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Posts Tagged ‘Fiction’

Flights of Fancy, part III

In Fiction, The Daily Drool on October 10, 2009 at 2:53 pm

A continuation of Flights of Fancy II, which was in itself a continuation of Flights of Fancy (the first).

Zipping and skimming amongst the rainbows and puffy stuff sent a thrill of exhilaration through Daniel’s Heart.  It had never known itself capable of such theatrics, never in fact been encouraged to do anything more than pump, pump, pump away in that sorry-excuse-for-a-nest… It was more like a steel cabinet than a man’s chest, and lonelier than Davey Jones’ Locker!  And Daniel (the oaf) always ignoring him, listening only with his mind as the world ticked on around him.

It had been maddening to watch.

And so Daniel’s Heart had taken matters into its own figurative hands.  How it was going to explain it all to Daniel was another story.  It figured leaving in the dead of night like that would leave plenty of time for what was planned, but then there had been so many beautiful things along the way…  And without Daniel’s brain to keep it focused, it had wandered in and out of several children’s clothing stores, petting zoos and even caught a foreign film before making its way to Sasha… beautiful Sasha.  Her very name caused Daniel’s heart to hiccup, spin, and careen into a nearby sunbeam in the sky, suspended in flight by those two arresting syllables.

Saaaah-shaaaaaa…

People liked to say that the way to a man’s heart was through his Stomach, but Daniel’s Heart knew this was nothing more than popularistic bunk.  The Stomach was a worker, a drone, a taskmaster of explosive proportions, focused on one thing only – food.  And it was all too easily upset by its cravings (or the occasional bought of anxiety, which caused the most disgusting of sounds) and after 35 years sharing Daniel’s echoesome cavities with this loud and gaseous neighbor, Daniel’s Heart was convinced that its incessant digestive gurgling was proof of one thing- the only path leading from the stomach was the one going straight to the intestines.  Daniel’s Heart shuddered to think anyone could believe it possible of seeking counsel from such an organ as that.  It had, rather, been shaken from its deep slumber by something much more ancient and pristine: laughter.

Sasha had awakened in Daniel his own innocence of spirit, ushered in by the warm rushing laughter of his youth, and this had told Daniel’s Heart everything it needed to know about the woman it would later risk life and home for.  The path to a man’s heart was no path at all, but a magical, electrical suddenness of truth… and Sasha was both star beam and sunshine lighting the connection; a proverbial lighthouse to the wreckage of this man so disillusioned by love that he’d consigned himself to toss lonesome in the waves forever.

That laughter had been the first of many measures that would strengthen and embolden Daniel’s Heart, elevating it to the practically tip-top seat of command.

Oh, it hadn’t been easy those first couple days, Daniel fighting at every turn.  It had been a wrestling match of epic proportions, wreaking havoc on both the Stomach and Lower Intestines.  Daniel’s Heart had felt bad about that, but getting Daniel to call Sasha had taken three days of severe palpitations, heart burn (shiver) and finally a good old fashioned leap to his throat as he tried to choke down some bouillabaisse soup.  The steaming broth had no recourse but to reverse direction and bubble out Daniel’s nose, at which point Daniel had erupted in a temper “Alright!  I’ll call her.”  Daniel’s heart flooded with joy as it floated back to its nest, allowing Daniel some culinary peace at long last.

The first date had been perfection.  Daniel always underestimating his heart, had prepared himself for disaster, but the hours of laughter and fine company had elated his spirits such that both he and his heart floated home on a bed of her perfume, completely undone by her open ease of just being.  That was what surprised Daniel’s heart the most; Sasha seemed to listen to her own heart with complete tenderness.

