Currently Reading Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close By Jonathan Safran Foer see related

On Some Occasions Things Are Even Closer Than Thought Possible

            The underground is cold, silent, and mysterious.  The rumbling of the car trekking its way home is his only comfort.  The screeching of the wheels scratching over the tracks never seem so melodic until now, since it drowns out the crippling thoughts of her.  He fumbles around in his seat, kicking up his Chuck Taylors, and flipping his long locks out of his sorrowful eyes. He peers into the darkness, which left the world blank and without emotion.  He is empty like the seat next to him, which would have been filled by her.  She seems to be so close, but only as a memory that torments.

            He presses his body against the wall of the car, hoping that he could fool himself into believing that she is there just as she once was.  Tightly wrapping her arm within his, she would gently rest her head against his shoulder, and on some occasions she would tilt her head towards him and say, “I adore you, Allen.”  Her warm exhale upon his ear made him tingle, which ignited a surge down to his toes, forcing them to curl.  He never found any words that could do his heart justice; instead he would tighten his arm, pulling her even closer than thought possible. 

            They would get off the subway and head to their apartment on the corner of Adrian and King.  There she would head to the living room play the harmonious sounds of Damien Rice, Amos Lee, or Iron and Wine, as he went to the kitchen to put the kettle on the stove to make some hot chocolate.  On some occasions she would come from behind him unnoticed and place her arms around his waist.   He would turn slowly and come into her eyes, and then drift down to her caressing her lips with his.  Without looking he maneuvered his hand to the stove and turned the knob until it clicked off.  There would be no need for hot chocolate this night.

Her head would fit perfectly on his chest as they kept warm through the frigid nights of December, allowing Christmas to come a bit early each dawning day as he pressed his pelvis near hers.  His gesture would never make her cringe, but it would allow her to indulge in the fantasy that the world was once again beautiful.  He provided that for her; she accepted it from him.   In that moment they were safe, and saved. The blemishes upon their souls were forgotten and love persisted to obtain the purity that was once intended for man. 

How he wishes that moment still existed, or even be recreated by the simple initiation of her smile.  Happiness is now a foe ridiculing him as he glances up to see an advertisement for Wrigley’s Extra gum.  “Stay closer longer,” it reads with a couple at a near kiss.  He clenched his jaw tighter, fighting the urge to cry.  He shakes his head allowing his locks to fall over his eyes again like a curtain for a stage.  His eyes now clothed, he allows his anguish to and trickle down to the tip of his nose.  A heavy sigh bellowed out as he sniffles, and the piercing sound of the brakes become unbearable, but not close to the puncture to his life.

            The car comes to a halt, and its doors slides open with a ding.  From his left there enters a black woman with a heavy purse.  The look of agony shows on her face as her wrinkled brow slopes over her eyes. Her lips are overwrought as if holding onto the words that would otherwise project her profane thoughts.  Each step is taken with ease as if taken upon shards of glass. She finally throws herself down on the seat next to his.  He is quite disturbed, since the car is empty except for a middle-aged man sitting at the north end of the car. 

            “Oh dear!” A high-pitched crackle escapes her lips.  “I look back at today and all I can say is ‘Whoa!’”

            He shifts his body even closer to the wall than thought possible.  He realizes that she took notice of his motion by her reaction to lean back on her seat to looks him up and down. 

Currently Reading The Lord of the Rings (Collector's Edition) By J.R.R. Tolkien see related

A Written Tale Worth Living (Just a small piece)

            Twenty years has taken its toll on her.  She used to be full of life, radiant like the moon shining through the night.  As a student, Douglas admired her, and as a young man he desired her.  The emotions of a past longing for her embrace had etched its way in as he allowed the memories of his senior year to volt through his mind.  She seemed internally crippled now, as if the years of sitting over papers of unmotivated students had her forfeit her passions.  Lost battles against primetime television and first player videogames had apparently forced her to surrender the war of gaining the interest of her young minds. 

            As Douglas tipped the plastic cup between his lips, he slowly felt the cool tropical punch slide down his tongue, tasting every bit of Hawaii (which he never visited, but he figured that is how it would taste).  It was actually the taste that he believed her lips to have, the sweet taste of pineapple and strawberries with a hint of heaven that would fill the everlasting thirst of unforgiving regret and a devious lust.  Douglas allowed every drop to course down his throat, and then he took the long ladle and poured himself another drink. 

