CRACK THE SPINE
Issue Eleven
Crack The Spine Issue Eleven February 13, 2012 Edited by Kerri Farrell Foley Collection copyright 2012 by Crack The Spine
Cover Art “Sun Clips” by Denny E. Marshall Denny E. Marshall draws. Recently. Art published.
Contents Sarah Johnson……………….……………..………………...….Hard Sell Abhishek Behera………………………..….…...……..Split. Personality. Infatuation. Brief. Nathaniel Tower………………………….…….Looking For a Way Out Gary Beck…….………………………………..…....…………..Paradox II Ode to Loss The Evil That Men Do Oscar Zelaya…………………..………………………..……...C.L.A.M.S. Jeremiah Walton……………………………………..Love Mouth Moths DNA Morris..…………………………………………..The Biscuit Affair
Hard Sell By Sarah Johnson
Shopping in early February is like a browsing through the innards of a live mammal. It jars me every time. I don’t know why. By now I should expect the rows of velvet hearts, laid open to expose candy clots, and the red tissue paper bulging into the aisles, forming the walls of an inflamed intestine. Overhead, a network of crepe circulates manufactured love. It’s not personal and it shouldn’t surprise me, yet it always feels like a personal slap across my personal face. Valentine’s Day approaches. Again. Goddamnit. By the grace of a dry, itchy scalp, I find myself swallowed by the organs and connective fibers of inner space. I have come for a bottle of dandruff shampoo. To get it, I must plough through the viscera. A smell—something between cinnamon and offgassing vinyl—burns my sinuses as I press on. Floating balloons bob and sway in my wake, like pale pink lungs forced to hold their breath forever. It isn’t supposed to be this way. It wasn’t always. We used to sneer at these gory trappings together. So fake. Totally ridiculous. Really? Seriously? We laughed, smug in our certainty. Hand in hand we strolled past the freak show. He stood beside me in the aisle as I crouched to sort through eight hundred varieties of dandruff shampoo. Why would I be self-conscious? He loved me. All of me. My pretties, my uglies, my flakes. We knew what was real. I remember him standing over me in that aisle. When I stood up, clutching a white bottle, his hand slid around my waist and squeezed. A quiet touch. Something so small, but it filled me with more sugary warmth than all that commercial pageantry ever could. That was then. Now, as I pay for yet another bottle of dandruff shampoo, I don’t feel warm, or sugary, or full. I feel excavated. Like my pink and red insides have been scooped out and flung across a department store. I’m the flaking rind of a human being. The cashier hands over my change. I dump the coins in the diabetes donation can, next to a vase of individually wrapped roses. Real roses.
I pull a slender stem from the vase. My thumb finds a thorn and I press hard, until the cellophane splits. Harder still. Thorn pierces skin. A plump, red bead of blood. Real blood. The sting spreads hot down my arm, like flames over dry winterkill. I tear away the cellophane wrap, crush my nose into the petals and breathe deep. Something so small, but the sweetness fills every one of my dark, empty corners. I know what’s real.
Sarah L. Johnson lives in Calgary, Alberta where she reads, runs and writes. She enjoys snack time, coffee time and untangling her earphones.
Split. Personality. By Abhishek Behera
There Are those Who talk in bursts Like dominoes toppling other dominoes unintentionally Or like - like kittens curious about a potted cactus plant; Pauses are like An avalanche that forgets and remembers it's way. And in their world it could happen For rivers still have the time to meander And cows still have the time to graze. The world is endless but a slow wagon isn't a waste, For a journey is more about uncovering Than covering distances. And there are those of concise words, Who know when to pick a needle over a knife.
Infatuation. Brief. By Abhishek Behera Its all tranquil Like the surface of water All the way down till your chin Where as if perturbed by a pebble Is a dimple Cute, And thoughtful. Abhishek Behera is a student, currently a semester away from graduating (as a Mechanical Engineer from the Indian Institute of Technology, Madras, Chennai). He started writing as a lovesick fourteen year old teenager. He likes to believe he has matured since, but to this he quickly adds: 'I have growing years ahead'. In his private life, he enjoys mathematics, reading, irritating friends with pungent jokes, watching people, skies and insects, and searching for the word closure.
Looking For A Way Out By Nathaniel Tower I used pills the first time I tried to kill myself. The second time, I tried holding my breath under the soapy water in the bathtub. The third time, I tried cutting my wrists. The fourth time, I tried a gun. I wish I could say that was the final time, but it wasn't. Naturally, I failed each time. The pills, which I thought were my mom's antidepressants, were really just post-menopausal vitamins. I ended up with diarrhea for a few days. I took them in her bathroom when I was visiting her at the nursing home. She was making me feel guilty for putting her in the home. She said she wasn't old enough, but it wasn't an old person's nursing home. It was a nursing home for crazy people, but it wasn't a nut house either. She just didn't understand. I couldn't take the guilt trip, so I ran into the bathroom and grabbed the bottle of pills. I realized my mistake almost immediately. As soon as the last pill had gone down, I saw the prescription bottle still in the medicine cabinet and the vitamin bottle in my hands. At first I felt really full, then I had some cramps. Then I just couldn't stop crapping. My mom called me later that day while I was sitting on the toilet. "Where did all my vitamins go?" she asked. "I dunno," I lied in a tone that made it obvious I was lying. "Yes you do. I took one right before you went to the bathroom, and they were all gone when you left. What did you do with them? Are you trying to kill me?" "No, Mom. You probably just forgot what you did with them. Besides, you don't need them to live." She hung up the phone. She was really starting to hate me. I guess I didn't blame her. Three days after that, my boss called me into his office. "Nick, I'm going to have to fire you." There wasn't an ounce of sympathy in his voice. "Well, that was awfully blunt. No positive reinforcers about my great work? No euphemisms like 'let you go'? Is this really how it's going to be?" "Unfortunately, yes. Truth is, you haven't done that great of a job. Your sales are way down this year, and you were our worst salesperson last year. Also, we can't give you any type of severance package. The company just doesn't have the money." He rolled a pen between his fingers as he spoke. I could tell he just wanted me the hell out of there. "Not even a 'we'll miss you'?" I was desperate. Truth be told, I hated the job and had plenty saved up. I just wanted some sign of human affection here.
