A Nod to Image

Movie Review: Vegas in Space

I was first introduced to this film in the seventh grade when my brother and some of his friends discovered it in the "WTF Section" of our local video store. They were all appalled at the overall quality of the movie and it became a contest amongst them to see who could watch the most of it before they had to turn it off. And I sat on the stairs behind them, watching silently, thinking the movie was actually kind of funny. Some day, I thought to myself, I'm going to watch this and make it all the way through. It's not that bad. This was two years before I started to think I might be gay.
Now, six years later, I find this movie in the LGBTQ section on Netflix. I'm shocked to find it at all, let alone there. Somehow, the idea that this was actually a gay-central film had completely gone over my head. I guess I never put to much thought into it. I mean, really, they took sex-changing pills and all of the women were just men in wigs and makeup. How dense was I?
For those of you who have never seen the movie (so, pretty much everyone), here's the breakdown:
1) The plot is okay, but it's filled with holes and lacks integrity. The basic structure is easy and archetypal: crime fighters go undercover to catch a thief and save the universe. But then they go on these tirades that are like inside jokes that no one's really in on. First, to give reasoning to this movie being an all-but-two-cast of drag queens, they say that the police going under cover must take "sex-changing pills" so they can be granted entrance to the all-female colony of Vegas in Space (it's on the planet Clitoris in the Beaver Sector. Not kidding.) From there, it only gets worse.
2) The script is horrifying. Horrible. Terrible. Awful. Really, any word that means "bad." It's... it's all of them. It's campy and I know that it's sort of a spoof of itself, but really, they lost that hold on reality. They went from being a movie that's good because it's bad, to being a movie that's bad because it can't even make fun of itself. This might be because Doris Fish, the writer, was also the lead role and actually got her fame as a popular drag queen in San Francisco. She may be a helluva queen, but I don't think her talents spread as far as she thinks they do. Sorry, Doris.

3) That being said, Doris also designed the sets, miniatures, and costumes. And for a really-low-budget, eight-year production, these aspects actually turned out pretty well. The drag queens were dressed to the nines and, while it's definitely not my style, their extravagancies were unparalleled in glitz and glamour. From eighties hair that would take out a building to flowing I-don't-even-know-what that looks like it's just waiting to be tripped on, this film has got it all. Its wild and eclectic costumes are pretty inspired, and I think Lady Gaga could actually take some tips.

4) The acting flat-out sucks. Enough said.

In the end, this is my verdict:
Watchability: 4 - This movie is pretty hard to get through, but it has shining moments (plus a fuel for the drive to finish it. you just know you'll get this sense of pride after finishing it... you just know it)
Understandability: 2 - There are jumps between scenes and ideas thrown in there that really mess with the audience, making it hard to follow and even harder to believe in the character's actions. Unlike in horror movies where you're screaming "DON'T GO IN THE BASEMENT!!", Vegas in Space just has you going "What the fuck just happened and why does that dragon have tits?"
Enjoyability: 5 - It had some shining funny points and the campy humor, while not rescuing the film entirely, did make it bearable. And while I, myself, enjoyed it immensely, I understand that this film does not, I repeat: DOES NOT, appeal to all audiences. But those who enjoy a dip into the ridiculous will get a good laugh out of this.
Overall Quality: 4 - It's just slow and the acting's bad and the special effects are Death-Valley-low budget.
Recommendation: Received - This movie may absolutely suck, but in the end I still like it. Throughout the entire movie I was thinking, "God, when is this going to end?" And it still had me thinking, "What an awesome film!" by the time it was finished. How the hell does that happen? I have no idea, but despite its pretty low scores in all categories, this movie gets my recommendation with flying colors -- rainbow colors, that is. It's horrible, sure, but something about it really sparkles and shines, and it will continue to catwalk circles around my brain until the day I die.


"C'mon guys. Let's go change sex."

Another Tale of the Moon

She pulled down the moon one night. Lying in her bed, she ran her hand across the sky and felt the edges of the stars. Going over things in her head, she unconsciously picked at the side of the moon, peeling it from the dark sky. She only noticed once it was too late, once the moon rested softly in the palm of her hand. Cursing herself, she grabbed the glue stick on her desk and tried to paste it back up, but somehow, the moon wouldn’t stay.

She looked down at the circle in her hand that illuminated the dark room. What was she going to do? The moon had places to be and her room was not one of them. Running through the options in her head, she was startled by a knock on the door. Her fist closed and she looked up at the intruder, trying to act as though nothing was going on.

It was only her mother. “Dinnertime.” She nodded and her mother closed the door.

There wasn’t really much she could do. The moon wouldn’t stick back up in the sky and she had to go down to dinner. Thinking quick, she grabbed a Sharpie and a Sticky-Note. She thought for a moment, but then brought marker to paper. The letters curved around in a way that she imagined a celestial being would write, swooping gently and effortlessly.

She finished the note and went to the window over her bed. Reaching to the place where she thought the moon had been, she ran her thumb over the Sticky-Note so it would stay. She stepped back and admired the yellow square in the night sky, satisfied.

Shoving the moon in her pocket, she ran downstairs to eat, wondering if her note would be believable.

Be back soon.

Signed, The Moon.

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Playing With Fire

The Drifter

Band Names, Group 2

1. Stratosphere of Statistical Significance
2. Dot Dot Dot
3. Going Oberon
4. Cyborg Millenium
5. Hammers on Helmets
6. Tequi-lies
7. Bienvenido A Mars
8. Anti-conversation
9. College Doppelgangers

Wild World

Variations on Musical Themes (Filthy Gorgeous by Scissor Sisters and Kids With Guns by the Gorillaz)

Visions (Epiphany, Predictions, and The Dream)

Demons (Love and Television)

Boom

Constant Struggles

Autumnatic

A hulking titan overhead hums to a halt and sighs to sleep.
Green gears have been ground brown and brittle bolts buckle beneath blustery November breezes.
This bronzed behemoth has bellowed yellows and golds, reds and rich burgundies.
He hissed cirrus and mist from his smokestack skies.
Now, low-swinging feet cleave rivers in his rusty leaves, dumped in drifts under dead and dried-up branches.
They are disposed waste, a by-product of this machinatural marvel.
With rain and snow, they'll flatten and fade, only foggy footprints of Fall's functioning.
And as Winter's pistons splinter maple children, Autumn will solemnly slumber.
In a year, the mammoth machine will moan again.
And, like gilded cogs, his fingers will sink into their earthen sockets and shift the world once more.
Like clockwork, he thanks his sibling seasons and sets to work.

Blind Faith

I'm hand-led down six steps that hm-haw with our weight
Eyes closed, we slow and stop
He's releasing my hand, but it is still held in space, as though frozen
I ask, "Can I open my eyes yet?"
His shush is like two fingers pinching out a flame
He's saying no and before I can steal my eyelids open,
His hand is over eyes.
I smell his cologne
that I had watched him dab onto his wrists before we left
He had said "come on"
and I had said "ok" and followed.
He had said "this way"
and I had laughed, eyes still closed, and said "all right"
Now I feel his warm smile on the back of my neck
I feel one hand over my eyes and the other at my hip.
He whispers in my ear, "Where are we?"
I hold the hand over my eyes and take it from my face
without looking, I feel his fingers and stretch my own hand in his palm.
"You are here," I say.
His whisper is the wind at my shaggy hair.
"Always," he says.
The frozen ground bites my shins as I kneel and open my eyes.
I replace the flowers and throw the carcasses in the trash as I go.
At home, I am curled up on the couch with a book that I'm not reading and a wine glass full of water.
We gave up drinking together
and I will never break that habit
for him

Him-with-the-big-square-toes

Part 1

The house atop the great cliff was quiet for a time. Often it would get this way, still for years on end until a letter would arrive, slipped under the door and into the cozy home.

On a bleak day, though no bleaker than any other, after an unusually long wait, a letter slid under the door and floated to rest calmly on the welcome mat.

