Forty, do your worst.

“I toast my childhood. Upon the alter of youth I offered my trust and hope. An innocent heart that yearned for magic never understood.

I toast my adolescence. Upon the alter of desire I wished for love, willing to sacrifice anything. A stubborn attitude that I fire tempered to opalescence.

I toast my twenties. Upon the alter of pride I poured my blood, sweat, and tears. A willful mind hungry for knowledge and thirsty for opportunities.

I toast my thirties. Upon the alter of maturity I laid bare my devotions to family and future. An unbridled truth devoid of illusions or niceties.

Forty, do your worst. I made my offerings with sheer determination and the power of my convictions. Now, I wait to see what gifts the Fates have dispersed.”

His soliloquy done the man lifted his drink in the air and gave a slight nod in the direction of the clock before throwing back his double. The sound of his glass meeting the wooden table reverberated through the hushed room like a door slamming shut. Slowly the sound rolled back in and the bar went back to normal. Except for the fact that one-by-one each patron caught the man’s eye in acknowledgement.

Birthdays are hard for everyone I guess.

All rights to the owner of the image, who I thank for making available online.

An unfulfilled promise

The heavy humid night felt like an unfulfilled promise as the wind slapped against the nape of Nate’s neck. The summer sun had been draining the color and the life from his crunchy lawn for weeks now, but he could not bring himself to water it. Even in the convection oven of July that seemed an unnecessary luxury while fires raged to the north and west.

He could not stop himself from looking up though. Watching the blanketed sky sweep by on the long gusts, that stirred up the cicadas and sent the trees into a chorus of pleas for rain, how much was smoke and how much was cloud. Nate hoped that the scales were tipping in favor of clouds. Not just because the almond trees that ran like stubble over the hilly 20 acres Quentin had purchased two years ago were looking worse by the day, but mostly.

The dryness had everyone on edge. First responders, farmers, and banks all their eyes on the cost and the loss. A bottom line that only seemed to be getting more dire.

So, Nate couldn’t help himself from sending out a wordless call for help as the wind died down and everything sagged under the weight of 98% humidity. If his desperation could have been given a voice it might have said “please do not make the hard working suffer needlessly”. Maybe it would have just asked “why”.

Either way it deserved a response.

A moment alone

It was the kind of day where the sun would only shine as it set, casting a pall over the riot of color in the trees. Even the chill which had crept in over night, bringing an anxious demeanor to the squirrels zigzagging over the lawn, could not breathe life into the day. It was as if the day had died. The fields filled with broken corn stalks and dried soy beans only added to the somber tone. Summer was long gone and even the bright patches of Fall could not hide that fact anymore.

She sat quietly with the gray light of the dead day and let her mind turn to horror movies, it was the season was it not. Would she feel more alive if a child walked out of the corn with bright blue eyes or a red ballon drifted by? She doubted it, but a part of her still waited for the goosebump shivers and startled scream as if it were a lifeline.

She was sure people thought her odd, not many walked in graveyards just because or stared at shadows till they took shape, but that wasn’t hers to deal with. That was the concern of others. She just wanted to enjoy the numbing void for awhile before they ruined it all.

Her fingers itched, all sticky and tacky, but it was the sirens that bothered her the most.

She had just wanted a moment alone.

What do you do with love like that?

He watches her, as he says the words, worried and visibly upset.

“I might have to leave.”

She crinkles her brow as she lays a hand on his arm, “Why? What’s going on?”

“I’m scared.”

Something close to pity flickers across her face, “What are you afraid of?”

“Do you promise you’re not going to die?”

Her hand falls back to her side as she takes a deep breath. “I’m not going to die. I’m healthy and there is no reason to assume that’s changed.” She meets his imploring stare, “I promise.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

She doesn’t even pause, “Of course not. I know you don’t want to hurt me.”

“You know I love you right, no matter what my head says?”

She smiles sadly and it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, “Of course I do. Do you know I love you?”

“I do.”

She watches him as wipes at his nose and goes quiet. She watches him for nearly a minute.

“I think you should hide the knives.”

Happy depends on where you stop

If you were going to tell my story I would recommend stopping a few years back. At least that way the ending would have been happier. I mean who wants to hear about the two kids I wasn’t crazy about having or the dream I let die due to inattention.

