Fragile truth

Trish held her truth by the tips of her fingers at arms length. It was the kind of truth that could not endure close analysis or bright light.

She had decided long ago that the fog of a half remembered dream was the only way she would let herself think about it. Clarity was a luxury she could not afford. So Trish stuck to the basics. Of course she had a home town, but she never used that name. Of course she had a family, but who needed to know about them. She just played the odds. Ten-to-one the pretty blonde only wants to talk about herself. Trish rarely lost.

It was the times when the truth found her unbidden that hit like a closed fist. A faint scent, a few notes from an old song, or even a tast could pull her backwards.

Which meant that Trish avoided a lot of places and activities. Sporting events were easy to skip who had the extra money for tickets anyway. Funerals were harder, but that uphill climb leveled off when she moved halfway across the country. Happy hours were the hardest to bow out on. To many workplace norms were associated with post-work commiseration, if you asked her. Bars were off limits though, unless she wanted to play “I can name that childhood trauma in three notes” just to get a little buzzed.

Dingy hole-in-the-wall dives were the worst. Stale toquilla soaked carpet, jukebox chart toppers, and the tang of desperation that flavored the smoky air were the hat trick of pain. No matter how many years had passed this combo could make her 12 and vulnerable again. Make heart race and eyes sting. So while refusing to participate in mandatory “voluntary” social interactions was tedious her sanity was worth it.

Trish felt the truth had mutated over the years. Gotten uglier with time. It was now her own portrait in the attic that mirrored the shade upon her soul. So she curled inward and worked harder to distance herself from it. Mr. Grey would have been proud of how well she kept her secret self, the true self, but every secret wants to be wants to be free.

For Trish all it took was a hot autumn day. With her meetings over for the day and the mercury hovering dangerously close to the 90F mark she took off her blazer. She remembered hanging it innocently off the back of her office chair. The keyhole at the back of her blouse was all it took. Jen in HR had noticed the scars and it just snowballed from there. By the time the first interview was complete Jen was insisting that the company call in Occupational therapy and the cops. Instead Trish handed in her resignation letter, effectively immediately.

The truth felt like a lie the way Trish kept it. As if hiding it in the dark had tarnished in such a way that sooty black smears were left on her whenever it was brought it into the light. Still it was hers… and no one was going to co-opt it or take it away.

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.

Damn.

Painting by Kimber Mallett

I will not scream. I will not scream. I will not scream. I will not scream. I will not scream. I will not scream. I will not scream. I will not scream. I will not scream. I. Will. Not. Scream.

It was so quiet I could hear a shuddering breath being drawn. A hundred eyes stared, filled with a multitude of variations on worried surprise and gleeful disgust.

Damn. It hadn’t worked.

Who has the time

The slant of the light through the trees turned the hazy springtime air to gold. Everywhere you looked branches covered with new growth obscured what must have been a take-your-breath-away blue sky. The birds, which had fallen silent when I stumbled into their abode, sang sweetly. A pleasant counterpoint to my ragged breathing and pounding heart. I could get use to this I thought, as the picturesque lines blurred, but who has the time.

On the 12th moon

Otis looked up, dark eyes as round as saucers, at the full moon. A quick check on his fingers confirmed it. This was the 12^thmoon. Knowing that it would only cause hunger pains he walked down the street to the corner bakery anyway. Smudging the oversized windows with his grimy fingers he was unable to stop imagining how the large fluffy bites might actually taste.

He didn’t remember why he had started to keep count, tracking the moons through the years, but Otis remembered when. The snow had been nearly waist deep as he walked through the night, and the biggest full moon he had ever seen had followed his struggle. Now when he saw the full moon he felt strong and 12 in a row meant… something even if he couldn’t quite explain what it was.

Having leaned even closer to the display window the bell above the bakery door made Otis jump as it rang out. The woman who stood in the door way looked terrifying as a backlit and shadowy figure. Otis considered bolting.

“Wait…” the woman said reading the instinct in his eyes. She held out a small box in one hand still holding the door open with the other.

Otis hesitated only momentarily, fearing the trap of easily grabbable things, before snatching it and running off.

No crying over broken cookies

The tension was a palpable solid thing that was slowly filling the room forcing even the oxygen out. They stood locked in place unable to look away slightly out of breath. Maybe it was ice forming between them, crystalline enough to break but too rigid to allow for shifting, she thought. A lot had cooled recently so ice made a poetic kind of sense. He shifted his weight and broke eye contact to look at the door. More specifically the shattered plate of cookies littering the floor just in front of the door.

“What do you want me to do?” He asked slowly, almost defeated.

Stop, she wanted to scream, honestly she wanted it all to stop. Even though she knew it would never happen, never could, that’s what she really wanted.

“People depend on me you know,” as he said the words she could hear his jaw tightening. “If I don’t go… well I don’t even want to think about what could happen.”

“To you or your people Chris?”

His head shot up and his mouth open and closed but no words came out. She walked over to him, eyes bright with unshed tears crunching cookies and platter as she went, and handed him a card. “I’m done Chris. I just, I just can’t do this anymore.” She paused for a moment unsure how to continue. “There’s a way to stop it.”

He looked at the card.

“There’s a clause for it.”

Seasons change, tides turn

As she walked purposefully toward the hill crest the leaves didn’t crunch underfoot, they whispered. Still their message was clear.

Respect the passage of time.

Diana didn’t need the reminder though. Everywhere she looked the delicate balance of life and death was being played out for all to see. Healthy feed corn on withered stalks. Vibrant colored trees dropping leaves like rainclouds. Even the air seemed to spin with wild abandon from sunlight warmed to bonfire perfumed icy breath.

