The Other Before God

God woke when he felt the stirring of a foreign presence in his limbs. He discovered the paralysis the moment he tried to rise but failed. No amount of straining or grunting helped shift his deadened weight against it.

‘It’? It had been some millennia since he had created the universe, and at that absurdity he scoffed. There can be no ‘it’ unless it was made by me.

But his certainty was nudged aside by the very real immobility his answers fell short of explaining. It did not seem he was paralyzed – there was feeling, uncomfortable as it was.

The sharp tingle and aching stab felt like blood that had ceased to flow, a sleeping leg.

It’s sitting on me, thought God.

The air became cold; he reeled in the idea at once, angry for having allowed such a thought to escape.

There’s nothing there.

He crawled with apprehension; burning, freezing, sweating. He’d never sweated in all his existence, hadn’t known he could. Thoughts thudded in his mind like a bird he’d once watched, flinging itself into the window of its shop cage.

The paralysis only lasted long enough that he couldn’t pretend it was a dream – and short enough that he couldn’t begin to rationalize what it might have been.

The moment he felt it subside, God launched himself free. All around was silence, the stiff dark of the unrisen sun. He felt it was still present.

He called out.

The taught air vibrated with laughter in a voice distinctly not his own, ungendered and mischievous. Where was it coming from?

He demanded to know what it was.

The last vibrations edged their way away until the hush swallowed the sound.

He commanded to be told its identity.

But as the laugh disappeared, so did the immanent pressure, as though the volume of space had decreased as something had left.

Where is there to go? God was confounded. I am everywhere.

God remained still. He felt small with the realization that he was not alone.

A short scene, three ways

1.

"Go fetch!" shouted Lucy, launching a tennis ball across the lawn. Lucy was a foolish girl, whose body outgrew her smarts. She launched the ball further than she expected, right into oncoming traffic. For a moment she stood dumbstruck, then shouted, "No Sparky! You'll get run over! Look both ways before you cross!" But Sparky was merely a dog, and did not understand human speech or road safety rules, nor did he stop to consider what it meant to cross the property line. Dogs are dogs, they don't rationalize. All he understood was the joy of chasing a grey ball through a grey yard onto an equally grey stone river. He held onto that joy up until he died. To this day, Lucy still rationalizes what happened.


2.

Oh, cruel fate! How could a game do simple, so carefree and innocent, ten thus to horror? Blood and bones and dented hoods! How Lucy cried aloud, cursing the now sweating palm that had led her beloved to his untimely and unjust death. Why had he not heeded her warnings? Why must he have loved her so blindly, so devotedly, as to leap into death! To lay there still with a smile, tongue lolling about the accursed ball! And now he is but guts upon the road. The driver leapt from his car, and Lucy pounded on the murderer's chest. How dare he come now, to wrap comforting arms around her! Begone you vile human sample! Sparky would breathe still, bark still, wag his tail still if it had not been for you! If only, if only...!


3.

Lucy enjoyed testing faith. In second grade she convinced Kyle Murray to wait by the chain link fence for a kiss, and left him there all afternoon. With her dog she was no different. With every toss of the tennis ball, she urged Sparky further and further into the road. Her mother had warned her once not to take one's trust for granted. Lucy threw the ball one last time. This was the lesson learned.

The Wrestler

He had been a wrestler once. He'd fought men as strong as horses and savage as wolverines
and he had won. He had never lacked courage then.

The last five years had left the man an unrecognizable emaciated shell. Always stooping, he no longer ever stood his six feet and four inches. He'd been hungry and thinning for five years. Alone in his misery. He hadn't seen anyone in years probably. He didn't know. He didn't know if there were still people around.

He'd spotted the house a day earlier and had decided to wait. Finally, the prospect of food got to him.
He circled the house three times to examine it from every angle. Having seen nothing, he decided it was worth approaching. He slowly crept up to the front door eyeing it down the barrel of his rifle. It was worn and ajar. He carefully brought the end of the barrel against the door and pushed it open. A long wail came from it. The wrestler, terrified, walked into the unlit vestibule. He spotted boots and exchanged them for his own. At least there's that he thought.

He leaned against the small portion of wall beside the door frame that led into the house. He held his breath until he was ready to explore. He heard the faintest of effluviums.

He swiftly turned and walked backwards, his finger on the trigger until he reached the front door. He turned again and ran as fast as his atrophied legs would take him into the woods. When his legs buckled, he began to cry where he lay dying.

Sonnet

He stood quite awed. Her beauty mesmerized
His eyes; They looked up down, down up and mid.
Such beauty nature could not have devised.
His larger growing love could not be hid.

He blushed upon receiving such attention.
Was complemented on his sultry fashion.
Deciding to impose a clear intention.
He took and kissed his hand with fervent passion.

Surprised he jumped back and gazed long and hard.
Then softly noticed something of a bulge.
He had been dealt an undesired card
And yelped at what his queen did then divulge.

The game of lust can bring a nasty shock,
Make sure the hen you seek is not a cock.

Crabs

Felix scratched his crotch. He was standing, waiting, and scratching. He normally didn’t do this sort of thing, especially since there were five tweens in they’re school-girl uniforms, but then again, never had he experienced this amount of itchiness before.

If you’re wondering, the answer is yes, Felix did have crabs, and yes, those thirteen year olds did notice the fact that he was scratching his crotch repeatedly. They didn’t like it. Maybe one of the kinkier ones did...

At this point, Felix didn’t know he had crabs, so he got on the bus and went to work. It was a terrible day spent sitting at his desk where he could scratch in peace while attempting to concentrate on his work, which he forgot what it was and isn’t relevant to our story. His workmate, Eric walked up to his office and knocked on the door “Hey there buddy, didn’t see you come in, how was the weekend?”, Eric exclaimed in his morning person voice (to the dismay of the entire office on a monday morning). “Eh, umm” *scratch* “It was good spent the whole time with Judy.” *scratch* “It’s been a while since we’ve done that.” Felix responded, trying to keep his attention on the conversation. 

“Ooohhh. Nice, some sexy times with your lady. I get it. Good for you, I thought you and Judy had been over for a while, you stopped talking about her.”

“Nope everything’s” *scratch* “fine.”

“Ok there Felix, have a great! day.”

... And Eric walked out from Felix’s doorframe. 

He went home a few hours later, taking the bus again. Arriving to an empty  apartment, Felix felt a little depressed as his day ad been difficult due to the incessant itch and wanted to be comforted by the sight and sound of his girlfriend, Judy. Evidence of her passing was visible, strewn clothes across their bed, the bathroom in disarray, no note as to where she was on the fridge. It had still not dawned on Felix that he had crabs, so he opened the fridge and grabbed a twist-off-cap beer and some leftovers. Microwave, laptop, another depressing evening waiting for his busy woman to come back. He took his pants off about fifteen minutes later and went in for a power scratch, with only his underwear between the crabs and the fingernails. At this point the scratching caused pain, but it itched so bad he couldn’t help himself. 

