Booth (Dramatic Dialogue)

The points of both their lives had reached an apogee.

            They had always been different: one was solitary and liked it that way, the other preferred to be in a group, though tonight would prove the exception. One took school seriously, to an extent – making A’s and B’s with the occasional Spanish “yes” thrown in for good measure. The other? Well, he would just toss his hair out of his eyes and smirk whenever anyone asked. Most would drop the question, which was good for him because he didn’t know – and he was scared. The fear of his academic failure paled, however, with the fear he faced of his future after tonight – after the conversation.

            Barring social and academic dissimilarities, each had always held a certain animosity towards the other. They were rivals on their school’s track team; both of them competed to win the most races, get the fastest times, jump farther, work harder. Their attitudes had sculpted their bodies into granite.

Both would never accept defeat – at least, that was the case until recently. They both had engaged in fistfights at school over the same girl, sparring verbally and physically with equal fervor. Time after time, the blonde one walked away victorious-albeit-bleeding, but – last time was different, had the air of true finality. The one with the raven hair had succumbed at last – but never had he conceded.

Instead there was only a whisper, spoken to the floor in resignation and hesitance: “Meet me at the lake, where the road meets the water.” The other was so startled by the subdued quality of the request that he could only ask when.

When? Now.

Why? Because.

            One was suspicious – years of living with no father figure had molded him into a mannequin with shifting eyes, eyes that hid a wellspring of both pride and pain. Love was a textbook subject to him; he’d known of it but only a little, and never experienced it. He told himself he didn’t need it, but he had always known that he was lying. Now he was driving, navigating the twists and turns of the asphalt with ease, shaking in his anxiety and trying to control his nerves, driving without knowing why.

            The other was much the same – he’d relied on friendships to escape his parents’ murder. Life hadn’t been too kind to him; it was why he had a smart comeback for anything said to him. He had known lust, flirted with attraction, and once – only once – had his heart ever beat for another. Now, he was sitting in his car, tearing his hair out with worry and debating whether or not to just drive away.

            Headlights sliced bright knives into his rearview mirror. The black-haired one – Dallas – took a deep breath and slipped into the feathery drizzle of the night.

            Jet, the blonde, stepped hesitantly out of his SUV, his hair already plastered to his skin. The ground – which seemed undecided as to whether it was muddy or not – squelched under his feet as he paused in front of the orange hood to see the silhouette standing at the water. He crossed his arms and kept his face blank as he spoke. “So.” Dallas turned his head, acknowledging the other’s existence.

Jet paused, shifting closer to the water’s edge so that he and Dallas were facing each other. “Why am I here?”

            The other only swallowed, trying to get the courage to speak.

            “Is this about Cherise?” Jet demanded, stabbing a finger at the statue in front of him. “Because if it is – ”

            Dallas raised a weary hand and took a weary breath. “I don’t…” He cleared his throat. “I don’t want to fight – anymore.” He was already breathing hard, as though the statement alone had been a marathon.

            Jet paused. “What?” he murmured. Quickly, he switched gears back into suspicion. “Yeah, right!” He threw a punch at Dallas’s head, but only connected with strands of onyx.

            Dallas stood a little further away from his earlier position. “No…” he started, blinking fast and clenching his fists in frustration. “No. I’m serious.” He sighed and let his shoulders slump. “I’m done.” The moonlight glinted off of the teeth that were biting his lip.

            Jet, still crouched in a fighting stance, let his lip curl in a snarl. “Why don’t I believe you?” he asked sarcastically.

            The other man let out a sorrowful little chuckle. “Because after how I’ve treated you, you shouldn’t. And if I were you, I wouldn’t believe me either. That’s your right.”

            Slowly, Jet relaxed, returning to normal posture. “You…you don’t want to fight? Why?” His eyes still retained the cold calculation of a combatant.

Dallas shrugged. “I don’t know… I – I guess I just…” He trailed off without finishing.

            The blonde blinked in surprise. He’d never seen Dallas so unsure before. “Is this about – ”

            “No, it’s not about Cherise. It was never about her.” Dallas shook his head to emphasize his point.

            “It wasn’t?” Jet shook his head to keep the water from dripping into his eyes. “You’re kidding me, right? If it wasn’t about her, then why all…all this?” He gestured at the air between them, as if their contention was made manifest by this movement.

            “I…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

            “Are you jealous? Is it because of my grades? Is that it?” Jet shook his hair again.

            “Are you – Is it – No! I’m not jealous of your grades! I don’t care about grades!”

            “Then what? What reason could you possibly have to – to constantly anger me like that?” Jet laughed in his skepticism but internally was dying to know the answer.

