SoulSpeak

Famous

2008-02-05T00:35:00.001-08:00

Famous
Susie Potter
Ellen slammed herself against the door to her tiny apartment, begging it to open so she could get in out of the cold. She hated cold weather more than most people did. It seemed to get inside of her and stay there for a long time. Finally, the stubborn old door gave way, and she rushed inside, slamming it behind her and heading straight for the air vents. When she was especially frozen, Ellen would stand on top of the vents, feeling the welcoming heat rush through her body, warming her from the outside in.
Once she was warm, she greeted her colorful, purple betta fish by dropping in the food pellets he eagerly gobbled down twice a day. She smiled as he greedily rushed to the top of his bowl. The fish was named Hooch, and he was one of the few small things that brought Ellen any pleasure these days.
She made her way to the refrigerator and debated with herself over which frozen dinner she’d rather have that night. She made up her mind, ferociously stabbed holes through the thin plastic that covered it, and popped it into the microwave, closing the door with a satisfying finality.
Ellen turned on the television and plopped down onto her worn sofa. Veronica Rogers was on TV again.
“What has she done now,?” Ellen wondered to herself.
Pictures of the starlet danced across the screen as a stony faced reporter announced that Veronica had been committed to some fancy hospital for trying to kill herself the night before. Ellen shook her head sadly, her mind drifting back to that day on the playground, so many years ago.
Ellen had been the chubbiest girl in the fourth grade, which also made her the most unpopular. She hated recess, because all the pretty girls, feeling that nine was much too old for playground games, would sit in the grass together talking, while she sat on the swings alone, pretending to read a book. Ellen would really be listening to their conversations, wanting to join in. She watched the same shows they talked about and listened to the same music. A little voice inside of her wanted to yell, “I’m just like you guys!”
Ellen hated when the boys would do something to pick on the girls, like mimic their high voices or tell them some vaguely dirty joke they’d overheard their parents say. The boys never picked on Ellen like that, and this bothered her more than their teasing ever could. They’d call her fatty or yell out “Earthquake” when she was forced to run in P.E. class. She knew the way they teased the pretty girls was different, and she knew that despite the disgusted looks and rolled eyes that were the girls’ replies, they enjoyed the attention.
On this particular day, though, something wonderful happened. Veronica Rogers was the most beloved girl in Ellen’s entire grade. She was pert and cute, with always stylish clothes and a winning smile. She’d been in lots of plays at the children’s theatre and was recently crowned “Little Miss Thompsonville”. Ellen had always admired her from afar. Everything about Veronica, from her adoring family to her dad’s cool, new sportscar was absolutely perfect. Ellen often wondered what it would be like to be Veronica, and she listened attentively for any details about the girl’s life. When she’d overheard that Veronica loved Brian Lawe, a gorgeous pop star, Ellen had started listening to his music, and she’d even bought a t-shirt with his picture on it. That day, she was wearing it.
She had just taken her place on the swings when Veronica herself came over and plopped down beside her.
“Hi Ellen. I love your shirt!,” Veronica said.
“Thanks,” Ellen stammered.
“Do you want to come and sit with us,?” Veronica asked, gesturing to the other girls.
Just like that, Ellen was up off her swing and following Veronica’s swishy skirt to the coveted circle in the grass. None of the other girls were brave enough to say anything rude to Ellen. If Veronica thought Ellen was cool, then she was cool. Ellen was too afraid of saying the wrong thing and ending her good luck to talk much, but she listened to the other girls and laughed at the right moments. The bell rang all too soon, and Ellen followed the girls into the school.
After school, Veronica asked Ellen if she would like to come over for a snack.
Ellen thought Veronica’s house was the most beautiful one she’d ever seen, and something about it caused her voice to become a whisper. Every inch of the house was pristine, unlike the dusty corners of Ellen’s own tiny home.
“Hi sweetheart! How was school?,” Mrs. Rogers said as Veronica flounced into the kitchen.
“It was okay. This is my friend, Ellen.” Ellen’s heart leaped at being called Veronica’s friend.
“Well hello. I don’t think I’ve ever met you before, dear. What’s your last name?”
“Brantley,” Ellen managed to squeak out. Mrs. Rogers was beautiful, and it was the first time Ellen had ever realized that not all mothers had fat faces and tired looking eyes.