Between a photo of cats and a mildly interesting article, about some natural disaster in Africa, Judy came home. 11:47. He got up eagerly and walked over to her, “Hey babe, where were you? I wanted to text but you never answer anyways... What’s up?”

In a flurry of leather coats, a heavy layer of makeup and high heels, Judy looked at herself in the long mirror in the entrance of the apartment. “hey”, she breathed.

“Where were you?”

“I was out with a couple girlfriends”

Leaning on the doorframe trying to be friendly and smiling “Ah that explains the mess you left, was it fun?”

She glared at him “Do you always have to criticize me like that? I can’t just go out with my friends without you passing a comment about it”

Surprised, “Sorry, I was just teasing. I don’t care about the mess.”

Judy sighed loudly, walked straight in to the bathroom and closed the door.

After her shower she went to the bedroom swept all her clothes onto the floor and slipped herself in to the bed. 

At this point, you the reader understands that something is up. Judy is being distant and I wrote it that way so it would be obvious to you, thing is, Felix is a dumb character. Also, consider that when you’re in these sort of situations, it’s different, and you don’t always pick up on subtleties. So Felix, being who he is waltzed in a sultry way in to the bedroom. He go undressed, not wanting to turn the light on and stuck his naked body against hers. She didn’t shudder away when he slipped his hand down to her crotch and he said,

“Ooooh, you shaved? What’s the occasion? Was this weekend that great that you wanted to surprise me?”

“yeah... I shaved.”

“That’s hot.”

“yeah”

“I should shave too, I’ve been itchy all day”

“...”

“Sorry, that’s gross. I’ll go shower then”

Felix ran to the bathroom naked, turned the light on and jumped in the shower. Yet still, he hadn’t figured it out. That is until as he was scrubbing furiously and noticed how inflamed and red his penis, testicles and general surrounding area. He saw Judy’s pubic hair all over the shower floor.

Felix walked back to the bedroom. He nudged Judy awake. 

“what” she said

“Honey I have some sort of rash and I’m sorry if you caught it. Is that the real reason you shaved?”

“All right, do I have to spell it out for you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I gave you grabs you dumb fuck”

“What?”

“I’ve been fucking other men, I caught crabs, I fucked you, you have crabs. I shaved my pussy so they would go away.”

Felix rolled over and cried, and scratched.

Bus 17

The bus loops around Vancouver General Hospital and heads downtown.

There are so many sick people sitting shoulder to shoulder
that there are no priority seats left and soon the elderly
are offering their seats to the infirm. Those who are
young and healthy are asked to step off.

To remain onboard I pretend I have several health issues.
Imagine me coughing wet mucus into my sleeve and
howling like a wolf every couple of minutes and beating
my chest with a limp hand. Only pretending to be deficient,
I swear. I make a damn good impression though.

A woman is wearing black capris: one uncovered calf
is veined flesh, the other is smooth plastic.

A man has an apparatus drilled into his skull.
like the monster in Frankenstein.
A soggy cigarette dangles from his lips.

Another has a face as colourless and flat as wax.
Perhaps he has been in a fire and they covered
his raw face muscles with paraffin.
They can do anything nowadays.

The ill, the injured, the dejected and rejected, the maimed
and crippled and handicapped of Vancouver
have been released from their hospital bed, dumped
onto the street. They have crawled aboard bus 17
and they are coming home. They are too weak
to be angry, but they are ugly. They don't wear
Lululemon or clutch Starbucks cups, but they have
canes and wheelchairs and breathing tubes and you
will see them down your street.

You can't say I didn't warn you.

