Papa’s Rose Bush
The sky is blue and the clouds painting a portrait over it are heaven. Papa calls me cotton-top; it is a nickname for my hair, which is all devoid of color and light blonde as is possible. It will not stay that way forever. Two bees are buzzing around the rose bush – Papa’s rose bush – and I toddle towards it, preferring not to head the words of my elders. I love the rose bush. Bees don’t scare me and despite my nearing their territory, they don’t bite.
“You can pick one,” Papa says from behind me. He has followed to make sure I’m safe. His voice is soft and calming, but it cracks when he finishes a sentence and there is a long drawl at times. I find it funny.
I reach for the bush, stubby fingers grasping towards a big, beautiful rose. Two fingers wrap around the stem, but I don’t pull. Papa said I could pick this rose and I want to. But this is Papa’s rose bush. He loves his rose bush. I can’t do it.
Fingers leave the rose, brushing against a thorn. The pain is momentary, quickly forgotten as I turn to face him. “It’s papa’s rose,” I say, my speech not entirely fleshed out and my sentences perhaps not so grammatically correct just yet. “Don’t wanna pick it.”
He smiles down at me, holding his hand out. I place my hand in his palm and he covers my hand with just three fingers. “Well, little girl,” he speaks to me, “let’s go inside then and see what granny’s doing.”
I never did pick a rose from Papa’s rose bush. The bush no longer exists physically, just like Papa. They have both left me behind. I hold fast to memories in their stead.
Bumps on a Log
We lay in bed that night, like most nights, sifting through homes and farms online, saying one day we'll have a place like this one and that one. Nothing like our apartment in the city, a real farm, our forever home with space to breath and grow. She wanted babies and kittens everywhere, I talked of goats and barns. We drifted off to sleep, my right hand underneath her beautiful head.
The land was lush and green, grass and wildflowers swaying on rolling hills, blending into the forest beyond. Mountains in the distance, rivers between. The house stood on a knoll in the center of the valley, white and pure. On the porch we stood, hand in hand, feeling like royalty, planning our kingdom together. The barn and animals over there, the swing on that tree for the kids, the garden on the sunny side of the house, we would all grow here together.
The realtor had seemed uncomfortable telling us about the other buyers. She said they were very stubborn, giving their offer even after she told them we had already put one in writing. I joked at the time, asking if it was an offer she couldn't refuse. Little did I know how right I was. Someone else wanted our home, our fields, our kingdom. That someone else didn't care if we were already closing on the home. They certainly didn't care about our dreams, they were the stuff of nightmares.
I had already promised my bride, she was so excited, I couldn't let them have it. We went through with the deal. We signed the papers and that was that. The next day the realtor was missing. So was the lawyer, we had invited them both over for a celebratory drink at our new bar. A new lawyer, a man we had never met, came instead. This lawyer told us the deal was off and to walk away. He had walked right in and sat down at what would be our bar. She had been so proud picking it out. It was a huge log, an oak tree from the nearby forest, cut and treated and brought in especially for us. The barstools were made from the same tree. We had vowed to plant one in the yard to replace it. Our first piece of furniture in our new home. Perhaps it gave me strength, that oak log. More likely it angered me seeing this imposter sitting at my bar. I protested, loudly. The lawyer took a hard tone and told me this was our last chance. I told him to get out, and accused him of not being a lawyer at all. I was right again. He reached into his briefcase, I started to yell another obscenity about not caring what document he had in there. But there were no documents, just knives. He chose a long butchers knife, calmly pulling it out and placing the briefcase aside on the oak. He spoke with cold experience, and without fear. My wife grabbed me and tried to pull us away, but large men we hadn't known were there held us in place. The words I had prepared dried in my mouth. The man held the knife on the table blade up, next to the briefcase.
"Place your hand on this bar sir, if you want your pretty wife to live." I struggled one last time against the grip behind me. I was met with a punch to my kidney that took my breath away, and the last of my fight. She started to scream but a hand muffled it. It occurred to me with bitter certainty that these men had done this before. I, however, was treading on very new ground. "You will just have to find another home. And, you sir," he paused to point the knife at me and then my bride, "you will decide if it is with or without her."
