Tag Archives: Short story

War, a very short story

illustration war very short story cats and dogs illustration war very short story cat and dog backwards

The woman thought of God a hundred times a day. A thousand. An infinite number of times. Consciousness on the quantum level. And each day, she grew unhappier. More discouraged. Bleaker. Uglier. Sadder. More uncertain. In the trenches. Wanting to know for sure, and be done with it. The big picture… could anyone see it… could anyone imagine it… could she, or anyone she knew, ever have a clue to its subject… its matter. Most people seem strong until something goes wrong. Could time really heal?

Her belly grew heavy and cold, a dizzying pit of endless space. Would she ever be able to see it through to the end? Where was the end? When was it reasonable to stop trying. When was it the right time to stop trying… too hard. Where were people when you needed them. Bullets never did any body any good. The first human-killing weapons led to more, and more deadly, machinery for war… cannons and tanks and bombers. Land mines. Napalm. Nukes. Propaganda. Poison. Secrecy. It all boiled down into the same rotten thing, in the end.

Terror. The dog barked and barked and yelped and whined and barked some more. He was single-minded; his existence that moment was all about the cat, the cat behind the sofa. She refused to be ruled by terror. She growled and hissed back. She sat just outside his reach and baited him. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it backfired. Sometimes the dog came so close to her, his mouth closed in on the long, silky fluff of her tail. He bore a complex pattern of red scratches on his black and white snout. The man wanted the cat gone in the morning. What if he insisted? The man, or the cat? She preferred the cat tonight. No telling about tomorrow.

 

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Filed under anger, courage, death, fear, fiction, grief, heart, hope, human beings, humanity, loss, love, mourning, murder, peace, personal responsibility, prose poetry, relationships, short stories, soul, spirit, united states of america, war, wish

She Hates Numbers

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Lovely Girl, a short-short story

illustration lovely girl
Lovely Girl, a short-short story

Jan. 11, 1979

Kenneth got into a big fight with his father last night. His Dad said that he follows me around like a puppet, and that he’s being bought. Then his Dad told him he was a lazy little bastard for not fixing his car & going somewhere with his mother. Then Kenneth said something back and his Dad tried to choke him and Kenneth left & went to the library.

I have a feeling Kenneth’s Dad hates me, or at least dislikes me. He would probably be a lot happier if I wasn’t going out with Kenneth. I would like to go up to his Dad and say that if he would prefer Kenneth not go out with me — because he thinks Kenneth would be better able to concentrate on sports & school — I will comply.

All I know for sure is that I don’t know anything anymore. Sometimes, I want to go far away – to Europe, maybe – and meet strange people and find out how to live. But then I get scared and I am suddenly glad to be in my safe room with all my possessions that tell me who I am supposed to be. I don’t know who I am – I used to, but things have changed so much, I’m not sure anymore.

Ever since Mom and my stepdad got divorced, it’s been harder and harder to just live. Mom is getting worse with the booze and sometimes I get so angry that I scream at her. Then I feel awful and try to hug her and tell her I’m sorry, but she’s so out of it she just stands there, swaying a little with her eyes half-crossed, and I end up stomping into my room and slamming the door and locking it. Then I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling and sigh.

It’s the best just after I get home from classes at community college. Mom isn’t here, and I am alone. No one can bother me, and if the phone rings I don’t answer it. It gives me a sense of power – listening to that phone ring and ring and ring until whoever is calling hangs up, frustrated. I close all the curtains and put on records and smoke cigarettes. In my cool, dark cave I find peace for a few hours.

At six o’clock, though, I hear that fucking bitch, my mother, put her key in the lock, and I jump up and run down the hall to my room to get away. If Mom says something to me, I try to be nice, but it’s usually only a few minutes before our voices become sharp and anger is in the air again. Until she’s blotto, that is. Then, wobbling and bleary-eyed, she’s all lovey-dovey, but also by then all I want to do is shake her until her head falls off!

