pulling teeth

*** You should stop reading this now and go somewhere else because this will be the most pathetic self indulgent load of crap on the Internet.

Good thing I got my 500 daily words done yesterday morning because if I had to do them last night, I would have been fucked. I'm not in a much better frame of mind this morning.

I want to quit writing. I have no idea why I want to write. It's fucking painful. Oh, should I have warned you that there'd be lots of cursing. This shit just hurts too much. It is physically painful to think about writing. I have nothing to say. I'm irrelevant and boring and I can't figure out why I should bother.

Last night, I almost deleted my Facebook account. It's a good thing I have fairly strong impulse control. I'd be causing havoc all over the place if I didn't. The writing gurus are right, though. Committing to writing everyday and posting this bullshit - without qualification or excuses - helps to force me to do it even when I hate it - writing - and myself.

The disdain I have for my writing can't be expressed. I never want to put pen to paper again (yes, I still write like the ancients did) or put my fingers on another keyboard. But the white screen calls to me and I respond like an addict. I hate it. I hunger for it. The thought of it makes me ill and more depressed and hopeless. I have to have it. I have to have more. I obsess over it. It invades all of my thoughts and moments.

I'm writing a one thousand word story for a writing contest and it's stupid and fractured. It makes no sense. I have until the twenty-ninth to finish it and submit to the judges. I suppose I'll work on it today. Maybe I'll read it at my writing group tomorrow. It's so dumb though. My adjectives are trite and mundane. Dumb. Seriously. I could throw up right now.

One soul is living and dying in five different dimensions/lives, switching genders and time periods. In one thousand words. What was I thinking? Man, I'm desperate. I have nothing to say and so I'm saying dumb things.

If you came here to read this crap, I'm sorry. I should put another warning in the beginning that I would be wallowing in self-pity and boring you with my whining. It's getting harder and harder each day to bother with anything. Routine is the only thing getting me out of bed now. I think it's the thing that's killing me, too.

Doodling helps you reduce stress. I need a big doodle pad. People are coloring now. I remember when I got laughed at thirty years ago for coloring. Now, I'm really babbling. I've completely lost focus.

I went back up to write a disclaimer so I could say, "I warned you."

If you've read this far down, though, I seriously apologize.

Iris

One thousand, seven hundred and forty-five people from eight hundred twenty-four households located in one point one square miles of a valley in the Shale Tier. Jon knew the names of all of his constituents. He greeted them on the street, in the grocery store and the VFW. They smiled when he asked about their families, their jobs and pets. As mayors went, he was the best. He kissed babies, shook hands with farmers and listened to women. In every election year, the good people of his town re-elected him. He led his town for twenty years now.

He was born in 1956, in this town. His mother gave birth to him at home in her marital bed. He grew up here, running between corn stalks, laughing, mouth wide open, occasionally swallowing a bug. He stacked bales of hay into tunnels in a barn, crawling through the straw up to turrets above the cow stalls. He warmed his bare feet in fresh patties, squishing them between his toes.

In one of these rocky mountain fields, at the age of twelve, Jon spoke his promise to a hawk circling over his head.

"One day, I will be king."

He spoke these words in a rush as he ducked behind the old rusting cars his father had dumped in the upper cow pasture. He peeked around a rotting tire. The old man carried his black belt between both big hands, snapping the leather and clicking the pin against the buckle. The sound traveled up the hill to Jon's hiding place. Jon picked up a rock. His father came around the car. Jon stood. He topped his father by three inches. Jon looked to the house. His mother leaned on one of the porch columns, blood from her forehead smearing the white paint. The wet dark smudges called to Jon like a neon sign telling him it was time.

His father raised the belt. Jon pushed his father's drunken arm aside and smashed the rock on his father's head.

The insurance money sent Jon to a private high school and a prestigious college. His mother turned out to be an investment wiz which set them up as small town royalty. Jon came home at twenty-two to do good works. The next year, he took part in his first election and he won in a land-slide.

He looked out of his office window. The large panes gave him an unobstructed view the town's main street. His people traveled the center of town with purpose. They dressed in grays, browns and dull blues. He watched them with an unexpected sense of dissatisfaction.

Yellow caught his eye. Lavender, red and stark white flashed. A girl danced on the side-walk in front of the bank, her blonde hair floating on the breeze. He leaned foreword placing his hand on the glass. His mouth watered. His body tingling. As he watched the girl spin, he heard music swell around him. He wanted.

fluid

Lemonade hits the spot on a hot summer's day. Some people drink iced tea. I don't care for tea. The leafy, herbal flavor tastes bitter on my tongue. The sweet and sour of the yellow citrus beverage brings shivers with each sip. It's what I drink when I want something a bit stronger than plain water. I don't drink soda, either.

Gin and Tonic with a wedge of lime tastes good, too. I'm not opposed to an alcoholic drink. No prohibition bullshit for me. Some people can't handle their liquor, but I'm not like them, so I'm going to have a drink when I feel like. A Merlot or Cabernet Sauvignon was best during Winter. They were heavier, warmer.

Milk went best with spaghetti. My mother's spaghetti. She wasn't Italian. She was German. Her spaghetti sauce was brown because it was mostly ground beef with lots of browned onions. The tomato sauce was just a condiment. There's be lots of left over spaghetti noodles. Those would be turned into a breakfast treat. She brown plain bread crumbs in butter, add the cooked noodles and top them with white sugar. Milk was a must with this dish, too.

