Everest
Miss Everest. Every bit as gorgeous and regal as she sounds. Piercing sky blue eyes, fluffy grey white fur, she is the epitome of elegance. She is... Majestic, classy, a model dog.
Ok, ok, now that I have died laughing, let's get serious here. Everest is an annoying, too smart for her own good, hairy beast, but she is my baby. This big mountain of fluff is the most lovable goofball you will ever meet... If she doesn't knock you off a cliff first because she's excited.
Fences? Psst, no match for this girl. She is a master jumper.
Singing? OH MY GOD, fantastic. She absolutely loves to sing the songs of her wolf ancestors.. all through the night.
Water or snow? She could play in there for hours.
Do we know manners? Oh of course.
Do we choose to listen? Hahaha no.
Miss Everest is all about that husky glitter and loves to leave her mark everywhere. Clothes, hands, your face, your food. I'm pretty sure I've inhaled enough I'll be coughing up a hairball soon but I wouldn't trade the silly fluff for anything.
A little more about her. She is a one and a half year old malamute husky mix who I rescued from the animal shelter as a puppy. She is the sassiest, most in your face dog at times and a complete, fall at your feet for belly rubs, teddy bear at other.
-AJ
I sat half-lying on the couch after a long day at work, thinking about all the questions that have been proposed throughout history: what is the reason for existence? Is this what life really is? when you visit the world of uncertainty, the way out is more difficult than a maze in the Amazon forest. I do not realize that I am living the years of loneliness until these questions visit me in my usual seat, the sofa. As I stared at the TV remote, I wondered: is it time to waste some time escaping the truth? But my mind was confused and full of unusual thoughts, stopping me from grabbing that remote. As I sat half-lying, my brain almost exploded, saying, 'Let me take a breath.' But who would tell that brain of mine that I also wanted to take a breath? I thought about getting up, perhaps walking quickly towards my room, where I find the bed waiting for me with a warm welcome and saying: 'Stop thinking today, you have enough time tomorrow,' as I do every day. But something stopped me today. I did not find the desire to get up, nor did I find the strength to sleep, and I did not find comfort greeting me today. I sat half-lying on the sofa, waiting for nothing, listening to my mind's unusual conversation, staring into space... I felt something lying on top of my knee, I looked at my dog. He looked at me with his half-asleep look, almost as if he would shout: 'Feed me!' any second. I got up from the couch, it was time for his dinner. I put the food on his plate, I put the plate in front of him, and he barked at me (a way of his to thank me). I sat half-standing, watching him devour his food, and smiled lightly at him. He let me escape my thoughts without me realizing, maybe I'm not that lonely…
Justification
He was a lonely son of a bitch. The kind people raised their fingers in the sign of the twelfth letter to their foreheads laughing as they passed by. And passed by they did as every breath he exhaled carried within the death knell of vinegary regret that wilted any chance to ever be loved. His stench proceeded him in all his paths stinking up the place long before and after his reeking funk of his malodorous presence entered or retreated. The fear of humiliation so inbred that it crept beside him whipping aside all comers with a wicked arched tail raised to spew the scent of delirious schizopsychopathy rearing up twelve forked tongues in split second response to any overtures that could be construed as rejection. A cyclops of rueful remorse weaponized into fumbling whips of inept tentacles lashing slashing clawing in desperate clinging bloody rips and tears.
His face once passably pleasant now a landslide of silver streaked sprouting dangling jowls that bobbled and sagged matched to his rear by dimpled expanding ass cheeks that appeared pleasing only when stretched taut within precious moments at the greased rimmed cup black plastic trash bags over discarded plywood secured with duct tape of the local glory hole to be pumped and prodded deep brown gritty lipstick smeared semen striped puckered out. Where he'd yell out with a gravely guttural hoarse scream like a hyena shot with a tranquilizer gun waiting to die yet pulled into a deep sleep only to wake up in a crowded pen with so many other hyenas no longer special wild free. A substantial scream hands pumping his pesky piddly prick simultaneously in substitute for how he felt a lifetime of love might feel like squeezed into a black hole kind of ecstasy wouldacoulda have been. Mere minutes of fun flimsy fleeting satiation were now all that was left to justify his miserable wasted existence.
