Funeral

I watched the love of my life get married when she was nineteen years and a day old. I sat in the church and watched, watched her get married to another man. He won, I lost. She loved him more. Him and his stupid football playing arms. She said so, but not in those words. Anyway, that night I drank a whole six pack of beer and watched basic cable until it felt like my brain would explode. Or implode, as the case may be. The teletubbies will only hold one’s attention for so long before they make you want to kill yourself. Moving on, years later, though not that many, I’m sitting at home, same TV, when my mother calls. Her husband is dead, she says. I didn’t listen to how, because I was too busy picturing her there, on the other end of the line all small and wrinkled, on the old fashioned phone she refuses to replace. I say, Yes, I’m coming, I’ll go. I drain a can of Bud before I pack. She seemed to do that to me. Next day, I’m in my hometown, to find it hadn’t changed at all, none of those places ever do. So I go, dressed in black, to the funeral home, feeling dizzy from the jet lag and the incense and the crying of people around me. Then we all walk outside, a mournful herd dressed to the nines in black wool and silk, and watches the usual proceedings and there she is, all in black saying a few words over her deceased high school sweetheart. I guess once upon a time, I’d have missed him too, because he was friend, at least once. But now I can’t even conjure up a focused image of his face, and anyway I’m transfixed by how beautiful she still looks, and how even drenched in tears, she is a goddess. The coffin, small and brown, sinks into the ground and gets swallowed up by shovelful after shovelful of rich dark dirt. People leave. She and I stay. Then we walk, quiet, in silent agreement, until we come to this bench. A simple, wood and concrete thing. We sit down, her on my right. She still smells like peppermint and I think to myself, twenty-three is too young to be a widow. She says nothing, and I start to say something, but decide not to. Can’t remember what I as trying to say. Probably some bullshit like, I’m sorry for your loss. After a while, she asks what we’re doing, and I don’t answer. I look ahead and there’s this old guy by a grave. He looks at us and I think that we must look like a couple. I stay quiet, and I watch him leave, walking slowly, stooped with age and grief. After he’s gone, I ask her if maybe later she wants to grab a bite to eat. She closes her eyes and leans her head back and I notice there’s a freckle on her left eyelid. She’s considering what I’m asking, because we both know that I’m really asking to be let into her life, her heart, between her legs. The she sighs and opens her eyes, and asks if it bothers me. I ask what she means. She says, with the frantic pace of someone that needs to say it all, before the stage lights go off, the house going dim, the chance lost. Something she needs to get off her chest. “I mean does it bother you that you’re the second choice. Number two in the race. Winner by default, by forfeit.” Now it’s my turn to sigh and stew silently. I think about it, not or very long, and I tell no, because I’d rather win second place than not be in the race at all. She closes her eyes, and reaches out her hand. I meet her halfway, and put her soft pale hand in mine, and we sit there for a while. Fall is starting and some leaves have begun to turn orange. Sitting there, hunched together in shared sorrow and black clothes, a think that we must look like a real couple now. We sit there, watching the clouds, and when it’s darker we watch the stars. We feel much older than we are, and at the same time, lighter, younger. Then she opens her eyes and I see a girl in them again. She says she could go for some coffee now. She smiles, and I’m drunk on it, and life, and her peppermint smell. We leave the graveyard, still holding hands.

Red Cavalry, Day 3

I'mkind of conflicted bout the religious element in RC. On the one hand, he speaks almost respectfully of it, and of the poor ordinry worshipers, like the cook or the Jewish men that have popped up in a few stories, but on the other hand, he seems distrustful or mocking of it, like talking about the priest's betrayal, or about the drunk and messy Jews, amongst which there are "the possesed, the liars, the unhinged"(page 71). The USSR under Stalin tried very hrd to stamp out religion,which may influence the author, but I think he's trying to say that religion is like people, in a smll group of the same tye of people you find the good the bad and the ugly, as mixed up, like the unnamed Jewish journalist finds the rabbi and his congregation,which includes the apparently crazy,and the apparently good.

