“I never would have turned out like this if it wasn’t for you.” I spoke around the nails in my mouth, shaking my head.
Her sunken eyes looked up at me from her pinewood coffin. She had been pretty once, a real looker; but now her skin was beyond pale, a gross, veined grey. This was difficult for me. I hefted the lid on.
Lining up the first nail, I raised the hammer and brought it down swiftly.
Thunk.
Thunk.
Thunk.
Ten in all.
It took a rope and pulley system to heft the coffin into my truck bed. Throwing a tarp over it, I hopped in and drove out into the country. I shifted into reverse and gunned it, aiming for the deep hole I had pre-dug days earlier. I mashed my foot down on the break, and the box went flying into the grave.
It took six hundred shovels of dirt to make her disappear.
End
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Friday, March 8, 2013
For Columbina, Adrianné, 'Project 157'
Nobody could play like her.
Her fingers raced over the ivory keys with enough precision and delicacy to make a brain surgeon jealous. The raw emotion - and the romance she shared with that baby grand - washed over us few onlookers like a wave of ethereal ecstasy.
The music she shared with us in that dingy little venue painted the fading walls with new life. The washed out curtains burned vermillion once again, the flickering lights shone bright and warm on the old wooden stage.
There was almost something provocative about the way she played. Her hair and shoulders swayed to the rhythm of the music, as her fingertips danced on the keys... black and white / a flurry of intricate movements.
We stood with mouths agape, our hearts beating in our throats, wine glasses forgotten in our hands.
For years, those rushing melodies haunted me. Sleep, when it came, was filled with dreams of that night.
End
Her fingers raced over the ivory keys with enough precision and delicacy to make a brain surgeon jealous. The raw emotion - and the romance she shared with that baby grand - washed over us few onlookers like a wave of ethereal ecstasy.
The music she shared with us in that dingy little venue painted the fading walls with new life. The washed out curtains burned vermillion once again, the flickering lights shone bright and warm on the old wooden stage.
There was almost something provocative about the way she played. Her hair and shoulders swayed to the rhythm of the music, as her fingertips danced on the keys... black and white / a flurry of intricate movements.
We stood with mouths agape, our hearts beating in our throats, wine glasses forgotten in our hands.
For years, those rushing melodies haunted me. Sleep, when it came, was filled with dreams of that night.
End
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
For Donner's Girlfriend, Rainy Day Blues, 'Project 157'
It was one of those retro diners, complete with a jukebox and cliche’ fluorescent lighting.
The apple pie balance on my fork only made it halfway to my mouth as he walked into the diner. He was naked from head to toe.
Nonchalantly, but a looking a little haggard, he plopped down on a barstool and sighed. Sherry, the 67-year old ginger who ran the place, thought she had seen everything. But even she was shocked at this turn of events.
“Excuse me ma'am, can I borrow your phone? I’ve just been mugged.”
“Of course honey,” she replied, looking concerned, “And let me get you some coffee.”
I finally remembered the fork in my hand, and set it down. Grabbing my jacket, I walked over to the exposed stanger. “Here you are, you obviously need it more than I do.”
“Thanks very much.” He smiled. We sat together until the cops arrived, and he told his story.
End
The apple pie balance on my fork only made it halfway to my mouth as he walked into the diner. He was naked from head to toe.
Nonchalantly, but a looking a little haggard, he plopped down on a barstool and sighed. Sherry, the 67-year old ginger who ran the place, thought she had seen everything. But even she was shocked at this turn of events.
“Excuse me ma'am, can I borrow your phone? I’ve just been mugged.”
“Of course honey,” she replied, looking concerned, “And let me get you some coffee.”
I finally remembered the fork in my hand, and set it down. Grabbing my jacket, I walked over to the exposed stanger. “Here you are, you obviously need it more than I do.”
“Thanks very much.” He smiled. We sat together until the cops arrived, and he told his story.
End
For Salman, Waves and Night and Sharks, 'Project 157'
My skin sloughs off in chunks. Waterlogged, I believe that’s the CSI-style term. Up and over one wave, then down into the valley. An infinite rhythm.
Drowning sucked. The pain was more excruciating than anything I have ever experienced: the burning throughout my entire being, then the fireworks as my oxygen-starved brain clung to life.
Nothing surprised me as much as death though. I guess it never occurred to me that I would still be conscious, trapped in an unresponsive body, existing in this endless dream-like state.
Always dead but never sleeping.
Who could have known that the afterlife would be this way? No reincarnation, no heaven, no hell. Not even oblivion.
Waves and night and sharks.
Soon they’ll find my body. They’ll bag and tag me, and slice me open. I’ll be forced to watch my family and friends mourn, just to be lowered into that eternal night, wrapped in velvet flowers and an ill-fitting suit.
End
Drowning sucked. The pain was more excruciating than anything I have ever experienced: the burning throughout my entire being, then the fireworks as my oxygen-starved brain clung to life.