“Hmm. No, I don’t think I know your mother. Does she come to the PTA?”
“No. She has to work too much.”
“I see. Well, what would you girls like to eat?”
“Cookies,” Veronica said hopefully.
Mrs. Rogers shook her head slightly.
“Okay, okay. Apples and peanut butter?”
Mrs. Rogers smiled and turned toward the refrigerator.
As the girls ate their snacks, Ellen thought of all the things she’d always wanted to ask Veronica. She wanted to know what it was like to be in pageants, prancing around in frilly dresses with everyone admiring you. She wanted to know if Veronica got nervous before she went on stage in the Christmas play, but somehow she couldn’t form those questions into words. Veronica, however, was not at a loss for words. As soon as her mother had disappeared, she began to chatter.
“You can have a cookie if you want. I’m not allowed. My mother never lets me eat anything good, because I can’t get fat if I’m going to win at state this year. You’re lucky. Your mom must let you eat anything you want.”
Ellen blushed at that. “At least you’re not fat.”
“I don’t think you’re fat. I think you just look like real girls. I don’t think pageant girls are real girls, do you?”
Ellen wrinkled her nose in confusion.
“I don’t think I know any pageant girls except you,” she answered finally.
“Well, they’re pretty awful. I don’t even like pageants.”
“Why do you do them then?” “It makes my parents really happy. I kind of like being on stage and all, but all that dressing up and having everybody tell you what to do isn’t so fun.”
“I think you’re lucky. I wish people would pay that much attention to me.”
The girls finished their apple slices, and Veronica crept to the counter and uncovered a plate of cookies. She handed one to Ellen.
“Eat it. They’re so good,” Veronica ordered.
Ellen bit into the cookie, and Veronica watched her, licking her lips as if she could somehow taste it too.
As the last delicious morsel disappeared, Mrs. Rogers appeared in the kitchen.
“Veronica, you have ballet in half an hour. It’s time for Ellen to go home.”
“Okay. See ya in school,” Veronica said.
Ellen got up and collected her battered book bag.
“Do you live far from here? I can drop you off on the way,” Mrs. Rogers said.
The walk home from Veronica’s would be a good ten minutes, and Ellen was eager to get home and revel in the joy of the day. She almost said yes, but she thought about her tiny house and discovered she was embarrassed for Veronica to see it.
“It’s not too far. Thank you for the snack.”
“All right, dear. Good-bye.”
That night, Ellen let her imagination take over. She thought she and Veronica might become best friends. Then, they’d both be the most popular girls in school. Ellen could eat the exact same things as Veronica, and she would get skinny too. Then, maybe, she could even be in a pageant with her new best friend.
When Ellen’s mother finally came home, Ellen rushed up to her and related her glorious day.
“Veronica Rogers…she’s that little girl who’s always in the paper, isn’t she? Her parents own basically everything around,” Ms. Brantley said, more to herself than to Ellen.
“Yeah, that’s her. We’re going to be best friends. Maybe my name can be in the paper, too.”
“Oh, Ellen. Listen. That was really nice of Veronica to ask you over, but I wouldn’t expect too much. They’re different from us, you know.”
Ellen did know. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but she did. In fact, that very thought had been secretly gnawing at the back of her hopes all day. Her childish faith won out though, and she went to sleep dreaming of sleepovers at the Rogers’ perfect home.
At school, the next day, things went back to the way they normally did. Ellen wore her pop star shirt until it came apart in the wash, but Veronica never noticed it again. The only noticeable difference was that she smiled at Ellen and said hello each time they passed. In sixth grade, Veronica and her mother moved away. Their was a new show being filmed, and Veronica had gotten the part.
“Veronica’s gone absolutely nuts, and her family is sick of it. It’s been reported that her parents refused to visit her in the hospital. We’ll keep you updated on the latest.”
The newscaster’s sharp words jolted Ellen out of her memories.
Veronica’s life wasn’t turning out the way everyone had thought. She’d been an iconic star for almost a decade, but everything seemed to be crumbling now. Ellen’s life wasn’t going quite the way she’d hoped either. The days were monotonous. Her career was promising, but no lover had ridden in on a white horse to save her from her gloom.
Ellen switched off the television and headed for her lonely bedroom. After she’d changed into her favorite pajamas and brushed her teeth, she kneeled beside her bed to pray, a ritual performed since childhood. That night, she said a special prayer for Veronica Rogers and for herself.