            Dallas threw up his arms in frustration. “I can’t!” He turned away, towards the water, and ground his foot into the mud in an attempt to vent his anger.

            Jet stalked towards him, veiling his curiosity with furious persistence. “You can’t what, Dallas? You can’t stand to see me? You don’t like how I don’t talk to anyone at school? What?” He was less than a foot away from Dallas’s halo of black hair.

            Dallas exhaled, a long low breath that shuddered and shook like the surface of the lake. He let a tear escape from the corner of his eye. Slowly, he turned to face Jet.

            “I can’t keep this up anymore.”

            Jet was floored. The entire time he’d known Dallas, he’d never seen him be anything but livid, or competitive at the very least. The vulnerability implied in his display of emotion told Jet that something big was happening. “What do you mean, ‘can’t keep this up?’” He softened his voice a bit, to where it sounded like he didn’t want to murder anyone.

            Dallas closed his eyes and clenched his fist again, feeling his nails dig into the soft skin of his palm, creating evanescent crescent moons. “I mean, I can’t do it anymore, Jet. I can’t pretend…” He pursed his lips. “I can’t pretend that I don’t think about you all the time, or – or that you aren’t in my dreams every night.” He tapped the toe of his shoe on the ground to wedge his foot more securely in his shoe, and continued.

“I can’t put on this mask of not caring anymore. There’s never a moment where you’re not on my mind. I can’t look at you and keep this quiet any longer. There’s a charade that I have and I…” He sighed again and turned away. “I just can’t keep it up. I can’t do it.”

If Jet was floored before, then now he was completely flat. He found it hard to breathe; no one had ever said anything like that to him at all. He’d never felt so…appreciated. Still, though, he wasn’t about to let himself surrender to his emotions. It wasn’t in his character. “What about Cherise?”

“I told you, it was never about her. I like her as a friend, she’s fine. But she’s nothing compared to you. Your laugh, your smile, the way your eyes flash when you get angry…” Dallas wiped some tears from his eyes and fell silent.

Jet found himself thinking back to his memories of Dallas. Unfortunately, most of them were fistfights. But he now saw them in a completely different way. Last month, when they’d been against each other, Dallas had grabbed him by the back of the head and slammed him into a row of lockers. Normally, this kind of thing wouldn’t have been given a second glance. However, seeing it from the new perspective, Jet couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, he’d enjoyed Dallas’s touch.

Jet snapped back to reality as Dallas started beating his own chest with one fist and yelling profanities. “What are you doing?” He grabbed Dallas’s arm to stop him. The drizzle had become a complete downpour.

“I knew this was a bad idea. I knew I never should have brought you here. I just thought you should know…” Jet couldn’t tell from the rain, but it seemed like Dallas was crying again.

“Thought I should know what?” Jet insisted. Dallas wouldn’t say anything. Jet grabbed his shoulders. “Thought I should know what, Dallas?”

“I created this rivalry as an excuse to be near you, to touch you, to see you, even if it was in a fight…You take everything so seriously, and it’s enthralling. Forget Cherise, Jet. In the end it was you. The one I wanted to be with…it was always you.”

Jet backed away in shock. There was nothing that could have possibly prepared him for this. He didn’t know how to react. One part of him was fighting it, saying that it was impossible, that this feeling wasn’t for him, that he should remember that. The other part…the other part was quietly insisting that this was what he’d always been missing. This was what he’d been waiting for. He’d always wanted acceptance; he’d tried being himself at school and it got him nowhere. He was waging a private war within.

Dallas saw none of this, lost in his own battle to get the words out. Finally, he pushed it out in the open: “Jet… I – I love you.”

It was the thing Jet needed to hear the most, just never from the person he expected. His heart was tearing in two. He’d never felt…cared for, like this, even for a moment. He was reeling, wallowing in the mire of his past and the uncertainty of his future. Unsure of whether to take the leap and risk his vulnerability, or stay safe and grounded like he always had, he stood, immobile.

Dallas misinterpreted Jet’s silence for rejection and sank to his knees in the mud. There it was. He’d bared his heart and it had cost him dearly. He punched the mud in his anger and tried not to cry too loudly. His dreams of a golden-haired future were slipping away, drop by drop. His sobs mixed with the rain and he struggled to breathe, drowning on land.

Jet was still silent.

Dallas closed his eyes in anguish and waited for the final punctuation mark on the chapter of his unrequited love: the sound of tires on asphalt.

And yet he heard nothing but the rain.

