Maria doesn’t live here anymore.
Each morning she rises, brews
the darkest roast coffee, drinks
it black, black as the lungs
in a chain-smoker’s chest,
but it has no flavor, no aroma,
it tastes like the void feels —
empty, and without form, because
Maria doesn’t live here anymore.
She moves through the rooms,
gathers the clothes and the dust
that accumulate in corners and
cupboards and covers and
everywhere, dust;
everything, unused, because
Maria doesn’t live here anymore.
She snacks on carrots and
water chestnuts and
the celery she burns more
calories consuming than the celery,
itself, provides to her barely breathing,
listless form, because
Maria doesn’t live here anymore.
She turns the faucet, the left one,
the red-ringed one, counter-clockwise
releasing the water that flows and fills
the tub as she sits, her skin scalding,
slowly, and she admires the steady
flow of the water, it has a purpose, and
that purpose is to fill, and it fills and it fills
and it overflows and her skin shrivels
and she remains empty, because
Maria doesn’t live here anymore.
It is afternoon and there is a knock,
just one, on the door, and the door
is opened by a man, and the woman
who knocked, asks if she can speak
to Maria, and the man says
no, no, this is not possible, because
Maria doesn’t live here anymore.
She pours a glass of white wine,
just one, and the sun will go down
when the glass is half-empty, and
she’ll stare at the pockmarks of the moon,
its light more gray than silver or white,
the only light she’s ever known, because
Maria doesn’t live here anymore.
These are things tossed out of the windows of my mind. Catch them. At worst, I am brilliant at breakfast.
At best ....
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The power’d been out for two hours, the thunder still rolled and the lightning still struck but I ventured outside anyway, seeking some movement of air. I overheard the voice of the 9-year-old neighbor, upstairs on his balcony, speaking seeming nonsense in a sing-song voice. My inner cynic immediately turned to thoughts of “kids these days”, so dependent on electricity that after a mere two hours the child had gone mad. Then I heard a soft whimper and realized he was talking to the family dog, an adorable ball of white fluff named Caesar. I s’pose Caesar is frightened of storms — many small, fluffy things are. The boy, I realized, was attempting to calm Caesar by telling him a story.
My heart warmed at the thought that in this day and age, when we’ve become so dependent on electricity and technology and things, there are still boys who’ve found comfort from stories told in the dark, and that some of them still seek to share that comfort with other beings.
I’ve never been prouder to be a storyteller than a few minutes ago, listening to a 9-year-old comforting his small dog to the accompaniment of steadily pattering rain and croaking frogs, accented by thunder’s booming tympani. Stories show the fiction in the fact that you are alone, no matter how lonely you feel.
Today the air feels lighter and it is springtime in my soul. I’ve spent so long drowning I’ve forgotten how it feels to breathe. Though I call myself a writer I fear I’ll never find words adequate to describe what he has done, and continues to do, for me. How my feet can’t seem to find the ground today and if I wasn’t somehow tethered I fear I’d float away. But I have tethered myself to him and there is no fear here. He’s taken it all away and replaced it with hope and happiness and other such things I thought no longer existed. I do not want to disappear, I want to curl into his chest and never leave. This is what free-fall looks like when he said he’d always be there to catch me.
This is new territory for me, to feel as though the world is beautiful and worth shining on. Today I was reminded how good it feels to smile. And I haven’t stopped smiling yet.
Amanda uncorked the bottle and poured herself a healthy glass of red in preparation for what had become a nightly ritual. She tip-toed past her sleeping daughter’s room to her own, set her glass on the nightstand, and slid a shoe box from under her bed. In time, she’d share its contents with her daughter, but the four-year-old was too young to understand, and Amanda still believed the story it contained had not ended.
She thought of what Gus had said to her today at the hardware store. “Mandy, it’s been nearly five years now,” the old shopkeep had said, his hand on her shoulder. “It’s time to let it rest. It’s for the best.” Gus was an old friend of her father’s, and one of the few people still allowed to call her Mandy despite the fact she was a grown woman with a child. She knew he was right, but she hadn’t been able to look him in the eyes then and she got chills thinking about it now.
She took a sip of her wine and opened the box, setting the lid on the floor beside it. Inside were a stack of letters with a ribbon tied around them. The ribbon was hers; she’d been wearing it around her ponytail when he shipped out. The last time she’d seen his face. The ribbon ran through a ring as well — a simple platinum band. She untied the ribbon with a delicate and practiced motion and slipped the ring on her finger. She used to wear it every day, but she’d put it in the box when Hope turned two years old. This town was small but not small enough, and the ring raised too many painful questions Amanda preferred not to answer. But she still missed its presence on her finger, and found herself rubbing the ring finger of her left hand when she was nervous.
She took another sip of wine, setting the glass down next to her on the floor where she sat cross-legged. She leaned back against the wall and unfolded the letter on the top of the stack — the first letter he’d sent her after being deployed.
