Dearest Ophelia ##2

Written in Ommwriter, which doesn’t format anything. Sorry if it’s hard to read (if anyone reads it). This is draft2 of my “Dearest Ophelia” story which I wrote back in the day. Find version 1 here.

I attempted to write a story for Fiction Writing for a few days before giving up. All the scenarios I came up with were boring. I blame WftO for using up all my creative juices. Anyway, the prompt was a “Bear at the door” scenario.
A bear at the door scenario is basically:

Character is confronted by a problem
The problem is big
The problem must force the character to act
In order to act the character must resolve an inner conflict
P.S. I began writing this after no less than two beers. I am currently working on NUMBER FOUR and my story progressively got worse (I’m sure of it– but am not sober enough to really know it). So, this is also an exercise in WRITIN WHILE DRANKIN.

I watched Teniente General Andreas pen the letter to Ophelia while we sat in a makeshift tent in a small clearing of the Queen’s forest. The Spanish spring brought mosquitos and heat so oppressive that even the general had taken off much of his armor. The men slept outside, the few that had been given the first shift of guard duty stood sullen at the edges of the clearing, staring out into the inky black night. The cicadas — as plagued by the heat as we were — sang loudly. It was unlikely any man was asleep with the noise. The general sat silently for many minutes, smoking out of his long pipe. The light from his lantern cast eerie shadows across the walls of the tent as the smoke wafted upwards, casting a pall over his stern visage. At length he wrote, sitting next to him I couldn’t help but let my eyes wander over his page. His own gaze was cloudy, we were all tired and I could sense his own mind was far from this tent. He wrote to Ophelia.
Dearest Ophelia, It feels as though a whole life has passed us by since we lay side by side in your father’s orchard, and the sound of the cicadas sounded more like a sweet concert than the insistent droning that it takes on now.I have been given a letter of arrest for you, and those that stand under your rebellious flag against the Queen. In the letter it attests to treasonous behaviour, as well as murder. Ophelia, why you must fight in this war is beyond me — for while I have always known you to be a fighter, it never occured to me that you would abandon all that you love and attempt to bring chaos and disorder to our country. Before I left your mother sent word to me, she begged me to try and reason with you, as if I had no intention of doing so. Perhaps what you told her of us was only a half-truth, if so I wonder what else you kept from me, how long you had planned the assassination, your motives behind the murder of the Queen’s son. All of this I can only hope to learn with time. But I delay myself.
I write to you to beg, dearest Ophelia, to beg you to give up your colors, to tell your men to lay down their arms, their flag, and return escorted to the Queen’s tribunal and await trial for your most heinous crimes against a child, not even of age, and to seek repentence for your crime. Look around Ophelia, the forest only gets darker from here, we both know that your troup will tire long before I give up, and I assure you that I will find you. I shall send this letter by runner, my most trusted man, to your encampment. Perhaps you will see the wisdom of my words and await my arrival peacefully. Never forget that I love you, Yours always, Teniente General Andreas Ortega
He stared at the letter for what felt like an eternity, I could feel his heart beat as he placed his quill down and folded the letter over upon itself, and over again. He picked up the small copper dish beside the lamp and gently turned it sideways across the letter. Wax the color of congealed blood dripped down upon the letter. Three drops that looked like tears splattered upon the table as he lowered his seal. The General handed me the letter, ”Northwest, they’ll be heading across the river and into the hills. Make haste and make yourself known as you get close — I don’t need you needlessly dead as well. Ask for a letter in reply and wait at the river. We’ll be with you in no less than two days. I pray to God that this letter finds her well.” He said, placing the letter into my open hands. Stopping momentarily to pack his pipe again I extended a match. The smell of sulfur filled the room, reminding us both of the scene at the Queen’s estate.”I pray to God that she listens,” His soft tone showed the pain in his task, sent to track down the woman he loved and kill her, if necessary. A curt nod from him signalled the return of his composure, gesturing with a small motion of his pipe toward the flap in the tent he encouraged me, “Swiftly.”
Three days later on the bank of the river I heard the approach of the brigade. I stood at attention and waited. Some moments later I saw the General rush out of the treeline and come to me. He grabbed me by the arm and led me away, shouting back at the men to make camp. The sun was setting and the water would cool the night enough to let the men sleep soundly. When the sounds of the soldiers had turned into the collective gurgle of the stream he stopped me and stood inches away, whispering softly but hurriedly into my ear, “What news?”"None, my General, she penned a letter silently with no seal and broke camp immediately afterwards. I expect she’s four days away at our current pace. Her troup numbers just over ours at twenty three, though there were perhaps more unseen by myself. She is headed toward the mountains, I followed them some distance before turning back.” Upon my report I removed the letter from inside my breast pocket, he grabbed it from my hands and quickly opened it, scanning the words before the light disappeared. I have no shame in admitting I had read it again and again while I waited, though I would never admit it to the General. It read,
“Dearest Andreas Teniente General of Her Majesty the Queen’s Army, I did not expect that the Queen would entrust to you such an assignment, which makes my escape all the more unbearable to continue, but I must Andreas. For reasons you can not, will not, understand I have chosen my own path — just as you must. Those that I am fighting for do not have the luxory of lying in an orchard peacefully. The men, women, and children of the revolution are too busy being beaten, murdered, starved, and otherwise forced into what I can only call slavery of the soul.The world is a large place Andreas, and we only lived and understood a speck of it, a tiny droplet of water in the whole ocean. My eyes have been opened, and I now implore you to see — see for the first time the injustices done by the Queen. Your mission is not one of justice but instead a quest to quell the downtrodden. You are but one tiny oar that helps move the great ship of inequality forward. I have put down my paddle and have seen others do the same. I will not surrender to you, nor shall I await a trial that already has a chosen verdict. No, I will fight, and I will continue to do so until every drop of blood has been spilled from my body upon our land. Our land, I say this in the hope that you will see, with new light, what has happened to our land, our country, over these past years. I pray for you Andreas, I pray that you will understand what I am fighting for and join our cause. Until then, I can only run, and with the righteous speed of God I will forever outrun the Queen’s reign, until it forever crumbles and turns to dust under the heel of the People’s Republic, a new order that will represent all people within our lands, not the paltry few who have the power to oppress the voice of many.Your love, Ophelia — Capitan General of the People’s Army”
The last words were inscribed with such ferocity that the ink had bled and run across the page — looking more like veins than words. I had been moved by the letter, and saw the General shudder at the raw power that had gone into crafting the letter. We stood at length, the sun had long since set and still the General stood there, eyes upon the letter. He spoke softly, an utterance which was lost amid the gurgling water beside us. My request of him to repeat himself yielded nothing and we returned to camp in silence. He told me to sleep well, not as a suggestion but as a command. He entered his tent and sat there all night. I sat outside, watching the smoke slowly drift out until my head fell against my chest. The next morning the General exited his tent dressed only in light uniform, a pistol had replaced his sword and he ordered the men hurriedly to begin marching upstream. Declaring to them that we would soon complete our mission if we cut east upon the fork in the river. Upon his orders the camp burst into a hustle of activity, the men were spurred forward not only by his declaration but by the easy nights rest upon the bank. He pulled me aside as they broke camp, “We shall go on alone. Get provisions for two days, leave your armor and weapons,” he paused for a moment and added, “Immediately,” in a worried tone. I took off my armor, leaving it against the stone which I had kept watch over for three days. Our provisions I put in a small sack and hurried into the Generals tent and retrieved his pipe from where it lay, still smoldering upon the table. ”Quickly” He said, and we quietly stole across the river and into the woods. Two days into our silent journey I remembered the pipe, so mindfully taken from the Generals tent and produced it as we sat against the trees. We had slept barely a wink since departing from our main forces and I could sense the growing tension in the General. I cleared my throat as I offered the pipe to him, he offered a rare smile in thanks. Clearing my throat again I dared to speak, “General, may I speak?”As his pipe puffed and flared to light he nodded softly, exhaling a plume of gray smoke into the sky. ”Thank you, sir, might I ask a question?” Holding my breath I could feel his gaze become more focused. His pupils contracted into tiny pinpricks of ink. ”For now, simply Andreas will do.” He nodded his head as though acknowledging his own name for the first time. His mouth repeated silently Andreas before closing around his pipe.”Well, Ge- I mean Andreas, I was curious as to what the mission objective is. Or rather, what we two hope to accomplish in breaking away from our forces.”Following the statement which I had revised over and over again within my own head for two days I began to stutter an apology. I had no right to ask questions of the General, nor any direct order from the Queen. He stopped me with a hand, and passed his pipe into my own. ”It is not,” he began again, “I hope, no, I pray that Ophelia will see reason only upon seeing me, if at all. While I see her cause, and her causes for choosing it, I can not — I refuse their objectives. Their goal.”He retrieved his pipe once again, puffing twice or three times. ”But, Ge– Andreas, do you not sympathize with her actions? With those she is fighting for?”The words came out slowly, dripping out of my mouth as though refusing to leave my lips. If only they could climb back inside me — for who was I to ask questions of the Queen? ”Have you…” He paused, exhaling deeply, “ever been in love?” He questioned.”N…No sir, at least, I don’t think I have.” I replied. He extended his pipe once again and this time I took a small breath of it. ”You would know. It’s not something I can explain to you, but perhaps there is still time to find it. Let me try and explain, you would do anything I ask you to — correct?”"Yes sir, General sir.”"And if I asked you to kill a man you would do so unquestioningly, correct?”"Yes sir, General sir.”"And if I told you that man had a wife and three children, you would still follow orders, correct?”"Yes, sir.” ”And if I told you to kill the mother of those children, still yes sir?”I nodded silently, though I could feel drops of sweat beginning to pool across my forehead. ”And if I told you to kill the children?”"Sir…” I began, ”You would. You would do it.”I nodded. ”That is what love is like.”We sat for a moment longer, his pipe ran dry and he tapped it softly against his left boot. The heat of the day was just beginning to rise to an unbearable pitch as the General stood up. His foot stamping the still smoldering ash into the hard earth. He began to march again. “Tonight, tonight we find them. I ask you to love me and follow my orders exactly as I tell them to you. Whatever I say once we arrive you shall do it, understood?”Not pausing for a moment I replied, “Yes. Sir.”