Unfinished untitled story

As he turned the corner, Anton’s eyes fell upon the most unsightly beggar imaginable. The man was lying on the cold pavement, and wore only rags. His balding head sprouted only half of the black hair the man may once have had. Due to malnutrition, his dark eyes were sunken into their sockets and the man had a thin face. The attenuated cheeks and small lips put in evidence the two front teeth which protruded from the mouth outwards a couple of centimeters. The pitiful frame of his body looked collapsed on the sidewalk and his left arm was missing, from what was surely a botched amputation while the right clutched something wrapped in cloth. Finally, his feet were unprotected from the cold and all of his toes and had become black from frostbite in the winter. The homeless man looked asleep but when Anton tried to skirt by him, the man noticed that he was carrying the Bible and his dark eyes light up and opened wide. He sat up so quickly that the student jumped from surprise and almost fell backwards into the street. The beggar smiled wide showing that he was missing a few teeth and said in a voice so hoarse Anton was sure it hurt the man to speak. 
“You must be a Christian. If you read the Bible you must be Christian.” 
Anton did not wish to reply, but he felt irritated by the judgment after such a severe one the night prior that he yielded an answer to the old man.  
“I don’t know what I am anymore.” 
“I have never doubted God, not for one minute of my life.” 
Anton looked the man up and down again and though the man’s statement to be farfetched. 
“I doubt that.” 
“You must never doubt, you must have faith.” 
“It’s when I see people in your condition that I doubt.” 
“I am in great condition. Up here,” he said pointing to his head, “and up there.” He added pointing to the sky. 
“Boy, sit down with me. I’ll tell you a story, and you’ll never doubt God again. 
Anton considered the little he had planned and decided to sit but not too close. 
“My name is, Alexei Manchev, I was once, in Russia, a fine maker hats. My shop, sold any hat you could think of. We had top hats, melon hats, short caps, hats with flaps even hats with goggles attached. For the plane riders, you know? And all of the most considerate quality. Within a year of it’s opening, my store was famous throughout the city of Moscow. Every Sunday, people would line up outside my store for hours to get a measurement of their head or even just to get a peak at the merchandise. I quickly became rich, and would have been for the rest of my life. Because of this success at the beginning of my career, by the time I reached the age of twenty-seven, I was an arrogant and condescending man who thought himself invincible and believed no danger could befall him. My religious self, was locked away in the back of my mind in that time and although I didn’t doubt God, I never gave him a thought either.”        
The beggar paused his story to recollect his thoughts and began clutching at the clothed item more strongly. Anton, who was by now intrigued by the story, simply stared at the beggar impatient to hear the next part. After a few moments, the man cleared his throat and resumed his narration. 
“When I turned twenty eight, I decide to celebrate with some close friends, by having a day of horseback riding. I was to get a greater gift than I could have ever imagined. While we rode, a great flash momentarily blinded me and I was catapulted off my horse and became unconscious. In my unconscious, I met God and he told me two things. Firstly, he told me than I was not living for I needed and secondly, that I needed to be closer to him. When I came to, I knew what needed to do. I needed to use my wealth, to obtain a relic of the Christian faith.”       
Anton was now unsure if he should believe the man. His eloquence indicated he was educated but the fact that he story was the same as St-Paul’s, awakened the skeptic in his audience. 
“The very next day!”        
When he said this, the old man in his now excited state, shook his wrapped up package violently so that some of the cloth came unraveled but nothing was revealed. He continued now almost shouting with the same scratchy voice. 
“I vowed, vowed I tell you, to get my hands on a relic. I sold my shop for a hefty sum and then left on an adventure. My travels took me west of my point of origin and I found myself in Western Europe loosing money but smelling gold. It wasn’t long before asking here and there led to a whisper and then a clue as to where I may get my hands on a relic. I was led to a small decaying village in the south of Spain where, I was told, the church housed the skeletal arm and hand of a Saint. Upon my arrival, the Church was closed because it was well into the evening and so I took a room in the nearest inn. When I went to the Church, I found the arm without much trouble. It was encased in a glass box and was on display for everyone to see. No doubt, it was meant as an attraction to the city. I found the residing priest and asked him how much he wanted for it. The man answered that it was not for sale. I told him of all the good the money could be used for. I reminded him how many people could be fed and how badly the village needed to make repairs. But, the man was stubborn and he would have none of it. He told me to get out and I had to give in. This was not going to stop me though.” 
“I decided, after a few visits to mass, that it was too risky to steal it outright. The priest had his eye on me every time I entered his establishment and the object of my desire was in plain sight and it would have been noticed as missing if I took it. I knew what I had to do. I had to replace it. It was my test, you see?” 
Anton, at first, did not understand what the man meant. It was so unconceivable, so stretched a concept that the student did not think of it with his brilliant mind. The beggar then used his right arm and pointed across his body. A look of horror replaced that of confusion on Anton’s face and the man simply laughed a wheezy laugh and continued. 
“I arranged to get a few jugs of water, a saw, some rags and bandages. I then locked myself in my small room on the second floor of the inn and went to work. First, I drank the water and afterwards urinated on the rags and placed them so they would block the crack under the door. I did not want the potent smell of a rotting arm to reach the nose of anyone outside. Next, I went to the bathroom, sat in the tub, saw in hand and bandages at the ready. A miracle took place, I swear to you. I dug into my flesh with the saw but I felt no pain. I went through the flesh, the muscle and bone until I got all the way to the other side of it and I bandaged my arm before falling unconscious. I do not know how long I was unconscious.
Anton butted in, “It’s a miracle you didn’t kill yourself.” 
“Surely, you are right. That makes two miracles then.” 
It took a short pause for the beggar to find his place again after the interruption. 
“When I came to that night, I became aware of a missing part of my plan. My severed arm, probably a half day decomposed, still had much tissue on it. It was an arm, not a skeleton. I needed a knife to cut away the surplus. Clearly, I could not leave the limb in my room in case someone came in during my absence to clean. Neither, I thought, could I leave the room with one arm, without being sent straight away to the nearest hospital. The answer to my dilemma was obvious. I would have to go to the kitchen and ask for a knife with the arm tucked into my sleeve. I did not think that anyone would be attentive enough to notice so late in the evening. So that’s what I did. Once I had wrapped the whole arm back together with some spare bandage, I carefully slid on my coat jacket and waited until the evening to set out for the kitchen on the first level. I’ll admit, my nerves weren’t exactly steady but, by the grace of God, when I left my room the inn was empty except for the cooks who were finishing their shift, dead tired and incapable of much observation. I asked simply as I could for a carving knife. The nearest cook asked no questions and handed me one and said that I was to return it in the morning. I agreed and walked briskly back to my room. I set to work immediately. It didn’t take long to pick the bone clean. After that, I wrapped up the stub properly and cleaned the room leaving perfectly tidy. Not a drop of blood, not a scent of rot and not a trace of anything uncommon. I threw my bag of belongings over my shoulder and tucked the skeletal arm into the sleeve of my jacket as I had before only this time I hid my arm from view under the front of the jacket across my chest. I cracked the door of my room and when I saw no one and heard nothing, I left quiet as a cat creeping up on a mouse. By then, even the cooks had gone to their beds or homes and the coast was clear for me to leave through the front door. The air was cool, but there was nor wind nor clouds. I walked quickly, almost at a run impatient to arrive at the church. Despite this, I could not help but be drawn by the environment. Everything was so still, as though time had stopped for me. There were no lights in the homes, the streetlamps were spaced far apart but close enough to shed light on the entire street. The sky was incredible. There were stars, so many of them shining brightly. As I turned the last corner, the church came into view, I walked right to the entrance and I stopped.”
At this, the beggar ceased speaking. Anton, by now, reveled at hearing the man speak. He was disgusted by the man’s story and still hardly inclined to believe a word of it, but found it so entertaining. He had, since the beginning, shifted his position so he now sat opposite the beggar and looked in his eyes. In doing so, he was taking up the whole sidewalk and people were forced to walk on the street to get around him, but he didn’t care.
“And then what happened? Why did you stop?” 

 “I stopped”, the man started, “I stopped because I heard noises from inside. I looked at my watch and saw that it was two o’clock in the morning. It must have been, I concluded, the stubborn ass who called himself a priest. I slowly opened the large, wooden doors trying to make as little noise as possible. I hoped the priest would not notice me entering. Unfortunately, the door was a bit warped and creaked rather audibly. I slipped it and waited for a moment to allow my eyes to adjust to the diminished light. When I could finally see, I realized the priest was glaring at me.

‘I know why you are here,’ he said, ‘You won’t have it.’

‘It is the will of God for me to have it. He told me so.’, I replied.

‘He would never grace the likes of you with his presence.’

‘He has.’    

Shirtsleeves

Things have been rusty with me, writing wise, lately. Apologies for how very unpolished this is.

The book club discusses, over lightly iced tisanes, their various weddings. Joan is late, as usual, but they started the main discussion without her once, about Lady Chatterley's Lover ("scandalous" was the general consensus), and collectively felt so bad about it that they no longer even question waiting. Margaret is speaking now, fingers brushing the air her voice hums through, sending them all on a journey to a small woodland chapel and the retrospective hilarity of the vicar's border collie trying to be part of the ceremony.

"It wasn't exactly how I dreamed it would be, even if poor Archangel hadn't been there, but I don't think that really matters. I had been planning this wedding since girlhood, and, well, Arthur didn't have many opinions so I was free to go with all of my cherished ideas. And I worried and panicked for absolutely months (didn't we all), but none of those things seemed to make much of a difference. I could have married Arthur in a cowshed wearing a burlap sack and I think it would have been just as perfect."

