She Loves Me

“Is that about me?” she says, grinning madly through teeth like little white pills. She’s bending over my shoulder and her breath is warm and toxic, her hair like some ancient Greek myth slithering over my scalp and neck. I say no and close my notebook and swivel around to face her standing with her hands on her hips. She’s still smiling but its left her eyes and they stare at me and I sit very still.

“It didn’t look very flattering.” I hold her gaze as her mouth reforms into a reproachful pout full of candor and gasoline. She’s very cute when she wants to be. I tell her it isn’t about her; it’s a story about a girl who (I don’t even believe myself) goes to a party and seduces her ex for the fun of it, even though she knows he’s in love with her. She calls it tragic and laughs, relieved, I think, as she flicks her tongue at one of the little pills in my direction. I try hard not to swallow and she sits on my lap, locking her arms around my neck.

She says she wants to know why I don’t write more stories about her. Hasn’t she inspired, aroused me? Her head dips forward and the phone rings. I say I have to take this and her eyes stare into mine and I don’t show anything. She looks away and stands, her head down and searching and I almost believe she’s actually hurt. My chair swivels back around and I pick up the phone. I hear the click of a lighter and something like sobbing and I press the phone closer and block my other ear with the tip of my finger.

When I hang up she’s silent again but I can hear her watching me, like the sound of the lull in the battle right before you get shot. The smell of Crystal Noir and cigarettes drifts over but it reminds me of gunpowder and I keep my head down.

“Come over here,” she begs quietly from across the room. Her nails are tapping and the magazine clicks softly into place.

“I told you I didn’t want you smoking in here anymore,” I say.

She breathes in sharply and I hear her voice crack. “You’re an asshole, Zach.”

She’s waiting for me but I know it’s a trap and I don’t turn around. I open my notebook to write and she wants me to hear her crying again. It almost gets me this time and I have to stop myself. But she doesn’t stop and I have to turn around.

Watching her cry softly to herself she doesn’t look like the girl I know and I don’t know what to say. I know its all an act but she plays it so convincingly and suddenly I don’t smell gunpowder anymore. She sees something in my stare and tries to look away but I beat her to it. I think about the first time we met and how consuming she was before I learned to distrust the spark in her eye, the empty cajolery of her laugh, and why can’t it still be that way? I could be wrong about, I must be wrong about her; she’s so hurt, now, there’s no, maybe never was, no, seducing, meducing, it was just her and what have I been doing? and I think she loves me.

There is nothing in the world like sitting outside on a cool summer night to watch the lightning and stars and the fireflies, where you can hear the Something Bigger between the wind and the thunder.

The Worst Thing

I decided that I really didn't want to spend any more time on this, so forgive me if the ending is a bit deux es machina. I still like it. Thank you for reading

The day began almost as bad as it ended. We were out of corn flakes. And it was raining. I stared through the oversized kitchen windows at the soggy drive before me and poked noncommittally at the Cheerios floating hopefully in my bowl. Arrogant pricks. I left them half finished by the sink and considered the shirt and tie hanging smugly beside the door. Not today. I reached for the phone and began to dial. 7…1…0… My name is Joshua, by the way. And then I remembered. Shit. No more sick days. Even taking my cereal misfortune into account, I knew this wouldn’t fly as an emergency. My boss really is an uncompromising bastard.

Twenty-five minutes, two pointless phone calls, and one crappy cup of coffee later, and I pulled into work. By the time I made it inside my good umbrella was completely soaked through – parking in a reserved spot and it’s still a mad dash to avoid being flooded – and my boss, Mr. Shaleen, was waiting for me. Great.

“Don’t get started just yet there Joshua, my boy. Got a special job for you this morning,” he beamed stupidly.

“Honest Mr. Shaleen, thanks for thinking of me but I’m really not feeling well, I think I got food poisoning and my head is all over – “

“Nonsense my boy, you’re going to love this. My stepson is coming in from New York today and I’ve got a meeting with the guys over at Ballantine until six, so I need you Joshua-my-boy to take him to the ballpark until I’m through. My private box, you two’ll have the time of your life.”

