I survey my surroundings with satisfaction—soaking up the all too familiar smell of coffee and bacon, the pleasant hum of conversation, and the feel of the vinyl booth beneath me. The table in front of me holds all of the materials I brought with me in hopes of inspiring a new project of words from within my stagnant brain.


and nothing.

Boots and nothing at all

The boots stood there, leaning haphazardly against the garbage can; their beauty long faded, the leather cracked, the material worn thin near the toes and the heels. The dim light produced from the nearby lamp made the boots look forlorn in the almost empty apartment. She stared at them, her head cocked a bit to the side.

She had been ready for bed: her make-up washed off, her teeth brushed, her dress and heels replaced with a worn tank top and underwear. The linoleum she was standing on desperately needed a scrubbing and her bare feet stuck to the floor in this heat. She thought about this—about scrubbing the floor—and she thought about the boots in front of her. Her hands were now on her hips and she shifted her weight slightly.

She shook her head as if in defiance to some inner question and grabbed the boots from beside the garbage to shove them onto her feet. She walked the short distance across the apartment to where her grandma’s ornate full length mirror stood on its frame and stared into it. She turned this way and that way, staring intently at her reflection. Finally, she rifled through the mess of clothes on the couch and produced a gray knee length skirt. She slipped this on and fastened it high around her waist. Tucking the tank top in and grabbing her keys from the kitchen counter, she quietly slipped out the front door and into the night air. The heels of her boots sounded pleasantly against the sidewalk.

Rough and tumble

I wish I wrote this one

Put me in your suitcase, let me help you pack
Cuz you're never coming back, no you're never coming back

Cook me in your breakfast and put me on your plate
Cuz you know I taste great, yeah you know I taste great

At the hop it's greaseball heaven
With candypants and archie too

Put me in your dry dream or put me in your wet
If you haven't yet, no if you haven't yet
Light me with your candle and watch the flames grow high
No it doesn't hurt to try, it doesn't hurt to try

Well I won't stop all of my pretending that you'll come home
You'll be coming home, someday soon

Put me in your blue skies or put me in your gray
There's gotta be someway, there's gotta be someway
Put me in your tongue tie, make it hard to say
That you ain't gonna stay, that you ain't gonna stay

Wrap me in your marrow, stuff me in your bones
sing a mending moan, a song to bring you home

Undone

I pushed through the double doors out of the chilly night air and into the nearest bar. The interior was not surprising—the dim lighting did a poor job of covering up the greasy countertops and the dirt-layered walls. I walked quickly past the rows of bar stools, feigning an ignorance to the stares I received from the swiveling faces. A row of four booths sat upon the far wall and I slumped into the one most inviting—the small green lamp on the wall still shining brightly despite its antique surroundings. The vinyl was cracked and hard, its edges curling up sharply and scraping the backs of my bare legs as I adjusted to a comfortable position.

A skinny blonde girl was suddenly at my side asking me what I wanted. Her long hair was pulled straight back into a stringy ponytail and her apron fell lopsided against her faded blue jeans as she cocked a hip to one side and looked only slightly interested in my response. I skimmed the short menu quickly and ordered a cheeseburger and side salad. Her plain face, pretty despite the lack of make-up, remained impartial as she scratched the order quickly onto an old diner’s pad.

“Out of salad. Onion rings or sweet potato fries ok?”

All of my thoughts seemed to be closing in on me, clouding my surroundings and making this bar seem much smaller than it already was. I was struggling in this stale air. I was suffocating.

“The fries are fine…and a Coke please.”

I answered and she was gone.
I thought about my waitress and her ordinary appearance and what seemed like a miserable existence in this grimy little bar with the constant cloud of smoke and the old men's sloppy gazes resting on any available cleavage. I felt sad for the girl a moment before jealousy overtook my compassion for her. Hers were easy problems to solve. Get a new job. Move to a new city. Stop hanging out with old disgusting men. I was sure her life was more complicated than that, but at that moment—I was suffering from tunnel vision and nothing seemed nearly as impossible as my life . My feelings of hopelessness washed over me and I blinked back tears; willing myself to hold on to my feigned calmness. I swallowed and stared hard at the opposite wall, fidgeting in my booth to lean against the wall and extend my legs out on the rest of the seat. I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing; running through my plans for the next day—not for lack of organization, mostly to keep my mind busy.