Raaj Raaj Baby

2007-10-06T21:04:00.000-07:00

Raaj Raaj Baby

Susie Potter

It is a Tuesday night at Rowdy’s, a dirty little sports bar known for its cheap wings and bad karaoke. I am sitting in a dank little booth with my too old for me friend, Raaj, whose real name is Nareej. Raaj makes him sound cooler and younger, more like the college aged crowd around him. Tuesday nights are when he stops being a boring, alcoholic investor and instead morphs into a bad, alcoholic singer.

He is gearing up for his turn at the microphone by chain smoking Marlboro lights and guessing answers to the computerized trivia game being played over one of Rowdy’s many glaring television sets. His longish black hair has a few gray streaks and choppy pieces fall into his dark eyes and mask his unibrow. Occasionally, he lapses into a dull conversation with his insanely fat friend and co-worker, Shea. When he isn’t engaging in this insipid banter, he flirts with me in a corny sort of way that I enjoy for some strange reason.

Lately, we’ve been having “deep” conversations where he isn’t interested in learning anything about me but tells me all the details of his DUI and the gambling addiction he recently conquered. I now know that when Raaj isn’t traveling for his job, he lives at home with his Hindu parents who disapprove of his lifestyle. He’s only had one girlfriend in his thirty years and seems to shuffle through life on a happy go lucky smile. I don’t think he gets laid very often, but last time we talked he did tell me about his tryst with a married woman in Texas.

“I poked her once or twice. She was sort of fat. It was her birthday the first time, so I felt like I was doing her a favor. When her hillbilly husband confronted me and I admitted what I’d done, the guy actually thanked me for being such a good honest friend,” he had related with a cocky little grin.

After that conversation, I’d somewhat affectionately nicknamed him “Pokey”.

The music starts and the balding announcer informs everyone in the bar that “California Raaj” is about to enthrall us with his musical talents. Now, he is on. All five feet and four inches of him saunters up to the stage where he fearlessly takes the mike. Vanilla Ices’ “Ice Ice Baby” begins and Raaj starts to jump around on one leg in a way that makes me laugh uncontrollably. He substitutes the “Ice Ice Baby” lyrics to rasp out, “Raaj, Raaj baby” in such a serious manner that I feel bad for giggling at him. It gets worse. He occasionally rubs his nipples in a way that I can only hope he doesn’t really find sexy.

When the song is over, he gets lots of cheers from an audience that has apparently found him hilarious. Raaj orders another strong and vile tasting drink before coming back to the booth where Shea and I greet him with smiles and laughter.

“That was awful,” he says honestly.

“Yeah. It was pretty bad,” I agree.

“You loved it,” he says in the same manner that he uses to inform me I love his kisses and the way he occasionally jiggles my left boob in public.

Raaj buys me another drink, so I go on finding him adorable and funny. I’ll probably sleep with him tonight and regret it tomorrow, but that’s just how it goes with us.

“So Pokey, what’s your next song gonna be?,” I ask.

“”I’m Too Sexy”. You’ll love it. I take off my shirt for this one,” he replies.