I was pushed to the bar and forced to sit down. My right arm was brought up for me and my hand placed on the table. My fist clenched, more from fear than defiance. Again he spoke in that flat voice of his.
"I would take your left, but I myself believe in marriage." He flashed his own wedding band. "You may keep your ring finger. But you have spoken against us. So you may not keep these." The man behind me smashed a huge fist down on my right hand and flattened it against the table. "Now hold steady and we will let you leave very soon." Leaving our forever home suddenly seemed like all I wanted in the world. I heard my wife's muffled cries behind me. Anything to get her out of here, and to be away from these people. I took a breath and tried to relax my fingers, I had to look at them to make sure my hand was open. My hand, like the rest of me, was numb. It would be the last time I saw my hand in one piece. He swiftly took the knife and chopped the tips off of my longest three fingers. Once he chopped, then twice, the shock took me, I don't know if I screamed or passed out. Everything got very hazy. I had a vision of my mother cutting celery from my childhood. She would cut off the ends until she had kid sized pieces. Bumps on a log she called it, with peanut butter and raisins. A few pieces of celery always remained on the table.
I shot up in bed, nearly taking my wife's head off beside me as I raised the arm she was sleeping on. Screaming, I reached for my hand. It was numb from being beneath her. In the dark and sleeping haze I couldn't tell if it was in one piece. Breathing heavily, I finally found the nerve to feel with my other hand, the fingers that were still there. I looked at my confused wife as she rubbed her head.
"My fingers" I said. "They cut off my fingers. Like, like bumps on a log."
I’m Anxious and Depressed! What about you?
I’m Anxious and Depressed! What about you?
Are you also – Anxious and Depressed – too?
Then we both are!
Don’t text anyone! They won’t believe us – you know that!
How boring – to actually be – Mentally Healthy!
How out there – like a Rat –
That steals his Pizza – dirty Subway Pizza –
To an admiring New York!
(Modern Interpretation of Emily Dickinson's "I'm Nobody! Who are you?")
The Sirens
“It’s hot in here,” I whined.
“Yeah, no shit,” Eric answered. My brother got it worse than me, but he was also tougher than me, so it evened out.
I rubbed my arm and noticed how dirty I was. It had been a week since I last bathed. I itched everywhere.
“You think he’s up yet?” I asked.
Eric nodded, his blue-grey eyes cast far away. The light shining through the slats in the barn door made him look older than sixteen.
I paced in circles, staring at the dirt floor. The block in the corner was stained rust. Flies buzzed his recent kills and the rotting smell grew as I approached.
I heard the screen door slam shut and my head snapped around. I hunched down to squint thru a gap. He was coming. I reacted quickly, grabbing the chicken head closest to me. Even now, I have no idea why. It was covered in maggots and flies lifted off when I ripped it from the floor, leaving feathers behind.
Slushy footsteps sounded outside. Suddenly Eric was on top of me, pulling my collar, shoving me behind him. Just as the bar slid open, he shoved my hand deep into his painter’s pocket. Squeezing hard, I let go, the head falling to the bottom with a wet thud.
Da stood in the barn door wearing his old gray bathrobe. Too short, it showed the scarred knees and wobbly legs of an old man. Only we knew better.
“Well, come on then,” he said quietly. He sounded reasonable, sober even.
Eric strode out, jaw set, eyes fixed straight ahead. I glanced up at Da and then ran, scampering on Eric’s heels.
Inside the light was dim and Da shuffled around the kitchen, limping in his usual pattern. When he was safely in front of the TV again, Eric and I drifted off to separate corners.
But when I came out of the shower, Eric was sitting at the top of the stairs.
“What?” I whispered down to him.
He didn’t respond, so I gingerly stepped around to him, cautious of slipping in wet feet.
“What?” I repeated, softer.
He silently held up his palm. It had a fresh cigarette welt in its center. Red and going on pussy already. Mild for Da, but still, I should make myself scarce. Eric shooed me upstairs and then cradled the hand in his lap. I tried to read his face, but he was a blank. I ran back up, latching our bedroom door in slow motion, trying not to breathe.
Eric was bristling, shaky, as we made dinner. He set Da’s plate in the usual spot, then laid the baked potato in the center instead of on the side. When I opened my mouth to ask why, Eric gave me a cold, tight smile.