Instead, he felt a hand covering his own. Dallas opened his eyes to see Jet, kneeling in the mud with him. The look in his eyes was that of rebirth. Dallas flicked his bangs to the side so that he could see, and though the rain made it hard to tell, it appeared that Jet was crying softly.

He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t have to.

Slowly, Jet leaned in towards Dallas, looking past the diaphanous sheen of tears that blurred his vision. He took a deep shuddering breath and forced himself out of the last vestiges of the suffocating grip of his own numbness. Dallas stared at him, shuddering in the fear of the unfamiliar. All Jet could see was this juxtaposition, this beautiful black-haired angel kneeling before him in the mud. He took Dallas’s face in his hands, gently, as if he were touching a baby.

Their lips met, lightly. Each one drank in the other, understanding that this was different for both of them, this was unknown territory, but also knowing that that was okay, that was to be expected. The moment seemed to last forever – neither of them wanted anything more than each other, than the presence of someone else to dull the anguish that pervaded both of their lives. Their fears melted under the pressure of lips.

Slowly, longingly, Jet pulled away from Dallas, only an inch or two. Dallas looked at the blonde with teary-eyed bewilderment and relief. “Jet…what…what are you – “

“I love you too, Dallas,” Jet whispered. He smiled softly. “I think somehow I always have.”

They knelt there, as the rain slowly dissipated, leaving only the violet infinitude of the lake and the evening. No words were spoken. No words needed be said.

It was all contained in the singular microcosm of the silhouette. Two figures, leaning into each other for support, but the intermingled hands suggesting more than friendship. The heads, each bent towards the other in a state of benighted intimacy. The hearts, unseen, but beating as a singular unit.

The hearts, held together by love.

Though my thoughts have never crossed here

Though my thoughts have never crossed here,
And still stand anxiously awaiting the signal,
I know that this is the night that they will.

Tonight is the night where
I leave my shoes in my room,
Go outside to the warm purple lovely
Of the musky twilight
And let my feet meditate on what
They’ve lost for so long.

I glide over
Grass, shuffle through
Pavement, dance on
Tiles, like a matador.

Tonight is the night where
I give studying the finger
And walk out in a sweatshirt
Watching the leaves swirl into winter
And trying not to notice my own breath
Sneaking into existence in front of me
Like a conversation in the dark.

Tonight is the night where
I am alone and happy to be so,
With my fingers jammed into my pockets
So hard that my entire arm is tensed
As if it were a word that awaits release.

Tonight is the night where
I walk around the
Busy streets I, one day, will
Used to know so well,
And watch the fingers of dawn
Clench gently onto the rooftops

I look at a lone maple,
Silent, insistent upon itself,
I see it, and it sees me.
And for a moment,

One

brief

glistening

everything moment,

I know what it all means.
Who I am, who I have been.

This is the life I lead.
Long journeys for the
Singular moments where
I see the world entire.

Resurget Creatura

            They were coming.

            As her feet scrabbled over the linoleum and she tried her best to keep her balance, she could only run on pure, raw terror, the kind that seems to swim against your bloodstream like some metaphysical salmon. Her voice was raspy from the amount of screaming she had done in the past day, and though she was only seven years old she came to the realization that she might die out here, on this island.

            In front of her, the stylized wooden door to her hotel room opened and there was her brother, looking thin and emaciated, but brave. His hair, once meticulously combed, now stood in disarray. The holes in his jeans showed the skin stretched over bone, muscles straining in anticipation.

To her, he looked like an angel. He brandished an axe and snarled at the creatures behind her wordlessly. He raised it over his head, as if to strike. She noticed, suddenly, the spatters of blood on his face and Allman Brothers t-shirt. But there was no time for reflection – there was only panic, reflected in Tobias’s eyes.

            She knew she didn’t have much time.

            “Kaylee, run!” he shouted, gesturing wildly behind him and hooking a foot around the door. As she scampered behind him, he slammed the door shut. The light from the window blinded her for a moment, and she was reminded of the first few minutes of what would have been their vacation.

********

            “Tobias!” Kaylee could hear someone yelling, and though she wasn’t looking, she knew her mother’s back was bent over, her hair was falling in her face, and she was trying her hardest to lug her four suitcases into their hotel. The tropical sun glinted off the plastic on the outside of her garishly colored backpack. She giggled, once, and she felt the calloused hand of her father drop onto her shoulder.

            “You havin’ fun, kiddo?” He smiled at her, the collar of his polo shirt quivering slightly in the breeze. She nodded.

            “Yeah, Daddy! This is gonna be the best vacation ever!” His smile widened and he chuckled. A question came into her head. “Daddy?”

