Skip to main content

III

I watched them move amongst us, flint in their eyes. Watched them grab us, handle us with no care. Good. Bad. Good. Bad. Like we were the pigs. Long fingers, sinking into our flesh as they sorted us. I watched the men with pointed guns. They smiled too much, but each one of them had nice, solid arms. Everything about those armed men was so primal.
They were more alive then our soft cries and the occasional shrieks of names.
The man beside me was quiet in his black suit. I am sure he was cold.
"Are you cold?" I asked him.
And his eyes turned on me.
"I do not want to live this. I do not want to live this," he spoke.
I watched him curl in his hands, slowly. More a prayer than an act of strength.
I looked around me.
The cleanness of grey.
The dirt already in the hair of women, clothes, tattered. One young girl with a breast exposed.
And the baby left where it lay. Stepped on. Pushed into the earth.
It was too much to see, so I looked at my own hands. I looked at my husband's cane and then I closed my eyes. I had brought the cane for my own reasons. But it was the love that was harder to let go of.
When I opened my eyes, I pushed the cane towards the man in the suit.
"Do your best with it," I whispered to him.
And I watched him cry.

Comments

Jennifer said…
Wonderful Q. I'm so glad you have this gift so that we can all enjoy it.
Lilypad John said…
Heya, Queenie. I just want to say that I am really glad that you posted on my blog because I never would have been able to find your blog! Your blog is definitely a gem and I really enjoy your writing style. I have been toying with the idea of starting my own blog to do the whole "blog your novel" thing, and you have definitely been an inspiration. All I have to say is bravo and keep it up because I will be back!
Queenie said…
Mr. Forrest, sir. You are way too kind.

Q
Terrible lie said…
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
Terrible lie said…
What?.....Are you offened that i left that?

Popular posts from this blog

Unending Paper Chase

You check in on me when you get your break for lunchtime now. You never used to. You ask me, "Are you all right?" You breath in and out hard once through your nose, like it is a chore to even ask. It seems to me that for you everything is an obligation, even holding my hand. Everything you do doesn't feel like anything more than surveillance now. I don't want the days to end and it is getting harder to sleep at night. I am starting to feel sick, like I have the flu. I'm always cold. But I haven't eaten much lately. My stomach is filled with acid. I smile at you anyway. I write two letters a day. One to keep you smiling and one that tells of the truth, but they both look the same. You do not know that I form certain words and sentences in a way that triggers me, in a way that reminds me of what is real. It is something that I started doing in grade school for tests, so that I could easily remember the answers, and then later, so my mother would not underst...

Boxing Day

Countless times, on the weekends when you are here, you leave for me a stream of yellow in the bathtub. Something angled wrong in this 160 year old building. Sometimes you hit the tiles, as you whip your dick to the left to spray. Do you hold a finger over your pisshole? Do you laugh inside your head? I don't want to know. She bathes in there too.  I have been kind even letting you here. It is only because I love your father.    It is May or June, I don't remember. As sickness washes over me and the rest of the planet too, it can be easy to lose track of time. We tend to the plants, stroke their leaves and name them all. We watch the cat grow fatter, as she lolls in the sun on the stolen chair cushion she's dragged to the hard cement balcony floor. I feel like I know Gamer Chad better than myself and she complains about Jordan Peterson. She can't stand his voice.  But I am more tired and angry on weekends. I tell my her so. I tell her my solution. She tells me she...

Below One Eye

It's just a phase, the Moon says to her, when she tells him she can't sleep. Up again, at 6 a.m., tossing and turning through fitful dreams. The sort of dreams that say, You can still have this, if you want this. Weeks of them again now. They are not unpleasant, especially if she can wake herself up fast when she realises where she is. Before she sees his face. She has taken to arming herself with protection. She conjures up her older brother's face and he brings along his wife. They stand beside her and help wake her up. "But if you don't want to," her brother says, leaves the offer on the plate, "I can kill him instead." But I disagree. He doesn't want to die. And that's such a shame. It is the end of winter now. It holds on like the cat who doesn't want to be picked up. The hateful sort of cat; the kind who would spit at you instead of nuzzle. And that makes it hard. Not to want This. She has said nothing to him, that she hasn't...