“But sir I don’t even like baseball.” He laughed sadistically.

“His plane gets here in fifteen minutes. You’ll take the company chopper,” he said, laying his hand menacingly on my shoulder and still laughing cruelly to himself.

I let him lead me to the elevator like a prisoner lets his cell door shut. Reaching the brass doors he pushed the button labeled “Up”, my image staring curiously back at me as we waited for the numbers to flash slowly down to “1”. A dull “dong” noise chimed wearily, and the doors eased open.

What happened next is still unclear to me. What I do remember is scrambled and incomplete, and possibly made up – a flash of teeth, a box of Kleenex, pitching wedge, and cheese wedge. I don’t even like cheese. But somehow I woke up four hours later to a splitting headache and 80s hair metal. I’d tell you what happened next, but you wouldn’t believe it. It’s so cliché and utterly terrible I actually don’t think its true. And you don’t even want to ask about my corn flakes.

The Mushroom Man: Based On True Events

Sophomore year... don't judge too harshly

Charlie watched the rain slide lazily off the overhang and into the ever growing puddles below, the previous thunder of the storm now just a light pitter-patter above. His feet dangled carelessly over the edge of the shelter, now hopelessly drenched from the day’s trek. It had been pouring since morning, the rock strewn paths of the Appalachian Trail turned into cascading waterfalls, making the hike a real challenge. It was now a little past 4, the sun beginning its evening descent early in the dwindling days of autumn, and Charlie and his two friends had decided unanimously to stop for the night at the Adirondack shelter only a few miles off the trail. Not unexpectedly, it was packed to capacity, few backpackers wanting to spend the night in the rain soaked open. And as one would expect, backpacking tends to attract a rather interesting crowd, and with a large concentration as was now the case, it was only a matter of time before Charlie found himself face to face with one of the more peculiar members of the bunch.

“Hey man,” came a slow, drawling voice from over Charlie’s left shoulder. “You wanna try it for me?” Charlie slowly swiveled his head around to face the newcomer. Standing before him was a raggedy looking man of about 25, with long black dreads so dirty they may have one time been blonde. He was wearing a blue t-shirt and torn khaki shorts, which hung loosely over his mud stained legs. Upon his feet were equally filthy boots, their color undeterminable under months of grime. Around his neck was a beaded hemp necklace, his long shaggy hair covering most of his face. And in his outstretched hand was a small, orange, mushroom.

“I don’t know Charlie man,” came another voice, and one Charlie immediately recognized.

“Oh come on,” echoed a third, drawing the last word out with a sneer. “He seems like a nice guy.” So caught up in the strange man with the mushroom, Charlie had completely overlooked his two best friends and trail buddies, Mike and Todd. Todd had spoken first, his words of caution reflecting his wary nature. He wasn’t a small kid, but was naturally shy around others, never fitting in as easily as his friends. Instead he kept to himself, most of the time preferring to see life through his books instead of actually living it. It was only with much poking and prodding that Mike and Charlie had finally coaxed him into this adventure, and from the looks of things, he was not enjoying himself.

Mike was the polar opposite. He loved being the center of attention, and there was no story too wild, no dare too dangerous for him. A boy of medium build, he was often picking fights with kids in the grade below him, with mixed results. It never dampened his spirit however, and he had of course jumped at the chance to spend a weekend in the woods with no parents, and therefore no rules.

“What?” Charlie asked incredulously, completely confused as to what his friends were talking about. “Try what for you, what are you talking about?”

“The mushroom of course!” the man exclaimed, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I need you to eat it for me.”

All eyes were on Charlie as he sat there, too stunned to speak. “Look dude, its like this.” It was Mike who had spoken, a strange glimmer in his eye, as he attempted to make Charlie understand the situation at hand. “This here, is the mushroom man. Mushroom Man, meet Charlie, Charlie, meet Mushroom Man. OK, everyone acquainted?” he finished, with a silly smile on his face that clearly showed he was rather enjoying himself.

