The Painted Stars
I read an eyewitness account a few days after, so I know what it looked like from down there, in the seats. I hadn't meant to read it; Dad and Mom had studiously hidden any newspapers and hadn't turned the t.v. on since the accident. But I had walking from the trailer down the midway, head down and hunkered between my shoulders, toward the animal pens when a wind blew a crumpled ball of pages against my shin. I stopped, as though they were shackles, and bent down.
It was the local paper, a small town fish-wrapper of the kind that usually gave glowing coverage to the Elks Club dinner and the ice cream social on the Town Hall Yard every summer. This issue was different. CIRCUS ACCIDENT LEAVES 1 DEAD.
I had no memory of what happened. It's maybe a good thing I read the eyewitness report, the memories of Mrs. Evelyn Marks, 48, who attended the performance with her husband and two sons. Even though she had been thirty feet below me, below us, her words filled in the gaps that yawned like a canyon between before and after.
Rafe and I are twin brothers; we had been born in the circus and trained since before we could walk to perform. For fourteen years we drew them into the big top, first as cavorting little clowns, and then as we grew, as acrobats and tumblers. We have been doing the high-trapeze act for five years. There is something magical, I hear over and over again after a show, to see two identical boys, barely out of childhood, swinging and flipping through the air like birds of prey on the hunt. And to me yes, there was always magic in the split second before one of our outstretched hands, chalked and strong, with nothing but empty space below it, neared and then touched the other's hand and the slight crackle of electricity shivered up the arm as the fingers wrapped tightly around the others' wrist and he slid off the bar, weightless for an instant until all his weight settled at the end of your grip.
Mrs. Marks, according to the paper, said the act was flawless up until the moment of the accident. She was vivid in her recollection: our silver lycra bodysuits, our slicked-back hair, the spotlight burning in the dark tent, the murmur and wild applause of the crowd each time we caught the other or flipped or soared. It was flawless, we were always flawless. We were perfect, in town after town, show after show.
At first, we had had a net, but because we were always perfect, Dad dismantled it for the Calgary show a few years ago, and charged an extra two dollars a ticket. Now its just sawdust down there, and each time I climbed the long ladder up to the platform as the band played Rafe and I's theme song, I would spit halfway up and try to watch it all the way to the ground as I climbed, growing exponentially further and further from the little wet part of myself until it finally splashed onto the dust and I looked up to see the rungs of the ladder rising up into the dark.
When we were seven, Dad had had an artist paint stars on the ceiling of the tent. We loved it, it made us look like we were flying through a clear night sky. In our silver, with our black hair and our pale skin we must have looked like phantoms swirling in the night above a terrified and awestruck village.
In everything Rafe and I were as one, and so we were the perfect trapeze act; we could anticipate the other, almost read the others' mind as people are always afraid twins can do. We ate the same food, slept in the same bed, had the same dreams sometimes. Nothing was more natural to me than his hand around my wrist, mine around his, swinging through the beams of spotlight. Legs curled around the bar, bodies stretched and yearning toward the other, a vastness below and a sea of upturned, nervous pinpricks, sucking the air from the whole tent into their lungs and not letting it out until one had caught the other, so it seemed there was sometimes not enough air for he and I.
Mrs. Marks said it had taken her breath away, the boys had. Mine too, if truth be told. It was always that way; partway through the act I would notice I had been holding my breath too, just like them, and I'd let it out slowly, waiting for Rafe to swing back toward me. I remember the low burning in my chest, the murmuring thump of my heartbeat in my ears, a flash of silver in a shaft of golden light.
My arm, my fingers I willed to their furthest points, stretching out; my legs and body swung hard toward the oncoming phantom, my back arcing, my head back, my eyes open searching the space between. That's all I remember.
The next thing I knew was the silence of hundreds, the intake of gasps and the waiting dread. I read the article over and over, wishing I had been in two places at once, up in the air with Rafe and down in the seats with Mrs. Marks and her family, to see, falling end over end, elegant even in distress, a silver trickle down the black canvas; an explosion of wood chips. I swung like a pendulum, she told the paper. Back and forth, until momentum died and I hung upside down like a bat, arms hanging down, head slack, legs tightly curled around the bar.