They had gone to the Galleria for an early dinner, Sasha’s jetlag from a recent trip abroad necessitating an early bedtime.  Daniel had accepted this as just further feminine code for “Just in case I think you’re drab and I want to stab myself in the eyes rather than spend another second with you.”  They had met at 6:30.  Sasha immediately cracking jokes about what an old lady he must think her, eating out with the blue-hairs like that, and they had decided to order crab-cakes in their company’s honor.  But she hadn’t been lying- a fact Daniel’s heart felt elated over when at around 8:00, eyes drooping for sleep, she had let out the worlds largest yawn and immediately burned hot with embarrassment as waiters and patrons alike stopped in awe.  Daniel had turned to the onlookers with a fever of protection and explained that his “Companion” was “Still on Paris time, thank you very much, and could everyone stop staring?”  A charming move, although Daniel’s Heart and Sasha had both giggled at the term “Companion”- Daniel was so very bad at public speaking.  She had immediately suggested he retain her phone number, for she would very much like to see him again, and there, amongst the arugula and table salt, Daniel’s Heart could tell that Daniel and it were for once in complete agreement.

Not like now…

Daniel’s Heart sighed in the warmth of the sunbeam and set back on course to Daniel’s room.  No point in putting off the inevitable, it thought as it raced through the sky.  Daniel would certainly be awake and furious with it for having left him. It hadn’t even occurred to Daniel’s Heart to leave word with Stomach of its plans.   No doubt Daniel would be wondering if he had lost both his heart and Sasha… and that would certainly render the man prostrate, for Daniel’s Heart knew what Daniel did not:  Love was not a useless game but the thing that kept men going.  Daniel needed his heart more than he needed air.

But, Daniel’s heart wondered with each high-flying mile, would there be room amongst the ribcage and red-matter for it now that it had seen the world from amongst the clouds?  For there had been a subtle but definite swelling of self building since its first breath of freedom.

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Flights of Fancy part II

In Fiction, The Daily Drool on September 9, 2009 at 9:05 am

A continuation of this week’s fiction

He didn’t understand it.  COULD NOT, in fact, BELIEVE it.  The cold sweat having soaked its way into every cottonous fiber of his 600 thread count sheets, he was left shivering and shaky and completely at the mercy of his mutinous heart.

It had been her decision.  She’d left him… not the other way around.  What business was it of his to go chasing after her?  Yet there he was, terrified by the emptiness in his chest discovered at precisely 5:45 a.m. when his alarm went off to remind him to go for a run.

Fat chance of that now.

It was nearly 10:30 and he still hadn’t been able to get out of bed.  He wished Sasha was here, she would know exactly what to do… but then that was the whole issue wasn’t it?  Angered by his iron-like steadfastness against the ever-rising tied of love, his heart had just up and left him too- and to what end?  Was he to be a prisoner of this bedroom for the rest of his miserable life?  Was it really fair to be punished so by your own organs?  He mentally prodded his kidneys and liver… they all seemed to be as surprised as he; practical to a fault and completely impervious to the impossibilities of romance.

It had been maddening actually, the day he met her- hair a mess and her attitude far from in check, he should have just pointed her towards the atrium and been done with it.  But no, something about the way she was slightly out of breath had gotten his imagination going and he’d walked her all the way to the elevator, up the twenty six floors, and down the interminable hallway to the HollyHock Grand Atrium.  He could tell right away it was less than what she’d imagined (the building’s external architecture should have prepared her thus) and so he’d taken the only course of action left to him as he grew ever-more addicted to her smile- he asked her to coffee.  And it had worked, she’d smiled so wide that the gleam off her teach arched right up to the heavens and landed with ownership right atop the property where his long quiet heart had been sleeping.

Stupid really to have been so enchanted.  Stupider still to have asked for her number!  God, he rolled his eyes with the ridiculousness of it all, at the ridiculous nature of his younger self.

Now look at him- naked and shivering and completely, totally, unequivocally alone.  He’d been better off as machine, everything pumping and processing and taking orders.  If he’d had any idea his heart was capable of such stubborn treachery he’d have taken that job up in Greenland- a nice long research project with naught but ice flakes for company.

But Los Angeles had seemed so much… warmer.

That’s what it was, all the warm weather thinning his blood and leaving him dizzy with sunburn.  It had been a trick of the light, that spectacle of her smile, and he the poor sap blinded by it.