Red Cavalry, Day 2

I've seen that a the element of family is present in many stories, which is seen most strongly in "A Letter" where large part of the letter is dedicated to naming family members, and explores a soldier's relationship with his mother, father, and brother, as well as the relationship between soldiers. The soldier dictating the letter has no problem confiding this in the man he asks to write it, which means either he's close to the man, or doesn't care. What struck me most was he fact taht all the time he asks his mother to take care of what seems to be his dog, which I found incredibly endearing, as if the war might make him immune to human suffering and death,but he still loevs his momand his dog and wishes the best for them. He still cares, even in the most soul-killing conditions. I'm really liking this book,because while mocking, it still captures the elusive human element.

Red Cavalry, Day 1

I started Red Cavalry today, a little nervous, because I was warned about how bloody and gritty its contents is. What I noticed most when I read was the bizarre comparisons he makes like comparing the sun to a severed head. Though little wierd, this puts you into the correct mindset for the stories, all from the point of view of people living the war, and therefore seeing things in such a way. The book also somehow displays the horrific tragedy of war with a commonplace, lacksadaisical tone, which also serves to expose the psychological effect war has, shown by the solierin the first story to be rather unaffected by the fact that there was a dead body i the room, killed in front of his daughter, who as a civilian is greatly affected by this, showing the less jaded, more human loss that war brings.

Alfie

In forty seven years of good clean, obedient boy next door by the book living, I committed one single criminal offense, and this was aided by my cousin Alfie. You know the kind. That one relative that was always just no good. The bad apple, the one that woke up the family with ate night calls from the sheriff’s department. The one that would cause cop three counties over to say “I pulled over someone with this name before…” and you’d know instantly who he was talking about. Any way, the day my cousin Alfie called me, I was sound asleep in bed at four in the morning. I was twenty-two at the time, just starting up my law practice and just recently married. And you know how relatives just have to tank things like that. Early that week, I’d been invite o dinner at my Aunt Ida’s house, with Sue, my wife. Ida was Alfie’s mother. Sue and I went over, even though it was in the sticks. The house was on farmland that hadn’t been farmed in three generations. That particular branch of our family had always produced the Alfies of the clan. The house was old and rundown. The floor was muddy, and they kept a large hog in the front yard, called Walter, as a pet. Now, I have no problems with pigs, but it is a bit off putting to drive up to a white bleached sagging farmhouse, surrounded by wild growth, and find yourself staring at a large pink pig, splattered in mud, chewing something unrecognizable. My wife made a disapproving sound, but nothing else, because she also had a bad branch on her family tree, and that particular evening had included custody disputes and people pulling knives on each other. He evening itself as actually uneventful, Ida was still her robust homely self, Alfie his usual rambunctious self, and my uncle Bud was not present, as he was back in jail. All in all, it was quiet night; all we had was a small fire in the den and an altercation with a raccoon in the garbage bins. Quiet. A week later, the phone rings at four am, and when I pickup and when I pick up, my immediate response is to ask “Alfie?” because I knew he was in town. Not even my clients would wake me at such ungodly hours. But anyway, my cousin was on the phone, and needling me, and how he needed my company. Now even a boy like Alfie is also given his share of God’s gifts, and the boy could persuade the moon to come down from the heavens. Soon, I was agreeing with him, and then I was making arrangements for him to pick me up in ten minutes. He showed up soon, and he’s got this car, a little old and dented, but still running. I hop in the front seat and then we're riding towards the coastline, a good forty-five minutes away. I fiddle with the radio, then I go “So, Alf, man, why’d you need me to come?” he mumbles something about not liking to ride alone, but he’s too focused on the road and I start thinking something’s wrong. “Hey, man, this isn’t anything illegal is it?” “Naw, man. But who better to bring than a lawyer is it was, huh?” he chuckled, but I didn’t. “Aww c’mon, man. But seriously. We’re blood, we’re kin. We owe each other from first breath to last. I just didn’t want to be alone. Just got to run an errand.” I protested “Kin don’t owe each other. We just help each other when we feel like it, and it’s the truth. Relatives make you feel like helping more often, that’s all.” We sat in silence. At the half hour mark, we stopped for gas. Alfie went inside to the restroom and I stay with the car. I step outside, and I see something leaking from the trunk. I got to check it out, and there she is. A dead hooker in the trunk. Surprise, surprise from cousin Alfie. So I’m freaking out, and Alfie comes back. “Awww shit. Didn’t want you to see that.” “See what? The dead bitch in your goddamn fucking trunk?!” “Well, yeah. But it doesn’t matter. We’re fifteen minutes from the coast. Fifteen minutes in this goes away bro.” “What the fuck?! What I should do is call the police, then let you sink or swim, “bro”. But I’m already accessory. Therefore fucked. Now I don’t care who she is, or why she’s here, but what the fuck do we do?!” remember how I said Alfie could talk the stars from the sky? Well, four minutes of haggling later, he’s got me in the front seat, and we’re running for the coast. He dumps her in, and a few bubbles, and she’s gone, for good. The ride back is quiet. When I get home, I just stumble in. my wife is there, in her dressing gown, her eyes full of question. “My cousin just made me accessory to murder. Can I get something to drink?” wordlessly, she moved to the tap and drew me a cool glass of water than I drained in one gulp.