"I'm not sure that we will. I don't think any of your coworkers are particularly fond of you. You just float in and out every day. You've just been there for the last three years." I couldn't take it anymore, so I bolted out of the office. I didn't even bother to box up my things. I just went straight home, filled up the bathtub and hopped in. All the way in. The water was a little too cold, and my lungs wouldn't let me stay under any longer, so I floated to the top. Then I noticed the hair dryer sitting there on the sink; it was just a long reach away. I grabbed it, but it wasn't plugged in, and there was no way I could plug it in from where I was, so I got out of the tub and dried off. The towel stunk and felt extra scratchy. I thought I had just done laundry, but I guess I hadn't. A week after that, I just felt lonely. No one had spoken to me for that whole week. I swear that even the cashier at the grocery store ignored me. There was no question about paper or plastic, no obligatory salutation. Just the silent scanning and bagging of the groceries. I don't think the scanner even made the beep for my items. It was one of those things where nothing in particular set me off. It was just a culmination of things, like some unbearable weight of nothingness was on me. So I cut my wrists. Or at least I tried. I couldn't get the sleeves of my sweater to stay up, and my scissors weren't sharp enough to cut through the fabric and my skin. I didn't even have any marks on my arms by the time I was finished. That same day, depressed that I wasn't even good at killing myself, I went for a long walk in a nearby park. I returned to discover my apartment had been robbed. There wasn't a lot missing, but the television was gone, and a few things were broken. It scared the hell out of me, so I decided I needed some protection. I didn't want some asshole to climb into my window and kill me in my bed. I had to be able to defend myself. I didn't know where to buy a gun, but I knew there was a shooting range a few blocks away. I marched immediately there and asked if I could rent a gun to practice. "Sure thing," the creepy man behind the desk said. Aside from the fact that there's something creepy about someone working at a shooting range, the man had this creepy aurora about him. His hair, his eyes, his skin tone—everything about him just told me that he liked to do creepy things. Nonetheless, I took the gun from him and marched to the target. "Did you want bullets for that as well?" he called as I was on my way. Sheepishly, I went back and got some bullets. "Ever shoot one of these before?" "No." "Well, be careful." "I'm not an idiot." I fumbled around for awhile figuring out how to load the gun. That creepy guy watched me the whole time. I couldn't believe it. He was just some creep at a local
shooting range, and he was acting like I was the loser. The whole world was against me. I just couldn't take it anymore. So I took the loaded gun and placed the barrel on my head. I turned and faced the creep to make sure he saw what I was doing. I was glad that he was going to have to clean up this mess. "Hey, buddy, you don't want to do that." "Why not?" I asked. "Cuz them bullets aren't strong enough to make it a done deal. You might end up in a coma or with severe brain damage. But they prolly won't kill ya. Here, try these," he said, holding up another box. I couldn't believe it. The bastard wanted me to kill myself. There just wasn't any compassion in the world. There was definitely no turning back at that point. I couldn't not go through with it. Then the creep would think I was a coward as well. So I marched up to the counter, slapped the gun on the table, and said, "Give me the best you've got." He didn't say a word at first. He grabbed the gun from the counter, tossed it behind him, and just stared at me. "Get the hell outta here, you nut," he finally said. "You ain't gonna kill yourself." "What the hell's that s'posed to mean?" I wanted to sound tough for this clown. "If you wanted to kill yourself, you'd do it in the quiet of your own home. You're just seeking attention. Now go home and call somebody." "I don't have anyone to call," I told him with my head down. "Bullshit. Everybody's got somebody to call." "I don't. I have no friends. Even my mom hates me." "Well," he said, grabbing paper and a pen. He scrawled something down. "Here's my number," he said as he handed me the paper. "Go home and call me." I grabbed the paper from the counter, crumbled it, and shoved it in my pocket. "I'll be dead by morning," I told him. "Well then, good luck." When I got back to the apartment, I searched everywhere for something foolproof. I couldn't find anything I hadn't already tried. I was about to go to bed when it hit me—I could leap to my death from the balcony. Standing on the balcony, the breeze blowing through my hair, I knew that I finally had it. This was so easy; there was no way I could mess up. I grasped the railing, waiting for just the right moment to throw myself over the edge. Then it occurred to me that I should have some identification on me. I wanted them to be able to call my mom and tell her when they found me. I went back inside for my wallet and slipped it into my pocket. I felt the piece of paper the creep at the gun place had given me. I couldn't die with that in my pocket. They would find it on me and call him and think that he was the sort of company I kept. I definitely didn't want that.
I took the crumbled paper over to the trashcan and was about to toss it in when I thought that I should call him and tell him that I was really going to do it. I wanted to have the last laugh. I dialed the number, carefully deciphering his uneducated scribbling, and then put the receiver to my ear. The phone rang five times before going to voicemail. It was one of those default voicemail messages that didn't even have his name on it. Could the world really be this cruel? I thought the creepy guy at the gun range had actually cared if I had lived. It was obvious now that he just wanted me out of his establishment when I made the mess. I closed the phone without leaving a message. The phone still in my hand, I readied my body again to go over the edge. The phone rang. I glanced, expecting to see the gun man's number appear, but it was my mom's nursing home. "Hello?" I answered. It was all a blur. The woman on the other end told it all to me. A bottle of pills. My mother unconscious. There was nothing they could do. She had loved me so much. And so on. Obviously I didn't jump. Someone had to go to my mom's funeral. I could always jump later.