That’s not what sells. Not unless I’m admitting to crimes of passion that would put a dateline episode back on its heels that is.

Honestly, it was just that life got the better of me. I blinked, took my eye off the clock for a second, and now I’m starting down the barrel of midnight. No one warns you that dreams are the uphill battle. They just laugh at you, behind your back.

So here I am, a little tarnished and worse for the wear, but I made it. I didn’t go down in a blaze of glory, a bright short life never really fit into my plans. I wanted the curtain calls, to be remembered. All I get these days is pity, and soft stares that see you as much as they try not to see you.

It’s okay, I know the truth is hard to look at.

You should have seen me 10 or 15 years ago though… I had everything ahead of me. It looked like it was going to be such a happy ending.

Nothing changes

His heart was racing and his face was flushed. He couldn’t remember everything he had said, just how close he had been to hitting her. She had walked away so awkwardly, an unnecessary stiffness in her posture that he didn’t understand. He hadn’t even touched her.

She stood under the deluge of hot water shedding silent ugly tears. Stupid cunt bitch. His words stuck to her in ways the soap couldn’t help. She squeezed her eyes shut remembering the moment his eyes had gone wide and his hand hovered an inch away. He hadn’t touched her though.

They pick up their conversation as if the last 30 minutes hasn’t happened. She asks if he needs anything and he mostly ignores her. Her voice is empty when she speaks, no emotion or opinion. His voice is steady, no guilty lit or sheepish remorse. No one apologizes or forgives. The I love yous before bed will not be punctuated with gentle kisses.

Everyone’s changed, but nothing changes.

Blinded

The lurch from crawl to sprint made everyone adjust their footing. As we round a bend in the underground tunnel a blinding light flickers wildly. Temporarily, relieving the grimy semi-darkness. Momentarily, spotlighting a crime against humanity. Before my mind can fully comprehend the broken image a glittery add fills my window. The new image is blurry, but the message is clear. In a consumer nation all things are consumed. I exit the car and am immediately swept up in the tide of commuters. All I hear is “Next stop…” before the subway barrels away. All I know is that somewhere a timer is counting down.

Sleep talk

He dreamed loudly, alternating between a deep stillness and shouted gibberish. It gave the impression that he was having an energetic conversation complete with gestures and nods of his head. However, to whom he was speaking remained a mystery.

Dark day

I was in it. I felt empty, unloved, and tired. Just a hair’s breadth from the edge where I joyfully burn everything down then languish in the ashes. I needed an outlet. My books had betrayed me and my go to projects all seemed pointless. It was going to be food, drink, or ink tonight. If only I could drum up the energy to choose. I closed my eyes, daring life to take the cheap shot, while I counted to ten.

Food had arrived first in my muddled mind so I followed the rising noise towards the smell of deep fried sins. As luck would have it I was able to hit two birds with that particular stone. So I sipped at pitch black stout between slugs of sweet Jack while you placed my order. You smiled more than once, and it tore at me. I know I stared, but I didn’t have a reason to look away.

During dessert I had to blink away double vision, but it didn’t stop me from finding the pen in my bag. Letting myself fill napkin after napkin with wry and sardonic quips. Writing you was as cathartic as it was narcissistic. I couldn’t tell you what I wrote that night, so sure I would never see you again, but I would bet it was truth. Hard truths that make most people cringe.

I have no idea what you thought when I stumbled away from that bar. Would you read my words wrapped up in your tip? Did you know that your smile brightened my dark day? Even if you never read those words…

Thank you.

Your kind eyes and the sympathetic tilt of your head saved me last night.

The ghost of Christmas not yet come to pass

I was very nearly up. The clock had already struck one and was headed toward two. The waiting, an unbearable countdown to death.

I watched from my unique vantage point with 20:20 vision. It was awful. All the worst parts of humanity coming together becoming a beautiful disaster.

Each tick of the clock etching deeper that which was writ in stone even now. As the present started slipping into history I stood at the ready.

The future waited on midnight, burning like the dawn as generous as the Scrooge. Still a part of me hoped this night’s work would not be in vain.

Then the clock tolled.

Original illustration by John Leech (1843).