The book club is unanimous in their agreement with obvious truism. Violet remarks that she, too, had her girlish dreams go awry through catastrophe after catastrophe ("and would you believe that David's best man had a heart attack on his way to the cathedral with the rings and we had to be married using ribbons from my flower girl's hair?"), and Louisa remembers how her husband had had his own plans and they had very nearly come to blows several times in creating a synthesis that would please them both.

Soon the room is a-twitter with remembrances of the ideals - "I wanted the bridal party all to come in on ponies, as any nine-year-old would after reading Black Beauty" - and the eventual realities - "We had to serve cold soup from the rehearsal dinner because my father thought having two separate menus was a waste of money".

When Joan walks in, stumbling over herself with apologies, she is greeted with a chorus of voices demanding that she share how her girlhood dreams had shifted for her actual wedding. She pours herself a glass of the iced raspberry (Annabelle feels secretly vindicated) as she thinks, then slowly shakes her head.

"You know, I don't think I planned out my wedding, when I was little. I didn't ever really want to get married, or not enough to think about it. I think the first time I even looked at a wedding dress catalogue was when I realized I'd fallen in love with Tobias, and I only started seriously considering details after I decided that if I ever did get married, it would be to him."

She notices that they are all trying very hard to have sympathetic faces, trying very hard to relate to her. "Of course," she continues, gesturing expansively, "when the old idiot finally got around to asking me, he wanted to have the groomsmen in tuxedos and I had to tell him I wouldn't marry him unless they all wore grey tweed before he gave in."

A Deep Cut From The Back Catalog of My Brain. Sentimentality.

I have a comedy blog and it's doing alright. It makes me happy and this post is a little longer and funnier there. Here, I decided to make it a little bit more emotional. But you can read stuff here, too.

I've always been a little bit too involved in wakes.
I don't mean I'm always involved in a wake.
God, I - fuck.
I mean, I have always been fascinated with...
Jesus fucking Christ.
"Fascinated"?! Ugh. Such a creep.
Interested.
There.
Ok.
Take two.

I've always bit a little bit too interested in wakes.
I've never liked them.
I mean, I don't like when people die.
I don't even go to them.
The wakes, I mean.
Not the dead people.
Actually, I don't go to dead people either.
But I try to get to people if they're dying so I could help if I can or make peace with -
Jeez.
Moving on.

It's the idea that gets me:
There you are.
Dead.
Your family and friends have chosen what best represents you.
Then they pay to have your cold presence fill a room for a day or two
or four.
Then they show you off.
"Look how great he was."
"Look how peaceful he seems."
"It would seem that he was great and went peacefully, with his dignity and pride in tact."

The truth is that these people will all remember you the way they want to remember you.
No particular photo of you baking a cake with your cousins, the one time you did it, will change anybody's minds.
And if they did, that'd be a lie.

When death is imminent and I have a family of my own, -
That's not to say I don''t love my family now.
I totally do.
But they'll be dead by then, though.
I mean, -
FUCK
I just mean that I think my parents will die before me.
I couldn't live with myself if I died before them.

...hehe. I just got that.

WHAT I MEAN IS...
If I have a death bed and I'm on it, I hope I have a family of my own:
Wife.
Kids.
Dog.
Bear (the future is very progressive).
Lifelong friends.
Shorter term friends who are very close to me at the time.
People I've lived with in the past.

And I hope they'll gather around me before I die, -
I mean, like, weeks before I die.
Not before the moment of my death.
That would be creepy.
And how would we time that out?

I hope they gather around with whatever memory they have of me.
Photographs and audio files.
Or a combination of those (who knows what the future holds?).
And I will have a say in what gets displayed at my wake.

Sorry cousins, I won't have a picture of us baking together at my wake.
I'd rather have the picture of me, smiling in a leather recliner, satisfied with myself while you guys cower, visibly covering up your noses in disgust.
I'd rather have an Alexisonfire song playing over a well sung ballad by whichever teen vocal sensation is popular then.

But most of all, I'd want the video (hello, future!) of everyone around my death bed discussing with me about what to display at my wake to be on display itself.

Because I'll make sure you remember it as a good thing and a good day.
Not that I'm dying, but like, that it's okay that I'm dying.
Do you get it?
I don't think you're getting it.
I mean...

I've relived an amazing amount of awful moments in my head that all seemed fantastic
just because somebody at the time said "everything is going to be alright."

And that's what my bed says.

Expect (something I wrote on the train the other day)

I've been told I expect too much, maybe I'm to supposed to hold everyone to the same moral standards, the same values that I hold myself to, but is it asking for respect too much, asking for human decency asking for some degree of tolerance asking for understanding asking for truth from the representatives we've chosen asking for recognition of this SHARED human condition asking for acceptance of natural differences skin comes in all colors of the rainbow, like eyes and hair and who I want to touch me there because really is that any of your business? I didn't think I was asking too much but some people think otherwise some people don't truly see past their eyes but where are there minds where are their souls what will they do when their daughters want abortions and their sons bring home boyfriends what will they say about gay-rights and being pro-life then when these realities are brought home, when it's someone close, sometimes it's different then...or not and they throw the kids out but maybe just maybe it'll introduce doubt, that maybe they don't really know what it's all about that maybe it's not all as clean cut straight line between black and white and right and wrong as they had thought, and hey, maybe you'll begin to accept that your son likes dick and your daughter`s last sexual partner was a prick and she doesn't have to carry the cells that he left in her body that could possibly form a child, and maybe she'll want to bring home a girlfriend and yes they are having sex and maybe you'll accept that, but oh I expect I`m being too hopeful, too optimistic too willing to believe that everyone has that ability in them, to love and accept regardless of differences. I guess I can only expect that of myself and I do and if my daughter would rather be a boy then that`s cool with me and if my son wants his bedroom pink that`s perfectly alright and if both my kids are straight and not queer in the slightest and love their gender norms I`ll love them anyway because gay or straight or any place you fall on the sexual preference spectrum on the gender identity curve I will love you with every piece of my patchwork soul and I will want you to expect the same from yourself.

Concentric Images Torn from the Daily Life of a Student Who Has Gone West to Become a Writer

1.

During a poetry reading

in a tent

a bee flies into my hair.

I feel the person sitting next to me

become rigid.

My ears fill with

the sound of zippers.

The lady behind me

taps my shoulder in a panic

and points at the insect,

which has landed on my shoe,

studying it for pollen.

2.

