Purity

Find me.
There’s this animal staring at me, my mouth.
I don’t think it’s dangerous. More like, annoying.
I want to run and create a hard impact into a permanent fixture.
It’s gotten into my head this way.
Leave my mark on something dark, and wet, and glistening, and maybe red?
I speak for me, “I fell down some stairs” I . . .

Sorry, it just sneezed and I couldn’t speak when it blinked.
I don’t want to hurt it. Who does it belong to?
Even flies and moths can fly away until they’re SMASHED thoughtlessly.
Who owns you?
Come find it.

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What Do You Want?

People don’t get into children’s culture enough. You know, cartoons, children’s books, learning channels and so forth…

Remember that wide eyed enjoyment of art or animation, how the lines and characters looked off but so colorful and right? Encouraging you to just start staring at people. Real people trying to figure it, figure them out. Do you remember?

I do.
There was nothing wrong with a purely innocent curiosity in people in general. There still isn’t.
Or how people would come up to you and tell you how cute you were? People you didn’t even know. Does anyone do this any more? If you started now, the person in question would most likely tell you to “fuck off.” Or avoid confrontation altogether. If someone did respond by telling you how cute you were, most people would assume that this person wanted something from them(most likely sexual in nature).

Connect with strangers, even if it’s just a moment of eye contact.
Especially the ones wearing sunglasses, refuse to let them shut us out!
No contempt, no self righteousness.
Just a look of happy curiosity in them as a person, not an object, or a subject.
Just as a person, a simple look one that says, “Hi, have you looked up lately? There’s a sky there. Neat, huh?”

Flash Fiction: Mother

Chuck Wendig: Flash Fiction Challenge – Write what you know

Based on an one sentence truth and my uncanny ability to bring my own Mother to tears. Gene: Horror. Count: 1000 words exact.

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Mother

They sat at the table, staring into their respective mugs.
Drinks cooling slowly, steam settling like the silence between them. Thick and weighty with things that didn’t want to be disturbed, let alone said out-loud. A silence of denial, an adult’s silence.

Jacob tried to be calm, to wait. Keeping himself occupied by tangling his legs about those of the chair. Trying not to swing, kick, or tap. Trying not to let his boredom show. If she knew, she’d start crying… again.
While he’d slump, shrink. Feeling useless, feeling like the villain… again.
Displays of impatience somehow let her know how much he despised her. Despised her even wearing on his time.

He must have cleared his throat, or let his lip twitch into barely concealed scowl. Must have. She was looking at him. Studying his face for answers to a question he was certain he hadn’t asked.

His Mother.
Jacob twisted his contempt into a smile, “You wanted to tell me something…?” Prompting, questioning, reminding.

His Mother returned a genuine if sappy smile. Damp. She always seemed damp. Her fingers curling and uncurling about her cup as if she was gauging the strength needed to lift the mug. Lips pursing and gaping trying to form words but she ending up just nodding quietly, quickly.

Jacob extended an upturned palm urging her on.

His Mother swallowed, nodded again and downed half her mug before bracing herself, “It’s about your brother…”

Immediately more alert, Jacob sat up straighter, eyes narrowing, “What about him?”

“He’s…” His mother paused glancing around as if the younger boy might be sneaking up on them, but the pause was too much, she’d lost the momentum, or whatever word she’d been trying to form. Instead it came out as barely a noise, a pained ‘Mmmhm’ forced from soured lips.

Jacob’s gritted his teeth, whatever word she was searching for wasn’t going to be good. She had no right to talk about his brother, HIS little Charles until she decided that she would actually talk to Chuck, hold him, comfort him… Or at least, for god’s sake, to hear it when he was crying. He had no idea how he’d managed to survive his childhood with this… this Mother. She hardly had a right to the title.

She was trying again, a word ending up slipping out in a hush, “Wrong.”

Standing before he was aware of the impulse, Jacob’s hands slammed down on the table, sending his untouched drink sloshing. “Don’t,” He warned her, closing his eyes to the anger he could feel boiling and burning beneath his skin, begging to be released. “Just don’t.” He raised a warning hand. She had no right, no claim. Made worse, because she of all people should be the one to care, to give a damn, to step forward and protect when other children had first begun taunting Charles. His poor little Chuck, so soft, so quiet in comparison to the inherent rowdiness of other boys. Fairy Fluff they’d called him, Fairy Fluff Chuck. Jacob tried to shake the thoughts loose.

