blogging

The past year of my life has been rough. The past month of my life has been a shitstorm. I can't even find words of how to begin, so I'm not going to. I'm gonna post some more writing soon.

I'm working on stuff. Go me!

In the stories I heard as a child, the prince always got the girl. My parents raised me to believe that if I were charming enough, my princess will become my happily ever after. They never expected her to be Prince Charming.
But before I begin, I need to say that real life has no "happy ending." Most endings are painful, slow, arduous, and end with no kiss, although if you're lucky enough you can pump out one last angry fuck. But then again, don't take my word for it: I'm the angry step-sister, the second-fairest, the huge fucking octopus, and the power-hungry lion who keeps with hyenas.

I met Colin Shifdale on a park bench, where his thumb was flicking an imaginary lighter in my direction. I pulled my black bic lighter from my pocket and snickered as the spring winds blew out the flame for three tries in a row. I didn't know it was a joint at first, but when the flame held long enough to ignite the tip, the smoke was not the same as the tobacco smoke rising from my right hand.
"Wanna hit?" His voice was strained from a deep inhale. I shook my head no, followed by a long drag off my cigarette.
The marajuana smoke was familiar, and my inner strugglee to resist contorted my face with unfamiliar twists and newly discovered wrinkles. He held out the hand with his join. It became his sixth finger, an extention of himself.
I smiled and declined again. I told him that I was a year and a half strong without it. "I haven't even smelled the stuff for a year," I said.
He scratched his scalp with his unoccupied hand and gently adjusted the black tuft above his head. His russet eyes then rested on my eyes. He staed straight into me, and in a flash I could see myself embracing him, our lips searching the confines of our mouths, and the smoke from his lungs reviving a dead addicition, as well as breathing life to a new one.
I shook my head like a chill forced my body to convulse, and looked at the way his vision had drifted. I gently touched his hand, barely caressing his knuckles. His eyes grew slightly, somewhat shocked by such a simple gesture. My hand felt his, and I continued down his hand until I took the joint and pressed it to my lips. With a deep inhale, the pot smoke was sweet, laced with the flavor of his lips. I let the smoke overtake my lungs, and breathed a short gasp when I realized what I had done, let alone what I got myself into.
"Thought you said you quit." His smirk was all I saw. I exhaled the smoke.
"People change," I said. I returned his joint, "And my old man told me quitters never win."
"Well, Mr...?"
"Mr. Alexander Traynor." I bowed my head slightly.
"Well, Mr. Traynor, thank you graciously for the light." He flicked the burning tip from his roach and swallowed the remainding paper and scalded pot.
"And you are?"
"Not real." He courtseyed.
"Then I guess I shouldn't bother giving you my number."
"Couldn't hurt," he stroked the short whiskers on his chin. "Even real people don't call every time, right?
"And what do you know of reality and her people?" I patted my pockets for something to write on, but all I had on me was a pack of cigarettes. I took them out of my pocket and mimed writing something into the wind.
"Nothing that isn't written in her books." He produced a pen.
"Then what should I call you, oh he who is not real?" took out a cigarette and wrote my phone number on it.
"I don't smoke." He reluctantly reached for the cigarette as if it were covered in slime and smelled like dry urine.
"Neither do I," and lit one of my own as I walked away.
When I looked back, he was turning the cigarette through his fingers. He saw me looking back and cupped his right hand around the side of his mouth. "Colin," he half shouted. My grin spred wide, and I turned around, never expecting to see him again.

Flash Fiction

Shay would strut down the road in heavy rain singing the soundtrack of his life: his belting louder than if he were on stage. He would move along side the parked cars as minivans and SUVs splashed water onto his drenched black converse. Shay would not miss a beat, increasing his volume as the rain grew harsher. The downpour provided a chaotic new rhythm to his quirky songs. He razed his hair with his hands causing a storm cloud above his body, and he smiled.

I miss you.

