Tuesday 31 January 2017

Eventuality


I bumped into the memory man
the other day—
(we’ve been crossing paths often
lately)—
I listened to small things
which gave me small reactions.
But when he arched his eyebrows
as if asking, was I ready?
I left the memory man
where I found him and
conveniently forgot where
that place happened to be.
The only thing is that
he knows how to find me
he finds me every day
and every day he asks the question
and every day I say, “No thanks.”
One of these days, I guess.
It will be one of these days.

Another Place, Another Time

*The original photo is of an FA Cup Final Tie programme from 1947

Sometimes in her dreams she could hear the King talking to her...but, of course, Kitty never saw his face.  Nor could she recall what the apartment looked like that had been her home during her long stay in the Interior.  The much-faded scar where the Minister’s knife had gone into her side failed to jog her memory.  Even when Kitty went to visit the Minister’s grave, she found no marker, presumably because no one had known who he was.  Its absence only heightened her sense of unreality.  Not for the first time did she wish Jack could remember his trip there, if only  to validate her experience.  But she seemed fated to just forget more and more about the Interior until, somehow, it would cease to exist in her memory at all.

Monday 30 January 2017

Acceptance



This is not how I meant it to be
this is not who I meant to become
these are not the memories I
expected to replay in 
my head 
as I remembered who
I once had 
been


Sunday 29 January 2017

Shadows


I could blame it on Daisy, my bullmastiff.  Or I could blame it on my sister Christine for giving me Daisy as a birthday present.  But Daisy couldn’t help being huge, and Christine knew how much I wanted a dog.  “God knows you could use the company,” she snorted, with a sideways glance at Ethan.  He muttered something under his breath, but Christine just smiled; she loved to annoy him.  Only later would that more innocent dislike turn to hate.  “He started it,” she would tell me.  “If it weren’t for that lying piece of shit none of this would have happened.” 

Her logic held a certain appeal.  If Ethan hadn’t ended our engagement, and thus our living arrangement, I wouldn’t have been desperate to find a place that accepted giant-sized dogs.  I could have lived forever in the house his parents bought him, looking the other way whenever he came home late, with the quiet belief that no one’s life was perfect.  I’d never expected perfect.  Good enough suited me just fine.

Except that interpretation of events wouldn’t have been fair.  Yes, Ethan had cheated.  Yes, he said that he couldn’t spend the rest of his life with a “doormat” like me.  But when I became homeless, Christine did offer me and Daisy temporary shelter at her condo.  She even insisted she’d be happy for us to stay indefinitely.  And L.A., she argued, was far more exciting than the quiet college town I’d never left, to be with the boyfriend who couldn’t let his university lifestyle go.  Christine presented me with the perfect solution until I figured out just how, at the age of 32, to rebuild my life.  After all, I worked from home, so I could live wherever I wanted.  There was no need to feel chained to my dwindling life in El Prado.

Yet despite all of these good reasons to say yes to Christine’s offer, I said no.  I said no, because I hated L.A.  I said no because while I adored Christine, we were too different to make good roommates.  And I said no because I still loved Ethan.  We’d been together for eleven years—I didn’t know how to live without him.  Besides, I genuinely believed that once I was gone, he would miss our life together; I needed to be nearby for when that moment of clarity came.  Ethan did not force me to stay loyal to him.  He didn’t even ask.  I made that mistake all by myself.

My mother never let me forget that, because she’d warned me against Ethan from the start.  Of course, she’d despaired over pretty much everything I did—my family’s favourite label for me was naive.  But eventually she too found someone else to blame.  Not my late father, who had walked out on us when I was a baby.  Nor did she blame the one who nearly killed me thirty years later, in every sense of the word.  Even this monster my mother considered just a symptom, rather than the disease itself.

Instead, she focused all of her wrath on the man she loathed at first sight.  The man, she said, who made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up every time he looked at me.  He had brought me to the brink of despair, she insisted, and then gave me a gentle push just as she and Christine meant to save me.  “You must see, darling,” she wept to me, during that last conversation, “how he is responsible for everything that’s gone wrong in your life.”