And then he'd wobbled home alone flopping his torn ass onto discolored splatter worn cushions that were also his bed exhaling. Wilted cactus in pots lining his dank molded peeling window sills. Black murderous mold creeping across the drooping scarred tiles of his sinking ceiling where his eyes were drawn to stare into the abyss of his inner space to take thoughts away from his stinging tail and the scent of sweet violation. The scent of all the others still lodged deep inside come out in squeaking slender melodious farts as he felt himself give into to the deep pressing spent tire that rose from his backside to his wrinkled eyelids. A cup reading #1 Nothing once filled with his own vile mixture of whiskey stale coffee and spittle brown becoming black around the crusty edges sat on the littered mess of papers and poems that was also his mind that spills and runs knocked over by a jerk in rare REM sleep in remembrance of an especially sharp and piercing precise entry the only one to hit that exact spot to give him momentary euphoria using him to rapture and rise up toward the heavens. A slight slumber smile raised the corners of his crusty drooling lips. Justification.
Bourbon and bereavement
His favorite drink was Old Grandad and Coke. I tasted it a few times, and I remember how it burned. I never saw him doing shots, instead, he'd make a tall glass with just a little ice. The Coke was always kept in the fridge, and I recall he bought the one liter bottles back before two liters came in plastic. Brown bourbon fire would sit on the kitchen counter, vibrant orange labels aflame.
Nobody ever had to worry about me drinking underage.
He often smelled of Winstons and sweat. He didn't stink, not really, but it wasn't a clean smell, either. Hell, none of us probably smelled too clean in his house. He grew up in Chicago, and he didn't believe in air conditioning. How the fuck does someone live in Savannah, Georgia, and not believe in man's greatest gift to man? The air is so thick down there that breathing is a chore. Most of the time, winter is a distant goddamned dream or a hazy reminiscence in the dog days.
Fuck me. Didn't believe in air conditioning.
He retired from the Army. I think he got out as an E-6. That's not stellar, especially for somebody who served multiple tours in the jungles of Vietnam. I think he got in around '65, and I'm not sure if he was drafted or volunteered. I know he got busted a time or two, and I know he ended up in motorpool. I'm pretty sure he was motorpool for most of his hitch, working on deuce and a half trucks. Not exactly a glorious assignment, but not everybody is Rambo, and there are no unimportant jobs in war.
Well. Rear echelon motherfuckers can certainly clog up the works. Wirerats can cause trouble in a smooth operation, but I have no evidence to claim he was a hitter or just a driver. It doesn't matter.
I can't find his records. I've tried.
What does matter is the way memories have a way of sneaking in punches when I look the other way. A turn of phrase from a friend at dinner can make me jump back forty years like it was five minutes ago. Smelling someone's bourbon and coke hit me so hard tonight that I could hear Men at Work talkin' bout a Vegemite sandwich.
I don't miss the man. Hell, I hardly knew him. I didn't much like him, or the company he kept. We were too different, he and I. We came from different places, we had different drives. He lacked ambition, was always hard-luck. He cycled through women after his third wife left him. I liked her, even if my mom and she had a strained relationship; wife three was the other woman for wife two, after all.
I was born to wife two.
My mom tells me I inherited his hair and his sense of humor. I probably should have started shaving my head at 20 instead of 21, but I dated a girl who hated the bald look, so I kept it for her. She left me, and about a month later, I went right for the razor and never looked back.
I stopped referring to him as my dad at around age 12. The man who raised me, the man I call my father but I never called father, he kept his hair the same way the Army vet did. Naturally bald, with the silly wings on the side. If I were to grow mine out, I'd probably have the same thing happen, but I'm not interested.
I never was one for wings. I take solace in solid ground underfoot.
Rooted. Based. Planted.
He was a bit of a rolling stone, that man I once called Dad. The last I heard, he ended up in Augusta, likely in the free hospital there. I understand his last days were spent in hospice, a final gift by way of Agent Orange.
I didn't go to the funeral.