Just Another Bulimic

2007-05-03T00:16:00.000-07:00

Just Another Bulimic

There was something very lonely about her life that she couldn’t quite understand. She had plenty of friends, but she never felt complete. Whenever she went out, she spent the entire time looking forward to the moment when she could go home and be left alone. When she finally was alone, she longed to be filled. She hungered for people, but desired to be invisible. This was quite the conundrum. None of her friends really knew her. She was a little bit different with every one of them. It was just easier to pretend and agree and go through all the motions than to expose her real self. She did have some semblance of the person she was inside, but revealing this person would take far too much effort. Aside from that, she also doubted that her “friends” would like the person behind the smiles.
When she was alone, she was free to eat to her heart’s desire. Taking joy in the food was so effortless. It was pure enjoyment and nothing more. She couldn’t shovel the bites in fast enough. Each one was good and warm and filling. Every swallow made her a little more complete. She would eat numbly until her stomach was distended and she could barely stand. Then she would find some container, usually a two liter soda bottle, and vomit until she was empty again.
She never did understand why she preferred soda bottles to the toilet. Perhaps she was too lazy and bloated to stagger to the bathroom, or maybe she just liked to have the disgust she felt for herself be contained as something tangible and real. Once she acquired a large collection of these morbid souvenirs, she’d leave them somewhere for strangers to find. She liked to picture their reactions when they opened their mail box to find two liters of chunky vomit. Their faces would contort into a mask of shock and confusion as they gazed at the very soul of a girl they had never met.
Once the purge was over, she always had to be sure that she was back in control. She’d walk to the bathroom, undress, and step on the scale. She’d pray for a low number. If her prayers were answered, she was free to clean off the vomit and crumbs and make herself clean and desirable once again. On the days when the numbers were kind, she would vow that she would never again binge and purge. She would make promises to herself to become a new person, a kind, normal person. She always truly believed that by the next day she would be able to be perfect in every way. If the numbers didn’t submit to her desires, she would cry, try her best to vomit again, and swear that she was done with food entirely.
Her attempts were always futile. Sometimes she could make it for a day or two, but she always fell back into this vicious cycle. Her weight jumped up only to crash back down. Her teeth began to hurt, and she had horrifying dark, dizzy spells. She still went to class and made her way through life, but all the while this horrible secret held her back. She knew her problem had a name and a treatment, but she couldn’t face it. She had been strong for so long, and this was the one weakness she allowed herself.
Eventually with a tired, haggard soul and a disintegrating body, she would die. She feared it constantly. Sometimes, at night, she would lie in bed and feel her heart skipping and rumbling in her chest, and she’d pray that death wouldn’t come. She’d bargain with God, promising that if He would spare her, give her one more chance, she’d never do it again. Though she tried and raged and fought, her desperate promises always ended up as lies. This was it. She would die over something as paltry as a bag of potato chips. She would discard every gift and talent and dream she had for those few moments of hedonistic joy that she had while eating. She was beautiful, bright, and kind, but she could not love herself enough. She cried out to be saved, but drowned in a pool of rancid vomit.