Worms

When my father got out of prison, I was twelve years old. Growing up in a small sleepy town in Alabama, everyone’s father was either normal a drunk, or in the war. All other were dead, usually due to being the third kind of father. My father was gone by the time I was two, and I dint see him again until I was twelve. I didn’t think about it too much, because I never really had need for a father. My mom was great, not too strict, and a cook the gods would be envious of. I had two older brothers, and one married older sister, so I had plenty of guys to talk to or play football with or whatever. They did all the fatherly things. Beside, my father’s absence wasn’t too conspicuous, because growing up in the time of world war two meant most fathers were gone too. It was only later, when the war had been over for two years, making me ten, that I realized that everyone’s father was either back or dead. I asked my brothers, Louie, who was 13, and Joey, who was 16. They said not to ask. Finally, I cornered my mom in the kitchen one night, turned off the radio, and looked her straight in the eye. I asked one question. “Is my dad dead?” she sobbed, and I thought the worst of it, but she said “no, honey. He’s not dead”. She hugged me, tight, and kept crying. Then I asked again, “where’s is he then?” then she cried some more, and said she didn’t know how to tell me. Then she said to go to bed. I would’ve argued but she had that look in her eye, so off I went. He came back when I was twelve and we were worlds away. At first I didn’t know it, but I would find out later he’d just been in jail. Ten year sentence, for murder. The exact circumstance escapes me, but I know it involved the mob, which had some influence over us, though not much compared to its reach over our two sister towns, but enough to cause crime. When he came back, my mom said he was different. It made no difference to me, cause I didn’t remember him. For me, it was the same as meeting a stranger. I kept coming and going as I always did, and though at first my dad tried to discipline me, and tried to establish a new order, he soon gave up and took to the bottle. One morning, around eleven or so, I trotted up the front steps of my house, having dumped my bike on our lawn, to find my father drinking on our porch. I immediately stopped my fast, noisy pace, and tried to tip toe into the house. I had a fairly good chance, the porch was shadowed, n my dad probably in a stupor. I knew better than to just brush past. he would find offence in that and I’d catch a backhand, his preferred form of punishment, especially on me, as I got in trouble much more often than my brothers, and the fact that I didn’t care annoyed him all the more. Truth was I did care, but never showed it. He never used full fore, and the sting wore of quickly. Besides, I had come to term with my father existence and the fact that he as a felon by avoiding him as much a possible, and my existence continued much as it was before. That day, I nearly made it to the door when “Dean! C’mere.” I went, reluctantly. I sat net to him, the white wicker chair to big for me. We sat and he drank, and suddenly his head lolled and I thought he’d fallen asleep. I was about to go, when, “You know, I’m hard on you Dean. But you boys, you grew up lawless. We did too, my Pa did time too. You know, in jail, you get to thinking. Especially in solitary. Did most of my time in solitary Dean, did you know that?” I stayed quiet. This talk was giving me an uncomfortable feeling, that sort of flipping in your stomach, when something’s about to go wrong. We were finally acknowledging the elephant in the room, and I was scared. In fact, it was probably the longest conversation I’d ever had with my father. “You know how that happened? Probably my second year in, I got in fight Dean. With some bad guys. My being Italian, our being Italian, made it worse, ya know? I’ve always been proud of it though, so has your ma. Don’t you forget boy, you’re an Innocenzi. But, to keep me safe, keep my alive, I got sent to solitary. You think a lot there sons. The thought, their like maggots. Worms. In your brain. And they fall on your face, all wet and nasty and they suffocate. For those long, long years I tried to keep ’em at bay, but God, it was so hard and I was so tired. And I thought, when I got out, when I got back to my family they would go away. But they don’t. They fester, and burrow and consume.” We sat in silence, and I heard him breathe heavily. I was afraid he would die. The day turned to night before us. I never understood why he told me what he told me, but I think he needed to exorcise his demons. In the humidity of the early hours of the night, I heard my father whisper for the first and only time “I love you, son”. Then he passed out and I went inside to sit with my mother.