I shop for groceries

in exactly six different places:

Safeway

The Granville Island Public Market

Apple Farm Market

Whole Foods

No Frills

and the anonymous corner store down the street

where the Asian cashier has such a shrill voice.

3.

Movement on the water

like oil marks.

A dozen people and seagulls watch

while a man with a biker beard

guts brown fish with

a machete-sized knife

and throws pink insides

into the shallow water.

You can see the rocks at the bottom

dotted with small mussels

4.

I read The Brothers Karamazov

on a westbound bus

with a four in the number.

The pages get blunter

and the spine more pliable

as my thumb approaches page 776

when it’ll be written THE END.

On my way back from school

I can’t read because

the bus is too full

5.

The first time I ever

walk into a gym

my ears pop like

when the plane

begins its descent.

I feel faint after the pushups

and I need to lie down

and then I get up too quickly

and I need to lie down again.

I leave a sweaty blur

on the mirror when I rush over

to puke in the bathroom.

The blackberries from breakfast

come out hot and sour

and red as blood.

After, he tells me I look like shit.

I don’t know if he means

my pale, clammy face

or my skinny arms.

4.

so I stand, eastward,

until my stop at Vine Street.

All the streets after that

are named after trees:

Maple, Cypress, Fir, Pine.

Further it’s provinces:

Yukon, Alberta, Ontario, Quebec.

Sometimes I think of staying

on the bus and stepping off there

but it wouldn’t get me anywhere

because she’s moved

so far East that I might as well

just fly over the North Pole

to give her a hug.

3.

The movement in the water

is a seal, no two,

three seals.

The smooth, whiskered head of

the most adventurous one

pokes from the surface and

follows the fisherman’s movements.

The seals plunge for gills

and intestines.

They have white spots

on their black backs

like oil marks

on the dark water.

2.

But I only go there

when I run out of milk.

I have no one else to cook for.

The second portion

cools in a tupperware

for the next day

while I eat and read

a story in The New Quarterly

or watch an episode of Homeland. 

1.

I stay calm.

The bee is so big

that when it flies off

finally it is nudged down

by its own weight.

My gaze follows its

bobbing until

the wind sucks it out

into the sunshine  

and the lady behind me

gives me the thumbs up. 

Awake

Here's a story I wrote a while back, last story I've written. Dunno why the last paragraph is formated different here... don't know how to change it. Hope you enjoy.
               

As Michael lay prone on the edge of the decomposing wood dock and lazily swung his arms left to right and back again so that his ten soft fingertips glided across the top of the placid lake, he contemplated how little an impact he was making on the body of water. He liked the thought that he could cause change. He turned to a supine position, which he felt was better for thinking on account of the feeble and few distractions provided by any given sky, but found his view of this particular grey sky clouded by the apple tree his father had planted seventeen years earlier when he learned he would have a child and which now hung over the dock and lake. Michael shifted his position to remove the apple tree from his field of vision and his mind resumed thinking about the lake. Had any fish noticed the ripples he had created? Had any fish felt them? Had an underwater plant swayed because of them or had any lily pad been rocked gently as they passed underneath it? Had the tongue-eye coordination of any hungry frog been thrown off by the gentle rock of the lily pad on which it sat? This train of thought was halted by the realization that his thoughts were taking a morose turn. Michael attributed his sullen mood to the dark grey clouds overhead and the similarly coloured lake which made him the middle of a gloomy sandwich indeed. He became hungry and quickly became aware he had forgotten to eat lunch. He lifted his head and craned his neck uncomfortably towards his chest to look down the length of the dock. For a moment he stared forlornly at the small bungalow of a cottage his parents owned where he knew there was food for him to ear. He slowly let his head fall back onto the dock and laid his interlocked hands upon his chest.

When he awoke, the lake had changed. For a moment he thought he was staring at a demon hovering over a boiling lake of pitch before looking for a more logical answer. He realized it was raining and that the surface was being peppered by countless raindrops each one creating a small splash as it landed and turned from rainwater to lake water. The demon was a heron he was seeing from behind with its large flapping wings outstretched to contend with the rain and long skinny legs dangling below. It must have flown too far from home and been caught in the storm on the way home. The clouds were much darker now, nearing black, and Michael was unsure if that meant that darker clouds had replaced the earlier ones or that he had slept longer than he intended to.  He looked at his watch before getting up and heading for shelter from the storm.

“Where have you been Michael?”
“I fell asleep on the dock, Mom”

“It’s nearly suppertime already! What happened to doing your homework Saturday afternoon?”
“I already did mine! I already did mine!”
“Shut up, Lilly”

            Lilly squealed as her brother gave her a soft push and she ran into the kitchen, tossing her long, wavy, blond hair, to join her mother and take an apple from the fridge.
“Mommy, Michael told me to shut up.” she said somewhat distracted but loud enough for Michael to hear, all the while searching the fruit drawer.

            Janet O’Connell, a stout hearted, petite, redheaded woman, poked her head into the doorway between the kitchen and the living room where her son now lay sprawled on the old plaid couch with his eyes closed.

“Michael… try and get some work done before supper.”

“When’s Dad getting here?”
“He should be here in any minute. He said he’d be here for supper. He had some work to finish before he could leave. Now you work too!”

            He lifted himself off the couch and slowly meandered to his bedroom making stops at the bathroom and the bookcase where took nothing out. He’d once asked his father how many of the books in the bookcase he’d read.
“Most”

He’d wondered how. He still did, really.

            When he got to his bedroom, Michael shut the door. He opened his copy of Hamlet and positioned it on the floor, turned on the lamp on his bedside table, climbed into bed, lay on his stomach and buried his face into the crook of his bent left arm. He tried to think about something about Hamlet. Before long, he was thinking only about ham and he began salivating as his hunger returned. An unwelcomed creak startled him out of his train of thought. His mother was there, red in the face and talking. He had dozed off.
“Get up and get dressed, Michael. We’re going to the hospital. Your father has been in an accident.”

            He’d been found alive. His car was in the ditch, having hit a pothole filled with water and then slidding out of control on the wet pavement. The next driver to come through the road had phoned the emergency services but there was already nothing to be done to save his life by the time the paramedics had arrived. By the time they’d arrived at the hospital, his father had been pronounced dead from his injuries in the crash. It was final.

The following days, Michael thought a lot but remembered little. Between seeing his mother completely fall apart and the convergence of his extended family at his grand-parent’s house; the adults talking in hushed voices and each speaking to him with a faulty reassuring tone, Michael did know whether he felt like crying or simply going to sleep until things went back to normal. The days went by, and eventually years would, and things didn’t go back to normal.