“Heya dude,” remarked the Mushroom Man. He spoke with a sort of half smile, which along with his half closed eyes, formed an expression one would expect to find on a sick hippie (his occupation at the time.)

Charlie, who was still too mystified to speak, let Mike continue with his introduction. “You see Charlie, Mushroom Man is bit of a guide here, and he’s writing a book about the Appalachian Trail; more specifically, about its numerous mushrooms, or “shrooms.” Am I saying that right Mushroom Man? OK cool. Yeah anyway, he’s writing a guide book all about the shrooms on the trail, which ones are good to eat, which ones to avoid, stuff like that. And so he’s just been walking up and down eating all of the mushrooms he sees, and writing down what happens in his notebook. Isn’t it great?!” Charlie stopped talking to catch his breath, his face now beaming with excitement, having clearly overlooked the negative side of eating wild mushrooms.

“People do that?” Charlie managed to spit out, as Mushroom Man nodded vigorously, eyes wide open now, just as thrilled as Mike was at his lifestyle choice.

“I’m afraid it’s true,” Todd added, now flipping through a worn blue notebook, its pages littered with notes, which included everything from Polaroids of the various mushrooms, to hand drawn pictures of what Mushroom Man had seen while on the shrooms.

“Don’t do it Charlie,” Todd warned, a slightly panicked look in his eye. “Do you know why the “Mushroom Man,” (as he rolled his eyes in disdain,) “can’t eat the mushroom himself?” The Mushroom Man shuddered, and started to rock slowly in place. “I’ll tell you why!” Todd continued, his voice starting to rise in pitch and volume. “It’s because the last mushroom he ate had him puking his brains out for two weeks! He couldn’t even stand up! Not to use the bathroom, not to eat, not for anything!” Todd finished almost at a yell, jumping to his feet, and gesturing towards the Mushroom Man, who was looking slightly embarrassed. For a moment afterwards Todd seemed unable to remember where he was. A second later however his face flushed a deep shade of crimson, and he sat down, looking embarrassed. “All I’m saying Charlie…” his voice lower now, barely audible, as he stared intently at his shoelaces, “Just don’t do it man,” he said quietly, as he slowly shook his head.

“You’re a real pussy sometimes you know that Todd!” Charlie, Todd, and the mushroom man all looked up in surprise. It was Mike who had spoken, and he was now on his feet. “Don’t listen to him Charlie, you’re a big boy, you can think for yourself. Its just one little mushroom, how bad can it really be? Todd’s always been afraid of his life, don’t let him ruin yours!”

Todd simply sat there, his face now bright red, his lip starting to twitch. Mike was still standing, a mix of anger and disgust now resting on his face. Charlie was the only one who didn’t appear moved by Mike’s speech, and instead was concentrating on the mushroom still resting in the Mushroom Man’s open palm.

“Fine!” Mike shouted, his eyes now ablaze. “If you two are too scared to do it, then I will!” And with that, he snatched up the mushroom, swallowing it whole. Still standing, he rocked unsteadily for a moment, and then collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Got a Match?

-Sorry, this one is a little longer...

The scent of clinking glasses and fizzing champagne drifted buoyantly through the rich, evening air, caressing the easy laughter and shameless gaiety of the several dozen guests still smiling clumsily beneath their cardboard hats. The New Year had arrived hours before to kisses and squeals of exaggerated delight but the flow of cheap wine and conversation had continued unabated throughout the morning hours of the still black night. Leonard leaned impressively against the canary-cream wall, his fingers drumming lazily against his empty glass as he surveyed the chattering room. He was wearing a tailored, pale grey suit with the shirt unbuttoned beneath the collar, his sharp yet subtle posture contrasting sharply with that of the other revelers now hanging off of each other in various states of intoxication. Though he had ingested beyond his fair due, he had no disposition to drunken extroversion. He sighed tragically and checked his watch.