On top of the potato, he carefully placed the chicken head, beak out. With one filmy eye staring, I thought it wore Eric’s expression. I panicked.
“Eric, he’ll be back any minute!” His beer runs never took more than twenty minutes and we were going on fifteen.
Like he had before, Eric pulled my collar. But this time he pushed me in front of him, toward the back door. Leaning into my face he said, “I’m gonna do it, Davey. Hide in Mrs. Peterson’s greenhouse. Don’t come back until you hear the sirens.”
“No! Eric! Don’t!” I begged. I don’t know whether I was worried about him or Da or both of them.
“I love you Davey. Now go!” He shoved me harder and I stumbled backwards slamming into the screen door. I heard the Chevy pull up and I took one last look at Eric. His hands, empty, were clasped behind his back. Even so, he looked ready. I ran out into the night.
I didn’t make it to Mrs. Peterson’s. I heard the car door slam, then a thunderous “Whad you do boy?” More shouting and a loud explosion. I saw in my minds eye what was happening. Them tussling and crashing thru the table. When Eric started screaming, I turned back and ran for the house. I knew that I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t let it happen again.
I banged back inside. Da was in the center of the crushed table on his knees, choking Eric. “Da!!! Stop it!” I jumped on his shoulders, trying to pull him off. “You’re gonna kill him! Stop!” Eric’s eyes were bulging, foamy spit spilling down his chin. His feet were kicking up silverware and chunks of plate.
Neither of them looked at me. I felt myself dissolve in that moment. The sound zipped away from me all at once. I was suddenly alone and not quite real, like a ghost bearing witness to a decades old murder. Everything that was happening was beneath me. Just a stain under the floorboards. For a moment, I felt the concrete chill of my prison cell. And then with just a subtle twang in my eardrums, the world came rushing back in.
I could hear Eric gagging, could hear Da’s heavy panting from the sweaty exertion of murdering his eldest. Eric’s face was purple now except for white circles rising under his eyes and around his mouth and nose. I stooped down for the second time that day, my hands reacting automatically. One long screw, still clinging to splinters, protruded ninety degrees from the end of the table leg I now held.
I raised it up as high as I could and smashed it down on Da’s neck over and over, hitting close to his hairline each time. As he fell, he crashed down on top of Eric, mini volcanos of blood spurting from his back. He started to buck as if an electric current ran through him.
Nothing at first. And then Eric started to ooze out from the right side of the broken table. One ear appeared, and then a smashed nose. He managed to push a little and I pulled with everything I had left. Half hanging in my arms, we got him up in one of the chairs.
We looked down at Da, who had ceased twitching. His pool of blood was so big he couldn’t have any left in him.
“Davey,” Eric started, then coughed up more blood. His cough sounded squeaky. Something was broken inside of him I thought, picturing shards of glass. This was confirmed when Eric grabbed his lower ribs and groaned. He made a diarrhea face, before continuing.
“Sirens. They’re gonna come Davey, and…” Coughing blood out between his fingers, he stopped. He spat onto Da’s leg, then pulled in a big hackey breath and said “You gotta tell them about the barn, about Mom. You gotta…” Then Eric’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped forward into my lap.
All at once I was alone. That ghost feeling came back then and it hasn’t left me since.
The rest…well. Sherriff Mitchell was a friend of Da’s. He knew what went on at our place, both before and after. He knew or could easily guess where Mom was buried. He could’ve razed the barn and have her exhumed. Could have seen my way of things. But he didn’t. He made it seem like me and Eric had jumped Da. I was convicted as an adult.
Sometimes I blame Eric for not running. But he wanted to take down the beast. For Mom. Maybe a little bit for me. He just couldn’t do it alone. So we managed it together like we had done everything before.
I’m still watching it happen you know. In that kitchen, in that barn, on those stairs. I’ve never left that place really. Just like I’m never leaving this one.
10 Year Tough Talk
Look here Chickie:
Cool it on the sass. Nobody likes a know-it-all.
Also, stop plucking your eyebrows. You look surprised all the time.
Yes, you will need math later.
Call your grandma, preferably today. Trust me.
Weighing yourself is stupid. Stop doing that.
The hot guy downstairs walks around his apartment naked. Do with that what you will.