            “Yeah, sweetie?”

            “Why aren’t you helping Mommy?”

            He smacked his hand against his forehead. “Oh, you’re right. I should be treating Mommy like a princess, shouldn’t I?” She laughed and ran off, feeling the wonder of the breeze in her hair and the texture of the sand under her sneakers. The smell of the sea hit her nostrils, an overwhelming rose, and she stopped in her tracks. Dimly, she could hear her parents behind her.

            “There you are, Anthony! God, I can’t get all of these in by myself, they weigh a hundred pounds! I asked Tobias, but he’s too busy playing some game on his phone. That boy will never –“

            “Lisa, sweetheart, relax. We’re on vacation. Take a minute to enjoy yourself, for once.”

            A pause. Then, “Oh, I guess you’re right. It’s been a while since I had some ‘me’ time, hasn’t it?”

“It sure has. But my queen shouldn’t worry.”

A scream. Kaylee turned away from the infinitude of the sea and saw her father picking up her mother bodily as she laughed and mock-struggled. He slung her over his shoulder and carried her into the hotel as a bellboy ran the opposite direction.

She looked to the car and noticed Tobias getting out, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. He started to check his phone, but he stopped mid-step when Kaylee pointed to their parents. Something that looked alien to her flitted over his face.

It almost seemed to her like he had smiled.

********

She shielded her eyes with one hand and fell to her knees, gasping in exhaustion. Her ears, sharp with adrenaline, pricked at the sound of shuffling footsteps increasing in volume. Tobias braced the door with the axe, pressing his body against it with all his might. She whimpered and turned on her back, crawling away towards the window.

The bathroom door opened and she only had time to gasp.

Her mother stood there, makeup running – though she had long since forgotten to care about how she looked – and burst into tears. “Kaylee…” she stammered.

“Mommy!” Kaylee ran to her and jumped into her arms. Her dad’s hands stroked her hair tenderly, his scent enveloped all three of them at the same time that his arms did, and together they cried from sheer relief. She looked up. “I ran, just like Daddy told me to.” Her dad squeezed harder.

“You were a very brave girl, Kaylee. I’m so proud of you.” He paused. “I’m…I’m just so glad you’re okay.” She nodded, rubbing her head against her mother’s chest. The inviting warmth calmed her, slowed her racing heart, allowed her to breathe. For the first time in thirteen blood-soaked hours, she felt truly safe.

The sound of splintering wood jerked them all back to reality.

“Anthony!” her mother shrieked. Tobias jerked the axe from the door and swung it down on the intruding hand. A feral scream and a spray of blood. Kaylee closed her eyes.

********

“Repoh’tin’ laive from de studio, KBAH, dis is Luisa Brangan. Dere seems to be an epidemic of unknohn saize spreadin’ rapidly ‘round the globe. Doctors don’ really kno’ the caus of dis disease, but dis be sometin’ the world ha’ nevah seen. Some sim-toms arr de brain swellin’ and de loss of speech. Please be advaise, steh inside yo’ place of residence an’ don’ come out for nahting. Dose of you in de hotels, dere will be plans to evacuate cha back t’ wherevah you be comin’ from. In oder news…”

********

Kaylee felt a hand grip her wrist, and she looked up to see her mother frantically looking for somewhere to go besides the window. Kaylee follwed where she was led, looking at the floor and ceiling, trying to find anything to give them an escape route.

“Lisa!” Anthony snapped. “There’s nothing but the window. We’ve gotta jump!”

“NO!” Lisa shrieked, clutching Kaylee to her. “It’s a five-story drop. None of us will survive!”

“The prospects aren’t looking good anyway,” Tobias grunted.

“We have to keep faith – there’s gotta be some…” Anthony paused. “Do you hear that?”

A faint whup whup whup noise could be heard over the groans and sh rieks outside the door. Kaylee ran to the window and squinted against the sun. Briefly she caught the tail end of a helicopter circling around the hotel. Lisa started pounding on the glass frantically.

“Please! Please, we’re in here! Help us!”

“Mom! They can’t hear us!” Tobias said. He handed the axe to his father and wrapped a pillowcase around his hand before punching the window. Lisa shielded Kaylee from the showering shards of glass and started yelling freshly.

“Please! Right here, please!”  The noise grew louder. “Oh, thank God, oh yes, yes, yes!”

“We’ve got a problem!” Anthony yelped from the door. More hands were reaching through, grabbing at Anthony’s shirt and hair. He wrested himself away from their grasp and barred the door with the axe.

