Wednesday 30 November 2016

Lost



I was staring at myself in the mirror when Bryan rapped lightly on the locked bathroom door.  “Rache,” he said, “come out.  I promise all I want to do is to talk.  Okay?”

From his shortening of my name I knew there would be no recriminations for what I had done.  Problem was, I hadn’t a clue where to go from here—or even who I was anymore.  “I hit you,” I said softly.  “I really hit you.”

“It’s okay.  I’m fine.  Just come out, all right?”

The skinny girl in the mirror shook her head.  The hollowness in her eyes betrayed the hollowness of her heart.  “I’m sorry,” I told her.  “I honestly am.  But I’m done.”

Sounding appropriately suspicious, Bryan said, “What do you mean, you’re done?”

“Exactly what you think I mean,” I answered, and with that he pounded on the door with significantly more force than he had the last time.  As my devoted nurse during those long weeks of recovery, he knew that in addition to a variety of sharp objects, my medicine cabinet housed a vast assortment of extremely potent pain pills—pain pills that I now had unrestricted access to.  “Rachel,” Bryan barked, “open the fucking door!”  

I read once that people who decide to kill themselves are happy, because they finally know what it is they need to do.  But I didn’t feel happy at all—just terribly, terribly sad.  “I can’t do that,” I answered him.  “It’s too late.”  Looking at the bruise spreading across my knuckles, I said, “I’m finished with this fucked up life.”

The doorknob rattled viciously, but without consequence.  The quality construction of our apartment was such that it could have survived a 9.0 earthquake—which was precisely the reason Bryan had removed the lock from my bedroom door, back when I was in seventh grade.   Too bad he’d left the lock for the bathroom door intact.  

“This isn’t how you make a fucking point!” he shouted at me, but undeterred, I opened the medicine cabinet.  Shying away from the scissors—that just sounded distasteful—I reached for the bottle of pills that Bryan had reserved for my worst episodes of sleeplessness, the first week I was home.  With an eerie sense of detachment I pulled the sink stopper and dumped the means of my escape into the basin.   As Bryan banged on the door so hard that the wall vibrated, I filled my bathroom cup with water and swallowed a heaping handful of the pink and white capsules.  “What the fuck do you think this is going to solve?” he yelped from the other side of the door.  “This isn’t going to make anything better, Rachel!”

I wished I could agree.  Yeah, I was afraid of death.  I just couldn’t make myself afraid enough to care.  “It’s been nice knowing you,” I told him.  “Well, not really.  Good luck and all of that.”

No, goddamnit!  Open the fucking door!”

That wasn’t going to happen, so I popped several more pills for good measure, and, satisfied that I had reached a lethal dosage, lay down on the floor alongside the bathtub.  I recognized that killing myself with Bryan on the other side of the door constituted the reprehensibly cruel—especially considering how his mother had died—but there was nothing to be done about it.  He had brought me to this.  He had no one to blame but himself when the firemen axed their way in and discovered his ward dead on the floor.


*From my serialized novel, A Slow Twisting Place, available to read free here: http://slowtwistingplace.blogspot.co.uk/

Tuesday 29 November 2016

Atomic rage


I surrendered my travel book centuries ago
burned the forest where you were 
my favorite tree
You are the reality I cannot close in on 
the dream mistook for 
permanency

Monday 28 November 2016

A World Away




The shimmering patch of air was now positively beckoning her. 

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Kitty asked out loud.  As long as she took care not to run into the cactus lurking just behind this potential hallucination, the answered seemed to be nothing, other than a few wasted moments of her life.  And it wasn’t as if Kitty had something better to do.  Her existence was so devoid of excitement that it seemed a shame to ignore even this smidgeon of potential.  So she said brightly to herself, “Well, here goes!” and feeling more than a little stupid, marched straight into the shimmering light.

Kitty felt herself gasp as a blast of frigid air blow through her—air colder than anything she’d ever experienced during a Wisconsin winter, including the January when the temperature failed to rise above zero degrees.  Just when she thought she would never feel warm again, however, the sensation passed.  And then Kitty stumbled and promptly fell down onto her knees.

