May Day

I wake up this morning and I sit in bed and I hope and I pray something Like this: Please, Jackie, please bring me coffee. I always want coffee, so it is never far from my mind; therefore, not an unusual thought, but my neighbour has only brought me coffee four times in eight months, so hoping she would be my supplier seemed futile. I do not want to drink that packet of instant-decaf lurking in the back of my kitchen cupboards.
I hear amazing is a word that is used wrong a lot. Apparently, things like crab apples bombing and breaking your cell phone and your sister's new hair-do are not amazing things. But whatever: when I received a text less than 15 minutes later from Jackie asking if I wanted some of her coffee because it was stunning; the best ever made pot, I thought it was amazing. And the coffee? Well, it was amazing too.
And so was the morning front porch: the sunlight. The blue sky. The trees and the leaves and what? Why would anyone care about dandelions, Jackie? It's spring, we cheer.
And my early afternoon nap? My soft blanket? My new fan tickling my feet? Good rest and pleasant sleep. C'mon now, everyone things that's amazing. Right? You know it's true.
And the soup, my wonderful and creamy potato soup, and the after-supper coffee, and the car ride: where no one in my family argued about a goddamn thing. All fucking amazing.
Sitting outside in a cozy blanket, under a midnight sky, writing this silly blog post though is by far the most incredible moment of my day. I used that word right, right?

Something of Nothing

We watch the news and she laughs about the wars. They ways by which we legally and morally kill each other Everyday. Cleverly, she says inappropriate things to catch me off-guard. She likes to watch the shock on my face; I know it, but it comes out anyway. I gape. And then she'll laugh at me, and I know she does not really mean it-but sometimes I am certain she's evil.


She goes to work early just to brew a fresh pot of coffee for the early newspaper readers. There is only 6 of them these days. All of them are older than 50. This should make her sad, but the younger people come in during the evenings to sit with the 6 computers. As she wonders around her library, she sees them studying.


They add her to Facebook. Two or three, sometimes ten, one time 300, each month. People she doesn't know. She adds the tally up inside her head. 1029, 1030, 1031.
Sometimes she looks at their profile. Sometimes she thinks she would like some of these people; she thinks about adding them. But she doesn't. She won't.
She tells him to add them all when she's dead.
He rolls his eyes. He probably won't.

Soul Stealers

There just wasn't any reason to hold him longer, so Tommy was released from the jail two days short from the end of October. The skies threatened rain, but the sun, a bright orb, was up for the battle against the steely grey. Tommy was waiting outside of the gates smoking the cigarette the lady guard, Bonnie, had palmed him on his way out. 'Fuck, kid, calm down. Most kids are excited to be leaving here.' She shook her head at him.
Poor fucking kid.

Tommy didn't really want to leave the jail. He liked it there. At least better than home. In jail, he had food every day and his body felt good. There was lots of time to think in jail and that was good too. He wanted a different future, one that didn't include Momma.
"Thanks for coming to get me, Momma", he still said, When she pulled herself out of the backseat of the taxi. She fussed with her hair; a brighter blonde than he had seen on her before.
"What a bunch of bastards, Tommy," she declared, as she threw herself around him, "We can sue."
"Yeah, Momma," he whispered, pushing her away, "I don't think so."
Tommy looked at her as though she were crazy. And Momma flinched. "Let's just go home," she said.
Tommy stared out the window, as they drove through the country roads. It was so nice to see trees, and houses, and cars again. He wanted to ask the driver if he could roll down his window; just to feel the air, but he did not want to make anyone else cold. It had been cold every day in jail.
Momma soon started again. "If we sue, we can talk about deplorable conditions. I am sure everything was terrible there, wasn't it, Tommy? Besides just falsely arresting you....."

Inmates pissed on everything they could. In the corner of their cells for the hell of it Most of the prisoners would not drink the coffee, but Tommy wouldn't eat the eggs or potatoes either. He knew they were powdered mixes.
(More)
It had been bad.

But Tommy just snorted out a laugh at her, "Momma, quit showing-off to cab drivers." And that had shut her up real quick.
When they were home at the entrance of the apartment building, she grabbed him by the back of his shirt, "Just get in the fucking house, Tommy," and she added, words of no thought tumbling out of her mouth; just anger. "Since you think you are a big man now, you need to start carrying your weight. And since you are mostly a good-for-nothing, I don't see how else you can come into some money to support yourself. Because that's what men do. Support themselves. So, you'll have to sue. I'm not gonna keep paying for ya.""
"Momma, all I want to do is go home and go to sleep in my bed..."
"You don't have a bed anymore," Momma said. "Until you pay some rent, you got the couch."

There was nothing for dinner that night. "Men feed themselves," she told him.

"Where are you going?" Momma asked Tommy, an hour later, when he started to put on his shoes.
"Out."
"Where?"
"Men don't need to tell people where they are going," Tommy spit and slammed the front door behind him.

His footsteps slapped the slick sidewalk, the rain came when the moon climbed higher than the sun. He kept walking anyway. He did not want to go back to Momma's. Not yet. It was after 11 o'clock when he sneaked his way down the familiar driveway.
But Minnie would not answer Tommy's raps on the window. Not even when he drummed out her favorite Judas Priest song.

He heard the car behind him and knew who it was without looking.
"Out looking for new victims?", the cop sneered; rolling down his window.
"Hey, man," Tommy answered, "I'm not looking for any trouble here."
And he kept on walking on.



*Needs to get here
-Not even in a free country were their acts tolerated
*Last Edit
February 2nd

Opaque

She doesn't know what to do. She doesn't expect this at all. She wants to cry out, instead she chokes on the heart in her throat. The very worst and the best in her life have always happened together.

She remembers it all. The fear. The anxiety. Wanting to vomit from something she could not yet describe, and from the snot. And then there is Johnny at her window. He would have been 13 years old then, and she had to have been just turning four, her birthday in late spring and she is wearing her Tuesday panties and she is warm; she remembers her hair slicked to her forehead. Sweat. Or maybe it is more blood.
God is punishing her for being disrepectful to thou parents.
Because she dropped her glass and broke it.
Because she told her mother what to do.
'Stop yelling at me!'.
And as she cried, she wondered why Mother was not going to bed right now too. And she knows god wants you to cause no one harm. And Samatha's mother had throw the butterknife at her and the blade had stuck into her head.
Samantha knows her mother hates her. And she is pretty sure God wouldn't either.
But there is Johnny, with his brown hair always in his brown eyes. There like he always was when she cried.
"Hey now, baby, everything's going to be ok..."
And the joy she felt when she looked in his eyes.

And the joy she feels when Tommy kisses her, his dark eyes and hands, they move right into her.
And suddenly she is there. Mother.
What is the reason? How is the reason...?
Samantha gets up from the picnic bench and runs.

Her family asleep and snoring as they always do. The skies were the transparent blue of a fine summer's night. She is going into the fifth grade. And she has snuck-out onto the porch to celebrate her favourite time of the day and she would end up forever wishing she could remember the name of the book she had with her; a random one pulled from under her bed, as cover up if caught.
She could hear his tears as he walked by.
And she said, "Hey, now, everything's going to be ok" and because she couldn't bring herself to say baby, her words came out sounding confident. Tough.
Or so Tommy thought. So, he toughened himself up too. Because girls,even if they were just kids, can't be tougher than him. At any time. Ever.
So, he sniffed off his tears and said back to her,"Hey, baby, everything is always ok."
And the light of the night shone over him, as if he were an Angel, she thinks.



