The drapes are open across the street. This is rare. It makes me wonder if he's coming back around.
He lost his mind late summer. Came back from Burning Man with a head full of acid and One World Currency. Decorated the yard with spray-paint propaganda. Killed his father with fear. Ripe for occupation.
Opening the drapes to those Northwest curtains of gray can't help. Can you come back around when the world is always crying? This is the worst time of year to go insane.
At the time I might have known what it meant, but now I've forgotten. The image that stains my vision is water. Shaped like a car, placed in the correct lane of the highway, a Jello mold of liquid. So strange. No ghost of the accident victims or memory of how it happened. Only the water remains. What an unusual haunting. It feels like I'm drowning but that's my blood. My chest's been crushed. The tread marks are actually standing out of my flesh. I'm a Jello mold.
She dropped the locket into my hand, and he died again, right in front of me.
Fuck lockets; how cliché. What about a blue Bic lighter? Psychics are cliché as hell, too. Whatever.
She handed me his blue Bic lighter. He smoked Pall Malls.
Pall Malls? Seriously?
He smoked Camel Lights.
Forget the cigarettes. Start over.
She handed me his wallet. The leather had a greasy feel to it.
What's your point?
I don't believe in hell, but some days I wish I did. Sometimes there is no other suitable punishment.
Bad verb tense. There's no conviction there.
Some villains deserve it.
Not villains. Men? Murderers?
Some monsters require it. The victims, too. They deserve to know you're burning.
Burning, blistering, broiling...
But this is all they get. Men in suits picking through their pockets for clues.
So, so cliché. This is all you get.
Being from the swamplands, I don't dream of basements. It's attics or nothing, I'm afraid. Jung said dreams of attics were for exploring the mind, the past and memory. Dreams of basements were for exploring the subconscious, all the dark and ugly things buried there. I have always jumbled the two together. How sinister are those dusty toys. How curious is my house.
These days I live in an apartment. Only more bodies above and below. My nightmares by necessity invade spaces that don't belong to me. Moving vans come and go. I think we may have the building to ourselves soon.
Gray. Literally. The walls were gray. An environment seemingly designed to crush its inhabitants. And of course there were no windows, not that you could see from your ergonomically designed chair. The darkness of broken bulbs would have been a blessing, but the fluorescents reliably flickered flickered flickered unflattering gray light onto unhappy gray walls.
Gray, gray, gray. It was enough to drive anyone crazy. So why only me? Maybe it was just enough to drive me crazy. I should quit projecting. But it just makes me feel so much better to believe you're all a bunch of fuckin' nutjobs.
The balloons are back. They're falling to the concrete instead of escaping to the sky. The balloons are jumping from the ledges. Suicidal. Or maybe just looking for their lost children.
Why so much running in my sleep? Sometimes I'm the predator. Sometimes the prey. But there's always to be a hunt.
This night I do the stalking.
They were my companions. I thought. Friends. But they're hiding something. Hiding their plans and hiding from me.
Most nights I follow ghosts of voices but stray to different worlds. My past, sometimes. Others... Theirs? The future? Why do you show me this? Doesn't matter. This night I do the stalking.
She thinks I can't see. But I do, I do. I've planted some sadness to gratify you. This is what you want? The tears, on cue. Here. Believe you've found what validates you. Does it hit that secret void and fit? This is the bitch that stays locked in your ribs.
You think you know me but you haven't got a clue. You think you know me but I see right through you. I think you think you're safe uncloaked. But I see your face. I hope you choke.
Last night I got on the train looking for Nica. I looked all through the elementary school and the orphanage, but she wasn't there. I tripped over saw palmettos running through pine trees. I knew she was just ahead of me. Last night the clouds shook with every bell and tick. She couldn't wait for me. Nica's out there somewhere. Tick tick tick. Her footprints are deep, and that means she's running.
More scraps. I've had writer's block. I can only deliver bits and pieces.
It's been about 3 days since the city cleared out. At first I was amazed by how quickly everyone jumped ship. But with some thought, I realized these people were frightened even before the tragedy became clearly inevitable. These people needed Big Brother. These people were most comfortable in the flight path of a B-52. Of course their fright materialized so spectacularly when even the illusion of safety shattered above them.
"Aw, kitten," I cooed, picking up the mangy stray on the front porch. She nuzzled me and purred and gave me all that silly happy love kittens are worshipped for.
I needed that comfort all the more as my eyes adjusted to the night.
A hundred cats, at least.
Karma will come back around to you. And she won't be kind to such an unkind bitch. She'll show no compassion, because you've never been compassionate. She'll break you like you've broken so many. And what's really wonderful, what really makes me smile, is that she'll take the form of someone you trust. Someone you're starting to trust. Someone like me.
I heard you weren't feeling well, so I brought you soup, and toast with apple butter. Everyone loves apple butter. Halfway through you started vomiting again. You wanted to be alone. You thought it was just a virus. I'm sure it was. I hugged you, told you to call if you needed anything. I'm such a great friend.
I only wanted to hurt you, and I guess I did. I didn't think about your daughter finding it in the fridge. I should have. Everyone loves apple butter.
And now karma will come looking for me someday. Probably in the form of someone I trust. But at least it won't be you.
Jeff, the ball python, tests his cage every night. As though one night a defect will have magically appeared, and he'll be free to do whatever it is he has in mind.
Literally, a combination of notebook scraps. Not so much a story as prose.
Mary pretended to read the newspaper dispenser while Mae rifled through the garbage can. Or perhaps it was Mary with her hands in the trash. It's no longer clear who is who. Don't you act disgusted. Be classier than that. Nice people can avert their eyes with subtlety.
Mary sang Patsy Cline, just like she did as a little girl, when her mother showed her off like a new doll. A doll that does tricks. Maybe she doesn't even enjoy singing. Could be she's been on the wrong path ever after, still chasing a carrot they've long since stopped dangling.
Mae has meticulous and fully ignored plans for the future. She has never been so tired and hungry and hopeless. Sometimes your blood just gets agitated. Sometimes it wants out. Sometimes you stare at your wrists with your jaw slack and your eyes daydreaming.
Mary and Mae met when they were singing with Fairport Convention. They really used to be something. Don't you be surprised. Be smarter than that. Smart people are never surprised by ill fate.
Mary or Mae holds a stinking prize up to the sunlight. Her companion smiles. Sometimes you have to ignore the stink and accept life's scraps.
