stasis

I have murdered her at least once a day in my mind. Not every death is violent or gruesome, they all end the same way though.

“Refill? It’s free the first time, costs 1.19 each time after that.”

I blankly look at the waitresses’ long face, her skin pooling under her chin with deep rivers cutting through the creases around her pinched mouth and teeny eyes the color of faded denim . Her cheekbones are too high, like an Arabian horse and her brittle blonde curls cling fiercely to her scalp under her paper hat. Cheap plastic pink tinted lipstick bleeding out of her lip line, stretching towards her nostrils and faint yet bristling mustache.

“No. I’m fine for now.” I spoke slowly, enunciating each word

She fixed me with a look of slight contempt as she strode past, tucking her notebook into the large square pocket of her white apron. Her sensible rubber soled shoes made a barely audible squeaking noise against the checkered linoleum of the diner. She paused to lean against the pie counter and fish a dollar bill out of the clear plastic charity box for a camp for blind children and stuff it down her shirt.

I stared at the Formica tabletop. Each metallic fleck was almost invisible until I closed one eye or moved my position to allow the light to hit it and reveal it to me. I balanced a butter knife on the rim of my glass, and held part of my straw underwater, suctioning my finger to the top to lift it out a core of water and blot designs into the napkin. A slight sigh escapes my lips as I push the remnants of a slice of apple pie around on the ceramic plate. I had barely eaten, instead choosing to mash and shuffle the chunks through the cinnamon sludge that dripped slowly from wounds on either side of the wedge.

I rested my chin under my left hand, tilting my head wearily and letting my eyes relax and un-focus until they began to burn and water and I was forced by my body to blink and regain consciousness back into the dimly lit diner. Instantly I was repulsed by my surroundings. I left a twenty dollar bill for a three dollar meal, not even bothering to get change. The waitress certainly didn’t deserve that tip, however I was not going to waste another breath inside that place. I guess I will consider it a good deed, maybe something will benefit me because I chose to be generous. Although, I suppose because I didn’t have a charitable intention and instead was selfish it might not have the same effect.

Intentions often mean more than the action, or at least in my mind they do.

For instance, I intended to pay him back and I tried to, I just didn’t end up doing it. It was a lack of money initially and then when I had the money, I became scornful and arrogant, why would I give him this money I had to work so hard for?

We pulled into the winding driveway, under the awning of the entrance.
Fir Tree Retirement Community. The wooden sign was weathered from its years of standing quiet sentry to the pneumatic glass door gates that held a veritable treasure trove of senile pensioned elderly. I looked at her, she roughly jammed the gearshift into park and silenced the rumbling motor.

“Fucking car.” She slammer her hands roughly against the door, shoving the plastic handle and lock back into place.

“Easy, girl.”

“Fuck you.”

“Well, that’s the last straw as far as I am concerned, Ill drop you off at the bus station on my way back through town. I cant fucking stand your attitude these days, we have nothing but shit to look forward to you and you go and piss all over it with this doom and gloom black rain cloud that follows you around like a lost cat.”

“I don’t even care anymore, Gray. I can stay with my mother in Cinci and you can self destruct without me. This is the last time. Im sorry I ever picked that phone up.” She didn’t even look at me when she spoke, that’s how I knew she had dug a grave for me and tossed in the first handful of soil before my empty body had even settled in the coffin.

I opened the door and slid out of the cab of the truck, opening the door as far as I could before throwing my entire body weight behind it to slam loudly, shaking the truck slightly. Her stare was incredulous. I strode up to those pearly gates, and read the list of names next to the buzzer while I ignored the surge of emotions I thought I had lost sometime ago.

203 -A. Doblinson
204 -A. Yzrechy
205 -V. B. Sanford-Jones

And so on. I chose Front Desk, and ran over my steps in my mind as the doors buzzed loudly before sliding open to admit me into the bowels of the beast. A Trojan horse, I walked proudly through.

homage sentence

Giving up what you want most in this entire world for the person you care most about is either honorable or cowardly. I wasn’t giving up smoking or drinking, because I did neither and had little desire to even if the option was available. I gave up him.

I surrendered him to the wind, and I had clung so tightly for so long. I watched my bird fly away and I hoped he would fly back again someday. I knew the ultimate act of love is to release it. I released my love into the wind and the sky and watched him swoop and dive from the ground.

The instant he darted from my grasp, he tugged my heart out from beneath my skin and marrow. I gasped sharply as the pain spread outward from my chest, my flesh was cool and then snarling beneath my worried palms as it spread down my arms to my fingers. I inhaled, instant pain blossomed in me. I exhaled to ease the pressure as it rose in my eardrums and thickened my throat.

The sunlight was so pure against the feathers that I forgot the pain because my bird was so bright and I could see the beauty that the others saw in him. I was never meant to be the only one to love him, I was always going to love him. Love is watching the color spread in the sky, and realizing that the color could never be appreciated until it was painted across the horizon. My world is vivid, lurid and diseased with this new color. I am getting worse because others are getting better. I will wait for my bird to swoop past, because even a glimpse of the color is preferable to being blind.

sugar thorns

the trunks of the trees are blurring into a sea of emerald bark the longer i peer into the depths of the forest. the field runs wide and green, spanning the weak distance between the copses of trees.
dead leaves are limp under my feet, crushed into silence and fossilizing with the hard, flat packed earth. the trunks of the younger trees are clean and the color of weak tea, the older trees wear venerable robes of moss with pride, enhancing their craggy profiles with an air of wisdom and secrecy.

it is useless to dig or cultivate anything in this soil. i want to be able to dig into the welcoming dirt and hold the rich and heavy proof in my hands. warm black dirt to etch the creases where i bend.

this dirt has been tamped into an ageless path. if i tried to scoop up a handful, my nails would break. the rocks are incorporated with the smooth flow of the muddy path and to dig them out and toss them aside only create pockmarks. tiny pockmarks that will erode and grow with each rain. corrupting the path into a twisted maw. dry roots wail in the wind, their fingers are returning to dust.

each footfall will take soil and leave less behind.