            He looked around the gymnasium and concluded that it seemed all the same.  The setting was so similar that he felt as if he had time warped back. At that time he had worn his best suit, a slender navy suit with sky blue pinstripes.  His form was in far better condition than it was now.  He wish he could get back his tight tummy and sculpted chest, instead of the drooping pouch that he hid in his oversized shirt tonight.  He seemed to be so “dreamy” in yesteryears, but that wouldn’t keep Darcy Styles from allowing every guy on the football team to grab her ass.  Douglas asked Darcy to Homecoming, hoping for a wonderful night of dancing, gloating, and after-party fondling.  Instead, he stood near the punch bowl most of the night, sucking down what seemed to be half of the triple gallon bowl. 

            From a distant he could see Darcy dancing in between two football players as they crashed their crotch on her like two buns on a meat patty.  He felt nauseous; maybe it was the ten glasses of punch, but most likely it was the disgusting view of Darcy allowing the jocks to grope her on the dance floor when it was his lap she was supposed to be grinding on.  “I paid for your damn ticket,” he thought to himself.  But want could he do?  Allowing everyone to know that he cared would prompt all to once again realize that he was incapable to succeed in anything.  He was a far cry from a fighter, and he found this out since fifth grade when he and Billy Locke had it out on the basketball court. Douglas can’t remember what it was all about, but he can always recall the demeaning lesson that would torment him for the rest of his schooling days...he was unable to stand for himself.  So he would sit and allow everyone else take all that he had, but at least he could say the punch was his.

            “Hello, Doug.”  Her voice seeped into his ears from behind. He assumed she was on other side of the dessert table, keying in on the element of surprise.  Instantly knowing her tender voice, Doug choked on his fresh cup of punch, nearly spilling it over his finely pressed suit. The punch dabbled on the floor and Doug quickly attempted to regain himself.  Slowly he turned and gazed for just a quick moment.  His eyes quickly looked towards the punch bowl that sat in front of her, then he took the ladle and realized that his cup was already quite full.  Spots of sweat began to form upon his brow, but he sought out not to put emphasis that he had no control of the situation at hand. 

            “Why are you not on the dance floor?” She seemed so intent to start him on a conversation, there was a childish whimper stemming from her voice. 

Currently Reading In Cold Blood By Truman Capote see related

The Mourning Rises

He sits in the midst of a dream, leaving reality for those souls brave enough to walk with it.  All that remains is his blank stare that pierces out from the back porch screen window.  Calling him to return seems inhuman, but essential.  Allowing him to dwell in such a place will leave him numb to the life led here, but I bet that is what he truly wants. 

“Luke,” I said softly.

“Why do you bother me now,” his eyes fluttered as he slowly veered his head to my direction. I have seen this facial expression so many times; his brows furrow, his lips purse, and nostrils flare.   I sometimes forget any other expression he once had.

“I’m sorry, but dinner is ready and you should come on in.”

“I’m not hungry,” he turned his gaze back to the fields. 

“Well, I bet you’ll change your mind after having a whiff Grandma’s spaghetti.  And besides, you didn’t even eat lunch.” Cheering him up with overzealous joy proved to be futile. 

            “Mom, just leave me alone,” his voice somber with a hint of tension building, “I don’t need to eat okay.  I’ll come get food when I am hungry.”

“Honey, I understand you’re upset, but your Grandmother worked hard so that we could have a good meal together. You should show your gratitude by coming to eat with us.” I am desperate. 

“I didn’t ask her to come, so I’ll come eat when I’m ready.”  His voice became forceful giving me the familiar cue to exit, but I will have to give it one more push.

“Honey,” I can’t stand the whimpering in my own voice.  “I just want you to try to eat something so that you will be ready for your track meet tomorrow.”

“Damn it, Mom!  I said I’d eat when I eat.  Leave me alone, I’m not hungry!”

There is a time when you realize that you are incapable of doing anything to pull someone out of a hole.  They continue to dig and all you can do is watch as they bury themselves along with the ghost they are chasing.  I was not going to be the one to ease his pain for now.  My eyes start to water as my lips quivered, and I quickly entered the house and threw water on my face at the kitchen sink.

I had my cry for Mark, and I need to move on.  Mourning is not for me anymore; I refuse to feel sorry for myself right now.  I have a life to move on with and responsibilities to attend to.  Looking at my reflection in the window over the sink, I see a helpless woman in need to hold onto something, but that something doesn’t want to be held.  The remaining man in my life isn’t able to stand, and he will not let me help him as he once did.  Now dealing with death, he sits and finds a paradise from this God forsaken reality.  I wish I could join him. 