* Needs to Get Here
-pigment used to block out particular areas on a negative
*Last Edited
-Feb. 8/12

It Figures

It would be me who cannot follow the simple Blogger templates and screw it all up, despite the fact they practically do everything for you.

I fixed the white links by repeatedly copying and pasting and retyping the very basic html code I learned years ago. From a boy. Who used to fix shit like this. And when I look over on his site, I see he is under construction and having issues with blogrolls too. The difference is that his template is so much more advanced than mine (not that I want mine to look advanced; I like it plain), but I know he will fully fix his someday--he is smart like that (despite the fact he is American). Me: Well, I will just keep banging my head and trying to steal design off blogs I like and never get it right.

And when I am fully sick and tired of doing that, maybe I will post something worthwhile.

Under Some Sort of Construction

Why are some of my links along my sidebar in f-ing white?

Sigh.

This makes me unhappy.

I am going to bed.

Read On Another Blog

Have you ever had that feeling, the one where you tell everyone that your real ambition is to write, when really all you do is read what other people write?

These Are My Words, My Neon, SIliconed, Carcinogenic Words. But This Is My Poem, My Poem About Elvis.

It was her first day in town.
Chewing on a fresh stick of gum, she was looking up and down the street; eyes sliding over the bustle of sweat and sin.
'Little girl lost?' I asked.
And she sighed.

I would say to her over and over again on that first day,'Laugh with me, Jenny,"
And sometimes she would.
Especially when I made my funny faces at her.
She would try not to; she would just roll her eyes at me, but that smile would come. White teeth and soft lips.
And then she would laugh and laugh and laugh, until her body shook and her hair was covered her eyes.
And I would want to kiss her and kiss her and kiss her...
But I dared not try.

I took her to see the kittens down at Paul's pet store.
She held them close to her, rubbing them with her face, but she fancied the talking bird more. He said, "Hi, beautiful," when he saw her. Really, to any woman walking by, but she did not know.

I took her down to see Bruno and his lunch-time sound; strumming his guitar and sucking his cigarette like there was nothing else to better to do. Washing the melody down with tequlila and rum. We sat in the corner and she leaned her head and her body against me. She closed her eyes. "Music is the best thing in life," she said. And it seemed to me an uncontestable truth.

I took her to Wagner's and she tried on all the pink shoes and I bought her a pair of 25 cent flip-flops and she hugged me and after that we held hands and I took her down to the beach; grit between our toes, swelter of skin.

And then back up to Sam's. He smoked with us a joint, in his tiny room, and we were mellow. When he told us the weed came from Wisconsin, she laughed with him.

We skipped over to Joey's and we ate some fish and when I tried to feed her elegant little bites from my fork, she was laughing with me again.

And when we left, I told I was sorry for all the walking and she said, 'Who owns a car? I came by bus.'

I took her back to Sam's for the night; there wasn't anywhere else to go.
I heard her in his arms that first night. I heard the soft whispers and moans.
I heard his voice.

Well, fair exchange bears no robbery,
And the whole world will know that it's true.
Understanding solves all problems, baby,
That's why I'm telling you

And on that second day, she would say over and over again, 'Laugh with me, Paul.' And sometimes I would, but only when I thought about the crabs Sam handed out to everyone.

I took her down to the graveyard. We read the old stones and I stole flowers from them to put in her hair. And when she went to pee behind some bushes, I ran off, back down to Bruno's, back on the prowl.

Later This Week

Perhaps I will just ignore my Dashboard for awhile longer. Blat on about my days or nights. I used to do that here too.

Get used to the feel of the keyboard under my fingers again. You know, write more than the 140 character twit.

It's not that I am empty. Just dissatisfied. And then, not even with everything.

There is joy in my life.

And it is springtime in Canada.

Always a good time for new beginnings.

Flexing

It's rarely quiet in my home these days. Even now as 2 am closes in around me the television blats in the background; more of William and Kate. I should be in bed. Children always wake early on a Sunday. Why is that? I remember sunny days and being out the door by 7 o'clock myself. The new dew soaking my sneakers, the cool breeze of early light.
Life used to be more than about the Everyday. More than going through the motions of the mudane tasks. It used to be about more than just breathing.
It was just a few years ago when the police officer pulled over Charlie and I on one of our middle of the night drives thinking he was a dirty old man with a teenager in the car. Now I look in the mirror of my 33 year old self knowing rationally that I am not all that old, but I can see the subtle changes in my features. I am aging. Somedays it consumes me. Enough Somedays that it is becoming the mundane too.
I used to think I could live on into the immortal with my words. One of my old Everydays took up too much of my time. Then I started doing things like smoking my cigarettes outside. And then I felt a sense of cynisism and bitterness start to set in. The lack of new and exciting. Just the same old. The same old. The same old.
I guess I'll start with a draft or two sitting in my long neglected Dashboard...

Blank Slate

I have no idea what this blog will be turned into over the next little while. No idea if I can go back to creating the worlds of long ago. Or if I am capable of creating new ones.

Sometimes life happens and you forget.

3000 Miles to Nowhere

Mother complained, “When are you coming home?” And Father complained too. “The only part of Canada without decent skiing. Your mother is driving me nuts.”
“My parents are dead,” she told him, serenely, as though thanking God.

He constantly wanted to brush her hair out of her face, but she would fuss, even swear at him when he tried. “Please, don’t.” “Will you fucking stop?” But he would forget so easily, maybe on purpose, he was always just wishing to see her face, to see her burning eyes staring back into his. She found it rude to stare. She told him so. She liked to sneak glances at people who were unaware of her. Or at least unaware of her eyes on them, her hanging limp hair serving a purpose.
He was in love with her. He told her all the time. But she saw it in his eyes, his movements, heard it in his voice and his everyday words, felt his actions, those of concern and care. She could see and recognize and accept his feelings. She could not be sure she felt the same. Of course, she knew she loved him, but she had learned long ago that butterflies and blushes and sex do not equate to in love. She wondered really if there were such a thing as in love anyway, or if it was just all about hormones and stupidity. He acted stupid lots.
She approached everything in life differently these days, down to even the most commonplace of acts; she started brushing her teeth in the kitchen. Unless he was over. She did not want to make anymore mistakes. She did not know if she would ever want the things he did. He knew it too, but he was determined to prove himself worthy of her. She wondered if she would ever know happiness again. He endured her moods and her hysterics and her distain, so he could show it to her. It would take some figuring out, he assured her, but he was certain he could do it. “Just you wait.”


“Go away,” she would tell him, when he hovered over her, like a mother-hen.
“I just want to be near you. Make sure you’re okay,” he would reply.
And this would irritate her further. “Go away,” she would repeat.
And he would.
And when he was leaving, he would say, “This wasn’t enough. I’ll be back soon.”
She would never know if she should love him more or less for this.


