empty verses.

I can still feel you alive inside of me.

Even at three a.m., as I stare blankly into the bathroom mirror, the weight of your presence still cripples me. I’ve let the insomnia take over my body, so here I am, battered and drowning, a shallow breathing tribute to His latest work.

The Bible taught me what was necessary in living a full and rewarding life. It had me believing that all I needed was to fill myself with His love and I would be complete, I would never need for anything or anyone else. I would be safe. I would be happy.

I would be whole.

As a child I would sing the hymns, rewrite the passages, listen closely for the word; each chapter and verse, a comforting sound. Thin delicate pages, turned so perfectly between my little fingers.

Communion. I ingested His body like a faithful cannibal but I was still too young to drink the blood he poured. It was a moment I had anticipated for many years; everyone always spoke so highly of this special occasion. But the wafer did not fill me with the things I had been promised, nor did it make me feel any closer to God. In fact, it all seemed to slip further away.

Confirmation. I was intended to surrender a promise to Him, to ensure that I would always love him. But where I thought love should come from, I felt nothing. I spoke the words of the prayers and held the candles to the flame but I did not feel you. I wanted you. I needed you to complete me.

“Fuck.”

The blade slipped. No, I am not trying to die. I am punishing myself for the mistakes that I have made. There are better ways, they say, to repent your sins without harming yourself or anyone around you, like prayer. They always told me to pray. I spent years praying for someone to find me and fill me with the love I had longed for. I thanked God when he touched me. I felt the light inside of me flicker. I felt the electricity charge through my veins, completing the circuit in a jumble of wires in my brain. Was this what it meant to feel complete? Like an intricate machine that had finally found its source…

“Christ!”

I slam it against the counter and draw away as quickly as I can. My back against the cold door, my bloody hands against my empty belly, I realize that I cannot even cry. I’ve spent an entire lifetime falling in love with a complete stranger, begging for his attention and adoration…I spent an entire lifetime wishing I would one day meet you. A pathetic fool, that's what I am.

But now it has all been ripped away, left in a pile of dead verse from a Book written by the hopeless.

I stand here before God as his enemy,

And we will never be made whole.  

the outdated use of sugar cubes.

I forget what day I'm supposed to be posting on...I always assumed it was Sunday or Saturday but I could be totally wrong. Anyway. enjoy.


Don't be so quick to assume that I am evil.

I always loathed these tea parties. Tabby invites me every Sunday over for some Orange Pekoe with the girls, and most of the time I have a pretty well prepared excuse as to why I cannot make it (sore throat, punctured left lung, slipped on the soap and bruised my septum making it horribly unpleasant to drink out of cups) But this Sunday I was unable, somehow, to shake her off. Even when I explained that there was a mysterious fungus growing on the bottoms of my feet and that it could be contagious, she pulled the ex-husband card on me. I may hate these women but I do love hearing them complain about their failed marriages. Within an hour I would be in my shitty Nissan heading over for tea.
I sit quietly on the couch and keep the cup up to my face as much as possible to mask my smiles of delight when they burst into tears or go on raging rants about how he would always leave his chest hair on the soap. Then I squirm uncomfortably when they try to comfort each other; I'm always afraid this will result in some kind of group reaction, like a hug of some sort, and I will be expected to participate actively. The mere thought of hugging a crying grown woman makes my skin crawl. I often bring up the subject of these tea parties with my own husband and he is convinced that all we talk about are men and where to get a decent pedicure. If only my husband knew what I put in his coffee in the morning.
"He was always telling me how much he loved me, every morning!" Wailed Dorothy Amble, my neighbour with poor taste in flower arrangement who's daughter got accepted to Yale because her mother fucked the headmaster (I know people who talk), "But then I found out he was sleeping with the--"
At this moment, all the women in the room try to conceal their excitement. They want to know who her husband replaced her with and depending on how dramatic the choice was, they'll gauge the decibels of their "Aw! Dory we're so sorry!"
"He was sleeping with the gardener!"
I drop my sugar cube into my tea cup a little louder than I expected. Now this is a first; her act of infidelity can be excused now because she simply supported another player for one night. Her husband completely switched teams.
"The gardener? Allan!? I asked him to trim my hedges on Monday...he's gay? Really?"
"Well, a man who handles flowers so delicately..."
"He must have the softest hands..."
That was Pruda Lolowitz. She never seemed to understand the gravity of a situation and had a distinct fear of newspapers. Supposedly the ink was toxic to her airways and she would clam up and begin panting if ever you touched her with one. I'm pretty sure she had some kind of hand lotion fetish. In a month's time, we would find out that Allan is in fact bisexual and she would have tested her soft hand theory.
It always baffles me how concerned older women are about getting older. There is never some kind of plateau of satisfaction with one's appearance or age. There's always something you wish you were younger for. Naturally, the conversation would turn to younger people, namely our daughters and sons. I just can't pay attention to a room full of women gushing about how wonderful their children are when I know deep down they want to scream like banshees and steal their youthful skin.
"It's so hard to keep those boys off of my daughter," Pruda complains, "I should have known I would have trouble with her when she started cheerleading..."
"Cheerleading? That's nothing. My daughter is head of the debate team and you should see how horny those boys get watching her shoot down straw man arguments and red herrings. I can't let her go to meets in other cities because I'm sure she'll get pregnant!"
"What about you, Sarah? You've been awfully quiet all this time! How's your daughter?"
I almost choke on my tea. All of a sudden there's this cloud of attention floating over me and I have no idea how to deflect it.
"My daughter's a lesbian." I answer bluntly.
And now I revel in the uncomfortable silence I have created in a stereotypical housewife's suburban home. The five of them exchange nervous glances before simply smiling with those creepy squinty eyes that say "That's nice...and we're all fake!"
"And I keep her in a cage in my basement. I only let her out when she goes to school so I don't need to worry about people corrupting her or boys molesting her because she has very little contact with the outside world. Makes my life much easier." And I take a long sip of my lukewarm tea. It was Mirabel's turn to drop her sugar cube, but she was not as lucky as to drop it in her tea. It scuttled across the carpet and rested by Dorothy's right shoe.