The only positive things in my life are Amy and Kenneth. Amy is my best friend and Kenneth is my lover. They know, and once in a while I can talk to them about it, but I know that friends can only take so much before they are tired of hearing it. The only person that would listen to everything you said and be interested was a psychologist or psychiatrist, and I’ve thought about going to one, but it’s really too expensive. So I just don’t let myself think about things most of the time.

I keep this journal and write my thoughts down, and that helps a little. Most of the time I’m fine, but it’s always there, hanging over me. Actually, I function very well. I graduated in the top five percent of my high school class, and after a year at junior college I have a 3.8 average. And I’ve never gotten into any serious trouble at all. I’m what grandmothers like to call a “lovely girl.” On the outside. Happy? What did happiness ever have to do with any of my fucking life choices?

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Filed under addiction, alcoholism, child abuse, child neglect, childhood, children of alcoholics, college, compassion, daughters, development, fiction, identity, insecurity, mothers, relationships, short stories, teenagers, youth

love kills, a short-short story, (originally published in crossconnect)

illustration love kills tattoo

(originally published in CrossConnect)

Love Kills
They killed me, those boys. Every day, getting off the bus, they killed me. I’d be walking away from the stop already, trying not to look, hearing them draw together and trail at my heels like a pack of wolves. I’ve wasted too much time since then trying to figure out why I feel dead inside.

They don’t know what they did to me, but I’m not God, I can’t forgive them. One of them was the first boy I ever kissed. That was spin-the-bottle, behind the holly bushes at the end of the canal. The trashy, sandy space between the seawall and the bowling alley parking lot, where the branches of the mangroves trailed down into the murky water like the sad arms of ghosts. He kissed me there. His lips were wet, trembling, soft as a child’s, and softer than mine.

Why’d he kiss me, then? That’s what I’ve asked a thousand times. Girls, did you ever kiss a man you were ashamed of? One you wouldn’t be caught dead with in other circumstances? The answer is yes. We all did. But, following our mistake, did we then gather up our friends and acquaintances and confront the unfortunate man daily, taunt him with his ugliness every single day for a year? Did we, in a gang of six or ten, pant and bark at him as wild dogs, throwing flecks of spittle onto the back of his fleeing, burning neck?

On better days he wasn’t cruel, but fast and solid, when I bounced against him in a crowded game of flashlight tag. His immovable, sweaty arms encircled me one late spring twilight, and though I wriggled and strained to get away, I wondered what it was like; making love with a boy, how it would feel, our naked bodies pressed together, his aroused skin slipping into my aroused skin, male into female like a dull knife into butter.

There were also the black boys at the back of the room. They wore their clothes differently, as if the cloth covering them wasn’t important, wasn’t doing them any favors. The way their dark skin bled out of the shirt-cuffs like hot ink made me crazy. It was as if women were already part of them, not something foreign. One boy touched my ass, not sly or shy, just placing his open palm against my turned hip like it was a loaf of bread. He never looked my way without smiling.

Once, I was almost raped. I made a mistake and went to this older guy’s apartment, as clean and tidy as a church. That one climbed atop me again and again, rumpling his black-sheeted bed and it seemed like hours went by, my legs twin automatic pistons, pushing his nude weight off and away. He didn’t become violent, so finally he quit trying. But later, I let him teach me how to kiss. To leave off a man’s mouth slowly, gently, instead of rising away like a slap interrupted.

Seems like they all have a thing for plain, big-titted blondes, doesn’t it? The sweetest one I ever had, a model, brought me a warm washcloth, after. His whole body was as hard and smooth and glossy as a horse’s. He held my knees up and washed me like I was a baby, but I never saw him again. The flesh may mesh, but boys perfect like that don’t ever forget why you went with them in the first place. And, girls, truly — are there any other kind but the kind that kill?

I love the idea of a man, regardless.

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doctor’s report: patient a, a short story

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(originally published in Burning Word)

Doctor’s Report: Patient A, a short story

Patient A is a living museum of femininity, and serves as transitory evidence of extensive neo-geo-psycho-socio-eco-political movement. Designed and built in the second half of the twentieth century, she first gained philanthropic prominence with a cynical, witty, overeducated man eight years her senior, Charles F. She stayed faithful to Charles F. for six months, but the intriguing tales of his former romantic partners, then numbering in the several hundred, irretrievably seized her imagination. She left, and never looked back. She shops for new men the way other women shop for new shoes.