An 80 year old died a week or so ago. She was a fiery red-head who danced at my graduation party, also my wedding to myself. She was a wonderful person who helped many people, but was never taken advantage of. She would tell people exactly what she thought. She refused to go to a restaurant she was not able to smoke in. She told me she loved me for the first time a couple months ago.
I wonder if she knew. Somewhere deep down, maybe she was aware. She gave items away to her children, she signed her house off a year ago, she stopped paying her life insurance, due to expire in 2013. She was alive, and then she needed triple bypass surgery.
Her last words were in a somewhat nagging, somewhat sarcastic tone, "Just so you know, I didn't want to do this." She rarely told people that she loved them. I remember one time on the phone with her, she thought I was my dad. I corrected her, and told her that he would call back. I said I love you. She said, "uh huh." But in November she told me she loved me.
It's strange to think that 3 weeks ago she was dancing at my party, and last week I attended her funeral.
They played "Old Time Rock and Roll" after the church service. She had been telling people to play it for 10 years. I'm glad they did.
I carried her casket, and almost tripped over a headstone. Out of the 6 of us carrying her, I think only 3 of us were effected, the other three just along for the ride.
It's a shame family only get together for funerals and weddings. That's why I will still go to the family rituals she forced us to keep going to. I'm happy I had a graduation party now. We were all together. She got to see everyone happy before she passed.
There are so many stories to tell. I know only a fraction of all the stories there. What I have is golden. She was an awesome person, invincible in my eyes. I was crushed to see her dead, but she still looked good as ever.
Here's to Grandma Radebaugh.
Here's to Aunt Honey.

"The Good In People" - rewrite of Comfortable Silence

Alex received the call two years after the relationship ended and two months after he felt as though he was over it. The call came on Halloween. He let his cell phone ring until voicemail as he stared in disbelief at the caller ID. He was rocking back and forth, bouncing off of people in the tiny living room adorned with black and orange paper decorations. His costumed friends were all dancing; shoulder to shoulder, back to back. Alex was surrounded with ghouls and goblins, and he was dressed as Clark Kent, as a man with a secret.

There was no clear end to Alex and John’s friendship in Alex’s mind. They had built their bridge in a couple of years and burnt it down in a couple of months. Lost in thought, Alex pushed through the crowd of people. He found his way to the bathroom and took a deep breath, exhaling the heat of the party. He took out his phone. It read ‘one new message,’ one more trial to face.

Anytime Alex heard about or from John, he froze. He became less able to talk, less able to comprehend. He called his messages after enough breath was circulated. He braced himself for John’s voice, braced for something he had not heard in years. He shut his eyes tight and tried to force out the tears before they formed. He removed his Clark Kent glasses, but did not transform; he was not Superman.

Alex heard the message start. A static sea was on the other end of his phone. He was a man pressing a shell against his ear, hearing only a dial tone. Alex heard a deep breath, a crashing wave, and then silence.

“To save this message, press nine.” Alex pressed seven, and ended the call to his voicemail. With his glasses back on and another deep breath, he was launched back into the group of people like a pinball, bouncing off the bumpers without a willful decision of where he was going. He asked a few people where Sam was. They directed him upstairs like flippers shooting him up a ramp.

Alex felt confused, angry, frustrated, hopeful, and disappointed; but mostly sad. Alex found Sam sitting on the top stair. She was fingering a small piece of paper and tiny green leaves. She was dressed as a genie, wearing a shiny green tube top and matching costume skirt. Maybe she’ll grant my wishes. She looked up at him.

“Want some?” She licked the paper and completed a small tube like a crude piece of origami.

“Guess who just called,” he said. She examined her joint for mistakes and pulled a few lose flakes out of the tube. She curled one end into a fuse.

“Did you answer?”

Alex shook his head. “No, and no message.”

Sam looked at him un-phased, like this was old news. “He’s showing up.”

“What?!” He tried not to alarm the rest of the party.

“He’s showing up, pay attention.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Please,” she said, “spare me your broken heart. We all know how you get when we even think about him.” Alex knew that he was a topic of conversation, but was not aware that Sam was elected as their voice. “We miss him, haven’t seen him for a while. He said he wants to see you.”

“He said he what?” Alex focused on the wood-grain pattern imbedded in the stairs. He barely heard Sam sigh.

“Well… do you want some?” She lit the fuse with a lighter. Alex guessed that she bought it that night to match her outfit. The smoke billowed around her and only added to the effect of her costume.

“I think I’m gonna go.”

“No, you’re just gonna mill around and try pretend like nothing’s wrong. Right?”

Alex leaned down and kissed her on the forehead, a mother reassuring her child. Everything is going to be alright. It should have been the other way around.