Tobias bit his lip. “That door won’t last us long enough for the ladder to get down. If we stay like we are now, there’s no chance.”

Kaylee stared up at her brother. “What do you mean?”

Her mother started shaking her head slowly. “No. No, Tobias –“

“It means,” Tobias said, overriding Lisa, “that one of us has to distract them. Give the rest of us some time.”

Kaylee hid behind her mother. “What?” she whispered.

Lisa patted Kaylee’s back, gently. “Not her,” she said, firmly. Tobias nodded once, in agreement.

“That never once crossed my mind.” The door was giving in, slowly. Kaylee glanced at it and saw her dad fighting with the former bellhop, trying to get out of a headlock.

“Tobias!” Kaylee screamed, jabbing a finger in her father’s general direction. Tobias looked, saw everything, ran to help his father. Kaylee looked away again. More screaming, more sounds like watermelon hitting concrete. Lisa ran to the couch by the door and pushed it on its side. She and Kaylee pushed it to the door, blocking it. Tobias and Anthony joined them.
            “They’re almost here,” Anthony said. Tobias nodded. “We might all make it.”

“No, Dad.” Tobias spoke slowly. “We won’t. They’re too fast and there’s too many of them.” He paused, taking a breath to collect himself. “Which is why I’m going to stay behind.”

There was a silence, one that seemed to pervade every corner of the room. Even the splintering wood and shrieks of carnal desire seemed to fade away.

“What,” said Lisa. This wasn’t a question, nor was it a statement. It was just something to fill the space.

“No,” said Anthony. “No. Not you, not my boy.” He reached for Tobias, who pulled away.

“Face it, Dad! You’re the guy that makes the money. Without you, they’re on the street. Mom, you’ve gotta be there for Kaylee. She needs you. And there’s no way I’m letting a woman do this for me. I couldn’t stand myself.”

“Son…” Lisa was crying. “No, Tobias, no.”

“Mom.” Tobias spoke in resignation. “I don’t really contribute much anyway. I’m always talking with my friends, or playing some dumb game…I don’t remember really living for a while now. You two are everything to Kaylee. And odds are she probably won’t remember me when she’s older.”

“Yes she will! And even if she doesn't, I will! I’m not going to let you –“

“Mom.”

In that one word, there was everything.

Nobody moved. Nobody said anything.

“Kaylee,” Tobias said, taking her face in his hands. “I’m gonna go away now. You promise me you’ll be a good girl for Mom and Dad, okay?” He paused, rubbing at his eye. “Do…” he cleared his throat, but his voice wobbled nonetheless. “Do what you love, don’t apologize to anyone. You’re going to be a beautiful lady someday.”

Kaylee hugged him, innocently. “I love you, Toby.”

He smiled and rubbed her back. “I love you too, Kay.”

It was the first time either of them had said the words to each other.

He stood up. “Mom, Dad.” They looked at him, blinking back tears. “Remember me well.” He started crying soundlessly. “I didn’t say this much, but I always loved you. It might not have seemed like it, but –“ Tobias was interrupted by a thud on the other side of the wall. The helicopter blades were almost deafening now, and the ladder was slowly being spooled into their reach.

“Don’t look back.” Tobias turned away.

Lisa boosted up Kaylee to the ladder, and as she grabbed the first rung, she heard the door open. There were noises, noises that she tried to forget. Noises like a lemon being sliced or meat falling from a countertop. The noises got a lot more muffled as she climbed, and she looked down to see her mother and father below her, climbing for their lives.

She boosted herself up into the cockpit, grasping at the man holding the ladder steady. Dimly, she heard the radio playing.

“Andrew L- This is Andrew Lloyd Wuh –“

Andrew Lloyd Webber it was. If there were more time, she would have talked about how her brother loved his music. About how she would listen to his music and then make a face while he closed his eyes and went to God-knows-where in his mind. About how her mother and father loved that he wouldn’t listen to the drivel that most kids his age listened to.

But there were no words that could bring her brother back, no turns of phrase that could move the clock in reverse. And as her mother and father held her close and the helicopter soared off into the sunset, all she could focus on were the words and what her brother had told them they meant.

“Pie Jesu, (Merciful Jesus)

Qui tollis peccata mundi (Who takes away the sins of the world)

Dona eis requiem.”  (Grant them rest.)

Ideas for a Short Story

Family on vacation finds themselves against a zombie onslaught. Unprepared and unequipped, one person must make the ultimate sacrifice for the others to escape. More drama than horror - character-driven.

Conversation from one depressed loner to another. One is a recently-off-the-clock barista and the other drifts through to buy coffee.

