“The” Short Story.

            Springtime: that part of the year when the cold fingers and desolation of winter have been shaken off in favor of the warmth and hope that spring brings with it. That hope is a gift to the youth. It is with hope that people start new chapters of their lives. Hope gives power to the creators whose ideas are nearly realized. Hope is what bonds two lovers together. What the youth doesn’t realize is that this gift won’t last forever. Lives end as easily as they have begun, ideas fall apart, and love doesn’t feel lovely enough.

            It was one of the first warm days of spring. The Young Man sat on the steps of the promenade in the park. With his long, dark mane of hair gently flowing in the spring breeze and his haute couture, he was the picture of youth and virility. Nearby, a Willow tree beckoned, offering comfort and shade.

            Days like these were made exactly for what he was doing: enjoying nature, listening to the birds and letting his thoughts wander while absorbing the sight before him.

            Something moved a few feet behind him. A smile bloomed on the Young Man’s face.

            She was attempting to sneak up on him.

            She was all blonde hair, blue eyes and her Sunday best clothes. He knew at first glance that this was a girl who’s been fought over more than once. 

            After that first glance, he unequivocally knew that there was something strange about her. Her presence was like when you’ve misplaced something very important and you have the inkling that what you are looking for is right in front of you. Whatever it was, the Young Man knew it had something to do with her eyes. He knew that there was something there, something that was swimming just below the surface of those cold blue pools. 

             He was a fly in those Venus flytrap eyelashes. 

            In those few moments that they had observed each other, a dull haze had started to seep in through the Young Man’s mind. Time seemed to hold its breath, waiting for one of these two people to make their move. Before he realized what his legs were doing, he was following her. 

            Laughing and talking like they were meant to love each other, and only each other since the day that they were born, they held each other in the waning sunshine. The Young Man had never done that with just anyone before. For some reason, things felt “different” with her.

            “You know, my mother never told me not to get into strange cars, with strange women”, he said from behind a blindfold.

            She said she wanted to show him something back at her apartment but she wouldn’t tell him what it was and that secrecy was crucial. The Young Man was no fool. If it had been any other woman, he would have sat back down on those stone steps and resumed his enjoyment of nature and all of its offerings. But with her, he all ready knew it was love.

            “Well, fortunate for you I’m not that strange”, she said smiling with her mouth, only. Her eyes, her eyes were saying something else. A small kernel of worry began to germinate in the Young Man’s mind.

            “Said the young lady who was trying to sneak up on me”, he volleyed back at her in hopes of getting just a little bit more out of her.

             He didn’t understand until they had arrived at her apartment why secrecy was an issue at all. 

            As they had gotten out of the cab, the young lady had taken off the blindfold in favor of covering his eyes with her hands. Dropping them away from his eyes, she stood before him, just as lovely as when she first crept up on him, gesturing like a showroom model at the silent behemoth of a building behind her.

            “You… live here?”

            She nodded enthusiastically, eyes dripping with cold fire while her mouth did all the smiling. 

            The Young Man knew something wasn’t right. 

            That small kernel of fear was starting to take root. He knew that he should have been more pragmatic about the entire situation. The only thing that he could do was to look up at this building and wonder where the top ended.  

Tired of his lollygagging, she led him by the hand to the front door. Once he took one look into the frigid depths of her eyes, that fear was ripped out by the root. 

            Like turning off a switch. 

            It was the biggest apartment that the Young Man had ever seen.

            So much space. For some reason, he found elation in all of this. 

            It wasn’t long before she started undressing him. 

            “I know that this may comes as a surprise, but I haven’t been entirely forthcoming”, she said. 

            For a brief instant, there was a flicker of fear across his face. 

            “It’s ok, you can tell me”, he said. 

            “Would you believe that we’ve met before?” she said as she continued to undress him. 

            “Wait, what’s the rush?” he faltered, trying to put some physical distance between the two of them. 

            Crestfallen, she finally spoke. 

            “I’ve said too much. You just seemed so… ready.”

            For some reason it made him love her. It. just… didn’t… matter. Clothing proceeded to be shed.

            He awoke the next day feeling hollow but fulfilled at the same time. The young lady was nowhere to be found.

            After exploring the cavernous and nearly soundless apartment, he stopped to take stock of himself in a mirror. 

            “I always knew that one day my looks would get me in trouble”, he thought. 

            Even with the elation of the other day and with the overwhelming sense of unease, he still liked what he saw reflected back at him: rugged features, slim build, full mane of hair, what more could be asked for? 