Mandy,
It’s kind of funny isn’t it? I don’t think I’ve written you a note since high school. Sorry my handwriting never got better, I guess. I miss you though. I missed you before I even got on the damn plane.
I guess I should probably start off with something funny, or cute, but it’s all serious business over here. I want you to know that we can do this. I can’t promise that I’ll write you everyday, but I’ll try my best to send letters as often as possible. A CO came to me when I got off the plane to talk to me about my shooting. He asked me if I’d taken anything that might steady my aim and I told him that I’d piss in a cup right there on the runway if he wanted me to, that Bri and I just spent too much damn time in the woods when we were kids, that I could bag a fox or something without batting an eye.
They’ve got me with some other guys who can shoot better than most and we’re being briefed separately from everyone else later tonight, I don’t know what about, but one of the other guys, Ramsey, he’s been making jokes about us having to wear berets. I have a feeling I’m not going to be allowed to talk about it, but I’m sure I can sneak it in when I can call you.We can do this though. I didn’t slap a ring on your finger because I wanted Reverend Calhoun to get a paycheck. I’m scared of getting blown up, but I ain’t scared of losing you, because I know you’ll be there when I get back.I’ve got to tell you, this desert heat kicks the shit out of Mississippi heat, it’s awful here. Damn. I should’ve started the letter with that.
Love,
Matt
Amanda smiled as she refolded the letter and placed it upside down on the lid of the box. We were so young, she mused. She remembered how happy she’d been to receive that first letter; how in love she’d been. Did she still feel the same way? It was a difficult question to entertain. She loved him still; she knew that. But after all these years … she thought about what Brian had said when they met for a beer the other night. Brian and Amanda and Matt had been inseparable in high school — Brian was Matt’s best friend and Amanda was Matt’s girlfriend and the three of them just meshed. Amanda knew Brian missed Matt, too, but in the past few months Amanda and Brian had grown distant. When Hope was born, Brian became “Uncle Brian”. He helped take care of Hope and took her to baseball games — hell, he’d even changed her diapers. But Amanda suspected Brian had given up on Matt’s return. She didn’t blame him. He didn’t love Matt the way she did. “You’ve got a piece of him,” Brian had said. “Focus on that. Focus on her.”
Amanda sighed and lifted the second letter off the stack.
Mandy,
Remember every time I ever complained about how Mississippi was the worst, and how when I had the money we’d move somewhere up north where it wasn’t so hot all the time? MS is paradise next to this place.
I’m sorry I haven’t been able to call yet, but maybe by the time this letter gets to you we’ll have worked something out over here. We’re not with the rest of the guys, but I can’t say much about that, god forbid this letter ends up with someone else. I still haven’t gotten anything from you, but I’m not worried, it’s only been a week, I know you’ll come through.
It’s kind of peaceful out here, in a way. I mean, I think I sweat off that bit of beer belly I was starting to get before I left, which is your fault by the way, and when I get back I am giving up on drinking, I’ll just stick to eating bread for carbs. But it’s quiet at night, and it’s even kind of romantic in a way. Not as romantic as laying up on the hill back behind your house, but it isn’t so bad.
I miss you a hell of a lot. I hope my CO doesn’t read these letters when he picks them up to mail them off. That’d be a real dick thing to do.
Could you maybe send some of those pictures of us at the lake? The ones with you in that bikini that was way too tiny for you? It’s a little lonely over here.
Love,
Matt
The third letter wouldn’t come until nearly six weeks after the second, but Matthew had told her this was to be expected. She lifted the third letter off the short stack and took another sip of her wine before unfolding it with practiced care.
We live in an age of instantaneous free, in a world known as the internet. Space and time do not exist for us, all that exists is this and now. On the eighth day God created the internet. And yes, my friends, there is an eighth day. On the internet. And everything is there. For free. Wanna listen to new music? Download it for free. Wanna watch the latest film? Download it for free. Wanna read the latest writing? Read it for free.
Art is creative for those who produce it, but art is consumptive, and the creators depend on that consumption. How many artists could live freely and well off of their art if we paid them what we could, a token to demonstrate our appreciation for how their work has enriched our lives and embiggened our perspective to some degree? An open question, because we don’t think about the creators, we only think about ourselves, and our constant need for more. Our constant craving to take what they give. We are leeches; we are parasites.
Don’t be a parasite. If you feed on music and writing and film and image, feed on it — but do something in return. Those artists are as dependent on you as you are on them. Art is consumptive but don’t suck the marrow dry. Artists starve for their art because no one pays them for it — because they have an obsessive passion to do it or die trying and we have an equally obsession passion to consume it but we don’t want to fucking pay for it. Why would we want to pay for it when we can get it for free? As though “it” comes from some inhuman chasm; some thing that doesn’t need food and such to subsist but survives on ideas alone and regurgitates those ideas so you can eat them like a baby bird. No.