Embarrassed, she stood up and brushed herself off.  At least no one had been around to see her make a fool of herself—and, more importantly, she had avoided the cactus.   Kitty didn’t even want to think what it would have felt like to fall into that.

She was still flicking bits of dirt off of her clothes, imagining herself covered in cactus needles, when she noticed a battered pair of black riding boots just a few feet in front of her.  

Kitty looked up.  A man stood in front of her.

*From my upcoming serialized YA fantasy novel, A Window to the World, coming to https://channillo.com/ soon!



            

Sunday 27 November 2016

A Slow Twisting Place, Chapter 59

Chapter 59 of my free serialized novel A Slow Twisting Place now available to read!  Just click here.



Silence


I hear riddles all day long
words but not in English
no one wants me to know
My heart is a tinder box I
am not allowed to open

Saturday 26 November 2016

Illusions


And when I choose to come here again                                                                     
will it snow how it did in my dreams
                        will I be

a story worth telling

                                    because the sadness—

it crackles in the night
           
for you           
the mistake worth regretting

                                                the faraway voice        filled with belonging

do you see where eternity ends

did you know that you were my friend
this planet a box that holds me

when she could not worship the sun               for so long she yearned to sleep         

but the storm came rolling in
                        the storm came rolling in

a million miles of prairie grass

and your golden-haired girl                            exposed once again

unsure how the course of right became the final turn wrong
how her rabbit-hole time for falling   

                                    just      gone


gone



gone


a triumph but for you 
my one truth worth deceiving
a child’s dream for tomorrow so good           it deserved to be buried
behind the wall a red she had never seen                  

           
if I had                        discovered

yet not been found


would your golden-haired girl           
be six feet underground

I guess this was why you had to go
maybe I should have known

but the sadness—
no one told me it would come with the leaving


especially not you

my last hope worth believing

Friday 25 November 2016

The Open Door



January 2005

Dream Journal

Dreamt I went back to school and I was in algebra class.  Unlike in my other dreams I was actually having fun, thinking I might be able to catch up and not fail the course, when suddenly one of my classmates shouted that someone had a gun.  Everyone started to scream and run.  In the hallway I saw the guy with a gun.  He was from another high school, a football player.  The room we all escaped into had a telephone, but when I dialed 911 they put me on hold.  The football player came into the room and we all ran again, panicking.

Everyone got ahead of me and went outside, in a direction they knew he wouldn’t think to follow.  I was trying to follow but suddenly I couldn’t run at all--it was massive effort to lift my feet.  The football player came outside with another guy and a girl, and they were all laughing together, like they were having fun killing people and scaring us.  I climbed a brick wall and tried to hide in a drainage ditch, but they’d seen me.  As I was climbing the wall the girl took the gun and shot me in the foot.  When I then crouched in the gutter she shot at me again and just missed my stomach.  Somehow I knew I would have died had that bullet been even half an inch closer.

Finally I managed to jump out of the gutter despite my wounded foot.  I ran through a cemetery full of huge holes in the ground, down side streets, even through people’s houses, as I followed signs to a road that I knew would lead me home.  But when I reached the road I looked over, and the girl with the gun was walking alongside me.  She seemed very queer and scary.  Although she wasn’t holding the gun I knew she was still dangerous.  I tried to pacify her with small talk. 

When we reached my house I managed to go down to the basement without her.  Although people were home no one in the house was helping me.  I grabbed the phone in my brother’s room and called the police, but the police wouldn’t let me tell them what was going on.  They just kept blathering on about how they knew the shooting had taken place and they were looking for the suspect.  I couldn’t get a word in edgewise to tell them the suspect was in my house! 

Then all at once the girl was standing in the doorway to my brother’s room. She accused me of calling the police.  I shook my head and tried to say things into the phone that made it sound like I was just having some random phone call.  She obviously didn’t believe me.  In a somber tone, she told me, “Think of all the lives you’re going to ruin.”  



