Wicked Wisdom

March 10, 2010, 3:19 am
Filed under: Fiction, Microfiction, Rough Draft, Writing

I’ve been thinking about high school a lot lately. I hated it while I was there, but now Im starting to miss it. Only two things kept me alive in high school: you and The Legendary Pink Dots.

You were perfect for me then. You knew exactly what I needed to keep from losing my mind after those seven hours of torture each day.

You had no idea that you were one of the only two things in the world that I was living for, but you never disappointed me either.

The only thing I looked forward to more than kissing you at the top of the stairs on the way to 3rd period was walking with you after school.

It was the same each day, we’d meet by the tree and start walking towards the lake – taking turns listening to songs by The Legendary Pink Dots on the walkman while talking about everything and absolutely nothing at the same time.

Once we’d get to the lake the photo shoot would begin. It was never planned, but you always said you couldn’t resist taking pictures of my perfect smile. You’re the only person to ever make me smile like that.

I haven’t heard from you in years, but a while back when I saw your photos in a magazine your model, unlike me, had much more than a great smile.

I haven’t smiled like that since we parted ways.

The photos would continue until we could no longer resist, and then usually we’d lay in the grass near the water. We wouldn’t always have sex, though it was amazing when we did. But laying there in the sun with your arms around me was just as fulfilling. I would bury my nose deep into your curly hair and inhale the scent of your coconut shampoo until I could no longer remember what anything else in the world smelt like. And then I’d make fun of you for using coconut scented shampoo.

These are the things I think as I try and get to sleep tonight while my husband sleeps next to me and my children lay in the room across the hall. My husband has long grown unattractive and leaves a sour taste in my mouth. My maternal instinct  is, and always has been, non existent.

I start to wonder where we went wrong, and why it’s not you laying next to me right now. Why our children aren’t across the hall.

I step out of the bed and into the closet. I rifle through a box simply labeled “Old” for several moments until I find it: my walkman, with the The Legendary Pink Dots mix tape you made me in 11th grade in the tape deck.

I return to the bed and  attempt to play the tape. The batteries in the walkman are, of course, dead. I remove the batteries from the remote and replace what remains of the long corroded bullets inside of what was once my favorite toy.

I press play. Lisa’s Funeral begins to echo inside my ear canals.

I wonder where you are, and I ask myself why in the hell I ever chose to smell anything but your coconut shampoo.


Stomping Ground
February 25, 2010, 1:53 am
Filed under: Fiction, Microfiction, Writing

I’m mentally begging you to walk over here and kiss me. I would settle for you just acknowledging I’m alive, even that would make my heart skip several beats.

I always throw my cigarettes to the ground and then pick them up for one last puff before tossing them again. I’ve decided that this is because I am simply not able to allow myself to let things go. I’m not allowing you to go, I’m telepathically forcing you to stay exactly where you are.

You start to turn your head but something, perhaps my eyes piercing your skin like needles, stops you from doing so. You remain facing forward, and I keep using my mental powers to not allow you to leave.

I toss my cigarette to the ground. I don’t stomp it out, but I also don’t pick it back up. Instead I just light another.

Your girlfriend looks over me and then stands on her tiptoes to speak something into your ear. She’s probably saying, “Don’t look now, but that crazy girl is staring at you.” I don’t break my stare, and I don’t the hold I have over you. Don’t look now, but this crazy girl is controlling your every thought, movement, and response. Whether you want to admit it or not. Don’t look now, but this girl is in love with you. Don’t look now, but she’s going to make you love her back.

Night Renaissance
February 25, 2010, 1:35 am
Filed under: Fiction, Microfiction, Writing

It’s after midnight but I’ve met you at the park, our park, for another one of our secret rendezvouses.

This makes the fourth time we’ve done this in the two weeks since we’ve met. You’ve made it clear that you’ll fuck me all night long but you’ll never be able to kiss me. You cannot kiss me, because that would be cheating.

You can kiss my neck, but that’s not cheating.

You can remove my shirt, but that’s not cheating.

You can whisper in my ear that I’m the most beautiful thing you’ve ever met, but that most certainly is not cheating.

You just can’t kiss me.

I push my hair over my shoulder and lower myself to sip from the fountain. I press the button and slowly the water bubbles up and then eventually becomes a constant stream. I close my eyes.  I always close my eyes when I drink, I consider it rude to do otherwise.

The ice cold water hits my lips and I open them slightly. I drink until my thirst should be quenched, and it’s not, so I keep drinking.

Suddenly I feel not the ice cold water against my lips but the warmth of his own. My thirst is quenched, and I open my mouth slightly once again.

And nothing will ever be the same again.

February 19, 2010, 3:44 am
Filed under: Fiction, Microfiction, Writing


“Come home. Please, come home, right now.”

“You know I’m busy right now…”

“There’s been an emergency. My mom died.”

You hesitate.

“I’ll be right there.”

I sit the phone down and return to pacing outside of your bedroom door. This used to be our bedroom. Our situation is interesting. We were together for six years and then you dumped me. Now we just live in the same house, but you spend most of your time at your girlfriend’s.

I hear the front door unlock and I run down the stairs. I’m always a very cautious person and almost never run down the stairs but tonight rationality escapes me. Before you can even shut the door behind yourself my arms are around you and I’m burying my face in your chest trying my best not to let tears escape from my eyes.