            Tuesday afternoon, everyone put on their Sunday best to host the wake. Lilly looked very pretty in her dress but Michael didn’t tell her as they were leaving their grandparent’s house. Everyone sat silent as the car unhurriedly transported them to the funeral home. Michael simply admired his sister’s beauty. She wore a black, knee length dress and dainty shoes of matching colour. She did not smile, and yet, her reddish cheeks against her fair skin gave her a lively appearance. The bags under her vivid green eyes were barely visible. He never would have guessed she had spent the whole night crying if he had not heard her over his own sobs. The afternoon passed into evening and Michael had never seen so many people and so few smiles. It seemed the funeral home was bare of any life at all. The walls were painted “peaceful” beige and there were numerous paintings of flowers in bloom. His mother and grand-mother were occupied receiving condolences and all of the adults spoke inaudibly. But it wasn’t a library and, no one was reading, though Michael thought everyone could do with a little distraction. His father could have cheered everyone up he found himself thinking. He could have told a joke or something. He felt tired as the evening wore on and he saw Lilly was sleeping on her chair. To wake himself up, Michael left his seat and headed for the balcony for some air. As Michael stepped into the threshold of the door, he smacked his face into the clear glass door and stumbled back. For a moment Michael was filled with dread but the next, the whole funeral parlour burst into a sustained laugh and at once, as though an esoteric vow had been broken, the arthritic atmosphere of the room was soothed for a short time. As they rode home, Michael told Lilly, who had missed the laugh, that she looked pretty and she tucked her chin and smiled.

            
After the funeral, on Friday, Michael, his Mother, Lilly and their grand-parents went to the country
 house up north. Michael sat on the dock watching the rain pour into the surface of the lake with tired but alert grey eyes. He wore a red raincoat but it barely helped him keep dry. He cast his line into the water and began slowly to reel it in again slightly flicking it left and right absentmindedly. When he cast his line again he caught sight of a dove effortlessly flying through the rain. It was as though the heron he’d seen had been transfigured into a different bird and had returned. He barely heard the splash over the rain but turned his head to see an apple floating in the middle of a series of growing and quickly disappearing circles. He rapidly finished reeling his line a second time, reached out over the water and fished the apple out and then brought it inside for his sister. Things would never go back to normal. But they might become normal again. And on the day of his father’s funeral, he caught himself smiling weakly.

FORSAKEN ON VALENTINES DAY

A Poem for Tabia by Marta, Robyn, and Andrea

Your love is like a black eye
And from it tears of blood I cry
They fall like rain from hopeless clouds
And I'm drowning in them.
Where once was flame, has now turned ash
The memory of you leaves such a rash
On my wrist the long red gash
More to the floor, red droplets splash
One more for every day your gone
I fell the sun will never dawn
I live in eternal night. No one understands
What its like to live in forsaken lands
The frosted windows hide your face
I live inside an empty place
Is this how angels feel fall'n from space??
My heart is made of leather, not lace

Spleen, or How Bad You're Not

Here is me reading a terrible poem. I don't have anything to submit of my own at the moment, though if it counts as producing work of any kind, I did in fact draw the picture on the video just for this. Anyway, I just wanted to share this with you as a (re)commencement post! Long live HeartRape!

Spleen by Ernest Dowson
for Arthur Symons

I was not sorrowful, I could not weep,
And all my memories were put to sleep.

I watched the river grow more white and strange,
All day till evening I watched it change.

All day till evening I watched the rain
Beat wearily upon the window pane.

I was not sorrowful, but only tired
Of everything that ever I desired.

Her lips, her eyes, all day became to me
The shadow of a shadow utterly.

All day mine hunger for her heart became
Oblivion, until the evening came,

And left me sorrowful, inclined to weep,
With all my memories that could not sleep.

[1896]

A Spooky Tale (Title Suggestions?) - Part 1

            For hours Nelson had driven bent over the steering wheel, eyes darting frantically at the mirror, searching for pursuing light. Though it had been many miles since headlights last shone their incriminate gaze upon him, he felt hunched and oppressed, as if a large hand were pressing him deep into the cabin of the automobile, and smothering him. Beside him sat Clint, his partner in crime, with the revolver dangling loosely in his hand; he glanced now and again over his shoulder at Nelson's frantic urging.

"No one's coming for us; we left 'em in the dust," said Clint, crossing his arms and sitting back in his seat.

"Maybe they've set up a alarm at the next town. They'll catch us, I know!"

"No, they won't, Nelson. Calm yer horses. All we gotta focus on is drivin' to the next town, finding us a place to duck down for a few days, and then we'll drive straight on down to Mexico. They'll never catch us there."

"We shot a girl, Clint," cried Nelson, his eyes near tears. The roadster jerked, tipping slightly on its narrow wheels. "She--She's dead!"

"She ain't dead," snapped Clint, "ya don't know that. 'Sides, you helped her up yourself. She was breathin'."

"Barely," thought Nelson with dismay. On his palms he could feel the tackiness of dried blood moistened with sweat. His hands clung to the wheel, bound to his inexorable fate. "What if she didn't make it - then we'll really hang! We shouldn'ta shot that girl, Clint. That's not what I signed up for."

"Well, it happened," said Clint, "Sides, she had it comin'."

Nelson peeled his right hand off the wheel. It stung, his knuckles stiff and sore, clenched in a death grip. With his dusty sleeve he wiped his nose roughly. "I'm no murderer Clint. I'm not."

"Ok, Nelson. You're not."

"I'm just a thief - thievin's not so bad, right? Man's gotta live."

"The only way we're gonna live through this heist is if you quit cryin' get us to some cover! We got twenty grand in the backseat, enough to buy us a ranch out in Mexico. Don't let her sacrifice go to waste." Clint slapped a firm hand on Nelson's shoulder. "Cheer up," he said, "Soon there'll be Senorita's aplenty, an' you'll forget all about the blondie at the bank."

"Yeah," said Nelson in a wavering voice. "You're right. I gotta keep my head straight. Can't start panicking now."

"Atta boy," said Clint. "Whereabouts are we?"

"Not sure," said Nelson, peering into the coming darkness. One either side of the muddy highway, trees began to grow closer and darker. On their long, swaying limbs hung tendrils of moss, which reached out toward the men, grazing their faces like little ghostly fingers. "I think we're comin' in close to Shreveport."

"Don't get too close to town. Let's stay out a ways in the country," said Clint, tension rising slightly in his throat. He regretted his unfamiliarity with the county; wherever they drove now was at Nelson's discretion. This was the one job Clint had kept him for, but as he watched Nelson's exhausted face and the manic fear in his eyes, Clint began to wonder if he had made the wrong choice. Perhaps he would have been better off on his own.

"I'll turn off here," said Nelson. "We'll find somethin', or we can park out in the woods."