The Date

When they reach the restaurant, it is only eight, but the night life is going strong. It’s the way of the city, always on, all the time, lights flashing, girls dancing. They’re going to some fancy new French restaurant, because he really likes her, and he tries hard on second dates. First dates he think, are destined for failure. Both parties are like the Titanic’s captain, bravely staying at the helm even thought there’s no way the ship won't go down. There are silences, and awkwardness, and verbal blunders. But eventually, if things go well, something might click. Something worth exploring, which is why date number two happens. So he for this second date, though he’s nervous, because she isn’t talking much. But she’s got a nice laugh, and a pretty little body, all golden and Asian, and straight black hair and a nice red dress and diamond earrings. They get to the door and the annoying guy in a tux at the door informs hi they have no reservation in his name. “What?” he says. He’s sure he called. They wont be let in. he argues, and the girl shifts her weight from one foot to another. “Well…Mr. Wolf did call for a reservation, and he is late. Very late.” “Good. Well if he doesn’t come well…I mean stuff happens. Sometimes you can’t make it.” the doorman says he’d gladly take Wolf’s reservation, for a price. The man flushes deep red, but takes the deal. They sit, and order, and an uncomfortable silence soon descends on the table, like a buzzard on a cactus, an ominous sign in old Westerns. They eat, silent, and next to them, a flambé trick goes horribly wrong, and the dinners stare dully at the burning table cloth. Then comes dessert, and he think second dates might be worse than first one. In the kitchen, it seems a cockroach was discovered, and people run, shrieking and tripping, and the chef runs out, met cleaver n hand, wailing “Come back! Come BACK!” He stares down at his dish. He’s blown it. Her hand slides across the tabletop and lands on his. She smiles, and reveals perfect tiny white teeth. “Thank you, Paul. I’ve had a great time.” He smiles back. Next to them, the charred remains of a table are still smoking.

