Tuna

Posted on September 15th, 2013

The cat thought it the most interesting thing, at that moment, of there being food left in front of an unguarded door. There was nothing to discourage him from trying the tuna, which naturally discouraged him, and he didn’t feel hungry, which only left him unsatisfied and insatiably needing something.

His diamond black eyes wondered occasionally at the balcony from the other side of the complex, knowing he was nearly 500 feet from where the can had been mysteriously placed. He was perched on a thick, white rail, which swayed heartlessly, but he managed to balance himself. He was a cat and he was light.

Pst, pst, pst. C’mere, pst, pst, pst.

He could hear the rattle from the bottle. His food — brown and tasteless pellets — was crunchy and stale and would be waiting for him at the top of the refrigerator in a little blue plastic bowl. The pellets had a soft fish smell, but the most repulsive thing would be the pungent stench of the dog, which would transfer from the master’s fingers to the bowl, to the pellets. The mangy dog was quicker on his feet and always hungrier than the cat, and he’d slobber it all up if the master didn’t put the food where only his nimble limbs could reach. He was lighter than the dog.

The cat gathered that she, the master, would always feed him, therefore the tuna became the interest of the morning. It wasn’t far, he pointed out to himself. He calculated a merely three minute hop through the mildew. He classified himself as free and adventurous, one who could intelligently roam wherever he wanted. Sometimes, he’d even go to the neighbor’s house to meow at their window. Then he cocked his head to the left and wondered why they would never offer him food. Bewildered, he considered his appeal. He must be a handsome cat, clearly a clever looking cat. Perhaps it was the presence of the master that intimidated the neighbors.

Pst, pst, pst! What are you doing out there?

He returned his focus to perching heavenly on the rail, pretending not to stare at the can of tuna, but from the tip of his eye, he waited to see if the birds or another cat took notice. He watched the shadows of the leaves change shapes on the ground, his way of watching the passing time.

He made his attempt, hopped down from the rail and down the stairs. It wasn’t a far walk, and he played with the butterflies that were attracted to the flowers. He didn’t wish to kill them, only to see how his movements affected their movements, which wasn’t much. It seemed that everything was brainless this day.

Finally, he made it to the other side of the porch, and he saw the can, resting on the silver floor, glowing as a prize. He stared some more, and thought how the butterflies were much more playful. They would spin around for him, he could chase them, but here, this circular piece of metal just sat still, doing just as much being as a blade of grass. He laid by the porch entrance, calculating the interior. The three walls were covered with hung bamboo curtains, barely masking the light silver paint and there were three mismatched chairs all across from one another, in a sort of circle. The cushions on the chairs didn’t appear damp or moldy from being outside, but fresh and hardly sat upon. There was a table at the side of one of the chairs with an empty ashtray. From afar, this seemed very similar to his master’s porch. There were even plants hung from the roof, dangling down so that he could swat at them. He stretched himself and carefully eased into this new territory, hopping from one foot to the other without moving a speck of dust. The can of tuna was by the door, a very unsafe place, he knew. He stopped a foot away, waited for some sort of signal that the door was to be opened.

A softened pink butterfly fluttered smoothly towards the cat, who was now lying on his stomach, and stooped by his paw, “I’ve never seen you here before.”

“That’s true,” the cat rolled on his back, feigning interest in the ceiling.

“So what do you want?” his wings slowed, as if his heartbeat was calm from being stationary, “The tuna, right?”

“What tuna?”

“That one by the door. The one you’ve been staring at, hoping for, right?”

“I don’t have that thing you say, hope? How silly. You’re mistaken.”

“I have better eyes than you do. I am not mistaken.”

“What do you need, bug? Want me to try to smack you?”

“I want you to know that if you want that tuna, you can have it. No one will stop you. But for one, it is not yours. For two, you are insatiable.”

“Is there a three? I do not like even numbers.”

“For three…I can make a three for you.”

“Yes?”

“This will hurt your master.”

“I don’t care about her.”

He imagined the door opening and him crawling through the small space with a pst pst pst. He imagined being lead into a room similar to his master’s. The stranger was a man in a black suit and tie, with a white smile and straight teeth. He wore alligator shoes and wouldn’t mind if he scratched the chair because he could very well find a new chair and leave this one to the cat. Then each day would be a new one because there was always a new can of tuna, chicken, maybe even lamb, and everything would feel like a comfortable adventure.