Both of these noodle dishes are my favorite meals. They are my comfort foods. Literally. Both will put me into a carbohydrate stupor more effective than any calming drug. I need a lot of calming. Too much activity, too many questions, any excessive behavior must be squashed. Don't wiggle, jiggle or giggle. Have a cookie and be quiet.

Water is the best drink, though. Cold. I drink water all day. I prefer seltzer. The bubbles wake up my tongue. I don't know why the bubbles are good, but they make the water more yummy. I like the brand Vintage for my seltzer water and my tonic water. That brand has the best flavor for both.

I should have perfect skin and be the picture of health with all of the water I drink. I bet I'm more water than most people. Tests have shown that the average is 60% for the average male and 50% for the average female. Apparently, age, health, weight and sex all affect how much water is in a person's body. I think I must be at least 75% water. I'm an overachiever.

Oh, I almost forgot coffee. I don't really like coffee. I need it. First thing in the morning, I must have brewed coffee, black. A nice dark roast. I require two cups before anyone is even allowed to look at me. You'd be jeopardizing your life by talking to me before I've had three. Another two cups and I begin to function like a normal human being. I don't drink any coffee after eleven in the morning. I'd be up all night, the agitation creeping through my flesh and keeping my mind spinning. I don't like the taste of the stuff. It's bitter, but the idea of milk and sugar in it makes me queasy. The only way to have sweetened creamy coffee is as ice cream.

Don't Play Koi with Me

Sunlight bounced across the lake. Fish, just under the surface of the water, turned their faces to the light. White, fluffy sheep dotted the hillside like puffs of clouds fallen from the skies. Red rolled down a hill, picking up speed as his alternating visions of blue and green passed by his line of sight. He stopped just on the lip of a grassy outcrop, face towards the water and looked a Koi in the eye. It winked at him.

Red waved his fingers at the fish and tossed it some bread crumbs he had in his jeans pocket from his morning biscuit. The fish sucked each bit of biscuit in its mouth with plump orange and brown lips. Once it hoovered each piece down its throat, it hovered near the shore, turning left and right as it perused the boy laying on shore, chin propped on fists.

"Why share your meager fair with a goldfish?" asked the goldfish.

Red raised his head, shook it and wiggled a finger in his ear.

"I see by your dress you give up something precious." The Koi jumped, splashed Red in the face with his pectoral fins. "Are you stupid or asleep?"

"Fish can't talk," said Red.

"Stupid, then."

Red sat up, crossed his legs, leaned forward.

‘Hallucinations caused by hunger."

"That's a mighty word for a peasant."

Red laughed. Only he would have hallucinations that repeatedly insulted him.

"I came here for a peaceful afternoon in the sun. Go away and harass some other poor farmer's servant." He lay down, dangling his bare feet into the pond. He was almost asleep when he felt fish lips nibbling on his big toe.

"Most people, when confronted with a magical fish, will immediately ask for three wishes, but not you. Seriously, what's wrong with you?"

"No such thing as magical fish," said Red. "And even if magically fish were real, which they're not, any magical wishes they could grant, which they can't, would somehow backfire in my face."

"You could at least sit up and look a person in the eye when having a conversation."

"You're not a person." Red yawned.

"Are you ever right about anything?" The fish jumped up out of the water. Red saw it through a slightly cracked eye lid. It jumped two more times. Red rolled over and faced the lake.

"So, now you're telling me you are a person trapped in a fish body."

"A witch cursed me. I must remain in this form until someone makes the right wish."

"What's the right wish?"

"I can't tell you. Not because I can't but because I don't know what the right wish is."

"What sorts of wishes have you granted so far?"

"The kind you'd expect." The Koi tread water, churning mud up from the bottom of the lake. "Riches, true love, power, unlimited food and drink, fame, various talents."

"Those are all good wishes," said Red.

The Koi got a decidedly disappointed look on its face.

Red smiled.

"I wish your curse broken," he said.

Spinning Out of Control

The gun lay on the worn wooden table, the dull, black metal a shocking contrast to the white oak under it. It reminded Glenda of her former life, dressed in the black and white habit of The Sisters of Perpetual Obedience. She shook her head. Her chopped blond hair bounced around her pixie face some strands covering the teardrop tattoos under her left eye. The men sitting across from her never took their eyes off of her incongruous expression. Thinking Glenda as innocent as her appearance suggested would get you in big trouble. She smiled and the three big boys shivered.

Glenda picked up the Taurus 5-Shot Revolver, spun the chamber, put the nozzle to her right temple, grinned and pulled the trigger. She didn't flinch. The boys did. She put the gun down on the table in front of Sam. They were all sober now as Glenda was from the beginning.

She only drank bottled water. Her wants and needs were simple but specific. It was a matter of control. After nine years in prison, she walked a fine line between routine, things she could control and choosing exactly what she wanted without regard to others' concerns. Plus, alcohol is what landed her in prison to begin with. She had been too drunk to protect herself. That would never happen again.

Death didn't scare her. She couldn't die. She figured that might be an important bit of information for her gaming buddies, but all was fair when it came to gambling for living expenses and proving who was the baddest ass in the room. She winked at Sam.

He lifted the gun with a shaking hand. He spun the chamber three times. He looked at his buddies. Bob and his other brother, Sam, (yes, these were three brothers, Bob, Sam and the other brother, Sam - their parents fans of some ancient sitcom - but still trying, in vain, to be creative) both shrugged. The four of them had been playing Russian Roulette for forty-five minutes and six rounds each. They were all still alive, beating the odds. Hence, Sam Number One's fear of continuing the game.