Wednesday 23 November 2016

Secrets


Whisper it to me while no one is listening
tell me I am a fool
tell me I am not
tell me something that makes sense
and then prove it

Tuesday 22 November 2016

Shattered


Each choice I made, each breath I took, led to disaster. I no longer believed in the future. I wasn’t even sure I believed in love anymore—at least, not the redemptive kind. All I did know was that I felt like a shattered piece of china glued back together one too many times. I had no idea who or what to trust, who to blame, or who to forgive. But the terrified child inside of me refused to be silenced. She would not leave me be. 

The truth could no longer be avoided. I was damaged beyond repair. This time there would be no gluing me back together again. 

Lying in bed with Rick that night, both of us wide awake, I touched his stubbly, handsome, complicated face. “Who are you?” I whispered to him. “Who are you really?” 

“Your husband.” 

“Then who am I?” 

“My wife. The queen of my world,” Rick said softly. 

“Why has everything gone so wrong?” 

“Because sometimes everything has to go wrong before we can make it right.” 

Yes. Exactly.

*From my novel, The Abduction Myth, available to download here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01KI6XNJU

A Slow Twisting Place, Chapter 58

Chapter 58 of my serialized novel A Slow Twisting Place is now available to read--just click here.  Thank you!


Drowning


Let me tell you what I know about
my broken heart
this is the rhythm of it falling apart
toss the stones in the river because
we are
we are coming up for air again

What did I even know about
guilt and sin
all of the dreams that
I was dying in
it was a curse it was a blessing it
was utter nothingness
until it skidded and came crashing
home

No telling how the earth will
record this disaster
whistling dixie in the wind
as if I had the answer
            ballet with fractured form
tripped up by vengeful rapture
the hammer flung against
the wall

Dismantled piece by piece into
a million parts
buried back with Santa at
the Christmas tree farm
what is dead is what is real to
the falling apart
we heard the siren but not the
alarm

I wonder how I will know when
the sky becomes my master
when dreams of yesterday stop
mocking me with laughter
tomorrow is today tornadoes
circling my trailer
I was wrong over
and over again

Now I whisper to the wind about
my broken heart
failing in slow motion
not a subtle art
toss the stones in the river because
I am
I am here alone at the end



Monday 21 November 2016

Innocence

With a belligerent expression on his smug entitled face, Adam told me, “I love her."

“I’m sure you do.”

“Why are you so cynical?”

“I think realistic might be more apt," I replied.  I tried to get the bartender's attention, but he ignored me in favor of a trio of giggly college girls.  "You aren't the type to stick around."

“I’ve been with her for almost three years--long before you and her deadbeat father showed up on the scene.”

“I know,” I said, bored now with this conversation.  “Are you going to get the beer, or should I?”

“Dude, you’d better get used to me,” Adam snarled, “because I’m not going anywhere.”

“I guess that’s you volunteering, then,” I answered, and fighting back the urge to punch him, I returned to the table.  “Adam’s getting the beer,” I told Angie.  “He’ll be right back.”

“Great,” she said with a big smile.  But I didn’t care if she thought she loved him.  Soon enough his useless ass would be bouncing straight out the door.



Unprepared



                the place you fell down from
  was the air so pure up there
                                that before you could warn me I
might find you

                  in the rustling of the trees  

you lost your breath
                and I was trapped
             under this avalanche of 
leaves        

                               

Sunday 20 November 2016

A Slow Twisting Place, Chapter 57

Chapter 57 of my free serialized novel A Slow Twisting Place is now available to read!  Just click here.  I hope you enjoy it!




Saturday 19 November 2016

Wisdom lost






And nothing is more obvious to
my existence than this raging
internal war,
who is fighting and who is winning,
irrelevant so far.

Friday 18 November 2016

The beginning...or the end?



Coping with Edward’s death felt like nothing compared to watching Julia pack my suitcase  “Why can’t Rachel stay here?” Michael asked from the floor of the closet, where he and I were camped out.  “Bryan’s not even that old.  He’s only in college.  It’s not fair that he gets her!”

