Wish in one hand...

I miss you, I wish you were here.
I wish you were in my arms, coiled in my blankets, entwined.
I wish you liked to come to my house.
I wish you could get along with my son.
I wish you wanted to kiss, touch and be with me as much I do you.
I wish you would say I love you.
I wish you would speak to me in a loving way.
I wish you wouldn’t call me names.
I wish you wouldn’t make me feel so stupid.
I wish you included me in your life.
I wish I had the courage to walk away.
I wish we hadn’t met.

Community in Brief

His bag of necessities was lumpy and undistinguishable. His presence at the meeting was purportedly in pursuit of information but the cool, hum of air conditioning and lure of a padded seat may be equally appealing.

He plucked the stale, wrinkled clipping from the paper that announced the open, public forum from his pocket. He didn’t know the issues, or even what the company did, he just knew he was invited.

Long vowels punctuated an exaggerated sentence structure – not quite a California-surfer drawl.

He presented himself intelligently, asked questions, but is seemingly undereducated. His speech sounds much-like the pysudo intellect found in many college campus coffee shops debating the merits of Jack Keourac vs. William S. Burroughs as revolutionaries in beat writers. He has no basis for the theories, just eloquent prose. He remains much the same today -- a pony-tailed hippy with eyes too red and pupils too wide to avoid jumping to certain conclusions.

He asks his questions with all seriousness, followed by long periods of contemplative silence.

This a member of the crust. That outer rim between pure poverty and the floating middle class: Not quite lost but not quite saved.

“People can’t care about this situation because they can’t even care for themselves.”

It’s the basis for a debate he must wage with others. His rationale seems well-determined. Maybe it’s a theme among his contemporaries – one he feels applies to ever social cause such as this.

“They can’t even deal with the day-to-day,” he says.

Shredded Seran wrap circles his wrist, protecting him or keep him together, we are not sure. His too-white socks are pulled to his knees.

He came because he likes information. We arm him with packets, answer his questions and with information in tow, he leaves just so.

The taste of salt

The stir of curtains came to her through the gauze of a dream. She grabbed for the vestiges of sleep. The smell of sea salt and rhythm of waves called to her body. The morning was waiting.

She pulled herself to the edge of the bed, braced against a poster to push her feet down. The thick, moisture-laden air added resistance to her movements. The ponderous weight shifted her balance and she slid to the floor. Naked skin drank in the humidity, sweat pooled beneath her breasts.

She moved to the corner chair, grabbed the flimsy sarong, wrapped it around the tops of her breasts letting it drape her rounded belly.

The baby shifted, tightening the skin. She rubbed her hand down the tautness, feeling the bits of toes, rump, arm?
“Not long, my love.”

She moved to the French doors pushing them open to accommodate the breeze. The beach was mere yards away, the waves lapping, beckoning.

She moved, almost without consent, toward azure.

When the water wet her toes, she stripped the sarong and waded. The mineral-rich water buoyed her weight, easing the strain along her spine. She raised her arms and simply … floated.

The sun burned orange behind her lids. The submerged ear drums vibrated with unidentifiable rumbles of the mothering sea. She didn’t hear him call her name. She was lost to salt and sun.

She felt the push of water as he waded toward her. Her head lifted, forcing her upright.

He smiled and closed the final feet between them. Resting his hand on the baby girl within, he leaned down to kiss the salt from her lips.

70 words of promise

I can smell him on my skin. Warm. Sweet, almost fecund. With just a tinge of his cologne. He lingers in the air long after he is gone.

I can imagine the press of his full hand on my back, pulling me close, my nose nestles in the hollow of his throat. I close my eyes and inhale.

I would know his scent in a crowd. He smells like promise.

400 words

For the Twilight short story contest.

Alice falls down the rabbit hole

For months after the Volturi visit, Edward and Bella kept Renesmee close, traveling together to feed and play.

Jasper and Alice watch from the terrace. He sits on the divan with her curled beside him, her head in his lap. His hand strokes a path along her spine.

“Imagine how different my life would be if my parents were as understanding as Bella and Edward.”

Jasper continued his slow back-and-forth rhythm.

“Is your life so terrible now?”

“Oh well.” Alice arched like a pampered cat. “It’s hard to complain too much, I guess.”

“I’ve been mulling something over for a time. I think if I apply the full force of my power, I can inspire a trance-like state that may give you a glimpse into the past.”

She sat up, her eyes searching his face.

“It’s just a theory,” He said hastily. “It might not even work. But since you go into a trance-like state to see the future, the same might work for the past.”

“I have no memories of that time, but I long to know something,” she said, barely a whisper.

“We lose nothing for trying.”

As he resumed his caresses, Jasper turned inward, pushing the force of his calming spirit out and over Alice’s prone form.

***************************************************************************************

Blackness. She is not aware of the creep of time. All life is suspended.

A click of the key in the lock. She hears the tumblers roll, the gravel-voiced wrench of the knob. He opens the door just enough. She crawls toward him.