"You could just pay up," she said, "if you're too scared to go on." Glenda leaned back on her chair, tilting on two legs. Her black combat boots swung in the air to the beat of a song she had been humming since she entered the bar.

Sam Number Two Pushed a pile of bills in front of Glenda. "I'm out," he said. He pushed back his chair and headed towards the men's room.

"I've had enough." Sam Number One set the gun down in front of Bob. He crunched his bills in his fist. He thrust the money at Glenda and growled. "You ain't normal."

She laughed.

"That, my dear, sir, is an understatement." She waved her fingers at Bob. Each had a silver spoon ring on it.

Bob remembered that she had made the same move when they first met. Perhaps she had hypnotized them into playing this ridiculous game.

The gun lay on top of his pile of money. He would have to pick it up, either to continue or give her his cash.

What to do? What to do?

Note: Yes, I know the gun in the picture is not a revolver.

Ghouls are a Girl's Best Friend

John and Jennifer were the owners of Crime Busters, a husband and wife duo who fought ghost crime. John was the front man because people trusted men more to get to the root of problems and get them solved. Men were stronger, faster and more intelligent. Everyone - with any intelligence, anyway - knew this. Women could answer the phone, look pretty and be nice. They had no business thinking, questioning, searching, carrying a gun, or punching an asshole in the nose.

Hence, John's picture on the billboards as the trusted face of Crime Busters. Of course, John didn't know anything about crime or ghosts or anything except talking a good game, but that was the most important part of any business. Just ask anyone. A business was only as valuable as the quality of its bullshit.

Jennifer saw apparitions. She talked to deceased people. She had a BA in crime investigation and a law degree. She sat at the receptionist's desk in a tight dress, kicking her crossed leg from the short hem. Her hair lay in perfect curls, her nails shown bright red and shiny, reflecting her pouty lips. When she answered the phone, her words came out in breathless, cartoonish squeaks.

They were both quite deceptive, especially with each other. He built relationships beyond her awareness (or so he thought) and she built bank accounts beyond his knowledge (in actuality.) Jennifer was rich. She discovered ages ago that as long as John's credit card was paid so he could run up his expense account, he was happy. He had no clue what they billed their customers.

He also had no idea that Jennifer was setting him up as a fall guy for her embezzlement and other fraudulent activities.

She called the FBI as a confidential informant and told them how Crime Busters took advantage of unsuspecting customers (after all, there really were no such things as ghosts,) billed outrageous fees and even gave credit terms at loan shark rates. Oh, and didn't pay any taxes on all of the cash payments they received. She told the FBI where they could find all of the secret books that John kept and kept secret from his bimbo wife.

She called John (using her real voice which he no longer recognized) as a tipster from one of his best buddies to let him know the FBI were investigating him. John secretly raided the only business bank account that Jennifer ever let him know about, netting him just enough cash to get him over the state line, thus making his crimes even worse in the government's eyes.

When the agents came to the office, Jennifer played her roll to perfection, her eyes big, round and innocent. She gave them the bank account numbers and let them look at all of their files. They didn't even need the warrants they carried in their suit pockets. They gathered everything up, locked the doors and sent the poor, dumb wife home, crying on the shoulders of a big, brawny agent.

The next day, Jennifer opened the first ever nudist camp for ghosts.

Huh?

Rainbow candies rain down on my head while I lay on my rocking bed. The devil stands at my feet, lifting me in the air without touching me. He's laughing like a lunatic. His red skin bulges and slides across his frame in a sickening imitation of neon clay squeezed between the fingers of a fist.

White gauze bandages wrap my body like a mummy. My closet is my sarcophagus. Dark, narrow and airless, I panic and fall to the floor, bang my head on the door and wiggle around like worm.

My liver pulses to the beat of "Bang the Drum All Day" by Todd Rundgren. My mother had him over for breakfast. He broke into spontaneous song over runny eggs and burnt toast.

A maid, dressed like a robotic troll with green and pink hair, vacuums my room with a head of cauliflower. She looks at me through the looking glass so I can't steal her soul. I try to stop her from throwing out the pizza I have stored in the drawers of my armoire, but I can't get the words past the duct tape covering my mouth.

An Easter bunny in the corner complains about its missing eye and eaten left ear. I tell him he should be more worried about his melting tail. He insists on standing next to the tanning bed because white chocolate isn't real chocolate.

The cocktail of drugs I've taken from my father's medicine cabinet calm my nerves. I focus on cleaning and reassembling my guns. The smell of oil keeps me grounded. I point my .44 Magnum at my action figures and tell Captain America, "Make my day." My matte black Ruger snarls in response, blowing a hole into my bathroom.

Gerald, the green, hulking bodyguard my parents hired to be my keeper, locked all of my toys in the swimming pool because I don't like water. He said I can have them back when I take a shower. I stand in the center of the foyer, staring at the stained glass dome while he speaks. His words buzz in my head, slurred, unintelligible, yet threatening. Red mist moves in from the edges, swirling around me in a hot fog. It touches my naked body and I exploded in a thousand needles that pierce Gerald. He screams and falls to the black and white marble floor.

My phone rings.

God tells me to put Him on speaker so Puddles can hear Him. The Texas Teacup listens intently, cocking her head left and right, small pink tongue tasting the air. I don't understand the language they speak to each other, so I wait, sitting cross-legged, wrists resting on knees, counting my breaths to prove I have the patience of a true saint, to show the All Knowing I am worthy of any task He cares to bestow upon me.

My phone dies. I forgot to charge it.

Puddles walks over to me, her pink nails clicking across the floor. She opens her mouth and God's voice emanates: "Can you hear me, now?”

