straight up hate men. There are also a lot of women who have decided that they are done with being a "strong independent" woman. They have reached a place in their life where they don't want to go through it alone anymore. However, they are having a hard time getting the men they want to take them seriously and they have come to the realization that they will be spending the rest of their lives alone.

There are also men who hate women. They resent women because they are in that large group of men with whom women won't give the time of day. There are also men who have witnessed friends or relatives being taken to the cleaners in divorce and hesitate to enter into that kind of arrangement themselves.

I am in that large group of men with whom women don't even see. There are reasons for that which I won't regurgitate here but once explained make perfect sense.

So, I have come to a place where I am sympathetic with the things women have to consider when selecting a partner. I can also accept that as a man I need to develop myself to a certain extent otherwise women aren't going to see me. I can choose to put in that work or if I think it's not worth it, not put in the work.

I never thought that I would ever be the object of any womans desire. I also thought I would end up as the guy that some woman had to settle for because she either let the guy she really wanted go or couldn't secure him in the first place.

However, I was wrong. This past year I met a woman who truly desired me. It was as amazing as I thought it would be. I had never felt love like that from anyone before. It would have been beyond amazing if that could have been maintained but that turned out not to be the case. Still, I don't regret it for even a moment. She loved me and it felt more real than anything else I have ever experienced. If she is reading this, she should know that she deserves both love and devotion.

I'm not ever going to be the same and it's in the best way possible. To leave someone in a better place than when you found them is a good thing and that is certainly the case with me. I don't expect to ever find that again but at least I now know it's possible.

You may be asking what "hitting the wall" means in terms of mate selection. What it means is that you are no longer capable of attracting the person you want. In the case of women, they can always get sex. There will always be some guy somewhere willing to have sex with you if you are desperate enough, but I'm not talking about sex, I'm talking about the person you want to spend the rest of your life with.

Men start out worthless (unless they have looks) and have to work to get to the place where they can attract the person they want. Most men never get to that place.

If you've seen a video by some woman who has realized that they don't want to be alone anymore and can no longer attract the person they want, it can be sad because you only live once and if you screw it up, that's pretty much it. However, I don't feel sorry for anyone, especially myself. I'm responsible for putting in the work to get the life I want. I either do it or I don't. That's what being a man is.

So, I'm doing it and the closer I get to that place, the more that women are going to notice. That's just the way it works. However, I'm not working on myself to attract a woman, I am working on myself because the more I work on myself, being the person I've always wanted to be, the happier I am going to be.

There is a woman who is worth being devoted to, I know because I've met her, and she has set the bar super high for any other woman that might find me attractive in the future.

he wakes his love

dark rumble

over lush surface

she feels his insistence

a building deluge

that can no longer be denied

cloudbursts profess

his love unbound

as she achingly pulls

every aqueous droplet offered

into her substratum

for she knows

this is life itself

spent, he deeply inhales

the rising aromatic nectar

of their liaison

upon her landscape

I wonder if you will ever know the damage you’ve caused. It’s been a year, but in my soul the time where we existed together seems like the only reality I’ve ever known. Everything now seems hollow in comparison and lacking reason or sense of purpose...Will it always be this way? It’s almost funny, so many times we discussed which one of us would flake from this relationship. If i’m being honest I always believed it would have been me. True enough, it was the punch I didn’t see coming…It was you…I fucking hate you for it. So much so that I laugh and cry at the same time, the insanity of the moment creating suffocation within me. Believe you me I’ve tried to forget you. I’ve gone out with my friends; I’ve picked up hobbies, and even turned to religion for comfort. Did you know I even tried kissing another girl just the other day? Her name was Alice. She was sweet, beautiful, and certainly more agreeable than you ever were. By any standard a ten if there ever was one. Yet, I left her all together after that kiss. Nothing tasted more bitter on my lips. Nothing offended my eyes more. Nothing broke me quite as deep than painfully being aware she wasn’t you. Where ever I go, whatever I do, your the reminder that something will forever be missing. There are days were I muster the strength to look at the old oak tree in the field. You remember the one?…I still chuckle thinking of the night of the famous One-Star show. You laid at the feet of that tattered old oak, like a child whose about to see their first firework; the anticipation of magic in your eyes waiting for a sky full of stars to shine in splendor. Yet there was only one. Not even the moon was full. By all means a disappointment by any who knew better, but not you, your eyes stared at that one star as if you were looking at the face of God. Never disappointed, and in that one moment making me realize just how much I loved you. You didn’t see the world the same way I did which is why I needed you near me. My colors grew ever brighter from your light…I dare admit I still need you…So much so that now I lay at the feet of that tattered old tree, and I look for that one star among a sky of millions. When I find it I stare it, much like you did. Only it’s not God I see, but you; it’s not magic I feel, but an endless grief. I will burn this letter after it is written. With eyes welled up, within me never grew the strength to admit and accept; that the moment my life ended was the day you……

These vignettes are snapshots collected in a scrapbook. Added all together, they make a short film on a small segment of my life in these last few years. When I look back at the gathered pieces of prose, they give me a tangible view of memory and perception. These pieces are real life, tossed out among fantastic stories of the nearly believable.