Downstairs, the lamps flickered as he past them, some of them turning off entirely, a strobe light effect that made him dizzy. He thought about what he would say once John showed up.

In August, Alex finally gave up on him. He realized that the continuation of his longing and waiting for a phone call would ultimately be fruitless. He stopped sitting by the phone and pressing the call button just before hanging up. He stopped drinking, mostly because of financial reasons. He forced himself to appear happier. He forced a smile and associated with his old friends. He would not let his unhappiness ruin other people’s moods. He noticed that when he stopped complaining about it, people suddenly had time to stick around, meetings disappeared.

He also stopped worrying about what he did wrong. I didn’t do anything wrong. He would affirm himself. Things just happened. Things are how they should be. I am a better person because of it. Sometimes he even believed himself.

The last time Alex had seen or heard from John was Halloween two years prior. They had dressed as Shaggy and Fred from Scooby Doo: Alex did not need to wear a wig for Shaggy, and John did not need to shop for an outfit. He imagined them as a plant splitting at the roots, each longing for a different direction but unable to separate.

That night, John said goodbye for the first time Alex could recall: not ‘see you later,’ not ‘take care,’ and not ‘have fun.’ Alex pained himself over the small farewell.

Alex remembered a time when he and Jhon had been sitting for hours sipping coffee and waxing intellect. They were discussing the comic book movies that were transformed into movies. John appeared thrilled when his childhood of still pictures began to move in front of him.

“But the problem with the movies,” Alex said, “Is that they make it completely into a good versus evil story.”

“It is a good versus evil story.”

“No, it’s not. It’s a story about two people and their opposing views. It’s about the good in all people, and it’s about the struggle of people, not some abstract good or evil.”

“But villains are evil.” John said.

“I don’t like the idea of villains,” Alex said.

“But then who do the heroes fight?”

“Anti-heroes.”

“Anti-what nows?” John looked confused, an arched eyebrow defining the wrinkles that had formed. Alex confused John often.

“Anti-heroes. They’re kind of like villains, but with a utilitarian outlook on life.”

“How so?” John said. Alex thought about this, stirring his coffee with a butter knife. He took a sip of it, burning his throat as he felt the steam rise in his chest.

“Well, think of it like this. Villains are evil guys, who do evil things, right?” John nodded in agreement. “Well an anti-hero is a person who saves humanity by killing people.”

“How is killing people saving them?”

“Hmm… well, the anti-hero may see something that he doesn’t like about society.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know, health care or something.” Alex knew how a little joke could go a long way. They both paused, silently laughing inside. Alex considered this the best kind of laughter, that which only a select few can see. “But anyway, so the anti-hero is mad about health care, and so he decides that the solution is to steal money and kill people and stuff. He is solving the issue, and it’s for his twisted greater good.”

“I really hope you’re joking,” John said. He looked at the strange elbowed patterns in the standard Denny’s laminated table.

“I don’t have hope,” Alex said.

“In what?”

“In general.” He motioned to the waitress for a coffee refill.

“In what in general?”

“I don’t believe in hope.”

“What do you believe in?” John cupped his hands over his mouth, holding on tightly to any emotion. Alex rested his chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“The good in people,” Alex said. Comfortable silence; the first of many. They looked at each other, silent and happy. Neither of them moved or blinked.

“Ahh.” John had proved a point that which Alex was still grabbing strings. “So you believe in something.”

“But I don’t hope for the good in people.”

“But you believe in it.” John removed his hands from his mouth; a sign of triumph Alex would recognize well and, in time, adore. Alex smiled.

“Belief is different than hope. That’s why they’re different words.” Alex raised his glass and silently said, ‘cheers.’

“Is one needed for the other?”

“What’s your point.” It was a statement. Alex felt close to finding it. He needed it said.

“You have to hope to believe in goodness.”

“Define goodness.”

“You said it first, not me,” John said. He re-cupped his mouth.

“It’s subjective.”

“Then pick an objective word.”

“No,” Alex said. John uncovered his mouth. Alex could tell that John had won whatever tournament they were competing for.

“So you do hope.”

“I don’t want to.”

“But you do.”

“Not by any fault of my own.”

“But you do.” John pressed onward, determined to conjure the words. He as the puppet master, Alex was the puppet.

“You use rhetoric better than anyone else I’ve met.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment,” Alex said. He was proven wrong, and although he enjoyed the disagreement, he was upset that he tripped over his words like a three-legged horse in a steeple chase.