The Birthday Wish

2007-05-03T00:12:00.000-07:00

The Birthday Wish

Today, she was twenty years old. There had been no celebration. Anne was “home” from college for the summer, and all the people she called friends were far away. Nothing seemed quite real to her today. She couldn’t connect with the girl who had lived in this house for so many years. It was as if someone else had lived that life. Anne had no home, not really. This place was a bitter mix of familiar and foreign, and her tiny dorm room was even worse.
Her mother had gone to bed long ago, kissing her on the cheek and whispering sweet words full of pride and a touch of sadness. Now, the young woman was alone in what she used to consider her room. Bored and lonely for no one but her former self, she wandered over to her closet. There were no clothes in it. They were strewn all over the floor, because she hadn’t bothered to hang them up. There didn’t seem to be any point.
Up on the top shelf of her empty closet sat a large, clear bag that had once housed a comforter. Now, it was filled with twelve inch fashion dolls, all with flowing hair and gaudy clothes that had long been out of style. Suddenly, home and childhood and play rushed to greet her. These dolls used to be filled with her stories. As a child, she would sit for hours concocting intense dramas and full lives for these plastic women.
She reached in and pulled out Valerie who was dressed in a matronly pencil skirt and knitted blouse. In her stories, this doll had often played the mother or the teacher. She put the doll aside and gently picked out Britney. This doll had a younger looking face and a sadly hopeful pink dress. Britney had been her favorite, always playing the role of the cool big sister or the most popular girl in school. At the very bottom of the bag, she found tiny Katie who was smaller than the other dolls and clad in adorable pink coveralls.
Without even realizing what she was doing, Anne began making up a story for these miniature women . Valerie became Katie’s mother and Britney the young, British au pair chosen to live with them for the summer. Anne was all set to play, and she started to make the dolls talk. Only a few seconds into her game, she suddenly realized she didn’t know how to play it anymore. Her dialogue sounded foolish, and she couldn’t stop worrying about what would happen next. Would Britney meet a charming American and neglect her duties as au pair? Would Valerie become jealous of this pretty, young thing living in her home, and just where had Valerie’s husband gone off to?
It was useless. Anne didn’t know what to do, so she gave the dolls a sad smile and put them back in the bag. She briefly considered giving them away to the rough little girls next door or to some charity, but she knew she couldn’t bear to part with them. Once the bag was safely tucked away on the shelf, Anne walked over to her suitcase and took out a bottle of pills. Without pausing, she popped off the cap and took the entire bottle. Now, she could rest. The constant search for home and self and truth would come to a final, screeching halt, and the emptiness would end. She dove into her soft bed and closed her eyes with a sigh and an easy smile.

A Choice

2007-05-03T00:08:00.000-07:00

A Choice
He loved her in the way that she had always dreamed of being loved. He kissed her forehead and called her sweet names. It was always a little funny to her when he did, because he didn’t look like the type to do these things. Covered in tattoos and piercings, he appeared to be playing the part of a stereotypical “bad boy”. She loved that when he was with her, he was reduced to a gentle, affectionate creature.
It was night, and they had spent a lovely day playing house. She’d made him dinner, and they’d eaten in front of Saturday night television. Now, it was time to slip into his room and sleep. Strangely enough, they actually did sleep. The couple had decided to be truly old fashioned and wait until their wedding night to consummate their relationship. Wearing his warm, secure pajamas, she snuggled into his safe, soft bed and watched him take off his shirt. His body was long and lean, and it filled her with the desire to touch him gently and sweetly.
He climbed into the bed and snuggled up to her in the most wonderful way, giving her soft kisses and whispering how much he loved her. Soon, they were both asleep, and she began to dream. The dream started off innocently enough. She was walking down a tree lined suburban street alone, but she didn’t feel alone, not really.
As she walked, the feeling increased. It was not a nice sensation at all. It was, she decided, the feeling one often has when dining alone. Even though people at other tables are engrossed in conversation and mastication, the solo diner still feels self-conscious and watched. They take extra care with their cutting and chewing and feel conspicuous and hyper aware of their own thoughts. So different is the feeling of sitting at home in front of the television, crunching loudly and drinking straight from the container.
In her sleep, she made soft utterances, but in her dream she started to run. She wasn’t sure why her dream self ran, maybe it was to get away from whatever was hindering her. It seemed to work for a bit, but the dreamer’s discomfort increased when she realized that all the houses looked exactly the same, though slightly different activities were occurring on the front lawns and inside the houses themselves.
On one lawn, children ran through the sprinklers, laughing loudly and showing no concern for anyone but themselves. On another, a couple were having a silly fight, yelling and screaming, but doing so in a way that seemed perfunctory. Still, she passed more homes. Glimpses in windows revealed people eating dinner without speaking. She watched a wife snuggled up to her husband and trying for a kiss but being ignored in favor of a television screen. She was unable to gaze into a few of the houses because bars covered the doors and windows. These images scared her very much. They were all so mundane and pointless, but they seemed to constitute these people’s entire lives.
Suddenly, she found herself facing a house that she instinctively knew to be her own. Nervous, she walked up to the door and walked inside. Before she could take in what awaited her, she awoke with a start and a stifled scream
The man she was nestled with stirred long enough to kiss her cheek, but it didn’t feel as it had before. His arms around her were no longer safe and sweet but possessive and hungry. The diamond glinting on her left hand felt uncomfortably tight. She really wanted to push him away, drive home, and curl up in her own bed, but fear gripped her. The tight embrace was unpleasant, but sleeping alone wasn’t her idea of happiness either, and she did love the man who slept beside her. Too afraid to leave, but not really wanting to stay, she opted to simply slide out of his arms and find more room for herself. This left them touching, but not clutching, and she was somewhat more content.
As she drifted off to sleep for the second time that night, her only wish was that she’d surpass the odds and live a life that was at least a little different from her dream.