On the far side of the room picking at his shredded napkin sat Audy. Barely beyond his teens, he was wearing a wrinkled white jacket and an eager, quivering expression that seemed to jog around his mismatched features. Bits of green paper lay scattered around his black canvas sneakers, the left of which seemed to have succumbed to a violent twitch, and was now tapping compulsively against the pale yellow carpet. He was sitting alone beside the bar, where a tanned young man with an unfortunate slur was doing his best to talk a tired looking brunette home with him.

“Is that so?”, the brunette feigned through a poorly stifled yawn.

“Oh yeah, ya know I did two tours, I did. Nasty ‘tuff that. Real nasty but I did it. I ‘hanly wish I hada known ya’ back then, Ida shot ‘em all fah you. Just fah you, ya’ so sweet.”

At this mention Audy’s bobbing head shot upwards.

“You were in the war, were you?”

The tanned man looked down, surprised at Audy’s presence, and then annoyed.

“Yeah so what?,” He turned back to the brunette whose gaze was now drifting longingly around the room, “Like I was sayin - ”.

“I was in the war too you know,” Audy said, rising to his feet and absent-mindedly knocking his chair into another group of party goers, spilling champagne down his side. “Yeah, yeah… over in Kunduz right, right near Tajikistan…”.

“Listen buddy thas really somethin’ special, great ta hear it, ok. Now willya leave us alone? Can’t ya see tha lady and I are a tryin’ ta talk hea?” The brunette to whom he was referring was still searching wildly around the room, clutching desperately at her own champagne glass. Audy continued.

“I still remember the first man I ever killed. He wasn’t even even a man really, just just a boy, but so was I right. Right?” He laughed nervously, the corners of his mouth twitching, his foot stamping double time. “Our convoy was ambushed j- just a few minutes out of base you know, and we lost some you know but we took them worse, and… and we came upon this one kid…k- kid my age, you know, and I was so nervous I just rushed it, I…I…I don’t even remember the actual thing ha ha you know, I was so nervous and it was done. The next one I didn’t even get to think about, you know, already so automatic, right?”

He was so agitated at this point that his foot twitch had developed into a full body shake and he was positively hopping back and forth, his hands wringing the balled up remains of a green cocktail napkin between them, grinning painfully beneath his wrinkled and champagne-stained dinner jacket. The brunette had flitted away to the far side of the room and was whispering conspiratorially with another woman of about her age and get-up, leaving the tanned man to stare dangerously after her.

“The second was really lacking in poetic significance,” Audy continued, his inflection darting up and down like a rabbit caught between two snares. “Ha ha… you got a match?”

The tanned man turned coldly back on Audy.

“You little shit. I’m gonna throtal the fuggen piss outta you - ”.

Across the room Leonard watched as a man standing beside the bar threw himself with the ease of a drunk upon a curious young man in a wrinkled jacket. Their bodies met and seemed to embrace for a moment, before the former, apparently succumbing to the booze, slouched down in the young man’s arms. The young man propped his unconscious fellow up against the foot of the bar, and bent in close so that his hands were hidden from Leonard’s view. He withdrew a moment later with a glint of steel, revealing a dark red stain that was spreading slowly over the drunken man’s abdomen. He slumped down beside him, and laid his wrinkled head upon the other’s cold shoulder.

Leonard sighed again. He had always hated these parties. Looking around, he saw nothing but cheap actors and pretentious suits; self obsessed, spoiled children. He wondered what they would do if anything real ever happened to them, if anything out of real life ever found its way into their privileged, drunken lives. He laughed coldly to himself.