Untitled

The woman, a wife, the nurses think, because he’s got that nervous energy and a shiny cheap gold ring, rushes into the ward, frantic, panicked. She asks a nurse abut her husband. The nurse asks for his name, the woman answers. “What happened?” the nurse asks, and the woman sys “I don’t know, they just called to and said come. I don’t know” the nurses promises to get news and leaves. The woman stays, all nervous and shaking. The wanders around, too nervous to sit. Hospitals smell terrible she thinks. They smell of sickness and death and tears. She wanders down to Pediatrics, but soon finds the cries of babies and the pervading smell of soda pop-and-licorice candy laced vomit was too much, and she rides the elevator back up, in a daze, to the seventh floor. A nurse finds her, and says, “Your husband is still in surgery, Mrs. Chambers. We’ll let you know” she nods. What else could she do? Sadly she thought, all the seemed to be doing now was following the tug of the whirlwind current of circumstance. Hours earlier, she had been standing by the sink in the yellow lemon kitchen that had come that way when they bought the house, chopping potatoes. Then there came a ring or tow from the also yellow telephone, the old spinning dial ones, and life gave her a swift, steel toed boot kick to the gut. Accident. Her husband. Hospital. Come quick. She sits, red leather handbag strap sliding down from her shoulder to her elbow. The chair is smelly and uncomfortable, but her feet hurt. There is a lying on the bed in front of her, in jeans and a red jacket. He doesn’t look like a patient. “Hi” she says. She doesn’t know why. “Hey yourself” he says. He sits up a little, and she sees his right arm is missing. She stares, and he catches her eye, and she blushes, because she knows it’s rude. “I’m here for a checkup” he says “I lost in a bike crash. Hurt like hell. Spent weeks in the hospital. But the worst part? Aint the fact that I had to learn about how to do everything again. It’s the fact that every night, I go to bed, and I dream I got my arm again. The dreams aren’t special or nothing. Just me, living a normal day, with both my arms. Then I wake up, and I see it’s gone again. Every fucking day, like losing it again. Every day is like the day I woke up in the hospital, my momma crying. Every day I lose my arm again”. “I’m sorry she says. “So am I.” They sit quietly, but they know the conversation isn’t over. It isn’t the silence strangers, but the silence of fiends when words fail to come. “My husband had accident. A car, I think. I don’t know what happened. The police called me and told me to come. He might lose and eye, or leg, or his life. I don’t know. I’m waiting. What if I can’t do it? What if I can’t love him if he hasn’t got legs?” the man nods, and gets of the bed. He kneels next to her and puts his hand on hers. “You can, or you can’t. When the time comes, you’ll know. Then you live with it. It’s all we can do, really” then a nurse calls his name, and he goes with her. Mrs. Chambers sits where she is, and stays there for a while, legs crossed, eyes unfocused staring at the wall. At the two hour mark, she walks up the one armed man’s bed, and lies down. She goes to sleep, and wakes hours later when a nurse comes to tell her her husband’s out of surgery and asking for her.

The Spinster or The Escape

The night sky was split by thunder bolts the night Ryan Murphy made his escape. He stood in the muddy ground, gulping fresh air, because he was no longer a convict, rather a former convict, a man on the run. With one last breath of clean air, not tainted by the numerous odors produced by so many men craved into one living space, and took off running, while the noises of dogs and alarms and men’s voices rose up like fire behind him. After a day of running, and spending a night in the woods, he came across a house, on what must be the outskirts of a town. The house was white and small, and nondescript. Near the backdoor, he heard a woman’s voice, talking most likely to a dog. He walked up to her, all smiles and charm “‘Scuse me ma’am, but I’m kind of lost and I need a phone…” he had no concrete plan, but was sure he could get creative when he needed to. She eyed him warily, and he smiled harder and tried to look harmless, using his natural good look, which nothing, not even prison, had taken from him. “well come on then" she said, her voice rough and somewhat harsh, with the same accent as all her neighbors for miles around. Country girl he thought, looking closely at her figure as she walked in front of him. Not the most beautiful of women, but she would do, he guessed, if need be. He hadn’t seen woman in years, he wasn’t about to get choosy. Trying to get a better grasp on the situation, he tried sound innocent, saying “Ah-um, I sure hope your husband won’t mind… “Not married” she says, again abrupt, and somewhat lonely. Good, he thinks, because she’ll be easy to convince. They come to a kitchen, small and old, but need and obviously frequently used. “Sit” she says, speaking in commands the way mothers and nannies and school teachers do. “You want something to eat?” she asks, back turned to him as she fusses with something at the sink. He says yes, the first good meal he’s had in ages, he knows. As she washes, he takes in her figure again. She’s older than she looks he thinks. But still somewhat pretty. A widow maybe? He asks her, and she says “No, not really. Never married...thought about being a nun, too, but I don’t think I really believe in God.” he nods, but her back is still turned. He isn’t bored though, the surroundings so new after the same monotonous grey walls. Hi eyes skitter around, like a kid in a candy shop, until he sees it. Sitting, glinting on a side table cluttered with newspapers, is a revolver. His heart stars to hammer, and then she turns, looks him dead in the eye, and says, “You’re that boy, right? On all the news channels? The criminal?” his breath catches and he lunges for the gun and points it at her before he fully realizes what he’s doing. “For God’s sake! Put that thing down!” “I thought you didn’t believe in God.” “Doesn’t mean I can’t invoke his name. Now put that down, and I’ll get dinner ready.” Dazed, he lowers the gun, but doesn’t put it down. She gets a plate, sets it in front of him and waits. Slowly, he grabs a bite, then two, until he’s eating like the plate might be taken away. “Slow” she says, “slow”. He slows, though not completely, and finishes. Then they sit there, awkwardly, her arms folded, his right hand still holding the gun. “What’re you gonna do?” he says. She smiles, a shy schoolgirl smile, and says “I should be asking that. I’m just lonely, ok? Just need someone to talk to.” “I’m lonely too” he sys, and then thinks it stupid. She smiles again, more knowing, and her hand slides over the table like a stream of water, and lands on his. He smiles, and takes it, because he’s never understood women, so he doesn’t try.