The Gift

2005-11-11T20:41:00.000-08:00

The Gift

Willy was fat and ugly. She had no particular feelings for him, but he had a car that could take her anywhere. So she shot him a whispered phone call at two in the morning.
When he knocked on her door, she rushed at him with a warm and hungry hug. For the moment, he was her savior. She was armed with only her music and half a pack of cigarettes. The night was beautiful in her eyes, for she knew she would soon taste freedom.
She begged him to drive and not stop. She took control of his CD player and his lighter. As he drove, she gazed at him. He was so very tangible and real. Willy had known pain and love and happiness and despair. His life was simple and bland, but he had lived it. The longer she stared at him, the more beautiful he became, and she was quick to tell him so.
It was her duty to be purposefully adorable and make him crazy for her. Perhaps she was being selfish and cruel since she never planned on seeing him again, but she didn’t mean to be. She just needed this moment. She needed him to want her and find her desirable.
She loved to make him laugh and smile his crooked smile. It was a funny smile, browned and true. She smiled too but without being sure if it was authentic. Willy wondered why this funny girl looked at him as though he were her hero. Her look was an intense stare, almost scary. He wanted to stop driving, to speak, but he didn’t. She hated it when he stopped. To see her smile fall pained him deeply. It was like watching dreams be laid to rest or seeing long held faith go astray.
Hours passed and haunting songs poured from the stereo. She borrowed his hat, and they stopped in a foggy field for a few brief and blissful seconds. She told him silly little lies without understanding why. She relished in the fact that no one knew where they were at that exact moment. She even dared to question their very existence.
Finally, they were back in the car again. This dirty, used car was her sanctuary, a small piece of heaven. She didn’t want this ride to end. She hugged him to her at every red light, savoring the moment. He planted wispy, wet kisses on her cheeks and called her sweet names in a gentle voice. He clasped her hand and asked her questions. She loved it but needed to go no further. She didn’t want to lie with him in some soft and sweetly scented bed. She only wanted him to drive.
Did this ride mean anything at all, or did it mean everything? To her, it did. When they had to stop, it was still too soon for her. They hadn’t gone nearly far enough, but for the moment, she was content. Her soul was clean and released. The burden of life was light.
She refused to kiss him good night but hugged him again. Turning and walking alone into the mournful house, she could feel the emptiness set in again, but it wasn’t nearly as awful as it had been when she’d made that desperate call. She’d never see Willy again; she’d avoid any attempt at contact he might make, but she was grateful to him. He’d given her a fleeting but precious gift…freedom for the moment, from the moment.