Plagued by Death

Brad's routine included an alarm clock that he invented to get him out of bed when most people were just falling asleep. He slept from one in the afternoon until ten at night. He didn't really get a full nine hours of sleep since it took him about three hours to fall asleep, but years of experience with this shift work taught him that even a few hours of resting his body was better than trying to get the physical and mental to sync up.

Once he did fall asleep, he didn't want to wake up. He could sleep through an atomic blast and so he invented his special alarm clock. A mechanical arm smacked him in the head with a pillow when the alarm went off. It kept hitting him until he got out of bed and turned off the switch which was located across the room from his bed.

Tuesday night, he woke up on his own. A very unusual occurrence. Something woke him up just before his alarm was set to go off to get him up and go to his job as a night watchman. He sat on the edge of the bed, shaking his head. He felt vibrations up through the soles of his feet. He looked at his closed window. He turned off his alarm and turned on the TV.

The News anchors looked disheveled. He turned up the sound.

"...an outbreak this severe since the late Middle Ages. An average of only seven cases of the Black Plague occur every year, mostly in Utah, New Mexico, Colorado and Arizona. The CDC has no idea why it is out of control now."

WtF?

Brad felt something in his chest. He hit mute on the remote and cocked his ear like a dog. He lifted open his window. Wailing rose to his condo on the seventeenth floor. He leaned out and looked down. A loose line of people moved down the middle of the road like black ants. They followed a dump truck. The dirge came from that procession. He grabbed his binoculars. Focused on the truck. It overflowed with bodies tumbled in every direction. Men, women and children lay face up, face down, bent and awkward.

WtF?

He turned back to the TV. The male anchor lay slumped on the desk. He turned the sound back on. The female anchor coughed between words.

"...thousands dropping..." Cough. "...dead..." Cough. "...every minute..." She fell off her chair in slow motion. The camera moved its view up to the ceiling and stopped. A line of words started across the bottom of the screen.

"Stay inside. Stay away from other people if you can." The words repeated on a loop.

Brad closed the window. He went into the bathroom with a bottle of whisky. He filled his tub with warm water and bubble bath crystals. He took the bottle of sleeping pills from his medicine cabinet, undressed and climbed into his bath. This would be the last night he watched.

you're too Jong-un to know better

You would think this took place in North Korea but you'd be wrong.

Yes, I was born in North Korea, in the reeducation camp in Tanchon, in 1991. Both of my parents were scientists: my mother a biologist, my father a physicist. They both died in Tanchon.

We spent twenty years together as a family and as scientists in the camp. They raised me with their ideals and they taught me to question, to search, to quest. They got me out of the camp, out of Tanchon, out of North Korea and then ran out of time. A message caught up with me three years after the fact. They were each shot in the head while kneeling in the exercise yard, holding hands, looking into each other's eyes.

They never shed a tear. I cried for weeks. I still cry, in the stillness of the night, but once morning comes, I pull it together. I've got things to do.

I'm testing out my PhD. My parents taught me so well, that I rarely took a class. I've been tested by a long line of professors in a variety of subjects to see where I should be placed in the American educational system. I'm a genius. I speak several languages, math being one of them. I'm an expert in practical and theoretical sciences. The government is supporting me while I acclimate.

No one really knows what to do with me: female, twenty-five, no family, North Korean, Genius, no formal education, anti-social, penniless, atheist.

My handler is making me go to a New Year's Eve party at the home of a congressman. I spent the day at an exclusive spa being pampered, primped and primed to be pimped out as an example of resources to be stolen out from under the little nose of Kim Jong-un. I was the poster child for a special new kind of secret program that wanted undermine other governments with double and triple agents. Even I no longer knew which side I was on.

People assumed my English wasn't very good, so I got away with being quiet. I watched. I smiled. I listened. I heard all kinds of things I'd use later as bargaining chips with my handler for things like time alone in a lab or a park, two of my favorite places. I had no qualms about passing on gossip about romantic liaisons, drug use, or illegal nannies. None of these things really mattered in the grand scheme of things. Not while people were forced to raise their children in prisons, forced to endure years of torture and agony.

I had more important things to thwart. Like that guy over in the corner, dressed as a waiter. He held a tray of champagne flutes filled with golden, bubbling liquid. He pulled a small white packet out of his pants' pocket, ripped it open with his teeth and poured a white powder into all five glasses on his tray.

He moved into the room, deftly keeping his tray from several people reaching for a glass. He was searching for specific people. I extracted myself from my group (no one noticed) and followed the waiter. He found a target and surged forward. I bumped into his arm carrying the tray. He tried to steady it but the glasses tumbled down to the floor, shattering on the slick wooden floor. The liquid foamed and ate through the Polyurethane.

how did you say it happened?

His gray-green skin shimmered from the sweat forming on its surface. The heat floated up from the hard-packed ground and pressed down from the white sky. Zutphen pulled ozone into his body through his pores. His nervous system condensed the blue gas to a healing liquid that mixed with his blood and sent healing cells to his wounds. The open lesions across his faces knit together as his body revived from the chemicals in his tissue.

Lying on his back, looking through eight lidless eyes, Zutphen sighed as he felt physically better. His spiritual outlook, though was grim. His eyes, evenly spaced around his head, gave him a 360 degree view of the trouble he had caused.

It all began when his pod broke through the atmosphere of Earth and dropped through the air like a leaf on the wind. It moved so slow that he descent was captured by cell phones and cameras and sent across the planet via the Internet. Governments tracked his progress. By the time he hit the ocean, his capsule was surrounded by competing factions.