The man inside peered over the book he was reading and, upon seeing the letter fluttering to a stop at his door, released a deep sigh from the caverns of his chest. Setting his book open and facedown on the table beside his chair, he slowly removed his glasses. He folded the crescent spectacles neatly and placed them gently on top of the book. With great effort, he heaved his tremendous corpse from the comfort of his chair and made his way slowly towards the door. Sitting in that chair for as much as he did, he had warmed it with the heat of his body and, in turn, it had kept him warm. Now, as he shuffled across the floor, he felt the chill of his icy home. He ruffled his feathers in discomfort. Reaching the welcome mat, he stooped down and plucked the letter from its place on the ground. He calmly and expertly broke the wax seal and opened the envelope. On the parchment inside were two lines of beautiful letters. The top line was a name. The bottom line was a place. The man nodded as he memorized the location, then placed the letter back in the envelope.  Tucking the letter in the waist pocket of his vest, the man ambled to the fireplace. Mounted above the darkened hearth was a gleaming silver sword with black stones fixed on the hilt. The blade gleamed in the low light, shined so that the man could see his reflection in the cold metal.

He saw his own eyes staring back at him, distorted by the shape of the weapon, and he hesitated.

How long has it been, he thought to himself, since I’ve seen my own face?

He could not recall a time when he knew he had; all he could remember was a different face staring back at him. Could it really have been long enough that one face had transformed into another?

His memory was a tall, broad-shouldered man with angular features and a strong body. He remembered his hands, how big they had been, how strong they had felt. He remembered his eyes, a brilliant blue, like tropic seas. He remembered his hair, black and wavy, short and thick. And he remembered his wings, majestic wings with feathers of deep blue, gold, and red. He remembered how strong they had been, how far they had taken him.

As he peered into the blade now, he spoke aloud, “Who are you, old man?”

His body had shifted greatly. He no longer stood as tall as he once had. His shoulders hunched and his angular features sagged and drooped. His hands, while still large, were knobby and gnarled. His eyes had turned the color of slate, his skin an ashen gray. His hair had thinned and turned white. His wings. The color in his wings had withered and faded, the feathers had frayed and tattered.

“Where have I gotten to?” he said.

With a sigh, the man retrieved the sword from above the mantle and, holding it low, walked from his home.

Standing at the edge of the cliff, the man retrieved the letter from his pocket once more. Holding the sword under one armpit, he checked the name and place one last time before putting the letter away again and stepping from the cliff side.

He fell for a time, his eyes closed and a smile beginning to creep across his face. He felt himself pass through the clouds and he felt the wind rushing past his face. He could feel himself nearing the ground and, before it was too late, he spread his wings and arced. He moved just so he could fly parallel to the ground and continued on, flapping his great wings when his momentum fell.

It took a while for him to near the place detailed in the letter. He passed over rivers, fields, cities, forests. He passed over a great wasteland of red dirt and he flew over an immense ocean. Finally, he grew close to the place. He could feel it approaching and he tipped his wings just so he’d slow down enough. Throwing his legs beneath him, the man effortlessly transitioned from flying to walking. Carefully, he searched his surroundings for the man he was looking for.

Around him was chaos. A war was being waged and, as it often was with wars, the man could not tell who was on which side. They all looked the same to him. He watched a soldier get run through with a bayonet and he smiled thoughtfully. He remembered this one. It hadn’t been too long ago that he’d come for him. As the human slowly fell off the blade, floated towards the ground, the man saw himself kneeling beside the falling soldier. The man watched as he took the sword from under his wing and placed it on the ground beneath the human. Slowly, the soldier fell from one blade to another. As the life slipped from the soldier’s body, the man raised his head to glance into his future. He met his eyes and the two of them smiled ever so slightly. Then, just as he remembered, he stood and flew away.

He watched his former self in flight until he was merely a speck in the sky. Sighing, he continued on, picking his way through the destruction. No one saw the square-toed footprints in the dirt as he made his way through the great tumult.

Finally, he saw.

In the slow-motion world he lived in, the man watched as a bullet rippled through the air.  A minute went by as the man watched the bullet. Slowly, but surely, the small hunk of metal made its way across the emptiness and straight towards a soldier’s chest. The soldier was reacting quickly, but not quick enough to escape the bullet. Not quick enough to escape Death. The bullet bore into him, ripping and tearing at his insides. In slow motion, the man with the great, blue wings, Death, watched as the soldier hurtled to the ground. Quietly, Death went to the dying man, the falling man, the floating man. He knelt down and held out his arms for the soldier to fall into. Softly, gracefully, his weight poured into Death’s arms and, for a moment, he could see the great winged man.

“Are you an angel?” he asked. Death smiled and shook his head. Picking up his sword, he placed the tip on the soldier’s chest.

“No,” he said, sinking the blade through the corpse. Slowly, the human smiled.

“I think you are,” he said. Death said nothing, just pulled the sword from the soldier’s body. With one last look at the creature standing over him, the human spoke his last words.

“Thank you.” His voice was drowned out by gunshots and explosions, screams and cries.  No one around him heard. Though the man died in a war, he found peace in his final moments.

His body was stepped on in his comrades’ haste to carry on the bloody acts of war. His head was pushed deeper into the dirt and his ribs were cracked. His blood stained the shoes of his enemies for days. It would be two months before his wife and daughter learned of his death.

Death returned to his home atop the cliff, tired from a full day’s work. It would be at least several months before he was called upon again. Maybe it was because of the sadness of bringing the end of so many people that his jobs were so far apart. Or maybe it was because, at the rate he lived, that’s just when the next person died. He contemplated it as he walked towards his door, but a strange feeling beneath his feet interrupted his thoughts.

Looking down, Death spied a dull, blue feather sticking out from beneath his foot. Cautiously, he raised his foot and peered at the feather, bringing his face inches from the ground. It was one of his own dull feathers. Curious, he picked up the feather and held it against the sky.

“When did this get here?” he asked no one in particular. As he worked at that thought, another, more important question arose in his brain.

“How many of these have I dropped?”

In a small village, where the world was flat and the sky was round, a girl stooped low to get a closer look at the strange object on the ground. She scrunched her forehead in confusion, looking between the heavens and the red dirt beneath her feet. Indeed, the sky was still in its place, but then, how could there be a piece of it sitting on the ground?

“Amali!” Her head spun to see a tall figure approaching. “It’s almost supper!” Amali snatched the sky-piece from the ground and rushed to the figure, a silhouette against the bright sunshine.

“Sky-piece, sky-piece!” As the young girl drew near, she could begin to see the figure’s features. Dark skin and big eyes, her sister smiled as Amali raced towards her.

“What are you saying?” The little one raised the sky-piece too her sister and showed her the brilliant blue in her hand.

“I found a sky-piece, Eshe!” The woman’s smile grew as she plucked the sky-piece from her sister’s hand.

“This is no sky-piece, Amali!” she said, kneeling before her. She brought her sister close, so their cheeks were touching, then held the object at arm’s length against the distant sky.

“It’s a feather,” she said. Amali furrowed her brow. “Like from a bird,” Eshe explained. Amali brightened and clapped her hands.

“What kind of bird, sister? What kind of bird?” Eshe peered at the feather, again holding it up to the sky. She could see why her sister thought it was a piece of the sky. They were exactly the same color. In her mind, she went through a list of birds with blue feathers, but none of them fit. This was from something she’d never seen before.  She turned to her sister and a look of wonder came over her face.

“It’s from an angel,” she said. Amali’s eyes widened and she shot from Eshe’s arms. Running towards the cluster of houses nearby, she jumped up and down in excitement.

“An angel, everybody! There’s an angel watching over us! We have an angel!”

Smiling and shaking her head, Eshe looked down at the feather in her hand again.

“Are you from an angel?” she asked, half expecting an answer. When none came, she laughed to herself and, tucking the feather into her pocket, headed towards home.

Death turned the final page in his book and let out a satisfied sigh.

Closing the book, he stood and stretched. His joints were sore and his wings ached. He needed to walk around a bit. He’d been sitting for too long. He trudged to the bookshelf and placed his book with its brothers. He watched it for a moment as it slowly changed colors to match the other books on the shelf. Then, turning to the door, he went outside. He stood on his doorstep a moment, then took a deep breath and started walking. He shuffled along, his feet barely leaving the ground, dragging in a way that left light trails between each footprint. As he walked, he took in the fresh air, breathing deeply and closing his eyes. Though the landscape was barren, the air was clean and invigorating. Death didn’t know a single place on Earth with better air than his home. The cities smelled of metal and smoke, the deserts smelled of sand. When he soared over the oceans, he’d fly high to avoid the smell of the salt and fish. But here, above the clouds, apart from the rest of the world, things were different. He would take a breath and feel strong, powerful. With every breath, his aches faded and his sore bones began to feel better.