She invariably rejects both the too-easy conquest and the too-stubborn resistance. Every season countless men flock near to witness her fleeting, hormonally-induced states of passion, and observe for themselves her classic “XX” architecture.

If it seems that everything has already been said about Patient A, then it is up to the curious investigator to discover her for themselves, for she offers infinite variety. She is a woman for night-owls, early-birds, strollers, culture-vultures, devotees of high fashion, low-lifers, luxury-seekers, ascetics, flower-givers, wine-drinkers, the avant-garde, the old guard, fans of high times, fans of art, or just plain fans. Spend your time walking with her through parks, along leaf-lined boulevards, window-shopping, drinking coffee in sidewalk cafes, or overdosing on her sweet, flowery smell. Patient A is the sum of all the men who have loved her, described her, and taught her. She combines the unique with the humdrum — note her fine, trembling sensitivity, her bullheaded obstinacy, her spurts of unbounded energy, her fits of restlessness, irrational generosity, contemptible stinginess, as well as her innate proclivity for sleeping all day on the couch, unwashed dishes piled high in the sink.

In her twenties, following several remarkably disastrous affairs with high-strung youths, she gradually assumed supremacy over William B., an older, stolid man with a government job. Beautiful buildings sprang up around her person, the arts flourished within her living room, and she gained renown as the creative capital of the household.

She was kind and good and true to William B. for longer than she had ever been with any man. She wanted to settle down with her mate and raise a herd of children. Justice was what she had in mind. As you sow, so shall you reap. She had a set of rules in her head, and she did not break them until she had no choice left but to live or die. Everything unkind her husband said was made even heavier by something kind he left unsaid, and the weight of his personality dragged on her like a universe. Omissions are not accidents — in this belief she is said by many to be unreasonable. It’s so unrefined to object to a fleeing wife. He could have tried to even things out. She held the cosmos on her inadequate neck, and how it ached at night!

For a long time after she finally left him, she was afraid of love and all things human. There was no one left to speak to, and the fact that she never made anyone other than herself smile didn’t help. She realizes now every woman fights her own private war, and what seemed like losing was really winning. Every good thing is for such a very short time — bring forth roses in haste from the rocky ground, the growing season will not come again. She longs to drink honey from the honey-flower. She is free of barbed wire, yet cannot erase the blood of the sacrificed. How can she love again, ever?

She must do the best she can. Her last romantic partner told her to find a good husband. He, himself, was too much of an adventurer and would not fit the bill he imposed. Patient A believes everything will be all right, if only she can find the right man. He must be rich, not in money but in spirit. He must allow her to travel the world in safety. He must be like the father and mother she never had. He must both take care of her and let himself be taken care of — the balance herein is extremely delicate and can sometimes even be spoiled merely by improper breathing. This is an order impossible to fill.

Patient A has developed self-induced amnesia as an art form. Patient A hardly remembers her Mother and Father’s arms, their hearts and minds — where are they, why did they leave, what did they expect of her, anyway? Even so, she prays to their memory, which resembles nothing more than a pair of white herons dressed up as guardian angels — she prays — please deliver to me wisdom, please deliver strength, on your snowy wings bring me goodness and bravery. She sleeps, and in her dreams never speaks. Footsteps must be paced to meet an obstacle at every stride. Stillness is hard, so much harder than words.

Beached whales keep on breathing, trembling as their skin dries and cracks. Unaffected people gather pine cones for adornment. It is human nature to stand in the center of a thing. The most faithful feeling always shows itself by restraint. A match, not a marriage, was made between Patient A and her husband, William B. It was an unfortunate incident, fortunately ended. To define grace with any degree of eloquence requires an inquisitive hand. The only stronghold powerful enough to trust to is love. In the end, Patient A will be as ordinary and egotistical and hard-hearted as anybody else. If you nevertheless choose to pursue her, she will not be gracious, she will not absolve you.

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