Don’t need to finish it because IZ FO CLASS and IZ A DRAFT

Writing for profit$

I am not actually writing for profit, however I am writing for a fan-created sequel to Dungeon Keeper / Dungeon Keeper II.
I’ll be developing the story / lore as well as working with the voice actor to create interesting (and above all: funny) dialogue for this game.

 

Shameless plug: http://warfortheoverworld.org/about/

 

My new suit.

He screamed as I tore at him with my fingers, his body lay immobile in a broken heap upon the frozen concrete. We were no where, the wind carried his screams across the blistered landscape — I knew that no ears but our own would catch the cry. This face would do nicely, I thought to myself; it was young, virile, full of life and potential. The kind of face that people take pictures of, the kind of face that gets gently caressed by a lover in full light; this was the face that would get me what I wanted. His blood ran in rivulets between the gravel-strewn cement, it was beautiful. His essence slowly seeping from some places, running freely from others, it was as though it wanted to escape from its housing.

You’ve sprung a leak, I said to him quietly. His only response was to scream again, but the strength of it was diminished, he was fading.  I pushed my fingertips into his flesh once again, pulling back on the skin, feeling the ligaments tear and the sponginess of his muscles lubricated beautifully upon my fingers; I was a masseuse and caregiver, slowly peeling away his skin so it could be my own, so it could have a new life. A better life. These words came to me as another scream petered out of his now bloody mouth, oh those lips, covered in blood they looked made-up as though he were a lipstick model, so bright and cherry red. His eyes opened to an impossible degree as my fingers reached below his chin, almost pleadingly. A moment of pity surged through me, he hadn’t asked for this, I could see them searching for an answer. Pausing for a moment I gently slid my finger along his cheek, leaving a bright streak of life upon its ashen countenance. There is no other way, I started to tell him, this face is old, you can see that can’t you? It is withered and decaying, it will no longer do. I must have a new one and with yours, well, I paused for a moment to once again look at this beautiful specimen. With yours I can do great things.

With this I reached under his chin once again and pushed inward, there was a moment of resistance as his skin stretched inward, refusing to break. His scream was caught in his throat as I leaned into my hands and I felt the resistance cease. Pulling delicately I began to disentangle his skin from the muscles and bone. Finally finishing I stood up and looked once again at my new body.  It was muscular, tall and elegant. A crop of black hair stood above well defined eyebrows. A thin nose stood above elegant, rich lips. It was perfect.

Reaching down to touch it once again I began to whisper the words I alone knew, the wind around me rushed to an even greater fervor as my own excitement grew. The blood upon the ground, so recently excised was picked up and began to swirl around me, creating a cyclone of pink; and I chanted further. The skin, so stretched and torn by my thick fingers began to reshape itself. It rose in front of me like a suit or mannequin, standing straight and tall. Beautiful, I thought as the words poured forth from my mouth, inaudible in this vortex of life. I closed my eyes and spoke further, the words became musical, songlike, and I could see without eyes. Floating above this scene I saw my own body slouch, slump, and finally fall face down. It shuddered to a halt and, as it did, I could see the body-suit below begin to twitch and shake as though seized by a fit. The final words of the incantation came quietly out of the bloodless lips, my bloodless lips, and once again I could see nothing.

Opening my eyes I saw a barren stretch of asphalt, the wind had stopped and below me lay an old man. I reached down to touch him and felt the warmth of his flesh, so recently expired he lay quietly, looking like a piece of luggage accidentally left behind, dropped by a distracted man or woman and just as easily forgotten as a dream. My hands were clean and strong, I tested them by gripping the body below me; he seemed almost weightless to my youthful strength and I lifted him by the arms and held him aloft, staring at the strange familiarity of it. It was like looking in a mirror, only the self you see is one you haven’t seen in a long time; a nightmare self that is decaying and decrepit. Yes, I thought, this one will do nicely, and I let my old self go, it fell awkwardly, the same way a piece of clothing falls to the floor in a heap.

The Grave Robbing of Mrs. Figg (Updated 2/2)

Here’s a story I’ve been playing with in my head since September. Finally figured out how to go about getting it down in a way that doesn’t suck (too much [what good would an intro to a story be without a little self-deprication]) — so here it is. Looks like it will be a longer-short story, not really sure, but anyway, here’s the beginning. Action free and probably a bit dull. Oh well.

Update 2/2

Use “Find” and type in “UpdateOne” to get to the newest addition (if you’ve already read to the end of what was posted yesterday)

As Finals Descend

Finals. Finals. Finals.

Finals. Finals. Finals.

Procrastinate

Procrastinate

Procrastinate.

 

I only hate writing three times a year, and it is when finals happen. I am depressed.