Submissions

Places we can submit:

http://www.cezannescarrot.org/guidelines.html
http://www.applevalleyreview.com/

Prayer

In twenty years as a correction officer, no store ever stuck to me like Michael Wangler’s. at the time I met him, I was still young, I guess, only been n the job seven years or so, round about thirty, married, my kid, Katie, still in high school. Anyway, I wasn’t working gen pop, I was working death row. So it was late, getting close to lights out, I was on my last rounds. So I’m walking by Wangler’s cell. Wangler was a real animal. He was there because he’d been convicted of murdering a woman and her daughter in the first degree. Looks like he raped them before too, maybe slashed them up. I don’t know. To be honest, I don’t want to. If you looked in Wangler’s you’d see nothing. Nothing except the killer instinct. When I looked, I saw, though it took me a while to realize, addiction. In the joint, you see all types of addiction. Men addict to drugs, to sex, to TV, it doesn’t matter, you name it, they got it. But Wangler, Wangler took the cake; the guy was addicted to murder. That night marked five years to the day of Wangler’s waiting on death row. His third and final appeal had just been rejected. He was to be executed the next day. So that night I was just doing my job, hoping to get home soon, kiss my wife, see my kid. Just a guy, just a job. I’m walking by Wangler’s cell man, when the guy just calls out to me. So I ask him what he wants. He says he wants to talk. “Talk about what?”
“Me, man. What else? I’m about to die, I’m allowed a little selfishness.”
“That’s nice, kid. Tell why I should -”
“Na, man. Listen. Look, I’m a goner. Tomorrow night’s the night. Gotta tell, ya never thought I’d be marking my death date on a calendar. But that’s not the point. See the thing is, I gotta talk. Dead always gotta talk. When else we gonna do it? So anyway, you the only guy here. And here it is: I killed ‘em.”
“I know, Wangler. You were convicted by a jury of your peers, ‘member?”
“Again, you’ve missed the point completely homes. Not just them. I counted, I killed 27 women. Only caught me on those two. See I fucked ‘em, cut em, and killed em. I did it cause it made me happy man. I don’t care how fucked up it is. Cause, see, I never as been as happy as when I did that. I dunno why. Maybe God made me that way.”

“You saying God made you kill?”

“Not exactly. Cause I believe in the big man. But I don’t believe he’s listening, at least not to me. I think he put me on this earth, showed me woman, showed me his greatest creation, and let me pick. And see, his creation was so great that I loved it too much. I would fuck em, but it wasn’t good enough. They weren’t mine enough. I wasn’t getting all I needed from them. I killed em. I took what I needed. I took too much. Cause God, he puts women here, and they can gives us love, and sex, and cook for us, and smell good. And that should be enough. But I took advantage of the big man’s generosity. Its like he gave me, I dunno, a glass of wine, and I busted into his liquor cabinet and took the rest. So he put me here. I get it. I deserve it. Don’t bite the hand that feeds, they say.””So? Why you telling me this for? You’re gonna fry, it doesn’t matter now, if God can hear you or not.”

“I don’t know why I’m telling you. Absolution, maybe. But man, you believe in God?”