I didn't hate him. I don't hate him now. At the end of life, I just didn't care.
I'm not sure what that says about me, but chalk that up to another thing I don't much care about.
His favorite drink was Old Grandad and Coke, but I never did grow into liking it.
I guess I never really grew to like him, either.
Some people say family is what we're stuck with.
In the end, that's not always true.
A talent for distance
Each time, the final badge was designed by me and bore my name. Every time, I would write the end in the middle of every conversation without any warning. I was the one who finished and I was the one who walked away without a word. Maybe that was my specialty, distancing. I have a talent for this. I move away in ways that no one can imagine, and I move away like an imaginary river in the desert, suddenly disappearing. But the strange thing about it, and something I could not figure out the reason for, is that I feel sad because I am away, but I distance myself from myself in order not to be sad. I am accustomed to rejecting others, staying away from people, and cutting off all ties with them, but I am not accustomed to having someone stay away from me. I have never given anyone a chance before. I am always the winner in the race to stay away. But today, I was the loser…
Perishable
"Was it the fifth or the eighth?" He's leaning against the bathroom sink, looking over at her. She sits on the edge of the tub, holding a washcloth against her nose. The slightest touch usually sets her nose to bleeding, and today is no exception.
Her response is muffled, but he can tell she's chuckling. "Officially? The eighth. But that first dance was the fifth."
By "officially," she's referring to when he kissed her under a winter sky. They ended up dancing at a high school thing, then a couple of days later he found a reason to justify picking her up from her house. They pretended to go to an extracurricular meeting after school.
Instead, they were their own curriculum, and lonely days faded into the past.
"Right, right. Oh, I remember both nights like they were yesterday, for sure," he exhales wistfully. "I guess I've just gotten fuzzy on the dates themselves."
"It's not like it really matters anymore, does it?" The bleeding has stopped, and she's dabbing her nostrils.
He watches her as she moves in grace and beauty, doing this mundane thing. He remembers moving her in ways that were more closely related to need and urgency than anything graceful or beautiful.
But the beauty is always there, even in destruction. He never tires of seeing her, feeling her, the scent of her.
She begged him to hurt her, and he did. She wears fingerprint bruises on her thighs, and when she connects the dots, she'll find a picture sketched in passion. A slap is what landed them in the bathroom, taking a breather near the tail end of a wild night.
To be fair, he didn't know about the easy bleeding, and she didn't tell him.
The picture of her smiling through the crimson curtain, though, was equal parts creepy, terrifying, and fiercely arousing.
He takes her in, admiring her nude form. Unselfconsciously, he wears his nakedness as easily as a three-piece suit, and around him she is much the same.
Two children and a few decades haven't changed her much from those days in the back of his car.
"What?" She looks up to catch him catching an eyeful of her.
"How did we end up here?"
"You smacked the shit out of me, remember?"
He smiles, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You know that's not what I mean."
"And I know you still owe me a few more minutes in that bedroom."
She stands, stretches, tosses the washcloth into the tub. It makes a satisfying sound against the enameled cast iron. She steps over to him, stretching tiptoe to give him a peck on the cheek. Her arms drape across his shoulders and her fingers lace behind his neck.
Bending, scooping, he carries her back into the bedroom.
Framed photos of her husband and their kids watch things no one should see. She laughs, cries, calls his name, and it's like thirty years never separated them.
Satiated, satisfied, she gasps for air, spent. He stretches on the bed alongside her, hands behind his head. He watches the ceiling fan slowly spin. She reaches over and runs a hand along his chest.
"I miss you," she says in a whisper.
"I never went anywhere," he darts his eyes over to her, and he catches her flinch.
"I think the 'us' you knew wasn't the same one I did," her words are a rush that has nothing to do with exertion. "Love is--"
"A perishable skill," he interrupts her.
She withdraws her hand, and sits up to look at him.
"That's a funny word, 'perishable.' Do you think we rotted? Wilted? Spoiled?"
His eyes drink her in again, and he sighs. The thirst is never quenched, the cup is never full. "Everything is a kind of dying, ain't it?" He catches her brown eyes and glances over at one of the framed photos and back again.