Nathaniel Tower writes fiction, teaches English, and manages the online lit magazine Bartleby Snopes. His short fiction has appeared in over 100 online and print magazines and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. His story "The Oaten Hands" was named one of 190 notable stories by storySouth's Million Writers Award in 2009. His first novel, A Reason To Kill, was released in July 2011 through MuseItUp Publishing.
Paradox II By Gary Beck
Democracy includes denial of shelter to homeless families, eminent domain rulings for private enterprise that evict homeowners, the right to make a fortune at the expense of others, free speech for some, clubs for opposing views.
Across this frightened land ethnic and racial tensions still threaten to divide us when the melting pot doesn't melt fast enough. We raise the tower of Babel, as foreign languages are not renounced for English, building a land of confusion awaiting Balkanization.
Across our divided land
the rich become richer the poor become poorer, while our leaders chide nations for failures of human rights, oblivious to the millions of undernourished children in the good old U.S.A., deprived of their rights.
We have painfully awakened from the American dream that promised hope to many, now arbitrarily withdrawn by the servants of profit.
The Evil That Men Do By Gary Beck
A warlord in eastern Congo recruited child soldiers, in flagrant violation of international law. No international police were sent to rescue them. The U.N. objected, but it was only talk and the abuses went on. A Congolese official blamed forces of a rebel, Laurent Nkunda, for raiding ten secondary schools, four primary schools, kidnapping students but never specified the standards of recruitment. Children went to school that day hoping to learn for tomorrow, but did not return home that night matriculating into sorrow.
Ode to Loss By Gary Beck
We live as if we have endless tomorrows extending human sway in blind entitlement, legislated or believed, that we are worthy of continuation despite planting and reaping seeds of destruction, permanently weakening sheltering mother earth.
Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn't earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His chapbook 'Remembrance' was published by Origami Condom Press, 'The Conquest of Somalia' was published by Cervena Barva Press, 'The Dance of Hate' was published by Calliope Nerve Media, 'Material Questions' was published by Silkworms Ink, 'Dispossessed' was published by Medulla Press and 'Mutilated Girls' was published by Heavy Hands Ink. A collection of his poetry 'Days of Destruction' was published by Skive Press. Another collection 'Expectations' was published by Rogue Scholars press. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway and toured colleges and outdoor performance venues. His poetry has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City.
C.L.A.M.S. By Oscar Zelaya Why, I am rather unique. The door is open to the downstairs kitchen. Walking down the stairs into the kitchen slipping and hitting my head on the hard checkered, black and white, linoleum floor. Damn socks. Getting a huge peanut butter and jelly sandwich, stuffing it in my mouth all at once. Blood on the floor, SLAM. As Brain spills out. I pick it up and put it in a bowl for safe keeping. Can’t see anymore, but I can smell the walls. I smell my way back up to the room. Green smells like chairs, red smells like stairs. Yellow smells like rails, brown smells like farts. It’s a green filled room, wrong. This is the brown room, HA HA HA the purple room. I put the bowl of brains back on my head, lights are still fuzzy. My kidneys itch. Backwards, thrust my hand in my skull and flip it back around, my knees itch now. Right, it is in place. Left is right, right is left, down is left up, up is down right. Writing a letter to the sheriff dogbee to remove the boulder from the front lawn, it’s too loud at day. Keeps the squirrels up at night. Look in the mirror, the writing is left down right. I Lick 5 stamps, taste like toad. Put them on the mirror and rush to the bathroom to flush the mail to the post office. It’s key to do this as quick as possible to ensure maximum amount of the letter to be mailed, those turds are word burglars. It’s after mid noon, the boulder is gone, god job you old bloated frog legs wart. Smells like fire, the swapslogs will be flooding the damn streets! Hurry. It’s after half past dusk, empty, tie the hopiger to the fost. The saloon is the only place I can’t think, my brain is free, I get both of us cold whisker and cola. ‘how do you like those dames over there” “you old cooter, I bet you think everything is a dame” “as your brain I know what dames are, you can’t even see” “but I can smell, and those are reds!” “ they may be, but those holes are promising” “Blasphemy!” I slap the brain, spilling the whiskers everywhere, must sting. Rolling in anguish the brain throws a right medulla oblongata, he throws a mean one, and I smell the blue coming, duck. Rough neck Mike walks in and the whole three people in the place go quite; the swapslogs are going run him over any second. They all smell like brown. “Rough neck watch it!’ He rolls out of the way; the whole place is flooded by brown. I slop the brain back in the head, whiskers sticking out of my nose, whiskers poking out my head. I am the bull. Those slimy blobs walk like they own the place, if tex mex Jane was here they would be history. I sit down to play some smoker with the bartender and rough neck, brain slops out and joins. They think I can’t play without brain, but I can smell the cards, old sheriff dogbee joins.