He popped the hatch, popped his head up through the opening and waved. There was a good reason why no one came to this crazy planet during day light hours. The inhabitants couldn't handle a friendly little wave of his flippers without freaking out. Nine different countries, represented by nine different war ships opened fire on his pod, but since it was protected by a shield, the fire power ricocheted and shot off in all directions. They blew each other out of the water, metal and bodies flying into the air in bloody pieces and then raining down around Zutphen.

The drones caught it all, televising the carnage around the planet. Fearless leaders across the globe panicked, poked index fingers on red buttons, sending bomb carrying rockets to all corners of the world, against friend and foe alike. The destruction didn't take long.

Zutphen ducked back into his pod and closed the door just before tidal waves sent him tumbling across the water, bobbing like trash. He took at nap.

He woke when he stilled. His pod had a permeable skin that allowed light and sound through. His eight eyes told him he was upside down on a beach. That meant his pod was damaged since it was designed to always remain upright relative to his body. Great. He rocked back and forth until the pod turned enough to get the door in a position where he could crawl out.

Debris lay everywhere. Smoke rose in thick, dark columns like a forest of undulating leafless trees. He absorbed helium through his skin into his body from the air. He took in enough so that he floated just above the ground. The tips of his flippers dragged in the sand, leaving lines along the ground as he moved.

He would kill Inuvik when he got back home. This was all her fault. She knew Zutphen couldn't resist a dare and now everyone on Earth was gone.

Caffeinated Courage

Seven. That's how many cups of coffee I downed before I hit the send button and agreed to meet the girl I met online.

Alone. I never do anything alone. John and I do everything together. Except this, apparently. I blame it on the excessive caffeine. It made me hyper and compulsive. I wasn't thinking. John does all of my thinking. And talking. I can type what I want to say but when it comes to vocalizing, I need John.
I need John and he had deserted me. Left me alone in our rooms. Left me alone to my own devices and the coffee maker.

The caffeine in my system propelled me to this cafe and this seat facing the door. I'm looking for a redhead with a big blue flower on her t-shirt. Now, the caffeine is out of my system. I only had enough money for one cup of java at this joint and because of the previously consumed beverages, I arrived three hours early. All of my rocket fuel burned up during my time spent waiting and jiggling my foot under the table. I was too spent to get up and leave. I crashed.

My head lay on the table, my right cheek pressed to the cool surface, my hands dangling between my knees. I kept my eyes closed. I couldn’t bear the stares from the normal people sitting at the other tables. They murmured and I just knew they were talking about me. John would say I thought too much of myself and laugh, but John wasn’t here.

The bell over the door jingled. I glanced up through my lashes. John walked in with a redhead wearing a t-shirt sporting a big blue flower. They were holding hands. She was giggling and looking up at John like he was candy. John pointed at me. She looked my way and smiled, showing all of her perfect white teeth. John patted her on the ass. She glided in my direction while John went to the counter to place an order.

I sat up.

They both sat across from me.

"You didn't close your browser. I thought you might need my loquacious talents with Natalie." John held Natalie's hand on top of the table.

The waitress brought a hot chocolate with whipped cream and a cherry for Natalie, a small, tiny cup of deep dark espresso for John and a glass of milk for me. She placed a round white plate of donut holes in the center of our table.

Natalie popped a cinnamon covered confection into her mouth and closed her eyes as she chewed. Little diamonds of sugar crystals dusted her lips and sparked with sunlight. I stared her lips, then at John and Natalie's entwined fingers. A sharp stabbing pain blossomed in my right eye. My breathing became erratic and shallow. My jaw hurt as my molars rubbed against each other.

Natalie placed her free hand on my upper thigh under the table.

John winked at me.

Feather Beds

There’s nothing like sleeping in a freezing room snuggled under a feather bed. When I was a child visiting my grandparents and great-grandparents on my mother’s side in Hallein and Oberalm, Austria, respectively, it was cold, especially in Winter. Their apartments were made of granite quarried from the Alps and heated by wood-burning stoves. Each apartment had only one stove and those were in the kitchens which doubled as the communal living space. Bedrooms were not heated and only occupied at night.

At bedtime, you’d rush into the bedroom, rush into your jammies and rush under the thick, poofy feather bed. The windows would be open because you expelled poison gases as you slept so airing out the room was necessary for your health. The air turned your nose, forehead and cheeks red if you dared poke your head out from under the covers. There was no getting out of bed and fooling around. It was just too damn cold. I’ve never slept so well as I did in those freezing chambers.

In the morning, you flung back the heavy covers, slipped your feet into felted slippers and ran, hell bent, to the outhouse that hung off of the side of the building on the second story. Then, just as quickly, you ran into the kitchen for a wave of warmth and some scalded milk. You might need to pluck a tiny feather that had escaped its casing from your hair.

I’ve tried using down comforters in our heated homes and they were always too hot to sleep under. Even with the thermometer turned way down like we have it, sometimes set at 62 degrees, it’s not the same if the windows aren’t open. And I’m not keeping the windows open at night and invite murders to come kill me while I’m dreaming.  

My favorite pillow was an Army issued down pillow, made of blue and white striped Army duck fabric. That pillow went everywhere with me all the way through college. It was perfect: always stayed the right temperature - never getting warm because as you all know, a pillow should stay cool on your face - and it squished into any form needed to get comfortable. I finally had to get rid of it because it just stank.