As he walked, his eyes closed, he extended his wings and reached his arms above his head. A yawn escaped his mouth as he stretched and the air drew into his lungs and seeped into his every fiber.

Back at his door, Death looked at the fenced enclosure that was his yard. The fence itself was dilapidated and shabby, the paint chipping and the wood rotting. Outside the fence was not much different from the inside; both areas were made up of the same grey dirt, almost a silvery sand. For the most part, the only difference was the tracks Death had made around the perimeter of the fence on his walk.

Satisfied with his stroll, Death opened the door and went inside.

Eshe held onto the feather for several days. She wasn’t quite sure what to do with it, but, somehow, she felt it was important.

Amali exclaimed for a week that an angel was watching the village. Finally, the people got so annoyed with her that they begged her to stop saying it so much. Though her words subsided, Amali still believed that little harm could come to the village under the angel’s watch. As such, she continually reassured people, helped them by telling them everything would be all right. Over the years, Amali would take comfort in helping others with their problems. She eventually left the village and went to a city nearby where she studied at a university to become a psychologist.  She would help many people and win many awards.

Eshe would have been proud to see her sister grow up to become a doctor, but she never did.

With each night that passed, she felt the feather drawing her away from her village. She felt it pulling her somewhere, somewhere far away.

On the third night, she awoke to a noise. A footstep, or so she thought. She heard someone walking just outside her hut. She waited for a moment, lying in the dark, studying the noise as it repeated. It was rhythmic enough to be footsteps, but it sounded like nothing she’d heard before. A slow drag was followed by a strange, heavy step. Silently, Eshe rose from her bed and moved to the door. From her place in the shadows, she could see a great lumbering beast move towards a hut nearby. The creature barely fit into the doorway, its massive body stooping to make it in. The hut was that of Ekai, an elder with many stories of his adventurous youth. Making sure the monster didn’t see her, Eshe followed it. She stepped carefully, her feet slowly stepping on the ground so as not to make a noise. As she neared the hut, she stopped, her bare foot feeling something strange in the dirt. Looking down, she saw the monster’s footprint. It looked like a human’s foot, a rounded heel, an arch and bridge, but the toes were different. They were square. The feather throbbed in her pocket and Eshe pulled it out. It pulsed in her hand and Eshe could feel its energy. It was powerful. And it was leading her into the hut. Slowly, Eshe entered.

Ekai lay on his bed, a sword through his chest. The creature stood over the corpse, his hand on the hilt of the blade. As Eshe entered, he slowly looked up and their eyes met.

He was no creature at all. He was an old man with white hair and stony eyes. He had pale skin and hunched shoulders. Oh his back were great wings that, even in the dark, shone brilliant blue, gold, and red. They stood for a moment, gazing at each other. Slowly, the angel shifted his eyes to the feather in Eshe’s hand. He cocked his head, and then he was gone. It was as though the shadows had swallowed him up; one moment he was there, the next he wasn’t. Paralyzed, Eshe stared at the body, waiting for Ekai to wake up, but she knew he wouldn’t.

When dawn came, the village was called to his hut and the people buried him. When he was deep beneath the ground, women and children sang songs and danced. The men built a fire on his grave and they cooked meats on it. While everyone was eating and laughing and celebrating Ekai’s life, Eshe was far from the village. She walked all day, taking several days worth of food for herself. She didn’t know how long she’d be gone. She didn’t know where she was going. She held the feather in her hand and followed where it led her.

When night fell, the villagers built the fire higher and danced wilder and sang louder. Eshe curled up beneath a tree and slept.

The feather tight in her hand, she dreamed of angels.

Death slept for a year after collecting Ekai’s soul. And high up on his mountain, he dreamed of a dark girl curled up under a tree, a feather in her hand.

When he awoke, a letter was at his door again. Heaving an immense breath, he shuffled off to complete his duties.

Eshe awoke with the sun and began walking again. The feather pulled her across the world, herded her towards an unknown goal.

Days passed. She traveled when the sun was up and slept in whatever shelter she could find at sunset. It was strange; she’d seen maps of the part of the country, heard stories from men who had been adventurous enough to go far past the limits of the village but not adventurous enough to stay, but this land was nothing like what they told of. They spoke of mountains and hills, oases where trees grew into the sky and there was the cleanest fresh water they had ever tasted, but Eshe saw none of that. The ground she walked on was flatter with every day and color appeared to seep from everything, leaving the world a dusty, gray plane. The sky was nearly the same color as the ground and looming clouds gathered directly overhead, obscuring the sun from view. Occasionally, Eshe would turn to look behind her, only to see the flat, gray world stretch into forever, just as it did in front of her. Every way she looked, the way looked the same; the only way she knew which way to go was the feather, clutched tightly in her hand. Day after day, it pulled her, stronger some days and weaker on others.

After several days, there were no trees anymore. The sky didn’t get very dark at night, so when Eshe got tired, she would just lie down and sleep. When she woke up, she would stand, dust herself off, and start following the feather again.

She lost track of days after a while. She simply forgot how long it had been since she left.

So the day that things changed was nothing special to her numerically. She had no idea that it had been exactly fourteen days since she left home. All Eshe knew was that, when she woke up after an unspectacular day of walking, she was confronted by a cliff.

She screamed and shuffled backwards, staring at the colossal wall of rock that had seemingly sprouted beside her in her sleep. It stretched towards the horizon in either direction and faded into the sky somewhere miles above. Standing, Eshe inspected it, placing her hands on it and feeling it. It was rock, sure enough. She couldn’t explain it. A solid cliff had just appeared in the night. A thought occurred to her and Eshe reached into her pocket for the feather. Holding it tightly in her hand, she waited for the feeling, the pull from the feather.

It was pulling straight up. Eshe looked up to where the cliff met the sky again. The feather wanted her up there, wherever that was. She couldn’t even see the top. Eshe closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The air was clean at least, not like in the city or by the animal’s watering hole.

It pulled upwards. Looking in either direction, Eshe closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and started walking towards the right. Maybe there was a way up somewhere.

Death finished another book and softly closed it. This one wasn’t too special, just some manuscript that had never been published. He thought about how the writer’s life would have been different if someone other than Death had even looked at it. Remembering the sorry fellow, Death sighed to himself. He probably wouldn’t have hanged himself.

“A shame, really,” Death said, lifting his frame from the chair. “Maybe he could’ve written more.” He moved to the bookshelf, the manuscript in hand, and placed the bound papers in the only empty space. Slowly, dusty, red paper grew from the pages and enveloped the sheets of aged paper. After a moment, the manuscript looked just like all the other books on the shelf. Death ran his fingers over the identical books and letters flashed on their spines.

“What should I read next?” he whispered to himself.

Almost as though it were cued, a letter slipped under the door. Death looked at it for a long moment before moving. He grabbed his sword from above the mantle before picking up the letter and reading its contents. Memorizing the name and location, he stepped outside and walked to the edge of the cliff.

“And again,” he said before leaning off the cliff.

Eshe didn’t feel the pull change as she walked along the bottom of the great cliff. She would have thought that it would pull towards a single point, but instead it was pulling directly upwards wherever she went, as though her destination was always above her.

She walked for hours and her scenery didn’t change. The cliff remained to her left and she never saw an end to the massive rock wall, not even a curve.

The day grew on and she began to feel tired again. Slowly, she came to a stop and looked in either direction once more. Both ways looked the same. Her possibilities looked bleak and the feather wasn’t helping her much. And then there was a pulse. The feather twitched in her hand and it wasn’t pulling up anymore. The pull changed directions, as though the destination was moving and then it was pulling in the way Eshe had come. The pull grew stronger and stronger and Eshe turned around, running towards the feeling. She ran as fast as she could, feeling the distance between her and her destination closing in. She was so close; she just knew it.