“you saved my ashes back there” “it was something” “no need to be stocky about it” “im gonna smap you a good one if you skeep stalking that ways” “bull you are all talk” “no, I am all smell” “bull, as your brain, I advise you to calm down” “c-co-come on let’s play some smoker” “sheriff why do you wants to lose your smakers so fast?” I said “q-qu-quit it bull” “alright, how about 20 smakers anti and 30 smaker minimum per smoke?” Rough neck look chafed said “I ain a smackllionaire bull” “I guess you will have to go play with the swapslogs” “Don’t start up again” We are all smoking now; the bartender is winning all the smackers. There is too much green, red, and brown in this saloon, how can a bull smell in a place like this. Drink, slurp, burp and the game is done; brain lost all its smackers and asks me for loan to get some whisker shots. “as your brain I advise you to loan me 20 smackers” “as my body I advise me to loan you 200 smackers” I get a whole bottle of whiskers; oh I won the game in an inspiring comeback story. Brain jumps back into my head and I say good bye to all the losers. God damn swapslogs, I hope they get herpasyphilates. Why the hell did I give brain all those smackers, I really can’t control my thinking without that dirt bag, I give my brain a swift punch to the parietal lobe. Black out, it happens all the time, smoking a pipe with some sands in it, must be stolen, the sands are good. I examine the pipe and some letters are carved into the bottom TMJ. Tex mex jane, I remember going on a farcion trip with her out in the baltik planes, killed 500 swapslogs. Brain is all jumbled, blaked from all the whiskers and sands. I let it rest; rely on my smell from now on. Stop, I smell some green, god damn, this is not any normal green, this is that deep green, this is no chair, it is the steeps. A land I have only had the chance to step on once before. This is jaggerrocks territory; wily bastard can take down the city with a breath. Sixty hectameters tall and five hundred boulders wide, basically the god of this world I know, there are more jaggerrocks but they died out years ago, this jaggerrock is the last one. I start sprinting following the sent, leaping into the air as high as I can, I miss landing on jaggerrocks back, he hears me, turns around slowly and lets out a gust of wind that could move the planet, yawn. I leap again landing on his fore arm. Running up to his face I charge and gore one of its eyes with my two horns. He blinks and I get thrown back to the city. “as your brain, what the hell were you doing”
“what instinct told me” “as your brain I advise you to leave this city” “what is jaggerrock going to do he only has one eye now” “this city will not be here in the morning” Then it hit me, I just smacked a hornets nest. I hurry back to the saloon, I get roughneck, sheriff dogbee, and gore the bartender. Take the money, tell them tex mex jane is waiting for us in the next city to go swapslog hunting. Roughneck and dogbee agree to go on one condition, why are we really leaving. “I poked one of jaggerrocks eyes” “p-po-poked” “yes poked” “you crazy Monday fighter, oh well let’s get going” “as your brain I advise you to take the bartenders money” “d-do-do it!” Clear out the cache regrister, five thousand smackers, six gallons of whiskers, and a pound of sands. We could not have left any later, jeggerrocks smell is close. On the road to Mezcal, I find a hat, cow girl hat, TMJ. This should keep brain in my head and stop me from making mistakes. Half a pound and three gallons of whiskers later we enter Mezcal. Only debauchery happens here, perfect, we could have gone to Tikal, that place is filled with smarters and squekers, no fun. I head to the brothel, get some nice juicy prostitutes and go to town. I let brain out so he can go drink some whiskers. Sex is like a mixture of purple and orange, the ultimate pleasure only heightened by the sands. I am interrupted by deep green, snit. Brain is rushing back, jumps in my head in time for me to see jaggerrock destroying Tikal, probably a good thing. I buy more sands and some opeon from the prostitutes. Step outside and smoke a pipe of opeon, this city is the most beautiful place on the planet. Street venders will sell you anything, even a new brain. Brain advises me not to they are all swapslogs brains. I see dogbee enjoying the baby tears bar, roughneck is visiting the skinny brothel, the museatrical plays constantly in the main square surrounded by blooming premium sands. The ground is covered with the best filth and smut. Dirty books, dirty pictures, and clean dirt. If you are smart enough you can steal anything, the shopkeepers will reward you if you can beat their swift eyes. The place is ruled by snades, will do anything to make a profit, even sell their own organs, I bought an appendix earlier just in case. The place is packed all decade long, smolder to smolder you are never alone; deep green is still burning in my nose. I go and find rough neck and dogbee, it is the silence before a slaughter, I rip out rough necks eye and stuff them in his thought then I rip off his ear and scalp the poor bastard, then I cut his gut open. Dogbee pissed and shit himself hiding in the corner “w-wh-why you doing this” “because you are the law”
I give him a quick death, take out my machete made from sharks hide and I cut all his major arteries. My nose burns even more. I look in rough necks guts and find a marble, in the clear crystal there are red twirls that read “TMJ.� I steal the closest gryphon and fly out of the city as quick as possible. I take one look back; jaggerrocks already destroyed half the city. Just two smoldering cities, the eyes of the earth looking back at the eyes in the sky. I need to find a brothel.
Oscar is a 21 year old student living in little elm Texas. Oscar is originally from Maryland and briefly attended the University of Maryland. Oscar is of El Salvadorian heritage and lived in the country for two years. He is currently pursuing a degree in philosophy and English at the University of Texas at Dallas. Oscar has officially been diagnosed with bi polar I disorder witch has greatly influenced my work throughout the years. His parents are divorced and he suffered through bouts of drug addiction and alcoholism. As of right now Oscar is on the road to recovery and has been sober for more than a year now. All of these things combined influence his writing which mainly focuses on the absurd and depressing reality of life.