“I’m taking it as one.”

“You’re my anti-hero.”

“Or are you mine?”

Alex collapsed on Sam’s bed. He stared at the off-white ceiling tiles and briefly considered fixing them. Tears invaded his eyes, a few escaped. His thoughts raced at light speed, but the bed was a black hole. He was drawn into it; timeless, unable to move.

He suddenly felt sober, and saw this as a problem. In the kitchen, he grabbed three jell-o shots and a beer, and continued through the party, empty hellos and shallow waves all around.

Alex saw a couple of hushed whispers, people covering their mouths and hiding the opinions they freely gave to all who did not apply. He thought it stilly, how their mouths were covered. He couldn’t even read lips, why would he care what they were talking about. But then Alex saw that the sideways glances that accompanied the whispers were directed towards him. John was there. He could feel it.

How suiting to see Superman strut through the door, confident about nothing in particular. The form fitting outfit complimented him well, Alex thought. Clark Kent might finally meet Superman. Alex thought about how clever that was, probably finding out that he was going as the alter ego from Sam. Alex realized that he was staring when John looked directly at him. He broke the eye contact and went back to the kitchen. Earlier, he tried to pace himself and not drink as much as he did in the past. This was no concern of his now. Every person he saw took a shot with him. They smiled and cheered, a different toast for every shot.

Sam appeared from the hallway and caught Alex’s attention. He walked over to her, beginning to feel buzzed from the alcohol. Sam looked at him like a disappointed mother. He half expected her to say, “I’m not angry… just disappointed,” the most painful words for a child to hear.

“I thought you stopped drinking,” Sam said.

“I did.” He swallowed the shot he had in his hand.

“Under normal circumstances, you know I’d be pissed at you.”

“Under normal circumstances, I am pissed at you.”

“Understandable,” she said. “He wants to go get coffee, but doesn’t want to cause a scene.”

“Hmm. I don’t think I want to go get coffee with Superman. He might overshadow my costume.” He focused all his energy into enunciating his words.

“You’re going to go, and you’re gonna get this over with once and for all. You’ll feel better, trust me.”

“No.”

“If you don’t, I’ll never talk to you again, and I’ll start hanging out with John every night to dissuade you from talking to me.”

Alex said nothing.

“He’s by his car. Just do it.”

“Fine. We’re even, then.”

“No.”

“Fine.” Alex gave a slight bow and a kiss on the cheek to signal his departure.

Outside, he looked at the cars for John’s silver neon. It was a losing game Alex played often, but this time the odds were in his favor. Alex became very emotionally involved throughout the relationship. They embraced often, and they embraced well. Alex would become intimately interlocked with John, each of them fitting together like pieces in a puzzle. They complimented each other and became one in the hug. I don’t want to touch him, Alex thought.

Each step he took was forced and purposeful. He tried to clear his mind of thoughts other than walking. The street was illuminated by neon signs and a full moon. Alex tried to inhale deeply without showing John hesitation or weakness. After the initial sighting, Alex kept his eyes focused on the ground. He counted his steps and only allowed his foot to land on the white paint that protected him from cars.

“Hey,” John said, “I’m starving. Screw coffee, let’s go to Denny’s?”

“Sure.” Alex ruined his own plan. He now had no escape; the restaurant was half an hour way, driving time. John opened the passenger door of a strange car; not the silver neon, and not a car he would ever pick out for John.

The two drove in a giant’s car. Alex missed the intimacy of the Neon, and wondered why John had made the switch from a car to a barge. Alex opened the window and imagined jumping out on the highway. He would tumble like a gymnast and become as bruised as a boxer. He wondered if John would turn around.

John talked about his job for the thirty minute ride. He had become a store manager of Macy’s and had saved up enough for the SUV he drove. Alex tried to tune him out and continued to stare out the window. He wondered when they would talk about the elephant in the back seat riding with them. After a dozen asinine stories of uninteresting workplace occurrences, they arrived at the restaurant. Alex walked across the parking lot, hands buried in pockets and head hung low. He felt like a man walking death row.

Alex had dreaded this encounter, but after an hour of small talk, everything seemed “normal.” They were catching up; it reminded Alex of his high school reunion. Who saw who, who’s married, who’s working where. Alex was relaying a series of stories about his and Sam’s nightly bar-crawling.