She did not have pets of her own, but she loved cats, and fed the neighbourhood strays, and a few of the ones with homes too. If she had ever doubted animals spoke to each other, she knew for sure now they did. She wondered what they had named her place. Suckers Inn. They would come and meow at her window announcing their arrival and some would run away when she opened it to place the bowl of food outside, leaving it open in case they wanted to come in. Sometimes they did.
He brought the cat food over now; she refused to leave her home. He brought her food too, that she would refuse to eat most days. He cooked anyway. He brought her the Bic pens and she chewed on their lids, but she seldom used them otherwise, unless to do numbers. He brought her the drinking straws that she would chew between cigarettes, and the cigarettes, he brought them too, even though the smell and taste upset and disgusted him. He sat in her gloomy, smoky living room and watched old black and white movies, or did nothing, nothing at all, waiting for her to look up at him and glare or smile. He would bet against himself. If she smiles, I will do my dishes when I gets home, if she’s all bitchy, I will do hers….
Somedays, she would not say a single word to him. Everyday, she would mumble and laugh to herself, as he watched her pencil fly across the paper, or her fingertips glide over the keyboard, and he would wonder, What are you writing? He would leave little notes all over her apartment. She placed them carefully in photo albums (he did not know) or some she placed on the bathroom mirror, and she would write back to him in lipstick…

Fuck you.

Eat shit.

Go home!!!!!!!!!!

Sometimes with a heart, and sometimes not.

One night, Jimmy told him, “You’re nothing but a whipping boy.” And maybe Jimmy was right. But since he did not have other whipping boys to compare himself to, he did not take Jimmy’s words too seriously. Besides, he slurred them when he said them. “You should go talk to that blonde.” Jimmy pointed to a tart all permed and in hot pink and heels.
“I think the Jimster should take this one,” he offered back.
They tipped their beers at each other, as Jimmy and his boots swaggered off.
He would inevitably wind up at her window after a night out with Jimmy, and she would let him in. His kisses forceful, wet and all teeth; she would push him away and then once he slowed down she would give into him, barely uttering a sound, as he moved within her. And unavoidably, he would cry real tears. “Please…Please…” And she would really cry too. “I love you. I do. I love you. For always.” He would hold her desperate, and pretend to believe she meant more than what she was saying.

For Caerleon

"I have let down the blood in several places, and applied the dressings to the wounds. Keep them in place for an hour. He will be comfortable now, but he will not last the night." He touched her shoulder briefly, as he continued shuffling down the great hall, letting himself out.
She rushed to the windows and looked into the early evening light.
Something was so good about these lands. Something so good, it overwhelmed her sometimes. Made her sick to her stomach.
And they are to be mine now.....
She didn't want them.
Of course she didn’t. She was only seventeen, and she had never left the walls of Caerleon. She wanted to rebel, to be free.
She had wept on her father's chest for the last three nights in a row, but not for his coming death.
"Find a husband," he had croaked out his solution, while he smoothed her hair away from her face.

She had almost left Caerleon once. When the dark-haired stranger had shown up in town. He had slept with the horses like any other wanderer passing through. He was one of the few who had ever dared speaking to her, not caring about his place in the world. "Want to go for a ride, lady?"
Startled by his request, she agreed before she realized the improperness of it all. But soon the rides became daily occurrences; the horses frolicking through the sun-streamed canopy of trees.
He spoke to her of another life, another time, a little hut and tamed animals and working the land with his hands.
She said, "I want to come home with you."
And he replied, "I can never go home. The Romans would find me. But we can give ourselves a new home just like it."
She believed him, and they would laugh and dance and jump in the excitement of their love. He would kiss her hand. And then her lips.
Then they would make their plans of escape.
But the lands were invaded the night before they were to depart, and he had taken up the sword for Caerleon. Saving the day. So impressed her father had been, he made him leading commander for his army; wiping out her chance for freedom. But not love.
"Here; I have found everything I have ever wanted to be," he whispered in her ear.

She mourned for three days after her father’s death, before addressing the people of Caerleon. Meeting them out in the street, they soothed her soul with soft murmurs; taking turns to touch her hands, and she soothed theirs with her words. "I promise you Caerleon will always be as it always was."
And they cheered accolades for her and the land.
But she had only told them half the truth.

Life Is More Than Who We Are

If she wanted it that way, then it was going to be that way. It had to be that way. There was no other way.
Everything was black and white. Even if others did not want to admit it.
Did it mean she felt an overall bleakness towards the foibles of humanity--no. Did it mean she escaped overwhelming emptiness sometimes--no.
She was twenty-three years old when she left her hometown. She would not return. She knew she looked at everyone differently; she saw the things others did not, chose not. She knew their truths better than they did and they could read it on her face; she could hurt them with it. Sometimes, she did.
She did not want to be cruel anymore.
She left for somewhere new. Things would be better.
And they were. In Los Angeles. That's where she went.
Some nights she would dance in her living room to ZZ Top or paint pictures of fairies and Snow White on the cardboard of cereal and Hamburger Helper boxes.
When it rained, she would put on blue jeans and her favorite sweater, sit on her apartment balcony, coffee mug in hand, and call the day her own.
It was selfish, her whole life, she did not care.

Sincerely, he was a good man. A good-looking one, with lips that could pout. The kind of man all women look at. Her first true lover.
Three days after moving to Los Angeles, she met him. She had told him her name was Susan, and it was not. She did not think he would call her, when she left him her number in the morning.
But he did before she even arrived home.
It began as purely sexual. Sometimes she would stroke the side of his face after lovemaking, and think, "I hope you are my toy too."

And then it changed.
He liked her.
She liked him.
And she let it go on.
She told herself, 'I will end this next week.', 'On Tuesday', 'I will just stop answering the phone', but it was as if she never really heard herself.
Until one night, she was drunk, she told him.
And he asked her to leave; he did not ask her real name.

She worked harder than most out there, and cried herself to sleep listening to old Elton John records.
They found her 'refreshing', and she knew in this day and age, she was just a novelty that would soon wear off. She was twenty-eight and a half when she wrote and directed her first feature film; 'raw', 'honest', 'painfully truthful', they said.
She told them her name was Linda, and it was not.

Punks

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high. When Daddy came home drunk again on Friday night, she waited in the kitchen playing Solitaire, until she could hear him snoring.
Creeping through the house and then into her parent's bedroom, Minnie knew she would find her father's pants on the floor beside the bed. The glow from the hallway bathroom provided the light for seeing into her his wallet.
Shit. There were no tens.
Oh, well. She took a twenty.

When Tommy saw Minnie on the other side of the glass, his heart leapt into his throat and he was so happy he wanted to cry. He put his hand on the glass and waited for her to put her hand up against his, and when she did not, he sat down.
He picked-up the phone and said to her, "Why haven't you come? Have you been getting my letters?"
She shrugged. Brushed her hair from her eyes and for the first time really looked into his.
"Oh, Minnie. I'm so glad you're here..."
Her eyes were empty of emotion.
"Aren't you happy to see me?" he asked, and then he whisper rushed into her ears, "...Minnie, I love you..."
But nothing changed. Her eyes stayed blank.
"Oh my God, you think I killed her! Please, don’t do that…”" Tommy cried.
And she charged him, "I saw you with her, Tommy. I saw you with her."

Scars Are Souvenirs You Never Lose

Punks

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high. But stoned or not; even asleep, Tommy's words would come back to haunt her.