A blur sped down the side of the cliff and shot out above the ground, fading into the distance. The feather pulled in all directions for a moment, then was still in her hand. The pull was completely gone. For a moment, Eshe just stood. She saw something. But then it had gone. She leaned against the cliff and slid to the ground. Her elbows resting on her knees, she bowed her head and fell asleep.

Death hated fire. It itched. When possible, he preferred to keep out of the flames and simply throw his sword through. It was less personal than his usual approach, but he had never gotten any complaints, so he didn’t have to do it any other way.

Death could see the man burning at the center of the fire. He writhed on the ground and screamed in agony. Steadily, Death lifted his blade and held it at his shoulder like a spear. With great speed and accuracy, he hurled the blade at the thrashing man and his screams were cut short. His job done, Death relaxed a little. He didn’t have to go in the fire. His sword was still in there, but it would only take several seconds to him for it to go out.

Eshe awoke with a sharp breath, cold air infiltrating her lungs and filling up her insides. Clean, energizing air reached into the very pit of her and vitalized her body, sent feeling coursing through her being. Her eyes stretched open and her head spun at her startling surroundings. She woke at the edge of a great cliff, with a blank gray sky in all directions. She tried to scuttle backwards on her hands, to inch away from the edge and her foot slipped. Her heart dropped and an emptiness filled her. She could feel what it would be like to fall. With her foot dangling over the edge, she carefully pulled herself backwards until she was safe. After a moment, her heart slowed and she ventured towards the edge again, crawling on her stomach with her legs out behind her. Shuffling forward, she peered over the edge of the cliff and stared down into the gray abyss. There was nothing.  It was as though someone had simply destroyed the great rock wall that had been in her way and taken the world along with it.

“But maybe I’m not at the bottom of the cliff anymore,” Eshe thought.  “Though it sounds ridiculous, it’s more sound than a chunk of the world just disappearing.”

Taking a deep breath of the fresh, clean air, Eshe decided that she must be high up, high above everything else.

The feather pulsed in her hand and Eshe looked down at it. It pulled behind her now, a faint and light urge. Eshe turned.

There was maybe fifty feet of land before behemoth mountains, jutting into the sky like spines on a dragon. And, not twenty feet away from Eshe was a house. With a small yard with a rotting white fence, the house stood lonely and dejected. Its paint peeling and windows dusty, it looked like no one had lived there for years. Eshe stood, staring at the house in confusion. What was it doing there? As she stepped towards it, the door closed softly, tough Eshe hadn’t realized it had been open. She took another step towards the house and the feather throbbed. This was the place. This was where it had been leading her. She reached the yard and glanced at the shuffled marks around the edge of the fence.  Moving towards the door, she reached out her hand towards the doorknob. It was cold in her hand, sending prickles up her arm. Cautiously, she turned the knob, and opened the door.

Three People

Number one:
A man sits on the steps of his front porch.
They are old, worn down
so is he
They creak and groan, I'd imagine
as someone cautiously steps on to each one.
They groan in discomfort, no longer able to hold the weight
you've placed upon them
The man groans, too.
The paint is chipping off the stairs, revealing bare wood, swollen and dark with years of rain. The house is likewise, falling apart at the seams, paint chipping, wood rotting, a window on the second story broken. In its prime, it was adorable. "Cute as a button," people would say as they passed. Then they'd go on and occasionally, maybe dream of living in a house just as adorable. With a lovely porch, a swing hanging by the door, flowered curtains in all the windows. No one would include the young man in their fantasy, though. He was just as adorable as the house, but he didn't fit in their dreams. They did not want him.
Now, as the man sits, he creaks and groans. Hands in pockets, face contorted into a grimace, a wince of pure agony, he cries for hours on end. Silently, drily, he cries. He cries for the paint that's chipped away, for the broken glass in the window on the second story, for the stairs that wail louder than he ever has, and for the people, none in particular, that passed him by and kept him from their dreams.

Number two:
She trots in her rubber boots, hands clenched. The actions is strange, indeed, but can be explained by no other means except trotting. Like a horse, proud and regal, she ambles down the sidewalk. She is not dressed for exercise, she just felt like trotting, horse-like.
And then I see her face, her hands. Eyes wide and empty, her mouth is pursed, but open as though she had just lost the words perched on her lips. Her face is marked by years of worrying, of laughing and crying. Rays of lines spread from her eyes, concentric half-circles cup her sunken sockets. Her forehead looks almost like a pasty layered cake, white and dusty with lines, parallel to each other, one on top of the next. The cake, this geologic marvel of compressed sandstone, is underscored by two red arches, penciled in thin and wavering, as though with shaky hands.
Her hands now are clenched. White with pressure, they look like marble sculptures fixed to the ends of her coat sleeves. They pump back and forth like counterweights, keeping her trot at a steady pace.
Hair springs out of her black hood, kinky and red, like sprais of blood frozen in midair. Or maybe like those holiday head bands with springs on them and little plastic symbols at the ends. They bob and wobble as you move your head and you feel plain old ridiculous in them.
She doesn't, though. She keeps her gaze forward, her fists pumping, her legs continuing their determined trot.
I pass her in a second; she's not even going very fast. I glance back at her and look into her eyes, like holes leading all the way back to what she is running from.

Number three:
She looks like her face is made of slabs of dried mud; the wrinkles in her face are deep and dark, dividing her expression into thin, layered sections.
The image of a stack of mud slabs is contradicted by her bone structure. Sharp cheeks and a dastardly chin extrude from her face. Her nose is long and hooked and her eyes are dark, hidden behind a Prominent Brow. She is taller than me by nearly a head. Her shoulders are broad and, when she says "Good morning," I swear her voice is that of a man's. I imagine she's some tired old queen or some man who's been taking hormones for longer than they can remember. And then I berate myself for how illogical I'm being. For how old she is, there's no way she's anything I'd expected her to be. Thinking reasonably, I decide that she is just a freak, some manly woman who was only this close to growing a beard.
And then you say, "She's way too old to be taking a walk." I mumble agreement, but don't mention my mental tangent.

Additions to the OED

flagracious - adj. - obscenely abundant in good odor, to the point that it's bad. "His cologne is so flagracious!"

aruviate - v., n. - to aruviate - to spread a distasteful rumor that evolves and morphs expediantly. aruviate - a distasteful rumor that is entirely untrue

epiphicate - v. - to make someone have an epiphany.

This Library 2

He walks in, trying not to make a sound. The kids look up for a moment, then return to writing. he stands at the door, looking around until the teacher approaches.
"Can I help you?"
"What is this?" the man asks.
"It's poetry class." The man doesn't respond, but there's something there that makes the teacher say:
"Would you like to join us?" Slowly, the man nods.
Pencil in hand, notebook on his lap, he sits in the corner of the room, scribbling pages and pages of words.
When it is time to share, no one raises their hands. Except him. He stands, shakily, and reads four lines.
No one finds any particular meaning in his words, but by the end he is crying.
When the students are gone, the man goes to the teacher and embraces him.
"Thank you," he says. "Thank you," quieter the second time.
The teacher feels uncomfortable at first, but he returns the embrace and softly pats the man's back.
"Yeah," he says.

This Library 1

He sits for a while, his face in his hands, taking long deep breaths. he leans back at times, his arms on the thick, round armrests and his eyes closed. Sitting up, he darts his gaze around the room, moving only his eyes. He blinks rapidly in time with his tapping finger. The nervous energy moves up his arm and then down his leg. He taps his toe and brings a hand to his mouth. He stands, rubbing his hands up his thighs and sliding them into his pockets. WIth another deep breath, he begins walking around the room.
When you enter, he doesn't hear you. The door has been fixed and you're cautious at the sight of one person in the large room. You reach the center of the room and pretend to clear your throat. He doesn't jump, he just slowly turns to look at you. Forcing a polite smile, he sniffs like he's just been crying. You don't see any tears on his face, though.
"Did you notice that there's no books on the shelves?" He asks. "Even though this is a library?"
You look around and, for the first time, realize this strange absence. Your gaze returns to him as he runs his hand along a shelf where pages and bindings should be. And in the silence, you begin to feel like there's this great hole in the world and this man is the only one who knows.