The car veered off to the right, down a narrow lane through the trees. Night had fallen now, and only the dim headlights flashed on the tree trunks as the jalopy jumped and rattled over branches and stones. Exhaustion was settling over Nelson, now that the sun had gone away; the dark hung on him, whispering unpleasant thoughts in his ear. It seemed the deeper into the woods he drove, the more dread he felt in his heart, and though he swallowed deep and hard, thoughts of the dying girl came to mind. As he pondered miserably her pale, flickering face, Clint cried out, "There! Over there!" and pointed vigorously through the trees. There, in the headlights, was a small, overgrown driveway, invisible to eyes less desperate. With a sharp turn Nelson bolted down the driveway. They had found sanctuary at last! He could ease his pounding head and find peace, perhaps, in the merciful fog of sleep.

The lane was dense with saplings which snapped and scraped against the car, claw-like branches clinging. Soon the men emerged into a clearing. A half-moon shone dimly on the blue-green grass, which waved in a night-time breeze. On either side stood gnarled, black trees, like sentinels who, standing guard for many years, grew bent and wicked. They leered at Nelson as they drove past, and he shrank under their gaze; Clint, however, was giddy with relief.

"I knew I could count on you!" he laughed. Already in his mind he was gleefully counting his money, there were not trees but cacti, and women beat their silken fans over him, swishing their skirts.

Still the trees leered at Nelson, the knots in their trunks like unblinking eyes. Something about the place creeped upon his mind. Maybe it was the glint of moonlight through the branches, or the manic laughter he felt brushing just behind his teeth, the breathy fear he struggled to contain. Or maybe it was the bank teller's dimming eyes...

Suddenly, in the corner of his eye Nelson saw a pale shape peering in the window. He jumped with such fear that the car rocked, and he stepped hard on the pedal, throwing Clint against his seat.

"Jesus!" cried Nelson, shaking all over. Tears stung in his eyes. "D'you see that?"

"I sure do!" said Clint with enthusiasm. "She's perfect! Dammit, Nelson, you really are one surprise after another!"

At that Nelson wrenched his eyes from the side window and looked in front of him. Far down the end of the lane stood a rotted house, leaning in the moonlight. Its windows were shattered and dark, the veranda crumbling in places. And at the back end of the house, facing the moonlight, was a large bay window, reaching out from the second storey. All at once his memory poured over him.

"It can't be," whispered Nelson. "The Maycott Estate!"

"You're shittin' me?" asked Clint. "As in the Maycott Murder?"

Nelson nodded dumbly in response. “Albert Maycott...”

All the while the house loomed larger and larger, oppressing Nelson utterly as the truth become impossible to deny. Some cruel fate had caused him to return here, led by the traitorous homing instinct!

To Be Continued...

Seascape

The silent, random landscape seemed
to him almost lunar: rocks,
hairy with limp seaweed, tiny shells that
shattered like dry bones as he walked,
and flat sand.
His footsteps in that place could've
been the first.

Except it wasn't dead dry. Underneath
the stillness he caught
the creeping sense of wet life and the
smell of decaying
fish flesh.

The seamud sucked at his
shoes and bubbly seaweed burst,
splattering salty juice when
he stepped on them.
He nearly tripped over a
dead octopus clamped
to the ground. It looked
up at him. Its anatomical
jelly was both soft and firm
underfoot.

On a hanging
rock formation he
saw a girl, reading,
oblivious.
He could've
imagined her there.
Perhaps she
was part of
the landscape, like
the sea,
the shells,
the octopus,
the sand.

assignment ideas?

could I make a request for a weekly assignment?
I need to write again. Drawing's all nice and dandy...but my words are getting rusty.

thanks guys. x

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.  

A Little Bit Bitter, Part 1

That’s an understatement. I’ll be completely honest with you: I wrote that at the top of the page because it has a nice ring to it. The alliteration with the Ls and the Bs, and the two double Ts. I wrote that because it sounds nice. But the truth is Casey wasn’t just a little bit bitter. She was furious.

It was my fault. I’m the one who told her about Mark and Sam. Now that I think about it, it was probably a mistake to tell her. It depends on how you look at it, I guess— even from my point of view. I mean, I got what I wanted out of it initially, and at the time it seemed like a good idea, in a selfish way. Even now that all of that business has died down I can’t say I regret having told her because it helped me get to know Casey, find what kind of person she really is.

Everybody thinks they know Casey really well. Spot her, and immediately you know the type. She’s always been, and always will be, that kind of girl. Some like it, some don’t, but it’s all based on that initial judgment. You’ll see what I mean.

It all started long before that, but for me it began one night at the bar where I was working at the time. That’s when I came in, played my little part in the drama. It was a nice, quiet place, kind of shabby, corner Duluth and Saint-Denis. One of those places that’s been there for decades: once a working class taverne, now a favorite haunt for hipsters from the ghetto and the plateau looking for a gritty place to hang out and pose for faux-vintage pictures.

I’m at my best when I at work. And I say that in all humility, because most of the time I know I’m not much—or, at least, not enough to get the attention of someone like, say, Casey. But manning the bar, my crisp black shirt like a second skin, the rows of bottles behind me and the chrome taps at arm’s length, I’m an altogether different person. Cool, remarkable, I can make you whatever kind of drink you can think of, and others beside, with enough quiet authority to judge you on it, too. I know my stuff, and I know how to use it to my advantage.

I served Casey a Jack Daniel’s, straight, with a glass of ice on the side. Casey, you  should know, has an insatiable taste for hard liquor. It’s one of the things I like about her.

Another thing you should know about Casey is that she’s white trash. I mean that in the best way, but still, white trash is white trash. You hear it immediately—part of that initially judgment I mentioned. Accents don’t lie, and Casey is shameless about hers, which is Southern. Deep Southern. She says y’all, always, and pronounces her As as Es in an open-mouthed drawl. She hitchhiked her way up the US and across the border, ended up in Montreal like she could’ve ended up anywhere else: in the middle of the night, exhausted, confused, thirsty. She found a bed in a hostel, met some people, and eventually moved in with Sam and got a job as a waitress. She owns at least three different cowboy hats, and has a marked preference for short denim, and plaid on both men and women.

That evening, I told her about Mark and Sam pretty much immediately, no preamble or anything. Like, “here’s your drink Mark slept with Sam did you know?” Of course, she didn’t know. That was the point.

I was lucky to know about it myself. I’d seen Mark the day before and he dropped a hint that something had happened between Sam and him. He couldn’t hold it in, you know? Young love, that sort of thing. The truth is Mark had been in love with Sam as far as we could all remember; they used to date, when Casey lived with Sam, but then Sam went away to France for a year and that complicated things, until Mark started dating Casey.