Her shoulders slump a little, but she doesn't look away. She holds out a hand, and he takes it.
It's a comfortable silence, then she changes the topic. "When can you meet next week?"
"A better question is how will you explain the bruises?"
She grins, and idly pokes them with her free hand. Diamond and gold glitter from her ring finger.
"I'm clumsy?"
"You really should be careful how you fall, you know." She grins when he says that, kisses his fingers, and stands to dress. He watches every stretch of muscle and flex of skin.
They used to be in love, but now she's somebody he used to know.
"I'm free Tuesday," he says as she smiles.
A Cold Morning
The morning was cold and quiet like snowflakes falling to Earth. I take an even step onto the porch, nursing a cup of coffee in glove-clad hands as the heat produces billowing steam into the crisp air. I lean back against the house as I look out onto the land, my eyes skiing across the frozen pond before landing on the distant barn. Furrowing my brows, I hold my breath to listen more closely. I finish off my coffee with a bit more haste, dropping the mug off in the house before making my way to the barn. It’s unusual for my girls to make such a racket, bellowing so loudly. I keep a decent pace, quickly arriving at the barn. I crack open the door, grunting softly as I push it open. All of the cows are raising hell, their cacophonous lowing ringing throughout the barn. I whistle as I look at my biggest girl, Pearl; she’s on the ground snorting and mooing in distress.
“No wonder you were being so loud, mama.” I walk over to my work station, taking off my warm gloves to replace them with a long, plastic one on my right arm before walking back over to her pen. I push away some clumped up straw and get behind her, sliding my hand in her rear to check the condition of the baby. It feels like it’s coming out the correct way, except for the fact that its limbs are giving Pearl some trouble. “I hope you haven’t been like this too long, ol’ girl.” I slide my hand out after pushing the calf’s limbs into better positions and let Pearl push some more, but she doesn’t seem to make much progress.
I sigh, jogging more frantically over to my work station. I dig around, looking on the shelves and hooks for some chains. “Damn, you’d think I’d have chains lying around everywhere.” I dredge up some chains from a large chest next to my workbench after a bit of searching. I pat Pearl’s head softly as I walk behind her with the chains. “Don’t worry, girl. We’ll get it done.” By now, the other cows have quieted down some and the only sound is Pearl’s pained grunts and the clanking of the chains as I reach in to loop them around the calf. I curse softly to myself, having trouble getting the chains in place with one hand. I drop them on the ground and jog back to the workbench, swiftly pulling another glove on before moving behind Pearl once more. I reach in with the chain, grabbing the calf’s leg to secure the chain to it. I do the same to the other leg and slide the limbs into place, hoping to make the process go smoother. I pull my hands out with a huff before standing up, the opposite ends of the chains in my hands. I take a deep breath and tug softly to make sure that the chains don’t slip off immediately.
“Alright big girl. This’ll be cake, yeah?” I loop the chains around my hands for a better grip since the discharge covering the gloves is as slick as oil. I take a deep breath and pull, using my body weight as I plant my feet and lean back, tugging the chains. Pearl is quiet as she pushes, her body visibly contracting as she tries to force the calf out. I see the hooves start to emerge just as my hands start to slip again. I adjust my stance and reaffirm my grip on the chains, scolding myself for getting them covered in the slippery discharge.
“Come on, mama. Just a little more.” I start pulling the chains again, the links pinching against my hands as they bend against the force. My foot slips slightly on the puddle of blood and discharge on the ground, but I quickly recover and keep pulling as Pearl pushes. I watch as the calf slowly slides out, eventually flopping onto the ground. I quickly get on my knees, wiping the mucus from its nose and mouth. Vigorously rubbing the calf, I try to get a response. I feel worried because of the cold temperature, but I continue stimulating the calf until it snorts, shaking its little head. I smile softly and drag it over to Pearl so she can clean it off.
“Congratulations mama.” I say before walking off to get a heat lamp for the new little family.
Leftovers
"There's a river in India." The old man speaks the sentence like it's a complete thought. He huffs, he grunts, and he struggles with his bundle, but the audience can't hear him. He pauses, patting his pockets. His hand crumples against the pack of Marlboros; he usually buys them in the box, but beggars and choosers.