I opened my eyes slowly and was surprised that someone else had joined me in this corner of the bar. An older man, not much more distinctive than any of the others at the bar, sat in the booth beside me. He scratched some words onto a napkin; a beer dripping onto the table in front of him. He seemed involved and it allowed me time to study him without notice.

His beard, long and full at his chin, was patchy along his jaw line and fading into grey toward his temples. He wore a worn gray t-shirt that strained against the bulge of his belly, landing just short of the top of his jeans. His hands were tanned and rough with dirt shoved deep under the fingernails; a laborer no doubt. His right hand gripped the pen that aggressively carved words into the napkin below it. He finished the sentence and added the napkin to the stack accumulating next to his beer.

He took this pause to look up and I attempted to nonchalantly avert my eyes to the abandoned popcorn machine across from where I sat. I squinted, as though concentrating on the machine with great interest, hoping he would continue on with his writing. He couched roughly and spoke.

“ She’s broken…Been that way for years.”

I felt the truth of his statement sink in; stinging. I looked at him and then back at the lonely machine.

“Looks that way.”

Scrawny

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Something old

MOONS (an excerpt)
She stared hard at the chips in the wood floor; waiting. She tried focusing and then blurring her vision—concentrating on the difference. She cracked all her knuckles and nervously adjusted her clothing before leaning back in the fraying armchair. She waited, with the rest of them, playing with the bothersome piece sitting below her tongue.

For what, she wasn’t sure. Something spectacular maybe, though she had heard it would not be this way.

Something different at least; anything to break from the usual patterns of reality. Her curiosity for what was hidden beneath terrified her into nervous trembling...or maybe that was the cold. She shifted her weight and curled her feet up underneath her for extra warmth before wrapping a nearby blanket around her shoulders. Ninja turtles floating along the bright print of the blanket brought a sharp sense of reality to her surroundings. She sighed and fidgeted some more—antsy for something.

She finally gathered her ninja turtles around her and moved from the room of anxious people to meander the spacious house. She began to wonder why no one else seemed to be seeking warmth. She could see her breath coming out in small puffs; dissipating into the already smoky air inside the hallway. She shivered and moved into the next bedroom, making small talk before sitting on the floor—again—to do more waiting.

It happened somewhere between the losing track of time and losing interest in the conversation. A boy she didn’t know was sitting across the room, staring with drunken eyes at nothing in particular while his grip slowly loosened on the Captain Morgan he was holding.

God—she hated these sort of parties.

It was then--as the bottle made its final drop to the floor, startling the boy--that she realized she could no longer see his face. She glanced around the room and was surprised to find she could no longer see anyone’s face. Their features were simply erased, leaving a blank blur of skin. Scared by this sudden change, she concentrated on the blanket fuzz before that too, started morphing, moving, lines creeping off the material onto her arm. She watched it grow until the lines had made their way around her entire body. She could feel her face tighten as they rose up her neck and over her chin. She quickly looked to her left—to another—wanting to see his reaction to the unruly blanket. Just as she did this, the lines fell back into place.

She felt much better.

Time would pass in awkward chunks of fast forward and slow motion, often with jerky transitions as she struggled to function at the same speed as everyone else.

Tonight. One night would be ok she supposed. She could handle it. If only she could find another blanket....

an excerpt of something blurry

As the fog cleared from his heavy mind, he could sense someone above him. Not quite having gained full consciousness yet, that was about all he could figure out. He wracked his brain for any clue as to where he was or why, but came up empty.

In fact, he couldn’t remember much of anything.

Frustration and confusion overwhelmed him as he fought for a grasp of reality in this foggy stupor. After a great deal of effort, he managed to open his eyes a crack. He was met with a blur of white, the lights causing shards of pain to shoot through his head.

