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.

Giving Shit

She could not smell the gin.
She could not taste the gin.
She could feel the gin and the slow burn down to her belly every time she took a swallow.
She looked around the room and noticed her half-read Emily Bronte. She wanted to be like her.
Just like a man.
Maybe, if she were just like a man, maybe then she could forgive herself for wanting to do this. For allowing her heart to be part of this.
And then she threw out the thought completely. Stupid, men are always right; therefore, never in need of forgiveness...
“What is the matter with you?” Her mother asked her twice through dinner and Becki had been Emily Bronte then. Stone-faced, she had stone-walled her mother’s questions and asked others.
“Mother, are those new shoes?”

Edward Julian Watson had let the cold water run hard and fast earlier, so he could make juice, and now much later, he was trying to fix the kitchen faucet. The big drops of wet that had continued to hit the sink, interupted his reading now, but had not bothered him, in the least, on his way out the door for a run. Or when he returned home and watched Conan the Barbarian for the second time that day.
Looking into the living room, he noticed Orange sitting atop his copy of The International Jew.
"You better not be pissing on that, Orange!" He yelled into the next room. "I'm reading that!"
But Orange did not respond to him. Did not even look his way.
And Edward Julian Watson did not know how to fix a faucet.
So he lined the sink with a whole roll of paper towel.
He said, “Take that, bitch!”
And the sink did not respond either.
Edward Julian Watson went back to his reading.

It was a miracle she could still stand on her feet. Working all day long at the bookstore, and then walking all the way to mother's and then to her home. And with all this drinking...What was she thinking?
She was not thinking about being in Chicago; midnight the next night.
She was thinking: Maybe Mzzz. Johnson would like a drink.
So she grabbed her bottle and went downstairs to the porch.
And they laughed and they drank and she cried.
But she woke-up Friday feeling fine.

And Edward Julian Watson was feeling fine too. Styling and smiling in the hallway mirror, he snapped his fingers, before pointing at himself.
Edward Julian Watson was wearing a yellow and purple-striped golf shirt.
And he and Amy were having breakfast together.
And breakfast turned into lunch.

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.