Buy stock in Apple.
Slim Jims cause heartburn.
You are always going to suck at public speaking. It’s fine.
Stop smoking, get a mammogram and cross your fingers.
You will hide to cry at work. So?
Parking in parking garages is not for you. Above-ground it whenever possible.
Like some sort of panda, you can only get pregnant on a Tuesday between noon and one thirty. Plan accordingly.
Running? Not so much. You can jog. Or walk. Let's face it, you're going to walk.
Be nicer to your mom. She loves you.
Cradle’s Mercy
She keeps souls in a skull she wears around her neck. It’s not many, mind you. She may save only a chosen few without being discovered. Cradle, she was named, but why, by whom, she’d long since forgotten.
For time eternal, she stood in governance at the Fourth Gate. Those whom negligence caught resided within. Automobiles held majority stake here. She tidied here and there, re-positioning a tire, twisting a wheel, as cars caught fire, rolled down embankments and ran into countless trees.
Through endless nights, she bore witness. Her claws grasped the iron tightly as she watched each hateful loop. Born from fire, she had no soul, but she had formed compassion over thousands of years. It was tucked away from the fiery glint of his Majesty’s eye, and it had flourished in private. And so it was that once every few years she stole one burnt offering for herself.
One soul intrigued her now. She watched this former man, Jim, flip his Pontiac Sunfire end over end countless times. He suffered more than most in the never-ending night. He touched her, as did the other truly repentant, tugging at her time-built heart, because there was no absolution in hell. His self-hating soul was forever trapped in Cradle’s dominion.
On fate-night, he had suffered only minor injuries – the Devil wrapped drunks in his protection, for they were ever useful – but his three children and his wife had been smashed. His twin boys survived the car, but died on the side of the rain-slicked road. His wife suspected Jim was cheating, but Tequila shots were his only companion at the bar that evening. Jim was keeping odd hours of late because he had been fired from his job and couldn’t admit it to Jenny. So it was that he was hiding tears when he pulled up outside the theatre to collect them.
This Jim-of-everlasting had long since become self-aware, losing his private battle each night. Cradle watched him cut off his hand and sew up his mouth, but of course The Darke would not be thwarted by such. Each night at 8:45 pm, he would sprout a new hand, his lips would spring open and the pain would begin again. He never dulled to the pain, in fact, it grew more insistent every night, each recitation of his punishment, each blood and rain soaked episode bringing him freshly exceeded barriers of despair.
Cradle saw Jim-soul’s beautiful upturned eyes, watched him swallow shot after shot through gritted teeth, watched him as he placed one hand on the wheel, neck cords standing out from the strain, trying not to shut the door, trying in vain to shout a warning to Jenny. Forever trying and failing.
Cradle saw him lift the keys and start the car, calmly tapping the wheel to the beat of the music, while his eyes reeled in their sockets like an animal with its paw in a snare. Jenny strapped the twins in their carseats and Annie, his girl, scooped the last of the movie popcorn into her mouth. All the while he brimmed, almost exploded with exceeded effort to change the past, forever locked into who he was and wanting what he could never have again.
Every movement, every word, was a contortion of pain, not only for Jim, but also for Cradle. Through the floating bars, her blood-red eyes held his wild blue orbs. Tonight, she knew, he would again swerve into traffic and skid, his reflexes soft from the drink, and the skid would turn into a roll and the roll would crush skulls and he would sit stupidly, hands limp by his sides as bystanders pulled his twin boys from the backseat through a trail of his wife’s blood. And his daughter’s long black hair, Annie-that-was, was far from where it should be, too far from the rest of her…
Enough! she thought. Her decision made, she had to move quickly. She passed in smoke through the gates, with a rusted squeal. One nod of her horned brow and the scene evaporated, leaving only Jim, a shucked husk of a soul. With one huge rust-colored palm, she tugged roughly at the filament that tethered his soul to her level, deftly rolled it into a meatball-sized shadow and placed it into her skull locket.
He would not be free, not yet, but she would take him to swim in the Abshe, where wrung out souls that had lost their humanity were tossed to feed the beasts. A great ocean of grief, it met the Skye at the very end – a time eternal of sunset. Cradle had been told long ago that if a soul could transverse the black waves, spider-crabs, wailing serpents and other sea haunts, they would be granted passage to the other side.