Hung over was his immediate thought, but he didn’t remember drinking. Then again, he couldn’t remember anything really. His hands felt heavy as he lifted them to rub his eyes forcefully before attempting to open them again. As his vision adjusted to the light and became a little clearer, he began to survey his surroundings and realized with dismay that he was in what appeared to be a hospital room. He wanted to sit up, but realized upon trying that most of his body felt like it was still sleeping, so he decided to look around some more from his current position.

He craned his neck, wincing at the cramped muscles, to survey a machine and a mass of tubes hooked up to him. This only aided in his confusion as to what had happened. In horror, he looked down the rest of his body, quickly wiggling his toes and fingers. The muscles were sore, but working. Breathing out a shaky sigh, he turned his head to look in the other direction and was shocked to find someone sitting there next to the bed.

The girl sat slumped in her seat, her arms hanging listlessly off the arm rests, her head thrown back in peaceful slumber.

She didn’t look familiar.

It suddenly dawned on him as he searched his brain for any memory of her that he couldn’t remember a single face he knew. He began to panic and searched his brain for any memory at all. He came up with broken fragments of scenes in his life he couldn’t really place together, but still no faces.

He brought his hands back up to his face and rubbed his scruffy chin roughly as he desperately tried to recall his own name. No such luck.

“Well, Fuck.” He closed his eyes once more in sleep.

Sister

She turns 18 this week--beginning her ascent into adulthood.

How does a girl begin to teach her sister the ways of life? A duty as an older sibling is to somehow pave the trail of adolescence and young adulthood so those following can smoothly travel without all those awkward, embarrassing, and heart wrenching lessons learned.

How do I put into words that everything is worth it and that there will still be that happy ending and that you only truly discover yourself when you go through those hardships and that despite all that---growing up is pretty fucking fun.

Soon, my mother's nest will be empty and it will be her I am comforting.
**

Sunrise

The sun has just barely risen as I pull onto the highway and a catchy beat is playing on the radio. I bob my head and decide that maybe I could be a morning person. I feel responsible and put together and driven, and so---alive.

I feel like the person I am always trying to be when I can’t seem to get it all together.

Lost in thought, I realize I am driving in the middle of two lanes and quickly correct myself. Not that it much mattered as there were few cars on the road---Those that were struck this insane curiosity in me. I wondered about their identity and their reason for being up at such an awful hour. I began to think that these people were up this early because it made them feel the way I did just a few moments ago. Maybe these people have it all together and maybe these people are where the happier people in the world hide—in these wee hours of the first strands of sunlight.

When I was a girl

The snow crunched loudly beneath her boots as she carefully made her way up the wintry driveway. She adjusted her hat that had begun its decent down her forehead to cover her eyes. It was her Dads and far too big for any sensible purposes, but it was her favorite shade of blue and it smelled of his aftershave. The long driveway curved and opened up again to reveal an expansive brownstone house with gaping windows and a porch that jutted out from the back to overlook the frozen river and its protective rows of pine trees.

Upon arriving at the front door, she slipped her mitten off and rapped her knuckles against the hard oak—four times—to be sure it was heard. She stepped back and waited excitedly. The door opened and a girl her age stood on the inside with two mugs of steaming hot cocoa.

“Hey” Brianna greeted her and let her into the foyer onto a large floor rug spread wide over the shiny oak floor. She removed her boots and set them to the side where they could drip free of their snowy buildup. She slipped her feet into the extra pair of slippers Brianna always had sitting by the door for her.

“Here,” Brianna shoved the mug into her hands as soon as she entered the living room. “I put the tiny marshmallows in that you like so much.” She beamed at her friend, waiting for the approval she knew would come.

“Ooh—thanks!” She took a sip of the liquid and immediately spit it back into the mug, her face contorting in pain. “Hot” She said sheepishly, looking over the mug at Brianna. Both girls giggled and moved down the hallway toward Brianna’s bedroom. She watched Brianna’s long ponytail swishing against her back as she walked; the length almost to her waistline. Jealously, she reached up and felt her own fine blonde hair landing abruptly on her neck. She pulled her eyes from Brianna’s back and glanced around to admire the dark cavernous hallways. Her own house was filed with the natural daylight pouring in from their many windows, but Brianna’s house was one of intrigue and secrets held only in the dark. Brianna’s parents suffered from headaches and did not allow the heavy drapes covering the windows to be pulled back. The kitchen had one small window overlooking the river that remained uncovered; a single beam of sunshine lit up the center of the tiled floor. She would often choose this spot to stand in while they prepared snacks for their sleepovers and movies.