Dear Minnie,
How could you leave me here to rot? How could you not come see me? You must think I did it too. Well, fuck you, Minnie. FUCK YOU!!!!!!
Tommy

She cried and cried everytime she read the letter; and she could do almost nothing else but. She wanted to go see him, but she was too scared.
Climbing through her bedroom window late, Minnie walked the all-night over and over again.
And waited for the next visit from Officer Rialian. He stopped by every other day.

She did not go to school. She stayed in her room and her mother never came down the stairs to notice. She erased the school's messages from the answering machine every day, before her father came home, until the one day, Daddy stayed home and Minnie had to go prentend going to class. And when she came home Daddy was waiting for her, with an envelope in his hand from the school. Thirty days missing. One more day and she would be expelled.
And he hit her.
He hit her.
He hit her.

Her return to school was the news of the week.

in excelsis Deo.

It's winter here again and I don't like it. I should have headed back home years ago; back to the sunny days and the warm basking bodies, but I just stay here year after year instead. I lie to my mother. "Yeah, Mom! I love it here! You should see the polar bears…" and all that other bullshit. Fuck. I really thought it would be cool; that I would get to see some penguins and shit. Well, I haven’t seen a fucking penguin yet. How did I end up here? I mean, what kind of guy just up and says, "Hey! I am gonna move to Canada!" And not just to Canada, but way fucking up north Canada? I am an idiot. I swear it snows eight months of the year up here...

So, I sit at home a lot and there is nothing ever on television anymore. Flick. Flick. Flick. Flick the channels. That’s what I do until I want to swear and yell and throw the remote against the wall. But if I did that I would break the fucking thing and then I would have to stand in front of the TV to flick, flick, flick the fucking channels...And fuck that. It’s bad enough I have to clean the satellite of snow almost every day. At least I do not pay for all this bullshit: reality TV craze and Oprah Winfrey and fucking Anderson Cooper, I steal my satellite signal. Too many bad things are happening. On the TV. In books. In the paper. No one wants to hear about anything else but the bad and then we all sit around bitchin’ and maonin’ and fucking wondering why we aren't happy. Fuck. I am guilty of it too. And then we will all smile at each other, when we would rather scream; never genuine. Yeah. Everybody wants to get good on everybody, but nobody wants to do any of it. Upward and onward, my friends...

Hell. It's like that up here in Canada too. Sure, these good ole boys would take their shirt off their back for you, but no one is paying Peter to feed Paul. Everybody’s greedy everywhere. Even I came up here because they offered me fifty thousand dollars more a year than what I could make anywhere back home. Fifty thousands dollars. I can do a lot with that, I thought. Stupid scholarship student who had forgotten every word they taught him, except the promise of wealth. Fifty thousand dollars more a year don't mean shit. It means even less up here. What the fuck am I gonna spend it on? The fucking bowling alley? No thanks, I'd rather drink alone...

Yeah. So, I stay here. I don't go home for holidays. "I am needed here, Mom! People are fucking freezing to death! A lot of Indians like killing themselves around this time of year!" Happy cheer and a Ho-Ho-Ho. I send her a check for ten thousand dollars every Christmas and I think she would rather have that instead of me home anyway. It pays for her hair and her nails and all that other useless shit my mother likes to do with herself. None of it helps her find a husband...

Up here, there is two kinds of women. Those empty-headed fatties who wear their tops too tight showing off their giant stomach rolls and...it's gross. I know there is nothing better to do but sit around this fucking place, but still...I have standards. The other half are skinny, pale and soulless. Be Marilyn. Be Farrah. Be fucking Paris Hilton. Anyone but yourself. Fake blonde is even dumber than natural blonde, but who the fuck is gonna tell them that? I spent the first five years up here wanting to smack every single one of them; wanting to watch their heads shatter like glass…until I forgave them for doing nothing about who they are; for living the way they do. Realistically, who the fuck wants to be Canadian? Of course, they have to pretend to be something else…

Probably over half of the people up here are on some sort of welfare. It barely covers their rent. Barely gets them that case of beer. No one can afford electricity. So two years back, I am in bed one night, when I start to feel bad that I have all this extra money just sitting around and there are all these sad Canadian people and their pathetic children going without and I start thinking of myself as a would-be hero. I devised a plan. I was gonna be fuckin’ Boogie Woogie Santa Claus! Goddammit. I was going to give-away that extra fifty thousand dollars a year! And it’s the first time I can jerk-off in over a year and a half. And then I go through the records the very next day and I decide that the nine families that have lost a parent to murder or suicide are going to be the recipients of my money. Five thousand, five hundred, fifty-five dollars and fifty five cents. Five is my favorite number…

And I did it too. I gave away all that money away. On Christmas Eve, almost four o’clock in the morning, I was parking my truck on the outskirts of town, so no one would see me sneaking around. I hummed Christmas carols when I could get away with it and went through a few windows to put my envelopes under the tree when I could get away with that too. I felt all the joy forgiveness promises to bring. But with forgiveness also comes sacrifice. I could see her walking into town from half a mile up and I think that I should hide. No one is allowed to see Santa Claus. She doesn’t see me...

And Ang and I are the first on the scene that morning and we are there late into the afternoon before anyone else shows up. Ang brings a thermos of hot chocolate and a thermos of coffee and some Christmas cookies. And I realize that I have brought nothing. I realize she is the only one who ever brings something. I tell her I am sorry for being selfish-Merry Christmas- and she laughs and says, “What? Are you kidding me? You do all the driving”. And I feel better about myself because yes, yes I do do all the driving, even though we’re suppose to take turns. We only look at the girl once when we get there. And we both gag. And then cover up our honesty with lopsided smiles and jokes: “It’s was Kris Kringle,” Ang says. And I tell her, “No, one of Santa’s reindeer.” We laugh, as we head back to sit in the truck. And when the coroner finally comes, he gave us a quarter bottle of his special bourbon and burps out, "Merry Christmas, folks…", and then he clutches his chest when he sees her, straight through to his heart. “Jesus Christ…” He thanks the Lord he is alive…
And you know, I thank Him everyday too. I thank Him for the food on my plate and for the fact I’m alive and the fact some others aren’t…

I tell her all this on the drive into town. A little plump Indian with large brown eyes. I tell her, “This year I gave the money to nine woman who had are being abused by their partners. Maybe they will move away.” She nods her head, “That is a good thing.” And she nods her head again when I tell her, “You know I’m gonna kill you.”

Punks

Dear Minnie,

You didn't come. I wonder why. Maybe because you thought I was going to get out on Tuesday anyway. Is your Mom sick again? I guess by now you know I didn't get out. The judge did't show-up for court and the other one was on vacation or something. My lawyer was freaking mad. He was jumping up and down and stuff. He said "We'll get those fuckers! We're gonna fucking sue!" He's a crazy guy. He gets so excited I swear he is gonna have a heart attack. But he also says for sure I will get out for Monday. They only have proof I was drunk. I want you to come see me on Saturday even though I am getting out on Monday--no matter what. Promise? The guys are cool here and all but I really want to see someone from home. I want to see you.
Did you go to the funeral?

