Layin' Low

This blog is currently on a bit of a hiatus. Hopefully a short hiatus.

Child

He sleeps with his mouth slightly open. In deep sleep. Still, even now, so like a baby.

His body protected beneath a white blanket, his brown hair gently unfolding on the pillow, his eyes wrapped in sleep. His skin so soft, so quiet, so like heaven. A softness, a stillness, as he swims in his childhood dreams. What does he dream of, I wonder?

I stand at the foot of his bed, visible still in the dark, and I am reminded of my own weakness, my pending mortality.

Cleansing Rain IV

Same first three sentences as the other three Cleansing Rain stories. Just seeing where these three little sentences take me.

It was coming down in buckets. Literal buckets. All of a sudden.

"Are you awake?" she asked.

"Yes. Kind of hard to sleep," he said, rolling his head on the pillow to face her. She was sitting up, her hands in her lap, a faint light coming in from the window.

"Because of the thunder?"

"Yeah. It's really coming down."

"I looked out," she said, "And it's raining sideways."

He pushed his pillows against the headboard and sat up in bed, rubbing his hands over his eyes and then through his hair. “I can’t sleep,” he said. “Did you sleep at all?"

“Yes, for a few hours but I’ve been up for last ten minutes or so, when the thunder started and the rain came down. The way it is hitting the cement, it’s as if the ground is breaking.”

“Maybe the ground is breaking,” he said, staring into the darkness, towards the TV, straining to reflect the room, the window, the man and woman sitting in bed at 4:35 in the morning. “Perhaps this is the rain that ends it all. The Armageddon. The great disaster, brought about by the hand of man. One act that made the rain possible. So much rain, so much water, we have nowhere to go. We are submerged and unable to breathe.”

She looked at him in the darkness, his profile softer than she remembered it, his thinning hair pushed to one side. “That is quite the optimistic view you have there,” she said with a slight smile, knowing full well the sarcasm was laced with truth.

“It’s the way I feel. Maybe it’ll just drown me, this rain. Maybe I will be the only one not to survive it. You and the kids will be just fine.” He swung his feet off the bed and stood up. He pulled on the jeans he had discarded the previous night, and the white buttoned down shirt, and he walked out of the room and down the front stairs. The whole house shook with the thunder, the beating of rain filling the air at every turn. He slipped on his shoes near the front door, easing his naked feet into his loafers. He turned the two deadbolts and the chain, and opened the wooden door. A brush of cool air laced with bitter rain instantly pushed their way through the screen door and against his face. He closed his eyes and let his face rejoice in the shower that swept over him.

He walked out in the morning darkness, his body becoming instantly drenched as he turned with the sidewalk and followed it to the main street that ran three doors down. There wasn’t any traffic on what is usually a very busy street, he thought. Visibility was difficult but there were no cars, nobody on the sidewalk. “This is perfect,” he said aloud, “The world is asleep and dry. No one is out who should be out. Except me. I am in my own world right now. This is my world right now. I can’t see anyone and it is entirely perfect. I am all wet, it is all mine.”

He raised his arms up and moved them in circles. He looked up to the sky, and closed his eyes and let the rain fill his pores, fill his body, and he began to laugh. He stood in the rain without a worry or a care, without regret about the past, without a thought about the future. “I am lucky,” he said, “This is my life, my life to lead, this is my world. It is up to me.” He let his hands drop to his side and then his head fell to his chest. Softly, two fingers, then a hand touched his shoulder, his shirt drenched to his skin. He turned and saw her standing next to him, her hair like blankets, her skin glistening. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It was a mistake and I am very, very sorry.”

The words were just escaping her lips when the man and the woman heard a sound building behind them, a rumbling, two headlights jiggling in the darkness, behind the pellets of rain. They turned and saw the two beams of light get larger and then sway to the side. The body of the car was almost lost in the movement of the rain as it seemed to move in on them from every direction. They leaned into each other, paralyzed by the swaying of the lights, the body of the car lumbering towards them. It moved left and then right, and with an explosion of light, of sound, it swerved over the curb and pressed itself around a light pole, the impact echoing deep into the night.

