Rental Car
Once, I took a trip and rented a car.
After a few hours of driving,
I opened the glove compartment
and inside I found a pair of
women's underwear,
several packages of extra large condoms,
a pair of Foster Grant sunglasses
and a dry-cleaning receipt
and I thought to myself
that maybe I'd like to have met
the last person who had
rented this car.
And whether any of these things
were missed by the people who
had left them behind.
I glanced into the back seat;
there was definitely room back there
to lay down, to squirm out of
your underwear, for him to
put on a condom,
to pull up your shirt just enough
that he can see your breasts
but not enough that it doesn't
need dry-cleaning after he
drops you off.
Until Morning
Every time he pushes the needle into his vein, Peter sees Tinkerbell's last moments. Not that he needs the drug for that; all he really has to do is close his eyes and he's back there. Nothing has felt right since that day, and of course now that she's dead, he's stuck here.
Here. Here is London. It's pouring rain, and Peter is huddled in the alley beside the Great Ormond Street Children's Hospital, getting soaked. It's late evening, and people are rushing past the alley mouth under umbrellas, hurrying home or to the tram stop. Peter hunches over, rain pelting the back of his neck. He wears a wool stocking cap all the time here; pointed ears draw too much attention, lead to too many brawls with other street boys.
Sometimes, in the afternoons, he is able to slip inside the Hospital and wander around and just curl up in a corner of the lobby for a few hours, before the watchman notices him and rousts him out again. From there, he always comes here, to the alley, from the mouth of which he can watch the front of the Hospital building and see who comes and goes.
Whenever he goes into the alley, he reaches into his pocket for the school chalk he stole from the parish school near Haymarket and makes a mark on the bricks of the alley mouth, above his own head, but eye level on a grown man. Peter, as ever, looks like fourteen-year-old boy.
The little needle trembles in his hand. He's running out of veins; he's blown the ones in his arms and ankles. He had to hide behind a stack of broken crates and garbage just now and use the vein in his dick. The drug slithers into him like a burrowing worm and he leans against the wet brick wall, growing oblivious to the cold, oblivious to the London sealing him off from Neverland.
Peter forces his eyes to stay open, even though his lids feel made of solid iron. He tries to watch the comings and goings at the Hospital, but it is no use. His long-lashed eyes, bright green - the most beautiful eyes a boy ever had, a man once told him - fluttered shut and there was Tinkerbell.
Hook had torn her open from the neck, well, downward. Hook was a syphilitic maniac; Peter had been too busy binding up Smee to help, he thought she'd be able to fly away, tinkling her laugh as he swooped just out of Hook's reach. But Peter had been, for the first time, too late, and Hook too insane.
How long ago now was that? He had an idea, but didn't want to think too much about it. Slumped against the wall, Peter waited, muttering to himself. He missed the Lost Boys, when he was coming down. He'd like to do this drug with them, he'd thought many times.
Peter hears a man's footsteps, a man's walking cane tapping at the mouth of the alley. Adrenaline suddenly pours into him, waking him, jangling his nerves. He pushes off the wall and faces the man.
It is Michael Darling. Thank god it is Michael Darling. He is older now, maybe twenty. They've met, many times. Michael looks over his shoulder, then quickly darts into the alley.
"Hello, Peter," he says, his voice like a silk scarf. Peter just nods. Michael's look bores into him. Peter nods again and turns to face the wall. Michael moves behind him. The night air is cold on his ass, and the hot pain of Michael makes Peter feel frozen and burning alive at once. As always, Michael makes Peter tell him about Tink as he goes into him.
After, Michael Darling drops three ampules into Peter's outstretched hand and leaves without a word. Peter tucks them securely down the front of his pants. He retreats deeper into the alley, again behind the pile of crates and garbage. A fire escape overheard offers a small shelter from the rain.
Peter slides into sleep, into deeper oblivion. There she is, of course, waiting. How do I get back home, he asks her in his dream. He hears tinkling, like glass bells far away, and in his head it sounds like she is saying goodbye.
Like a Lady
I hate that stupid saying:
act like a lady, talk like a lady, sit like a lady and any other bullshit category where I'm entitled to "like a lady" anything.
Girls, this is for you:
Act like you fucking want to,
talk however the shit you want,
sit with your legs wide open like your planning on giving birth or waiting to be fucked,
drink till you cannot see your own feet
smoke till you cannot see your own hands
and most of all:
Take life by the fucking throat and choke that mother fucker for locking you into a double standard where we are entitled to please others before ourselves.
Birds
What is life
What does it truly mean to live
Does it mean to risk everything
Everyday just for the hell of it
Does it mean to be cautious
And live between the lines
Is it to remember the moments that
Took your breath away
Or the number of breaths you take
Perhaps it is whatever you say
Maybe it is a play
And we are all actors, with a purpose
A given fate and specific parts
At the end of the day, however,
Life is just life
It both cages us and gives us wings
But you determine how large the cage is
And how far your wings will carry you
In the end, you could fly off into the sunset,
Or you could remain domestic and allow life
To care for you,
Giving it more trust than it perhaps deserves
But it is you and only you who decided upon this,
So be prepared for the end
Be prepared for when you can do no more
For yourself and life is in auto drive
Do what you can while you can,
and spread your wings.