Back beside the bar a crowd had started to gather. At the sight of the tan man’s stain a poor woman had fainted, and the room seemed to be ringing hollowly with the sudden emptiness of their forgotten laughter. Someone was shouting, and the curious man was dragged to his feet and held fast by several men made angry and brave by the night’s celebrations. The brunette had returned, sobbing without tears over the tan man’s body as another man held the dripping red knife beside her head, while still another dialed frantically into the telephone behind the bar. Leonard yawned in disgust. Dramatic children indeed.

Tonic

The heavy flakes sunk slowly through the cold evening wind, falling eerily through the stoic streetlights, their shadows flashing dispassionately and separate. The headlights drove silently along the deserted road, their tracks soon erased by the pressing flakes and trailing cars. A single figure walked slowly beside the empty street, alone and forgotten.

The metallic tone chirped hollowly throughout the empty store as the door pushed open, the chilling bell reverberating heartlessly on the still night air. Two soggy boots entered and ground heavily into the freshly mopped floor and stalked slowly up to the counter, past the vacant chairs and friendless tables.

I heard the droning of the bell and moaned softly. I slid on my protective, plastic gloves and moved reluctantly out from behind the counter, staring at the grizzled, shell of a man stalking noisily across the store. I smiled dully and adjusted my knives.

“What can I get for you?”

He didn’t answer, and continued to stare sickly, longingly through the glass. I shifted uncomfortably and my gaze fell across my freshly spoiled floor. I looked heavily up at him. His face hung unshaven, and he stood there draped in a heavy, black coat that hung dangerously about his hulking frame with black boots and matching black jeans sullied with darkened, crusty stains. His lips splayed apart and a creeping, guttural growl crept slowly between them, chilling the empty store more completely than the arctic howl outside.

“Give me… an Italian.” I nodded clumsily and reached for a clean knife. His voice was dark and gravely, like sandpaper dragging across asphalt. “I like the sandwich cold,” he continued, with a sick, teasing smile, like it was some sort of lurid joke. I started shivering and opened the bread drawer. I grabbed a fresh roll and placed it awkwardly on the counter, and cut across its middle with a guilty flutter. I could feel him watching, staring ravenously down through the curved spate of glass as if at any moment he was preparing to crash through and take it, soil it as well. My mouth was dry, and I swallowed painfully.

“Do you want a drink?” I asked.

“Give me a tonic.”

“A tonic?”

“Yeah a tonic - a coke!”

I bent over to grab a cup and I could hear him growling again, breathing heavily. I straightened up and he began to unbutton his jacket, staring straight at me, his mouth ajar, waiting. Even standing next to the fiery oven I couldn’t help from shivering. I thrust the cup and the bag into his expectant hands and took a step away from the counter, careful not to let his fingers brush mine. I punched in his order, and opened the register. He had exact change.

He turned away without a word and walked quietly towards the exit. I watched him leave the store with the bag swinging limply between his legs. The door rang coldly open and he teetered for a moment on the doormat and then shuffled out of view.

I saw him stalking off alone into the chilly night past the faceless cars and darkened windows, past every stranger’s stare and every lonely footstep. I watched him turn his key in the empty lock and push open the chime-less door, and descend the weighty stairs. I saw him walk heavily across the empty kitchen and sit heavily at the empty table and stare heavily at his cold sandwich.

Crash

Sand on my check no no that’s glass now my face wet with surf no no that’s blood now but still warm and forgiving oh god I need forgiving but my back is still warm burning I should’ve worn sun block I thought to meant to but didn’t waves were calling the pressure the booming and crashing pulling me and sucking me underneath the cars stuck together like magnets but crippled and conscious she’s swimming in blood but surf and the sand speeding through waves rolling over crashing down like jaws of life prying open the not my fault screams she’s screaming oh god and the my back is burning under fire the sun out high on perfect today to the beach why not why ask why not smile in sandy fog in my eyes it’s a haze but red all red and wet crash of waves not knowing of crash and I’m through the window again arm twitching yards away not mine anymore but red like me but laying in sun and my back was warm not warm like this fire now burning under fire and sun and its red all red it feels red makes me smell red its dripping from everywhere too much dripping too much oh god it’s pooling I’m floating in red now floating under sun on top of waves rolling crashing but no waves hear just red and more oh god red it was red it was stop but I went and then crash spinning slowly under water sun nice ahead air above but no no just fire and blood and her screaming oh god she’s screaming I’m dying and she’s there holding my hand that’s not mine anymore just red just red it’s everywhere now oh God just red doesn’t fire burning hurt shouldn’t I hurt it’s too much oh god I can’t I can’t I need that warmth oh god this isn’t what I wanted.