On Dating

They were together for maybe a week. Maybe. They happened to show up at the same movie one night and she just sat next to him. By the end, she was holding his hand and resting her head on his shoulder. She even at all of his popcorn. The next day, she decided they were dating. She came over for dinner once and his parents loved her. Absolutely adored her. When dinner was over, he went up to his room. She stayed at the table, chatting with his parents. When they weren't together, she would call him and text him relentlessly. He answered, sure, but with short phrases like "k" and "yeah." By Friday, she was at the end of her rope. She wasn't getting the attention that she thought she deserved and she knew that he wouldn't take a hint. When she broke up with him, she cried. Her friends called him a dick. Her mother let her come home from school early that day.
He didn't even take the time to delete her number from his phone. She'd been the one to put it in anyway.

"Best of" Tunes

1. Mr. Brightside - the Killers - This is my theme song. I can't tell if it's just my own projection onto their songs, but it seems like the Killers were thinking of me when writing most of their music. Nearly all of their songs reflect pieces of my life. It's interesting to me that I see this in their music. I'm sure that there's a little bit of projection on my part, but mostly they did a good job of capturing my life on their own. Unintentionally, of course.
2. Champagne - Sugarcult - I can listen to this song over and over and over again. There's something so amazingly bittersweet about it that I just love. I don't even know where I heard it the first time, but I feel like I've known it for a very long time.
3. Shape of my Heart - Noah and the Whale - It's happy, it's peppy, it's dark. Awesome. With this song, I get the feeling of conquering sadness and finding the "oh well, it's done, i'll just be singing over here" feeling in life.
4. Change of Seasons - Sweet Thing - This song gets stuck in my head soooo easily. But I like it. It's got a catchy tune, a nice beat, good harmonies, and fun lyrics. Really, it's just a super fun song. I just wish the band had more music I could find. The only place I could get this song was from the Easy A soundtrack. No problem there, it's just a shame that these guys seem to be a one-hit not-quite-wonder.
5. I'm Not Okay (I Promise) - My Chemical Romance - I used to be a little ashamed to like MCR because I considered them Screamo. I mean, really, they scream  a lot of their songs and, let's face it, they're pretty damn emo. It wasn't until recently that someone told me they're not Screamo. I don't know how I feel about that, but I'd gotten over my shame a while ago. This song is wonderfully sarcastic and biting. I love it. Most of my family has a huge problem where we hide our emotional problems and say we're fine, only to have them explode eventually and create a big ol' mess. I tend to do the same thing, but I've been working on that. This song reminds me to let people know what's going on with me and to not be so passive aggressive. If people can't see I hurt, it's not their fault. I swear it's genetic that I'm good at hiding it.
6. Adventures in Solitude - The New Pornographers - You hear a lot about the overplayed songs and the bands that have sold out, but you don't hear about the underrated bands. Why is that? Why can't they have equal popularity?! The New Pornographers are like this amazing secret that you keep trying to tell everyone but they just won't believe you. "What? Clever, yet heartening lyrics? Harmonies like no other? Classic guitar stylings? Awesome rock feel? It can't be. I don't believe you." Well, believe it. The New Pornographers are like this modern re-vamp of a 1950s mystery-show band. Like Josie and the Pussy Cats or Jabber Jaws. They've got the campy feel of one of those classic mystery solvers, with a contemporary twist. It is sincerely the most underrated band I have ever heard.
And about the song: It's just lovely. It reminds me of some comic book where superheroes gather around a once-presumed-dead comrade to welcome him back tot he world. And they're all crying from joy and it's like that moment in a series that everyone remembers as the most heart-warming part.
7. In the Summertime - Mungo Jerry - I don't know how I end up with so much music that people seem to have never before heard. And I don't know how I learned these songs that seem to be the singular hits of super obscure bands. I've never heard another Mungo Jerry song and very few people I know have heard of him either. This song is fun and great to dance to and it really captures my feelings about summer (minus the "women on your mind" part).
8. Wild World - Cat Stevens - I have no idea where I first heard this, but while watching the show Skins, I heard their cover of it and thought, "I remember this song!!" It's a great tune with a catchy chorus and it's awesome to sing along to.
9. If You Be My Bodyguard - Paul Simon - Again, one of those songs that I seem to remember from the vague recesses of my mind, with no actual recollection of how I remember it or from where. The lyrics are fun, it's catchy as hell and really just a great song.
10. Come On Eileen - Dexy's Midnight Runners - This one has all of my friends stumped. Everyone seems to know it, but nobody recognizes the band's name or knows how they learned it. Yet we all sing along at the chorus. TOO RA LOO RA TOO RA LOO RAI - AYE!!! This song is a blast.
11. Dog Days are Over - Florence and the Machine - This song's got some etherial feeling like waking up from a dream and you feel like you're still in it, like you're just some cloud floating through your life. And then it goes into this shouting chorus and you can't help but feel empowered. I first heard this song in my senior year of high school and it definitely gave me the feeling of moving past something crazy. I was in charge of my class's Senior Slideshow, an assortment of photos of the kids growing up, and I wanted to put this song in to give everyone in my class the message of "YOU MADE IT. FUCK YEAH. SCREW THESE HIGH SCHOOL BITCHES." But then my principal told me to cut the slideshow down. So much for princiPAL. But I still get that feeling whenever I listen to this song.
12. Romeo and Juliet - the Killers - Opening with a lovely guitar and piano riff, this song goes into fun lyrics like "You and me babe, how about it?"and pays homage to dorky songs from the nineties. All in all, this song exemplifies the sad bitterness of a bad break-up and speaks out on the dangers of young love. Yay for good messages!
13. The Fear - Lily Allen - Her songs are always fun. Laced with sarcasm and the only good example of cleverly-used swear words, her music is like a bombed photo (in a good way). At first you think it's this lovely family photo; everyone's wearing their Christmas sweaters and there seems to be a halo around everyone's head. But you pass by without a glance. It's a lovely family photo and you're more interested in the pictures of the kids at wild drunken parties. It's not until you stop and look at the photo that you realize there's a giant dick in the background and everyone's holding a doobie, even the baby.
Did I extend that metaphor too far?
14. Stutter - Maroon 5 - I always felt like they were pretty underrated. Pretty much all of their music has a great dance beat and they are fun to sing along to. It's just a shame that all of their songs... wait.... nope, ALL of their songs are about bad relationships. Maybe Adam Levine just has terrible luck with the ladies. Whatever the case, he makes me s-stutter.
15. Send Me On My Way - Rusted Root - Definitely their best song by FAR, Send Me On My Way has the feeling of "Hey, I'm independent!" and it rounds off with a "WOOHOO!" This song is a party all in itself. I know it only because it's in Matilda, one of the greatest movies ever created, and it is such a feel-good song that I downloaded that shit immediately when I had a Matilda flashback not too long ago. Seriously. Matilda.
16. To Binge - Gorillaz (ft. Little Dragon) - This entire album (Plastic Beach) is amazing to sleep to. It's all so chill and laid back. A friend of mine goes crazy for the Gorillaz saying, "They're so minimal, ya know? Man, it's so savage." Yeah, I don't really know what that means, but I agree that their minimalistic beats and melodies in Plastic Beach are exemplary. The rapping, though not featured in this song, is also note-worthy. It seems arhythmic and slightly off, but, like all Gorillaz rapping, is clever and well thought out. In all, they work to really draw you in and, after listening to it more and more, you start to see the really amazing patterns inside their outwardly-apparent lack of rhythm. Bravo, Gorillaz.
17. Did You See the Words - Animal Collective - These guys are just plain wacky. But their lyrics are poetic and just plain beautiful. Every one of their songs is like an acid trip in itself and I'm always transported to some crazy-colorful world of fun and wonder. With Animal Collective, it's like they don't write music with notes and bars and rhythm, but they shape their feelings and emotions into raw sound. And it's beautiful.
In the book The Last Days by Scott Westerfield, he explains this genre of music called New Sound. Unbeknownst to the people in the central band, (spoiler. ya know, if you care) New Sound is actually a literally magical kind of music that can only be made by Peeps, Scott Westerfield's off-vampire super-creature. When the Peeps sing, shit goes crazy and it's like everyone in the room is on drugs. Little fireworks go off in the air, things start to glow, the floor looks like a kaleidoscope of gasoline rainbows and snakes/dragons/writhing tentacle monsters seem to do serpentine movements in the ground. While all of this sounds like wacky fun, Peep music also summons giant, man-eating worms. Bummer.
But I imagine that if New Sound was a real thing, Animal Collective would be the forerunner of the genre.
18. Every Man I Fall For - Cold War Kids - This song is melancholy yet driven and purposeful. I tend to listen to it whenever I'm sad and I'm calmed by it, but even when I'm happy, I feel the purpose and I connect with it. I feel an overall sadness in this song, yet I get just a little happy inside at the image of Nathan Willet falling for men. *swoon
19. Worst Day Since Yesterday - Flogging Molly - Despite the lyrics, this song has a pretty upbeat feeling and an overall not-sad temperament. This song says to me, "Yesterday sucked. Today sucks. But whatever. That's life." It's a song about surviving and just putting up with all of the little shit we deal with day to day. Don't think about the bad stuff, focus on the good parts of life. Because life sucks. That's not negotiable. But you can be happy if you endure.
20. Sweetest Goodbye - Maroon 5 - This song is one of my favorites simply because of the bridge: "Pushing forward and arching back, bring me closer to heart attack." The syncopation and lyrics are just so.... sexy. I always sing along to this song. Sometimes, I imagine I'm singing with Adam Levine. And then it just turns into a dream band with Nathan Willet and Brandon Flowers. Now THAT would be a concert I'd go to.
Front. Row. Seat.