Society’s Minorities
Hidden eyes
Behind society's veil
Cut with dull scissors
That always fail
Voices unheard
Their screams are silenced
But when judgment day comes
They will show their defiance
Like a storm they rise
Opening up blind eyes
Revealing the scars
Left among the stars
Yet in one quick wave
They are returned to silence
Their voices again quiet
Among a society that is biased
Special thanks to my fellow classmates in my creative writing class that helped me compose this piece <3
A very unique thanksgiving!
“Stop controlling my life, dammit!” I shriek, pounding on the table with a rather loud force while I momentarily stand up. My nose is fuming with anger and my eyes are glaring everyone in the room. My brother and mother stop eating for a while, telling me series of words to calm down. However, I am not calming down. My father, on the other hand, continues eating and just deadpans looks at me as if nothing’s wrong.
That infuriates me even more.
“Young lady, calm down.” My father finally speaks in his oh-so-ever calm tone. I roll my eyes quite rebelliously. “I’m leaving.” I declare without any hesitation at all. My brother and mother take hold of my arm but I merely brush them off away.
“Clara!” cries my father. I didn’t pay attention as I open the door and step outside and slam the door rather loudly. I step out of our house, feeling a bit of guilt that I did that. The autumn wind past by me, sending me shivers. Taking heavy steps, I walk out and take a faster pace before my brother or mother could catch up to me. It started with heavy steps, but now I find myself running.
Tears flow out of my eyes as I run, remembering what have transpired during Thanksgiving Day.
It started out quite fine; we were laughing and joking as a family. But then my father shifted the topic regarding about my future. The atmosphere then became uncomfortable. My whole family know me for my rebellious attitude and let’s just say: I don’t get along with my father because of his controlling personality. I don’t know what has gotten to him and began discussing about what course he wants for me during Thanksgiving Day. It’s Thanksgiving day for goodness sake.
I stop running for a while when I realize I don’t recognize this area in our subdivision. I look around and there are autumn trees and every house is lighted up quite brightly. Maybe they’re having a great time. That must be nice. I observe my surroundings and note that no one is around. It’s actually relaxing to be away from everything.
“Boo!” Someone scares me from behind and I yelp. I turn around and see that it’s one of my closest friends: Jacy.
“You scared me!” I playfully punch her and she just laughs. She must’ve noticed my tear-stained eyes because she frowns.
“Your dad again?”
I nod.
“Let’s go. Be part of our family just for this day.” Jacy takes my wrist and drags me towards their house without any hesitation.
“What were you doing outside though?”
“Taking out trash.”
“What an obedient child.”
She snickers.
===========
The whole atmosphere is awkward, at least for me. I’m only here for 10 minutes and I can already see how close-knit they are. Another thing, they are so welcoming and didn’t ask further why my eyes look very puffy.
“Do you want some potatoes, dear?” Mrs. Smith tenderly smiles at me while she puts more potatoes in my plate. I stare at her sweet smile and even though I’ve just met her today, it feels like I’m one of her child.
“Try our famous lasagna!” Mr. Smith offers to me while giving me a handful of the food.
“Dad, Clara can’t eat all of those!” Jacy complains while Mr. Smith casually smiles at his daughter. I just observe them, taking note of the close relationship the 2 of them has. It must be great to be close with your father.
“Clara, what’s wrong?” Mr. Smith asks, looking very concerned. “Is our food not to your liking?”
“No.” A tear falls from eyes. “It’s fantastic.”
For the whole dinner Mr. Smith tells dad jokes that certainly make us all groan. Mrs. Smith would sometimes scold her husband for eating too much and “It’s not good for his health.” Sometimes Jacy would steal a bunch of chicken from his father and that would result in bicker between the 2 of them. I find myself laughing at their shenanigans and my argument with my father slowly dissipates from my mind.
“My name is Jacy and I rap like Jay-Z!” Jazy hollers in the dining table, pretending to be a rapper. Her father joins along while the father and daughter show off their “rapping skills”.
“Yeah, uh-huh!” Mr. Smith tries to add some beat and that made Mrs. Smith facepalm. I laugh at how weird they look like. I continue eating the famous lasagna. It is quite good because the meat is really tasty and the sauce, gosh it’s so heavenly.
Crunch
I widen my eye for a while and I involuntarily spit out something. My hands start to shake and color leaves my face. I tense up and while digesting what’s on my hand. Thousands of questions stream on my mind and regretting the very moment I’ve entered this house.
It was a tooth.
Slowly looking up, I see the 3 of them, smiling. Mrs. Smith shakes her head but there’s a menacing grin on her face. I feel vomiting, because of the sudden realization from everything. I was eating human-flesh and was enjoying it. I feel sick. Trembling, I stand up. My whole mind is messy and I only thought of getting out
I have to call the police. I need to report this.
I need to get away from this mad family.
I immediately bolt out towards the door, adrenaline washing over me and the idea of going back to my parents is the only thing in my mind right now.
And then I feel a sharp pain hitting my head. A loud bang to accompany the stinging sensation. I slowly turn and see Jacy , with a warm smile in her face, holding a gun. Blood oozes out of my head, and I fall to the ground. My eyes struggle to keep open, my whole body suddenly wanting to fall asleep. I struggle, to reach the door and fight for my dear life.
“Since you’ve discovered our secret, we have no choice but to serve you next~”
That was the last thing I heard before everything turns to mere oblivion.
“Try this lasagna” Mr. Smith serves their famous lasagna on to the plate of Jacy’s new best friend—Mike. Just like Clara, he’s very rebellious and harbors a grudge towards their parents.
“The meat is very tender and juicy!”