I must have a thing for feathers. I see them everywhere. I’m sure they are everywhere for you, too, but do you notice them? Dove or pigeon feathers are always in my path around my neighborhood. I collect them and tuck them into books and notepads. I think the predatory birds we have in the area are feasting on the pigeons. “Squab.” I have a few red-tailed hawk feathers that would make great quill pens if I could bring myself to use them in such a dishonorable manner. Instead, I keep them in a pen holder near my ink pots and pretend.

Last Friday was my birthday and my husband gave me a card with a feather in it (not because he knows I have a feather fetish but because I still tickle his fancy.)

Rumble, Roar and Clap

nothing stays the same

monotonous hours thunder

across my bed sheets

Many people I know, some closely related to me, are afraid of thunderstorms, .

There’s a story in our family about my uncle who had a dairy farm in Beech Flats, Pennsylvania. An outdoor man, his face wind-kissed, his hands as work-worn as his denim shirt and pants, he lived in a cotton candy pink house. He spent most of his days on the rolling, green mountains or in his shadowed barn. Except during a storm. One such time, he was sitting on the toilet, doing his number two business when a thunderstorm reared its ugly head. A strike hit the ground, entered the water pipes and shot his ass out through the open bathroom door and across the house into the livingroom. It split the throne in half. My mother claimed to have witnessed the incident.

We were forever forbidden to go potty in a thunderstorm. And no talking on the phone, either. My mother’s fear of lightning was pathological. She’d call us at the onset of the meteorological event to warn us of impending doom and spend thirty minutes telling us to stay safe.

I have no such fears. In fact, I love savage storms.  

One exciting night, I was in a Freightliner tractor in a thunderstorm in New York City. The truck was not tethered to a loaded trailer, so it rocked and bucked in the wind as bursts of current flashed around me. I tingled from my toes to the ends of my hair.

I spent many of my formative years with my  Oma in Hallein, Austria. Her apartment sat along the Salzach river at the base of the Dürrnberg. Like so many buildings in the town, it was built from the stone of the surrounding alpine massifs. Walls were eighteen inches thick. Window sills were more like seats.

When thunderstorms hit, I looked out the unshuttered window towards the mountain and the sound would vibrate all around, coming up through the ground and entering the building, finding affinity with long-lost bits torn off over five hundred years ago. The air moved from the noise and the river would fill up with brown, churning, violent water. The wind smelled of ozone and mud and I lost myself in the awesome violence.

I saw the lightning as an assault of light and color. Flashes of white would form as streaks of rainbow color on the inside of my eyelids. The sky and my retina’s canvas were washed in deep, pulsating purples so dark they resembled an oil slick sliced by the abrupt up stroke of electricity zig-zaggy its way from the ground into the heavens. I shook and vibrated, my mouth filled with the metallic flavor of blood and my nostrils flared with the tang of ozone.

Ironically, the noise did not register. I didn’t hear the crack of a whip or shot of a gun. I never had to cover my ears with my hands. Instead, the echoes traveled from rocky peak to granite tower, rolling down slate slopes and swollen streams to disgorge boulders and jolts where I stood, quivering and trembling.

Things Could Be Worse

Reincarnation is a popular idea in some circles. I've written about past life regression before, most recently back in July and further back in 2006.

Just a brief reminder: I read Tarot cards. One of the things I can do in a reading is explore who you were in previous incarnations. I've done this for others and myself, coming up with stories of lives lived in other bodies and places. We can change gender and culture and time periods.

We break away an essence of ourselves from the collective soul or spirit when we need a certain experience. We manifest a body, test our fortitude and then go back from whence we came.

Unlike so many people I've met, I was never Cleopatra, Queen Elizabeth or King Arthur. People like to think they are special. It seems I've never been famous or important although I have thrown a wrench in other people's plans.

In dark age Britain, serfs were tied to the land. They were born, lived and died in the same small place. A serf's role in life was fixed and ridged and people knew where they stood. You did what your father and his father before him did. If your grand-father tilled the soil, you tilled the soil. Very few people broke the mold.

Around the year 900 AD, in Saxon England, I was a male serf born to a family of cow herders. While my grandfather and my father milked cows, father flaunted tradition by naming me Nod. Even so, I milked cows. I herded them to their pastures. I followed the plan until I saw the falconer at work when I was eight. From that point on, I got in trouble for ignoring my tasks in favor of watching the falconer. I even managed to assist him on occasion. I had a gift, a talent, with the birds.

Our Lord loved falcon hunting so much, that when the falconer died unexpectedly of a fever, leaving no son or apprentice, the Overlord raised me up. I was thirteen. I was in heaven.

Until three years later when I met the Lord's daughter, Leofflaed and we fell in love.

She, like most daughters of the time, was betrothed to an older man in furtherance of her father's ambitions. I was drunk on my success in rising above my station. I could do anything. I could save her.

We made plans to run away. Neither of us knew where exactly we would go as we had never been beyond the borders of our manor. We packed food and clothing and prepared to escape on foot. We left one dark night in June. We were quickly caught.

Since she was defiled, she was purged, then sent to a cloistered convent where she died in childbirth. My son became a rather important priest.

I was dragged back to the manor, strapped to a large log with a hawk caged on my stomach. I was pecked to death over the period of four days as an example to my fellow man.

* * *

LEOFFLÆD - f (Anglo-Saxon) Beloved beauty.
NOÐ - m (Anglo-Saxon) Bold, daring.

Boo!

We have a ghost in our house. 

I kid you not.