Band Names, Group 1

1.Chemical Road

2. Zombie Kestrel

3. Slow Titanic

4. Boot Shelf No Sit

5. Don't Hold Hands

6. Planet-sized Pizza Slice

7. Dream Geo

8. Aerialists

9. Politics & Vampires

Every Whence in a While

She sits across from me, one hand in her lap, the other on her half-emptied cup of coffee. Her gaze is distant, foggy like the harbor just outside the window.

I say, “What was it about time travel?” My own hands, on the table in front of me, left over right, seem too big. Like monsters at the ends of my wrists, they lay there in gargantuan heaps, hairy and warm. I lift them up and my fingers leave temporary circles on the table. I set them down again.

She says, “When something calls your name, you listen.” Her sentence fades and my attention dawdles out the window. A man stands under a streetlight, trying to light his pipe, but the air is too wet and his match goes out three times before he succeeds. I can see his outline, defined by quick bursts of the tiny flame. When the tobacco catches, he lets out a puff of smoke and he is gone. There is no distinction within the smoke and the fog. They are one now and the man has vanished.

I remember I was listening when she stops talking to take a sip of her coffee. Setting the cup down, she continues. “And when you don’t listen, sometimes they have to catch your attention.” At this point, I wish I had been paying attention. I can’t tell if she is extending the metaphor or making a statement about my attentiveness.

“Could you say that in plain English?” I ask. She laughs.

“Since when have I spoken English?” I try to make my face look like a smile, but it’s uncomfortable and obviously insincere. She notices and her own smile fades.

We fall into quiet again and she takes a packet of sugar from the pile. Friction pulls several packets with hers and they float upwards gracefully, set into a slight spin. She pushes them to the table, then rips her own packet and dumps the sugar into her coffee and stirs. The metal spoon clinks on the inside of the mug, making asymmetrical chimes that draw me in. I watch the tiny whirlpool in the brown-black liquid and I’m mesmerized. Bubbles are drawn to the center of the mug and, slowly, the clinking fades. The noise is gone.

I narrow my eyes and look around. That’s not the only noise that’s gone. The rest of the tavern has gone quiet. People are walking about, their footsteps missing and the rustle of clothing gone from the air. A group of friends clink glasses noiselessly and their howled toast is merely a soft breeze of simultaneous breaths. I look to my companion and she, too, has raised her eyes to look around the room. With furrowed brow, her gaze lands and I look to follow her eyes.

A woman has entered, her skin like a pale lily and her eyes as white and void as pearls. Her head is shaved and her white robes flow around her as though she were underwater. When she takes a step, the wooden floors mold around her bare feet as though she were walking through sand. I look back to my companion to see her say something and, though I can’t hear her words, I know she whispers the woman’s name.

“Silence.”

The woman comes to us and looks at my companion and then me. Her lips do not move as she speaks and no sound reaches my ears through the stillness.

“We should go,” she says. There is a ripple in the air. I see the tavern fold around us and, quite suddenly, we are gone.

The Writer Sits Down for Coffee

What is he, some  kind of writer?
Sitting there, dirty plates in front of him
fork and knife at five o'clock like he thinks some waiter will come and pick them up.
Trash in his cup sitting atop his pile of dishes.
Neat. Tidy. Fastidious is a good word.
scribbling in his notebook, occasionally glancing up, listening to conversations around him.
Or checking his phone for text messages.
His coat beside him, his back pack by his seat.
What a fucking artist.
And he has only one line left.
Look how he's wasted it.

untitled

the faces I will never see
have focus turned away from me
this rocking boat on rolling swells
a wrecking beat that slowly tells
a bold-faced lie that breaks apart
the golden sides that make my heart
and moaning walls just whine and sigh
the meaning written in your eyes

Ghost Birds

As one, they settle on the water
making no ripples, no sounds
no splashes
effortlessly, they stop hurtling from the sky
and, asmost instantaneously, are afloat on the green-gray harbor.
Their heads turn in unison, followed by their bodies.
Their feathers ruffle simultaneously
and they blink like a single creature
with six dozen eyes.
Their red gazes glide over their surroundings
in a way that makes you think they're always looking at you
like some optical illusion on a portrait
and when you've seemingly caught their focus just long enough that you think they're going to talk to you at any moment
in a single nebulous voice that you can hear saying, "Hello," and you know they'd be talking to you
they take flight
Making no ripples, no sounds
no splashes.
And, as one, they vanish in the sky
without a trace that they were there at all
and even you have to wonder.

Farting in the Library

Have you ever farted in the library?

As your bowels groan, you distinctly remember some librarian from your distant past telling you to be quiet in the library.

And you feel like you’ve committed some great sacrilege

Yet you feel safe because, unlike in a church, God can’t hear you in here

And you don’t see any one else in the room

But you didn’t notice the girl reading silently in the corner

She heard you

And, indeed, she’s been farting in here for hours.

Solve

Solve. Some mystery. Like a boy detective, solving. Eyeing things through his eyeing, magnifying, death-defying, glass. Grass, green and everything in between. He sees all, eyes all. Solves all. Trusty hat on head, coat all dapper and handsome-looking. He spots a spot. A mere dot, some might say, per say, but to him, this spot, this dot is so much more. A clue. This clue. Busts the case wide open. And a criminal walking away in handcuffs would shake his fists if he could. “Damn kid,” he’d say if the police officer would let him get two words out. Those two words out. In the car, ducking his head. Slamming the door and a picture is taken of the young boy responsible. His parents are so proud. What a good boy he is. They done him good to raise him that way. What a lovely family.

How nice.

Admiration

I lost myself in admiration

Now I’m stuck in syncopation.

Slipped off beat

and stepped on toes,

I’m two left feet

and so exposed.

I’m swimming naked in a sea

And getting burnt in third degree

Your white-hot words

Like white-caps peak

My thoughts are slurred

I cannot speak.