She like the manic feel of Fall. The frenzy of soaking up every last dappled drop of light before night overtook day. The rush of completing each autumnal event on the list. Apple picking, check. Pumpkin carving, check. Cider mulling, double check. Each outdoor activity fighting off the not so secret fear of a pending winter. To Diana euphoria tempered with melancholia was the ideal mindset for this moody season.

From August through November she had watched the world change before her very eyes with each storm or frosty morning. Finally, perched at last upon her vantage point the whole of Diana’s small town was laid out before her. It was quaint, her town, filled with a bright history, like so many others, but it’s future was shadowy at best. For a moment it seemed to Diana that she could see both past and future in that panorama. For a second the frenzy gave way to clarity.

Seasons change, tides turn, and time marches on.

In the face of such certainty Diana felt easy for the first time in months. We are all in this together she thought, looking longingly over her shoulder jealously wanting to hold on to her moment of peace, during dark winter nights and balmy summer days… only time would tell which way the balance was falling.

Pumpkin Spiced Lycanthropy

Jasper was every bit an “average Joe”. He loved his small-town roots, his perfectly worn in steal-toe boots, and his permanently coffee stained 42 ouncer plastic mug representing the one and only gas station before the junction. He had watched with mild fascination as the old community office just across the street had been transformed into a den of over-priced coffee, never feeling the pull of the iconic green and white cup sporting his name in someone else’s handwriting, but today was different. Today, Jasper was more than curious. Today, Jasper was in need.

The Gas’N’Go had failed him. Faulty wiring in the hot plate, where the decaf usually sat, had shorted the whole thing leaving nothing behind but an OUT OF SERVICE sign and a whiff of overheated metal coils. So now Jasper stood just within the doors of what he affectionately referred to as the Coffee Cult when making fun of his “on-trend” friends. It was a lot to take in. His first thought was that commercialization was alive and well. Quickly followed by a rapid fire 20 questions game with his sensory response to the environment. What is that sound? Was it a bag pipe? What is that smell? Carmel? Vanilla? It was like stumbling into a new age rock concert held on a scented candle. Even his eyes had to adjust to the low jewel toned mood lighting.

Two minutes later and Jasper was at the “I’ll be damned” stage. He had read the handwritten menu three times and could not find the word coffee anywhere. He was sure one of the items must be a simple coffee, but since fancy to him had meant a flavored creamer, things like Amerciano held no coffee-based meaning to him. By the time he made it to the woman at the register he had formulated a plan.

“Mornin’ I’ll have the least expensive coffee you serve.”

It had made sense to him a small black coffee was enough to get him to work and while it wouldn’t last all day, like the 42 ounces would have, it was better than nothing. Also, a plain coffee should be the least expensive thing on the menu and ordering this way would require no fancy jargon.

“That’s the best order I have heard all day!” The lady with an ear full of metal exclaimed flashing a smile that was pure manic glee. “You are in for a fun ride love,” she said her mouth drawing thin, “Name?”

“Uh, Jasper.” He was sure he had made a misstep, black coffee wouldn’t have gotten that response, but it seemed he was too far in for a graceful retreat.

“Tall PSL for,” direct eye contact then a wink, “for Uh Jasper”.

He walked to the PICK UP sign and scanned the hand drawn posters trying to decipher what he had ordered. He didn’t have to look very hard the center board was dominated by the words Special: Pumpkin Spice Latte. “What the…”

“Uhjazpeer!”

He almost missed his own name. “Hey, I just wanted coffee,” he offered to the man with an orange side swept Mohawk.

“That is coffee.” Came the response as the man hurried off to the next item on his list.

“Damn it.”

Jasper grabbed his “coffee” and headed over to the fixin’s counter. He tried the drink, eyes squinted, to assess how best to handle the PSL. An intense combination of kitchen spices lingered with a nice warmth in the back of his throat triggering an immediate need for another taste. Lid forgotten he walked over the nearest booth and sat. Savoring the aroma and smooth frothiness he alternated between gulps and sips till he hit foam. It was gone. Jasper sat still for a moment. Shocked. Confused. Unsatisfied.

He stood quickly, not sure if he would run for the door or the counter, then it hit him. His eyes went dim and a roar of electric sound tore at his sanity. His scalp and face recoiled from the sensation of a million fire ants angrily making their way from one side to the other. His chest felt tight and his extremities squeezed. Stumbling forward Jasper made it to the bathroom before he collapsed.

Blinking his eyes, he first noticed that the music in the bathroom was much nicer than what they had been playing in the shop. The tightness had disappeared, so he chanced walking to the sink. In the mirror he could barely recognize himself. His clothes looked at least two sizes too small, the burning sensation on the right side of his scalp had left him with an exaggerated asymmetrical part, and his face which still itched and stung had sprouted a full beard. The door opened pulling a tendril of cinnamon scented air towards Jasper. His spine stiffened, all concerns forgotten except for the insatiable need for his next pumpkin spice latte.

The woman behind the counter was still smiling the manic grin. “What’ll it be?”

A moment of peace

The day’s rain could still be heard in the leaves of the trees, softly rustling in the gentle breeze, and plodding off the broken drain pipe onto the slate slab walkway below. The sky, however, had been washed clean. The stars sparkled and the moon’s illumination fell softly upon the night. While the easy rise and fall of the nighttime thrum sang of rest and eternity.

It represented a moment of peace, and in that moment everything was beautiful.

Nerves personified

Her lack of sleep rode shotgun on today’s commute. She had fought sleep then the alarm, to no avail, but she was wide awake now. It was mostly due to anxiety tying her stomach in knots, though honestly the “how” was less than important. As long as self-doubt didn’t run away with her she was sure she could make it though the day. Well, almost.