Love Mouth Moths By Jeremiah Walton Mouths trapped against the lamp Even though there are no walls Wrapped around them, they can't fly away Unconditional affection, they stay Guts toasted, sisters and brothers Pile the floors of the porch high To be swept away in the morning By large yellow bristles sewed to A human-wielded shaft As the human murmurs angrily About the piles of dead moths Mouthing off, moths offed The lamp burns, hot to touch Leaving white blisters rough On naive thumbs These moths are dead When their wings crack Open to the sky And the trees are only A background to the light Giving out unconditional Love
Jeremiah Walton is a 17 year old poet from New England. Jeremiah is currently in High School. He gains inspiration from poets like Allen Ginsberg and musicians such as Adam Gnade. He has a note book on his bedside for the strange hour inspirations that strike him as he falls asleep listening to post rock. He is author of a collection of poetry titled Nostrovia! and a short free ebook poetry collection titled To Your Health: Humanities Diagnosis. Jeremiah manages Nostrovia! Poetry, a website for poets and writers to share their writing and grow in their craft.
The Biscuit Affair By DNA Morris On the outside, I might appear calm, cool and collected, even confident—like an assassin. But the attentive detective with omniscient vision will notice my hand locked in a sweaty, white-knuckle death grip with the plastic door handle. At times like this, you wonder how aware the other person is of her surroundings. Does she realize the danger she’s placing not only herself, but also the passenger who’s foolishly agreed to enter the car with her? Does she realize the speed at which she’s accelerating her ’99 Honda Accord is both loud and terrifying? Does she understand that jamming the brakes 3/10ths of a second later than normally acceptable makes me envision a jarring collision that sends shards of twisting metal boring through my cranium? Every time someone gets in a wreck I see it coming and brace myself or say look out or even grab the wheel. I am all too aware. The other person seems ambivalent to both the incoming danger and pheromonal reek of my anxiety over an impending violent doom. Even if she doesn’t T-bone someone, a cop might notice her frequent swerves and “California-stops” and pull us over; and, even if he didn’t find the halffull bottle of wine with a screw-off top that I’d try to hide between my legs, or the weed she kept in a pill bottle with someone else’s prescription in her purse, he’d smell the cheap whiskey she’d been slugging down all night that had fumed up the car. But, it was that mysterious one o’clock hour on a Wednesday night, and she had that semicharmed magic about her of which I was insanely jealous—one which promised she’d never get in trouble—real trouble, that is. The one time I stole a package of gum from a pharmacy, I was not only caught but also charged as an adult (I was seventeen), and I still have an irremovable blemish on my criminal record and am not allowed to set foot in any of that chain’s establishments or teach English in Korea. The person driving, Kaitlin, might appear completely aware at first inspection. She was perched up like Mr. Magoo, staring directly ahead at some invisible oil tanker careening towards us, her spine arched like a scorpion had just stung her asshole. The car’s cabin was deathly silent—neither of us had said a word for the entire eight minutes we’d been driving—rendering the high-pitched whine of an over-gunned Japanese engine even more annoying. The stereo had remained off, and possibly broken, since she’d slammed it with the meaty part of her fist as an expedited volume reduction method to silence a wailing Janis Joplin to whom she’d been rocking out with enthusiasm, or forced enthusiasm, until the night turned sour. This transformation happened at the bar. Prior to that, I was lying on my couch in the semi-darkness wondering if taking a nap at eight o’clock would give me that over-sleep panicky feeling I loathed so deeply. I was listening to a documentary about
plants and debating if I could still accurately register the feeling “boredom.” There is a rhythm to tedium—one only those who spend hours doing absolutely nothing discover. The real debate is whether this was a sign of clinical depression or a shift to a higher plain of emotional evolution— nirvana, if you will. I stubbornly preferred to believe the latter. Kaitlin called and I answered (I had recently shifted back into a phone-answering phase) and she asked what I was doing, and I told her, and then she said she was coming over to pick me up, and I said no, but she hung up. I was a doormat for Kaitlin because I wanted her—sexually and otherwise—you get it; I don’t think this particular behavior warrants lengthy exposition. I went in the bathroom to wash my face and apparently blacked out for fifteen minutes, because the next thing I knew she was honking outside my duplex with blatant disregard for anyone else who might have likewise been skirting the edge of masturbatory nirvana. When I got in the car, she handed me the bottle of wine and turned up the stereo until her shitty paper-based speakers started to rattle. No hello. No hug. Very little eye contact. She drove to one of the three bars with live music we both frequently attended and bought me a drink and I stared at her and did my best to find interest in anything she said about work, her family, things in the news, etc.—this is not a commentary against her or her life, I’m just a terrible person. I noticed she was drinking with expedience and that she wasn’t listening to the music and didn’t want to dance—which she usually always loved. I figured sooner or later things would come to a head and I tried to get drunk peacefully so I could handle whatever emotional mess I got sucked into. And indeed, she kept it all in until we got back to the car and she turned the ignition and Janis’ screech cracked her like a DDT-thinned egg. She started crying and refused my offer of consolatory touch. I sat patiently and learned that her three-year relationship to some dude named “Blake” had ended a week or so ago. She wasn’t upset about losing the intimacy or companionship. It seems the real source of her frustration was centered over a custody dispute. From what I discerned between blubbers and graphic fuck-words, the couple had bought a cat together and decided, regrettably, to name it “Biscuit.” Then, when paradise fell to shit, some sort verbal prenuptial agreement came into play and “Blake” retained possession of the beast. I again tried to put a hand on her shoulder, and she let me, but froze like a deer in a wolf’s jaws. I withdrew and tried to speak, but she had zero interest in my stumbling advice and asked, politely, for the wine. She chugged it down like the person who’s either never drunk before or is on a mission to have her stomach pumped full of charcoal. I felt the cool wave of despair fall on me like a damp sheet and realized I needed to pee. The original arrangement involved taking me back home after the bar—back to safety—but she started driving a different direction. It took me a few minutes to ascertain what exactly was happening, and when I did, I spoke up. I told her to stop