Sr Business Analyst – Oracle

They never call me back.

Cover Letter

Hello, I have over ten years of business analysis work experience working for both IBM and Sony and am looking to expand my horizons. Instead of the usual cover letter I have decided to preface my resume with a bit of a different approach, you will learn shortly that I rarely take conventional actions in order to exceed expectations.

While attending graduate school at Stanford University I was posed with a problem by my girlfriend, she asked me whether or not I saw us moving in the same direction, and, whether we were still a good fit for each other. My response was, “We’ll see tomorrow.”

That night I stayed up late at work, searching for the solution for her question. After cups of coffee and some quiet masturbation I got right down to it. Were we moving in the same direction? It was impossible to tell, I had taken to learning quantum mechanics as a side project after moving to California. From this I knew that you can not both know both position and momentum at the same time. This is known as the uncertainty principle, finding that this principle could perhaps ruin my relationship I set to solving it. As any good scientist will do I devised an experiment. I took some sleeping pills and crushed them up, adding them to a glass of water I woke up my girlfriend and told her to drink some water because she seemed to be coming down with a fever. She drank them and about fifteen minutes later was fast asleep. I picked her up and took her to a local Go-Kart establishment, strapping her in securely I climbed into my own Kart, beside her, with my trusty radar gun in hand. Pressing her leg down against the accelerator she took off, me in hot pursuit, the cold air must have awoken her prematurely and she began screaming as we headed forward – but I would not be distracted. Staring at my radar gun and compass with hawklike attention I saw that we were in fact, both going 17 miles per hour south by southwest, joy of joys! I yelled at her, “Yes, we are!” just before we crashed into the wall. I suffered a minor concussion and she broke up with me.

This is just one example of the dedication and innovation I can bring your company. I look forward to hearing back from you soon. I trust we shall do excellent things together.

Yours in trust,

James Heinichen.

 

Dear Starbucks

Now that school is basically over I find myself with lots of free time, and nothing important to do.
As a result I am writing these to Starbucks, printing them off, and sending them, one a day, to Starbucks in Seattle. I have no intent behind them, other than to satisfy my own need to write, but — with luck — I might get some responses, if not I hope you will at least enjoy them.

NANOWRIMO — 9223 words so far.

Here’s what I have so far. I took the idea of the mineral man, and rewrote everything that I had already posted. Some of it remained the same (verbatim) but regardless it was physically rewritten to maintain true to the spirit of wrimo. If you have some free time let me know what you think, or just read it for fun. Personally I’m fairly satisfied with where it’s going and the development of the main character (something I’m still having some trouble with and probably won’t be resolved until I go back and edit the whole thing at the end of nanowrimo).

Anyway, here it is. The story of Johnavon and the Mineral Man.

Characters:
Johnavon: Our hero.
Adara: A girl, his neighbor. — The love interest?
The Mineral Man: ???

 

July 2

***

The years before she died were furious and mean. Filled with anger and screams one wondered if the house wouldn’t fall down at the slightest touch, so violent were the days and nights. Johnavon spent most of his time locked in his room, or at Adara’s, trying desperately to drown out the sandpaper words that came. It was one of these countless and identical nights that he punched a hole through his door, hand bleeding he screamed back at her, told her to die, told her to find hell in death and leave them to repair what she had sown, to reap the alcohol watered and pain lit lives they were growing old in.

Her body quit that night, the bottle of gin clutched tightly in one of her slowly cooling hands. Johnavon would laugh at this the next morning, thinking she was too drunk to walk to bed and had fallen asleep in her armchair. When he slammed the fridge shut, finding nothing to eat for breakfast in it, he expected a yell from her. None came and he shouted ‘wake up’ while compiling a quick list of insults to throw at her alcoholic existence. Still nothing came. She was dead, and two days later he stood at her grave as she was slowly lowered into it; when the preacher turned around momentarily he spat into the grave. His father saw this and said nothing, not out of shame or indifference, he simply didn’t have it in him to chastise his son. His sister, hadn’t come, she had the morning shift at a diner as one of the countless high-school graduates that was destined to work a shift job until death. Johnavon had only come to make sure she was buried, his eyes brimming with tears brought on, not by sadness, but through rage.

He smoked cigarette after cigarette sitting in that folding steel chair next to her grave; long after everyone had gone he was tapping hot ash onto her casket. Only when the men hired to fill in the grave asked him if he was done did he wordlessly stand up, the sun falling low in the sky, and leave the graveyard. Later that night Johnavon went to bed with a strange sense of ease that was foreign, he thought again of that cold hand gripping the gin bottle before he slipped into a dream.

 

July 3

****

 

My first memory is a nightmare – the kind of terrorizing dream that paralyzes you, captive in sleep, and refuses to let you escape. It was the kind of dream that convinces you of its own reality, denying what you thought was real, only to drag you into the depths of hell and keep you there for eternity.

I walk through some kind of tunnel, it’s dark. I’m on the side because the middle of the tunnel is a slowly moving sludge that creeps along slowly. Occasionally I see flashes of white, sticks and trash illuminated faintly by the few dangling lights that haven’t burnt out. They look eerily like tiny bones, fingers, hands, feet, a skull – once. I try not to look to the left of me, keeping my head forward, toward the sound at the end of the tunnel, but my treacherous eyes continue to be drawn to that ghastly boneyard next to me. Movement. Was that a shadow? I stop dead in this moving sepulcher, the tiny lights dim safety seems to move farther away, leaving me alone in the blackness. I wait. My footsteps no longer wetly echoing through the tunnel I can hear the squish of the moving mass, the crunch of bones being ground to fragment against each-other. It’s impossible to see anything, I breathe in quietly and continue my trek down the tunnel, toward that sound. It’s getting louder with each step, soon I lose my footsteps and the river to its encompassing din, finally able to make out what the sound is. The yammering of hundreds of animals. I listen closer, hundreds, maybe thousands, of tiny voices, all crying out in macabre choir. The tunnel turns ahead. Pausing, I look around for a weapon of some sort, anything to strike back in case they turn their attention to me. Nothing. Nothing I could touch anyway, I wasn’t going to put my hand in the sludge to fish out anything, even if it was a flamethrower or some other plausible weapon.

I turned the corner and saw an unearthly scene. A circular chamber with a ceiling so high it was lost in darkness. A single light was hanging, suspended by a cord from the darkness, it illuminated the horrific scene in front of me. Rats. Hundreds of thousands of them, crawling over one another, suffocating those trapped against the floor with their weight. A frenzied mass of rodents, each trying to climb to the top of the living carpet for a breath of air. In the middle of all this, standing in the direct center of this chaos was a man, eyes hidden in shadow he stared through me.

“Welcome, Johnavon.” His deep voice seemed to cause the stones of the chamber to move together, grinding a light layer of dust between themselves as they struggled to escape. The rats, like me, were frozen. Entranced by the grinding voice of the man – those that could turn their heads did so to stare at the man. Silence. Wetly pounding in my chest I could hear my heart thrumming in my ears. I could hear my lungs sucking in a deep breath, expanding, the sound of wind rustling through the hair in my nose as they contracted.

“What do you think of my pets?” Again the stone fought for freedom, each stuck by his neighbors, unable to move as long as it was connected to the other.

“The–are they yours?” My voice barely came out as a whisper, not a thing stirred in the room except the rustle of ten thousand tiny heads turning to face me.

“Haha!” His laugh carried no merriment, it served more as a warning than an actual outburst of merriment, “No one else wants them, that makes them mine enough. What do you think of them?”