Before he can strike a light, he reconsiders. Work first, joy later.
"Fuck. Right. So listen," he stoops, lifts with his legs, and shoulders his burden. It's wrapped in an old queen comforter, and it's soaked through in places in an unpleasant shade of rusty red, still wet to the touch.
Even though he's mindful to keep the wet spots off his clothes, he'll burn what he's wearing anyway, to be safe.
"That river? They set corpses on floats and light 'em on fire. I mean, damn. People drink from the fuckin thing, right? Eventually, the bodies partially burn, but then other pieces, they sink down into the mud. Maybe they float downstream. I understand there are birds who roost along the banks, and they follow the rafts until the fires go out, then it's like a goddamn buzzard buffet. Christ, you gotta love the world, man. It takes all kinds."
He has been walking quite a while, and his feet finally squelch. He's found the muddy grass that tells him the tide is up and the saltwater creek is just a few steps away. He knows where he is, and he has been able to smell the ocean for hours, but the sound of his footsteps are reassurance that he has arrived at the right place.
"You'd have made my life a lot easier if I could put your dumb ass on a raft and light you on fire." At high tide, the water here hovers around fifteen feet deep. At low, it dips down to about seven. The current is slow, but steady and strong.
Fishermen rarely end up on this bend, because it's too far from an easy ramp and tides leave little room for error or mistiming. There's a highway bridge a couple of miles downstream, and if someone gets stuck on this side at high tide, they can't squeeze under to get back to the takeout. All in all, this stretch just aint worth the occasional whiting or croaker.
Anybody who has the bright idea to park the half mile or so away and hike in across marsh is usually discouraged by gators, snakes, or the stories and tales that surround both.
The truth is, there's not much here that goes bump in the night except the man carrying what used to be another.
Moonlight is an alabaster ball reflecting on opaque ebony. Ripples scatter the devil's sunshine across bathwater-warm water as the blanket is pulled away and the body sinks facedown.
The corpse is a ragged, chewed thing. By the time the tide carries it to sea, and it bobs on the waves, it will be thoroughly visited by any number of aquatic scavengers. If anyone notices the naked man, only a DNA test will show who he used to be.
When the old man makes it back to his car, he strips as naked as the corpse. Every piece of clothing, along with the blanket, is placed in a large black garbage bag. He wipes his feet clean with paper towels, rinsing them with bottled water. He vaguely remembers a passage from the Bible, and he chuckles as he finally lights a cigarette after slipping into a pair of sweats and a cheap tee shirt. Flip flops complete his ensemble, and his mind goes from the book of John to Tarantino. His outfit reminds him of Jules and Vincent.
Flipping through the radio, his car is filled with music of the oldies. "Son of a Preacher Man" is playing, and he laughs out loud, because the Pulp Fiction picture is now complete in his mind.
He skips the diner, though.
He's already eaten, and the leftovers are being carried out to sea.
Soon to be Embers
It's not easy to start a fire in the dead of winter. Takes Cam a full twenty minutes, June and I watching from the hammock we hung in the trees.
It's a dark night, but the moon shines vibrantly from behind a stray cloud. Once the fire is alive I go and stand next to Cam, picking at the sleeves of my sweater. He hands me a cup and we coax June over for a shot. She makes a face at the taste. I take another.
The ground is sloped down, a pile of leaves and a jut of land just a few yards away, then a drop into more forest. I find a morbid solace in the fact that I could roll right down and disappear into the trees if I wanted. Don't know what makes me think it, but I like the thought that I could get away.
Cam is squatting by the fire, nudging it around with a stick. June goes and sits on a tree stump, baggy jeans flaring out like two angry nostrils. She takes a hit of her vape, smoke combining with smoke.
The heat of the fire is intense on my cheeks, maybe that means I stand there too long watching Cam. He cut his hair and it makes him look like the boys I used to see in church, not like him at all. Close-cropped to the head like he's getting sent off to war.
We'll all be sent off again soon, June to Kentucky and Cam to New York. I'll be in Michigan. We can only hope college won't tear us all apart, that we'll do this again next time we're all home.