Love,
Tommy

Comfort and Joy

And now it's thirty years later; she's almost 40 and she is lonely and sometimes she shakes her head and she wonders, Why, why, why am I so lonely? And then she remembers why.
It's Daddy. She buried him five years a go. And good.
She showed-up early in the morning and asked the diggers, if she could help. And they let her.
She took off her heels and shoveled dirt till the end.

Back when the summer shone everyday, she would run around or ride her bike, or swim in the lake with her friends, or run into the bush and meet up with Tyler Johnson and she would let him kiss her and she would let his tongue slide around all inside her mouth, or sometimes, she would just hang-out with her brother.
However, he was mean, as brothers can be, and he would do mean things to her- like hold her head under the lake’s water too long or practice his karate moves on her-and she would cry to her Mom, "Make him stop." But she never would.
No one ever listened to her. That's what she thought.

Into the middle of the night, the Christmas lights that covered the Johnson's trailer would shine too, and she could see them from her bunk, at bedtime. She would watch them blink on and off, and sometimes she would squint her eyes, so all the colors would blur together. She loved the lights.
She loved the Johnson's trailer. It was shiny in the daylight too. Mr. Johnson had spray-painted it bright green and yellow and he called it his John Deere. And that would make Daddy snort. He said the only thing Mr. Johnson ever farmed was pot.
But she knew that wasn't true. Drugs were not something good people did.

On Independence Day, there would be a street party and the park would light up, everyone was merry and red. Dancing and laughing. To Bruce Springsteen. The Doors. Duran Duran. Olivia Newton-John.
She thought it was the best time.
Until the year Daddy punched Mr. Johnson in the mouth. It was late, like 10 o'clock and she was tired and she almost did not believe it. But her Daddy did it.
And some of the folks even clapped.

Tyler met her in the woods the next day anyway.
"I'm sorry 'bout what my Daddy did." She did not even say hi.
"It's not your fault," he said. "Your Daddy knocked out one my Daddy's teeth."
And she could feel her body fill with shame. She was gonna cry.
"No-no," he said, grabbing her shoulders. "Don't worry, Emmie. Look at me. He's all excited about gettin' a gold one."
He hugged her.
And that's when they heard, "Get your filthy hands off my daughter.
It happened so fast.
Tyler let go and Daddy rushed him.
And Tyler fell. His head cracked open on a rock
And she couldn't or wouldn't scream.
He grabbed her by the arm, "We gotta walk outta here."
And they did.
And no one ever blamed Daddy.
Not even Mr. Johnson.

Punks

Thursday Afternoon

Dear Minnie,

I have been here for three full days now. The lawyer says he’ll get me out Monday. He’s a pretty cool guy. He goes on about how the cops are the real rats and they’re all corrupt and he tells me we will nail those bastards to the wall. He makes me laugh. It's fucking great. Most of the time I spend playing cards with some of the guys or drawing tats in my cell here. I have given some of my flash to some of the guys here. A few already have some tattoos. Mostly stuff they have done to themselves here. Mostly without color. Mostly terrible. But that's okay. A whole bunch of the them said they would come see me to have them covered up when I set up shop. If they all show-up, I have figured out I’ll make 6000 dollars so far. That's fucking awesome. I can't wait until I am old enough to apprentice. Birdie says she'll teach me, but she doesn't think I will want to do it for very long. Says I will probably give up. Don't you think she's crazy? Old people forget about destiny, I think. I do not know why I am writing about all the stuff I’ll just be telling you on Saturday. Just excited about it, I guess. It's not too bad here in the joint really. Someone cooks me three meals a day. And I get a clean jump suit everyday. They are orange. You would probably love them. The guys told me not to drink the coffee here cuz the guards like to piss in it, but I do not like the shit anyway. I'd rather be drinking something else. The worst thing is I can't smoke in here. I want one all the time. I will probably tug out all my hair before I get out. I'm not joking. There is some weird Mormon kid with big ears in here. Some of the guys says he's here for fucking a sheep. I am not sure I believe that. But the kid is pretty creepy. All pale and stuff. There's two black kids with AIDS here too. I wish you could see them, Minnie. But this is no place for a girl. I never want to see you here. No, that is not true. I DO want to see you on Saturday. I just mean I never want you to have to come here as a prisoner. I am not gonna be coming back here either. I miss outside. They do not let us out here. I guess I miss that even more than i do a smoke.
They're starting to let kids outta their cells for supper so I gotta go.
I meant what I said in the park that night.

Tommy

The Slush-Pile Reader

Daryl wanted to touch Marissa's boobs. “I am gonna have to let him soon,” she told Miguel. “I have been his girlfriend for 2 months now.”
Miguel told her, “I think that’s gross.”
But Marissa did not care much about what Miguel thought. She stuffed her training bra with socks and she made him lay down on the bed beside her anyway. And he obeyed his older sister because knew she could kick the shit outta him and no one was home to save him.
“Touch my boobs,” she demanded. And when he did, his sister started making low moaning sounds. Miguel did not know why she was doing that, but it made his penis hard, and although his penis had been hard lots of times before, this was infinitely more exciting.
After that, whenever the parents were not home, it would always be time to ‘practice’. It was not long before Marissa was making him touch and lick her real boobies. It felt good to press himself against her body, while she was writhed her own beneath him. It lasted for half a year, but then it was done, his sister never made him touch her again. And Miguel missed touching her terribly. But he never told her that.

Every now and then, Miguel's father would let him come downstairs to hideout. They would watch wrestling, on the television, without any of the women yapping around them. Sometimes they would play a few games of pool, and sometimes, Miguel's father would let him have a beer. Or two.
Miguel liked it when his father would go upstairs, to use the washroom, because Miguel could play with the ashtray that sat on the bar and not get caught. It was the image of a man; a Budweiser can for a body. The ashtray was worn as headdress that reminded Miguel of what Julius Caesar would have worn. When you lifted the ashtray off, presumably to clean it out, the can of beer would rise up and a large red penis would pop from out from underneath it. Miguel could lift off the ashtray over and over again and always want to laugh, but sometimes he would wonder why the penis was so red.
Miguel liked it better when his father would go upstairs, to answer the telephone, because he knew his father kept his dirty magazines underneath the sofa. Often he would see them spilling out from the sides. Miguel was twelve and a half years old the first time he took one his father’s magazines. He would hide them under his shirt, inside the waistband of his jogging pants, his jeans, and once his leather pants. He would look at the pictures; by candle-light, late at night, in his bedroom, and he would remember ‘practicing’ with his sister, his fingers touching the glossy images of boobs. He liked the centerfolds best. The larger the boobs, the more of his hand he could use. Carefully; he did not want to rip the pages of the magazine. He did not want to get caught.
And because Miguel could read as well, he soon learned how to pleasure himself too.

Daryl broke-up with Marissa and she had spent the next three months crying and eating and locking herself in her room. “Leave me alone…just leave me alone…” she had moaned through the door, and for the most part, everyone would. She stopped going to school and after a few weeks of phone calls from the secretary, the principal and her history teacher, even they became willing to accept her request. But finally, the parents had enough of Marissa and her ‘attitude’. They enrolled her in fat camp.
Miguel got to stay home, instead of going with them, on the long ride to drop her off. And after an hour of being alone, Miguel ventured downstairs to the magazines. And an hour after that he found his father's pornographic videos. He set the alarm on his wristwatch. Then he hit rewind and play all day.
Her jerked off twenty-seven times, in just under 11 hours. He could not get off more than 9 times. He wondered what was the wrong with him. Miguel did not know yet that this was an amazing feat, nor did he realize the implications this would have later in his life. But he did know pain the next morning, he doubled over getting out of bed and looking down at his red penis, while he peed, he realized he and the beercan-ashtray man were idiots.