All five raised their cups to their lips, wide eyed, and drank in silence.
It comes to dawn on me then that these tea parties aren't so bad...it's nice to get something off your chest from time to time.

Early years.

It’s not like I was an unwanted baby.
My mother had waited ten years for a child. After six miscarriages and several false alarms later, she thought it was over. Then I decided to show up on an echo.
At birth, I was declared clinically dead for about twenty-three seconds until a nurse realized that my umbilical chord was wrapped around my neck. As soon as my airway was cleared, I let out a shriek so earth shattering that the doctors all covered their ears.
Even in the womb I had been carefully planning my early, memorable exit from this world.
Suicide attempt number 1, foiled by an apprentice nurse in pink scrubs after her first week.

My mother did not let go of me until I was old enough to run away from her. I could only get so far though, until I would trip and scrape my knees. The tears would bring me straight back into her arms. My father would carry me on his shoulders and bring me to the park. He would baby-proof the whole house, putting that soft mushy stuff on the corners of all of the coffee tables. God forbid that something would happen to daddy’s little girl.
I’m sure I wasn’t exposed to a single germ before I started hanging out with other kids.
Oh god, the other kids.

I should have been homeschooled. The feeling of belonging to this world wears off really quickly once you hit kindergarten. Especially when the boy sitting next to you in class spills his glue on you on purpose while chewing up all of your favourite pencils. I didn’t want to go out to the playground at recess because everyone seemed to have prince charming except me. When we would line up two by two to go back to class, I’d be the one standing next to the smelly boy who eats worms and sand for lunch.
Suicide attempt number 2, foiled by a lunchroom monitor. I did not accidentally slip on my spilled milk. I’m not that daft.

Things did not look up for me in high school. I was the girl who’s mother was the French teacher that everyone hated. I bet you anything that she took that job to keep an eye on me. High school was my chance to disappear off the radar though. I had friends, let’s not go there, but its not like I belonged there in any way.
Suicide attempt number 3, foiled in gym class. If only Sally Kemble knew how to smash a volleyball like a decent person.

Really though, I have no idea why I am such a miserable excuse for a human being. I sit at this desk nine hours a day, my career is decent and I make enough money to make any twenty something jealous. Why do I feel so out of place? So useless and unimportant? I think it could possibly be due to the fact that my best conversations are had around a water cooler, that my husband left me for the chick who works the Tim Horton’s drive through and I still can’t fit into skinny jeans.
Now all I can do is hope that death by multiple paper cuts will look good on my tombstone.

conversations with old friends.

