Untitled (FICTION)

I walk in through the front door. "What the fuck is this?" I yell, tossing my keys across the room. It's been three seconds and she's already managed to piss me off. She pulls her feet off the coffee table, fear reflecting in her eyes. I love having this control over her. Her eyes are beautiful though; they really are. I will probably miss them most. 

She scrambles to her feet as I draw near, pulling her gaze away. She has no idea what she did wrong, and I'll admit, sometimes neither do I. But it's better this way than being Mr. Nice Guy. Nice guys never get too far. 

"Is there any food in this damn house?" I growl. She runs in the direction of the kitchen, mumbling something under her breath. Well, I think to myself, I have time to take a shower, eat a nice meal, and then the deed must be done. 

I walk into the bedroom and close the door. She has no business in here anyways; her place is in the kitchen. I undress and look at myself in the mirror. Shit, I think, for a man of 44, I'm in damn good shape. The gym membership has definitely been worth the money. And that hussy at work isn't so bad either, I smile to myself in the mirror. Lunch breaks aren't all that bad. 

I climb into the shower and turn on the hot water. The sting of the heat slaps my skin senseless, but I stand there and take it. I like the pain. Besides, I probably deserve it. Tonight's the night.

I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around myself. In the mirror, my skin is bright red, scorched. It looks disgusting but it feels great. She will like it. 

I make my way towards the kitchen, praying, for her sake, there's a hot meal on the table. I won't hit her. Not tonight. No, it would be too much before...

I stop at the door and I listen to the noises coming from within the kitchen. She's hustling about, worried what I will think, what I will say, what I will do. She trains well. It makes me sad a little, but tonight is the night. I walk into the kitchen, pleased with myself. 

(to be continued)

Nothing (FICTION)

"Do you think we are alone?" she asks me, gazing up at the stars. 

"No," I reply, sounding more assured than I really am. She is referring to aliens; I to God, but what difference does it really make? Couldn't we both be talking about the same thing, really? Couldn't God be an alien of the greatest kind?

We lay on my rooftop, as on so many nights, and stare at the stars up above. Tonight the sky is particularly clear, and you can make out the exact line where the light ends and the nothingness begins. There is always a border, isn't there?

"What do you think they look like?" she asks. We've had this conversation before, but immediately I start to think about heaven. I'm not sure I believe in the place, but there's gotta be something better than this.

"They're disgusting ugly creatures," I tell her. "They feed their intellect alone and they know far more than we do." She's quiet, as if processing the information. For the first time I realize that it's the blackness she's looking at, and not the stars. "I think I've met them before," I say. 

She lays still, not responding to the words I say. Perhaps she understands more than I think, more than I know. I look where she's looking, into the empty darkness, but I see nothing there. 

"What if it all fell down?" she asks, and I'm not really sure what she means. The stars? The world? God?

"What direction is down?" I retort, stalling for time. What if it did fall, where would that leave us? And in the grand scheme of things, who are we anyways? Who is she, and who am I? And does it really matter?

We lay on the rooftop, gazing at the nothingness between the stars. But the light, it's always there. 

Inspiration

I drink the wine, but the wine drinks me

I start to think to myself, silently

Why does this always happen to me?

You think you're the one in control, but you're not

Sometimes I wish I was a smart little teapot

It would simplify things, but I"m not

So back to the bottle then I go

Let's see what comes out, may be a good show

Can never tell ahead of time, you know

Stick around folks, here I go

Work-Edited (FICTION)

Work, all I ever do is work.  All I know is work, and I am tired. I’m so tired of working.

I want to live! I want to see the beauties and wonders of the world, to travel all over the globe to find them. I want to ride an elephant in India and a camel in Egypt. I want to stand beneath the Eiffel Tower and feel small, then climb the Empire State Building and feel huge. I want to eat an exquisite lunch in some obscure Italian restaurant. I want the meal to melt in my mouth, as I savor each delicious bite of it. And then I want dessert – chocolate and strawberries! I want to swim in chocolate-covered strawberries! 

I want to be serenaded on a gondola in Venice, and hear sweet nothings whispered in my ear over a candlelit dinner in Ibiza. I want to walk on the Great Wall of China, and follow a tour-guide up the side of the Giza Pyramid, listening to him weave riddle upon mystery. I want to have a Latin lover, one who will love me and leave me. I want to cry over him for days as I imagine what could have been, and vow to never forget each beautiful moment we shared.

I have never been in love; I want to fall madly in love! I want to wake up in the morning and sing about how wonderful life is. I want to bake brownies for no reason, and think about my beloved all day and all night. I want to write his name over and over on a piece of paper, and color little hearts all around. I want to come up with names for our future children.

I want to make love on a moonlit beach, and not even worry about the sand mixing into my hair. I want to get lost in the moment, and forget Egypt, Ibiza, Venice, Paris and China; I want to forget my very name. Then I want him to remind me!