It was bizarre the jealousy she felt over the splendor and mystery of Brianna’s house and yet, in the moment when she had a chance to dwell in it-—she chose to stand in the one spot that reminded her of home.

**

Legs

All I can think about is shaving my legs. I stare at the tiny black hairs protruding from my calves in hatred and self-loathing; wishing them away.I have other things to be grateful for. Ugly legs should be insignificant really.

It is insignificant, I tell myself, though the thought is sticky and gooey in my brain; sliding slowly away as I strain to think of something of importance.

I move on.

I am developing a stomach ache. Can’t determine exactly the cause, but the sharp pains are coming in waves and distracting me from fully enjoying this lazy evening at home. I fear the alarming amounts of coffee I consume every day may be deteriorating my stomach lining. It could also be contributed to the alcohol from last night still bubbling nicely in my stomach.
Either way, the ache does not help the melancholy feeling of today, though it may explain the misplaced emotion.

I am relaxed and my time is available for anything of my choosing. I am wearing my favorite sweat pants, I have a glass of my favorite wine in front of me, and I do not have a single responsibility until tomorrow. Yet, there is an emptiness I can’t shake. I don’t feel fulfilled or even motivated to become fulfilled to find out what might possibly excite me.

It’s exhausting really.

I want to listen to music, but nothing in my entire library interests me, so I sit in silence; wishing I was listening to music. I want to read, but my attention span won’t allow it. I want to write something profound, but this garbage is the only thing that my fingers will type.

My sanity slips further away with each month the winter drags on.

Define me

There wasn’t always this fear of stagnancy plaguing me.

I wasn’t always this sort-of paranoid, overly analytical and emotional version of myself. I was absolutely content, naïve, and cheerfully leading a life of total ignorance.

The demise of our palace

They stared once more up to the friendly perch leaning oddly out above a normal enough sunny strip of homes. The four of them stood there, trying to soak up the memories like they were the warm afternoon heat. Finally they turned to get into the car, their last load of belongings strapped to the top.

There was a calm as the relief of leaving this place set in; all with the hope that their demons were to stay here as well. Unable to explain even to each other the sore ripping at the heart as they turned their back on their palace. Their palace that held with it such dark thoughts. It had been a haven to let out such things. No one was certain they were ready to give up that freedom, but there was no more time. This was the last of a chapter none of them wanted to end, but knew they wouldn’t want to repeat it.

The surroundings here are of nothing remarkable. The cracking walls and fraying armchairs would duplicate that belonging to most college bound kids—short on cash and easily content. Spacious, but cramped with clutter; this was a mother’s nightmare while a stoner’s dream.

Bare essentials are lost here amongst the collection of artwork scraps placed proudly on each exposed wall and surface, evidence of nights passed found in unhealthy addictions; obviously and unashamedly strewn about.

The arched doorways or brightly colored walls may catch your attention. The quaint balcony overlooking the neighborhood might give you reason to remember this apartment as different than most.

But that’s not why you will remember.

This was a home for these residents—these kids—not an apartment. This was a habitat for firsts. For learning. For experience. For love. For hate. For trying each wave of thought on those present. There was no censoring here. No false pretenses. No impressing. No deceiving.

It just was.

And so were they.

Never would a house, even one day a home, feel quite like the time spent here. The experience would not be repeated with its perfect timing of personalities lost in the midst of self-discovery. Some learning. Some teaching. Some observing.

We were free to explore without explanation or excuse, or any reason at all. We existed, testing coping mechanisms as we went—neither accepting nor rejecting the others' choices. A group of heads to fill with your endless questions and ideas that would never tire. A group of arms to hold you when everything else failed. Accepting eyes set into loving faces that never faltered, no matter your change of character.

I was taught that the love Jesus Christ provides is something like this. Maybe Heaven really can be on Earth. Maybe it was all bullshit and I just discovered why.*