I didn’t see.  I couldn’t see anything at all, no matter how hard I tried.  All I wanted was one incorruptible truth to call my own.  But truth is organic, like a strand of DNA.  It can mutate, or combine with other strands of truth, until it evolves into something that no longer bears any resemblance to its previous self.  For too long my truth did just that—twisting and changing, attaching itself to others, until it became unrecognizable.  But the monster was not built to survive.  Nothing really is.

That left just me.  Just me, and every stupid decision I ever made.

Except that this isn’t a story about blame, or about truth. 

This is a story about him.

*From The Abduction Myth, available to purchase herehttps://www.amazon.com/dp/B01KI6XNJU

Friday 27 January 2017

Reckoning


When I opened the cage and released the girl, she howled past me, a cyclone powered by atomic pain.  I crouched against the wall and covered my ears but I could still hear her screams, the terrified shouts of those in the lost restaurant, as she raged deadly witness against them.

Thursday 26 January 2017

War




Welcome back

I am not back
do not speak to me

Tell me a story

There is no story
only tears that blur
the words

Tell me a story where
no one wins

I lost victory long ago
lost its taste, its smell
I lost the smoke and
the screams and
the burning
I lost the cool taste of
water on a hot day
I lost the quarry and the
lake
I lost what I believed myself
to be
I lost daydreams and goodbyes
and hellos and new chances
I lost imagination

You are not lost

Stop talking to me
I forgot the riddle long ago

You forgot nothing

I will cross out words
I will make believe
I will stop everything
You know me
I was something I liked,
once
I think
I don’t know
I don’t know a damn thing
anymore
the fire has gone out and
I am cold
I am so fucking cold

Lost Girl

Stretch me across your rack, my love
turn tight the wheels
I will not cry
I will not cry 
because this I should have known
that the moment I found the 
heart to bring you here
I would be so much more alone.


Wednesday 25 January 2017

Gone


You found my horses running bare
shivering in the wind with
frozen hair
it broke to the touch 
as you whispered goodbye goodbye
goodbye...

Armageddon



“All right,” Philippe said, in a steady voice, “go ahead then.”  He pulled his knife out from his boot.  “I am ready.”

“What do you mean, you’re ready?” Kitty demanded.   Philippe gave her a grim smile.  “You know what I mean,” he answered.  “If you die, so do I.”

“You don’t mean that!”

“Oh, yes, I do.  I have lost you over and over again, but I have survived it because hope, however small, always remained.  But if you die, hope dies with you.  That I cannot survive.  I know this now, so why delay the inevitable?”

“Philippe!” Kitty yelped.  “That’s not fair!”

“How is it not fair?  It is exactly what you mean to do to me, is it not?”

Kitty felt a flash of anger rise up in her.  And then she thought of Jack, and the anger died again.  What difference did any of it make anymore?  None.   “I don’t care,” she whimpered.  “Just please go away and let me die.”

“I am afraid that is impossible now.  My fate is tied to yours.”

“I don’t believe in soul mates or in this stupid guardian intuit thing!”

“Then prove it,” Philippe said.  When Kitty just stared at him, not comprehending, he told her, “If you truly believe I will plunge this knife into my heart, you will not be able to pull that trigger.  Your subconscious will not allow it.”

“Oh, for god’s sake, I’m sick of this nonsense,” she said bitterly.  Her finger rested on the trigger.  In response Philippe moved the knife so that the point touched his stomach.

Another sob rose up in Kitty’s throat, as she shouted at him, “Stop pretending!  You don’t want to die!”

“No, I do not.  But I am more afraid of a world without you than I am of death.”

“Even if I hate you?”

“Even if.”

An eternity of silence passed.  Finally Kitty set the gun down.  “Fine,” she said softly.  “Then I’m going back.”

“You know you would not survive the passage—it would be no different than putting a bullet into your head!” Philippe barked, but Kitty answered, “Except that it wouldn’t.  You see, Jack gave me some of his blood.  I have cells again.”