By the time Miguel was sixteen, he had his own modest assortment of pornographic material. His best friend, Fernando, had connections and money. Enough money that he hired Miguel to do drops for him. And Miguel was happily paid with porn and little bits of coke. Fernando’s nickname was Gopher. It should have been Hustler. Fernando was a good friend.
Most drops Miguel made were to women. It didn’t matter most of them were fat and older than him. They liked to share their weed and they were the girls with the biggest tits anyway. And Miguel liked doing things with tits. Grabbing them, shaking them, sucking them, rubbin’ his motherfucking face in them. And maybe it was just because those ladies were holed-up too long getting horny waiting for Daddy to come home and help feed these three damn children; but he didn’t care; he was getting to touch a lot of tit.
Sasha was the first one to let him tittie-fuck her. She was tall and black with a big, fat ass and belly rolls and a mountain of boobs. The first night he made a drop there, she had rubbed his head in her cleavage when she hugged him good-bye. Miguel had an erection for the walk four miles home. The next time he dropped her dope to her, they fucked and this worked well for the both of them for the next six months. One night, about three months in, she made the offer. It excited him. He would never have the nerve to ask for this, although he had been masturbating to the images for 3 years. He ejaculated all over her face and all into her hair, and she screamed; so angry and offended. “I am not a piece of shit, ya know?” she cried. And he had calmed her down because he knew she wasn’t, but he was really confused about why she did not like it. It was certainly not the reaction he got when he entered the porno business himself two years later though, through Fernando's connections. They asked “Lucky Rodriguez’ to do it and he did and they all likedit. He could pop quick and often. Tittie-fucking became his money shot.

Exit

Sitting in the back of the car, Tommy was sad Barbara would not allow him to get a dog. He had wanted one so bad. For so many years.
The world rolled by fast, as Dave drove down country back roads and the fields of corn sure were boring for Tommy. So he asked, "Why are all of us dressed in white?"
"It's Sunday; it’s God's Day. White represents the cleanliness that He wants us to live our lives with."
"Oh," said Tommy.
"And white clothes also keep us cool on terrible days such as today," she continued, and then to her husband, Dave, "If we put the top up, we can put on the air."
Dave laughed and reached over to pat her leg, but otherwise, ignored her.
"What does the color green mean, Barbara?" Tommy had picked his nose and was looking at a booger.

It was too hot in the church, so some of the boys had brought the long wooden pews outside and set them up along the side of the church. Most churches Tommy had been to were boring, but Tommy had never sat outside for a service, so he was a little excited. They seats were set-up right beside a river and birds were chirping everywhere and Tommy started wishing he had a gun cause then he would shoot a few, so he tugged on Barbara's hand and asked for one of those.
"I'll teach you what to hunt, Tommy." Dave laughed, thinking it was a good idea.
"Right on!" Tommy was exclaiming, as they were taking seats in the back row.
"I am glad I brought my hat today," Barbara was complaining.
And that is when Tommy noticed everything was different at this church. First off, everyone was black. And they kept popping out of their seats to clap their hands and sing. And the Preacher! He would run around everywhere, up and down and all around the congregation. Tommy could not help it. He did what they did.
"It's a mighty fine day, today. Oh, yes, it is! Our Lord gave us this day!" The Preacher was yelling. "A nice day for the water to cleanse our souls! Come and take a dip with Jesus. Won't you come?" He was looking at right at Tommy.
And oh, boy, Tommy was coming! This church was awesome! He couldn't believe they let you go swimming.
"The smell of that water will never come out of your clothes." Barbara grabbed Tommy by the back of his collar.

After church, Dave decided they would stop at McDonalds for French fries, but Barbara would not let Tommy use any ketchup on them. "Not in those clothes."
And Barbara added, "The first thing you do, when we get to the house, is move your butt to your room and get them off."
Remembering Barbara's words, Tommy was out the car door fast, when they arrived home. He heard Barbara say to Dave, "Can you believe the nerve of that preacher?"
"I think he's cool," Tommy paused to say through window, before running towards the house. He tossed over his shoulder, “I'm a quarter black."
"You mean a quarterback," Dave yelled out, correcting him.
And Tommy stopped to turn around for a second. He shook his head. "Nope. My Momma told me so all the time."
Dave and Barbara sent Tommy back to the State.

Punks-Big Mistake

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high. Mostly with other people. But that had not been happening too much lately.
There is no Tommy. There is no Krystal. There is no one who wants to know her.
Except Billiy-Boy. Always fucking Billy-Boy.
And Phillip.
And Phillip is so popular. And he is so blonde and blue eyed.
He says he will talk to her in front of others--but he doesn't; at Minnie's request.
He really wants to walk her home at night.

It surprises Minnie how much you can get to know when people claim you as invisible. She hears a lot of conversations these days.
"I bought some new lipstick..."
"That Susan Howe makes me so mad..."
"I love Patrick sooo much..."
"I love the colour. It's great, right?"
"I am gonna punch her in the face, I swear."
"I just know he is going to ask meee out."
Melaine, Sandra and Nancy; smoking, in a circle of self-interest.
And she hears Phillip isn't asking anyone out. No one at school thinks he's a fag.
"He fingered me once...like a year a go..."
"He's hot. I'd fuck him..."
"He probably has a girlfriend in Toronto. Or Paris or somewhere..."
"...A fashion model in New York City!"
and
"That's the best muthafucka out on the field. My boy!" High Five.
It was always good news about Phillip.
He doesn't deserve it. To be asociated with her.
So, when he says, "Minnie, I promise I love you...", she just kisses him or grabs his dick--whatever will shut him up the quickest.
Nobody ever says anything bad about Tommy either.

Bridging

Samantha always hated going to church. 'Thou shall not this' and 'Thou shall not that'. She felt it was pointless to be told not to do what she wouldn't do anyway. And since she turned 13 and officially too old for Sunday school, there was no escaping Reverend Patrick's rants. His very long, very loud, two-hour rants.
Not that Sunday school had really been any better. Everyone was loud there too. Poor Mrs. Chute’s voice was so high-pitched, when she yelled "Quiet!", she just blended in with the screaming kids. Samantha felt bad for her, so she hid in a corner pretending to read her Bible; a pocket-sized copy of Huckleberry Finn or The Swiss Family Robinson tucked neatly inside, while the other kids ran dizzy around the room wearing the plump, little woman out. Mrs. Chute also came to teach religion class twice a month at the school. Mostly she would teach songs and read the stories she was never able to during Sundays' classes.

At home, Samantha read other things. Things she would not bring into a church out of respect. If her parents were home, Samantha would read her school books. One time, she had been in her sister's room and found a dirty magazine filled with naked pictures of women and stories sent in by the 'readers'. After reading three of the tales, she deemed them trash. She had put the magazine back where she found it. She would never rat her sister out for anything.
But she had let Krystal know anyway. "I see you have been reading."
And Krystal had let her know too. "So what, Miss Prissy? I will tell Mom and Dad you sneak out every night to the library. Who's ass will they be burning then?"