I used to see and hear things all of the time when I was younger. I had imaginary and invisible friends. Of course, I had no idea they weren't real because they were real. Around the age of fifteen, I started ignoring the sights and sounds. I was deathly afraid I had schizophrenia. Denial is a perfectly good coping mechanism. They were always still there - I'd see them out of the corner of my eye as they traipsed through the room, or they would call out to each other when I was home alone. For the next fifteen years, I refused to acknowledge their place in the world but they refused to be locked away like your strange Aunt Myrtle.

Now, these things, these beings just are. 

When we bought this house, April 1, 2006, and moved in, I knew there was an old man who came with the building. I didn't really think anything of it. He was just there. He hangs out mostly by the front door and by the refrigerator. He's the originally owner who died in the house. He has wispy white hair, stubble on his chin and is dressed in well-worn denim work clothes, loose, baggy and comfortable. He doesn't speak so I don't know his name. I guess I could find out if I asked people in the neighborhood but its not necessary for either of us that I know what he was called when he lived here.

I had confirmation of his existence because my dog, Cody, would stare at the spots whenever he came to visit. My grandson has also expressed his awareness of the ghost.

While I find these experiences fascinating, I haven't yet figured out what good seeing and hearing things that aren't there is to anyone. No one asks me to send them on, even if I believed there is a different place to go. I know there's all kinds of places and times, but I'm not a Ghost Whisperer. And I think they are perfectly capable of going wherever they want. Existence is very flexible. And I haven't run into anyone filled with animosity for me, like they want to take over my soul or something. So, I've never been sure of what I should do with this information except to just know about it.

It has just dawned on me as I write this post that I have never tried to engage any of these beings. Like the wasps that buzzed around me as I played in the North Carolina sand, they were just there. They never approached me with their stingers drawn. Perhaps I should make an effort to speak to one of them. I wouldn't even have to perform a ritual to call one up since they're already here. I don't even know if they are all dead people or if some of them are like demons. I could ask. What's the worst that could happen? 

My ears hear: Spirit in the Night by Bruce Springsteen

31 Days of Weird

Rabbit, Rabbit.

There's this thing called Write31Days where you write and post everyday in October based on some theme of your choice. I hesitate to make another everyday commitment as I've pretty much accepted the fact that I suck at that sort of thing. As soon as I say I'm going to do something everyday, the rebel rears its ugly head and you can count on the fact that it ain't gonna happen. Hey, but I'm nothing if not a sucker for punishment and soul searing disappointment. Let the fun begin.

I'm going to write on weird things I've experienced. I figure this will be a good theme for October. There will be no editing except for spelling errors, if I catch them. I'm shooting for a stream of conscientiousness kind of thing.

Maybe you will have experienced some of the things I will tell you about. If so, great, neither of us are alone. If you haven't and you think I deserve a white padded room, please remember I'm a writer and I'm lying.

I'm going to call these things essays. I like the idea of being an essayist. I don't really know what an essay is but like poetry, I find the concept romantic and I wanna do it even though I haven't a clue as to what's going on.

Since the bunnies in my drawing are dead from an arrow through their hearts, today's theme will be on one aspect of death.

My mother died almost a year ago (11-11-14 at 10:10.) While her passing has done many unexpected things to my head that I never could have predicted, it has highlighted to me with staggering force that we are not our bodies.

She was so uncomfortable and in pain before she left us. Air rasped through her. Her body was heavy with gravity, compressing into itself to the point where her physical self no longer even looked like her. She drew us to herself like a lodestone. She couldn't have been more of this world. And then she expelled and she was gone.

What was left in the hospital bed was so clearly not her. She wasn't in the room. She wasn't in her casket at the funeral home and she wasn't placed in her grave. She was gone.

On Tuesday of this week, she was back. She has stopped by several times since she went away last November. Around 09.30 two days ago, she stood just behind me, placed her hand on my left shoulder (out of character since we rarely shared good touch) and whispered in my right ear, "Just let it all go." (also, very out of character - if you knew my mother, she never let anything go.)

She has stopped by about a dozen times. If I knew I would write about this, I'd have kept better count. Her essence is materially with me and then quite clearly gone. Each time her message is the same: nothing here matters as much as I think it does.

My ears hear: Radioactive by Imagine Dragons
(pay particular attention to the 53 second mark)

Pitch Perfect Perfection

I’m answering a bunch of questions that are supposed to make you fall in love with me. Be careful. This could be dangerous. After all, we know how adorable I already am.

We are on day four and here’s the question:

4. What would constitute a “perfect” day for you?

My perfect day would start with a week of rest and relaxation: lots of sleep and naps and no voices, no questions, no cooking or laundry or anything remotely looking like responsibilities and no news. A week of completely nothing necessary. And after all of that, these three things still look good:

1. Sleeping without disturbance for 24 hours.
2. Reading without interruption for 24 hours.
3. Eating ice cream and key lime pie for 24 hours and the calories don’t count.

Then there’s this:

Part One

It would be sunny. The air would be clear, as if you’ve just cleaned your glasses of smudges you’ve gotten used to over several days and voila, sharp and crisp vision. There’d be a light breeze flowing consistently, enough that you’d feel it in your hair. It would be 74 degrees. There’d be no pesky bugs, but a variety of colorful butterflies and big fat bumble bees would be flittering around bright, blousy flowers along with iridescent hummingbirds.

I’d wake up, no alarm going off - just getting up when I feel like it - I’d stumble into the kitchen and someone would hand me a fresh hot cup of black coffee in my favorite mug. When I was seated and relaxed and immersed in my book, he’d bring me an ice cold bottle of plain seltzer.

He (could be a she but I’m not playing the he/she game) would say, “I thought you might like this. Go out on the porch, drink your coffee and read.”