“We fashioned ourselves as pirates,” Alex chuckled.

“Why were you drinking so much?” Alex waited a second to answer the question. He chose his words carefully.

“Are you kidding?” Alex said. “You.” John looked at Alex. They were fastened to each other with an invisible beam of light that neither could look away from. A scoff escaped Alex’s lips. “You ruined everything we had.” John did not respond, did not move. He cupped his hands over his mouth, and Alex could tell he was holding back tears. He never saw John cry, and thought how suiting it would be for Superman to be crying in Denny’s. Nobody would see it coming.

“What do you want me to say?” John said.

“What can you say?”

“I would apologize, but I don’t think you would believe me… or forgive me.”

“Do you think I should?” Alex used every ounce of strength in himself to remain calm.

“I’d like you to.”

“But is it warranted?”

“I’ve given you no reason to trust me anymore.”

“So imagine that you’re me. Would you forgive yourself?” Alex said. What followed was a silence, bulky and awkward. Alex debated calling a friend for a ride home, and thought he saw John reaching for his keys. They looked around the room and avoided eye contact. Alex opened his phone beneath the table and began to text Sam. She was probably still at the party, stoned and dancing, but mostly happy. He couldn’t remember the last time he was actually happy.

“No,” John said, “I probably wouldn’t.”

“Do you think I should?”

“I thought you might.

“And why is that?”

“Because you believe in the good in people.” John squirmed around in his seat. Alex rubbed his chin on his shoulder. He traced his eyebrow, following the skin after and touching the top of his ear. How long ago had he said that? He took off his glasses. He was even thinking about that conversation earlier. He wondered if he was naïve in thinking that, in saying that. He looked directly at John’s eyes for the first time all night. They were glazed.

“You proved me wrong.” Alex said.

“I’m sorry.”

“I understand.”

"Comfortable Silence

Alex received the call two years after the relationship ended and two months after he felt as though he was over it. The call came on Halloween. He let his cell phone ring until voicemail as he stared in disbelief at the caller ID. He was rocking back and forth, bouncing off of people in the tiny living room adorned with black and orange paper decorations. His costumed friends were all dancing; shoulder to shoulder, back to back. He was dressed as Clark Kent, as a man with a secret. Alex was surrounded with ghouls and goblins as ghosts from his past revisited.

There was no clear end to Alex and Jhon’s friendship in Alex’s mind. They had built their bridge in a couple of years and burnt it down in a couple of months. Lost in thought, Alex pushed through the crowd of people. He found his way to the bathroom and took a deep breath, exhaling the heat of the party. He took out his phone. It read ‘one new voicemail,’ one more trial to face.

Anytime Alex heard about or from Jhon, he froze. He became less able to talk, less able to comprehend. He called his messages after enough breath was circulated. “One new message,” the automated voice told him. He braced himself for Jhon’s voice, braced for something he had not heard in years. He shut his eyes tight and tried to force out the tears before they formed. “First new message.” He removed his Clark Kent glasses, but did not transform; he was not Superman.

Alex heard the message start. A static sea was on the other end of his phone. He was a man pressing a shell against his ear, hearing only a dial tone. Alex heard a deep breath, a crashing wave.

“Hey Alex, it’s Jhon.” Alex’s eyes shot open in an elastic snap. In a way he thought he imagined his call. In a way he wished it was all in his imagination. “Um…” He sounds the same, Alex thought, confident, but without anything to say. “Well, uh, I’m moving back to Chicago, and, um, well, I’d like to see you before I go. So… yeah. Hopefully I’ll talk to you soon. Okay. Yeah.”

“To save this message, press nine.” Alex pressed seven, and ended the call to his voicemail. With his glasses back on and another deep breath, he was launched back into the group of people like a pinball, bouncing off the bumpers without a willful decision of where he was going. He asked a few people where Sam was. They directed him upstairs like flippers shooting him up a ramp.

Alex felt confused, angry, frustrated, hopeful, and disappointed; but mostly sad. Alex found Sam sitting on the top stair. She was fingering a small piece of paper and tiny green leaves. She was dressed as a genie, wearing a shiny green tube top and matching costume skirt. Maybe she’ll grant my wishes. She looked up as Alex crushed each stair under the weight of Jhon calling.