When Samatha was twelve, she asked Tommy, "Don't ya think it is creepy...? cremation...? burning yourself like that?"
"No, I like fire," Tommy had replied. "I think I'll do it when I die."
And Samantha had been horrified. She said to Tommy, "It reminds me of....Hell."
"I'm a hellraiser, Sammy. I might as well get used to the burnin' a bit before I get there." And Tommy liked the sound of what he said. He filed it away to use again and again. It creeped out the other kids too.
But he drew the pictures for Samantha. Jesus Christ on his cross and burning flames surrounding him.
She told him, "I think Jesus was black."
But Tommy thought they would make real cool tattoos.

No Sugar Tonight

Sissy threw her cereal around the kitchen from her highchair. Milk and Cheerios hitting the kitchen cabinets, before sliding to the floor.
"I want a cookie, Tommy, I want a cookie," she wailed over and over again.
But Tommy was late and he did not answer her. Instead, he wheeled the highchair into the living room and flipped on the television; finding a cartoon.
"Let Momma sleep awhile," he warned his little sister. Momma was still asleep on the couch.
"O-tay, Tommy," she replied, and Tommy reached over and took the two-dollar bill that was on the coffee table, and he ran out the front door and to school.

The big green doors of the school were pretty big compared to Tommy. He looked up at them and then down to himself reflected in the dark glass.
Maybe I won't go to school today.
Tommy had thought this before. Sometimes as a daydreams and sometimes as bed dreams and sometimes at times like these.
Tommy hated walking into class late. Everybody staring at him.
Everybody knew mothers were supposed to wake-up.
Everybody knew if you were late to class it was because your mother didn't.
The kids hated him.
His teacher pitied him.
And Tommy knew it.

Tommy decided he would go to the arcade. He didn't think to hide from people. Instead he ran to the arcade, and it was probably because he was running that no one noticed him. Tommy was the fastest kid alive. He could even beat a cheetah.
Tommy caught his breath
He looked up and the fat guy behind the counter was staring at him.
"Whadaya doing here, kid?"
And Tommy thought the guy was nuts for asking, but he answered him anyway. "I come to play video games, sir."
"Yer not supposed to be here," he sounded angry. "Yer supposed to be at school."
And Tommy conceded, "Yeah, but it ain't like this is habit or anything."
And Joe thought that was a good point, so he didn't call anyone to tell them about the boy.
Instead, he introduced the kid as 'my friend, Tommy' to all the men that came in to play pool that day. And he let him sweep the floors for more quarters. And he fed him Slushies all day long. And because Joe had kids himself, he knew when to shout, "Tommy, school's out!"
Tommy gave up the racing game he was playing immediately and he was sad, but he hurried towards the front of the arcade.
He felt obliged to say something to Joe. He said, "Thank you, sir. I had a really good time."
And Joe wanted to smile, but instead he pointed at the boy and said in his meanest, nastiest voice, "I don't wanna see you back here for at least a month, kid."
And Joe scared Tommy a little bit, so he turned, yelling, "Yes, sir!" as he ran out the door.

Not The End

As the tears dripped down her cheeks, she looked up to find Tommy standing over her, with his hands held securely at his sides.
She could see that one fist was more bulged than the other, and before she had time to think of the trouble, he stabbed her in the chest, taking the baby, while she and the pillow fell to the floor.
There was no crying, and no gasping for air, only running out into the cold January air where Tommy slipped on the ice, landing on the same knife he just stabbed her with.
The baby could never withstand the cold, she knew this, when she looked through the window. He was only wearing his diaper and undershirt and the wind was whipping.
She turned on the outdoor light, watching Tommy for the next hour, to make sure he was still breathing.
He had stabbed clean through her left tit. No real damage done.
When the rain started coming, thick with frozen ice, she turned it off and went to bed.
She set her alarm for 4:30 in the morning.
And Tommy was easy to wake-up then, and the baby was blue then.
Inside, she drapped their bedroom blanket over his shoulders and sat down beside him.
"So,how we gonna get rid of it, Tommy?" She pointed to the playpen, where she had put the baby.
Tommy started to cry.
And Tommy started thinking. Where...?

by
jessy & Queenie

Again

I feel lonely. She thought it to herself for the 100th time that day. Even amongst the stuff of others. The stuff she would trip over. The stuff in every freaking corner. Even amongst their mutters and moans, their words, their letters. Alone.
She rationalized. She generalized. Of course, everyone secretly feels this way.
Of course, they do.

Tommy didn't pay his half of the rent again yesterday.
Of course not. She saw it coming, watching him pretending it was not.
He tried to give her 100 dollars.
"Way to go, Mr. Coporate Confrence-Call."
She was disgusted with him. With herself. She had seen it coming.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away...
She remembers the chanting voice of her first grade teacher. Mrs. McDonald. She was so old and she would move around the classroom so fast. She would go home and ask her grandparents why they did not.
She believed in that little rhyme.
She knew she was human. She knew she had to eat. And she hated the doctor.

Tommy said to her, "I could turn blue talking to you and you would still not listen."
And when she looked at him, it only confirmed the obvious.
"Get out of this house."

Daddy used to bang his fist on the dining room table and boy, it would scare the hell out of her. It was heart-stopping, scary shit.
Do you know how much fucking money the roof over your heads cost?
Do you?
Do you?
Do you?
She learned quickly to never look up. Daddy's mouth was so large. And his stained teeth were long and menacing. He looked like the wolf that ate Little Red Riding Hood's granny.
It was just smarter to keep an eye on his fist, so at least you could see when it was coming your way.

For a long time, Tommy sat in the couch, instead of leaving.
"Let's go for a drive."
"No."
"Let's go for a drive."
"No."
"I am going for a drive," he said.
And he did.
And when Tommy came home, he went upstairs to sleep, while she sat on the couch staring at the blank teleivison screen.
Because there was no cable.

She would pick up the baby when he cried. But he did nothing to elevate her loneliness. This mindless, drooling thing.
She would walk around the house holding him.
When she kicked one of Tommy's shoes across the kitchen floor, the sudden movement made the baby spit up; some of it landing on her retreating foot.
She took him over to the couch and when she was done changing him; she placed a pillow over his face.
But that is not how she killed the baby.

Suzy.

Suzy walked down the hallways, books and files clutched firmly against her chest. She caught herself clenching her teeth. She hadn’t managed much sleep the previous night. She wondered how Tommy’s exam went. She wondered if he had went through her binder. She wondered if he had looked at chapter 4. She wondered if he had looked at her handwritten notes, especially the ones written below the algebraic formulae table.

“Fuck,” she thought, as she recalled for the thousandth time the intricate heart-crossed figures with Tommy’s and Suzy’s names in it...

~by vinny~


Suzy felt like an idiot...

But Suzy was no idiot. Tommy knew that.
For a fact.
He knew damn well he had passed his test and it was only because of her. He even admitted it right on his test. He answered the essay question with their dialogue.
Suzy was the smartest girl Tommy had ever known.
He had seen the pretty little hearts and his name always written in bold, with her black pen.
And Tommy loved Suzy too.
He sat on his bed and sketched her hearts, then wove flowers of skeletons through the curves. He drew a dagger underneath. He liked his drawing.
He thought it would make a cool tattoo.