The door remained closed. The cat meowed to see if the stranger inside would hear him. The butterfly lifted his wings and began his flight around the neighborhood again, trying to imagine the cat staying still because that’s what he hoped would happen.

The cat moved in towards the can quickly and sniffed. He took each nibble at the pieces with nervousness, and thought about how moist they were from the humidity. The flies had moved away, and each bite was tender, trickling down his throat. His taste buds screamed irresponsibly. He indomitably recalled the hard food, tasteless and crunchy, such opposites. He finished the tuna, licked it until the bottom of the can was merely a reflection and he felt this strange ache in his ruthless guts. He looked into the can, and saw himself, as if he were looking into the chlorine stimulated swimming pool. He saw his orange flakey hair, matted down from playing with the butterflies in the wet grass. And he saw how his colors, orange, white, and black, seemed to go in patches rather than collective swirls, like normal. His eyes were black, an unlucky thing for a cat. No one can tell the mood of a cat whose eyes don’t change shapes. And he thought how terribly unlucky he was to be the nomad, the cat thief.

The Worlds

Posted on June 12th, 2013

Maybe she is a crook, dutifully hunting for her next bite on the whim of the prodding sea air. My nibble on her lure is sincere and swearing. We promise our unmasked selves, our vast insecurities. Watching the fish make circles around the glimmering plastic was a pleasant pastime of mine, for their watery dashes would stay permanent in the sea, like the lines of a pencil filled in a playbook, and sometimes I would tease them and erase their marks with a quick flutter of my tailfin through their plans. She, the fisherman, would come daily, early in the morning when the sun barely cast itself through the cold, cold water, but don’t mind me, for I guess the water is below a comfortable temperature, for I have seen many of the seamen fall unexpectedly into the upper levels, lash around and dash for the other world. Then, once they return to their boats, they cover themselves and start shaking, for our two worlds are only comfortable when the creatures that were born from one are separated from the other. I have seen many go to the other side and never be seen again, and I believe it is not for the better. Sometimes, I think we should just stay where we belong and not be so adventurous. There are cruel things on each side. During one night, cruising along the reef to meet a friend, I came across the body of one of the others from the other world. His skeleton had become part of the reef, the bones blending in with the bright colors of red and blue, looking like a flag. The cages of his rib wrapped around so delicately that I did a few spins through it to see more spirals and admired his accepted shape to the new world for him. For a moment, I did pity him, for I knew he couldn’t have survived long as I know my friends do not survive long once they are finally caught.

I want to take that lure of hers now and forget its glitter and delectability. It sounds very simple, and some may say it is and later label me gullible. But I am a mere bass, which would look handsome on a wall, wrapped in a plaque of wood and cheap glue. The fisher has a drumbeat that attracts the dogs and I am not jealous, I just bubble and drift to the surface from time to time for a glimpse at the beautiful fisher, her trousers pulled high on her waist and her shirt tucked in tightly with a thin, brown belt. I know I am to be fed to the dogs eventually because I may be too small, but I do look forward to the gutting, I finally will be able to see what I am made of, those intestines hanging out and looking so gruesome and moist. I’d like to say that they will be comfortable slices, but I know I don’t deserve that, not with all my teasing. All those fishermen who hovered over our coves in the past were full of passion, yet I haven’t been truly caught and hung up to now. Does that say something true about me, or something else? These stories I tell are just that, simple plunging nightmares. Let’s all be better people in our worlds, ok you fishermen?

Shade

Posted on May 7th, 2013

When I was younger, I was obsessed with climbing the trees in my backyard. We had many different kinds. There was the apple – which I had planted myself –the oak, and a few willow trees. On one of the sunniest days of summer, a few weeks before I would begin the fourth grade, I squinted my way through our backyard. I was running after our pet rabbit, which I had accidentally let loose. He was much too fast for me, however, and I breathlessly gave up the chasing and hoped he would tire himself out. I looked around the yard and smiled at one of the trees closest to the house. It was our favorite, giving shade to use and adventure to seek in the heat. I scrambled to the top in what felt like a single second, and clenched my hands onto the tips of the limbs around me to balance myself. In one look, I realized that I was higher than the roof of my house and in another glance, I was able to see past the fence that my mother told me never to climb. There was an empty field behind my house, which was cleared with grass and absent of trees, itchy shrubs or marbled flowers. While I was gazing, I saw the white rabbit in the corner of the fence, digging his way out, and as I leaned forward, the branch below me snapped in half, and I began to fall. The opposite of slow-motion, time sped up and my body was attacked by all the branches I had just seconds earlier surpassed. They swiped at me in all directions, slapping my face, chest and legs without any sense of mercy. Each hit burned my skin and my back landed onto the solid and round white rocks surrounding the tree. The fall knocked the air out of me, a balloon deflated and my eyes were wide knowing I was alone except for the rabbit digging his way to freedom. In those seconds when a child swears that death is creeping, foolishness sets in and apologies are whispered. I’m sorry for pushing the girl with glasses into the mud, I thought it would make everyone laugh. I’m sorry for misspelling the word “it,” I can do better. I’m sorry for climbing up instead of looking out.