            A small noise drained the self-absorption that the Young Man was drowning in. As he followed the sound, the noise grew to a full mutter. 

            That sense of dread was back. 

            Standing in the shadows of the hallway, he took in the strangeness of the site that he had found in the warmly lit room. 

            Sitting on one of the longer couches, the young lady was with four people he had never seen before. She sat in the middle of them. Everyone sat comfortably with their eyes closed and their arms outstretched before them.

            On one end of the couch sat a man who appeared to be entirely composed of knees and elbows and seemed entirely too thin to exist. On the far end of the couch sat a woman who seemed to be having trouble immersing herself as the others have. She was doing her best though. 

            On either side of the young lady sat a man and woman who were like no people he had ever seen before. The man was dressed well in bright colors and had an iridescent quality to his face. It was like the sun was being kept in the container of a human. The woman was a pale beauty, dressed in deep blues and black greens. These people who flanked his love were as opposite as night and day. 

           What completely unsettled the Young Man was that they were all talking in unison but it was unlike any language that he had ever heard. 

            A cold sweat began to filter through the Young Man’s flesh. 

            He walked slowly towards the center of the group, to his love, and knelt down in front of her. 

            As he put his hands on her knees, those impenetrable mirrors of her eyes opened and his mind went entirely flaccid. 

            She smiled, ensnaring him in her embrace. The others applauded.

            Under the applause, he heard her whisper, “Deep inside of your soul, you know it to be true: we’ve met and loved each other before. Just as sure as the sun and moon sit beside me”. 

            He knew that he should be afraid but there was something inside of him that was keeping him from it. 

            “Is it her?” he thought. 

            Eventually, everyone adjourned to the balcony. Reeling in the haze of the moment the Young Man became acquainted with these strange peoples. Try as he might, the only name that would stick in his mind was that of the thin man. He referred to himself as the Conductor. When the Young Man pressed him about such a strange name, he would only say that it was a nickname that he was blessed with given his “god-like” ability to keep things moving.

            Realizing that he wasn’t going to get anywhere with his tall friend, the Young Man went to the railing to asses the past couple of hours. There was something missing. He just couldn’t nail down what it was. It was like someone had brushed up against a part of his memories before the paint had had a chance to dry. 

            It was a cool and cloudy night. The sky looked like a window mottled with steam and streaked with condensation. When he turned around, the strangely dressed man and woman were in the possession of musical instruments and were tuning up, while the Conductor took his place amongst them.

            The Young Man wanted to question all of this but his elation at the sight before him was clouding his judgment. All he could think about was how much he wanted to dance with his love.

            The Young Man and woman had started to dance. There was no rationality to the chain of events that the Young Man had become a part of. The only thing that he knew for certain was that he was happy.

            The others looked on and smiled.

            After the air became too cool to be tolerable, the group agreed that sustenance and libations were in order. As the food was served and conversation politely filled the air, the Young Man began to realize that something still wasn’t quite right. 

            While reaching this conclusion, the Young Man and the young lady had started to eat what appeared to be a grapefruit from their plates. The Young Man began to open the fruit with his hands. He realized that the fruit was certainly more exotic than he had surmised.

            As the juice of the fruit bled through his fingers and dripped onto the plate, he couldn’t help thinking to himself that the young lady was right: they had known each other before. Pushing the fruit’s pit up and out into the atmosphere of the dinner party, the Young Man regarded it with a feeling of regret. It sat there in his fingers; slimy and pulsating like a heart.

            All of those feelings of dread, the weight of the unease of everything, he finally felt assured as the identity of the young lady had finally dawned on him.

            He turned to face the young lady. Regardless of any realizations, the love was still there between the two of them. As he was about to speak her true name, a wave of disgust erupted on her face. Reaching up to his head, she fingered one silver strand, a gray hair.

            Savagely plucking it from his head, she turned and stomped away like a scorned child.

            Turning to read the faces of the “dinner guests” in hopes to find some clue as to the travesty that he had unknowingly brought into being, a shockwave of fear thundered through his body.

            They were all gone.

            The night had turned into day.

            It was like it had never happened.

            Was he going mad?

            The click of a woman in high heels echoed through the apartment.

            Chasing after it, he had found her at the end of a hallway. It was the woman who didn’t seem like she was to be a part of the group. A brief glimmer of hope pin pricked in the man as she regarded him, her entire being radiating disgust. 

            Turning on her heel, she walked on, deeper into the room at the other end of the hall.  

            Storming into the room after the misplaced woman, the Young Man had found her, the young lady, in the embrace of another woman. 

            “They look so… happy”, he thought. 