and to just let me out. She stopped the car but grabbed my hand and looked at me earnestly. I’m not a sucker; but, as we’d already established, I was infatuated with her; so, when she told me she needed my help and we weren’t going to do anything wrong and wouldn’t get into any trouble, I capitulated even though I knew she was lying about the last part. I guess I am a sucker. I didn’t ask for more details. I didn’t want them. I was hoping my agreement to “help,” whatever that constituted, would’ve sobered Kaitlin to a mellow calm, but after a quick smile and squeeze of the wrist as a thank you, the anus-scorpion spurred her good, and she threw the car into gear and roared off. Onwards we went, my anxiety increasing exponentially with each turbulent thought. I pictured the scene: a white trash confrontation with screaming and fortyounces and shotguns and the word “cunt” flying about like a raging swarm of bats. I think I met Blake once; but even so, I imagined him now as a walking oak tree with a crew cut, goatee, and cloudy green tattoos on one side of his neck. I was shocked out of my daydream as I saw a car continue inappropriately through a stop sign and luckily Kaitlin saw it too and screamed and swerved the wrong way down a street to dodge and the car screeched to a stop and my heart seized up and I couldn’t breath for a second and Kaitlin kept swearing uninterrupted for a straight minute and then the reality sunk in and she pulled over and wept. I wanted to cry too but I was afraid if I unclenched my entire body I’d simultaneously throw up and piss myself. She leaned over to me an apologized and I said it was okay, it wasn’t her fault—which technically was true, although it never would’ve been such a close call had I been driving. This time she wanted my touch, and it was warm and nice in a way I wasn’t used to. She asked me if I could drive and noted that we were almost there and I said okay, but stipulated that I had to pee first. She nodded and I got out. She turned off the car, but the overhead lamp came on and as I moved towards a dark area I looked back to see her pull down her vanity mirror. I was filled with conflicting emotions: fear, attraction, worry, attraction, concern, attraction—okay, so I wasn’t conflicted, but that didn’t make it any easier to just walk away from an obviously bad idea—then, like a unexpected belch, fantasy erupted and took reign, erasing all rationale, and I convinced myself that doing everything Kaitlin asked of me was a sure-fire key to a howling night of super-sex. I figured if I managed to play some role in the liberation and return of the precious Biscuit to Kaitlin, she would be so grateful and impressed by my fearless machismo that a lightning bolt would descend from the heavens and strike her vagina, and the next thing I know she’d be biting my neck in a depraved, animalistic display of pure lust. It would be the most badass thing I’d ever done. Sated by this thought, I pissed all over someone’s fence. I jogged nervously back the car and went over to the driver’s side. Kaitlin, who had obviously forgotten that I was to take over as driver, slid and wormed her way
over the small center console into the passenger seat. I turned to look at her and she looked back and smiled, sort of, and it was one of those moments and I felt blood rush to my penis and then got nervous and looked away. I started the car and adjusted the rearview mirror and carefully reached over adjusted the volume knob—I did not want to face Kaitlin’s wrath—but thankfully she did not mind and the stereo was not broken and we now had a more rhythmic background track than uncomfortable silence. I drove the final few blocks to Blake’s house as slowly as I thought was permissible, attempting to both enjoy a peaceful moment with Kaitlin and delay the inevitable stress. The house itself was not how I’d pictured it. The neighborhood was not a rubbish-infested trailer park, but rather a very pleasant old section of town with a historic residential vibe. The block was full of old-style two-story houses that had been very well-kept, and looked expensive. Blake’s, however, was the least appealing on the block—a small, normalish domicile surrounded by a nondescript black iron fence. The house was raised slightly and had a concrete porch with a little swing. The windows had shutters and the roof looked new, and although it was much smaller and barer than the others it was still much better than my shitty duplex. I drove down the block a ways and parked in the darkest area I could find: positioned along a tall fence between two houses. I turned off the engine and looked at Kaitlin. I expected her to have a detailed game plan. She had nothing. She did, however, give me the facts and together we ironed it out: Blake was out of town. The gate was never locked. Biscuit would be inside. He’d changed the locks so we’d have to break in. There was no alarm. She’d be the one going inside because she knew the layout. I was to keep watch. If danger approached I was supposed to call her cell phone. We had been talking face to face and when we finished I wanted to kiss her passionately for good luck but I’d never, ever, done something that bold and apparently wasn’t drunk enough to start right then. While everything seemed foolproof, I couldn’t resist reconsidering our plan from every possible imaginary angle—and the longer I did, the more it felt like I had to poop. I was sobering at an alarming rate and took a swig from the wine bottle. It tasted like warm gross butter. Kaitlin seemed fearlessly determined, as she always did, and boldly threw open her door and started towards the house with the wine bottle in hand like a queenly scepter. I exited and quickly caught up. The moon seemed extra fucking bright that night; I felt like the entire neighborhood was watching us catnap Biscuit. We approached the black gate and Kaitlin instinctively reached over to the other side to unlatch it. After a few steps into the front yard, a motion-activated floodlight came on, causing me to jump. As I waited for the piercing cry of the “shoot-to-kill siren,” my initial thought was to run and I almost bolted. Kaitlin was ambivalent to the light and walked like she owned the place—which recently, in way, she did. I
followed, but looked back over my shoulder every few steps. The street was empty. None of the other house lights were on. I attempted to just relax and fall under the protective aura of Kaitlin’s guardian blessing, but I could feel it spit on me for trying. Kaitlin strutted and I slinked around the side of the house; I felt some relief when the floodlight switched off. Surrounding the small backyard was a huge metal fence about twenty feet high—and on the other side of the fence was some sort of storage building. I now understood how they had afforded to live in this neighborhood—this was literally the last house in it. There was a little covered back porch with some chairs and a table. Next to the back door was the narrow window about a foot in height. The next step took a simple trespassing charge that might be dismissible through rampant apologies and snotty tears into a Class A breaking-and-entering that would allow any “peace” officer in this state to discharge his stun gun as many times as he felt necessary or hilarious—because it’s so god damn hilarious to see people shit themselves. Fucking cops. Anyways, I’d kind of imagined that Kaitlin would use some ninja skills to dismantle the doorknob or have a glasscutter or some other crazy, sexy spy-gadget hidden in her purse. I was about to query her on the subject when she knelt down and picked up a grimy-looking brick from a stack of grimy-looking bricks erected near