I could always enter his world away from the world, but that was when he and his father conjured up the best adventures that required others.  Adventures with pirates, dragons, and even killer ninja ferrets, all brought him and his father into a world where they ruled together.  What a place, and I was just a spectator most of the time.  My favorite adventure was when they attempted to conquer Castle La Muerte where the Goober Clan reigned and took me prisoner for ransom. 

“I’ll use my devilish farts to stop them, Dad,” squealed Luke; he was seven at the time. Both Luke and his Father sat on one side of the bed as if dodging enemy fire.  I sat in the recliner that was strategically placed in the corner of the master bedroom, hoping that my boys could come save me.

 “Son, you can’t always use your farts as a secret weapon.”  Mark said with an eyebrow raised. 

“Oh, but Dad, they’re mighty deadly; I can wipe out a whole army with these babies.”  Luke leaned over to one cheek.

“Yes, but your farts have been the secret weapon for the past ten explorations.  I bet the whole universe is now aware of your stank.” Mark grabbed Luke by the arm and pulled him back to sit on both cheeks.

“Well, they better know because it’s the most powerful weapon out there,” Luke said proudly. 

“Ha, well maybe so, but I think the Clan have found the perfect defense.  So we must think of something else,” Mark said.

“What?  What do they have that can stop the all-powerful boom, Dad? You said it yourself that my farts could knock out twelve solar systems if I focused hard enough.” His face became brighter.

“Well, they prepared themselves with the everlasting Zippo, which enables them to resist such a blast!  They will have stopped it in no time!”

“What?  How did they know the secret defense to my ultimate secret weapon?  Dad, did you tell them?  You told them, didn’t you?  You are one of them!”

“Ha ha,” his voice went an octave lower. “Yes, I am young Fischer!”  Mark jumped up quickly, while jamming his fists onto his waist as he stuck his chest out.   “I am the evil Warlord Phixdious, the all powerful!”

“Oh no, how could you, Dad.”  I knew this was all a game, but the sound of disappointment from Luke truly made me feel as if he had lost a huge part of himself. 

“Easy. If I stop you I can get the world for myself.  I just used you to get this far.  And once I get rid of you then the world is mine!”

“Not if I have anything to say about it!” Luke hopped from his seat on the floor and initiates a rumble.   They wrestled around for the longest time, and Luke would always be flying in the air, as his Father would toss him up, then he would come crashing down onto the bed.  But this time Luke got the Fischer family headlock around the Warlord’s neck.

“Gottcha, Fish Tosh,” shouted Luke.

“That is Phixdious!” Mark attempted to seem that Luke’s grip was really tight by pretending to choke out each syllable.

“Whatever, it won’t matter after I put you to sleep and throw you in jail!”

“Oh yeah,” Mark pulled Luke over his head and tickled him, then threw him on the bed.  Suddenly, Larry appeared as if he was slipping and he lay on the floor with one hand gripping the edge of the bed.

“Oh no! I am falling off the mountain!” His hand slipped away from the edge and that would have been the end of the Hideous Phixdious, but the little hero would not allow it.

“No!” Luke quickly slipped to the edge of the bed and grabbed his Father. “I am not going to let you die!”

“But I am the bad guy, and I tried to kill you!” Mark was impressed by his boy’s response.

“Yeah, but you are still my dad, and Mom can fix you, and make you good again.  I can’t let my dad die.  Dad, come back to the Elite Omega Force and fight crime once again, and forget that dumb name, Fish Tosh!  Or if you want I’ll be a bad guy too, so we can rule together.”

“Well, I guess I could come back. I mean, it does seem to be the best decision out of the predicament I am in.” His voice then shifted back to his normal voice. “Alright you convinced me; pull me up.”  Mark pushed himself up as Luke pulled on his arm until he was once again stable on the bed, also known as Castle La Muerte.

“Dad, you could never be a bad guy.  You’re just too cool.”

“Luke, you will always motivate me to be good, better, and best.”  I know it sounds corny on paper, but just as he said it, I was enchanted.

“What does that mean?” Luke looked deep into his father’s eyes.

“You’ll figure it out one day just don’t forget it. Let’s go save your mom.”

            As Luke sits out on the porch, I wonder if he remembers that adventure.  I wish I could ask him, although even more, I wish I knew what he was thinking.

                                    *                                  *                                  *

            I sit in a dream, and at the tip of my outstretched hands, I see Warlord Phixdious falling.  Falling helplessly into the pit of memories never to come again to venture into the Force I long for.  I guess I still need to save Mom.  Grandma’s spaghetti isn’t that bad after the third bite.