“Want some?” She licked the paper and completed a small tube like a crude piece of origami.

“Guess who just called me,” he said. She examined her joint for mistakes and pulled a few lose flakes out of the tube. She curled one end into a fuse.

“Did you answer?” Alex shook his head.

“No, he’s moving home.” Sam looked at him un-phased, like this was old news. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Please,” she said, “spare me your broken heart. We all know how you get when we even think about him.” Alex knew that he was a topic of conversation, but was not aware that Sam was elected as their voice.

“He said he wants to see me.” Alex focused on the wood-grain pattern imbedded in the stairs. He barely heard Sam sigh.

“Well… do you want some?” She lit the fuse with a lighter. Alex guessed that she bought it that night to match her outfit. The smoke billowed around her and only added to the effect of her costume.

“I think I’m gonna go.”

“Are you gonna be okay?” she said through the smoke. Alex leaned down and kissed her on the forehead, a mother reassuring her child. It should have been the other way around.

* * *

Alex walked centered on the road. The lamps flickered as he past them, some of them turning off entirely. He wondered whether or not to return Jhon’s call.

In august, he finally gave up on Jhon. He realized that the continuation of his longing and waiting for a phone call would ultimately be fruitless. He stopped sitting by the phone and pressing the call button just before hanging up. He stopped drinking, mostly because of financial reasons. He forced himself to appear happier, and stopped worrying about what he did wrong. I didn’t do anything wrong. He would affirm himself. Things just happened. Things are how they should be. I am a better person because of it. Sometimes he even believed himself.

The last time Alex had seen or heard from John was Halloween two years prior. They had dressed as Shaggy and Fred from Scooby Doo: Alex did not need to wear a wig for Shaggy, and Jhon did not need to shop for an outfit. At that point, Alex still felt like a part of Jhon’s team, but the distance was building up and breaking them at the seams. Alex pretended like everything was okay, but Jhon was further away. He imagined them as a plant splitting at the roots, each longing for a different direction but unable to separate.

That night, Jhon said goodbye for the first time Alex could recall: not ‘see you later,’ not ‘take care,’ and not ‘have fun.’ Alex pained himself over the small farewell. But ‘goodbye’ was the last thing Alex thought he would hear from Jhon. Once again, Jhon had proved him wrong.

The thought drove Alex’s train of thought to another station in his memory. Alex remembered a time when he and Jhon had been sitting for hours sipping coffee and waxing intellect.

“I don’t have hope,” Alex said.

“In what?”

“In general.” He motioned to the waitress for a coffee refill.

“In what in general?”

“I don’t believe in hope.”

“What do you believe in?” Jhon cupped his mouth over his hands, holding on tightly to any emotion. Alex rested his chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“The good in people,” Alex said. Comfortable silence; the first of many.

“Ahh.” Jhon had proved a point that Alex was still grabbing strings for. “So you believe in something.”

“But I don’t hope for the good in people.”

“But you believe in it.” Jhon removed his hands from his mouth; a sign of triumph Alex would recognize well and, in time, adore. Alex smiled.

“Belief is different than hope. That’s why they’re different words.” Alex raised his glass and silently said, ‘cheers.’

“Is one needed for the other?”

“What’s your point.” It was a statement. Alex felt close to finding it. He needed it said.

“You have to hope to believe in goodness.”

“Define goodness.”

“You said it first, not me,” Jhon said. He re-cupped his mouth.

“It’s subjective.”

“Then pick an objective word.”

“No,” Alex said. Jhon uncovered his mouth. Alex could tell that Jhon had won whatever tournament they were competing for.

“So you do hope.”

“I don’t want to.”

“But you do.”

“Not by any fault of my own.”

“But you do.” Jhon pressed onward, determined to conjure the words. He as the puppet master, Alex was the puppet.

“You use rhetoric better than anyone else I’ve met.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment,” Alex said. He was proven wrong, and although he enjoyed the disagreement, he was upset that he tripped over his words like a three-legged horse in a steeple chase

* * *

Alex collapsed on his bed. He stared at the off-white ceiling tiles and briefly considered fixing them. He removed his costume and stared into the light above his bed. Tears invaded his eyes, a few escaped. His thoughts raced at light speed, but his bed was a black hole. He was drawn into it; timeless, unable to move.