Ricochet

Posted on March 31st, 2013

“You’re dwelling,” the moth started to play with my eyelashes, twirling its light body in sporadic spins.

I groaned, “Not you again,” I swiped at the air and asked, “Dwelling?”

“You sure are, are dwelling,” he did a big spin around my head, avoiding the smoke from a nearby cigarette. You could hear a ding each time he went through one of the thin smoke rings.

“Where am I dwelling? That word’s starting to sound funny now. Dwell, dwelling, dwell.”

“You’re dwelling in the past,” the moth landed on the shelf where my feet were resting and I tried to kick him away, but he wouldn’t be scared off.

In a moment of weakness, I spied on the swallow.

“Oh, now you’re just being trite.”

“If you dwell in the past—” the moth raised his buzz.

“—you forget to live today. Or something like that. I know it. Don’t patronize me.”

The moth was quick to be silent again, only humming a little tune or maybe a song, or just a breath. I never learned the anatomy of the mumbling moth. They didn’t interest me. Nevertheless, he always came back to me when I arrived in the dark room. Somehow he knew I didn’t belong there with the rest of the Gloomies. My gut was hurting though and I had to hide away and bide some time. I thought about crawling into myself, just raising my legs, crossing my arms over them, sucking in my breath and just disintegrating…into myself…to go somewhere, far from the thoughts of those red feathers and black beads for eyes.

“Where to?” the moth asked, “Where you gonna go off to again?”

“I want to run, just run to some other part of the world where no one knows my name, my shape.”

“You think things will be different?” he asked, “different if people don’t know your name? You’ll lie to them again, won’t you? Tell them you’re a fawn or an owl or something else silly.”

“The truth didn’t help much.”

“Not this time, no,” the moth persisted, “but next time…there’s always next time.”

“The swallow flew away. You saw it too, didn’t you. It just fucking melted. I caught it,” I remembered how I used my web and even had its wings outstretched, completely vulnerable, “It was beautiful. You could see the over-preening and the stress. You could see the hole where the tomcat had played a few years ago,” I imagined the cat running back into the wild, not even turning to see what it had done.

“That swallow was worn out.”

“I know…” I paused and my eyes went from the moth to the floor, “Why is it that we have this desire for the most dangerous things?”

“We think, all you need is love.”

“Will I enjoy this new loneliness?”

“Do I make you feel lonely?” the moth asked sadly.

“No, but I do.”

The moth spread its wings and swung around my head again.

I had closed my eyes to the obvious — that a beastly nomad, faithful to its own web, can never capture a swallow. I started to contemplate it again, going back to my simple box in the corner, ignoring the Protestors, but I didn’t know if I had the strength to resist the feathers that enjoyed tickling my ears.

“Look at my great cloak,” I demanded. The moth floated down from the ceiling speckled with mold, stretched its long legs and relaxed for a moment, “Everyone notices it,” I pushed, “but I don’t think you have. Look at how thick it is,” I grabbed a sleeve and pinched it with my fingers.

The moth hummed, touched me with one of its legs and responded, “It is everyone who sees this cloak, but it is a rare person who notices the fragility of it. The seams are unraveling even as we speak, you see those strings? And you are incapable of sewing up the tears and holes.”

“Yes I can!”

“You’re lying again.”

“So what!”

“So plenty!”

I huffed, “I can’t argue with a pea brain like you.”

“Time’s a great healer,” he was whispering now, losing interest as moths typically do.

“Cliché!” I screamed and pondered at him for a minute, “You’re the problem, aren’t you?” And with that, the moth gave up and continued humming his tunes, and stopping to repeat something like, your trouble makes my world go round.