It was a cold night.
I knew this because the my nasal cavities had become ice caverns with wild branches. My watch no longer functioned; the hands on it had simply stopped indicating the time rushing by, I knew that it was late and that I had to be home.
I quickened my pace and so went my heart, thumping a little harder against my rib cage. I hate this part of town; there's always the hobos in the bus shelters who stare at you almost longingly as you walk by.
"They want your flesh."
I walked harder against the pavement, but I made no sound. In between street lights, I felt my breath growing fainter, as though the sporadic darkness is attempting to crush me. Wait, I've felt this way before...
"Is he following you?"
I had not heard from Freddie in so long.
I dared not turn around, in case the hobo had heard Freddie too. I was afraid of the attention his comments had attracted. What if they hid in the bushes?
There was a crack, a rustle.
"I think he is."
I ran. If I stopped running, there would be horror to pay. Those stories on the news where the body is found so disfigured that they need dental records to identify it? That would be me come morning. There was nothing left in my body but adrenaline. Not the good kind.
I burst through my front door.
Slam. Bolt. Lock. Chain.
A succession of sharp movements designed to secure the insecure, keeping the intruders out on your doorstep. Arm the alarm. Turn off the lights. Lock the second lock. Step away from the door. At this point I wish I had installed some kind of panic button.
I turned to the dark hallway that lead to my bedroom. I wondered if my wife would be waiting for me, lying there peaceful and cold, as she always did.
I smiled, reassured. But Freddie did not.
"Didn't she leave you last year?"
And the door handle rattled; the intruder was here.

toe kisses.

I'm not sure about a beginning or an end.

I remember the day I became aware of your existence.
It was a Tuesday, I remember, and I was washing the dishes in my little yellow sink by the window. The wind was blowing, and a leaf was stuck to the pane. I felt bad for it, watched as the wind tried to rip it away and free it from the glass. I felt nauseous. I remember thinking how insane I was, to feel nauseous about a leaf trapped against my window, until I realized that my nausea was not fading and that it was definitely not linked in any way to the lone leaf.
I knew. I just knew it was you.
I think the love began when I first fantasized about you.
When I first pictured your face, your smell and the feel of your skin in my arms. The thought of you, although microscopic, made me blush. You were like a storybook character that I could picture perfectly in my head, but not the kind that I would be disappointed to see in a movie. When I would see you, you would be exactly the way you should be.
And I felt like those crazy ladies who spend their entire lives waiting for their knight in shining armor to show up, those pathetic people who waste time thinking about people they wish would love them back.
Truth was, I had no idea if you would love me as much as I still love you.
It was like a countdown to New Year's, one of those things you mark on your calendar, an event I had no plausible choice but to attend. I would wait until the very last possible second, hold my breath and wait for you to show your face at last.

I remember the day I held you for the first time.
I'll remember the smell of your hair until I die. I will remember kissing your toes, and the giggles that would follow. I remember the sound of your voice waking me in the night. All I could do now is watch you grow.

I remember the day you ceased believing in my existence.
The day you brought home that boy with the piercings and the leather jacket. The day I walked in on you smoking a joint out your window. I remember the names you called me, the fights and the day you told me you were leaving me.

I remember not getting that phone call from you on my birthday.

I suppose that in the end, I am one of those crazy ladies who hold onto faded photographs and sit by the telephone. An old lady with only one thought on her mind...

those toe kisses, and the giggles we had.

shoebox.

I packed you up in a single box, slid you under my bed and made sure that the cat wouldn't get into your remains.

It was all the letters of your name, every instance where I heard the sound of your voice and the few gifts exchanged on holidays or birthdays. At this point I kind of feel sorry for you; you must have a shitload of boxes under *your* bed. I even wrote in your calendar, marked the date of our next anniversary that died the same day we did.

I wonder why people hold onto lost loved ones, like ashes in urns on their mantles, like as though those human cinders would come back together and reshape themselves into a body to hold again...
I doubt that's why people keep them though.
Maybe it's the whole loss thing. I wouldn't know.

All I know is that pictures cannot speak to me, letters cannot comfort me and the smell of your hair lingering in the hat I would lend you cannot hold me.

Now, if only the chapstick you forgot here could kiss me.