It seemed to Alex that when he needed Jhon, he was not accessible. Now that Alex lived without him, he called. But he’s leaving, he thought, does that change anything? Maybe Jhon wanted to end on a good note, to say goodbye again. Alex thought that maybe Jhon understood that his disconnection was wrong and unwarranted. No, Jhon would not apologize. Jhon doesn’t even realize the severing he did between us. Alex wanted to reject the apology he knew would not come.

Alex picked up the phone and dialed Jhon’s number. He memorized it after deleting it from his phone. He was used to hearing Jhon’s voicemail message, a poorly recorded Beck song. Alex introduced Jhon to the song, but he had grown to hate it.

“Hello Alexander.”

“Jhonathan.” He was surprised at how calm his voice sounded. He fooled his own ears. “Coffee?”

“Sounds good. When?”

“Free Tuesday?”

“Around ten?”

“Ten’s good. Starbucks?”

“Alright.”

“I guess I’ll see you there.”

“Yep. Tuesday.”

“Maybe dinner?” Jhon said.

“We’ll see.”

“Ten on Tuesday.”

“Goodbye.” Silence.

“Alright.” Jhon ended the call.

Alex threw his phone across the room. Stupid idea, he thought. Stupid.

* * *

Why am I doing this? Alex thought. He looked at the cars for Jhon’s silver neon. It was a losing game Alex played often, but the odds were in his favor. Alex became very emotionally involved during his and Jhon’s friendship. They embraced often, and they embraced well. Alex understood where the name of ‘Bear Hugs’ came from after a few. I don’t want to touch him.

Each step he took was forced and purposeful. He tried to clear his mind of thoughts other than walking. Alex was early, and expected Jhon to be his normal ten minutes late. It would give him time to prepare, although he had two years to prepare for this meeting. Alex stood across the street from Starbucks and spotted Jhon at nine fifty-five. Alex searched his spinning mind for another time Jhon was early, but could not remember one. Alex’s heart stuck somewhere between his mouth and his lungs.

The street was illuminated by neon signs and a full moon. Alex tried to inhale deeply without showing Jhon hesitation or weakness. After the initial sighting, Alex kept his eyes focused on the ground. He counted his steps and only allowed his foot to land on the white paint that protected him from cars.

“Hey,” Jhon said, “I’m starving. Wanna skip and go to Denny’s?”

“Sure.” Alex ruined his plan. He now had no escape; the restaurant was half an hour way, driving time. Jhon opened the passenger door of a strange car; not the silver neon, and not a car he would ever pick out for Jhon.

The two drove in a giant’s car, big enough for six adults. Alex opened the window and imagined jumping out on the highway. He would tumble like a gymnast and become as bruised as a boxer. He wondered if Jhon would turn around.

Jhon talked about his job for the thirty minute ride. Alex tuned him out and continued to stare out the window. He wondered when they would talk about the elephant in the back seat riding with them. After a dozen asinine stories of uninteresting workplace occurrences, they arrived at the restaurant. Alex walked across the parking lot, hands buried in pockets and head hung low. He felt like a man walking death row.

Alex had dreaded this encounter, but after an hour of small talk, everything seemed normal. They were catching up; it reminded Alex of his high school reunion. Who saw who, who’s married, who’s working where. Alex was relaying a series of stories about his and Sam’s nightly bar-crawling.

“We fashioned ourselves as pirates,” Alex chuckled.

“Why were you drinking so much?” Alex waited a second to answer the question. He chose his words carefully.

“Are you kidding?” Alex said. “You.” Jhon looked at Alex. They were fastened to each other with an invisible beam of light that neither could look away from. A scoff escaped Alex’s lips. “You ruined everything we had.” Jhon did not respond, did not move. He cupped his hands over his mouth, and Alex could tell he was holding back tears. He never saw Jhon cry.

“What do you want me to say?”

“What can you say?”

“I would apologize, but I don’t think you would believe me… or forgive me.”

“Do you think I should?” Alex used every ounce of strength in himself to remain calm.

“I’d like you to.”

“But is it warranted?”

“I’ve given you no reason to trust me anymore.”

“So imagine that you’re me. Would you forgive yourself?” Alex said. What were once comfortable silences between them were now bulky and awkward. Alex debated calling a friend for a ride home.

“No. I probably wouldn’t.”

“Do you think I should?”