Desire Comes, Desire Fades

Posted on February 19th, 2013

For then, that day really, she sat by her phone and thought of the rat, Whiskers, back home. The sedentary creature was likely napping, lying in a lap and basking in the fake warmth that came with revealing the formerly unspeakable. That was the kind of rat Whiskers was, full of little secrets told in smoky rooms, later sprinkled with hot, unattractive lies. Whiskers was the quick-witted, long tailed, fattened rat whose ears perked at your loneliness and whose teeth gnawed away your insecurities. Little do you know, that there’s so little we know. Damn moles.

There was a 7 hour time difference, from one coast to the other, each wave crashed heavily on either of the beaches, like a symphony of bass instruments, and though she said she’d call, she didn’t say when. And that was nearly nine years ago, maybe the phone number she had memorized had been changed. She took up the phone, pressed the digits softly and listened to the first hum and hung up again. It couldn’t reach him in one ring, she told herself. She imagined what he might be doing at the moment. It was about midnight, so maybe he was sitting on the couch, his bare feet at one end, his head against a pillow and his dark hair hanging in his eyes as he read a book. He was adamant about that and he’d spend an hour or two a night reading a novel. He may be finished, depending on the length, within a week for each book. She wished she could do it now, make the call, because her roommates weren’t home yet, and the privacy would be comfortable. They were probably out at a pub, a different city or province, maybe even country because they did that a lot, and she didn’t have the money to toss into the wastebasket. She quickly looked into the mirror hung to her right, took a compact out from her desk, and turned around, aiming it to take a look at the round mole on the back of her neck. Her dentist told her that she must keep an eye on it, though she whispered to herself that this dentist only cleaned one’s teeth and took care of her molars and must not know anything at all. She thought this because she must. Because the mole looked no different, no bigger or darker, and no thick hairs at all.

She contemplated growing her hair longer, but her love told her how lovely and soft the cut was and she missed him so badly that she put her fingers, both palms through her hair and pulled tightly until she felt it could rip out, as her love would never do, but she was angry that she couldn’t even pretend. She looked at her hair, now sticking in all directions, like Medusa, and she patted it down fearing her love could see her from the sky or through the mirror. She hadn’t heard from him for so long that she realized a few days ago, that if her love was dead, no one could tell her because she was thousands of miles away so she didn’t matter. She also knew, in her subconscious, that her love might’ve found another, but no please she secretly thought. I’ve told too many people about you and I’ve thought of you for so many hours of the last nine years.

She could hear a group climbing the stairs, their heavy steps and high-pitched voices clashed together as if approaching a beehive. She moved her head down, closed her makeup-less eyes and prayed it wasn’t them. How alone could she feel and it be true. Was it something she could look up in a book or was it merely psychological. Was being alone really about singularity or was it really about the lack of one thing. Perhaps it was a simple something or maybe it was the lack of all things. All she knew was it felt childish. She put the phone to her ear and dialed again, for the second time that day, and each ring made the windows pulse with the thunder. Then she heard his voice, raspy, like he was waking, and he finally said, “Yeah?”

She finally said, “Hi there.”

“Hi,” he sounded like he felt her voice was familiar, but she knew he couldn’t place it, “Sorry, I don’t have your number here, who’s this?”

She opened her mouth to say her name, but she paused and thought how she should say it first. Should she say it angrily? As if he should know it? Or should she say it in a sorrowful voice, dripping with regret for giving up on the idea of them. She said, “It’s Le— ” and as quick as the lightening in the window, she saw it from the corner of her eye. It was quick, but it had finally made its way to her. It was a dark gray color, young and spirited and waiting to become fatter with her secrets.

“I think we’re breaking up, what did you say?” He sat up. She could hear the crinkling from the bed as he moved the blankets to the end of the bed, “You still there?” He almost sounded desperate even though he was groggy. “You’ve got a weird number.”

She cupped her hand over the receiver so her voice could only be heard by him, “Is Whiskers still alive?”

“Whiskers? What’s that?”

“Whiskers! I see her here. She couldn’t have followed me. She just wanted to be with you.”

And she really couldn’t help it because she was scared of the mouse that could have been inching its way towards her, scared it was really Whiskers, so she had to hang up on him and try again another day. A tropical storm had been looming over the city since yesterday and puddles were multiplying. Some might as well throw coins in at random. One of their wishes would surely come true. A follow was there and would steal a cover from her, as if it was more charming. And all that mattered was nothing, except the mole.