But all I ever do is work, and all I know is work. What for? What the hell am I working for?

Not only human (Heather Nova Lyrics)

Morning is almost here, let it wait.

I just want to lie here a while, tempting fate.

I don't think I can breath now, with you gone.

But it's not weakness, it's just something I've begun.

Maybe there's a light that's always on

Maybe we're not only human, maybe

Maybe there's a light that's always on

And we're not only human

When you're sleeping, you're ceramic

You're surrounded by little stars

Every shimmer is a searchlight

Every planet is ours

Change the street, change the decade

Still the longing's left inside

Why am I too small to carry you?

Why does twilight make me cry?

Maybe there's a light that's always on

Maybe we're not only human, maybe

Maybe there's a light that's always on

And we're not only human

When all is said and done

When all the weight is gone

When all is said and done

When all the weight is gone

We're not only human

Life is something set to music

I can hear it when I'm sad

There's a cord in every muscle

Every kiss you've ever had

There's a power when you're near me

In our heads or in our bones

I know nothing, but I'm guessing

When we die, we're not alone

Maybe there's a light that's always on

Maybe we're not only human, maybe

Maybe there's a light that's always on

And we're not only human

When all is said and done

When all the weight is gone

When all is said and done

When all the weight is gone

We're not only human

Memories (FICTION)

I remember, I remember,

It was in the late September,

...But perhaps it was November?

Each dying ember lay beneath the snow.

No, I do not wish to speak of Poe.

We may have things in common, though, you know?

But the memory I have is of so long ago.

I was a child, perhaps less so than now. 

You stood above me, and you kissed my brow. 

How that kiss disturbs me now.

But that is not my memory still!

Tonight, I listen only to my will.

And my brain churning, like the blades of a mill.

I was a little girl back then.

I wore my hair in pigtails, when

I fell in love with you. Yes, you, Stan!

You broke my heart - you were  a grown man.

You saw me only as a child,

A small thing, that runs around, wild.

Yet my heart melted each time you smiled. 

I was very sick that day, yes. 

You came over, I believe to play chess;

or so I remember in all of this mess.

At that moment, I considreed myself blessed.

You spoke my name, Stan, so beautifully,

I imagined what ties we could have, lawfully.

You were my prince, then, allegorically.

Life was so easy back then, literally.

I want to go back to those childhood days.

I want to see my life in a kind of haze. 

I want life to be one big playful maze. 

I want to awaken upon your gaze.

But you lie in your grave, silently.

While gray creeps into my hair violently.

What a life has been wasted on me. 

Fran 4 (FICTION)

Francisca walked through the front door of the townhouse she shared with Brian and shut the door slowly behind her. She leaned against the door and slumped to the ground. Like a newborn baby, she didn't really notice the external world around her. All she could do was replay parts of what Dr. Richards had told her, filling in between the lines. "...it's a very rare disease, very few people have ever heard of it...", he started out with, turning his gaze away. What was the name of it again?, Francisca struggled. Not that it mattered anyways. "I'm afraid there's no cure, Francisca. No medicine..." It was at this point that Francisca's world began to spiral down. But what will happen? Will I die? "I don't know how much time you have exactly, but judging by the stage of the disease, I would say one-to-two years..." That was the last thing Francisca heard. Dr. Richards also mentioned something about a medicine in the clinical trial phase, but Francisca missed all of that. She left his office as soon as he finished talking in a daze. Somehow, she drove herself home, but she had no recollection of it. Instead, all Francisca could think about was her imminent death. Would there be anyone to hold her hand as she left this world? Would she even want that? Besides, what was the next stop after that? Was there one at all? Francisca couldn't remember the last time she thought about God. Perhaps now was a good time?

Brian came home three hours later. He entered through the garage door, as usual, trying to forget his stressful day. As every evening, the only thought that truly consumed him was seeing Francisca: touching her, kissing her, owning her. He threw his keys on the counter in the kitchen and unloaded his pockets. He opened a bottle of red wine and poured himself a glass. Taking a sip, the alcohol immediately took effect. He began to undo his tie with one hand as he headed in the directon of the living room. Francisca was probably watching TV, if not upstairs waiting for him, he thought. A smile played across his lips as he thought about the night ahead; tonight was a particularly stressful day.

The living room was dark and the TV turned off. Brian began making his way upstairs as he heard a noise. Is that an animal? It took a couple of minutes before Brian realized that the noise was coming from somewhere near the front door. All he could see was a large lump...laying? sitting? what was that exactly? He approached cautiously, setting his glass of wine on the bottom step. He started to think of possible weapons he could grab along the way - a heavy book, the porcelain vase - before he realized the undefined mass on the floor was Francisca. What was she doing?...crying? In the four months that they had been together, Brian had never seen Francisca cry. For the first time, he found himself repulsed by this beautiful woman.