Broken buses moving way too quickly down a highway of potholes and lost hubcaps

Trying Mike's style.
(This isn't in all seriousness...kind of a tribute to what he read the first time I met him)

GET FIXED QUICKLY
OR DIE IN A FIERY WRECK.

Hand turkey cut-outs.

Mary had trouble with her cut-out,
her hand was too small. Her turkey did not look plump and tender like her brother's did.
She pouted for a moment.
Sitting in the kitchen with her back to the oven, the smell of pumpkin pie, cinnamon and an open can of cranberry sauce began to lick her nose,
teasing her gently. Little Mary's stomach growled, but the turkey hand project
had her undivided attention.
At only five, she understood the importance of this holiday,
how it wasn't about the food or the turkey,
but about giving thanks, knowing how to say thank you
for the things she had.
Her mommy had taught her that.
Mary reached for her brown wax crayon
"if my hand can't be as big as my brother's,
at least my turkey will be the prettiest"

The mysterious Cyrus Pekoe.

I owe you guys part II next sunday.

ONE: SWALLOW SOLITUDE

I had just moved into a small apartment building just off Carré St-Louis. The proud occupant of a small, blank void of a studio apartment that smelled of wet socks and newspapers. Most of the other residents in the building were either very Francophone or, at least to me, invisible. Although this was the place I now called home, I felt completely alienated. I was sandwiched between a bearded fellow who called himself Castro and a young woman, about my age, named Leona. Castro was a graffiti artist and would often climb out onto the fire escape to smoke cigarettes and plan his next attack on city property. He would occasionally slip artwork under my door donning post-it note remarks about the government and anti-capitalism as housewarming gifts. Leona, on the other hand, was a real space case. According to the kids who lived downstairs, she spent all of her time in the Square reading romance novels and sighing deeply as birds flew by. After only a month of living at Number Fifteen, she had already gone through five break ups and the loss of her third cat. I was pretty certain that she thrived on the thought of misery and angst. Something I did not need in my life. The last resident of the top floor lived down the hall, right by the laundry chute. All I knew about him was that he was male, twenty-one and a ghost. I had never seen him and when I had asked Castro about him, he told me that he only ever spoke to the landlady for rent payment.

Since my arrival in Montreal, I had landed a job as a clerk at a small bookstore on St-Denis. The size of a small classroom, the boutique was stocked floor to ceiling, wall to wall with books. My work space was at the back of the store, in the closet. All day, I sat there tagging new arrivals and fixing the older novels’ spines, cramped, my feet resting on an old cardboard box below a rickety old desk. Perhaps this is where I picked up the smell of old newspapers. My boss was a very lonely old man who loved to strike up conversations with customers, although there were very few. He would offer them coffee from his old rusty machine, tell them about his antique cash register that he was no longer allowed to use by law and compliment the occasional child in the most awkward fashion. I pitied Giorgio—which was his name—he tried so hard to make friends, connections. Much like myself, only I could not leave my cave at the back of the store.

I had gotten into the habit of getting a coffee at the Corner Café on my way home from work. Giorgio would sometimes give me spare change he had in his pocket and call it my ‘candy money’. He loved to treat me like his estranged grandchild. The Corner Café did not have good coffee. In fact, it often tasted like the water you find leftover in the bottom of your sink after doing the dishes. Not that I’ve ever tasted that. The only reason I enjoyed getting coffee there almost every night, was the young barista that would serve me almost every time. Of course I was too shy to ever say a word to him. For almost a year now, all we’ve ever said to each other has been “one regular coffee please, with a lot of sugar”, to which he would usually respond “you got it”, followed by a quiet “thanks” on my behalf. Every time I would lay my eyes on him I felt as though the flesh would melt right off my face and stain my work shirt. I would hide my blushing cheeks with my scarf.

“The usual?” he said smiling, his hand on the regular sized take-out cup.

I could feel my hands tremble inside my pockets as I fumbled with my change. I thought of Giorgio and the bookstore. I did not want to end up alone in a mouldy bookstore.

“You’re nice.” I blurted out. I must have sounded ridiculous, like a crazy person with Turret’s. Visibly surprised, he snatched up a cup, smiling, and turned to his coffee machine. Now the flesh had melted off my face. It was rolling off my collar bone as I stood there, petrified, a dollar and seventy-eight cents in my closed fist.