I could have let go, could have unfurled my long legs and slid through the dark to be with him. I must have been afraid, or else I would have. The spotlight was cut, she said, the whole place was dark for a moment, and then people began to scream and cry. There was nothing but them and us in the dark, a lone silver phantom dangling like a sickly moon knocked from its orbit, who has lost its companion satellite.
Halfway Places
The real estate agent tells her to reconsider. She says she has some truly amazing houses to show before she makes a decision. But I’m watching Evelyn not listen to her, and I see how she looks at the place with that little half smile of hers, that twitch of the finest lines around her mouth, wrinkling and smoothing over in an instant, and I know that nothing is going to dissuade her from purchasing this shitty, dilapidated house.
Friends and family make their appeals. She tells them I know I’ve heard the rumors, that’s all they are, rumors raised from nothing, created for the sake of gossip and for scaring naive outsiders, do people talk of nothing else in this shitty little hick town.
I only want what Evelyn wants, it’s been so long since she's wanted anything. I think she'll finally be able to start over here, maybe this will make her forget and live. But people keep telling her things she doesn't want to hear and they all sounded like variations of a theme, so finally she stops answering calls altogether.
I’m worried about the amount of work needed to make this thing halfway livable and Evelyn looks so wan and lost all the time. Here she is alone with this monster derelict house and each day is spring cleaning and after that there is still more work to be done.
Evelyn works sunup until she collapses in bed at night.
I'm sick of these halfway places, she says to no one.
Evelyn, pretty Evelyn, I’ll never forget the day I ran after you in the rain, barefoot in the park, with Caleb just beginning to jut out of your stomach, and I was running after you yelling for you to stop, scared but laughing because you were laughing and you were beautiful in the rain with your hair dripping down your face, you were so goddamned beautiful, it hurt to look at you.
Now you walk around tired and quiet, with those sunken hungry eyes.
When was the last time you laughed?
Slowly the house becomes whole again. She polishes until every surface gleams, she puts in new windows, paints, organizes, reassembles. Her room upstairs overlooks the garden and pond in the back of the house.
There are things here, hidden in the silence, that I don’t like to think about. And the force that drives Evelyn to fix this place—that scares me even more.
Caleb was two years old. He was the perfect baby, quiet and uncomplaining. We worried that he was sleeping too much, too often and too deeply, and not eating enough. We were good at fretting—everything seemed like a potential disaster.
You brought us here with you, didn’t you, I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to shake her, grip her by the shoulder so hard that she could feel my nails digging in her skin. You disturbed our baby's rest, how could you do it, Caleb just two years old and a barely visible lump underneath the blankets. You dug us up, God knows how you did it, you had to work with my decomposing weight and Caleb like a limp doll tucked under your arm. (They told you to cremate and you said no). Caleb he loved the color blue, he loved entwining his tiny perfect hands in his mother’s hair and pulling, he loved to sleep. A deep sleep, almost impossible to wake up.
Sometimes at night after another exhausting day, I’ll keep watch over my wife’s sleeping form. She curls up in a fetal position with her hands protecting her stomach.
Evelyn, I heard a laugh I swear I heard it, last night it came from downstairs. I couldn’t tell where it could have come from, or if it were male or female or even human, but I know I’ve never heard it before, and you were asleep. And sometimes in that area she calls the living room, there’s voices and footfalls, the swish of clothing, things clattering to the floor.
Sometimes I hear her singing around the house. Once, I heard her laugh and that sound broke around the house, and all throughout it, and the silence was quieter afterwards.
She doesn't eat. Her sunken little face and the bruised sockets, the limp wrists, and sharp edges of her hip and ribs—I can't take it.
She is fading into the house. I'm helpless. She no longer has eyes I can recognize, those aren’t the hands I loved and held and promised to protect throughout life, death, world without end. She teeters up and down the halls, in and out of rooms. I hear her talk to things I can't see. She leaves me; she goes where I can’t follow. She’s so thin and translucent, sunlight streaming from the windows looks strong enough to hurt her, to melt her away. She floats on drafts throughout the house, and mirrors hide her passing.