Don’t be a leech. Leeches will latch on and drain their host until the substance is nothing and the form is void. They provide nothing to the host, they simply take and take and take. And that’s all we do. Take and take and take. Support independent artists. If you follow a writer’s blog and they have a donate button on their blog, send ‘em a buck or two. They deserve it. You’ll pay over ten bucks to see a fucking weekend matinee of Batman in the theater this weekend, but you won’t spare a dollar for a writer who touches your soul every day. These independent writers need your dollar more than Warner Bros., et. al. does. For art to press forward we have to support those pioneers who aren’t waiting for huge corporations to give them the stamp of approval — they’re doing it on their own. We are doing it on our own.
We consume more art today than would even have been possible just a few years ago, and yet we pay nothing for it. Independent isn’t always synonymous with free. The trouble with the best art is that it seems effortless and you forget the person behind it. If you appreciate something creative, give that creator a little something back to keep them going. Tell the world what you value and put your money where your mouth is.
The hardest outcomes to live with come from decisions you never made. Life is really just a compilation of choices. Everything is a choice — there is always a decision to be made, and sometimes, you never make them. Getting out of bed in the morning is a choice, but we rarely regard it as such — it’s just something we do. Sometimes, sadly, it’s a poor decision, and one we regret a thousand times as waking life continues to beat us over the head with shit sticks. I should’ve just stayed in bed. Ah, but you didn’t. You never realized you had any choice in the matter, you simply did it. And that realization is guaranteed to make a bad day even worse, so don’t even think about it. Just think about how all this shit-stick beating wouldn’t have happened if you’d stayed in bed.
And sometimes you feel like you’re backed into a corner, and you don’t see the choice at all. You see one option, the other being obscured by darkness and underbrush or perhaps guarded by dragons. So you go with the one thing you think is available to you, only to later discover that there was indeed another option, another decision you never made because it was too difficult to consider at the time. You disregarded it as “impossible” perhaps, despite that there’s really no such thing in these contexts.
That one night, when you said you were sick. You offered me your bed and went to sleep in your brother’s room, because you were sick and I was too drunk to drive home. I remember standing in the doorway, exhausted, wanting to just join you. Wanting to give you a chance to say whatever was on your mind. I wasn’t going to lie about the boy — and you and I were just friends, after all. It was casual, you insisted it was (and so did I). I knew you weren’t sick. I knew there was something going on. But there was a chance you were sick, and I knew that too. You were sleeping, and I didn’t want to bother you.
I don’t remember what happened after that, really. I know I stood in that doorway more than once that night, watching you sleep. You always looked practically angelic when you slept. I should’ve gone in and curled up next to you. I should’ve woken you up. I should’ve said something. But in my mind, at that moment, I really had no choice in the matter. I simply passed out at some point. I’ve spent years wondering what would’ve happened if I’d simply gone in there and woken you up and called your bluff.
And apparently, so have you. The hardest outcomes to live with come from decisions you never made.
all my memories of you
are nought but
misbegotten daydreams
written in red ink
on scraps of paper
left out
in the rain
(red ink runs faster
than stolen kisses
and dreams
never dry)
The car jumped as she swerved off the road into the gravel lot and steered around to the back of the bar. She pulled in behind a handful of cars a handful of drunks would have to somehow retrieve in the morning, and his truck. Her sigh of relief was tempered by the tightness in her neck. She killed the engine and opened the glove box; stared for a second at the vial. No hesitation, she thought. She rummaged through the jumble of road trip detritus in the passenger side floorboard until she found a rag and an empty styrofoam cup with a lid. She picked up the vial with the rag, stuffed it in the cup, put the lid on the cup, and opened the door. She tugged the bag wedged behind the driver’s seat out of the car and headed towards the bar. The rendezvous point.
The bar was closed, but the bartender was an old friend. Heh. Old friend, she thought, snickering under her breath in spite of herself. We can trust him, she’d told Jack three days prior. We’re childhood friends, and he owes me a favor. She shook her head as she crossed the gravel to the employee entrance and pulled the door open. She heard low music playing in the bar as she crossed through the kitchen and swung through the door. Jack was sitting at the corner table, his back to her, nursing a beer. The bartender heard her coming and looked up from his sweeping. She flashed him a quick half-smile and handed him the cup with a wink, then strode over to Jack’s table, hoping her brash aggression would hide her shaking hands.
*****
I slid the cup onto a little shelf under the bar, right next to some old unused pint glasses and tumblers. I couldn’t help but look at her as she walked toward him. That lucky bastard. I wondered if he realized just how good he had it. She was the kind of girl you’d get into a firefight for, the kind you’d risk everything for. Since we were kids, she always stood heads above every other girl, and even before she fell for me, I knew, I loved her best. I just had to keep the lid on it a little while longer. She promised by the end of the night we’d be on our way to Mexico, by the end of the week we’d be fucking on foreign beaches. I just had to keep doing what I was doing, wiping down these glasses and pulling drinks for the her and the guy.
*****
She tossed the bag on the table with a heavy thump. Jack looked up and grinned. “Ginger — fuck. What took you so long?”