I felt my head whirring, the chattering sound of rats seemed to echo back and forth between my ears; unlike an echo the sound grew with each rebound, becoming a violent cacophony of a million screams. My feet refused the weak command to move, to run, escape from this man and his filthy rodent army. I willed them over, and over, and over, and again. Move! Move! Move! MOVE! and still they refused. The Rat King in front of me raised his hand and put it in front of his lips, issuing a sharp hsss – the kind of noise you make in a movie theatre when some asshole is talking through the whole thing. Again there was only silence. My head clear I begged my feet to run and they complied grudgingly. Slowly rising from the floor to turn me backwards, I picked up speed, running as fast as the Dengue River during a flash flood. I skidded around the corner and fell off the walkway into the sludge, cutting my arms on bone fragments. I saw now, in the light, that the bones weren’t human at all, but rats. Millions of decomposing rats, floating steadily down from the chamber behind me. I clawed my way back up, feet slick from my own pouring blood and the rotten flesh of these dead animals. I ran. I ran and I ran, behind me I heard the dissonant voice of the man, laughing, it grew and grew as the rocks around me fought to break free. Dust and stone chips fell upon me and ahead I saw the tiny light of day. The crashing, deafening sound of stone falling behind me spurred my aching lungs and pounding heart to work even harder. Inhaling wetly dust, water, and my own blood I ran. Exhaling a fine mist of brackish fluid that sprayed the walls and obscured the light in front of me. My heart breathing in, pounding up and down in my throat, feet flying forward, pumping, the light had grown to a blinding intensity and with a last kick I flew through the air into the light.

 

10:15 a.m.

****

 

My alarm clock went off at 10:15, playing The Doors’ “People Are Strange.” Rousing me from memory filled dreams. Eyes still closed I sang along softly, “When you’re strange / faces come out of the rain / when you’re stuh-raaaange” and I slipped unknowingly back into sleep before the next chrous. Twelve minutes later their album Strange Days was still playing and I awoke to Jim Morrison’s opening scream in “When The Music’s Over” – I screamed back at him, angry at myself for setting an alarm in the first place. Slapping a hand at the already damaged alarm clock I stood up and let out a long yawn followed by a deep breath. That antiseptic smell of alcohol that permeated the whole house. Another fucking day. I looked around for clothes, spying a dirty pair of jeans with the legs pulled inside out I sniffed at them apprehensively and, finding them the least offensive smell of the day so far, tugged them on. This place is a dumpster. Condom wrappers on the ground, cigarettes smashed into various soda cans placed haphazardly around the edge of my bed I half-thought of cleaning… and let the idea slip away. What I needed was a hot shower and something to eat.

Stumbling, legs still slow from sleep, I left my room and headed to the bathroom, I let the water run hot, standing there staring at the rust edged mirror I looked at my body. Seventeen years old, high-school dropout, working on my hatred of people at a coffee shop owned by my neighbor for slave wages. A scar sat jagged below my left eye, long since healed white I thumbed it, my face contorting at the memory of its conception. I was bone thin, what wasn’t skin over bones was muscle, built up from running and screwing, four awkward abs jutted out strangely below my navel. I turned to the side and stared at my gaunt frame, finding it the same as before I turned again to face myself, steam was beginning to cloud the dirty window and mirror. Looking into my eyes I saw two ugly brown things below wild and thick brown eyebrows – somewhat hidden by a mess of dirty blonde hair, bleached viciously by the summer sun. It was July 3 third and I was young as I stepped into the scalding heat of the weakly flowing shower. No work today, and I had just enough money in my pocket for tobacco or food. Not a difficult choice when it’s put that way.

I dried off using a slightly damp towel tossed unceremoniously on the ground. Tugging on my boxers and jeans over damp legs I picked up a shirt out of the open drier before slamming it shut with a metallic clang. The house was dark and empty, I ignored the scream of memories that flooded themselves into me with the smell of alcohol and pulled the door forcefully closed on my way out, leaving with a bang. My feet led me down the street, empty except for a few yelps of dogs barking at nothing, I turned left on Clara Court and headed down four blocks to 7-11, hoping to grab some cigarettes to stifle my growling stomach.

11:15 a.m.

****

I sat outside 7-11, kicking the loose gravel around waiting for someone to show up and buy me a pack of smokes. Sven, an immigrant who moved here and bought up this franchise to pay his daughters way through school – desperate as he was for money he wouldn’t sell me a pack of cigarettes. I stared obliquely up at the sun, its already bright face promised another scalding day. Too hot to do anything but sit in the shade and smoke. Too hot to be patient, too hot to do anything, I hated summer but you can’t escape it unless you live in some frigid and empty place. I thought about hitching a ride into town where the shopkeepers wouldn’t think twice about selling a baby a 40, let alone a teenager a pack of cigarettes. Still toying with this idea a kid pulled up in a lifted up Ford truck and jumped out, death metal still blaring loudly he left it running, I shouted over the din, “Buy me a pack of 100′s? I’ve got cash.

“Buy them yourself then kid. I’m in a rush.”

“I’ll pay you, fifteen bucks for two packs you keep the change.”

He thought this over for half-a-second, staring down at me with one foot tapping impatiently, and held out his hand, gesturing fingers indicated his impatience.

A few minutes later I sat down again, pockets empty except for a lighter and a knife, something I carried more out of habit than necessity. I tore the cellophane off the pack and tossed it into the trashcan before sitting down. Tapping the pack against my leg I wondered what I should do today. I felt as though something epic should happen. As though the death of my mother indicated a new life, something I had always hoped for had finally come to pass but I didn’t feel any different. Just another day, nothing new or interesting. At least I had cigarettes, I scowled at the pack, wishing it could suggest something for me to do. Hearing nothing I pulled out one of its bones and lit it up with a deep sigh of relief.

Grinning like an idiot I sat chain smoking on that curb, nothing to do and nothing to think about I stared disinterestedly at the plumes of smoke that isAdarad from my mouth. Just as I lit up my fifth cigarette the Mineral Man sat down beside me like a shadow. I gauged his age – looks about thirty-ish. Not quite forty, you can tell when a man hits forty because his eyes lose that glimmer of hope – my father has that look – but the Mineral Man was posi-tively past the vigorously young look of a twenty-something dude. He had a bottle of water Still studying his face I noticed he had pulled out his own pack of Marlboro 100′s and, after patting his pockets in the exaggerated stage-manner way that smokers do, asked me if I had a light. I did, and, my spirits raised by nicotine, offered my red white and blue American flag lighter to him, the only thing I had ever bought from Sven at 7-11. He sucked in a deep breath of nicotine laced smoke and nodded his thanks. He held it in his lungs and throat, letting it trail out slowly as twin gray-blue snakes from his nostrils.

“You know why they call me the Mineral Man,” he asked at length, the snake tails trickling out of his nose as he asked the question.

“I didn’t think you were called the Mineral Man, in fact, my name for you was ‘stage-acting-no-lighter-guy.’” I shot back at him, ‘full of piss, shit, hate and vinegar’ my mom said, before she drank herself to death – leaving me with my broken father and sister. They were both beaten down to nothing beneath my mothers alcohol fueled tongue – the only thing not slowed down by her insatiable thirst she failingly tried to quench in the last decade of her life – the only thing I inherited from her.

“You could use a bit of temperance, use a bit of temperance indeed, a tongue like that could get you in trouble quicker than you’d be ready to fight it off.”

