Damn you, Lily's Feardom. You gobble up my time. I obsess over you. But I can't really stop. http://lilychildsfeardom.blogspot.com/
Ah well. A challenge from two weeks ago kicked my 10 month story writing block out the door. The results are as follows. Criticism is welcome. Compliments aren't. Skip to the bottom for more blog and less story.
The words are thick and linty popping out of your mouth, that heavy
bottom lip. I never tasted a cupid's bow until I had yours. I looked it
up in the dictionary, I doodled it on the bus. I think we're doing
something cool and secret and scared. I love girls. I love girls. I think
I love you. My underwear is set with electric buzzers when I smell the
shampoo in your hair. You are my best friend, and I want you forever.
We rode on the bus to my house. grandma said I could invite you over for
my birthday party. we hold hands like best friends. But inside, I know it
means we‟re like, boyfriend-and-girlfriend-but-not. Not in the way the
world would get.
“Let's go in,” those fuzzy words say.
I don't think anything hard could come from your mouth. only things that are soft, and pink-red. Even when you're angry. it's like hot strawberry pudding, your voice.
When grandma's angry, it's like glass and bricks going down your throat
the wrong way. it hurts to even talk back.
you never ask why my mom is gone and my grandma is raising me. I love you
for that. I could tell you all my secrets. My mom loved women.
“Like, I love my mom?”
No, like the way I love you. but I just shake my head.
The door is open, but the light is off.
I slowly untangle my hand. Grandma would be mad if she saw. But I don‟t
think you get it. Your mouth puckers in a little and makes me sad. We go
into my house to find the party, find grandma.
I don't trip because I know where everything is in the dark – Juls
doesn't, so it‟s like a game. Julie only falls once and nearly breaks a
vase with grandpa's ashes, the one grandma keeps by her chair.
“What is it?” Hefting the vase. “Real heavy!”
It's grandpa‟s ashes. But I don't want to scare her.
“It's our old dog's ashes.”
Jul‟s mouth pops into a little "o" of surprise and her hand slips. I
tumble forward, knocking into the chaise lounge, barely retaining a grip
We move on from there, and I forget to tell her not to hold my
hand, that grandma gets mad, and she does mean things when she gets mad.
A warm, sweaty palm finds mine like it‟s been there it‟s whole life, like
we was born that way, like maybe we had the same mother.
We're in the bedroom, and it's gotten darker. You try to flip a
switch but grandma always unplugs the lamps when it's light out, and
plugs them back in when it's dark. We both giggle at the sight of
grandma's bed. The wood of the four poster frame looks black in the
dimness, and the sheets look like the moon. I can suddenly imagine us
spending the night there, and scaring you with my ghost stories while
your feet rub mine.
The door slams.
We jerk around. I let go of your hand, scared, because she smells
like grandpa's special cabinet, where he keeps all he grown-up drinks.
You don't laugh or introduce yourself to grandma. I think she saw our
hands in the dark, and now they burn so much I think she can see the fire
and shame from them. I clutch my chest and wish it was yours.
Grandma moves closer, smiles.
I hear a loud fleshy crack and grandma's hand withdrawals. Only
when you are on your knees do I get that she slapped you. when I bend
down, fast as a snake, to your soft arm, I hear the air hiss, and
fireworks go off in my right eye. My face is throbbing and pulsing. I
feel something drip on my neck. I stumble away, and it‟s the first time
you look up. your mouth is a big 'O' like your eyes, soft round circles.
You, she smiles, stepping up to Juls. Little whore. Both of you.
Satan's little whores. Grandma takes the brush of the dresser, and
smartly raps on your spine, driving a short scream from your soft, ready
mouth. She closes the door. Now I understand that mom never left. She
might be closer than I thought. While you sob on the floor, she grabs my
hand, no matter how I writhe, my fingers are spread. No, grandma, no, I
promise never again. The silver brush smashes my middle finger and leaves
the one I point with numb. Gasping through the little demons of pain
licking across my hand, I sob, Never again, please. I‟ll let her go.
Juls has gotten up. I see her wide-eyed, but glazed. Like when
grandpa hit a doe, and got out to see if it died. We watched her legs
twitch for twenty minutes before we could get back in the car.
Juls runs. I scream while grandma smashes my thumb, over and over.
I have never felt this fire, this pain, it is breaking me. I can't move
my hand, but I can feel everything. i start to see white dots. Juls walks
in. But she is getting eaten by the darkness in my good eye, and it‟s
covering up everything and getting smaller. My hand is just a dull,
throbbing mass. I see a flash of silver behind the brush coming down
again, closer to grandma. She has a steel halo around her for just a
second, before I notice a thin arm attached. Juls. God. Juls.
I hear a deep, dull thud sing out. Grandma's eyes roll back. Her
shoulder hits my chest and we fall. I scream as more crunching goes on
towards the direction of my hand, which won't move. My world swims and
tosses, a deep black sea, before Juls slaps my face. then slaps my hand.
Get off the floor, she says. Get up. She's going to wake up.
I roll to the side, using one hand. I see blood coming out of grandma‟s
ear. Juls. I can't get up. My breathing hitches in my throat, and starts
coming out in little hiccups.
She slaps me again. Please. I love you. Please. We need to get
I stagger to her poor ruined mouth that saw the brush before my
hand did, I stare at her split lip, red dripping down her pretty dress.
Her broken teeth. I stare and don‟t move.
Please, you beg. C'mon.
I grab the pan with my good hand. We‟ll make sure she doesn‟t wake up,
Juls. So she doesn‟t follow us. Then I bring that steel halo down as hard
as I can.
So, I had submitted to the usual suspects; I do believe my submishmash reject list is on its fourth page. That's just from the last three or four months. I've been chided for an unhealthy obsession for getting into the label lit mags. Pank, Smokelong, Foundling, Mud Luscious.
Onward. I have a humor piece I've been working on.
How To Revive A Dying Relationship
1. Start withholding small things, like food or comfort. Only give them back by sexual favors. I often have conversations like this:
“I want a sandwich, but I’m kinda on a budget till next payday”
“I’ll let you put it in my mouth for 10 bucks, then I can buy a sandwich”
“I’ll even move my tongue a little bit”
Proceed to cross eyes and drool slightly on left shoulder. Collapse on floor, spasm legs.
“Sorry. I forgot to take my seizure meds. So I might clamp down a little hard. But hey, no pain no gain, right?”
2. Make bets on who can grow the longest pubic hair. You can even spice things up by making it threatening. Often times, I will ask something simple, like “Please turn off the lights” or “Put your shoes away.” Since I am not maternally inclined, I refuse to pick up after any partner – especially male.
I will often retaliate by growing a vaginal beard in my pants. Especially if I’ve had to ask twice for my special someone to clean their hair out of the sink. Guess they’ll have to unclog the drain for me now! Bet you wish you thought of that.
3. Switch ethnicities and/or religious preference without warning.
Getting caught sneaking out of the house or refuse to eat what’s for Friday? Well, they should have known it was Shabbat. You’ve only been doing it for the past year.
Hold a picture close to your face. How could they no know of your great aunt’s struggle to come to America? Do they know nothing of you?
Tools: Google image “immigrant” and a color printer. Place cut-out in purse and/or wallet.
Well, that's quite enough. I'm off to other blogs. Then I really should shower at some point. Put on clothes that don't start with a 'p' and end with 'jamas'