I picked up Mark’s hint real fast and warned him: “If Casey knows she’ll murder someone.” (I was always thinking about Casey.) It turned out to be just the right thing to say to know more because it touched a nerve. “She can do whatever she wants,” he said. “I don’t care. I slept with Sam and I want to get together with her again. It’s the real deal. It’s my life and Casey has nothing to do with it.” I assumed that meant he wouldn’t mind if I told Casey.

For a second, just a second, when I did tell Casey, her face was the ugliest I’d ever seen it. “What?” she said. “What the fuck? Who tol’ ya that?”

For effect, I finished pouring a pint of Boréale Blonde and handed over to a customer before I answered. I made a show of taking the bill I was handed, getting the change at the till, counting the coins carefully before placing them on the counter.

“Mark told me,” I finally said.

“The dick.”

*

Five hours later she was sucking mine.

It was a long evening, heavy with alcohol, as you can imagine. Casey stayed at the bar until closing time, texting and fulminating. I went to chat with her between customers, feeding the fire of her anger, and made sure the glass in front of her was never empty.

What affected Casey so much is that she knew Mark and Sam made a great couple. They were from the same background, they had similar interests; if they got together again it would be for good. I didn’t even need to tell Casey what Mark had told me because she already knew that whatever there was between him and Sam was the real deal. It was nothing like what she’d had with Mark; she wasn’t deluding herself. She knew Mark had only gone out with her for the sex. Well, there was probably more to it, or else they wouldn’t have dated at all, I guess. She was a fun girl. She had a certain reputation. You were bound to impress, to get noticed, with a girl like that sitting in front of you at the restaurant and partying all over your Facebook wall. But mainly, it was obvious Mark had gone out with her mainly for the sex. Casey knew she didn’t have what Sam had. She was too authentic, too much herself. She couldn’t help it.

It was my chance, and I took it. I invited Casey over to my place for a nightcap. She accepted, of course. “I don’t wanna to be alone,” she told me sweetly. She was drunk. We cuddled on the sofa and I did nothing to hide my erection as it rose steadily between her butt cheeks.

“You wanna sleep with me, don’t cha?” She said matter-of-factly.

“Yes.”

She twisted her body around to face me and slipped her tongue, a little pasty from emotion and drink, into my mouth. We made out and she eventually emerged on top, straddling my hips, and let me watch as she undressed. Casey was famous for her tits, and they were something indeed. To finally see them uncovered was a kind of revelation, like at the synagogue when they pull aside the curtain of the ark to reveal the ornate torah inside. She unzipped my jeans and blew me half-heartedly for a while before I carried her to the bedroom—an armful of glowing flesh. We got into the cold sheets and finished there. It wasn’t much fun, to be honest. Even the slobbering fellatio had been better. She was too drunk and tired to move so she kind of lay there and moaned in…well, it was meant to sound like pleasure, but it sounded more like annoyance. As soon as it was over, she stuffed her face into the pillow and fell asleep.

What Could Have Been A Love Letter(You Haven't Entirely Driven Me to Full-Blown Misanthropy, But Know You've Pushed Me Quite a Ways in That Direction)

I will not dare to call you fair,
though I used to hold you dear.
Too much to bear, let's clear the air
of all these senseless cheers.
(Is it a routine?)
For my age to turn a page
in a book driven by disdain for humanity?
Or is this a hidden tourist attraction,
a guided tour to the brink of misanthropy?
Where boundaries are overstepped
and secrets we kept
(shhh)
become recorded and commonplace
through the ever-flawed system of
customer comment cards.
Is it too much to ask for
a better past for my future to
(fondly)
reminisce about,
for times of war to go ignored
to bask in the love
I've learned to live without?

After all these years,
I just want a day without
my hand curling into itself
becoming fist in a fit of rage.
If I stay here
without a doubt,
my neck wrapped in a belt,
I'll turn the page.

The Marriage Chain (Part 2)

My grandmother did some truly great detective work, especially when you consider the resources she had: Jonathan’s old papers and the city newspaper archives. At the university library I made quick work of confirming all her findings, and delving a bit deeper into the history of her husband’s previous marriages and of Mary Bradbury Stern Price’s first marriage to Mr. Stern, whose first name was Nicholas. I made other discoveries, as well: I found out that the marriage chain my grandmother had intimated was, in fact, even longer than she had thought.

From what I can tell, now, the first link in the chain was reverend Robert Hooker, from Bath, England, who was born in 1766. He married a woman called Louise Eldridge in 1815—I don’t know if either of them was married before, although I found no evidence to suggest this so it’s safe to say this is where it started. Louise was seventeen when she married Robert. They had three children, all daughters; Robert passed away when he was eighty; Louise married again, in 1840. She became the first wife of Nicholas Stern, a thirty-one year-old Bristol businessman. Louise gave birth to twins two years later and died at the age of thirty-three. Nicholas Stern’s transport business became very successful; when his daughters were older he moved to America to profit from the economic boom that followed the Civil War. In 1867 he married again, to Mary Bradbury, the daughter of a business associate and friend. Mary, who was twenty-three years old when she married, gave Nicholas a single child, a son. In 1883 Nicholas passed away; Mary married again three years later with Jonathan Price, a twenty-six year old lawyer. In the same year, Mary contracted tuberculosis; she passed away in the spring of 1888. Jonathan remarried twice: in 1891 with Angela Lawrence, who died in childbirth in the same year, and with Jane Sommers in 1903. When Jonathan died, just after the war, Jane, who was in her late thirties, was left in a difficult financial position with three sons to take care of. She married Raymond Stand, a butcher, in 1920. They had one son, my father, who was born a few years later.

Little did Robert Hooker know, when he married the young Louise Eldridge at the beginning of the 19^th century, that his union would start a familial anomaly that would join together eight people across a century and produce over 150 descendants in four different branches of surnames. I can’t help but wonder if, other than my grandmother, any later members of the marriage chain had figured out what they were part of.

*

These are the fruits of my research. I sent my sister an email with the completed family tree, but she replied only to tell me what a strange coincidence it was. “Strange,” she wrote, which implied that it was not really interesting, or life changing. I initially wanted to track down some of the other descendants of the marriage chain—our half-cousins several times removed—and get in touch with them, but I decided otherwise after reading my sister’s response. My discovery is only interesting from a historical point of view; it’s only fascinating on paper. It has nothing to do with our lives or identities.

Still.

I opened the door to my son’s room last night after he’d fallen asleep. He is my youngest child, my only son. An image struck me: I saw him as if he was the very tip of a mighty ship’s prow, propelled by the force and bulk of what came before him. He stands, supported by the past, cutting into the future.