The voices are so beautiful she says and I didn’t believe her but I see now. The whole house swells with their presence, with colors bursting and small ripples of light extending, and they are calling where are you and I say here I am here I am here—and they welcome me with voices raised and over the singing and the echoes of ringing colors I hear the voices of so many loved ones, I see Evelyn and she is holding in her arms our son and they are coming for me
Perspective
I died today
As I watched you slowly fade away
And with fascinated horror
Could not avert my gaze
Live for me
You begged me silently
As your eyes connected with mine
But your plea was lost
Because within my mind a single
Unrelenting thought
Pushed out all the rest
“I’m so glad it isn’t me.”
I could never be the hero
Like you who
Gave your life to save my own
In that position
I could
I would
I did
Selfishly
Only think of me
But a coward dies a thousand deaths
They say
And only now that my path is set
Along that course
Can I truly understand
What those words mean
Today was just the first of many
And I will spend the remainder of the life
I held so dear
Dying all the rest
Suck Up Your Gut
Racing capillaries
Nutrients swimming in
Cytoplasmic broth
A home fit for a king
A palace
In the gut of
My host
Where I can
Not only endure
But thrive
You will barely notice
My presence
As I slurp up
The numerous goodies
You have consumed
A little nausea
Maybe
Abdominal pain or diarrhea
Occasionally
Hunger or fatigue
Perhaps
But it at all
A small price to pay
For the honor
Of being home to
One of the world's
Most common
Parasites
The flat
Segmented
And unquestioningly glorious
Tapeworm
#parasites #poetry #challenge #medical
White Butterflies
life pops in and sits a while
sharing a cup of enchantment and woe
porch swings and cracked windows
open doors and unhinged wooden doors
antiquated locks and furrowed brows
life pops in and sits a while
pockets brimmed with why not’s
overflowing possibilities
roots struggling to reach soil
images dancing on eyelids
life pops in and sits a while
dawn’s light beamed on skin
thawed feelings of ice melting
clenched fists and open hearts
feast and famine – cupboard bare
life pops in and sits a while
rain gorged sadness leaving creases
metallic storms clanging to earth
black and white photos without images
splashed mud and fractured timbers
life pops in and sits a while
suitcases of chances open wide
prismatic sunshine on dappled paths
freckled clouds mirrored on sea
white butterflies lighting on souls.
Friday Night
The dogs are barking again.
I'm sprawled on a heaping trash nest of clothes and towels and papers and plastic bags. I stare at the ceiling. I've been staring at the ceiling for hours. My ceiling looks like the moon's surface: sickly yellow-pale like old cottage cheese and riddled with craters.
Each bark is like a hammer blow to my head.
There are flies everywhere. My head is filled with buzzing. Blow flies and flesh flies and bloated house flies like black motors flying. They descend on the overflowing piles of trash. They dance in and out of the open drawers of the cabinets that lie upended on the floor. Everything in the room is crooked. The kitchen sink is clogged with stagnant ooze, where food chunks float on a sea of oily grease.
Someone runs above me, THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP
and the dogs chase after them barking, yelping, baying like the hounds of hell.
Things moving behind me, things moving in the mirrors and in the windows. There are voices, like swarms of flies, the voices are needles drilling the buzzing into my skin, and there are thousands of them. It fills up the back of my eyes. They are talking about me, but I can't make out what they say.
The dogs are barking and barking and barking.
I’m standing on the table with a hammer and I swing that hammer over my shoulder and into ceiling. The dogs are going crazy as I bring the hammer harder and harder into the ceiling, punching holes, showering plaster on the carpet and into my hair and screaming face.
Have I been screaming the entire time?
Shouts from upstairs and I hear the neighbor's big booming voice as if he's right there in the room with me, “I’m going to fucking kill him!”
Stomping feet down the stairs, like an earthquake shaking my apartment.
I throw the hammer one more time at the ceiling, where it bounces off and thuds to the carpet, and I run into the decaying, stinking kitchen with the dingy lightbulbs and grab the wooden block of large butcher knives and carry it back to the door. I tuck it into my left armpit and my right hand lands on the doorknob like a distorted fly, separate from my body.