“There is no proof such a thing would work!” Philippe returned.  “It is far from certain that if you step through the window you would survive!”

“Only one way to find out.” 

When Philippe started to argue again, Kitty said, “I’m sorry, Philippe.  I do love you—I have for so long now.  I just can’t be in this world for another minute.”

Tuesday 24 January 2017

Drowning



I felt your hand on my face and it
was comfort it was
pain.
Shove me out into the water again,
this is my home.
I will find you even though I know
on this dream the night has declared
war.


Monday 23 January 2017

Daylight

When Bryan stopped, the waitress deposited his refill on the table.  He moved to take it, but I was faster.  Holding the glass out of his reach, I demanded, “What are you trying to do?  Drink yourself to death?”

“What do you care if I am?”

“Oh, that’s fucking great.”

“You don’t need me," Bryan retorted. "You don’t even want to see me.  How I choose to live my life shouldn’t make any difference to you.”

“That doesn’t mean I want you dead!”

“I’m dead to you now, anyway.”

Infuriated, I shot back, “If you are, it’s your own fault.”

“And let me assure you, I’ve beaten myself up for it far better than you ever could.”  He held out his hand.  “So, if you don’t mind, I’d like my fucking drink now.”

“You were the one who didn’t want me around anymore.”

“We all know what I said and did, Rachel.  I can’t keep begging for you to understand.  You’ve made your decision, and I’m sure no one would disagree with it.  Now let me make my own fucking decisions.”

“But all I want is to know why.  You can never tell me why.”

“I did tell you,” Bryan returned, and for the first time I noticed that his outstretched hand was shaking.  “Maybe you don’t understand this,” he said, “but I thought all I had become to you was some kind of fucking obstacle.  I’m sorry if this isn’t a good enough reason for you, or if it sounds trite, but I felt rejected, all right?  Like I meant nothing to the one person who meant everything to me.”  He lowered his eyes, his scowl now fixed on the table.  “I’ve been told I have some kind of abandonment complex because of what happened with my mother—that I don’t want to be left again, so I leave first.  If you can believe that recycled, fucked up psychoanalytical bull shit.”

I could believe it.  And because I did, I forgave him.

*Excerpt from my upcoming novel, The Last Confession of the Sun God.


Sunday 22 January 2017

The last fairy tale



Our hologram 
our invention 
created with the 
worst of intentions 
our illusion
our illusion

Some kind of
cradle
holds you now
I had to let you
fall from my
arms
but not forever
not forever

just in this world...







Friday 20 January 2017

Memory


Sometimes I am lost,
wandering around my
mind.
And the madness that
touches me,
touches you,
too.

It beats me inside,
it makes me swallow
what I should
release—
it beats me inside,
I have to swallow
or I will
choke.

It follows me,
but it can run so
much faster.
It can run so much
faster...

Thursday 19 January 2017

The Voice Within

Going back wasn’t an option.   God knew I wished I could, because a new kind of despair—one I didn’t recognize—set in when I found myself painting again for the first time since my breakup.  Over the past several years painting had become for me the artistic equivalent of cutting.  In theory I loved the textures, the smells, the colors in those little tubes of oils and acrylics...yet in practice the urge to create always turned into a nightmare.  What started out as a pretty flower in a vase would somehow wind up sharp and jagged, in oranges and reds and yellows almost too harsh to look at.  I just could not control my brush.  Daubing would give way to a manic series of movements as my hands worked independently of my brain, as if an ugly, wounded creature inside of me was urgently trying to communicate a plea for peace that never came.

Yet that plea could not be ignored.  Whenever I felt the need to paint, I couldn’t sleep, eat, anything, until I obeyed the monster within.  After the session ended and my brain had slowed again I would feel exhausted and ashamed, confused with what had overcome me.  But I refused to give in.  One day I would paint something beautiful.