(Recently published in The Colton Review)

For Mom

2005-10-21T20:32:00.000-07:00

For Mom

They sat in the stony silence of their mutual disappointment. They were together but alone. Both were lost deep within the channels of their own minds. They were each remembering separate pieces of their lives. Though they searched, neither woman could find a memory that did not include the other.
The two struggled to find a word to express their deep feelings, but there didn’t seem to be one. Never had there been such a mixture of love, hate, bitterness, forgiveness, and joy between two people. A stranger passing by would have noted the distance between them and thought they despised one another. In some small way, they did, but they also loved each other deeply. Even a quick glance at the pair proclaimed how different they were.
One was young and pretty. Her eyes glowed with excitement, passion, and a zest for life. The girl had tried and done everything, and she was still apt to chase after dreams. She was immediately likeable, and a five minute conversation with her would reveal that she had experienced much more in her years than the tired, older woman beside her. A lot of the great things she’d done had been to win the approval of this woman. Somehow, it had never seemed to be quite enough. The young girl glanced over at the lady, and for a brief moment she was filled with contempt for her. Then as she studied the sleepy eyes, rough hands, and worried wrinkles and creases, that feeling dissolved into intense love.
The older woman was very worn but still had a faint glow about her. She was proud of the girl beside her. She had always loved this child more than anything else, and she still did. She’d worked her entire life to give her all that she’d never had. She knew she’d spoiled her, but she wasn’t sorry. After all the woman had done for this girl, she still felt it wasn’t enough. She remembered the times they’d had to go without, and she wondered if there was something more she could have given her. She also wondered what it would take to make this selfish girl appreciate her.
The woman pulled the old car up to the college. The battery would probably die before she made it home, but she didn’t tell the girl this. This was the moment they’d both worked so hard for. She was sending her youngest daughter off to college. This was the only one of her three children to make it this far. She had always marveled at the girl’s ambition, but had never told her so.
Now, she was free. They both were. Each was free of protecting the other, of their shared burdens, and of their sometimes smothering closeness. The girl was scared. For years, she’d dreamed of being free of this woman. This was the woman who’d held her back. This was the woman who was the cause of all her problems. This was the woman she’d taught to be a mother. This was the woman she adored. Now, it was finally time, and she’d have given anything to put their separation off a bit longer.
Her mother was struggling to fight back tears. They were tears that pleaded to be wept. She refused to shed them. This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it… to not have to take care of the girl, to do things alone, to buy and do for herself.
Slowly, the girl opened the car door and got out. Her mother rushed over to help her with the bags.
“I can handle it,” the girl assured her mother.
The weathered lady nodded and smiled as her last child turned to go. She headed towards the car, pretending as though she didn’t care. Her daughter bit her lip and made her way toward the college.
Halfway to the entrance, she was overcome with a new feeling. She didn’t know what it was exactly. She only knew it was intense. It was so strong and overwhelming that she dropped her bags and ran toward her mother. The older woman must have been struck with the same emotion because she also turned and ran. The two met in the middle and embraced. They held each other tighter than they ever had and allowed the tears to come. Both uttered words the other could not hear. They held on to each other with all they had, determined never to let go.

A Fairy Tale

2005-09-11T21:48:00.000-07:00

Miriam lived in a bubble, but she was happy. She loved her false world. Each morning, she would get up and her face would break into a smile. Her soul would fill with uncontainable joy as she looked at the plastic flowers beside her bed. She would dig her toes into the patches of artifical grass. The smile never left her face.
She was never sad, hungry, or lonely. She had no clue what those things meant.
One day, the bubble burst, and a new world opened up. She walked around this new place. She saw people dancing, but she couldn't hear the music. She saw a woman crying, truly crying. She had big tears running down a blotchy, red face. It was beautiful. Ellie opened her mouth and tried to sing out about the beauty of it, but she could not.
She tried and tried to sing until her bubble reformed.
Miriam ran to her plastic flowers. Now, they were hideous. She dug her toes into the artifical grass. It now felt rough and scratcy and false. She tried to love these things again, but could not. Still though, the smile wouldn't leave her face.
Finally, one day, the bubble popped again. She ran and ran untl she fell down. It hurt to fall. Her smile faded and she began to cry. She cried like the woman she had seen and she ached from the inside out. She was happier than she had ever been