The rain pressed down as they looked inside the car, it’s front end suspended in the air, the front tires turning, winding down. The driver was slumped in the seat, his body thrown against the wheel and the dashboard, his limbs were tangled. There was blood escaping in all directions, his head was smashed in. It was clear that the man was no longer alive, had probably died instantly, on impact.

The man and woman walked home, the rain cleansing them, filling them with despair, with such sadness, and yet also filling them with hope. They spoke no more of that night. All sins were forgiven. Life continued, as fragile and as strong as ever.

Words I Like, VIII

Haven't done this in a while. Twenty more simple, everyday words that are fun to read, fun to say out loud. Nothing fancy. Go ahead, say them aloud. Say them slowly, letting each of them dangle in your mouth for just a bit. I dare you. Double dare you:

Peanut
Conjugate
Farthing
Paperclip
Bath
Courier
Fashion
Exfoliate
Cabbage
Burp
Flaxen
Petulance/Petulant
Libation
Germinate
Sinewy
Tumble
Carriage
Teetotal
Fathom
Posterior

Transfiguration

I feel them when I climb into bed each night and turn out the light. My head settles into the pillow and I stare into the darkness and quietly pray, "Please don't let them come - please leave me alone."

I close my eyes and I feel them as they slowly move under the covers, across the bed, and sniff at my skin, their whiskers brushing the hairs on my legs, raising the top layer of my skin.

I don't know how they get in, I don't where they come from. I don't know what I did to have them here. My mother tells me that I need to settle down, that it's all in my imagination but they are real. She is wrong, she thinks I imagine lots of things but she doesn't know, she doesn't know anything about it. They are there, each night. I can feel them, I can feel all of their movement. I can feel their little feet, their nails, moving over my body. I don't know what they are looking for. I feel their tails like tiny strings move behind them. There are so many of them. I don't know, 20, 30 of them. I never look under the covers, I don't want to see them, see their bodies, their little noses twitch and sniff. I know what they look like, I don't need to look. But I can feel all of them move over my body, skittering left and right, over my legs, my torso, my stomach and chest, sniffing. My body stiffens and I do not move an inch. I hold my breath for as long as I can, and then exhale quietly, uneventfully.

After about ten, fifteen minutes, they move off me and they disappear. I don't know where they go. When I feel them gone, I can feel my body shake. Tense, like when you are outside and you are so cold. I drift off to sleep, my eyes still filled with terror and tears. This happens every night, every single night. Somehow, I have to end this, this has to stop.

Spam I Am

Like most of you, I have been beseiged with spam as of late. At home, at work, it matters not. Yes, I get lots of offers from doctors and various men and women to "increase my equipment." Their word choice and phrasing is often puzzling and mildly humorous. (The latest one promised me, "Your fantastic device makes her shake." Not sure if that was a question or a statement or an offer.) While I thank them for thinking of me, I have declined their generous offers. And as of right now, no, I don't have any need or desire for discount medicine or enhancers.

I also get spam that offers me great sums of money -- as much as $25 million dollars!! I have received these offers from banks, high officials in foreign countries, reverands, Army sergeants and yes, I even got an email from Kofi Annan, eager to get in touch with me for the sole purpose of giving me money. All I have to do is contact them. Talk about being one lucky guy.

It seems to have gotten worse lately, my spam folder fills up so quickly each day. Now, I am not sure what the response (click) rate is on spam messages, but I guess since it costs very little to send them out, the response rate doesn't have to be great to be worth it to the spamers. Too bad, really.

Every once in a while, something gets through our tough shells though. I got a spam email yesterday that really touched me. A very simple email. The body of the email was only three words and a link. It was beautiful, really, pure poetry. I didn't click on the link but, goodness, I really loved it. I have yet to be able to delete the email because I just like to look at it now and then.

From: osario@xxxx
To: witnessing am i
Subject: You make my world beautiful

Wanna hug you http://xxxxxxxx.com/

Wednesday Night

The train rumbled over my head, so loud it seemed to shake the cement below me. The tracks rattled as the train wheels pressed against them, the vibration stuttering and crying out. It was deafening.

