A Brief Cycle

You’re gone, and I’m left behind, abandoned among the empty boxes, wadded paper, and discarded needles, no longer wanted or needed. I bear your marks heavily on my scarred and broken legs. My arms hang, futile, at odd angles by my sides. I can no longer withstand the slightest pressure - hold no one and no body. My purpose was once clear.

I’ve seen so much, felt the touch of many, and been used steadily. I remember the parties, where booze and drugs flowed freely, often coating me from top to bottom. Junkie after junkie came to me, seeking sweet repose. You didn’t care. I was there, after all, to be used.

And I remember vividly the violence... the rages that sent me skidding across the room, solidly meeting the innocent wall. The time you threw me out the window, the canopy below breaking my fall.

I had thought that would be it. But you found me when you got out of jail and brought me back. You even cleaned me up in one of your lucid moments, looking at me as though you’d never really seen me before. I could sense your good intentions. You had put your old life behind you and begun again, walking straight, working honestly… living a right life.

You held out for a few days. Do you remember? When you came back you straightened the rods and re-hung the curtains, leaving them open to the world and the light. No more hiding, you said. No more darkness, you said. What went wrong?

I know. I saw. I watched the cravings creep within the shadows. I heard them whisper to you softly, seductively. They wafted memories of that first high, the best high, the high to beat all highs, and promised that you’d feel that way again.  When they stroked your skin, raising goose bumps and your desire, I knew they had you, and I knew it was the end.

I watched as you prepared your needle and slid its tip into your neck. You smiled at first, but that quickly changed. The convulsions danced you across the room, destroying me as I watched.

You’re quiet now, and I’ll wait for the quiet to reach me too.

NOTE: I first wrote this several years ago. A friend challenged me to write a story from the point of view of a piece of furniture. Can you guess what my inspiration was?

NONSENSE

I slipped and fell into

a dream.

It caught me

up and carried me

away to a land where nothing

was what it seemed.

A train chugged along whistling a

lonely plaintive song, then

chirped a cheerful melody

and puffed tea from its spout

as it wound its way out of

sight and the night came rushing

in on wings of feather and fin

and carried me to the

Electric neon stars and when

I touched one it opened in on itself

revealing a million more

all in a line

going back to

the beginning of time

where a goat danced on

a twirling top.

The top became the bottom and I was

back on the ground. No one was around

so I began to walk and walk

and walked to a long chalk hopscotch

and when I

hopped

the scotch popped

and I woke

To a sleeping me

hunting through my inner

spaces for familiar faces and

themes.

 

 (This poem originally appeared in the 2012 edition of MUSH literary magazine.)

The top became the bottom and I was

back on the ground. No one was around

so I began to walk and walk

and walked to a long chalk hopscotch

and when I

hopped

the scotch popped

and I woke

To a sleeping me

hunting through my inner

spaces for familiar faces and

themes.

Center of Attention

Center of Attention

Arnold, the guest of honor, arrived late. His uniformed attendant, soft-soled shoes squeaking against the spotless floor, guided him down the dimly-lit, anonymous hallway. A whiff of floor polish and antiseptic greeted them as they rounded the corner to their destination.

The door before them opened automatically with an efficient mechanical whisper revealing a large room that was, quite simply, dazzling. The white walls and spartan furnishings gleamed; it was certainly cleaner – and neater - than anywhere he’d ever been invited before, and blessedly cool on this mid July day. Blessedly because Arnold had developed a rather unpleasant odor of late. But it wasn’t his fault. Just one of those things that happens as a body ages.

The two proceeded into the room, and there they were, his audience, all formally dressed for the occasion, even sporting gloves and white jackets.

Arnold was not the least bit self-conscious about what he wore, which was nothing.

Two men rushed forward to usher him further into the room. Bright lights suddenly flooded his eyes. This was by far the most attention Arnold had gotten in his whole life.

The crowd paused expectantly.

“Is everyone ready?” asked the master of ceremony.

 Instruments were raised.

“Today’s lesson is autopsy. Let’s begin.”

Of Life and Laundery (originally published at Fiction 365 summer of 2011)

Stepping forward, barefoot in the grass, she dips lightly, catching a wet shirt by the collar and hoisting it up to the line. Deftly she plucks two clips from the bag, fixing the shirt in place and immediately forgetting it as she picks up the next item. Soon the entire line is dancing in the wind, a disembodied conga of our week’s wear.

She raises a freckled hand to her forehead, absently brushing at a persistent mosquito. It dodges and circles back for another try, hardly visible in the early summer sun. My mother scarcely notices. She has other things on her mind.

The laundry reclaims her attention. She grabs a bed sheet by the corners, snaps it straight, and hangs it to dry. I like to watch the sheets blow in the wind and pretend they are sails on a great whaling ship, with me as the fearless captain. The fitted sheet is the last to join the line, a big puffy cloud on the horizon.

Suddenly a shark fin appears, cutting through the waves of unmowed grass. It sinks but resurfaces, closer this time, moving toward my mother bit by bit. I can’t let it get her. I dive into the wake and chase the beast, catching it by the tail just in time.

My mother spins around, shocked. “Eleanor, what in the world are you doing?”

Our dog’s surprised yelp still rings in my ears. He looks at me, reproachful of the undignified treatment he’s received. I scratch his ears and am on the road to being forgiven. He rolls on the ground, exposing his belly so that I may better apologize.

“Eleanor, you know you’re not supposed to exert yourself,” she says. “The doctor said you are supposed to stay still. Now go back on the porch and play with your dolls.”

“But mom, I’m bored.” I know I am whining because mom’s mouth turns down at the corners and her eyebrows bunch closer together.

She looks into my eyes and softens, reaching toward me, gently tugging a piece of grass from my messy hair. She drops the grass and lays first the back of her hand, then her lips, lightly on my forehead, her version of a thermometer. I call it the “mom-ometer.”

“Well, at least you don’t feel warm,” she reports. “And your color does look a little better. Maybe we can play a game. How about Scrabble?”

She knows it’s my favorite.

Mom hauls the Scrabble board and a pitcher of limeade out onto the porch. I can still see the laundry and the ship sails as we sit sipping and spelling away the afternoon.