Riff Raff

Posted on January 28th, 2013

The moon was sliced right down the middle, so perfectly in half, and though they knew it was the sun’s harsh beams that made it appear incomplete, they took it in and said it was okay. Tomorrow night would be different. It wouldn’t always look so partial. To her, it was lonely. He could see the reflection of it in her eyes, out of the corner of his own, and he wanted to comfort her, tell her that he would always be there to draw the complete moon with his index finger. There were Christmas songs playing, the happy ones that made them think of past Christmases around fake plastic trees guarded by hastily wrapped gifts barely worth a dollar or two. They kept walking forwards, not really knowing where, just walking, and her shoe got stuck in a patch of mud. It made a sinking sound, a thump. He thought it strange, how much like quicksand it was, but his feet wouldn’t stop moving towards the end of the street, and he could hear her cries. He could almost see her, though his eyes were still at the moon, and he knew that she was trying to use both hands to lift her sneaker, but it sank and sank and he walked and walked until it was dawn and eventually he couldn’t see the moon anymore and he couldn’t hear her calling his name, his unpleasant name. When he finally stopped, thighs burning with use, he realized his feet were bare and his shoes had been lost somewhere in the night. He imagined the moon had sucked them up to teach him a lesson. The ground was so dry and yellow, not even the concrete that wrapped around the city anymore. He guessed that he had walked much too far from humanity and had finally reached the desert that he had seen in books. The wind whirled forward and he tripped, dug his knees into the sand, and started to recite poems he had memorized in school. There was one. One about a blue guitar and a man who could play a tune that changed the people around him. Then all the people wanted the guitarist to play that tune and he promised them that he could and that it would transform them. But only on that blue guitar could he play it, and he thought how if the guitarist had to cut himself in two, the guitar would be on one side of the guillotine and his body would be on the other. And it made him wonder if people always get cut in twos, threes, or fours, or if it’s just the sun’s glint that tells them they’re temporarily severed.

Deadpan

Posted on January 18th, 2013

You kick the dog in the hallway, hear it give the tiniest yelp, and avoid any mention of emotion. You have your light hair covering your left eye as you follow her. As you lay down first, you dart your head upwards, stare at that white ceiling and the cobwebs forming in the corners. Still no show of emotion, but it feels like fireworks are being set off in your shoe. There’s the stinging on your fingertips on each patch of her skin, the perpetual ping on your eardrum, and stabs of the numbness crawling up your calf. The way she bites your neck is making your jaw open, left ajar cause you resist making sounds. There are temporary red stains randomly on your neck. You remember her crawling arms, so much like tentacles around your waist and the collar of your button-up shirt, and you remember slipping your reticent arm behind her neck, which is sweaty and warm once you put your palm to it. Her mouth is resting on your neck. Her legs intertwine into your own and the blanket is shoved to the end of the bed. Both of your legs are suddenly hanging off the side of the bed and dangle off the cliff. You hear her mumble words; you try to focus on anything but this. You try to focus on anything that makes you not feel. You make a joke, she bites your neck again. You squeeze her back and pull her body into yours, but turn your face away. She’s pulling your face in and you keep turning left or right. You’ve remembered that she won’t do this when she’s dry. You sit up. Your back is hunched, you can’t even sit up straight, and she glides her hand up your spine, massaging your bones naturally protruding from your back. She’s trying to feel those insides being held in your chest. You get out of the room. Use the bathroom. Wash your face. And mentally leave the apartment.

Maelstroms

Posted on December 18th, 2012

My shoes were soaked, crunching the snow and making my presence known to the silent sidewalks. I swore I was alone, even though you were beside me. I kept turning around, looking at those heavy steps I had just created, and they left such clear imprints that I was surprised to see your feet hadn’t left a single mark. You took my hand, trying to distract me from your disappearing footprints, and you said something about the storm and how attractive it was to see the snowfall on the trees, protecting their roof and drawing canopies. I took a sip from the bottle of wine we were walking with and its bitterness graced my palate and made my heart warmer. You took the bottle from me and we started to descend, but I slipped and fell, landing on my back. I saw the snow push itself up and falling down again on my thick coat and I laid there and began to enjoy the coldness seeping through my jeans. You tried to convince me to sit up, telling me how dangerous it was, but I refused, and I took that ticket I had been keeping in my pocket, ripped it in two and gave you a half. I said you didn’t have to go, but if you wanted to, I’d sleepwalk my way down that stairwell and share it. You laughed and stuck it in your jacket pocket, trying to hoist me up again, but you slipped too, but fell too hard and through the ice, down to the bottom of the earth. I reached my hand into the water, which was thrashing around and starting to turn solid again from the snow. I even dipped my head in, but everybody knows how hard it is to see underwater. You didn’t come up, so I waited longer. Just stared at the break in the ice and watching the water become placid, accepting your body into its own and making something whole again. And I really knew at that point that it would never reject your beauty, and that, above all those other charming things, even the swirling snow, was calming.