It was then that I became one of those people who sings loudly in public --

Winter sounds the crying
Like an old man slowly dying
And the only sound
The wind that fills the trees

I fear there is no hope for me afterall.

Father

When I was a boy
My father towered over me
He was an adult, a man
Tall and large
Big shoulders, large hands
His temper was explosive
His rage seemed limitless
I was convinced that he could kill me
If he wanted
If only he desired
For I could never match his strength
Could never equal his power

He vowed that his four boys would
"Never be able to take the old man."

My father is into his seventies now
Older, gray
More human
More mortal
Two of my brothers grew
Taller than my father
The third brother grew
Strong
But the youngest
An adult now
As tall and strong
As I will ever be
Still crumbles beneath
The old man's
Shadow

I will never be stronger
I will never be able to take the old man

Until
He is old and feeble
And not able to defend himself
Against all things
Great and small
I am devastated by this thought
This realization.

Novel Rejection

This graphic comes courtesy of the incredibly reputible news source, The Onion. It made me giggle and I thought you might enjoy it as well:



I actually think there may be some truths up there.

The Receipts

The third in a series of short stories that begin with the narrator being given something, being handed a piece of paper or object. The first two were "The Letter" and "The Summons."



She hands me the receipt. The woman with glasses and a blue smock thanks me for shopping and I grab my bag and walk away from the counter, towards the door. I walk past the newspapers and the tabloids sprinkled with the drunken escapades of some young actress I have never seen before, large sunglasses at night, stumbling towards the camera. Is that real, I wonder? A few magazines are angled towards the aisle and I stop before Vogue magazine. A brilliant deep red cover with a brunette staring at me, sultry perhaps. She is very near my type. She looks a little like me, her nose, her eyebrows. Her lips are fuller, her eyes more deeper, darker. Her hair is longer than mine, flows down her shoulder, and she is much thinner than I am, but she is me. I feel fat and old. But she is me, perhaps, if my life had happened differently.

Moments later, the woman behind the counter is handing me another receipt and I am clutching my magazine in my left hand as I walk through the glass door and onto the sidewalk leading into the parking lot. It is a clear spring day and the blue sky in the distance, beyond the sea of cars, tucked between two dusty clouds as bookends, is a brilliant azure, like the perfect blue lakes from one's childhood. What a stark contrast to the cars, I think, a stark contrast to the pavement, to the low rust brick buildings ahead, the shops. An old woman is walking up to the store, with a silver cane, clutching her creme-colored purse to her waist, against her creme-colored jacket. She looks at me, her face open, so familiar like my grandmother's. I smile at her. A gentle face, her skin so pale and clean. She does not smile back at me, though she holds my gaze as she moves slowly past me. I am still, rigid almost, the magazine suddenly heavy in my hand, as she moves from my periphery. My head begins to follow her but instead I look to the ground, my eyes filling with tears. I hear the sliding glass door behind me open. And then close shut. She is me. Or rather, I am her, perhaps, if her life had happened differently.

Suddenly, I feel lost. I don't know who I am. In a matter of one's heart beating, I am several woman, none of them really me. I drop the magazine, letting it slide from my fingers, the magazine me, shocked and confused. The magazine me wonders what has happened, looking up to the world now from the ground, as she keeps her pose, her hands on her hips, that same sultry pose. I have no answers for her. I am not sure what is happening, I think to myself. How to explain that to the magazine me or even the older woman me? What do I tell them? That eventually they become me? Or that I will become them? My head swirls, I can feel my body shake. Why wasn't I thinner? Taller? Why didn't I have fuller lips? Why wasn't I more sultry? Or happier? What will happen to me? Will I become the older woman me, in one form or another? Have I already? How did I get to this point? How do I explain what has happened to myself?

I walk across the street, letting the cars whiz past me. From both directions. I stand and wait with the other parents, mostly other mothers, outside the school as my daughter runs up to me, her pink backpack bobbing behind her. I hug her, glad to feel her close to me. A few moments later, we are waking past that same drugstore, my daughter's hand in mine and I can feel it, a little behind me, the sun continues to shine. As we walk, I revel in hearing tales of a really annoying boy named Pearce and art class and how my daughter thinks she left her hat at school, though she isn't sure.