Heavy-weight Champ

when she was little, before any of this shit happened, she would spend her winters with her dad and brothers. they'd wrap her up in all her coats, cover her mouth and chin with a red knit scarf, hold her mittens open so she could slide her hands inside them. all the while, they'd laugh and smile with their perfect teeth and deep, adult voices. outside, they'd build forts and play tag, lay down and make snow angels. they'd pick up lumps of snow, loosely packed spheres of frozen water. Steven taught her just how to shape her hands to make a perfect sphere. to them, it was never a fight. it was an art, an image of the beauty of life. hurt was not an aim, as this was just a game.
THOSE were snowballs. when her rehab therapist explained to her parents that the situation had "snowballed," she called bullshit. no snowball was this much trouble. the situation was fucked and that's all there was to it. how she'd gotten into it was because she was weak. but she was fifteen. what fifteen year old girl wasn't? two years of emotional body building gave her the strength to get back in the ring of reality, though. at her last session, she said she was expecting to be the heavy-weight champ. there was a lot on her mind, so much in her heart. but she was a regular Atlas, now. in charge of the world on her shoulders.
she had covered her face in makeup. she had a special love for teal. tousling her multicolored mane, she'd smirk at her reflection and make kissy lips as she applied the deepest red lipstick she had. before she left for school every morning, she'd look down her nose at herself, then pass her own test and say,
"you an' me, babe? we're bad."
on the day she later came to think of as The Day the Whole Fucked-Up Situation Got Even More Fucked, she stood and leaned in to kiss the mirror, leaving a perfectly symmetrical lipstick stain on the reflection of her room.
two years later, she scrubbed as hard as she could to get it off. the red stain merely blurred and smeared. she resorted to putting a sheet over the whole vanity. then she slowly pulled the posters from her walls, the one of James Franco and the one of Britney Spears folded neatly to fit on the pile at the bottom of her closet. she took down the streamers and beads from her walls, emptied the contents of her jewelry box, and put it all in a case to sit on the pile of posters. she stripped her bed of the vibrant pink sheets and the orange comforter and traded them for off-white and yellow. she picked up the clothes that hadn't been touched in two years from her floor and put them in her dirty clothes basket. she'd sort through them for the ones she wanted to keep and the ones she wanted to get rid of later.
when she was done, she opened her wallet and unfolded a photograph of her and her brothers huddled in the snow, bundled up in their winter's finest. the memory was a cloud in her head, a foggy remnant of a feeling. her father had taken the picture and she had known that it wasn't the thick layers keeping her warm; it was her family. taking a single tack, she stuck it on the bare wall and curled up on her bed to look at it. she'd worked on getting rid of all the bad things for two years and the consequence was a feeling of emptiness. but now, at the bottom of her lead-lined hole, she was ready to start filling up with good things. her breath slowed and she began to dream about living on a boat on the open ocean.
her mother entered and saw her asleep. looking at the room, she smiled. "looks nice," she thought. she didn't see the photograph on the wall.
if she had, she would've started crying.

Like Two Houses in the Night

[Lights are down. Someone is singing “Ise Oluwa.” When they finish, lights come up.]

[A table is set and four people sit: a man at each end of the table and two girls in between. Glasses are full of water. Food is in large dishes in the middle of the table. Heads are bowed for praying, hands clasped, elbows on the tables, eyes closed. One man is uncomfortable (Davin). Davin’s eyes are open and he shifts in his seat, looking around with darting glances.]

Dad: [Praying] Dear Lord, Watch over us as clouds draw near. May they bring heavy rain and low winds. Our garden is getting dry, Lord. We’d sure appreciate it. Grant us enough wind to run our turbine and not too much as to raise waves. But if a storm’s in your plan, go right ahead. We’re just askin’. In case of dark clouds, protect us from the swells and keep our home and the home of this kind young man safe. And I know e ask for a lot, but we’re plenty thankful, too, Lord. Thank you for the company of this man, Davin. Thank you for the wonderful eggs that Addy lay this morning. Thank you for this loving family, my beautiful wife and our shining daughter. She’s growin’ up so fast, Lord. Thank you for the roof over our heads and a sturdy home to keep us afloat. Amen.

[Mother and daughter repeat “Amen” in unison. Davin catches on a little late, chiming in after them. Family comes out of prayer: opens eyes, drops hands.]

Dad: Alright. Let’s dig in!

[(General commotion) Ry passes Davin’s plate to Dad, who fills it while Ry dishes herself salad. Mom grabs a roll and hands one to Ry. Dad returns Stranger’s plate with a roll on it, fills Ry’s plate, fills Mom’s plate, fills his own. Commentating of filling plates occurs. Everyone gets salad, main course, and a roll. Ry’s plate is filled first and she begins eating before everyone’s plates are full.]

Dad: So, Davin, how’d you come to live all alone in that house?

Davin: Well, I was living on Manhattan Barge for a while, but I got kinda tired of that. I didn’t really belong there. I got my own house and just floated off…

Dad: Hm… Any plans for the open seas?

Davin: I really like diving.

[Ry, who has been paying attention to nothing but her food, looks up, intrigued.]

Mom: Have you seen anything exciting?

Davin: Yeah, plenty. I dove at Rushmore and Machu Pichu. I tried to get down to the Eiffel Tower in Paris, but it was too deep. I saw it, though. About a hundred feet below me.

[Ry is confused at the list of places: she doesn’t know where they are. Dad is indifferent. Mom is impressed, but hides it when she sees Dad’s expression.]

Ry: What’s… Eye Tower?

[Mom holds back a smile and Davin chuckles, then stops, embarrassed that he laughed at Ry. He doesn’t notice Mom’s smile.]

Davin: It’s a really old structure that was in Europe. Or… still is. Or something.

Dad: So you’ve been all over, huh?

[Davin nods.]

Dad: Any idea where you’re headed next?

Davin: Yeah. [Sets down utensils and takes a deep breath.] I’m on my way to Mt. Everest.

Mom: What for? Isn’t it supposed to be covered in trash? I didn’t think they cleaned that place up before it submerged.

Davin: Yeah, but… I feel like it’s important. I’m not sure why, but I think it’s something I need to do. Did you see the broadcast of its submergence?

Dad: I don’t know how we could’ve.

Stranger: It was just a couple months ago.

Mom: I had no idea it was so recent. We thought everything was gone ages ago.

Dad: [explaining] We don’t have tv.

Davin: Mm… It was… very moving. There were boats all around the summit. I’ve never seen the water so crowded. The way it worked out was that giant barges ringed further out, got as close as they could, but houses squeezed between their gaps to get closer and boats squeezed between their gaps. And smaller and smaller boats fit into this space around the tip. It got to a point where people swam just to get closer. With all the different cities there, they couldn’t mount a police force to keep the people in line, but… they didn’t need to. It always amazed me that they didn’t need to. Nobody got any closer than ten feet and they all just sat there. They huddled together on their porches and in their boats. They lit candles and prayed and there was one woman who was singing. It was an African song, something about the creator and what He’s made. I don’t know. Everyone… just… watched…. As the last piece of Earth went underwater.  [Pause] I don’t know what I expect to find there. I mean, I expect I’ll find nothing. I expect I’ll dive down several feet to this junkyard mountain and touch the summit, the last thing gone. It’s so strange when something submerges, ya know? It’s like it’s gone… but it’s still right there. It’s just under this layer of water.

[Everyone sits for a moment, absorbing.]

Dad: I think it’s bedtime, Ry.

Ry: But Dad!

Mom: [Before Dad can say anything.] Go get ready for bed and we’ll be right up to read you a story.

[Ry flounces offstage. Mom stands and clears dishes; exits, leaving Dad and Davin alone.]

Dad: [Waiting a moment.] “The Lord said to Moses, “Tell the Israelites this: ‘You have seen for yourself that I have spoken to you from heaven. Do not make any gods alongside me.’” Exodus 20:21. [Pause] Make sure you know who your God is, and who He isn’t.

Davin: [Carefully] I’m… not Christian. [Then, quickly] I used to be. I was raised Christian.

Dad: And what made you lose faith?

Davin: [Considering] God told Noah he would flood the Earth and rid the world of evil, start over. But the world is submerged and it’s clear to me that evil is still afloat. [Pause] When I left Manhattan Barge, it was because my mother had drowned. I didn’t understand how God could let all of these horrible things remain above the water while she had to die. I don’t understand.

Ry: [offstage] I’m ready for my story!

Dad: [stands for a moment, takes a breath.] We can stay docked for the night in case a storm hits. You can head on your way in the morning. [Pause] Good night. [He says it as though he doesn’t mean it. exits]

[Davin sighs and stands. He starts to exit and mother enters.]

Mom: Davin. [Davin stops, turns] You won’t find what you’re looking for there.

Davin: What?
Mom: At the mountain.

Davin: [laughs] I don’t even know what I’m looking for.