“Yea, well, mister Minerals, I’ve been this way since I could talk, first words out of my mouth were ‘fuck’ and ‘you’” – thank you mother.

He thought for a while, sucking in leviathanian gulps of his cigarette, I decided to ignore him, and in exaggerated stage-manner I picked up my pack of smokes and turned my back to him. I was thinking about Adara, kitty-corner neighbor to my shithole, we’d made out last week, not for the first time, she wasn’t bad. I’d had better but she had the greatest set of tits I’d ever seen on a girl her age, and I’d known her since we were both falling down learning to walk together. I was thinking I’d steal some of mother’s lifetime supply of gin and go see if I could get lucky with her. I fished out another cigarette and realized that asshole behind me still had my lighter. What kind of asshole steals another man’s lighter? I turned around and faced his snake tail nose.

“Hey, Minerals, where the fuck’s my lighter?”

“Oh, this old thing? You’re too young to smoke, thought I’d keep it to help you quit.”

“You son of a bitch asshole fucker, give me that goddamn lighter or I’ll stab you.” I jumped to my feet and pulled out my switchblade. I stole it from my teacher’s desk one day after school, back when I still went, along with an iPod, a phone, and a real Army hip-flask from WWII. I gave that to mother as a present for her birthday, she gave me $20 and told me not to spend it on cigarettes. I picked up the habit the next day to spite her.

He was still staring at me unfazed; this ‘Mineral Man’ looking at me silently with those bland brown eyes and ugly little corduroy coat. I wanted to kick his teeth in and stab out those ugly-as-sin eyes – the same color as my own.

“You can have it back, if you ask me why they call me the Mineral Man.” He spoke quietly, contemplating

I stage-thought this over for a bit, bringing my hand to my face in mock deliberation, enough time to let him take another gulp of smoke, instead of thinking about his question I contemplated stabbing his lungs and imagined the smoke making a single snake out of the wound, winding upwards in the windless day, perhaps tinged red with blood. A blood red snake – ha!

“Okay Minerals, you’ve got it, first the lighter then your story.”

He nodded and handed me my lighter, I clutched it and, standing up, shoved it deep in my back pocket next to my smokes.

“Later asshole.” I walked off toward my house but not before shouting back at him to ‘buy your own lighter’ while thinking of Adara’s plump lips. With the pleasing smell of smoke on my shirt I felt uncommonly good. He stood there watching me, I glanced back twice and he was just standing there, smoke out-the-nostrils staring at me. Creeper.

 

11:55 a.m.

***

 

I arrived at my house and walked in past the broken screen door; it was something my father always promised to fix but never did. Thinking more about that I doubted he had ever fixed a thing in his life – and if he could the screen door was the last thing he should have been working on. My sunbleached eyes took a minute or so to adjust to the darkness – the deathness – of the house. It still smelled like alcohol, the smell would never go away, not after all those years the house had been drowned in it. I lit up another cigarette, no longer fearing the screaming matches with mother, six feet under a day now all that was left of her were the bones in that coffin, the smell of her alcohol, and my foul mouth. I walked to the fridge, knowing nothing would be there but checking anyway. An expired half-empty carton of milk and some limp vegetables starting to rot just like everything in this house. I slammed the door shut, upsetting the silence only for an instant.

I felt the desire to scream at the house, to tell mother to get the fuck out, for Sal, my father, to pick up his shithole life, for Katy, my sister, to get the fuck on with her life while she could. It passed and I grabbed a fifth of gin out of the cupboard and started to head out to Adara’s; reconsidering, I turned an about face like an Army boy and went to my room instead. I pushed past the door to my bedroom, ignoring the hole punched square through the center of it. My room: empty except for trash, condom wrappers, cigarette butts and about thirty records stacked next to my ancient record player. What a shithole. Walls devoid of everything but the veiled tinge of tar from smoke. I grabbed two unopened condoms, just in case, and slammed each door shut on the way out of the house in a vain attempt to give some life to it.

Once again blind I groped in my back pocket for a smoke, letting my eyes adjust through closed lids to the brightness of the day, just past noon, Adara would be home for lunch, she always came home for lunch. Her parents both ‘worked late’, each having their own separate affairs that everyone on the block knew about, but her mother still lovingly prepared Adara’s lunch in the morning in some vain attempt to show that she still cared for her family. I exhaled a plume and headed down the street, picking up my speed as I thought again of her body against mine. I went into the yard next to hers and hopped the waist-high chain-link fence, taking care to avoid the puddles of mud and dog shit I walked up to the back door and let myself in. Adara was there, sitting at the table and she let out a scream when she heard the door.

“The fuck you screaming for? It’s just me.”

“Jesus heck Johnavon!” She was the only one I tolerated using my full name, to everyone else I was John or J. I had a soft spot for her I guess, we’d known each-other since before we could talk, always escaping our own demons by visiting the other’s house – bitching, crying, smoking, or sitting and quietly listening to one of my records – away from the hell we were trapped in.

“I got some gin, wanna have a drink?”

“I can’t, I have a paper due in English and I have to go back.”

“Come on, just one drink, we’ll have a drink and smoke and then you can go back to class.”

“She sat there, chewing thoughtfully on her sandwich, a glass of water next to her untouched.”

“Alright, one drink, but then I really have to go.”

“I know.”

I took her water glass and grabbed a short glass from the cupboard, we drank in silence except for the partially suppressed cough from her as the gin burned down her throat. I laughed as I pulled a chair next to her and put my hand on her knee. She put hers on top of mine. For a moment I felt the rest of the world slip away, felt like I had something worth holding on to. I turned my hand around under hers and clasped it tightly. She squeezed back, not as hard, but definitely a squeeze.

Suddenly I felt the desire to kiss and hold her, standing up I wrapped my arms around her and moved my lips to hers.

“What are you doing?” She spoke barely above a whisper.

“I need you,” I could barely breathe, all I wanted was to lose myself in her, to blur the line between where one body ended and the next began. I kissed her again softly.

Pulling away she exclaimed “I can’t!” Then, softly whispering again “I told you I have class.” She pushed me back and scooted off her chair, her black and white checkered All-Star’s squeaked slightly as she landed. She picked up her bag and went to leave, then thinking of me she turned around and kissed me on the cheek and said bye in a little voice; it was so barely audible I wasn’t sure if I imagined it or not.

The front door closed with a quiet click and I heard the lock turn as she left. Sitting there in her kitchen alone I was seized by the desire to go into her room; I left the empty glasses and took the bottle, fishing out my cigarettes from my back pocket and lighting one up as I went. Her parents would know I was here but I didn’t care right now, I needed the burn of smoke down my throat. I opened her door slowly, ignoring the “KEEP OUT” sign plastered across the front in red letters offset by white plastic – the kind of sign you buy at a shitty army surplus store.

It was the same as last time, plain mattress, plain walls covered with a few posters, David Bowie was lounging against the wall, watching me, and I stuck out my tongue at him and his made-up face. I walked around the bed, not sure what had drawn me here in the first place. I sat down on the center of it, letting the bottle drop from my hand with a soft thud onto the clean white carpet. Leaning back I stared at the ceiling and thought about the last time I was here, seeing my childhood friend half-naked for the first time since we were able to walk. Noticing the long scar on her back and asking her what it came from. She hadn’t responded but instead kissed me, pulling my inquiring fingers away and placing them upon her waist. I could still smell her sweetly gin-laced breath, her favorite band Nirvana playing in the background with Kurt Cobain still crying out in rage years after he was dead. I guess ghosts do exist. Now it only reminded me of the putrid smell of my own rotten house. Yelling loudly at the walls I stabbed my cigarette out angrily on the the bed, burning a little hole in the baby-blue comforter and stormed out, forgetting the gin on the floor. Both cigarette and comforter still lay smoking as I slammed the final door shut, trailing two gray-blue snakes toward the ceiling while the ghost of David Bowie stared on. Indifferent.