a little bird feeder and marched up the steps. How the hell will she fit through that tiny window? I thought to myself as I started to walk up after her—but I wasn’t looking where I was going and my head bumped into her ass. Son of a bitch! she practically screamed, and again I almost bolted. When I collected myself, which took a few seconds but she was so shocked that she waited for me, I looked where she was pointing. There on the little table appeared to be a giant, hairy, peach-colored slug. I thought it was some sort of hideous, misguided pottery piece and was confused, but then the creature’s head rotated and I saw two giant glowing eyes set deeply into the most hideous face you could ever imagine. It looked like a cross between a bat and a pissed-off toad—gargoylesque. At the sight of us, its little horn-like ears went back and it turned it’s strange face around to continue staring at the wall, which apparently it had been doing with great pleasure until we arrived. I forgot to mention this was Biscuit and apparently was some breed of cat, but you’re not stupid and you already came to that conclusion. Bravo, diligent reader. I, of course, was delighted. Now, we could simply capture the beast, return to the car with inconspicuous hurry, and drive away without having to risk spending the night in a local precinct jail-cell—where there is only one toilet and no privacy and my only recourse would be to lie in the corner, whimper, and pee myself. Maybe that
would get me my own cell. . . . Regardless, this assumption was derailed by a string of vile curse words that would make a toothless hobo blush if he had ingested enough nourishment to allow his blood to do so. I inquired what brought on the verbal barrage and was bluntly informed that Biscuit was some sort of prized, expensive thoroughbred that was not allowed outside and would probably now be littered with fleas, ticks, and various other skin ailments. For the life of me, I could not imagine a situation where any self-respecting person would pay money to shovel the turds of such a ridiculous looking creature. Kaitlin had scooped up the monster, so I suggested that we mosey, but she was frozen in place. I placed my hand delicately on her shoulder and could feel the fury surging. At this point, I concluded that this whole mission was not simply about liberating Biscuit—but also about pent up hostility towards Blake and what I deduced was three years of negligent behavior and boring sex. I tugged at her arm very gently—I wanted to get the hell out of here, and, possibly, still find my way to some sloppy wine-sex, or even a hand-job—I really didn’t care at this point as long as it got me out of the terrible friend-zone. She shrugged me off and turned and dumped the ball of fluff in my arms. Hold him a second, please, she said. The cat looked up at me with rampant disgust and I returned its gaze but grew uneasy. MmmUrggfhh, it vocalized its discontent. Kaitlin walked back to the table, picked up the brick she had laid down, and before I could say fuck, she threw it through the little window. The echo of shattered glass filled my ears and I stood shocked until she shouted RUN, and I was off. Kaitlin started off too, but then, as an afterthought, she ran back, snatched the bottle of wine from the table, and caught back up. The cat was terrified and it sunk its claws into my chest and arm but I held it tight and we bolted to the car. Frantically, I fished in my pocket for the keys while Kaitlin pounded on the top of the car and shouted HURRY and Biscuit drew more blood and meowed—although its meow was more of a shrill warble—like the dying call of a mutant turkey. Finally, I found the keys and pressed the button and opened the door and threw the cat in the backseat—it landed awkwardly then composed itself and looked quite indignant—then, I fell into my seat. We slammed the doors and I fumbled getting the keys into the ignition. Hurry the fuck up! Kaitlin threatened with eyes that could castrate a stone giant’s testicles and I finally got the key in and started the car. Drive. DRIVE. DRIVE! she shouted with increasing impatience, and I threw the car in (D) and slammed my foot on the gas. The car’s little engine roared like a rabid weed whacker and it lurched forward and started to peel out, but then the car’s computer, sensing a ridiculously unnecessary acceleration, dropped the RPMs and the car stopped, bucked, jumped forward again then accelerated slowly, the engine remaining in first gear and whining
like a go cart until we eventually reached an evasive velocity equivalent to the standard residential road speed limit. It was the least badass thing I’d ever done. I drove frantically but efficiently, terrified that a pickup truck full of toothless, goiter-stricken rednecks in overalls chawing massive cuds of tobacco and baring rusty shotguns was hot on our tail—rednecks, or a herd of taser-happy police officers. However, no one had given a shit about the window, or the cat, or the botched getaway; and, even if a police officer had been sitting, bored out of his skull on a side street, he would’ve had no reason to pull us over because all the terror and excitement of the situation was restricted to the inside—and although the engine was buzzing loudly, we never really sped because I stopped fully at each stop sign. It was not until I’d found the freeway and changed lanes to the middle and pressed the cruise button that I felt myself exhale and my hands unclench. Kaitlin had gathered the disgusting brute and was holding it in her lap, stroking its ridiculously hirsute hide. It was trying to purr, but its face was so flat that it couldn’t breath correctly and sort of snorted rhythmically. I exited the freeway and drove to a park a few blocks from my house. The excitement and the booze had had gone straight to my bladder, and after parking I hopped out quickly to piss. I stood for quite a while trying to relax enough to pee—my heart was still racing and my hands still moist with sweat. I listened to the sounds of the night—the dull roar of the city, the distant crickets, the whirring air conditioners. I’m not much for sentiment but I felt pretty good right about then. A warm breeze blew by and I sighed and felt alive and on-point and pertinent in Kaitlin’s life, my life, and the entire universe. Then, I pissed with a surge I’d not felt in years. I walked back to find Kaitlin lying back in the grass gazing upwards and I did the same. I didn’t say anything, and after a minute, she scooted over and sort of cuddled up next to me. I was still tingling with excitement from the great Biscuit heist, and now this—my body was doing gross, sweaty fat-guy cartwheels with joy. I wanted to say something, but thank god I had enough sense not to open my stupid mouth. We lay there and I slowly—and I mean ridiculously slowly—put my arm around her and she was receptive and it was heaven and I wanted to lay there forever. We looked at the five stars you can see within city limits and drank more gulps of wine—it was tasting better—and I could tell by her energy she was happy and felt whole again. Then, she sat up, checked the back of her hair for grass, looked at me, and said Let’s go back to your place. Within the matter of a single second I had played that statement over in my head one thousand times, scanning for all possible meanings or sarcasm. When I concluded that no matter what it was irrefutably a “good” suggestion, I felt my testicles cheer in unison.