“Sometimes”

“Naw, man. That means you do. And means you know he ain’t always the most giving guy. Its okay, I forgive him for that, cause he gave me twenty-seven good women. But you know, not to fuck with I’m, cause he aint the most patient motherfucker. So I stopped asking, and let him do this. Man, you better clean your sins too, before you get here. But anyway maybe this is why I’m telling you. There one more thing I’d like to ask him, but he won’t give me. I’d like a thunderstorm, like when I was a kid. A real howler, biblical and shit, bucket after bucket of water, fearing for your life storm. But I pushed him see? And I won’t get it. Absolution homes. You gave me peace. You should look for it too.”

Last words he ever said to me. Or anyone. He left me shaken, somehow. I went home that night, ignored dinner, and prayed for the first time in two years. Absolution, he said. Still haven’t found it. Right after Wangler was executed, I mean like seconds later, the sky opened up, and it rained for twenty seven days straight. Maybe God was listening after all.


There was a prison movie on TV. I think my muse has developed ADD, and is highly influenced by outside sources. Also, it’s probably the first thing I’ve written that’s dialogue heavy, I tried to exclude profanity to the extent possible, but it is prison after all.

Dream A Little Dream of Me

Noise. That’s what comes first, weaving spearing, like mist crawling over the horizon. It’s dark, or dark in the matter of the blind. The noise is beeping. Beep beep beep. Above, t the side. Then voices? Are they called voices? Are they voices? I don’t know. I can’t know, because the consciousness is moving lie the tie. I know its movement is like the tide, but I can’t say what a tide is. My body won’t respond. Baby, baby wake up. The word love, many times, different people, if the voices really are voices. They say coma a lot. Am I in a coma? Can’t remember. Baby, please wake up. Amy. Who is Amy? Amy’s voice, a lot, more than the others. A good feeling comes with Amy. The thought of her. Yes, the feeling is love. My wife Amy. I remember now, who Amy is. I sleep too, but how do you sleep when your in a coma, how do you dream within a dream. It could be a dream, all of it. If you’re in a coma, you shouldn’t know you’re in one, right? But Amy, Amy is a clear image in the fog, her and the smell of…of…no, it vanishes, too fast, sand slipping through my fingers. Sand is not water, but sand makes me think of water. Ocean. My parents, voices together, always together, talking about me. Telling me to fight, be strong. Why fight I'm not in the war, not anymore I think. It is too quiet to be the war. No bombs. Wait. Bombs. Yes, a bomb. In….a car. Yes it was a car. Not my car. Last thing I remember. Why was there a bomb? Did it put me here? Maybe. Mark. He was with me. Is he dead. Sleep again, or the thing like sleep. Always sleep better when Amy’s with me. Amy crying, the same rhythm she always cried too. Hot tears on cold skin. My skin? The wakefulness lasts longer. My parents are in the room. Amy is telling a story. Things get clearer. Fog moves away. Yes, it was car bomb. Iraq was loud, and noisy and hellish. I’m probably in the states now, or not Iraq. No shots or yelling or soldiers’ voices. Wait, if Amy and my parents are here, it must be the Sates, they stayed there. I went. Why did I go? Oh yes, the war. President Bush. Saddam. Remembering is easier. Getting easier every…what is it? Minute? Hour? Day? The fog lifts some more. Trying to open my eyelids. Hard, but some light. Light? Is this good? Maybe. Light meaning my eyes are opening. Probably, maybe. Still trapped though, can’t move. Try, try very hard, but I can’t move. Strange. I’ve always had my body in control. Why can’t I move no? Oh, coma, no movement. But I’m awake, inside my skull, trapped. Is that normal? If I’m awake, why do the people outside keeping saying coma. Doctors come and go, the same clacky walk, the same tone in their voice. Detachment. Nurse singing, voice soft, close then far away. Something about testing pain reflexes. Then hot sharp spikes. Promising, the doctor says, responses good. If I were awake, I’d kill him. Amy tells me to wake up. Hold on baby, I’m coming.

This piece was written with the idea of showing the point of view of someone in a coma; it’s supposed to have a dreamlike, surreal feeling to it.