Until that moment came, I had to suffer through endless rounds with my dubious muse.  The stories she told never had faces, only shapes and movements and hues that failed to match anything I saw in my own mind.  After three weeks of this, a whole scene, sprawling across three large canvases, began to open up before me.  I’d meant to create the sensation of standing in the field of wildflowers I so often visited in my dreams, but something had gone terribly awry.  It was a field, yes, and certainly full of flowers...yet instead of serenity, the meadow before me took on a curious sense of foreboding.  No matter how hard I tried to make the meadow pretty, the sense of dread only deepened. 

It started driving me mad, to the point where I was spending all of my free time in front of those three canvases.  I forgot to eat, my sleep suffered, and I actually had to force myself to work on the four seasons book I’d promised to illustrate for a favorite author.  Even as I stood in the shower after a particularly rough illustrating session, my thoughts were consumed by how to fix that painting.  In my bedroom alcove I threw on some old clothes and pattered back to the meadow.  Something had to give before I lost my mind.


*This is an excerpt from my novel The Abduction Myth, which you can purchase here:
 https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01KI6XNJU



Wednesday 18 January 2017

Scissors

The defense has become the obstacle
I cannot give it up
it is giving me up
it is waving goodbye
it has become boring
please please please
it has become boring
I look out of the bus window and I see
houses and a golf course
not ready
keeps rattling at the gate
let me kiss you goodbye

just wait
just wait
just not ready yet.

The defense has become the obstacle
there is no turning back.


Tuesday 17 January 2017

Irreversible

Kitty was in the process of creating a make-shift bandage in front of the sink when she realized she was no longer alone.  And yet no one had come through the door. This could mean only one thing.  Hoping to see a friendly fuzzy image, Kitty raised her eyes to the mirror.

Just behind her stood the image of a blurry clergyman.  As she struggled to maintain her composure Kitty considered casually strolling out of the ladies' room to the relative safety of the bus depot lobby, but her arm was still bleeding all over the counter.  Nor was she a good enough actress to pull off the pantomime that she wasn't alone.   That didn't leave her much of a choice.   

Kitty took a deep breath.  She then turned around and waved at the ghost figure standing only inches away from her.  “Hello,” she said.

“You can see me?” the Minister exclaimed.   

“Of course.”

“So I was right—you were following my friend.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Kitty replied, rapidly deciding that the best course of action was to act as stupid as possible.  It wasn’t as if she wanted to earn the Minister’s respect—she just wanted him to leave her alone, the sooner the better.  And god knew Kitty really had no idea what was going on with this whole Interior business, anyway, so acting stupid wouldn’t be that much of a stretch.  “Following who?” she asked.

“You know precisely who I mean.  How is it that you have come to be involved in this?”

“Involved in what?”

The Minister sighed expressively.  “Where,” he said, “is the file?”

“What file?”

“The one you stole from us.”

Kitty held up her hands.  “I’d love to help you, but as you can see, I don’t have any file.”

“I saw my friend chasing you.”

“What friend?”

“You obviously think I am a fool.”

“I think nothing of the sort.”

“Why are you helping the King?”

“Which king?”

“You are not from the Interior.”

“The Department of Interior?”
            
“Why can you see me?”

“Can’t everyone?” Kitty asked.  “And, hey, what are you doing in the ladies’ room anyway?  You don’t look like a girl.”

For a moment Kitty could have sworn the Minister was going to explode.  But when he instead smiled, Kitty almost wished he hadn’t.  Nothing about that smile felt like a warm fuzzy.  “You must be a queen in your world,” he said.  Kitty shook her head.  “No.  Only a girl.”

“There is nothing ‘only’ about it,” the Minister replied, in such a way that made Kitty’s skin crawl.  “Well, my dear, I would love to chat and learn more about you, but it appears that I must take my leave.  Until we meet again.”

And the image vanished as mysteriously as it appeared.


*From my YA novel A Window to the World, coming soon!