One friend confronts another about his alcohol abuse. Intense argument that neither is prepared to handle adequately follows.

Love story revolving around the different relationships two people have before realizing that their best match is each other. They start out as friends, and remain that way for most of the piece, but at the end they discover their mutual attraction.

Starting Over (Unwritten Letter)

I’m sitting in this grey office chair, like I always do when I write. Except for the times when I’m in some other posture. No. Stating the obvious. One.

It seems recent enough to be almost tangible, but as hard as I try I can’t seem to reach it. This is everything and that is me. No. Too cliché, trying too hard. Two.

To whom it may concern: no matter how over you I think I am, I’m always proven wrong. No. This isn’t a letter. This is a manifesto. Three.

I’m going to sit here and write until I get this entire thing out and you can just deal with it, okay? This was your fault, not mine. No. Too immature. You’re not in fifth grade anymore. Four.

I want to know how you can live with yourself. How your eyes can close, heavy with sleep, even when you know you almost took a life. No. Too poetic and too accusatory. Five.

If there’s a hell, I want you to go into it headfirst. Take a swan dive for all I care. Fall into it like I fell into you. God won’t even look twice. No. Not going to get religious. Six.

“I remember you and me used to spend/The whole g****** day in bed/ Losing a whole year.” – “Losing a Whole Year,” Third Eye Blind. No. Starting with a quote reeks of pseudo-intellectualism and desperation. Seven.

Writing and rewriting, taking in and typing out. Feeling criticism in the heart and channeling it into a passion. No. You’re not going to tell him how hard you worked on this. Eight.

Most of these start the same. This one is different. No. That’s how they all start. Nine.

It’s not like I think about it now, but I thought about it a lot back then. I hope you know I’m completely over you, even though—No. This is the most obvious lie I’ve ever written. Ten.

How do I express this?

…

           

Sometimes, whenever the night wraps its hands around my neck and starts to squeeze, I wake up and go outside and listen to the crickets. They’re always out there, just in my earshot, flinging their creaky song out into the sky. I just listen to them, trying not to remember and failing miserably. The breeze folds itself around my person and whistles through the trees, and I hear it too. A car crunches down the side street by my house and adds percussion. I listen to the night and I close my eyes and I don’t sleep. I never sleep.

If I really looked at this I’d probably rewrite it, but I’m not going to look at it. You are. So you’re going to read it, just to make up for all the times you didn’t read what I wrote while we were together.

You won’t care, after you finish this. That’s what I expect. That’s not what I want, but it’s what I expect. To even try to tell you what I want out of life is a hopeless cause. Let’s face it. You never really cared about what I wanted. Everything was about you. I’m not being mean or accusatory here; I’m just stating a fact. You went through the motions and used some pretty sleight-of-hand, and I fell for it.

I fell for everything. I fell for you.

You probably think I’m doing horribly, and you’d be both wrong and right at the same time. What’s to expect?

As long as I’m talking to you, even if it’s only hypothetically (I doubt you’ve even read this far), let’s lay out all the cards you played. It’s only fair to me.

Ace of hearts: Infidelity. The entire time we were together, you were whispering the same sweet nothings to other people. There wasn’t even the decency of staying with one “other person”. You gave in to whatever looked even slightly tempting and left me standing there with a Velcro smile taped onto my face as you ripped away my Velcro heart, piece by piece.

Ace of clubs: Abuse. The names you called me hurt at first. But I called you out on them and you did what you do best. You’re a cosmetologist, right? You cover things up and change things to make them look different. You made those hurtful words sound like declarations of love, and I believed it. And when you segued into outright insults, I acted like I didn’t notice because I cared for you that much.

Ace of spades: Lying. I can’t imagine what would go through your head that could lead you to tell me that your mother had cancer when she didn’t. I bought it, like a fool, and gave you another psychological foothold in the cracks of my fragile psyche. When you told me that you instead of your mother had two inoperable brain tumors, my glass skull shattered. I was completely inconsolable. If it weren’t for a serendipitous occurrence, I wouldn’t be writing to you at all.

Ace of diamonds: Dependence. You needed me, in your own sick way. A place for everything, and everything in its place. When you called me and asked if there was any shred that still wanted to be with you…You seemed to forget who shredded me in the first place. But laughing at you was still the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Because I needed you, too. You knew it earlier. You know it now.

You didn’t know.

