She swallowed my voice. Took it apart. Took it in. Took it apart. One syllable at a time. One bite for each word. Tonguing the phonemes, chewing the consonance, the assonance. She swallowed my voice, disseminated, desiccated. My throat makes hollow clicks from the absence she left. She took it apart. Swallowed me. My voice. All my words.…
It’s always the first time.
My heart fractures and fissures run deep till it splinters to pieces, and you ask me to stay for one more night.
The same every night. We construct one another in this bed from a thousand different faces and a thousand forgotten memories after which we grasp. I am your face without a name and you are my burned out star.
In the morning it won’t matter, but I’ll remain, and you will kiss me. Your eyes beg and you’ll ask me to stay. …
Hot water rose to the edge of the bath, almost overflowing until Karl dashed into the bathroom, twisted the red tap and swirled his hands in the water to test the temperature.
He undressed, tossed sweaty clothes into a pile by the door, folded his fresh underwear into a large white towel and put it on the closed toilet lid.
After wiping his left hand across the steamed up mirror, Karl looked at his pointed teeth, danced like a robot and jiggled his ugly body before examining the skin tags under his armpits.
He lowered his body into the hot water an inch at a time, sucking the air between his teeth for the heat, afraid of cooking his balls.
The bright bathroom light made him squint like a man who had spent seven years digging for secrets under the stairs.
A novelty frog radio, attached to the wall by a rotting sucker, mumbled and hissed in the limbo between stations.
Karl slid underwater.…
V. hates everything about this discount store. Its narrow, crowded aisles, its shitty off-brand selections, and especially, Jesus Christ, especially the workers in their vests who move at the speed of tree sap. He hates that he must drive Dottie to this place, her palsy making it impossible to operate a vehicle (or sign a check for that matter). And he hates himself right now, for forgetting to eat breakfast this morning; two cups of coffee moving straight through him. His medications, also forgotten, are still sitting in the Tuesday compartment of the seven-day reminder system, which itself is sitting on the window ledge above the kitchen sink.
“What does this price say?” Dottie is asking him.
“The hell should I know?” She can’t hold the cantaloupe steady, and he can’t read the tiny numbers on the orange tag.
He wrests the cantaloupe from her hand.
“We need this,” he says, setting the ball of fruit carefully in the cart’s empty child’s seat.
“I like to know how much we’re spending.”
“Two bucks.”
“You didn’t even look.”
V. pushes the cart forward. “Come on,” he says. “I’d like to get out of here before I’m dead.” But one of the cart’s rear wheels is stuck; it scuffs and slides on the dusty floor. V. gives it a good kick and it un-sticks for a moment. Then sticks again.
“Goddammit,” he says.…
For two hours Karl sat outside the house where his childhood bully lived. It was a semi-detached house with black curtains (closed) and a small muddy garden full of rusting car parts.
He sat cross-legged on the pavement staring at the house, trying to imagine what Terence might be doing in there.
Karl wasn’t even sure that it was Terence’s house. A friend told him that Terence had lived there at some point, and that he used to play his music at full volume with the windows open in the summer.
Summer 1993: Karl was thirteen. He loved to play in the cornfields. He liked the way the corn shivered and whispered in the breeze. The corn made him feel safe and filled his imagination with silent dancers.
Until Terence found him there.…
Dear Sirs, or ma’ams, or whoever,
First, if this is not in the proper format, sorry, but since we only get a blank sheet of paper and a pencil to write with, I’m kind of limited in properness. Second, I’m going to say it now, no more holding back. Kendall is a thief. There, it’s out. I’m the big bad wolf narc. Now you know.
I don’t want to be in trouble. Dartman said demerits can kill a man, and he knows everything. He knew we wouldn’t be able to see the lunar eclipse here, even though the news said we would. He knew it wasn’t going to snow on Christmas, even though the weatherman said there was a decent chance of it. So, if he says demerits can kill a man, then I must be dying. The sheet in the hallway says I’ve got nine demerits. One more and I have to stay in my room for two weeks. No TV breaks in the afternoon. No outside, not that there’s anything to do but walk around the edge of the fence and see if there’s anyone in the park.…
White foam slid down the inside of an empty pint glass on Daniel’s table. He smiled at Rory from the corner booth. Rory removed his coat, turned an uneasy circle, and found a coat hook.
He took the seat opposite Daniel. “Sorry I’m late, got lost.”
Daniel stood. “You need a drink. We’ll do rounds.”
Chipped paint and tobacco stains marred the walls between football flags and posters of ’80s metal bands. An old man rocked in his chair and muttered to himself in the far corner. Several empty glasses huddled on his table.
The barman laughed with Daniel at the nearest end of the bar. It stood like an old, abandoned boat that someone still talks about — all wood and brass, but pitted and flaked with layers of cheap varnish. Daniel returned to the table with pints of beer and shots of cheap tequila on a tray.
Rory sat back in his chair. “Jesus, dude. It’s two in the afternoon.”…
Recent Comments