The pounding on the door intensifies.
The dogs are still barking. The room spins in a blurry funnel of colors and noises, and the neighbor is yelling something with his fists battering the door inches from my face.
The fly opens the door.
Karis’ Secret
I can be obsessive but I’m not one to easily become infatuated. Despite that fact, Adrian Loose’s gorgeous hazels leave a searing impression. It’s been over an hour since the thirty-year-old rocker and I first locked eyes yet there he remains in my mind. Forever embedded as waves of mesmerizing gold, green and auburn paradise. The colors weave through my sparking imagination and send a deep buzz through my whole body. Worst timing ever.
All I want is a successful show. To make that reality, focus is the only lover I need. Besides, Adrian is dating a diamond studded movie star, lucky her, lucky him.
I turn to check the digital clock on the back wall. Showtime was in less than ten minutes. I breathe in deeply and take a glimpse back at my fellow Victoria Secret angels. Dark waves, blonde curls, high cheekbones, slender bodies, toned muscles, none a day over thirty. Some sway their hips to an imaginary beat, others pop out their legs, toss their manes and snap streams of endless selfies. Plastic. As much as I want to ignore the fact, that’s exactly what we are. A parade of contrived perfection, the earthly definition of an angel, the closest to flawless mankind can attain. Women envy us, men lust after us. Millions look to us as though we are heaven come to earth, yet our stories are not fairy tales. Perching on a flat, cold, hard pedestal can hurt. Yes, we hurt. We sacrifice and pay dearly and yep, we bleed. I know this for a fact. My right toe is gushing as we speak. I bend down to conceal it and stop the bleeding. Monica Snow, fellow angel and drama queen of the century, gasps a lot louder than necessary.
“Kare, what happened to your toe? Ow!”
“It’s nothing. I probably just bumped it.”
“It needs to be wrapped!” I start to protest, it has been a climb to the top and I don’t want to cause trouble. The only piece of advice my mother, an ex-supermodel, gave me was to never leave a producer with a reason to give me the boot. Much to my mother’s chagrin, my actor father was a lot more open about the ins of showbiz. He told me to be kind, sweet, compliant and do what the director of the show wanted. Always. Well, so far so good. But that perfect image was about to be ruined by a bikini clad string bean. Monica waved her bedazzled arm in the air.
“First aid!”
“Monica, please. I don’t…”
She ignores me, her eyes wide as she strains to get someone’s attention. “First aid! First aid! Good, oh good! Here comes someone.”
I plant my hands on my hips and glare. “My God, Monica, I’m fine. Please!”
Her blue eyes turned icy as she backed into a circle of other girls. “Woah, sorry.” I turn away from the eyes watching me and face the stage. I want to apologize. That came out so wrong, no matter how hard I tried to fit the perfect mold, it never worked. Mom was right, I should have stayed out. Even though I finally looked like I belonged, the industry wasn’t made for me.
A woman with a blinking blue headpiece rushes in to inspect my foot. Her name tag reads “Patricia”. A loud, voice hollers from somewhere backstage, “alright ladies, five minutes before show time! This is it! Five minutes!” Patricia’s sharp eyes dart from my foot to my face.
“What the hell happened?”
“Not sure.” Yeah, that was a lie. I knew. The super high heels they forced me to wear at the five-hour rehearsal had rubbed my flesh chicken skin raw. When they handed me today’s pair of crème-du-la-torture I didn’t dare protest. I slipped them on and “boom” the scab popped off. The woman’s tinted lips pull back, her eyebrows lift but not too far. Botox. Plastic.
She pats down her silky pockets. “I’ll try to find a see-through bandage.”
The voice hollers again. “Ladies who need help with wardrobe, just let Patricia know, she’s back!”
“Dammit Clark.” Patricia shoved a chunk of choppy blond hair behind her ear and took off in a whirlwind of expensive fabric. The smell of exotic flowers and dark notes of vanilla tangle with the scent of hairspray and heated hair. I glanced at the line of Victoria Secret models standing a couple paces behind me.