Nothing surprised me as much as death though. I guess it never occurred to me that I would still be conscious, trapped in an unresponsive body, existing in this endless dream-like state.
Always dead but never sleeping.
Who could have known that the afterlife would be this way? No reincarnation, no heaven, no hell. Not even oblivion.
Waves and night and sharks.
Soon they’ll find my body. They’ll bag and tag me, and slice me open. I’ll be forced to watch my family and friends mourn, just to be lowered into that eternal night, wrapped in velvet flowers and an ill-fitting suit.
End
Thursday, February 28, 2013
For Marc, The Hidden Gate, 'Project 157'
Oft’, whether by softest silver moonlight, or warm summer sun, I went to meet my lady in the hall between the trees. ’Twas an ancient hidden place, with subtle gate, through which two worlds could meet.
She would smile, and I would kiss her velvet lips.
Then, I would steal out into the garden whence the hall was hid, and, nonchalantly, join the pedestrian passers-by on the roadway headed home. A warmth burning in my heart unmatched by all but Prometheus’ fire.
At night, while apart, I’d lie staring at the ceiling, Her green eyes would haunt me, until, like a warm duvet, sleep would cover o'er me and dreaming, I would pass into a dreamless slumber.
After the day’s duties, I’d again stroll down to the old rose garden at the center of town. When not a soul could see, the thorny bushes I’d pull aside, stepping through the shadowy door to meet my other-worldly love.
End
She would smile, and I would kiss her velvet lips.
Then, I would steal out into the garden whence the hall was hid, and, nonchalantly, join the pedestrian passers-by on the roadway headed home. A warmth burning in my heart unmatched by all but Prometheus’ fire.
At night, while apart, I’d lie staring at the ceiling, Her green eyes would haunt me, until, like a warm duvet, sleep would cover o'er me and dreaming, I would pass into a dreamless slumber.
After the day’s duties, I’d again stroll down to the old rose garden at the center of town. When not a soul could see, the thorny bushes I’d pull aside, stepping through the shadowy door to meet my other-worldly love.
End
Monday, February 25, 2013
For Jon, Wild Man, 'Project 157'
They say he died in Texas, a ball of hot lead putting a stop to all his nonsense. Yet, nothing could end his story.
They say Davy Crockett could wrestle a bear into submission with one arm tied behind his back.
He wasn’t any taller than a normal man, or any stronger, but he could ride on the back of a thunderbird as it sailed through the anvil-shaped clouds. He wasn’t any smarter than a normal guy, but he remembered every tree and creek in the whole country, and knew half of them on a first name basis.
He wore a coonskin cap which he made from a mountain lion’s pelt, and ran faster than a wild horse.
Most people go their whole lives not even going outside. But Davy, he couldn’t sit still to save his life. The blue sky called him like she was his mother, and the wolves howled his name to the moon.
End
They say Davy Crockett could wrestle a bear into submission with one arm tied behind his back.
He wasn’t any taller than a normal man, or any stronger, but he could ride on the back of a thunderbird as it sailed through the anvil-shaped clouds. He wasn’t any smarter than a normal guy, but he remembered every tree and creek in the whole country, and knew half of them on a first name basis.
He wore a coonskin cap which he made from a mountain lion’s pelt, and ran faster than a wild horse.
Most people go their whole lives not even going outside. But Davy, he couldn’t sit still to save his life. The blue sky called him like she was his mother, and the wolves howled his name to the moon.
End
For Andrea, Dragon & Phoenix, 'Project 157'
Only a handful of other patrons were actually there to eat so late at night. One particularly drunken vagabond was sleeping on a booth, and two skinny hoodlums fidgeted suspiciously in a dark corner.
My waitress was a nice college girl; asian, but not chinese. She smiled and set down my steaming entree whilst simultaneously refilling my soda. She curtsied, and vanished into the darkness and elevator music.
Awkwardly picking up my chopsticks, I lifted a sizzling nugget of fried, sugar-coated chicken to my mouth. I could imagine the food looking up at me, feeling guilty for the havoc it knew it would wreak on my system for the next 48 hours. My head echoed with haunting memories of tortured nights spent moaning in my bathroom.
I popped the chewy greaseball into my mouth and smiled. I didn’t really care what went on in that kitchen. The Cat’s Meow had the best fucking chinese food in town.
End
My waitress was a nice college girl; asian, but not chinese. She smiled and set down my steaming entree whilst simultaneously refilling my soda. She curtsied, and vanished into the darkness and elevator music.
Awkwardly picking up my chopsticks, I lifted a sizzling nugget of fried, sugar-coated chicken to my mouth. I could imagine the food looking up at me, feeling guilty for the havoc it knew it would wreak on my system for the next 48 hours. My head echoed with haunting memories of tortured nights spent moaning in my bathroom.
I popped the chewy greaseball into my mouth and smiled. I didn’t really care what went on in that kitchen. The Cat’s Meow had the best fucking chinese food in town.
End
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