Cradle peered out through the haze of fire and the wail of screeching tires. No one bore notice, so she unfurled charred wings, stamped her feet and thrust upward, rising fast. Passing through hazy barriers, she heard the screaming of billions of souls, twisting and writhing with eternal agony. She shook her head to lose the cacophony and broke through the filmy barrier, thrusting her hooves down hard, landing in tar-like mud at the edge of the great sea.
It was night here too, but stars shone, which they were never allowed to do below. They were breathtaking, too low by half, making the air thin. Cradle breathed deep and although she missed the taste of smoke, it was pleasant enough air – purer than her level. She checked that she was alone, then tucked her wings back self-consciously and opened her locket.
Jim-that-was poured forth in a silver stream, materializing in an inch of gruesome water, the foam teeming with sea-lice. His figure shone in the murky darkness. Cradle smiled at him - a toothless, terrifying sight.
He looked up at her blinking slowly, then behind him at the vast filth. “What new torture is this?”, he asked, bewildered, but not scared. He was past that now. Cradle had not spoken in a very long time and her voice was scratchy from disuse, like grating metal.
“No trick, my Jim. You can see them again.” With a wave of one huge hand, she showed him his family in the car in the moment before it all changed. The image hung there a moment above them, then faded into the darkness. “Whole, like you are now.” She pointed over his shoulder and his eyes followed her hand. “Swim hard to the end. It will be long with many beasts.” She breathed in deep and flung her enormous arms wide to take in the ocean ahead. “I gift this to you. A chance.” She spoke the last word with reverence. It didn’t exist on her plane, not for her, not for anyone save those few souls she carried in her locket.
Wanting to believe, Jim-soul said, “Why? Why would you do this?” Cradle leaned down, her large black and red form dwarfing his own and touched his cheek. It burned where her crusted forefinger lay, but he ignored it. “You fight for them still.” Cradle paused, considering, then added, “Now fight for yourself.”
At that, she rose and motioned with her hand, giving him a hard push deeper into the water without touching him. He looked around quickly and hoisted a slimy black rock the size of his fist from just beneath the scummy surface. He nodded at Cradle, took a deep breath and dove in.
She hoped he was ready to fight the beasts ahead for his salvation. She had no idea how many of her souls had made it, she hoped all of them had, but she would never see for herself. Those born below were terminally possessed.
She watched him swim away, worrying and then, chewing on one fire-blackened lip, cheated a bit. With another wave of her hand, she pulled a tusked tuna from the water and clawed open it’s belly. She tossed it far to Jim’s right and watched the razor sharks frenzy towards the unexpected feast. She stared at his receding figure for a few minutes more. He was strong, she thought. He might just... Hot tears ran down her cracked skin as, staring up at the stars now, she began to sink.
Hitman
She sat on the slim edge of the park bench in the only spot the birds hadn’t tagged yet, twisting her fingers around a damp cloth. It was going on 2:15. She risked a glance around. A woman in her mid-forties, sweating in too-tight jeans and long-sleeves, Denise looked out of place among the young moms pushing strollers.
She wore too much makeup. If she painted herself just right, she thought she might come alive. She told him that once and he grabbed her nose and twisted it so hard she screamed. He laughed and called her Pinocchio as strings of vomit flew from her chin.
She had been pretty, but now pins held her together, her teeth were chipped and yellowed, and old bruising dappled her cheekbones. The real damage was beneath. Two days ago, he’d broken ribs on her left side, kicking her in the armpit while she lay on the kitchen floor.
Now 2:30, she worked the cloth harder and her right wrist resisted. He smashed that one with a frying pan last year, using the edge like a hammer. She touched her phone just as she saw a woman approaching, with a familiar walk. Her skin was milky-white, unblemished.
As she came closer, Denise realized the woman’s face was a younger version of her own. She said, “Denise, give it to me.” Denise rose, walking two paces to stand nose to nose with the woman, looking into her own eyes. She took a deep breath and crossed the final step, merging.
She hadn’t needed a hitman after all. When it was done, Denise had carved the snake tattoo off his neck with his own buck knife. She kissed the wrinkled wet skin now and placed it in the dirt, grinding it under her heel and left.