            They both stopped long enough to look at him. Their faces were polite but it was obvious that they were unhappy with this presence. 

            The young lady gazed at him with those dangerous pools she called eyes. 

            The Young Man heard her speak. Her mouth wasn’t moving. She was speaking to him, inside of him. 

            “Just as the moon and sun sat beside me last night, you know that I am The Dawn. I am of the oldest of the old and we have been acquainted numerous times. I bridge the gap between the days and I exist to rob you of your youth. Eventually you will be like me, Young Man. You will be no longer lovely enough for love. You made your peace with that last night when you realized my true name and yet you still had love for me. Go now, young man, you have served your purpose”. 

            His eyes began to tear. As he blinked them away, he found that he was back where he started, in the park. 

            Unaware of what happened, the Young Man still felt at ease with himself as he moved from the steps to the nearby Willow tree. Watching his son toddle around in front of him, he knew despite the feeling of unease, that things were as they should be. 

Continue reading ““The” Short Story.”

The Mouse Story.

1. The winter after my father died was one of the worst winter’s that my city and I had experienced in decades. I had just turned 22. I was also still living at home with my mother and coming to grips with the fact that all of the time I had been spending with my father (cleaning his apartment, visiting, making him get fresh air, taking him to doctor’s appointments…) categorized me as his caregiver. This was a fact that I was oblivious to until it was pointed out to me the week after he had passed.

That is to say, I was a dumbass.

For the record, it was a role that I had accepted because I knew (at least, subconsciously) that if I didn’t, he’d pass away alone and rejected and would be discovered in some state of decomposition.

He wasn’t a very social man.

As far as the weather was concerned, if it wasn’t snowing, then the sun was illustrating how far we were from it and that it had no intentions of getting closer to us any time soon. Point of fact? The tundra like conditions forced homeowners (who were lucky enough to have their own little piece of sidewalk and driveway) to stop fucking shovelling anything more than a couple of tire tracks for their automobiles and general access to their homes.

Back then, as someone who drove, as well as exercised his right to be bipedal, this pissed me off to no end.

Now that I am a less stupid version of myself, I can obviously see that to shovel at the rate of which the snow had decided to fall from the sky would have produced a lot of middle aged men who would be fooling their families into thinking that they were taking a snow angel break when in fact they were being crushed under the weight of a massive heart attack.

2. The front door to my mother’s house was a heavy, old door that had dual, arched windows. The windows started at waist height and went a respectable distance to the top of the door. It offered enough visibility to see who was knocking and enough coverage to hide behind in the event that the knock-ee had a current issue of The Watchtower in their hands.

Around this time, I had taken to staring out my mother’s front door late at night. I wasn’t being weird about it (my dick stayed in my pants and away from my hands). It just became a part of my late night ritual. I’d come home late from work and I felt like a wrecked individual. I had taken to staring out of one of the double panes because I liked what I saw: a quiet neighborhood, the sleepy houses of my mother’s neighbors, and a fuckton of snow that was existing in purity or some state of spoilage.

It looked and felt perfect. Which was not how I felt inside my own mind at that time.

On one particular evening, I had looked out of my mother’s front door and was greeted by one of the worst snow storms I had ever seen. Howling winds threw around sheets of snow and behind both of them was a goddamn lightning storm punctuating the scant silences. I honestly thought that a few houses would be lost before the sun rose the following day.

That’s the kind of winter that my city and I were experiencing.

3. Also around this same time, I had taken to drinking myself to sleep. Given what I had just gone through with my father combined with the fact that the weather was going all ‘end of the world’, it seemed like a logical thing to do. On top of that, I also had an unreliable familial and social network that would become further damaged by my inability to be seen as insecure. Asking for help under any circumstance or expressing my feelings wasn’t a tool in my toolbox back then. And still isn’t, to some extent.

Shortly after that storm, the weather had progressed from environmentally entertaining to potentially lethal. It didn’t matter what the thermostat was set at it in my mother’s house, it never warmed up. It’s not that there was anything wrong with the thermostat or the furnace, it’s just that the damn things could never catch up to the heinous fuckery that the winter was throwing at us.

4. It was upon one of these frigid evenings that I discovered ‘my new roommate’. There I was, knee deep in self pity, watching a rerun of Inside the Actor’s Studio when I spied a tiny brown mouse bravely poking his head out from underneath the dresser that I was using as a tv stand.

“This ought to be interesting,” I thought, raising an eyebrow.