Mom: It’s what everyone’s looking for. [Pause] Happiness. Fulfillment. Success. We all want to feel whole. My husband needs his religion. It gets a little ridiculous sometimes…

Davin: So, you’re not even –

Mom: I just need my family. And you? You’re looking for home. But you won’t find it at Everest. Just because you touch it, it doesn’t mean you’ll bring it back. It doesn’t mean you’ll bring her back.

Davin: You heard.

Mom: You can go to Everest, but it won’t make you feel any better. Don’t think that just because there’s evil afloat that the world was perfect before. There may be evil in this world, but there is good, too. The flood wasn't a punishment inflicted by God. It’s just another change. [Pause.]

[Davin turns to leave, but stops.]

Davin: Thank you.

[Mom smiles and Davin looks around the room. His focus stops on a painting on the wall.]

Mom: [explaining] These are all Ry’s. I think her happiness is painting.

Davin: That’s a really nice rainbow. [Pause. Turns back to Mom] Goodnight.

Mom: I’ll see you in the morning.

[Lights fade and someone sings some of “Ise oluwa”]

Self-Portrait

Voodoo

Time

How can you not live in the moment when it's the only one we've got?

Hide and Seek

Heartless

I awoke with a sharp pain in my chest. My lungs burned and I cringed with every breath. My bed was warm and I assumed it was just from sweat. I must’ve had a nightmare. Darkness hung in my room like some sick Halloween decoration and I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see the shadows lurking in the corners. Taking breath after pained breath, I heaved the covers from on top of me and staggered to the bathroom. I fumbled for the doorknob and my hands must’ve been sweaty because it slipped from my grasp several times. I finally managed to throw the door open and I stood over the sink, my chest heaving and my stomach rolling. When I felt I wouldn’t puke, I swallowed and flipped the light switch.

My first thought was, “I thought this shirt was white.” My second thought was, “So that’s why I’m warm.” Then, “Oh, my God, I’m covered in blood!”

There was a hole in my shirt. I stuck my hand in it and stretched it out so I could see the almost identical hole in my own flesh. I fell against the wall in shock, slid to the ground. My world was blurred; everything was hazy. I stumbled to the light switch in my room. The ceiling light ate away at the shadows and burst my eyes into flames. The bed. It wasn’t sweat. Blue sheets had turned brown and droplets lead into the bathroom. The doorknob was smeared with blood and a pool of red lay beneath my feet.

I blacked out for a while and, when I awoke, things were clearer.

When I had calmed down, I went back into the bathroom and, standing in a puddle of blood, I looked at my reflection once again.

I was unshaven and pale, my brown hair at a bohemian length and my eyes shadowed in a sickly purple. I looked like I’d been spat out of Hell.

I took off my shirt and tried to wash some of the blood off my chest. The hole was sore and it hurt to touch anywhere near it, but just from looking at it, I could tell it was some kind of miracle that I was alive at all.  The hole was a little bigger than my fist and situated just below and to the right of my left nipple. Now, I don’t claim to be a professor of anatomy, but I’m pretty sure that’s where your heart is supposed to go. Mine wasn’t there. I swallowed the pain and stuck my hand in to feel around. I had a lung and what I assumed was my own stomach, but no heart.

I ran through a list of my options in my head. In the end, I decided that I could go see a doctor, call in sick to work, or try to hide it. I decided the doctor wasn’t such a good idea. How would he react to a man missing his heart? How was I supposed to know I wouldn’t be taken in for intensive examination? The pain was bearable now, so I didn’t need any pills. I was behind at work, too, so skipping that was out. As crazy as it sounded, I had chosen to go to work with my heart missing. I groaned and stared at the hole in my chest. I would have to find a way to hide this mess.

I took a handful of ibuprofen, too preoccupied to even count how many. Then I went to my closet. With the doors standing open, I stared at the clothes for a moment, a bad taste forming in my mouth. Pushing the women’s clothes aside, I fingered through my shirts and pants. I came out with a pair of black slacks and a red shirt. If I happened to bleed on it, it wouldn’t matter as much.

Before putting my clothes on, I dabbed at the hole with a towel to soak up the blood, maybe clean it a little. When I was satisfied, I got dressed and ate a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. I couldn’t help but laugh a little when I saw that the box boasted they were “Good for your heart!”

It was a completely normal day at work, not counting the gaping hole in my chest. I sifted through mass amounts of names and files, read dozens of boring reports and pointless memos. By the end of the day, I was about ready to rip my own heart out, but to my misfortune or good fortune (I’m not sure which), it was already gone.

People left me alone for the most part. They could tell I was having a rough day by the expression on my face. I’m sure none of them could’ve guessed what was actually going on. The only people that talked to me all day were Janice, the secretary at the front desk, and Rob. Rob, the very bane of my work life, poked his head over the wall of my cubicle and stared at me until I noticed him. I resisted the urge to throw my computer at his head. Hell, if I wanted him gone, I could’ve shown him the hole in my chest. I imagined him passing out at the sight of blood and everyone at the office thanking me for shutting him up. Instead, he plastered a sickeningly cheerful smile on his face and actually spoke to me.

“Some of the guys are gonna go out for drinks after work today,” he said, still smiling like a maniac. “Elaine and I just got engaged.” He paused for a moment, obviously waiting for congratulations. I gave him my best blank stare and forced him to continue, dissatisfied with my reaction. “You’re invited, too. You could even bring Daisy!” My blank stare fell into a piercing glare and I tried with all my might to bore a hole in his skull with my mind.

“We broke up,” I said. He audibly cringed and for a moment I wondered if I were in a cartoon because he shaped his body in such an exaggerated fashion that I thought he must have been kidding. After a moment in his awkward pose, he shook his head.

“Sorry man,” he said. “Put my foot in my mouth on that one.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “You did.”

With nothing left to say, he glanced around the room awkwardly, stuck to the spot by his manners or something. He opened his mouth and I could see his tongue flopping around as though his brain was trying to form intelligible words but failing. Finally, he stuttered something about filing and he scurried off. I didn’t even try to be polite as he left.

The mountain of ibuprofen had helped with the pain, but as the day wore on and the pills wore off, it started to hurt more. I could even swear I felt my heart beating, or trying to at least. My grandfather had lost his arm in some military accident and he often complained about ghost pains. Even though my heart wasn’t in my chest, I could feel something constricting on it. I had rarely noticed it beating when it was in my chest. I would feel it during momentous occasions, a tender kiss or a heated argument. But now that my heart was gone, I felt it all day. I could tell it was trying to beat, but it was becoming increasingly difficult.

I went to the bathroom around noon to choke down some ibuprofen, and when I got back, there was a box on my desk with a little purple bow. There was a note beside it. “Give this to Daisy for me.” The dips and twirls of the letters might as well have spelled, “Janice.”

I put the box on Janice’s desk, not even waiting for her to get off the phone before I started back towards my desk.

“Hey, wait! Did you get my note?” I stopped, but didn’t turn around.

“Yeah.”

“Well…” I swear I could hear the rusty gears in her brain turning with tremendous effort, screeching upon each other and sending sparks through her scalp to electrify her hair. It was almost like she fell asleep in the eighties and woke up twenty years later with an out-of-practice brain and the same big hair. Daisy was the same way.

“We broke up,” I said. I could hear her scoff in disgust as I walked away and as I rounded the corner, her shrill voice left a message in my brain.

“She deserved better than you.”

I watched the clock all day and, when it was a legitimate time to leave, I rushed home. I needed more pain pills. At my building, I quickly grabbed the mail from my box and headed up to my apartment, rifling through them as I stood in the elevator. There were so many bills. Credit card, electric, water. The elevator dinged and I started towards my door.

There was a letter from my aunt and an issue of Vogue with the name Daisy Boudine on it. I grimaced and put it on the bottom of the stack. I need to cancel that subscription, I thought.

As I stood at my door, I came to the last thing in my pile of mail. It was a Polaroid of some strange contraption. Unexplainably, I recognized my own heart in the center of the image.  Slowly, I deciphered the mess of cords and machinery around it. It seemed as though my heart was bound with cords and being tightened with every tick of a golden clock.

I turned over the photo to see a note written in bright red.

Because this is what you did to me.

-Daisy