Most keep their eyes closed. Their wings flutter as they draw their breaths in slowly, calming themselves. Was it true that the immortal could be nerve-wracked? Did goddesses work hard to earn respect and work to keep it? Apparently. We had sacrificed freedom, bared our bodies, strut for men three times our age and here we all are. Chosen by the prestigious, lauded individuals who deemed us worthy enough to walk the God ordained show of fashion. It was our time to shine, to show the world how beautiful, perfect and valuable we are. To make normal women feel like they don’t measure up like they aren’t worth a man’s attention. Ironically, I feel the furthest thing from an unshakeable goddess. I despise the person I have become, beautiful on the outside but inwardly so unsatisfied. Apparently, plastic wings can’t hoist me above and away from the hideous imperfection dwelling within. My mouth is dry. My stomach is twisting into thick knots. Nausea sweeps over me in waves. I can’t help but wonder what the point of all of this really is. The voice screams again. So shrill.
“Two minutes!”
Patricia books it towards me, almost knocking over two crew members in the process. “Take the shoe off!” She hollers from a distance. I hesitate. Rude. She stands in front of me and looks up at me, her face beat red.
“I’m sorry. But please hurry. Hurry!” I step out of my stringy shoe and wait as she administers the bandage. The lights above us dim slowly. Waves of anticipating screams rise from the audience. Millions would be watching at home, their eyes glued to computer and television screens. Nausea. I can hear my heart in my ears. A loud thumping sound washes over the stadium, all falls silent. I hold my breath. Thump. Thump. Thump.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Adrian Loose!”
Adrian’s smooth voice trills as it booms through the speakers. “Just shoot for my heart if it feels right… one life baby it’s yours better do it right.” A suited man stands beside me, black earpiece tightly wrapped around the outer lobe. His beefy hands press into the ear piece. My foot aches as Patricia finishes stretching the bandage over the wounded area. The suited man speaks.
“Karis Burdett, you’re on. In three, two, one.” I launch myself away from Patricia and towards the runway. Nope. My ankle dips to the right. I quickly snap it back. The cameras probably caught that. I beam despite the pain and give the audience one less thing to criticize later. Opening the show was a huge deal that many would kill for. I needed to pull my performance together with the cards I have left.
The main stage tonight far outshines how it had looked at rehearsal. Awash with blue, purple and green, the colors of the sea and decorated with large, glass pillars. Utopian, Atlantis. A place with no wars or fighting, no disease or disputed presidencies. Only the best of the best rule here, the stuff of legend, the immortal. At least that’s what the tabloids, star news, and fashion lines scream. Too bad the average person couldn’t plunge beyond the aquamarine mascaraed and into the ocean filled with plastic, plastic, plastic. This deep-sea world is so different from what I imagined. Yet the ambiance is still just as enthralling as the day I started. So confusing.
The handsome pop-star stands at the back of the stage, his gaze washes over me as I strut forward. He locks eyes with me again. I can’t help but be taken aback. The heated buzz I felt an hour ago, returns. It amplifies as he walks towards me and reaches for my hand. I take it. The crowd roars. Rumors will be buzzing tomorrow but who cares? This is show business. This is what the media wants. Publicity is how we make the money.
Adrian’s voice dips dangerously low then soars to new heights. “Girl, I found you. Finally, you’re here… shooting to those stars, why don’t we disappear into the night, together.” As we walk together, I notice his hands are warm and soft. Security. Something I hadn’t had since dad left. But Adrian has a girlfriend! How dare I hold his hand! He releases me as I near the end of the runway. I pause at the end, toss my glittery dress, twist my hips right then left, seek approval from the crowd. Am I good enough? Am I good enough? Cameras snap continuously. My eyes wander over the packed seats, gauging expressions. My attention settles on a young girl with a long ponytail. Her eyes wide.
She reminds me so much of me at that age. Innocent, young, unsuspecting and unaware of the dangers of the stage. I flash a smile in her direction, wave like a queen then strut back down the walk. The crowd erupts with applause. I feel the warmth of million of eyes as they scan me up and down. Adrian winks. I flash a bright grin. The buzzing continues. I disappear behind the curtain, enshrouded by the lie of perfection. If only I could disappear from myself.