What was he going to do?  How could his heart have chosen her over him?  Its resting place for thirty-five years and now… where would it live?  What would he stuff in its place?  And what was it up to without him?

Flights of Fancy

In Fiction, The Daily Drool on September 4, 2009 at 7:32 am

It was written in the clouds – literally- She had no idea how he’d done it, but as the little plane dipped and soared above the horizon the sun sparkled and shone upon the misty sentence : “Come home, Sasha”  and after it, his heart.  How it was faring at this altitude she was afraid to wonder, but he’d sent it to her shivering, delicate, and stubborn, all the same.

It hadn’t been that long, she thought, since they’d last kissed.  Riddled with doubt about his intentions she’d asked the fateful question “Are you honorable?” To which his tangled tongue’d had no reply.  She would have to rely on her heart’s intuitions on this one, and that was something she’d never been any good at.  How could one trust such a weak thing as one’s heart?  Lifting her tail and running, now that made sense.

How was it that he’d found such strength in his when it had been she who’d been so steadfast in the courtship?  Was it merely a matter of the time and space she’d left in her stead echoing back at him “Chase her” or had it been there all along, loud and clear except for the looking?  As though her ears had been tuned to such a presumptive tonality that she’d missed what he’d been singing all the while?

But this spelling in the sky… well, that was a different game altogether.

She looked around with hushed eyes.  Had anyone else seen?  Surely there were rules about such things – about bombarding your lover with valentines in the sky when she was quite peacefully trying to take a vacation.    It was bad enough he hadn’t left her mind even for a moment once she’d gone… not even to let her enjoy her salmon dinner in peace the night prior.  She’d ordered a lovely glass of wine – the first of many- to accompany the sweetly glazed piece of pink decorating her plate, and leaned over the delicacy with fork raised only to remember how heartily he’d laughed at her the first time she’d seen one swimming.

It had been the season to head upstream and no one had told her they would be   jumping out of the waters like miniature rockets. She had almost feinted with the surprise and he’d laughed about it the whole way home.  It was so lovely outside though, the sun sparkling, the air arching, that each breathe had twinkled in his mirthful eyes and she’d not bothered to pretend to be hurt that he was laughing at her.

All of this remembered in an instant, and she, left holding her mouth open mid-bite, paralyzed by the want to go back there.

How frustrating that he could continue to creep in like that and disrupt the making of these new “Sasha” memories… memories that would last a lifetime and require no twinge from her wreckless heart… except that she couldn’t seem to get more than ten minutes into any of them without wishing he was there beside her in their baking.

It had been an honest enough idea- pack her bags and cash in on that hefty settlement- the one she’d received in exchange for two months uncomfortable labor at the mercy of a lecherous boss. She’d no idea he’d been snapping pictures up her skirt from the webcam he’d placed beneath her desk.  She had been shocked when she’d discovered he kept a most lascivious screensaver, horrified when she’d noticed a familiar pair of panties staring back at her from the melee.  Of course he pleaded mercy as the evils of a challenging marriage had driven him to taking extreme measures. It was a heartbreak to be facing a sexual tundra without hope for an affair as a fifty year old man with nary a hair left on his head such as he would never successfully get laid in today’s materialistic market.

The jury hadn’t felt sorry for him though.  Sasha had almost felt guilty cashing the fifty-thousand dollar check with his miserable name on it; those panties had only cost her three dollars.

The stewardess leaned down to offer her a steamed towel (Sasha felt less guilty about flying first class once she’d learned about the steamed towels) and all but choked when she saw the clouds outside.  Shaking her head just enough to blur the line between “im” and “possible”, the stewardess peeked outside again, but Daniel’s heart, having sensed the danger, had already zipped off towards the safety of skin and bone, its mission artfully accomplished.  Sasha, rattled from the suddenness of this new affection merely smiled at the woman and asked that she might get her another miniature bottle of rum to wash down her own heart which had leapt to her throat in the hopes of following his.

Meaning what exactly?