 

12:41 p.m.

***

 

My afternoon plans ruined by memories I walked without much direction. I stopped first at my house to grab my iPod and my Bose headphones, the kind that cover your ears and drown out any and all noise from the world outside. I left and wandered through the potholed streets and down weed entrenched alleyways. I looked down and saw my hands clenched into fists, I didn’t realize it but it seems my body knew that I wanted to hit something. I imagined punching mother’s face and imagined blood and alcohol spraying out of her mouth. Laughing at this thought I noticed a park ahead and went to sit down on a swing and have a smoke while I planned the rest of my day. Tom Waits was singing Dog Door, I sang along loudly “Pitchfort – Claw Hammer – Crowbaaaar!” Entering the park I saw it was almost completely devoid of life; the exception being a squirrel that was busy chattering loud enough for me to hear it over my music.

 

“Fuck you squirrel,” I ventured toward him. He stopped chattering and climbed up into the boughs, shaking down a few dead leaves, and continued to screech at me from his new perch. Asshole.

The swing-set had only two swings, one was wrapped around the top bar so many times that only a foot of chains on either side dangled down, connected with sunburnt rubber. I sat down on the second swing and threw a kick backwards. The cool wind blew my hair slightly out of my face, I repeated the motion a few times. My iPod shuffled to a new song, Cowboy Dan. The squirrel was ruining the music – sitting up there screaming at me to get out of his park.

“Fuck. You. Squirrel!” I shouted at him

“Hs sply ckledge you” I heard behind me, muffled through the music. I took off my headphones and turned around.

“He’s simply acknowledging you,” I heard a somewhat familiar voice repeat. Minerals. Great.

“Look asshole, I don’t know why you’re following me but I’m not giving you another light, go fuck yourself, or another kid. I’m not in the mood.” Keeping my eyes on him I pulled out my slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes – forgot to take them out before sitting down. I gently opened the pack and pulled out a no longer cylindrical smoke. Returning them to my pocket I felt for my lighter. I couldn’t find it. Pockets yielding nothing I checked the ground which also proved fruitless, again I slapped at my pockets, what the hell?

“Need a light?” Asked the Mineral Man, holding out a red white and blue American flag lighter.

Did you steal my lighter? I asked, I felt the hot anger that had been growing in me all day glow white hot, the bees in my head started buzzing angrily – waiting to crowd out of my mouth and scream violently toward the Mineral Man. I knew somewhere in my head that it wasn’t possible, that I had used it (@TOIJGRJOGJ times since he had borrowed it.

“Nope, I took your advice and got my own ‘fucking’ lighter.” He repeated his question.

“Yea, sure, gimme a light Minerals.” I dramatized the motion of begging it from him, me – the stage-acting-no-lighter-guy. I chuckled at this, thinking it was pretty funny.

“You leaving anytime soon?” He was still staring at me, I put the lighter in my pocket.

“It any of your business?”

“I suppose it’s not, but perhaps you’re still wondering why they call me the Mineral Man, if you’re curious I can tell you.” His snake trails started up, leaking out of his twin nostrils like a wounded nuclear power plant’s stacks.

“What is your deal with this shit, who calls themselves the Mineral Man? You some freak that only gets off when people ask you about your name? Some asshole you are, probably a psycho rapist serial killer.”

“You’re not listening, I don’t call myself the Mineral Man, I don’t call myself anything, they call me the Mineral Man. You’re a bit slow aren’t you?” At this I stood up, ready for a fight. No psycho’s going to call me stupid. I’d put up with that since I could remember the smell of alcohol, mother yelling at me ‘idiot’ for being held back in both fifth and sixth grade, mother slapping me in the back of my head with a cry of ‘loser’ for losing my shit-piece job at the dry cleaner, mother bemoaning her poor ‘retarded’ son, crying at her ‘brainless’ son. Memories that I had tried to suppress all day bubbled up inside of me like Mt. St. Hellens before she blew. The screaming and hitting. Her ‘moronic’ blood on my lip. ‘Thick’ blood out my nose. ‘Retarded’ blood on her hand and my face. ‘Retarded’ blood on the counter and a tooth on the floor. Failure. Her telling me that my wasteful greedy mouth was always stealing air from the ‘worthy.’ My ‘retarded’ brain insatiably telling my lungs to suck in oxygen like I needed it–

“–FUCK. YOU. BITCH.” I was half-screaming at a dead woman, the bees in my head were swarming so loud I couldn’t hear my own scream. I ran at him, wood chips flew backwards, my cigarette was abandoned somewhere behind me – trailing smoke. My right fist was cocked back ready to deliver a crippling blow to his head and I slammed it forward with all my might just before our bodies collided and cried out in pain as it connected. The bees disappeared, leaving only the chattering of the squirrel and my bloody, broken fingers. I fell onto the ground as I collided with him and my eyes screwed shut with pain.

The sound of rocks being ground together wetly came to me as I stood staring at my hand. My first memory is a nightmare–. Blood was dripping down onto the tan wood chips that covered the ground. It left little brown stains where it landed, the same brown as my eyes I thought to myself and raised my gaze to the man in front of me. He was laughing, the sound of rocks being crushed to powder was his laugh, never raising in tone or pitch it stayed a constant thrum that vibrated through the ground to me.

“–the – fuck – are – you – Minerals.” I managed out between clenched teeth.

“Are you asking me why they call me the Mineral Man?” I didn’t bother responding to him, my fingers were fire and I didn’t know or care why he didn’t have a scratch on him. He seemed to take my silence as a yes and spoke once more, the gravel disappearing completely from his voice. Adopting a friendly, concerned tone he continued. “Let’s sit down, it’s a fairly long story, but you look like you’re about to faint.”

He offered his hand to me, I ignored it and walked to sit on the swing; I watched him follow me and sit down on the ground next to me, after removing his ugly corduroy jacket. He folded it once and, setting it upon the ground next to him, pulled out a fresh pack of cigarettes. After he unwound the cellophane wrapper he offered me first pick, accepting, I stared at it, turning it over in my fingers as though seeing something for the first time. His lighter was still in my pocket, I pulled it out awkwardly with my left hand, fumbling with it to light my cigarette while all the while the Mineral Man watched me. Waiting. I dropped the lighter onto the ground in front of him and inhaled. The burn of smoke distracted me for a moment from the fire of my fingers.

Still staring down at my now empty hands I heard him begin and knew without looking that he had two trails of gray-blue smoke coming out of his nose, slowly, steadily, irrepressibly rising upwards.

“You know what a mineral is? I didn’t when they started calling me the Mineral Man, I don’t know who started it, I know I was young, probably still frightened of girls, still frightened of the night, frightened of boogeymen and bad dreams. I remember going to the library and looking through the stacks, I found books, all of them unhelpfully defining minerals as ‘solid, inorganic substances’ – do you know what inorganic means?”

“I’m not stupid.” The words came out but lacked all the bite and confidence I planned for them.

