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I want to throat-punch Winter.
I want to kick that old man square in his sagging gravity-infested testicles. I really do. I want to defecate on the pretty white snowflakes and shove them back up Ole Man Winter's arse. This frigidity is sucking the marrow from my bones, and its really pissing me off. No, I don't want to shovel any more fucking snow!!
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There was that reflection,
dabbled in the honey dew hue of morning light. How hideous it appeared, roaring insults to the tune of every day life... flagging the fleshy evil-doer lines that anchored in its source. Reminding him of all the travesties he failed. All the wonderfuls never arisen, or tried, or kept. He was a tired man, and his aging hands strangled the blasphemous morning dew hue with personal crimson. Never again would he wake to the sight of himself. No...instead, he let his regrets and unobtained wishes seep onto ceramic tiles for the asshole in the mirror to watch in horror. Needles pierced her skin.
Droplets of hues punched through her epidermis over and over... mixing with her aura... coating her soul in aesthetic flesh. Her mind lunged and lurched in comfort. The pain of piercing reminded her of the beauty no one sees. She didn't have a penis.
She wasn't born equipped with such a device. But, this lack of phallicness never stopped her from being human. Her brain still functioned, even without the testosterone of those born with penile equipment. How strange then, that what did cause delay, was the fact that she had A Lowly VaJayJay. Today,
I should be watching the pinkish orange glow of the sun as it travels to meet my gaze. Instead, I sit in the fringe between the gray gloom and the I don't give two flying, sitting, or swimming shits. It is what it is. I sip my coffee, the taste is bitter like my first-world problem plagued attitude. I've so many things to be thankful for... yet I struggle for perspective. This fringe is singeful... blistering even. It is scarring. The roses sat on the counter,
in an empty decanter that smelled of rotten foliage. She had watched them wither and die over days, and weeks that birthed into months. Time was incoherent…drunk if you will. She meant to press one, into the pages of their wedding album, but the moment passed. Now, their long delicate stems slouched over, shriveled and crumbling…exactly the way she felt as she stared at his empty work boots nestled near the door. She couldn’t bring herself to move them into the donations box. No…not since the clock stopped. Time was incoherent…merciless and cruel. Her leather black boot
scuffed and stomped on the dirt... just below the sycamore. The autumn breeze tugged at her sticky hair, and undulated the smell of dank pond fish and bullfrogs. The smell of victory. She nodded to the watch towers, whispered gratitude to their keepers. Elbows crooked over the shovel, she spat at the turned earth. "That'll teach 'im." The blue swirly slide
on the school playground reminds... Beckoning a distant time when the streets flooded with rain, and I pulled my pant legs up to dance down the avenue. I sloshed in the dirty water, heeded my Mother's warning to stay clear of the sewers as I kicked through floating sticks that sailed like mighty barges on the Mississippi. Crinkled brown leaves stuck to my knees as I smiled at the river that was my front street. I sat on the drowning pavement and I was Queen of the Nile. All hail my watery fortress! I want this blue slide, here on the playground, to machine me some time to use the way I want. Two planets
spinning off center axis collided in the dark empty nothingness of a surreal universe. They said hello. They excused the faults... the beautiful cracks in each other's mantled crusts. Histories of orbital dust was swept away in the dark, empty, surreal somethingness... and courses realigned. The planets picked up their dusty pieces and bid each other an equatorial goodbye. Sweat dribbled down his
greasy wrinkled brow. The droplets glistened in the midday sun as they slid down his nose, landing like a liquid moustache above his single-toothed, strained smile. “They’re shippin me to Missurah next week” he says. “Gotta set up fer a country band” he says. He picks up my four year old and ever so gently, places her in the kiddie airplane ride. His hands look like piglets nursing on their momma sow. The age in his face is sorrowful, but I can’t quite tell how old that is. I’d guess his life had been hard, but it didn’t affect the kindness in his heart. He never took our tickets. I don’t think he cared about tickets much. He tells me where he’s been this past year as we watch the ride go round and round. “I do Country and Rock n Roll” he says. He looks tired. The heat and the miles taking their toll. His piglets reach for his ice water. Gulping it down, he lets the airplanes keep going, maybe longer than he should. The other Carnies are watching with heavy stares. I wonder if all of this one’s lights are on, or if he was supplied with less. This guy is sweaty, and greasy, and might seem scary to some. But he is Teddy Bear gentle as the ride comes to a stop. His piglet hands carefully lift my daughter and she smiles bright at him. He smiles back, as bright as a single twisted toothed smile can. My heart sinks a bit, I can tell he is a kind, but lonely man. And we move on to the next ride. It's just a closet,
cedar lined, smelling of mothballs, but it is so much more. Hems of flowing skirts morph into sails of vivid blues... accents of green belts slither to the floor. High heels pound those snakes to a leathery death. But ssshhh...dont let them hear you, or to the plank you'll go. It's just a closet, but not with a flashlight when the power goes dark. Then it's more. It's an island of refuge, settled in with the shoes of loved ones dead and gone. Close the door, lock out the ghosts and bad monsters. Sparkling with serrated
edges... she sunk her teeth as if carving a roast. "No need to boast" I told her. "Keep your humility and grace" I told her. "Be a lady. Be elegant, be the girl he wants to take home to mom. Be quiet... or no one will want you." So she smiled a steel faced grin that vibrated across my skull. Who are they to tell me who I am? These humans are out of their goddamn minds, why I know exactly who I am! But, I don’t know who they are, and that is becoming an issue. There is one particular human, he’s a man, or he thinks he is, and every damn day it’s the same thing with that one. I think he needs help.
“Dad, I’m your son…Dad, it’s me, Gary”…dad this and dad that…every single day. He ain’t my son. My son was strong, and didn’t cry like this fella does. Every damn day I tell that nurse not to let that kid in here, but she don’t listen. I feel like I’m in an aquarium, and these idiots just come to look at me. Well, ya know what I have to say to that? A lot. I have a lot to say, but who’s listenin? That kid ain’t listening…I tell him to get lost every day, and he still keeps coming back. I try to ignore these petting zoo people the best I can, and I’ve been eyeballing their routines. I know that Betty Lou La La Nurse likes to slip out for her cigarettes. I think if I can just hide out in the hall closet long enough, I can catch the door on her way back in. I was gonna try today. I really was. But, this really nice lady came to my room today. This lady, boy she was somethin! I mean, she was really somethin! She was as pretty as pastel lilies in the autumn sun, and her voice was moist molasses I tell ya. That starlet shimmied into my room this mornin, dressed in lilac and rose colors. I was surprised, cause I’d never seen her before…I think I’d remember seeing her before! Well, we sat there for the longest time and she told me all about herself, and asked me questions, and we even listened to some Hank Williams. She was a little fresh with holding my hand, but I’ll admit, I kinda liked that about her! I told her my secret plan for gettin out of here, and she said if I do, I can take her dancin. Ah, I still got it! |
AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |
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