“I know it’s not fair," Julia said.  "But there isn’t anything we can do about it.  We just have to accept it.”

“He’s not her father, is he?” 

Julia let out a sharp laugh.  “Heavens, no!”

“Then why does he get her?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“But he’s mean!”

“He’s not mean.  He’s just—Bryan.  I’m sure he’ll be very nice to Rachel.”  Julia pasted a brave but thoroughly transparent smile on her face.  “And Rachel will still get to visit.  It will be fun.”

Well, Julia sounded so unconvinced of how fun my impending doom with Bryan Jennings would be that it was impossible to believe her.  Neither did I agree that we should passively accept the fate that had befallen us.  It was me, after all, and not her who would be going off with the oldest son bright and early tomorrow morning. 

Tortured by that knowledge, I tossed and turned for much of the night.  Once I finally did drift off, it was only to dream of a giant, dark ogre—his eyes glittering black and cold as he dragged me off into a cave from which there was no escape.
           
This nightmare had begun to fade into another one involving giants when a familiar voice broke into my consciousness. 

RachelYou have to get up!

My eyes fluttered open.  Julia was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in her green velvet bathrobe.  A cigarette dangled out of the corner of her mouth.  “I know you’re tired,” she told me, “but it’s time to get up.”
   
I blinked at the traitorous sun streaming in through the blinds.   With a start I bolted into an upright position.

It was morning.

I stared at Julia as she cast a nervous glance behind her to the empty doorway.  When she returned her haunted eyes to me, the hair on the back of my neck stood straight up on end.  Instinctively I pulled my blanket over my mouth, in anticipation of the Poltergeist moment I knew must follow.  “Rachel,” Julia hissed.  “He’s here.” 

There was no question this time as to which “he” she referred to.
 
BryanThe oldest son. 

Downstairs.
 
Waiting.

Waiting for me.  

Don’t make me go,” I begged Julia, but she, enveloped in a cloud of smoke, just hugged me hard.  “It’s okay,” she croaked out.  “You’re going to be just fine.”

*From my free serialized novel, A Slow Twisting Place.  You can read all currently available chapters (1-56) here.


A Slow Twisting Place, Chapter 56

Chapter 56 of my serialized novel A Slow Twisting Place is now available to read here!  Enjoy, and have a great weekend!


Empty


This is a study in shattering
the shattering of the dust clouds
raging above the earth

the shattering of the net underneath
our breaking connection line
of only the endless clicking as we
swallow the sky

because this is a study in reality
what little of it is there is left to
hold against our one line of
defense

when wishing will not make it so
when the brutality of existing
requires me to let you
go

and I am thundering through
this what must be
shattering the glass with the howling
wind of disappointment wrapped
around me

because this is a study in endings
of our ending duly recorded but
eroded by time

yes I am alone
that is my tree on the hill
my grey sky to raise my muted
expectations to...



Thursday 17 November 2016

Misplaced


Dream Journal, February 2, 2005

Had a dream that I went with two people to my grandparents’ house.  The house was empty; we were just checking up on it.  Everyone who lived there had disappeared, except for my grandfather, who we knew had died.  Although the door to the living room was supposed to be closed, a little dog with us ran out of the room and down to the basement.  We went to the basement door and called for the dog.  As he came back up the stairs, a young woman followed him.

Well, I nearly had a heart attack.  She had been one of the missing people we’d assumed was dead--other than that I didn’t know exactly who she was.  I asked her where she’d been. She said she didn’t know, only that she'd been gone for three years.  Whoever had taken her had arranged for her life upon her return.  She had a strange air of contentment about the fact that she’d lost three years of her life.

She told us she intended to stay in the house.  I was scared and I wanted to leave, so she told me to call her whenever I needed her, which didn’t seem very likely.  Other people were staying with her at the house, although I could just see some shadows hovering around her. 

Only then did I realize that everyone who had disappeared were members of my family, not just random people.  Terror overcame me that whoever was taking them would come for me, too, and I didn’t want that.  I didn’t want to disappear and not know what happened to me for such a long stretch of time. 