I know this is usually not okay. But right now, I feel like you’re willing to make an exception. I know this is usually not okay, but right now my mother is fucking dead. Right now, you’ve moved on, but right now I feel like you can make room for me. Because you did love me. Because right now, right now I need you.

You don’t shy away from me, you don’t remind me that this isn’t okay anymore. You just hold me tight. We stand like this for several moments, and then I release my hold and grab your hand. Avoiding eye contact I silently pull you up the stairs.

We stand outside of the doorway to the bedroom that was once ours and is now your own. “I need you to open this door, and I need you to lay on the bed. I need you to let me lie next to you okay?”

You open the door and take me by the hand.

To The Edge.
February 3, 2010, 7:26 pm
Filed under: Fiction, Microfiction, Writing

When we were children we saw the same things, like ghosts in the clouds.

When we were teenagers we held each other’s hands during intense moments, like when we found your mom hanging from the ceiling of her bedroom.

When we were 20 we moved to the other side of the country and left  what remained our parents notes saying we loved them, but we knew they were lies.

We loved no one but each other.

Or so I thought.

Each night we’d lay down in our bed and I’d pull you close to me and smell your hair. This was bliss.

Each night you’d kiss me on my forehead, and I’d think to myself – thank god. I’d think to myself – you’ve saved my life. I’d think to myself – I can never be without this.

And then the forehead kisses stopped.

And then you started sleeping on the couch.

Tonight we’re sitting at the kitchen table and you’re making a list of qualities you want in a lover, and I’m helping you write the personal ad – because it’s the only thing I can do now to make you happy.

“She has to wear dresses, but not the kind you wear. Something more feminine, but not as girly. You know what I mean?”

I nodded my head and held back tears.

“She has to wear her hair down all of the time, kind of like your hair cut but you never wear it down.”

I nod and add this to the list, and I think to myself that as soon as you look away I should undo my ponytail.

“She has to be at least two inches shorter than me, and she has to be passionate about something. But something interesting. And something that she won’t talk about all of the time.”

I nod, wipe a tear from my face, and plan to no longer discuss my writing with you.

“Well, I’m going to go to sleep now. Is it okay if I take the bed tonight?”

I nod. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Cool, I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”

You leave for the bedroom and shut and lock the door. On the piece of paper I quickly write lipstick lesbian seeks same and walk to the living room to go to sleep.

January 21, 2010, 12:19 am
Filed under: Fiction, Microfiction, Rough Draft, Writing

God knows how you got here, but all you know is that you don’t want to leave. You don’t dare let anyone know this, you are rude to the nurses and when your family comes you just cry and scream about how much you miss home and hate this place, but it’s all lies.

At some point, this became home.

At some point you realized you don’t want to go back to your mother’s house, with the little bedroom filled with stuffed animals and cheerleader uniforms – like a shrine to some perfect child who became the perfect homecoming queen.

You’ve grown tired of being that girl, and the homecoming queen crown hurts your head. You don’t even want to see that room again.

When you’re ready to be released there will be no reason that you can’t get your own apartment. Something quaint that your parents will have picked for you before they even let you see it and pretend to give you a choice. Just far enough away to not be their home, but just quick enough for them to dash over if they find another suicide note.

Yeah, you could live there, but you don’t want to.

You’re happy here. You don’t want to leave.

Best of all, you’ve figured this place out – and you never have to leave. You’ll hear the nurses whispers when they hear from the head doctor that you’re sane enough to leave, and you’ll know you’re not acting strange enough. So you’ll do something really crazy – like demand that they make your bath ice cold, and then refuse to get out of it for six hours.

And the nurses won’t like it, because they have to sit there and watch you bathe.

That’ll get you another 3 months, easily.

And this works well for your vendetta against your parents, too, because they’ve already spent your college fund on this place. They may have even started on a second mortgage by now.

The thought of them struggling to pay the bills warms your cold heart and sends a smile across your face. You may even laugh about it for a day or four.

And that’ll get you another 5 months, no problem.

You’ll keep extending it, and eventually one of the girls who is actually crazy will confront you and say you have to go home at some point.

And you’ll try and stab her with the eyeliner pencil you were given after promising for months you wouldn’t stab anyone with it.

And that will get you a year, at least.

January 10, 2010, 5:12 pm
Filed under: Fiction, Microfiction, Rough Draft, Writing

“Hey kid.”

“Hey Mom, whats up?”

“Oh, nothing, I just got home, I wanted to let you know Ms Pat died. You remember Ms Pat right?”

Of course I remembered Ms Pat, she was only the nicest woman I had ever met.

“Oh God, what happened?”

“Aneurysm. but she was 94, so you can’t really call it shocking, yeah?…You there?”

“Yeah, sorry mom, I’ve got to get going. Talk to you later.”

I sat the phone in it’s cradle and silently returned to my work.

That night Danny and I had sex, but as soon as he came it was over. We laid there naked and he held me tight, and once his breathing was regulated and I knew he was asleep I started to cry.

I cried for Ms Pat. I cried for the orgasm I hadn’t had. I cried for the life I was living and wishing I were not. I cried for the children I’d never have.

I cried all night.