“Of course not, I didn’t mean what I said earlier, I’m sorry. Anyway, people, they’re organic, life is organic, anything living from a blade of grass to a whale is organic, it lives. So why were they telling me I wasn’t alive? It perplexed me for years. It drove me mad! I could never understand the meaning. Everything has a meaning, we live in a world filled with symbols and each has its place. My meaning was a mineral.” Puff. Snake heads. “I went through different grades and new schools but the name followed me. It stuck to me like a leech. Even my teachers called me the Mineral Man. Every day I went home and cried, I cried and cried, until I was dried out, even then my body shook with dry tears as the water dried up and left behind a mask of salt on my face and hands. My grades started to plummet and I ended up dropping out of school, much like you…” He left these words hanging in the air and I looked up at him, waiting for more.

He dropped his still smoldering butt on the ground and heeled it into the ground, pausing to light another he asked, “Do you feel that? It’s about to rain.”

I looked up at the sky, it was mostly blue with a few big puffy white clouds, the kind of clouds I used to gaze up at and find shapes and monsters in. “I don’t think so Minerals. Looks pretty dry to me.”

He nodded and lit up. Crazy bastard I thought to myself, I’d never seen a day so devoid of rain in my life. Crazy. Retarded. The words popped up in my head and I kept repeating them over and over until they lost meaning. They were just sounds and I played with them. Kooraazey. Re-Taw-Dud. Ruh-tah-dead. Kuh-ray-zay, “Cray-ay-saay” I sung out loud. He ignored it and so did his baby snakes – their entire focus upon the tails of their recently departed kin.

“–So, I dropped out and lived on the streets for a while. I learned how to get by, how to beg for change. I learned how to make do, it wasn’t much, but I was so focused upon living another day that I had no time to think about anything else.” Puff. Snake heads. “Out on the street, no one knew me or my name, but it had been so long since anyone had called me by my true name it had lost all its meaning. Do you know what I mean? When something has its meaning stolen?”

I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I nodded anyway.

“I wanted to reinvent myself, give myself a real name and start all over. I wanted to do something, anything. Tired of desperation and fear I cleaned myself up, stealing a little here and there in order to give myself a proper set of clothes–” At this I eyed his corduroy jacket, his blue jeans barely fading, and his brown leather shoes scuffed lightly on the heels but otherwise undamaged and I nodded in spite of myself, “–and I found the only work I could.”

He handed me his pack of cigarettes and lighter, I took one out and rolled it between my bloodstained fingers. It hurt but I knew I had to move them. I lit it and returned both pack and lighter, waiting for him to begin again. He seemed to be thinking, staring past the oak tree into space, the lighter twirling absently between thumb and forefinger. We stayed this way a long time, four snakes winding upwards to be lost in the sunlight. He began again suddenly, snapping out of reverie as though slapped.

“The work I found was mean work, something no one else wanted. It was easy enough work though and I did it well. I put my whole being into it. ‘Always do a job well and you’ll be rewarded,’ that’s what my father taught me. After a while I could afford–”

“–What was it?”

“I killed rats. The city I lived in had an antiquated sewage system, huge tunnels of stone.” My first memory is a nightmare– “The rats infested these things, millions of them. They came out at night in swarms, attacking the homeless, rooting through trash, leaving a bed of rat shit on the streets. The city was trying to improve its image, they wanted the streets cleaned up to bring in business, and by that token, tourists. My job was to go into these tunnels and lay poison. Mass quantities of arsenic everywhere hidden inside cheap rat food. I killed a rat for each person that died in the bombing of Hiroshima. Imagine the genocide. Picture millions of dead rats being eaten by the rats that were still alive.

I didn’t have to picture it, I saw and remembered rats eating rats. Climbing over one another in their frenzied attempt to survive. As he told the story I already knew it, I saw his memories. The smarter rats realizing the food was poison and resorting to consuming their own race to live. Baby rats left to fend for themselves, the unlucky ones being eaten and the rest devouring each-other or poison. I saw them dying or being bred into monsters by the Mineral Man. The memories proved too much and I felt myself reeling, nauseated by the sounds and smells of rats, by the smoke pouring out of my lungs, by the images of rats eating each-other. I saw myself falling off the swing but didn’t feel it at all, striking the ground I passed out.

4:31 p.m.

***

 

I awoke to the sound of rolling thunder. Rain began to fall as I opened my eyes and saw where I was. My brain struggled to understand where I was and what had happened. Standing up I felt a wave of nausea strike me and I fell backwards onto a swing. Grabbing the chains for support my right hand sent a wave of agony up my arm. Staring at it I saw dried blood turn to water as the storm sent down pellets of warm rain. As the adrenaline of seeing my own blood coursed through my brain flashes of what had happened came back to me. The Mineral Man was explaining how he came to be called that, no, wait, I punched him. He laughed and my fingers bled. Then we sat down and he started his story. The rats! Am I crazy? No, my hand is bloody, I didn’t imagine all of that, it certainly wasn’t another dream… but why, how did he know.

Thunder continued to roll in the distance and I could see bright flashes of lightning in the distance. It looked like mother nature was celebrating Independence Day a bit early. Gingerly I stepped down, testing my legs but not daring yet to give up the support of the chains. Finding them stable I stood up and checked my pockets and the ground around me for my things. I saw my headphones and iPod placed under the swing, shaded mostly by the rubber umbrella. Picking them up I saw that below the mess of cords and the neat silicon and metal rectangle there was a pack of cigarettes and my lighter. I stepped over to the oak tree and, away from the rain, I lit up a cigarette. The smell of the world was everywhere in the rain, coming up and breathing in the life of water. I wanted to see Adara, to enjoy the fresh smell with her, to spend one perfect moment holding her to me.

An attempt to turn on my iPod showed that the battery was dead, depositing it quickly to my back pocket I pulled my headphones down around my neck and headed off to her home. My feet led me quickly there in double time, I didn’t want the storm to end. Her parents still weren’t home, probably out “working late” – spending the late afternoon with their respective extramarital partners. Striding boldly to the door I issued a sharp knock without thinking and a sharp hiss escaped my lips as the smoldering pain in my fingers relit itself into a raging inferno. Blood was splattered on the door and I hastily scrubbed at it with my other hand. I heard her pose the question, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me.”

“Johnavon!” The door clicked unlocked and I saw her, hair wet from the rain; she must have just walked home.

“You’re soaking!” We both exclaimed. Followed by a shared laugh. She stepped aside and I entered slowly, drying my feet on the doormat. I followed her to the hall and she pulled out a towel for each of us. Taking mine gently with my right hand she let out a sharp cry. “What happened to you?”

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.” Not feeling much like explaining the experience with the Mineral Man I tried to calm her with a calming hand gesture.

“It’s not nothing Johnavon, let me see it.” She took my hand in both of hers, they were soft and warm one resting palm to mine the other gently extending my fingers and pulling them apart ever so slightly. She pressed gently next to the open cuts that were still slowly bleeding. “Does this hurt?” She asked as she pressed her fingertips against my red skin. I grimaced and shook my head, not daring to speak less I utter a cry of pain. I looked up at her and saw that her eyes were upon my face; whether they were brimming with tears or still wet from the rain I couldn’t tell. “Come.” She beckoned, walking toward the bathroom at the end of the hall.

Entering the bright bathroom I noticed for the first time how clean and sterile this whole house was, a pang of guilt assaulted me as I thought of the cigarette I had stubbed out in her room. She opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out a brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide as well as a bandaid and a small yellow bottle of Neosporin. Pulling out a drawer she grabbed a handful of cotton balls and picked up my hand in hers again. Holding it over the sink with one hand she unscrewed the cap of hydrogen peroxide and poured a liberal amount over my hand. The sink turned a light shade of bubbly pink as I issued a grunt of pain. “I know.” She said.