In Fiction, Prose, The Daily Drool on June 26, 2009 at 3:23 pm

Suddenly it hits me, like truck meeting insect on the interstate.  The intersection of what was thought and what really is, colliding with catastrophic force.  It’s knocked me up and to the ground.  I am literally sitting amongst the funk and fur trapped inside my carpet.  Mind realing from the revelation, backpedalling its way through the Why’s and the How’s, to the That’s where this began. This thing pressed firmly against my throat is fear and the thing pressing it there is my own godamned hand.

Witty phrases and collected quotes are batting against my skull like a flock of angry birds, their wings silently bleeding against my tightly closed eyes.  Repeating the beat, mercilessly in refrain-  The thing we are most afraid to do is generally the right thing to be doing.

I’ve been thinking it was left.

Smashed now, between the weight of what is realized and the unflinching stone-cold stench of the truth against my cheek, I bite down harder on the thing I must throw out.

I do not want it to be true, this epiphany of epic scale, this avalanche of thought collapsing around, over, inside of me…  But it will not let me move, shift, reshape, or hide.  Forced to stare into the pickle I now inhabit, I look around and it is ugly.

I’ve been assigning meaning to this thing… assigning it not from observation, but from what I wanted to see… from my own need.

And like the blind seeing sun for the first time, this lightening bolt has seared its image onto my very lids.  My eyes burn with it.  I cannot sleep, but it is there.

Floating in all it’s emptiness… a lie.  A malfeasance of interpretation.

Once again, I have guessed incorrectly.

Once again I hit the floor.

This is a fictionalized bit of stuff, I’m fine, don’t be worrying 🙂

A Slight Shiver

In Fiction, Prose on April 21, 2009 at 7:03 pm

The alarms are going off.  Alarms that require attention.  Attention to the details, to the shiver...  And you’re suddenly checking in with yourself, checking in with the breathe, with the scent, with the hands.  Their are hands on the small of your back, hands that carry weight and a sense of humor… the shiver creeping up your spine isn’t related to the weather, but to the face peeking over your shoulder.

“Whoops.” 

He didn’t mean to shock your system, he was just trying to reach the water cooler.  But now you’re sinking into something sticky.  The engine’s stalling.  You know you should say something witty, but instead you’re staring into his eyes, into his very deep eyes.  You can see every little imperfection.  Why are you so close?  

He smiles when you teeter, your mental deviations going unnoticed, the palpitations slowing.  Sweat makes it’s way to your warm places, to try and cool your pulse, but its presence only makes things worse.  And he’s still close… or are you?  Are you leaning into him?  Did you just smell him?  WHAT are you DOING?

It’s definitely time to say something… something clever, something so funny he’ll be thinking about it all day- no, you!  He’ll be thinking about YOU all day.  You can do this.  You can, you can, and you will!  So you open your lips (are they chapped?  Oh God, when’s the last time you put on that lip balm that makes your lips plump? Is it in your pocket?  Could you get away with a quick application?)  But then isn’t… he’s speaking!  He’s saying something to you right now.  How on earth are you ever going to answer him if you don’t stop talking to yourself?

And then he’s gone, turned and walking away, his thirst quenched and yours just beginning.  

Funny that hands on your middles could move you to panic.  So funny, in fact, that you have to sit down for a moment till the feeling comes back to your face and you can laugh normal again.

Fur Trees and John Travolta

In Fiction, Prose, The Daily Drool on April 13, 2009 at 8:02 pm

It was early… an early-bird call.  So early in fact that I questioned whether or not this bird might have had one too many, skipped the tequila, and gone straight for the worm.  But there it was, plain as the un-day – and I reached for it in all the confusion… shaking my cat loose of its happy place.

“Mmph?”  

And he wanted to talk.  To talk about his day.  Because for him, it was still going.  

“Butits, huhmp, it’slikethreeo’clock- in the morng!”

What?  Is that English? 

And I repeat the time – “Three o’clock, it’s three o’fucking’clock in the morning!”