Aligned

Posted on November 27th, 2012

Miss drew the line. It was vertical and oddly straight. The shading from the pencil was thick, never wavering its size and she wished she could be in that line, or at least on the other side of it. These drawings were such personal endeavors. She wasn’t an artist, but she liked these projects, these experiments that required only one warm, hunched body. This time was different though because she had company. Mister was sitting across from her and he was drawing a house, she could see that clearly. Miss stopped herself because she was about to draw one as well and she thought it would be too strange if they both had the same ideas. She turned the paper ninety degrees and thought it might look like a ground of some sort. She colored it deeper, using small x’s to make it seem as heavy and as soft as soil. She started sketching beneath the grass, the secrets they were meant to draw, the things that people can’t seem to reveal. Her circles became a ballerina. Her tutu was lifting as she raised her thin, pale arms and her eyes were searching towards the top of the dark cave. Her toes were pointed at the invisible ground, and for a moment, Miss saw the ballerina’s feet moving from side to side so utterly gracefully. Then she moved her pencil to another corner of the paper and started to draw a young blonde woman sitting alone in a chair, staring at another chair that was empty, and she made sure her lips were thick and sad, and she made even surer that her eyes appeared green even though she only had a pencil to use. The vacant chair was wooden and seemed to be drowning itself into the bottom of the paper, and she had to stop at that.

She moved to a blanker corner and drew the last girl, her hair brushed over her face. She put a man behind her and he was smiling with his hand was on his forehead and his eyes were as small as pebbles. The girl had her arms forward, hanging down and there was a broken wine glass at her feet, shattered and scattered around her in a sort of ring, and her feet were bloodied, maybe from the wine, but it didn’t seem like it mattered much.

She moved to the last corner and drew a rodent, perfectly rotund and grey, with a piece of cheese in its little paws, and it was trying to share with another rodent, really offering it, but the other rodent had its paws up, eyes closed and nose lifted up, snuffing the cheese.

She felt finished. Time was almost up anyways, so she lifted her eyes over to Mister whose legs were wrapped around the chair and he was slouching, his nose nearly touching the table and she thought that his nose should turn black if it even slightly grazed the paper. The bell rang and he turned to her and asked her for her drawing. She gave it to him and took his. And she really did understand it. It wasn’t like he was a very complicated person, but the song that was playing was complicated, so she hoped that Mister would finally understand her.

He had drawn only the walls of the house. There was a brief feeling of disappointment. There weren’t even tunnels to go underneath through the basement and up the stairs. Each floor was filled with something different and elaborate. The bottom was obviously the darkest. It contained hundreds of needles and snow, and she knew it was snow because it was divvied up in these even thinner lines. The most frightening part was the cliffs. They were incredibly detailed, very far away from one another and they looked unsteady, easy to fall from. Lower than the cliffs were these shattered mirrors that were obviously thrown from one side. There was a shadow leaning down, seemingly looking at the glass, but the other cliff was lonely and bare. The first floor was slightly brighter, but still dark. It only contained people. There were more women than men, but his family must have been in there because there should always be family on the first floor or at least in the basement. She couldn’t find them though because technically, she hadn’t made it into the house officially. She looked at the attic, which was the lightest and contained books and words, simply letters and numbers like 927, which she knew was the birthday of his favorite lover. The strange thing about the attic was that there was no roof to it. So technically, the only way into the house was by climbing the walls or beating them down, which could potentially only ruin the house, and distance her from him. The hardest part was finding ways to latch the strings across the roofless house. The easiest way was to wait for supplies, hints of entrance, but that took time, and she knew that there were very few patient people in the world and that’s why the house was built and that’s why there was no door or windows or any way into the basement even though it would be the sweetest way to begin something. So she took his house, put it in her pocket, and tried her best to remain an understanding Miss.