How were you to know that you had ruled over me so thoroughly? That every decision I’d made over that fraction of a year was made for you? How were you to know that you would still be in my head, dragging me down, over a year since we ceased communication? That every time I tripped over my own feet in the hallways, I’d hear you saying “Wow, nice move, clumsy,” and try not to cry? That every time I’d do poorly on a test, you’d say, “You’re so stupid. What would anyone ever see in you?” and I’d grit my teeth and clench my fist until my pencil broke?

How were you to know that I would find out that you never had cancer? That my almost-death would have been for nothing? That your abuse would stay above my head like a perpetual aching rain? That you would be another textbook in my backpack, weighing me down?

How were you to know that when you told me about the crickets around you, the first night we talked, that I would listen to crickets two years from then and still feel a weight on my chest?

During those nights, I hear the crickets and the cars and the wind and I feel the dew on the grass and I open my eyes and I scream into the indigo depths of eternity until I feel like you can hear me and know my pain. Know the pain that you have caused. We’re under the same moon, you told me once. I hope the wind and the crickets and the moon will hear my prayer and deliver this missive to you.

Tonight will be my last time. I will go out, clutching my bathrobe about me like a wounded soldier on a battlefield. I will hold this paper up and whisper an orison into the blank eternity.

Can you see my fingers slipping, one by one? Can you feel the paper moving under my fingers?

There goes one. Four left.

If there is a God…you’ll find this. You’ll read this.

There’s another. Three.

You’ll know who this is, writing to you.

Two left.

I won’t even have to say my name.

One left, sticking to the ink.

Then it will be gone, floating up to heaven. I’ll breathe out and tiptoe back into the house you never cared to visit, sneak into the room you never bothered to look at, and slide into the bed you never thought about occupying just to sleep in.

I will fall asleep with a smile on my face, because I know you can’t hurt me anymore.

And I’ll wake up the same way.

Writing and rewriting.

I’ve written and rewritten my life.

This is the final draft.

[Poetry Submission III] Inhale/Exhale

I

breathe in

            i am

                        anomaly

            birds written in unmarked snow

                                    i plagiarized

                                                                        i forgive

                                                i notice

                        ubiquitous

                                    am i

            sense of self

                                                undefined in all

                                                            abstract thoughts

                        floating

                                                                        bullets on the parchment

                                    hallway trysts

                                                                                                in vain of youth

                                                never failing to disillusion

                                    blood in life blood in death

            we all notice

                                                notice me notice you

                                                            searching for me

            identification unknown

                                                                                    if i am who they see

                                                signs of life

                        notice these

                                                                        who am i

                                    cycle repeats

                                                            actions defining

                        this wordsmith

                                                former of phrases

                                                                        craftsman of paragraphs

                                    artisan of prose

                                                            patterns are guillotines

            death comes with conforming

                                                i am myself

                                                                                                who is myself

                        find this find you notice here

                                                                        notice my work

                                    gunshots with an exclamation point

                                                                                    reign of impatience

                                                glance over

                        notice him notice me notice you

                                                                                         an adumbrate loophole

                                                            find it find everything

                                                                        notice the defining me

     

                                                                                                                 breathe out

II

breathe out

            what is

                                    gratitude

                                                            is it you

                        notice me

                                                is it read

                                                                        biography of styles

            do we dare

                                                            how are you

                                    why are you

                                                who are you

                                                                                    when are we

                        when am i

                                                            am i erasing

            art from pages

                                                stay with me

                                    canvas made blank

                                                                        i will do it

my great wonder

                                                                                        small hours of the morning

                                                don’t fail me now

                        if i should fall

                                                down

                                                            and down

                                                                        and down

                                                                                    will you catch me

will you be there

                                    at my behest

                        will you find me

                                                            who am i to you

                                                what i am is what i do

            erasing me

                                                fade to black

                                                                                    rebirth is inspiration

                                    conversion

                                                                                                conformity

                                                            darkness

                        the end of an era

            the beginning of an age

                                                                        slowly

                                                i feel the death

            of a nation

                                                                                    on butterfly wings

                                    notice this will you notice

                                                            please can i

                                                                                                                 breathe in

[Poetry Submission II] Ephemeral

When I look back on my past relationships,

Almost like works of art in a museum,

Most are with a sense of regret.

The ones that aren’t cased behind glass

In case my heart wants to touch them again.

It’s not the kind of regret like,

“Oh, I dated THAT?”

But more of a,

“That was a mistake. I wasted time.”

Kind of regret.

The kind that doesn’t fade easily.

Those paint-on-canvas relationships

Doused in chiaroscuro.

And the worst relationship,

Not encased in a room with clean white walls

But trapped in a stairwell

Surrounded by thorns

And locked from inside.

All the short ones

Pass by inconsequentially.