And Suzy- no, no. Suzy was no idiot.
She met Jon McDermott, after class, at the abandoned factory down by the tracks. Sun shone through the green glass, and he just stood there up against the wall.
She got on her knees and undid his pants herself.
Jon McDermott's daddy was a doctor.
Jon McDermott paid 50 bucks a pop.

"You're really smart," Tommy said to her, when he found her by her locker the next day. "All I can do is really draw."
He handed her his drawing and she blushed because of the hearts.
"It'd make a real cool tattoo," Tommy told her. "You want to hang out for a bit after school?"
And Suzy agreed, but was not even sure if she had said yes or only nodded her head.
Tommy asked her where she would like to meet after class, with a shrug and a 'Anywhere.'
And feeling like an idiot again; Suzy couldn't even stop herself, she asked, "How about we meet down at the old factory?"

Look What You've Done

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high. And man, she wished she had a joint right then. But she had rolled up all the roaches for Tommy earlier.
Minnie could feel her heart starting to race again, she felt like she was going to puke again. She raised her hand to cover her mouth. But it smelled of river water and rotting wet leaves.
She could not stand the smell of the summertime creek stained to her hands.
And Minnie puked again.
And Minnie swallowed it again.
Her eyes burned worse than her throat. She did not let a drop out of anything out.
What if they could use her vomit to figure out she was there? Through DNA or something? That thought would rise up much higher in her throat and it was strong enough to make her swallow.
But not strong enough to make her leave the park.
She knew a joint would give her the courage.
She just walked in circles.
Until she saw him.
He was there. Sitting with his head propped up against the seat of a bench and sleeping; a large bottle of vodka stuck between his legs
"Tommy, you gotta get up." She bent down to speak loudly in his ear, when she reached him.
And Tommy opened his eyes.
"You gotta go home." Minnie tugged on his shirt. "Come on."
And Tommy smiled at her and he pulled her over close to him, so her head was on his chest and he said, "In a minute, Minnie...in a minute."
And her clothes were so wet and she was so cold, and he was sleepy warmth, so she stayed for a minute.
"I love you, Minnie. I promise." He muttered; hugging her closer.
“You gotta go back home then, Tommy.”
“I’ll go, if you go,” he said.
So she grabbed the bottle out from between his legs and said, “I am taking this with me” and she brought the half empty bottle up to her mouth and she closed her eyes. Liquid white tore down the back of her throat.
Minnie did not kiss Tommy good-bye. Instead she warned, “You better leave”, and then she turned and walked away.
And Minnie did not look back.
When it started to rain, it did not make her feel clean. She stopped and tried throwing her head back and stretching out her arms, but she knew she did not have the right to.
She knew she could forget every minute of the night.
Even Tommy telling her he loved her. Her mother had warned her a long time ago, to never believe a drunken man saying that shit.
So instead, she just kept on walking home and thinking about the DNA that might collect in pools of water.
She drank the other half of the bottle.
And when Minnie got home, she washed it carefully with warm water and dried it with a dish towel, placing it under the sink with Daddy’s collection of empties.

The Best Part Of My Day

Driving around and it is late and we were drinking cold things that will only keep us awake.
But a cop starts following us anyway.
And five blocks later, he turns turns on his cherries, and Charlie says a swear word and we pull over. The cop drives his car along side us, and windows are rolled down.
And the cop he just stares.
And stares.
And then says, "How old is she? You're looking a little young to be out."
I stated my age at the same time Charlie, the asshole, was stating how old I was gonna be.
The cop says, "No shit?" And I let him know I loved him.

They Just Slip Away

She thought the baby would come, but it did not.

Matthew was in her car, parked behind the laundromat. He sat sideways, with his feet propped up on the dash. He smoked cigarette after cigarrette. Her 11-month old son was sleeping in the backseat. The front passenger side window was open, but just a crack. It was pissing down rain outside.
He had met her almost six months a go. She was almost five years older than him. And three months pregnant.
And he didn't care.
He worked the afternoon shift. Drove the forklift, for cans of soup. Brought home his pay check.
And he had cable TV and cigarettes. All the time.
She was easy to get along with.
He had decided love was only an action. And anyone could act.

She thought the baby would come, but it did not.

He drove them out to a country road. It was after two in the morning. It was no longer raining. And it felt so good, to be behind the wheel, driving too fast. He rolled down the windows. He felt the dampness of the June night right down to his bones.
And he could do this, just drive, if he wanted to.
Yeah.
He could just drive.
She would let him too.

She thougth the baby would come, but it did not.
So, they wheeled her into the operation room.

Matthew went back to town. Pulled close to the curb, outside of the bank. At the ATM, he emptied out all but 100 dollars.
Smoking cigarettes the whole way, he took Dustin to Chicago first.
He called her seven days later.
'Where are you?' is what she asked.
And he told her.
So, she walked the mile to the bank. She ached every step. She carried her new daughter in her arms.
She put the twenty-five dollars back into the bank account, so he had enough gas money to get home.
She knew he thought love was an action. He had told her so once or twice.
She had told him she thought love was a want.
When he arrived home, they had sex.
Three months later, Matthew quit smoking.
And he took off with Dustin again.
Because he wanted to.

Tommy, 13

Tommy grasped his hair in exasperation as he flipped his notes furiously.
The clock was ticking fast.
“I’m never going to make it in time,” he thought. “Only 4 hours till the exam.”
He took out a stack of notes, crisp sheets of paper filed neatly in a binder. The name “Suzy” was penciled smartly at the top, happy pink drawings of flowers as decoration. The little hearts that accompanied the flowers caught his attention. He raised an eyebrow.
And then he wondered with disgust how the girl has her head in the clouds.
“Chapter 4, chapter 4,” mumbled Tommy. He frantically turned the pages. He froze in horror as he found the right one.
“…the fuck?”
He examined the scribbling, shaking his head slowly, like some imbecile.
And then Tommy fished out an eraser quickly...

~by Vinny~


He scrubbed the pencil lines off of the page. Erased her name.
Tried to erase the picture of her in his mind.
He tried focusing on the fast ticking of the clock; reminding him he had work to do. Tried remembering that he was in a library and he should be reading. Like everyone else. He tried thinking about Suzy. How she would be there in 20 minutes, and how he needed to know something. But everytime he looked down, he saw the imprint of her name left behind on the page.
Read Chapter 5, he thought. And he flipped the pages, until he found it.
But it did not work. He just could not stop thinking of her. And he did nothing else.
Until Suzy's voice came from behind him.
"Oh, good! You are on Chapter 5!"
He turned around, in his chair, and smile at her.
And she smiled back at him and reached out to tug on his arm. "Come on. We got to get out of here."
And Tommy could not agree more.
They sat under a tree, at the park across the road.
And Suzy had a little radio. And she turned it on. "Listen, Tommy. The Berlin Wall is coming down."
"Who cares?" he replied.
"Did you even read Chapter 4?" Her eyes opened wide.
He spent the next 20 minutes doing just that.
And then he had three hours left until the exam...