Just Ellie

2005-08-22T10:36:00.000-07:00

Just Ellie
Susie

Ellie was made of flesh, and she liked to see her own blood. She was the only one made of true flesh. Everyone else was cheaply crafted from plastic. Sometimes she thought she spotted someone else made of flesh. They always turned out to be synthetic though.
This made her excruciatingly sad, because she was often lonely. Her feelings, however, changed often. She usually felt sorry for these plastic beings. Ellie knew most of them had started out as flesh but had turned to plastic. Every now and then, when the world was especially bright and colorful, she envied them.
They just seemed so happy and beautiful in all their plasticity. Ellie knew that if she really wanted to, she could make herself like all the others. She sometimes toyed with the idea, and once she almost gave in. She knew she could either be real and alone, or plastic and surrounded by her own kind.
Ellie’s heart implored her not to become like them, and she listened. Each night, she would hope to somebody meet another fleshy person. Perhaps she would, perhaps she wouldn’t.
On good days, Ellie sat back and laughed at these silly, plastic people. She would lean back, burning cigarette in hand, and watch them. These moments were when it was all worth it. She’d know their joy was only a facade. She had what was real.
The plastic people could never accept Ellie. They were cruel to her, but she knew they envied her. So this girl separated herself from their false little world. She was just Ellie. Ellie, made of flesh, who liked to see her own blood.

It

2005-08-09T09:52:00.000-07:00

It
Susie

Abigail lay awake in her bed. It was coming. At first, It had been something very far away. It had been so distant that it had seemed pleasurable. She had actually beckoned for It to come closer. She’d wanted to embrace it. She had wanted to toy with it. For a while, the closer It got, the more desirable It had seemed. Come, Come faster, she had thought.
Now It was extremely close….too close…smothering. It was all around her. It was so very urgent and demanding. Abigail’s bedroom door was open just a crack. She could see the hopeful, yellow sliver of light peeking through.
Maybe she was being silly. “It came for everyone sooner or later,” she told herself. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as horrific as everyone said. She had learned that what everyone said was not always the truth. They said you couldn’t escape it, but maybe she could.
The instant that flashing thought danced across her mind, she rolled off the bed. She crawled toward the light with all that she possessed. She wanted the light so badly. The light would save her. “Fight It. Fight It. God, please let me fight It,” she thought.
For a brief instant, she was winning. Then Its pressures swirled around her like a vast and hopeless cyclone, and she could fight no more. She gave a desperate wail. She’d thought she could beat It. Could anyone?
She had to alleviate the pressure. It was everywhere. It came at her from all directions. It didn’t let u for a second. It was so much crueler than she could have imagined. She crawled onto the bed and admitted defeat.
For only a moment, It seemed warm and kind, and she wondered why she’d fought It so. Then Its viciousness was upon her.

Embrace

2005-08-03T14:01:00.000-07:00

She carefully dragged the blade across her wrist. She used a firm pressure, and kept her concentration on the coldness of the water.

It was like ice. A cold she couldn't escape. A cold so intense that it burned.

The pain in her wrists was non-existent. She had expected it to hurt, but it didn't. Strange, in all her fantasies, it had hurt. It had hurt so much that it almost matched the pain inside of her. Oh, how she had dreamed of it a million times.

She despised cliches. Now, in this fuzziness, she had to admit at least one of those cliches were true. The one that boasted nothing was what you thought it would be.

She thought she laughed then, but couldn't be sure. The way she had chosen to go was cliche. Wrists slit in a bathtub. Where had she heard it before?

Her thoughts seemed to float above her in irridescent bubbles, and she wondered how long it had been.

It felt like an eternity. Brief, fleeting thoughts of the few things she'd enjoyed came to her. She was almost sorry.

Now, a sticky wet darkness embraced her. She could feel it creeping slowly. Closing in on her.

She wondered if it was too late to call it off. Somehow, she knew it was. And she was sorry. Very sorry.