My heart doesn’t stop and ponder.

If I could walk through this museum,

I would look at each, examine them.

I would wade past the songs that are tainted

I would peer through the memories that will fade

I would look past the fleeting false feelings

I would notice what each one was, truly was

At its heart.

One in particular would stand out.

One in particular I would jerk the

Handle on the door, madly,

And beat on the glass with

The manic energy of a man possessed

How could you do this to me how could i

Have done this to myself

What could have taken your conscience

So thoroughly that you would have –

That you did –

That you –

Why did you –

I would not walk silently from that exhibit.

I would be – removed.

They would toss me out on the street.

And I would take a moment,

Shoulders slumped, breathing heavy,

Standing at the entrance to the

Monument of my past failures.

And I would turn around.

And I would walk on.

[January 31 Workshop] Immolation (A Collection of Six)

I

the sand is grey.

i keep trying to focus

on other things but

what i seem to notice most is

that the sky will change color

and the sea will roll into blue

and the sun will march

to an inaudible beat

and make its way

across the flat sky

but the sand is grey

and always will be.

II

he wasn’t even five minutes old.

it never escapes me that

he was here for

less than 300 seconds

and only twenty seconds

of my life

had him in it

and then he

just

suddenly

wasn’t, anymore.

i can feel his hands around my throat

III

sometimes i wonder what it’d be like,

to have my twin brother.

some days i wish for the company,

and others (as terrible as this is to say)

i’m happy he’s dead.

i think i would have killed for him

in high school, just like anyone would

have killed to be something more

than the loose, embryonic thing

they knew they were.

sometimes i wonder what it’d be like,

only sometimes.

IV

the wind

ruffles my hair as

the sun paints the sky

oranges and pinks.

my mother stands beside me.

asking me what’s wrong, i can

only manage the sort-of-answer

that leaves her with more questions:

“can we ever truly be ourselves?”

the words flutter in the wind

like a memory.

she pauses for a moment,

beautiful in her repose.

she is

his mother, too.

i tend to forget that.

“i miss him too,”

she whispers.

V

the sand is grey.

i whisper his name and look at the sky.

i imagine him up there,

looking exactly like me,

nodding and glancing

at his brother, grieving over

the brush of a shoulder…

Nicholas…

i wish

i wish this were

i wish this were true.

VI

if someone asked me if i had a brother,

i can answer two ways.

i can say, honestly, that i never had one.

or i can honestly say

yes.

Paint and Canvas

I come to the library to think sometimes, when the world needs to lose its edge. And that’s where I am, writing out this little piece of eventual nothing. Knowing that in due time this will become illegible and invisible makes this harder to write. I keep wondering what the point of it all is.

But then I remember the reasoning behind my eventual career.

I’ve been in college for a little over two weeks now, and my reinvention keeps springing to mind as my primary focus. Yes, I’m here to learn – my parents made sure I knew that before I left – but I’m also here to change, to grow, to meet people I never would have met, to do things I never would have done.

I sincerely wonder if anyone that I called friend in high school would recognize me anymore. I’m a completely different person.

They say you shouldn’t grow up too fast, and for most people that adage seems to be true. But I’ve grown a lot in the past half-month, discovered depths of self that I never knew existed. These four years are my delving into the Marianas.

This is a reworking, a rediscovery of who I am and with what I choose to define myself.

I almost can’t even bring myself to write about high school. It seems so little, so small, so insignificant in the past tense. I never would have told you, my freshman year, that I’d be the person you see in front of me today. But that’s the beauty of things, sometimes.

The earth is not a cold dead place, though we live in paper towns. And the towns aren’t really paper – I mean, the Jack-in-the-Box is gonna be on the corner by the grocery store whether you want it to be or not, and the grass will be so green some days that it hurts your eyes. But the people, the paper people, in that little vapor of a place. They blow where the winds take them, they write their lives on themselves, and in time the ink becomes impossible to read. But we seem to forget that we are paper for a reason. The color that is all around us seeps into our everyday lives; it’s in everything we do. The paint that is still wet is absorbed through our paper feet. We are vessels for something far greater than ourselves, and we feel that Great Something coursing through our veins sometimes at a current so fast that we feel we must explode or evolve. And today I am green from the grass and purple from the little flecks of stone in the marble and I shine from the metal I will touch later in the parking lot.

And I am so very satisfied with my little collegiate paper life.

This is my time; this place my place. Whether or not I truly thrive here is my decision and mine alone. No one else can make it for me - I control my own destiny. "I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul."

Deep breath. One, two. Close my eyes.

Jump.