“One seventy-eight please.” He said as he softly deposited the coffee on the counter, extra sugar packets on the lid. I dropped the change into his hand, hoping my fingertips would graze his palm. They did not.

Ok, I Lied.

I never got around to editing a decent piece.
So instead, I amuse you with this photo.

...make up your own stories around it.
ASSIGNMENT!?!

The one with the turquoise pendant on the front

Took this from my blog. Sorry if you've read it.

There was a woman sitting there there. I couldn't help myself from taking a glance. One glance led to a second which was followed by a third. When I felt sure she was entirely absorbed by the words she was reading in the book clasped in his hands, I began to look. I examined her. Unfairly, I passed judgment on what I saw.

I had been told as a child never to judge a book by its cover. I later concluded that it was unfortunate that when I received books as presents, they always had elaborately designed fronts. Some of them gave the impression that more time had been spent on the cover than the content.

The girl was stunning. Not particularly beautiful by nature. Simply, she was well adorned with the latest fashions and made-up with such attention to detail that there was no where you could look that didn't turn you on. She wore a turquoise stone on a necklace which particularly caught my eye.

I wondered for a moment if she, as well, had been given books with pretty covers. I then stood up awkwardly, waited a moment for my misplaced lust to fix itself and exited the metro quickly.

Exits to your left.

Disclaimer: Not going to lie, this is taken from my blog. If you've already read it, sorry. This week, I had nothing. Cheers.

I woke up this morning with a beer bottle sized bruise on my face.
Saturday night, 9 pm, is when I realized that my career, although it had just started, was coming to an end. It ended somewhere between the awkward silence and the riot that I provoked, resulting in myself sprawled across the cold concrete with my jacket over my head. I was ushered out of my resting place by a drunken prostitute who needed a place to urinate in peace. I say she was a prostitute but I'm sure she was just a real nice lady just dressed like one.
As I run my face under the cold jet of my rusting shower, a few more memories come floating back up from the murky depths of my faulty cerebral vault.
I think I made a racist homophobic joke. I think I panicked. I also recalled a blond joke that went terribly wrong. I must've been desperate.
A pain in my left ankle tells me that I tripped as I walked up on stage but I didn't mind at the time; at least there were laughs then.
In my boxers, I sit down in my sea foam green excuse for a kitchen and pour myself a bowl of Lucky Charms. Even the jolly leprechaun on the box seems to be giving me attitude. I think he just flipped me off and ran away with all my marshmallows. I swear to god, they don't put as many in those boxes anymore.
When my girlfriend emerged from the bedroom, I knew I would get the full story. She just shrugged and kissed my bruise. As she walked away, she patted my shoulder and said; So you're going to look for a real job today, right?
That's when I realized.
Right there.
How unfunny my life was.

Hollow

Greetings everyone!
First piece for this blog...exciting. Just want to let you know that this is a piece I wrote for my creative writing class, so please, feedback is appreciated.

I regret to inform,

That the child inside of me,

Has died.

I had a small funeral,

Black ribbons were worn,

I did not attend.

Do not be alarmed,

It is not a sad tale,

I simply moved on,

And left her stranded on the trail.

I sold my soul for a salary,

Chained myself to a desk,

Fought for the cubicle by the window,

Hoping for some sunlight,

Or maybe a view,

For my new life.

High powered everything,

With a husband I don’t see,

I think of kids of my own,

But they annoy me.

Everything is business,

A number to crunch,

Efficiency is key.

What a story of denial,

Thinking of the child,

And his dreams,

I had put to sleep.

The truth is,

This is fiction,

Perhaps a warning to the world,

Of what not to murder,

In order to never be.

Days

Monday: Marta and Jordano
Tuesday: Bernard
Wednesday: Jessica
Thursday: Tabia and Davina
Friday: Emlyn and Max
Saturday: Mike and Audrey
Sunday: Charles and Andrea

Getting Started

->You can post anything as long or as short as you want for your date, about any subject, any theme.
->Optional assignments will be posted Saturday Mornings for the arriving week.
->When you post your piece, please tag your name, so as it becomes easier to divide our work.
->Adult content is on, so don't shy away from profanities.
->Try not to use the tags for anything else, I think we can all imagine the tagging tool clogging up the sidebar if all of us started using multiple ones.
->Take one day, and stick to it. Do not post on other days.