I wish these little pieces weren't so easy to believe.

I'd much rather convince the reader that vampires exist and monsters walk among us. Murder makes a far more compelling subject, I think.

These holiday stories, they tell the tale of aging parents and the inevitable conclusion of a major life chapter.

My grandmother wasn't a saint, but that's probably because she didn't live long enough to become a villain. My grandfather did.

I don't think my mother will.

She may not be a villain, but her heroic days are long gone. She doesn't even go to bed anymore. I don't know if that's because she doesn't have the energy, or if it's because she's fine staying in the recliner. I know I sometimes sleep in mine, but I almost always wake up in the middle of the night, drunk with sleep and stumbling into my bedroom.

She seems to sleep all the time.

"What do you want to watch on tv?" She asks, for the twentieth time. She punctuates the question with scrolling down the Dish Network guide page, but she nods off with her finger on the remote. I look over at my stepfather, and he shrugs, shaking his head. This is the new normal.

She sleeps this way for five minutes, ten, maybe even an hour. She awakens with a start, asking if I'd decided what channel to watch. "Whatever you want to see," I answer, thumbing to the next page of my book.

We don't really talk. We never really have, at least not in years. This is our routine, this is our love language: it started in the days of Turtles before it became Blockbuster, hell, it started before chain movie rentals were even a thing. We'd snag enough movies to last a weekend, and we'd make our way through them. Sometimes we'd check out six at a time. Now, we surf the half-dozen subscription services we have on our phones, or maybe we scroll down that guide page on the Dish.

What little talking we do on this trip is about a girl I almost dated. She had a feature in the paper, local lady does good over at the District Attorney's office.

Mom always did want me to be a lawyer. I guess reminding me of the lawyer I let get away is as close as she'll get. (The fact that we never dated hasn't really clicked with Mom for decades, and God knows it doesn't click now.)

So I drive back home, and we begin watching television. Or, we begin looking for something to watch, which actually takes more time than watching what's been agreed upon. This trip, I managed to save a small collection of movies I thought would do. Some of them did the trick, but a few were "too weird," as she puts it.

Big words from a lady who sleeps through the credits and most of the stuff in between them.

I'm not sure of the moment everything changed with these trips back home. I know it began to change back when she got a secondary infection from an operation a few years ago. The anti-biotics did a number on her kidneys.

It's been a slippery slope ever since.

This Thanksgiving has given me a harsh live-action glimpse of life back home. Historically, Mom did all the work in the kitchen. Not just Thanksgiving, but all of it. She was a stay at home mom, her job was to make the house a home. She did this expertly, preparing daily southern meals that Paula Deen or Martha Stewart would be lucky to share.

She doesn't cook anymore.

This thing, this centerpiece of pride, a chore that made up so much of her identity (not to me, but to herself) is gone.

My step-father does all the kitchenwork now, and he prepared the Thanksgiving meal.

For the first time, I saw the ghost of my mother sleeping in the chair where my mom used to sit.

"Things are getting harder," he quietly said to me. We whispered in hurried murmurs when Mom stepped into the master bathroom. "Her mind is..." he trailed off. Shifting gears, he continued, "Her moods are hard."

He didn't say it, but he didn't have to.

Her mind is going.

"Did you decide what to watch on television?" She asks, shuffle-stepping back to ease down into her recliner. I smile, and tell her it doesn't matter to me.

We don't talk, we watch television.

She falls asleep again after putting the TV on a true crime show.

Looking over towards the woman who still knows me, but whom I used to know, I think time is the truest criminal. Maybe this is a story about murder, after all.

may I wake up to in the morning

to the sound of my brother

laughing in my mother's arms

they are dancing to the coffee song

(that's what he calls it)

tonight we'll chase fireflies

it is the year of the cicadas

and the summer of mosquitos

we'll get out the citronella candles

and the tealights for dinner

my dad is coming home today

we'll eat dinner on the deck

at my grandparents house

corn on the cob, off the cob

steak and dessert - always

there is a sister and a daughter

I hug her tightly and she smiles

with some of her teeth missing

she still has a birthmark

on her forehead but it's faded

this time is sacred, I linger before I leave

and it is the only thing that heals me