I drove home like a giddy schoolgirl—I did my very best not to smile like a jackass the entire time. After I parked, bumping the curb in the process, I grabbed the bottle of wine and she hefted Biscuit and we climbed up the creaky wooden stairs to my apartment. Once inside, I did the usual “coming-home” things—walked about, turned on lights, sighed audibly, straightened some letters and papers, got a bowl of water for the “animal”—but no sooner had I set it down on the table than I was attacked. Kaitlin lunged at me and shoved her tongue in my mouth. We started kissing faster and faster and she started moaning and writhing and it was like some weird dance and sex had never begun this way for me and I was totally unprepared but adapted quickly and we walked awkwardly like a four-legged monstrosity towards the bedroom. Collapsing on the bed, she straddled me then perched-up and started to take her shirt off. My penis was like an over-stimulated thirteen-year-old at his first ComicCon—grasping my arm and repeating this is amazing through teeth clenched by awed enthusiasm. I tried to assist, but couldn’t figure out how to unbuckle her hipster pants, so she took over and I turned my attention to my own pants but forgot my shoes were still on so I delayed the process a good two minutes and she watched me hop around like an idiot and I could tell she didn’t think it was “cute.” After I was finally exposed, I collapsed back on the bed and she pulled me on top of her and I was about to make “entry” when I heard a loud crash and the tinkling aftershock of shattered glass. What was that, she whispered, and I shook my head and for a moment envisioned the giant redneck version of Blake standing in the front yard with a burning torch, having chucked the same grimy brick back through my window in a fitting act of revenge. Then, I knew exactly what had happened and dismounted and got to my feet and peered out my bedroom door—and sure enough, there was Biscuit, positioned on the counter, licking it’s fat paw; below it, the remains of the glass vase my mother gave me last Christmas were scattered into a million glimmering pieces. The beast looked at me looking at it and scrunched its eyes and seemed to smile and sniffed the air. Enraged, I picked up a small Nerf football that was sitting on top of a large pile of National Geographic’s and hurled it at Biscuit. I missed by about a mile, but the cat was scared and ran off to hide. I walked over and looked down at the mess—it would take forever to clean. I sighed then noticed my penis and remembered what was waiting for me back in my room. I ran back with words coming out of my mouth damning the cat to the ninth circle of hell and found Kaitlin sprawled out on the bed, on arm over her head, the other clutching a pillow. She was snoring slightly. I sat on the bed and shook her very gently, and she woke up with a loud Huh? and I told her it was the cat, and her reply was What cat? and laid her head back down, and I sighed and she heard me and told me to cuddle with her. I took another really deep, really long sigh and got into bed
and moved up next to her. She was already breathing in heavy huffs and was exuding a lot of body-heat. I stared at the ceiling and realized I was pretty tired too—enough so that my sexual frustration was already dying off. I inhaled a deeply and let my breath escape as slowly as I could and calculated that tonight was about 85% perfect, which was still extremely good—easily one of the best nights of my life. I was closing my eyes and beginning to explore the strange, lateral connections of an anxious mind’s dreams when I heard a very muted thump. My eyes shot open and saw two giant glowing orbs staring at me from the nightstand. I stared back, uncomfortably perplexed by this weird owl-like animal who sat in silence and was not intimidated by me at all. The more I stared, the more creeped-out I became—it was very much a Poe’s raven, and I figured that if this went on any longer I’d be driven insane. Then, I remembered the little bit of water left in my glass from last night, and slowly reached out to pick it up then, holding the glass high in the air, poured a little trickle on Biscuit. I admit this was a probably cruel, but as I stated earlier: I’m a terrible person. The cat, whose heritage suggests it originated in an Arabian desert, did not like this at all and warbled loudly, leapt off the nightstand, and bounded off into the night. The next morning, I ventured into the living room to discover that in lieu of a litterbox, Biscuit had used my carpet. It was roosted on the arm of the couch, eyes closed, head tilted back with a Cheshire smile and an air of undeserved aristocracy, its little curled poop a distinct reminder that no matter what I did in life, I would never win.
D.N.A. Morris is a writer from Houston, Texas. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Word Riot, Monkeybicycle, The Newer York, twenty20 Journal, Stymie, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Birmingham Arts Journal, and Nanoism.
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