Staring into the flames, I can't help but reminisce on last summer, before we left. We threw a party at June's dad's house, she still regrets it. Filled the bathtub with jungle juice and broke the window in the kitchen trying to open it. Everybody was there, everybody important. We'd sat in the basement with all the lights off, lit a candle and told ghost stories without any ghosts. Cam burned his hand on the flame, a little too drunk, I'd taken him upstairs and kissed him accidentally.
Now Cam's in charge of the fire and I'm in charge of the drinking. June is using a stick to draw a cat with fangs in the frozen ground. I wonder if we know each other any more.
I go over to look out at the drop. Doesn't seem that far down. Stand between two trees, take hold of both trunks and lean all my weight forward so they're the only things keeping me in place. Wonder if they're old, if they'll snap, if I'll be sent flying. I stay like that for a few minutes. Nothing happens.
June calls me back, tells me I've got to be cold. I am, kind of. Not really. I breathe out and watch the cloud of condensation. Count the seconds I can see it like I counted the months.
I turn back. Cam's a silhouette, June is lit up by the fire, arms crossed. I wanna know if they've made new friends but I'm afraid to ask.
I make my way back, June is singing now, foot stamping out a beat. Cam turns to smile at me, share a look just like we used to. The fire is warm, soon to be embers but not quite yet.
The Loose Cannon
Introduction:
People who know me well, can pick up that I LOVE to throw a cringe-worthy phrase into my conversations. Whether it be, “Oh sugar plums” or “When pigs fly” I find enjoyment in using cliché or overused phrases. During my AP Language and Composition class last year, we were given a merriment assignment as a diversion from practicing the AP exam's long essay questions. The project was to put overused phrases to bed and take them out of our writing. The requirements were to write an Eulogy about our chosen overused phrase, so I decided to pick “loose cannon.” The standard for the Eulogy was to speak about our beloved overused phrase, while also making the language absurd by using as many overused and cliched phrases as possible. The purpose of cramming these ridiculous phrases in one place was to purge them from our systems so these phrases would not end up in our responses to the AP exam’s long essay questions. Most students in the class found this assignment half-witted, however, I enjoyed every moment because I LOVE these corny phrases. Enough explaining, let’s remember our dear friend, the Loose Cannon.
In Memory: The Beloved, Yet Overused, Loose Cannon
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Say good-bye to Loose Cannon,
We bid you, “Adieu”.
I stand before all of you today, even those who are the flies on the wall, to crack open the can of worms and remember the life of our friend, Loose Cannon. If you have ever been associated with the “Loose Cannon”, it is a day to feel a sense of relief as you will no longer be mocked by the name, Loose Cannon. However, don’t count your chickens before they have hatched because there are still other fish in the sea, so I cannot guarantee you will not be called a Bull in a China Shop, a Kid in the Candy Store, or a Hot Mess, however, I promise you will no longer be the Loose Cannon because the phrase is being put out to pasture. No need to throw anyone under the bus because it is what it is. Those who used “loose cannon” as their only insult or comeback may be struggling today as it is a tough pill to swallow but remember actions speak louder than words. However, they are going to have to think outside the box to find new insults because this is now the new normal. Although it may be heavy lifting, your support is needed more than ever towards those who relied on the phrase, “loose cannon” because there is no I in TEAM. But at the end of the day, everyone will get over this mind-blowing loss, by taking the lemons and turning them into lemonade. As they say, the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. The phrase will be missed dearly as it will force our emotions to be taken to the next level, and it will take a lot of hammering it out to clear the air but eventually, everyone will get on the same page and be back to square one. I don’t want to beat a dead horse so I feel it's best to end it here. If for some reason your head was in the clouds during this memorial speech, to put this in simple terms the Loose Cannon is going out with a BANG!
Conclusion:
While it is tragic that the Loose Cannon and his friends are gone from my writing, at least I will score high on all writing-related assignments from now on. I cannot promise a cringe phrase will not slip out every once in a while in my conversations, but I can say the overused phrases are deposed from all writing, so I am more than ready for all writing in the future!