It had been getting worse, the names. They weren’t even voiced to Jacob’s face anymore. Testing to see if he’d join in, sacrifice empathy to the alters of cool. Oh but how he had traded, in his own coin, scraped knuckles for busted teeth, split lips, black eyes. But he could still hear them, the whispers, the giggling… Their faces twisted in ugly humor as the brothers passed in silence down the hallway. Like they didn’t even exist.

There was a noise, he opened his eyes. His Mother was crying. Leaking, but trying to form words once more, despite his enraged plea. Jacob wondered if he would hit her, if he could. She was still at least, His Mother. Could he bring himself to lay even one sharp snap across that fat, damp face?
He could still recall softer times, soothing words and comforts that carried him through sickness… Anger lost its edge and he deflated suddenly, retaking his seat.

Weakly his mother nodded, pulling strength from somewhere. “I never told you. You were so young and I, how could I…” She shook her head and tried to start again… “The second pregnancy…”

“Charles.” Jacob corrected. Jesus, she couldn’t even say his name.

His mother nodded, thoughtful suddenly, “Charles. When I was pregnant with Charles. The clinic… the doctors. They told me, assured me that I should terminate. That the child… Charles.” She corrected before Jacob could interrupt, now that she’d gotten to the full matter. “Would be born… sickly. Too ill to survive a few weeks, a month if we were lucky. That is if it… he, made out at all…”

The pause was too long, too much, “So what? You think that excuses it? Jesus, Mom. Because he should have been born ‘wrong’ and wasn’t, you… What? Think that there must be something that you can’t see? Some subtler defect that excuses you from even pretending to act like a damn parent?” Jacob looked up to see Chuck standing in the doorway. Fuck. How long had he been there? The kid even moved too damn soft. Their Mother hadn’t noticed. Jacob stood, done with a conversation of excuses.
“We’re going out.” Jacob stood to join his brother, his Mother wouldn’t even turn.

“Does he hate me?” The question was soft but carried. Even though she still wouldn’t turn her damn head. Addressing Jacob instead of her youngest.

The brothers looked at each other, stunned by the question. At the care, the hurt present behind it. Chuck considered and then shrugged, shaking his head. Damn, but the kid was kind. Jacob supplied the voiced, “Naw.” Just before the door slammed behind them.

Alone, tears flowed fully and Mother cried for her boys.
For the one she could see and the one she never would.

Beautiful and Cruel…

Ever look at your hands? No really take a moment, I’ll wait for you.
Are we good now? Okay then, what are hands good for, really?
They can gesture, to communicate what you are thinking…
Before you know what you are are even trying to say.
They can hold things, touch things.
They can dance in mid-air.
Graceful beauty.
Dancing in mid-air.
Just on the edge of verbal.

A Pressing

I’m far from well Sebastian.
Far from cool waters
Just heat. Trickling down furrowed-in brow
Dampening pillow’s down
Lacking the strength to toss, just wait.

Stifle a moan, stare intent.
Imagine a clean, cream space
no yellowed sheets
no waiting
no hushed tones in case sleep has finally come to claim.

I’m far from well Sebastian.
Far from you, the shape of your face.
Though my fingers remember it clearly.
Tracing it out like braille
on whatever medium they can catch.

A clean, cream space.
Edged in the barest flight of dust
caught in a sunbeam, a tracing, an imprint.
Shift your gaze and it’s gone.

I’m far from well Sebastian.
I thought you knew. Thought it why you stayed.
Thought it exactly why you knew to sleep apart.
But no lock Sebastian? You tease… you test… you knew.

A clean, cream space.
Blank pages in a book.
A wild flower.
Saved.
Preserved.
Though yellowing & too fragile to touch. Mine.

Because You Were Looking

crouched in thought. hands clicking. . .
cheek resting on my knee, movements to soothe
buried but not burdened.

crickets culling
the comforts are few an oh so quiet
smooth against the night whale
attached bare-knuckles . . .
zaire rocks the light if you can stand it.
pulling out your, “iIiee’s”
Pearlized-coating your tongue, your stories.
an where is Able?(truth?)
walk softly, limp an lean.

like the daughter of Herodias i beckon. head over shoulder coolly in blood tongue hiss,
using a voice that isn’t mine . . .
for what do i ask?
no, not his head.
his hands in a box, on a platter – –
to be delivered by Lavinia herself, (who is biting what’s left of her tongue)
offering this gift from between her own mutilated stumps.

because you are a deity
an quite simply;
i’ve been meaning to start on my collection- –
This is the gospel according to Cain, forever an ever . . .