Perfect Night

“Can you zip me up?” she says, her voice all wine and honey, her skin smooth and his favorite tone, her body shapely. she is the vision of what a woman should be, all elegance and beauty in her diamond earrings and blue silk gown, but still quietly and perfectly sexy, showing off her back innocently, the zipper waiting at the bottom. The ring he gave her shines discreetly but gorgeously on her left ring finger. The setting is perfect, with the elegant hotel room around them, the moon full and fat right outside their window, looking close enough to touch, the stars winking around it. He loves her then, a sudden full passion, but for him it feels like a life long sentiment, or maybe since the moment he laid eyes on her. She is heavenly perhaps, even her name sounds oddly celestial to him. He smirks and leans closer, placing one hand on her left shoulder strategically, two fingers on the fabric of her dress, the other three on her smooth, slightly scented skin. His hands, large and brown and calloused from the work he managed to put in when he was younger draws up the zipper slowly, the thumb of his other hand rubbing slow circles onto her shoulder blade. She smiles. He kisses her neck and wishes she were his wife.

In the bathroom, minutes before, she applies perfume and cream and makeup with the concentration and precision of someone defusing a bomb. She smiles at herself in the mirror, to make sure the effect is right, and wishes, not for the first time, that her work could be more legitimate that being the arm candy of rich older men at events, then warm their beds afterwards. She slips on the blue silk dress, worth more than anything she’s ever owned, and put in the diamond earrings, and heaves a silent sigh. If only this really were her life. If only it weren’t charade, if only they were in love. The night is perfect, the moon round and fat and close, a night for love. It is not to be. He’s handsome yes, but all she knows of him is that he’s rich, and his name. She hasn’t even given him her real name. Then she locks away the melancholy firmly in some secret box in the recesses of her brain. She reminds herself firmly that he is married, chained to another woman and her bed, in love with her, that shadowy figure, either too prudish or plain to be worth showcasing and ravishing. The ring she slides on last, with a quiet fury, because it makes her become someone else, a not-her, and makes his little wife fantasy complete. She chastises herself for having that fantasy herself. Then she takes a breath and becomes the character he has drawn up for her. She’s ready. She’s got a pay check to earn. She opens the bathroom door, and walks toward him. “Can you zip me up?”

Kill Shot

As a soldier, a killer, I get asked “Is it hard to kill?” a lot. And the truth is, it isn’t. It’s not hard at all, the act of killing. Aim, breathe, squeeze the trigger. That’s it. You’ve killed. The bullet as found its mark. What comes after is what’s hard. The act of killing doesn’t vanish. It does not just end. It leaves a mark, a stain. Not only you and the air, but it leaves a real physical piece of evidence, a body, a shell of what you killed . In a war, you can’t really stop right then, in the middle of it all, to look at what you’ve done. You kept shooting, fighting, running, because its war and that just it. If you don’t fight you die. If you fight, you might die. You still feel it though, the weight of your kills, after. When it’s quiet, usually night time, when you're alone, you and you thoughts, it all comes back. The faces, especially. You think, in the running and the chaos and the noise and the dirt all flying up, that you wouldn’t see the, hat they’d barely register. But you can see them, later, frozen in your mind’s eye, facial nerves twitching, blinking, gasping, he body shutting down, but not without a fight. Men dying miles from home, lone but for their blood and the chaos around them. The weight is unlike anything in the world. It never leaves. it follows you homelike a shadow. Even at night, curled up in bed that seems soft as cloud after sleeping on the ground or cots, you wife breathing softly beside you, smelling like an angel after the scent of burning flesh, the voices and faces of those dead men, of those killed sits like an unwelcome visitor on the edge of the mattress. Their waiting, waiting for you to join them, because you are their brother, brother in arms and death and killing. War makes all men equal, equally empowered to kill and die when they aim and fire. They all ask about the war and the killing, all naive and faceless and similar. My wife doesn’t ask though. She knows better I think, or knows me better. She just smiles. Or maybe she feels the weight of those men on our bed, or feels the choppy waves of their breath. She says nothing, and curls closer when their chatter seems to draw too near. She is perhaps, the only brother-in-arms that I have truly loved, because her battle is that much more bitter, and though I think it is because she loves me, I cannot know why she fights. Whatever the reason, I love her more for it.