It was important, though, he needed to be heard.  To feel that the world wasn’t silently eclipsing him as he toiled away at his act;  Tending the broken hearts by night, and his own broken dreams by day.  

So I listened.  And I snoozed.  

“Are you listening to me?”

Mmph.

And there it was, finally a crystal clear click of understanding.  “What time do you have to be up?”

I’m leaving at 6:30.

“In the morning?”

YES.

“Oh, Jesus, I’m… I’m really sorry.  I’ll talk to you later.  Go back to sleep.”

As if I could… He’s stirred just enough of my neurons that things otherwise unnoticed at such an hour are now devastating my nest.  The cat is doing battle with my piggies and my brain is counting minutes; each one lost up against each one to come.  The sheep have gone off to pasture and I’m left to my own wicked devices.  

3:30.  

3:30 in the frickin’ morning and I’m dreaming of a sleep long past due.  

3:45 and the birds, as if taking their cue from my phone have all waken.  Singing out to the sun, ushering it towards the day.  

I’m wrapping the pillow over my head, I’m kicking the day off, crawling my way back into a dark, silent, night.  

4:00 and I’m now down to two.  Two blasted hours with which to rest my way fresh for a new day.  

I’m thinking wicked thoughts.  Thoughts of murdered bird, simmered in tequila, served over noodles that I eat in bed.  John Travolta shows up to ask if I’d like another, and I tell him “No thanks, the train is already in the courtyard.”  He nods, our intimate understanding sending every molecule into a delicate shiver.  I turn to the large furry tree sitting next to me and ask him to pass the salt.  

I’ll remember this dream once morning comes, and blame it on that phone call.  I’ll grumble my way to the toothbrush, and grumble my way to the door, and I’ll grumble my way through the sprawl with my ex-friend’s name on my angry tongue.  But for now, oh for now, I settle in to a strange sleep, not for one moment questioning the strange sights before me as the fur -tree offers me a mint.

A spot of fiction…

In Fiction, Prose on February 1, 2009 at 6:43 pm

It was filled with that coffee house music, Godless ambianic music meant to mean something.  To whom exactly I don’t know.  Certainly not the menopausal women who stood in front of me, arguing about which one had snack duty and who’s kid made more dooty… 

Encapsulating romance…that’s what I garner from the cat-crying over-head.  I order my hot chocolate, “Whole milk, yes I want whip cream.”  The woman looks me over, up and down. “That’s right!” I feel like screaming in her anorexic face.  “I said whole milk!  With WHIPPED CREAM, calorie for yummy calorie.  My metabolism runs the marathons, all of them.  It’s not my fault my bones need the calcium.  Vitamin D helps them drink.”  She drags her sullen feet towards the mystery machine making mochacino marvels.  I’m thirsty.

I wait.  There is a haze of longing ‘round my neck, pulling me inside.  Internal combustion, infernal seduction… I’m swept up in my fantasies.  If I could exist only in dreams, I think, everything would be perfect.  Enough drama to keep things interesting, with happy endings to make me smile.  I’m swaying with the ambiance, remembering romance with my hips. “$2.40” she says.  I quite my daydream and reach into my pocket.  3 seconds later we make the exchange and it’s all over for our affair. 

I turn around.  My God, there he is.  Standing behind me with my heart in his hands.  My hands hold a cappuccino.  The coffee girl made a mistake.  Stumbling towards the counter, my tongue in my cheek, he puts his hand to my back.  The fire spreads down my spine, lighting my ass on fire.  An explosion.  “Please fix this” I plead to the girl who thinks we’re still talking about coffee.  “How are you?” he wonders.  He who has been absent.  He who has been indifferent.  He who has been out of reach for so long that my arms have grown 2 inches in the reaching… “How are you doing?” I’m fucking dying over here if I don’t get my God-damned hot chocolate!  Soulfully singing something about “okay” I look to his chin to avoid looking to his lips to avoid looking at his nose to avoid looking into his eyes.  MY GOD!  The eyes of a God.  Lightening and thunder, or thunder and lightening, it’s ripping the place apart…