“I thought you might.

“And why is that?”

“Because you believe in the good in people.”

“You proved me wrong.”

“I’m sorry, “Jhon said.

“I understand.”

I don't have a title for this one... I used "Pane"

Light streamed through the window, escaping in a thin stream and cutting the room into top and bottom. The yellowed light of early morning pierced through Colin’s bedroom.

Colin couldn’t sleep and spent what he guessed was half an hour counting the number of holes in his ceiling. He glanced to his right to look at Amy through the corner of his eye. She was still wearing the necklace he bought her for their half-year anniversary, which they celebrated last month. He took her to an upscale restaurant with a name he couldn’t pronounce. He continued to look at her. Her eyes were closed, and a thin wave of hair rested between her upper lip and nose.

Colin forced his hand into the stream of light above him. The yellow enveloped his hand. It outlined each of his digits, making them seem lankier than they did in normal lighting. When his hand was removed, the pane of light restored itself; perfect once again.

The bed bounced slightly as Amy adjusted her position. Colin scratched the back of his neck and left it there. He turned his head toward Amy. Her eyes were framed by dark circles, and they were open just enough to allow small parentheses of brown to escape.

“Can’t sleep?” Amy said. Her voice was harsh and deeper than normal. Colin reached to the side of his bed and grabbed his khaki shorts from the ground. He felt around the pockets and found a box of cigarette. Two remained in the pack and were smashed against the foil wall by a packet of matches. The sulfur invaded his nostrils as he struck a match against the red line. He felt around for a glass ashtray on his bedside table and rested it on his bare chest. The cold of the glass flowed through his body, returning to the spot the ashtray rested. He closed his eyes and tried for a brief moment to fall into the coma of sleep.

The smoke rose in curls, twisting through the glass ceiling of light. The grey smoke transformed into a blue flame when passing through the light. The twists and turns made spirals and question marks. The light slowly became brighter as the sun rose higher. Little by little, the light in the room intensified.

Colin raised his right arm and placed it around Amy. She curled into the area he created for her. A cylinder of ash fell on his chest, just missing the ashtray. He brushed it off in the opposite direction of Amy. He could feel her warmth against his body. She was usually warmer than he was; she called him ‘my polar bear.’

Colin felt the nape of her neck, his fingers glided smoothly on her skin as gracefully as an ice skater. He traced his name, her name, and drew small pictures of flowers and stars on her skin. She looked up at him, her tired eyes searching his face.

“What’s wrong?” Her eyebrows leaned in slightly; they reached out for each other.

“Can we talk about it tomorrow?” His whisper was louder than he expected, and he was startled by the sound of his own voice. Amy withdrew from Colin, propping her head on her hand. Her elbow forced an indentation into the mattress.

The smoke filled the room as Colin extinguished his cigarette. The red embers exploded in the ashtray. A thin line of smoke drifted upward, no deciding on a direction to float. It gently billowed across and through the blade of light. The angle had shifted with the height of the Sun. It moved lower in the room, closer toward the bed; the separation of top and bottom became increasingly disproportionate.

Colin was trapped in a crystal case; wall and Amy to his sides, bed below, and the light ceiling slowly caving in on him. He mimicked Amy’s position, mirroring her elbow and hand placement.

“No, we can’t talk about it tomorrow,” she said. Colin wiped away the small beads of sweat from his head, taking all emotion with it. He tried to engage her in a silent conversation. His eyes focused on her pupils, not moving, not flinching. He tried, but could not feel her budging.

“Nothing’s wrong.” He knew that it did not convince her. His elbow gave out like a pillar under a pier. The dock crashed into the water. He buried his head into his pillow.

“I thought we were past the petty lying.” The bed bounced again as she shifted to her right side, facing away from Colin.

The light faded from the room; the overcast day diluted the sun. It faded in and out, finally becoming bright again. The thin stream brightened the entire room. The smoke had mostly dissipated. The clouds had escaped through cracks in the window and ceiling, free at last.

The light was bright on Colin’s face. He squinted, trying to save his eyes from the harsh morning. He sat up and rested his elbows on his knees, his palms digging into his eye sockets. He turned to the left and placed his feet on the small island between wall and bed. The light was not dividing Colin, his top and bottom detached with contrast.

“I have to go to the can.” He sauntered to the door, barely keeping balance.