In, out, repositioning, constantly rescanning the landscape… that little mouse exercised more caution than the entire human race has over a millennia. Eventually, the little fella said ‘fuck it’, and fully departed from the safety and dust bunnies that the under side of my dresser had provided. I watched him for a full minute while he sat in front of my dresser.

“That’s enough of that shit,” I said standing up. The mouse was gone before I even realized what had happened.

I knew then as you probably figured out now, that the little fucker was looking for a warm spot to crash. How can he be blamed? It was a brutal winter. That still didn’t stop me from putting my air rifle next to my bed. Don’t judge me: the air rifle was a throwback to my early teens. What’s more is that if my little friend was being that brazen about his presence, then it is a safe assumption that he has bunked with me before.

And that is gross.

A little about me. I was an ‘oops’ baby. Instead of my parents going above and beyond and really parenting the shit out of me, they decided to work out their dysfunctions and shortcomings through me. As a result, they generally let me do whatever I wanted. When it became obvious that ‘whatever’ wasn’t a good idea, they gave me a BB gun.

The thought was there: Give him something to do that gets him outside and has him use his brain to a degree. I started off with paper targets and eventually graduated to empty soda cans. I was taught right from wrong as well as proper “gun safety”. My parents felt confident that I wouldn’t screw up too bad.

One mail truck, a windshield, multiple moving targets, several groundings, and a stern talking to later, I learned that shooting things that didn’t belong to you was bad. So, I decided that shooting at the posters I had hung up in my room was an acceptable compromise. It didn’t take long before I made those four walls exhibit a texture like that of a Ray Liotta’s face.

No, giving a child a weapon is never the smartest idea. Especially when you leave said child alone more than you engage with him. The fact is that I was the youngest of four by a decade and when it came time for me to be parented, my parents didn’t know what to do anymore.

Suffice it to say, by the time I had made myself acquainted with my ‘roomie’ I was quite a good shot.

5. The next time I saw the mouse, I was ready.

It was a night just like all of the rest. There I was, just getting ready to nod off when my friend ventured forth from the safety that my dresser provided. I gave him a full minute to survey the landscape before I reached for my air rifle. Miraculously, he didn’t bolt when I did this. He kept creeping forward.

As he bravely made his way out from under my dresser, I had time to compare and contrast our individual motivations.

As a regular mouse, it stood to reason that there wasn’t a whole lot of cognitive thought going on in his rodent mind beyond instinctual needs. Further, the little fucker was just trying to keep warm. It’s not like he was taking little bites out of me without my knowledge. If that was the case, I’m sure I’d find him in some other part of the house trying to work off a contact high.

My motivations? I was lonely and creeped out by the fact that I didn’t know what a little mouse was doing to me while I snored my way through the night.

He moved a little closer. I lined up my shot. He crept forward a fraction of an inch. I followed him with my barrel. By now, he was a full foot away from my dresser and in the center of my room.

It was going to be a quick and clean death. One shot to his little, mouse head and then I could get on with my ‘routine’. I pulled the trigger.

At the last second, I had fired at the ground in front of the mouse. The little fucker jumped six inches into the air and made that sound that the Roadrunner makes when he leaves Wile. E. Coyote in the dust.

I never saw him again.

I couldn’t tell you what was going through my mind in the seconds before I pulled the trigger. Perhaps my recent dealings with death had turned me into an enlightened being, one who was able to express empathy towards creatures and people who were just trying to survive.

That’s probably galaxies away from the truth considering that my father’s death and having to deal with the related fallout, turned me into a soured asshole almost instantaneously.

In the end, I can’t tell you what I was thinking because I don’t recognize that ‘me’ anymore. But I can tell you that the ‘me’ now is proud of the ‘me’ then for letting the mouse live to fight another day.

The Lady with 8 Kids.

I have no illusions that my place in the grand scheme of things is of little significance. What follows is something that I have been thinking about.


At various points of my life, I have occupied various forms of employment. The majority of this employment has required me to wear an ugly, ill-fitting shirt, put things on shelves, and to care for/be nice to people who don’t seem to understand that I am getting paid far too little to care about their petty and boorish needs.

I don’t take my employment for granted, mind you. Some days are just harder than others. And when you get to be a certain age, you have to wonder if your perpetually sore feet and always aching joints are worth the small paycheck and the hassle of having to show up on time. To be clear, it’s not bad work to be associated with. Overall, it provides you with a sense of purpose.

During one of my shifts, I had observed a pack of gingers heading my direction. It was night time and I was in the toy department. I was reasonably worried. You would be too if you saw a gentle sea of redheads threatening your flower-like exterior.