After counting twenty seconds she rinsed my hand in cold water and dried it off with a bright yellow hand towel leaving small orange dots. Dabbing at my blood with a cotton ball she dabbed Neosporin onto a bandaid and gently placed it over my hand, still holding it in her delicate palm. This done she replaced the caps and placed everything back into its respective place. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome Johnavon, does it feel better?”

“Yes, thank you Adara.” I let her name hang in the air, wanting to say more but not knowing how to. I wanted to tell her how kind she was, how beautiful and understanding. I gently took her other hand in mine and stared into her beautiful blue eyes. Feeling my legs trembling I asked her if we could sit down.

She nodded, dropping one hand to her side and turning around she led me into her bedroom. The stench of burnt cloth hung in the room and assaulted us both. David Bowie lounging there on the wall was ambivalent toward me, though I could swear I detected a trace of anger or disappointment in his stare. The bottle of Gin was on the ground where it had been dropped and immediately forgotten. Adara stared first at it, then at the cigarette on the comforter and turned around to face me.

“Why?” Was the only thing that issued from her lips, a hurt look coming to her eyes. Thunder echoed outside angrily.

“I had a bad moment… I was thinking about my house and I just–”

“–It’s okay, I understand. Help me air out the room?” She dropped her gaze to the cigarette and picked it up, walking out of the room to throw it away. I heard the back door shut gently as she deposited it outside; reminding me of my duty. Walking around her bed to the larger of the two windows I pulled on it forcefully, opening it completely. After this I drew up the blinds and secured them. Repeating the motions at the next window I felt Adara enter the room again. The thermostat clicked audibly in the hall and we both heard the thrum of the heater sucking in air, preparing to expel it into the house to retain its 68 degree temperature. Adara whispered softly “Do you, do you want a drink?”

I had only drank alcohol once before in my life, dreading the same fate as my mother I had steered clear of the poison, it was just about the only thing I refused to do. Then one day Adara came around to my window and knocked loudly, I could hear her crying over my record. Foreigner had just started playing Cold as Ice, a guilty pleasure band whose record I had hidden whenever I knew she was coming over. Opening the window I pulled her in, still sobbing she wrapped her arms around me tightly and shook in my arms. Not knowing what to do I froze, awkwardly putting my arms around her shivering body. We continued like this for what seemed like a long time, I lost track of the music and felt her shaking slowly ebb and flow, then finally, suddenly, it stopped. She pulled back from me and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her black hoody. My shirt was soaked with her tears and I pulled it off immodestly, she had seen me naked as a child after all. Picking up a clean shirt off my pile of laundry I pulled it on while looking at her. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head at me and sat down on my bed, upsetting an empty glass it rolled to my foot. I picked it up and placed it down on my dresser before going to sit beside her. I knew I should tell her that I was sorry, but the words didn’t seem to mean anything, they certainly wouldn’t help. Instead I put my arm around her and pulled her closer to me. She dropped her head and rested it upon my shoulder, speaking softly. “It’s just, I never got to say goodbye. I knew he was sick and but I didn’t think he would go so suddenly and now he’s gone John. He’s gone and I can never say goodbye to him. I can never tell him that I love him and explain how kind he always was to me.” She paused to take in a long breath.

“I can never say goodbye…” Her words were lost in the music and still I said nothing.

We stayed this way long after the record player had shut itself off; eventually she pulled away from me and lay herself down on my bed. I had only one pillow and she took up one side of it, lying on her side toward me. Laying down next to her I tugged on my comforter, straightening it out and pulling it up just above her shoulders. Laying next to her I turned so that my body cradled hers, my arm noiselessly slid over her waist and wrapped itself between her breasts, pulling her closer to me. She put her hand upon mine, clenching it with tiny cold fingers. Breathing in the smell of her damp hair I felt her breathing coming slower and deeper. She drifted off into sleep, still holding me tightly. I don’t remember falling asleep, only the dream that once again plagued me, the only thing I remember is waking up to Adara’s tearstained face as she shook me and cried out, “Johnavon” over and over as she tore me out of my dream. “You were having a nightmare. I had to wake you up.”

I responded breathlessly “Thank you Adara.”

“What was happening?”

It might have been the lack of sleep that made me tell her, or it could have been what she had told me when she came over, but I told her. I explained everything down to the slightest detail, the skeletons, the laugh, his voice, the rats. I told her how I ran until my lungs bled and how the tunnel collapsed around me. I told her how it was always the same, how I had this dream for as long as I can remember, the same way you carry your name from birth so too did I carry this dream. When I was done she had stopped crying, her bloodshot eyes snapped back into focus as she pulled herself from my dream. “I’m sorry.” She spoke quietly, pulling me to her and gently rubbing her hand through my hair.

“Is it always the same?”

“Always, never changing, always there.”

She left the room, coming back with a bottle of gin, she knew as well as I did where my mother kept it. Pulling off the top she took a swig and handed it to me. We drank, and drank, and drank. The room became hazy as though filled with steam, which is the last I remember. After the bottle was gone we kissed, speaking no words we became entwined with one other and we each told the other it would be okay with our lips, our fingers, and our tongues. I remember nothing, except the smell when I awoke later and saw the empty bottle of gin on the ground. Adara told me later what had happened and I was disgusted with myself, hating the alcohol for stealing away the memory from me, I vowed again to myself never to drink again.

 

***

Still sitting on her bed I stared at the bottle and shook my head softly no. Refusing, even though my body and heart said yes. She took a long gulp from the bottle and set it back upon the ground. Smelling the foul stench of it I was wracked by yet another wave of nausea, I stood up and went to the window, staring out at the rain. Thunder was still crashing in the distance and I could see an occasional flash of lightning illuminate the gray clouds. The smell of the rain was spoiled by the alcohol, it ruined this moment just like it had ruined everything else. My brain told me to get out. “I have to go.”

“Is it because of this?” Pointing at the bottle I could feel her regretting the decision to drink.

“No, I just need some fresh air.”

We went to the front door, I opened it and stood outside, staring at the rain coming down. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned around. “Don’t go.”

I lied, “I don’t want to… I just–” My voice trailed off, we both know it wasn’t true and I didn’t have the heart to lie to her, not now. Squeezing her hand with mine I walked into the rain. Adara stood at the door and watched me leave, losing me to the curtain of water as I turned the corner, heading off in no particular direction.

 

 

***

 

 

 

NaNoWriMo

So, doing that. Find myself backing up constantly and changing who’s narrating the story.
It’s stressful, because you know, the whole, having to post 50,000 words by November 30th.

So here I am, changing it all back again, and when I have about 10 single spaced pages it takes a long time to do that, and then I realize “fuck, this won’t work” or “shitbrix, this isn’t working.”

So, this is my personal struggle right now, and I write this note to myself to say:
Fuck it just keep writing. You’re writing something interesting, and it’s enjoyable to do. Go. Write. WRITE NOW.

Back to class James. Good pep talk.

So. For this NaNoWrIMo thing

Looks like I’ll have to start all over with the mineral man, but I think I know how and why I’ll be writing it now, which is good. I’m terribly excited and odds are you won’t see a thing from me until the night of November first, perhaps second. Seven days away, I’m frightened at the prospect of spitting out 50,000 words…