There’d be no sounds except those natural ones previously mentioned. Forty-five minutes would pass and he would bring me another cup of coffee without saying a word. Part of my perfect day includes people not interrupting me while I am so obviously reading.

 
After I have been awake for about three hours, he would bring me breakfast which is two crepe filled with seedless, blackberry jam and whipped cream cheese, fresh pineapple chunks and a few pieces of perfectly crisp bacon. An extremely cold glass of Tang would not go amiss.

 
I’d need at least another hour following this for digestion. A perfect day involves no rushing and no questions of any sort and people doing things for me without asking what I want. I haven’t any idea what time it is because there’d be no clock watching either.

See, here’s the thing: I know people think it’s good to ask people what they want but when you ask me a question, I have to think of all possible outcomes, eventualities and all alternate histories before I can make a decision or give an answer. It’s exhausting and the reason why I usually say whatever you’re having or doing. And linear time perplexes me. Shoving myself into a clock regulated system makes my brain hurt. To me, time is like a big solid sphere that warps and moves. If I don’t pay attention, I often forget where exactly I am on the artificial time line of a day.

More tomorrow.

One Ringy Dingy

Lots of questions being answered over the next month. Go find out the whys and wherefores.

I hate phones. I always have.

They’re very intrusive. If I want to talk to you, I’d call you. Or better yet, I’d see you in person. Doesn’t mean I don’t like you. It means I don’t like phones. I’m not much of a chatter and I don’t like small talk. Plus, I need all of the sensory information you get from an in-person meeting. I need to see what you do with your eyes and how you move your body so I can read between the lines. Words and tone of voice alone can be very deceptive. Yeah, I’m always looking for lies.

I feel very disconnected when talking on the phone, almost like an out-of-body experience.

My mother used to talk for hours - like three hours in one sitting to just one person - and I couldn’t comprehend it even though I watched and heard it happening. What the hell could they talk about for three hours. It made my brain bleed. I sart to zone out after about four minutes. Just ask my daughter.

Phones are tools for a specific purpose. I have a question or a request, I call, I get my answer. Chow.

Utilitarian.

Really important conversations should not take place over the phone.

I think the first time I ever answered the phone was when I was about eight. I wasn’t supposed to answer the phone, but my mother was busy, so she told me to answer it. It was my Austrian uncle who told me (in German, of course and I’m not sure why that matters) to tell my mother that my great-grandfather was dead. From that point on, I’ve associated the phone with bad news.

I can let a phone ring forever and it wouldn’t bother me. I prefer to keep them unplugged or silenced. It was easier to get away with that before the advent of cell phones being organically attached to our bodies.

I like texting. But that involves writing, so, no, duh, on that.

On to the actual question for the day:

3. Before making a telephone call, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?

I don’t specifically rehearse a specific phone call per se. I rehearse all conversations, long before I have them, long before I even know I’m going to have a conversation. I’ve got conversations with everyone I know going on in my head all of the time. Maybe that’s why I run out of small talk.

More likely it has to do with my immense fear of the unknown. I think it’s a real phobia for me. I can’t stand not knowing something. If I’ve done something once, I’m good and I can do it over and over again. I’ve done things just so I can tell myself, “You’ve done this, so you don’t have to ever worry about it again.”

I think there might be something wrong with me.

To Fall In Love With Anyone, (Even Yourself?,) Do This

Not sure how this will work out but I thought I’d try this exercise with myself. It’s meant for a couple but you’re supposed to love yourself first, right?

Dr. Aaron did an experiment where two strangers spent time together, asking and answering questions, then they looked into eachother’s eyes for four minutes. Within six months, they were married. They had fallen in love.

I’m going to answer the thirty-six questions over the next thirty-six days and then stare at myself in the mirror. Oh, joy.

Question 1. Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?

There are so many answers to this question. I’m quite moody, so the answer depends on my frame of mind and even on what I feel like having to eat.

It would have to be someone I’d feel comfortable around, who likes to debate weird topics, and yet is ok with long silences, maybe someone who likes to pick at a variety of different foods as opposed to having an actual dinner, someone who likes to laugh and finds the oddity of life humorous. A comedian would be good. I’m a sucker for anyone who makes me laugh.

I always thought it would be fun to be an ex-pat living a bohemian sort of life in Paris, partaking of the green fairy and screaming politics while smoking killed us before we reached forty. I don’t mind the cold, so living in an attic with only a mattress on the floor would be heavenly. No bugs, though. Oops. Just popped the fantasy.

So, cushions on the floor, a roaring fire, candles, green olives and gin and tonics while reading books. And there’d be a thunderstorm raging.

And I can’t think of the exact right person to join me. There are bits and pieces of several people but not the perfect person. Seriously, I can’t think of anyone. WTF?

Always when I give up control … boom, it comes to me.

It would be someone like Chris Pratt. I saw him on the Graham Norton show and he had this boyish, self deprecating humor. He was funny and he told good stories. I really like being entertained. There are a few “real” people I think might be the same but I’m not going to actually name them. I wasn’t born yesterday.

It’s interesting that all possible candidates are male.

For some reason, I think the question implies that I’d be inviting the person into my home. I like to be alone at home. I can’t get enough alone at home. I don’t mind having people around if they can be quiet or if they must speak, it has to be something clever and interesting, nothing about mundane, everyday topics, like bills or groceries or laundry. I don’t want to talk about kids or cats or kitchens. I prefer kings and queens and castles.

Give me philosophy and science and psychology and the vagaries of the human spirit. Or potty humor.