Baby Blue

“Where were you last night?” The question hung between us like the persistent ringing of an unanswered phone. I remember she was leaning against the doorframe and I by my bed when the accusation rang out, surprising us both. She didn’t look away, but I couldn’t meet her gaze, unwilling – no – unable to. That was it, I think; she always assumed I had a choice. Ring ring.

I can learn everything I need to about a person just by looking at their shoes. She was wearing baby blue flip flops the first time we met, the thong kind that exposed her freshly painted toenails, also baby blue, and suggested even more. Young, innocent, and a trusting naiveté that was practically begging to be devoured. Dressed in a tart red summer gown she reminded me of a sweet, new cherry, ripe for the taking.

Ring ring. Today she was wearing a pair of scuffed and soiled work boots. She volunteered…somewhere. I could never keep it straight. I seriously doubted whether there was any baby blue left beneath that ruined exterior. RING Ring. I stood up from my bed, not out of guilt, my imprint was the only one that could be seen, and moved to the open window. She was still watching me. The room, the question, her, all pregnant. The air from the window was cool and fresh on my face, sweet and caressing, ripe with opportunity, but – RING RING.

On the sidewalk below a baby was crying. Peering out through the open window I knew its father was wailing as well, though his tears were admirably hidden. I shut the window, its glassy image reflecting strangely into the room. I walked back to my bed and laid down on top of my sheets, thinking about the new girl at the Kwik RING RING Stop, the cherry red of her nails, RING RING the baby blue of her eyes.

Balloons

The balloons bounced cheerfully in the bright August breeze, floating skyward, and urged upwards by the warming glow of the sun shining overhead. Straining hopefully against their tethers and willing themselves free, they struggled against the constraining safety of the grey and concrete signpost to which they were lashed, a structure of a concrete and permanent reality, itself impassive and unaffected by the cycle of time. Indeed, the only admission that the passing years had affected any change at all upon that stately post was evidenced through the assembly of deflated balloons from carnivals passed that now hung limply, though elegantly, they seemed to insist, from faded red streamers tied round its top, enduringly and irrevocably shackled to the concrete establishment. A sickly air of importance seemed to emanate from the aged collection of ruined balloons as well, as though they were the once victims and now recipients of a ghastly and timeless mission that was as at present still unbeknownst to the younger generation drifting hopelessly above.

Just beyond the ageless post and securely fastened to his mother’s outstretched and red-gloved hand, Teddy struggled.

“Can’t I ride the Ferris wheel just once?” he called longingly up to the red-gloved woman. “You know it’s my favorite”. A stately woman of thirty-three, Mrs. Bond merely shook her head and kept on walking, unaffected by the sporadic tugs and flights of Teddy by her side.

“You’ve already been on the carousel and the bumper cars and through the petting zoo,” she said firmly. “That’s quite enough fun.”

Teddy, his easy smile not yet punctured by Mrs. Bond’s timeless rebuke, still bobbed hopefully along, tugging persistently at her faded red gloves.

“Now that’s quite enough Theodore! If you insist on acting like a child then I shall be forced to treat you like one. Your grandparents never tolerated this sort of tomfoolery from me, and I shan’t have it from you now.”

Teddy’s grip grew limp in the faded red glove, and he allowed his mother to lead him away from the warmth of the carnival. As he walked slowly away, his eyes drifted spitefully up towards a lone balloon somehow freed of it’s tether, soaring beyond the hard, grey clouds.