Run Away

Posted on November 10th, 2012

When you’re young, they tell you it takes practice. They tell you not to worry if you lose. They tell you there will be other opportunities. Take chances. No regrets. Be trite when you’re in a corner. When you do finally win, your trainer will tell you to be humble and to expect the rules and the players to change, rotate, and evolve – to become better than you. Because when you do win, when you collect your coins and put them in your front left pocket for everyone to see, you are still just another player in a world of them. And even if the coins glow this bright red color, seen right through your white-collared shirt, most people disregard it, because we’re all hunters. And even if your prize wears the heart-shaped necklace, she’s still up to be won again in the next match. Ask me why we play it at all, and to tell you the truth, I don’t really know. I guess it’s a passionate game. I might explain the rules to you, but you either know them or don’t, and if you do, you know that there are no rules because people keep breaking them, toying with them and me. If I could compare it to anything, I’d say it’s most like hunting deer, except in the woods, everyone has a cloak and a weapon of their choice. Some use their teeth or tongues, some use their arrows, and it’s easy to quit because it always seems like you’re either outnumbered or out-weaponized. I usually forfeit.

I was sitting at the gaming table, wooden and three-legged. The fourth leg was a collection of beer cans piled on top of one another and I thought it awfully funny because I was there when the original leg was ripped off. One of the players lost his temper at the moment his piece went missing. You should never lose your temper. The prize usually asks for the contestant to be removed because one should never show any sign of emotion at the table.

My opponents were scattered, some standing behind me, across from me, or across the room. They were all drinking spirits to loosen their minds. I took my pieces and moved them as carefully as I could. The prize was in the center of the table, sitting there with her legs crossed at the shins and the soles of her feet on the pavement. Sometimes I would glance at her and I could tell she wanted me to win, but didn’t think I could. Didn’t think I had the skill. When I moved one of those ponds forward, she would look at me and frown, shaking her head from left to right and taking sips from her wine glass. My opponents would smile calmly at me, giggling under their breath, and I wanted to hurt them, take one of the shards from my back pocket, broken pieces of previous prizes – the girls. And I wanted to stab my enemies as quickly as possible. And even though I knew that was against the rules, harming another opponent, I wrote under the table with my index finger everyone breaks the rules. As more people entered the gaming room, taking glances at the prize, they would size up all of the players and start their own game.

My adversary at the moment was across from me. She was a girl which was an odd match, but I was forced to accept it. She had her hair down, free and leading to her breasts, and she was awfully pretty, with these blue eyes that would only look at the board or into me. When I say, “into me” I mean that she would stare right into my eyes and I knew she could read all my moves because I wasn’t as experienced as her and I always liked to quit. I remember wondering if she could speak at all because her lips were so thin. She was much faster than me, moving those ponds on the prize’s legs without a second thought. She had already won most of the territories, whereas I had won the rights to manufacture feelings. I don’t know how I had gotten so far in the game, to be honest, because at first I didn’t much care for it. I categorized this particular prize as unattainable, unmanageable, and unreachable. I had accepted that long ago.

And at moments, years before, when it would just be her and I, I would no longer think of her in that implanted objective way. Once, she was sitting on my bed, honestly laying with her head looking towards the ceiling and her shirt low, showing off one of the heavier heart necklaces she kept. The thicker and darker the necklace, the more claimed she had become. I thought she looked so awfully warm, so as she turned her head away from me, I took my hands and took a picture with my index finger. Click. The sound was loud, so I turned my head away from her towards the floor and I could see her gaze fall on me again from the corner of my eye and she said, “What? What’s your deal? Can’t you just say it?” So I pretended that I didn’t hear her and changed the subject. I really didn’t want to be part of the game, I just wanted to keep her for a little while. I didn’t want her to be some shard in a pocket or a tally on the boards.

I took that moving Polaroid and I’d use it as a bookmark. And always at the end of a chapter, I’d look at that moving picture, see her mouth change from a lack of emotion to a smile, as if she had just told a joke to herself, and my stomach would drop a little. I’d close the book and start to make up stories in my own head so I didn’t have to worry about the game.

Then, years later, I noticed the picture went missing and I realized I had been invited to the games, though I never bothered to put a ballot in.

At the end of every match, the prize would come up to me, real close, and take the moving Polaroid out of her jacket pocket, hold it up to her face and say, “You can quit any time, you know. Take the picture and move on.” I’d shake my head and say, “No one likes a quitter.” Talking to the prize outside of the game was technically against the rules, but I felt it was sort of an investment. And though I finally lost, at least I got to keep the picture, a little torn, but mine.