Riding this wave was a small woman carrying a baby. A quick glance and I had determined that the rest of her pack were actually her children. They all, even the baby, had the same shade of hair, and all of the children generally had the same facial features that the mother had.

Maybe they’re all shirttail relations. There are families like that. But I can’t shake the idea that this lady had birthed 8 children. And she was out in public with all of them, without the father.

The absence of the father is also a bit of a mystery. Is he as involved with the kids as the mother is? Does he buy her toys? With the amount of children between the two of them it’s fairly obvious that she stays at home for the kids while he’s working all sorts of hours so that they can keep the lights on.

To the mother’s credit, all of her children were fairly well behaved, even the baby. What I found the most remarkable was the fact that all of the children seemed to get along with each other. You’d think, with a household that size, that “turf warfare” in public would be a regular occurrence. How could it not be? Kid’s are genetically encoded to act like assholes at all of the wrong times.

Whilst I was finishing up my rounds, I stole some extra glances of the mother. She looked like a mom, put upon and often ignored. There was also something a bit different about her face.

It was hovering around her eyes. Trepidation, maybe? Her children were behaving remarkably. Maybe all 8 kid’s had earned a trip to the toy department? She was tired for sure. She is the matriarch of a village after all, and it was 8pm.

This woman is a career parent. She is going to die as a care-giver. There is nothing wrong with that but I can’t help but wonder if she ever wanted more than children out of life?

In the end, I guess that I have always known what the look on the mother’s face really was. It was resignation. Her life will not get any better than it was, that night when I saw her in the toy department.

A True Recollection.

It was a warm spring morning. I was smoking a cigarette at the public bus stop, waiting for the bus that would take me to school. I couldn’t have been more than 17 years old. It had rained during the night. The only evidence was a thick layer of dampness over everything that would be burned off in a couple of hours by the spring sun. The smell of flowers and growth thickened the air.

I wasn’t the only person waiting for the bus. Peppered around the bus stop were fellow classmates, well-dressed people (presumably heading to an office job closer to the center of the city), and an older woman.

I didn’t see her at first. She must have been standing in the doorway, watching me. After some time she positioned herself in my eye line.

“Can I get one of those?” she gestured towards the cigarette hanging out of my mouth.

“Sorry: this is my last one.”

She didn’t say anything. Her face rapidly dissolved from the vagrant face of hope into the indignant face of insult. She took a few steps back from me and continued to wait for the bus.

(Really, I had four cigarettes left. Me, being an underage smoker made cigarettes hard to come by). Safe in my justification, I went back to waiting for the bus as well.

While we all continued to wait, I could feel her eyes on me, digging holes in my flesh from the safety of her doorway. Eventually the bus rolled to a stop at the corner we were all congregating on and we began to board. She stared at me the entire time.

I managed to snag a forward-facing seat relatively close to the front of the bus. The older woman had gotten a seat exactly perpendicular.

She continued to stare at me as the bus passed the local hospital. She stared at me as we passed the grocery store and a slew of still sleepy, residential homes. And she continued to stare at me as I got off the bus, at my stop in front of my high school.

I had managed to get across the street and halfway to the school entrance at the front of the building before I realized that she had exited with us and proceeded to follow me into school.

As we passed through the doors she saw me look over my shoulder. Her face hadn’t changed since I had turned down her initial request.

A cold panic was starting to work its way over my body. It was early in the morning. A fraction of the faculty was in the building but most of them were on the other side of the campus. I couldn’t think of anything else to do but to go about my business. So I went to my locker and got ready for the day. She stopped following me when she saw what I was doing. While I proceeded with my morning routines, I could see out of the corner of my eye that she was still watching me from the opposite end of the hallway.

An eternity passed before she came up to me and asked me a question.

“Do youuuu know what time it is?”

There were four clocks in that hallway. Two behind her, and two behind me.

I stared at her. She stared back at me. I looked at the nearest clock behind her, over her left shoulder.

I resumed eye contact with her, blinked and told her the time.

“6:45”.

She turned around and left without saying another word. I am a white male. She was an older black female.

It would be years before I realized that there might have been something more to this interaction. Maybe she saw me put the cigarette pack back in my pocket and knew I was holding out. Maybe she woke up that morning completely sour with where her life had led her. Maybe there was something psychologically wrong with her.

What really matters is the fact that I still think about her from time to time. I can still hear the dull silence and the smell of hormones between her final question and my answer. I still remember how much of an ignorant teenager I was and how easily I shrugged that whole experience off. And I can still feel the cold emptiness inside of me that I saw reflected back in her eyes.