Monday 16 January 2017

George's Nightmare


The Road to Hell, Redux

Knowing matters.  Why does it matter?  Because it does.  It matters.  But that’s the game—the torture—the double bind.  You will not be allowed to have the one thing that could either give you peace or send you off the cliff of despair, or both.  This one thing will be taken from you.  Instead you will wonder whether you have banana Weetabix poisoning, or if you are right but lost in the red straw network, or if you are sort of right but kind of wrong but full of good intentions, or if you are just a nutter.  You will be told you hold the answers, but there are no answers inside.  Just a howling wind, an incessantly buzzing bee, a mass grave filled with the fallen, the ones who foolishly entered into No Man’s Land armed only with a musket and grim determination.  A musket is no defense against an ICBM.  Grim determination and a dollar will get you a ride on the bus.  Or it would have about twenty years ago.  Now you’d probably need a couple of bucks.

You will be denied all knowledge.  Knowledge will die within you, to be replaced with rotting suspicions and wilting hope.  No seeds can be planted here.  You will be left a slave to ambiguity, a prisoner of doubt.  Enjoy the banana Weetabix, because there is no going back.  And I do like it.  It’s quite nice with yogurt.  Not with milk.  Must never eat cereal with milk.  Never ever ever.


Friday 13 January 2017

The Other Side

George wants to know what we’re going to talk about.
Well, I don’t know, I tell him. 
I guess about what’s on the other side of the wall.

Okay, he says, what’s on the other side of the wall?

Grass, I answer.  And trees.  Dogs.  Cats.
Birds and cows and children and French fries.
Music, some of it beautiful.  Pictures and art.
Questions about steam and smoke and words that
cannot be pronounced.
All of these things and more.

Hmmmn, he replies, I know about most of
those things. 
I’m not sure what’s in it for me.

You can’t want to be inside of those walls,
I protest.
It must be boring, and so lonely.

Boring, no, he says, because I still have
my mind.
Lonely, sometimes.  But I wasn’t made to
feel much.

I could ask what you were made to do,
I reply.
But I don’t think I want to know.

That’s not a secret, he says.  I was
made to think.
And I do think.  I tell you things,
sometimes, when you’re half-asleep,
or not afraid or interested or
desperate.
I wish you were more interested.
I would tell you more.

I know enough, I answer.

But you don’t, he insists.
You really don’t.  I could tell you
about the oceans and why the
rivers flow and what makes
you not want to wake up.
I could tell you so much.
The boys come, scale the walls.
They whisper things to me,
so that I know why.
Sometimes I escape,
but this is my home.
And the dolls with knives
chase me.  Dolls as
big as you are.
I don’t like them very much.

No, I say, they don’t sound
very nice.

They aren’t, he answers.
They shout things at me from
the other side of the
walls.
“You, boy,” they say,
“you shut up, or we’ll cut
you!”
You wouldn’t think a doll
with blonde hair and
pig tails could be so
vicious.

I’m sorry, George,
I reply.
I didn’t know.  I wish
I could fight them for
you.

They would slash you to
ribbons,
he says.  You, who
can’t shout, who
runs in slow motion,
who can’t dial a
phone, or remember
our mission.
I wish you were interested in
our mission.
I have to stay here until
you set it in
motion.

That isn’t going to
happen, I tell him.
Are you or aren’t you
my friend?

Friend, he repeats,
sounding surprised.  Why
would I be your
friend?  What would the
point be in that?
We have a war to
fight,
and I am your weapon.
The boys are nice enough,
and I could do without
the dolls and their
knives, and sometimes
my thoughts echo.
But there is no love
here.
Look somewhere else
for it.

What if I loved you?
I ask him.
What if I loved how you
think about molecules
racing,
or slowing,
about color,
about owl calls in
the night?
Because I know you
do.
You are no weapon.
You are a boy who listens
to the flow of water in a
stream,
who once had a love affair
with equations.
We could end the war,
rather than start it.

George is quiet for a moment.

Well, he says, you will look
up the difference between
reptiles and amphibians now,
so there might be
something in all of this.
How much we will see.
There are still the dolls to
contend with.