When I woke up it was the middle of the night and I felt very, very afraid.  I thought to myself that maybe I didn’t want to remember after all.  I didn’t feel so brave anymore.

After that I had another dream.  In it is someone whispered to me, “Be quiet, Megan,” as if they were right in bed next to me.  I woke up with a start.  

Not a good night.

Dry


you want to cry
but you have been dry for so long
that despair has cut a dirt rock river
through the canyons of 
your lungs

Wednesday 16 November 2016

Unraveling

With an anxious sigh, Polly Wiggle-Waggle scanned her family’s account books, looking for good news that simply was not there.  Poor Polly was running out of ideas.  Try as she might to persuade them otherwise, her parents refused to admit that the family was in a financial crisis.  “The Wiggle-Waggles,” her father had intoned, after Polly waved the account books under his nose, “do not have financial crises!” 

If only that were true.  Yes, Lord and Lady Wiggle-Waggle, Polly’s parents, still lived in the great manor that had been the family seat for the last 37 generations.  And yes, they still gave the most glamorous garden parties in the county.  But with the family’s income drying up, and her parents’ complete inability to grasp reality, Polly was at her wits’ end for ways to raise funds for the summer fete her mother insisted on hosting.

In desperation Polly looked around the living room, searching for an old vase or painting her parents wouldn’t miss if she pawned it off a London antiques shop.  It was, she knew, a hopeless cause.  Thanks to such raids in the past Polly’s parents were beginning to notice that the manor seemed a bit emptier than usual, even though it was still crammed full of family heirlooms.  

And of course Polly could forget about suggesting to her father that he get a job.  Lord Wiggle-Waggle’s face had gone beet red the last time she’d dared to raise the subject. “The Wiggle-Waggles,” he’d boomed, “do not have jobs!”  Nor had Lady Wiggle-Waggle been of much help when Polly had approached her after dinner yesterday.  “Darling,” she’d sniffed to Polly, “how many times do I have to tell you?  It’s vulgar for a lady to discuss matters of finance!”

Polly just did not know what to do.  With her brother Alfred even more clueless than her parents—he was incapable of any conversation not concerning lawn tennis or his London gentleman’s club—Polly felt utterly alone.  If only she could think of a way to make some money…




A Slow Twisting Place, Chapter 55

Chapter 55 of my serialized novel A Slow Twisting Place now available to read free here!


Happily Ever After


Time to sharpen the needle of this thorn
to watch the destruction of
what I never knew to be true
The volcano erupted underneath the trees
I felt it 
I felt it as I expanded and shrank and dissolved
into the nothing I pretended
was you.

Tuesday 15 November 2016

Childhood Lost

A couple of hours later we returned to the kitchen to clean up the mess.  I held the dustpan for Bryan as he swept up the large fragments of glass; he then brought out the vacuum, to suck up the tiny shards that might otherwise lodge themselves inside of cats’ paws.  Once we were certain the floor was safe, I freed the cats from the study.    

When I returned to the kitchen Bryan was having a go at the wall.  I figured one or two wipes with a wet cloth would clean it, but the wall seemed to have soaked up the whiskey exactly how Mr. Kelly used to at the annual Christmas Eve party.  We scrubbed it with everything from dish soap to Mr. Clean, with no success.  “It still smells like a saloon in here,” I complained to Bryan.   “Yes, it does,” he agreed.  “I don’t know what else to do.  Hopefully Sandra will have some ideas next week, or else the room will need to be painted again.”

“What are you going to tell her?”

“The truth—that I had a temper tantrum,” Bryan answered, and flashed me a self-deprecating smile.  We both stood there for a minute, surveying the damage, before he turned toward me again.  “About Melissa,” he said.  “Maybe you were right.  Maybe it’s not a good idea for you to see her right now.”

“Yeah,” I answered quietly.  When I handed him another cloth he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.  

*From my free serialized novel, A Slow Twisting Place, available to read here.