He sits on the couch with her head in his lap. She is only 6, but her powers are very strong. He strokes her back. “Close your eyes, my love. Tell me what you see.”

She feels her body relax into the future, black lashes flutter against her cheeks. Minutes pass as she gazes into blood and death. Someone is coming for him. Someone is searching and that search is bringing him closer. Someone knows about Alice and her gift. Someone wants her.

She jerks back into awareness, her lungs tight. She tells him what she’s seen.

His eyes are hooded. She touches his face and sees a flash of battle. He will protect her.

“Thank you, my dark-haired angel. I ask for the future and you give me truth. I will not fight my destiny, but I will not let Aro have you.”

1,500 words

For the short story contest from Writer's Market.

The Assignment

Of them all, I think Lizbeth is my favorite. Short in stature, rounded on top and bottom, with a nimbus of frizzy hair, she’s always wandering around the halls. She smiles a lot, showing a beautiful set of teeth but she rarely talks to anyone. Well, anyone other than me.

LB has an obsessive-compulsive disorder that compels her to swallow the odds and ends she finds lying about the hospital. I’m constantly in fear she’s swipe one of my pen lids and add it to her collection.

Since taking this assignment I’ve keep my pens dutifully clipped to the top of my steno pad. Before meeting LB, I would have left them scattered across the room, but a good roller ball pen is hard to find here.

Last week, she was sent to the hospital for a peek into the depths. They found six pennies, two tacks and one of Ms. Emily’s infamous binder clips that she uses to hold the list of activities and field trips to her clipboard. She never leaves the clipboard alone. I’m dying to know how that clip found its way into LB’s digestive guillotine.

LB, of course, isn’t talking.

This assignment was my editor’s idea. No one else could be so morbid as to suggest it. She’s always looking for something sensational, scintillating, or preferably downright disgusting to run in the next issue.

“An undercover glimpse into the world of mental hospitals.”

“No way.” My words. “No way.”

Total immersion. That was her idea too. Committed, medicated, psychoanalyzed, the whole experience.

She had read somewhere that psych patients were still sometimes subject to unspeakable conditions. She wanted the under-the-radar view of the whole sordid mess.

Her words. “Whole sordid mess.” In her opinion, everything was a sordid mess.

“How will I get in? It’s not a Holiday Inn. I can’t just reserve a room!”

A few cuts on my arm, a suicide note and I plead my case with my mom to commit me. She was rightfully appalled.

“But mom, it’s for a story. Maybe, if I play my cards right, a Pulitzer.”

Ahaa. Motherly pride. Award-winning journalist has such a nice ring. I was in before Easter.

*****************************************

“I had that dream again.”

Mr. M.D. looked at me over the rim of his glasses, eyebrows raised in question. I sigh.

“Don’t you take notes? I have the same damn dream every few nights. Surely it’s detailed in your copious doctor notes!”

He smiled, condescending. He is a giant prick.

“Of course I take notes. But this is about sharing – for the first or the five thousandth time. Sharing.”

I let out an exaggerated sigh.

This is part of the assignment. Total immersion. He assumes I’m just another patient. I know better, but it’s my job to play the role. It was the only way to gain access.

“Fine. I’m lying in bed next to him. He’s dead to the world. Dead drunk. I can hear him start to snore and it pisses me off. I look over at him and all I can think about is killing him. It would be so easy. Handcuff him to the bed, roll on top of him, smoother him with a pillow. I feel so angry with him, angry enough to want him dead, angry enough to kill him myself. I grip the pillow in my hand. I reach toward his face. I’m going to do it. I’m going to smoother him to death. And then I wake up.”

“Why do you think you’re so angry with him?”

Now it’s my turn to raise an eyebrow.

“How would I know? It’s a dream.”

“You know there’s significance in dreams. It’s been proven again and again, not all dreams are random. Do you believe this one is random?”

“Of course it’s random. It would never happen.”

Mr. M.D. jots a note.

“Never?”

No more eyebrows, I narrow my eyes. My menacing face. My “don’t fuck with me” face.

“Never.”

*****************************************

This assignment is not going as planned. In fact, I’m damn well sick of it. I want out but I know she won’t hear my case without a story in hand.

I have to move this along more quickly. It’s time to do some real investigative work – also known as snooping.

I can’t handle this psycho-babble bullshit much longer. I see now why mental patients have such a hard time readjusting to the outside world. I’m developing the theory that analysis is meant to keep you crazy, keep you medicated, controllable.

I’m afraid I’m becoming one of them. It’s not a substantial fear, more like a nagging pin prick along my hairline. I’m.crazy.I’m.crazy.I’m.crazy.

But the pinprick is becoming a searing pain.

*****************************************

I found them, finally. Mr. M.D.’s copious notes. The words “patient confidentiality” floated through my mind’s eye. I quickly dismissed. I didn’t want to reveal anything about the patients, just open the eyes of the world about this facility.

I flip through the manila tabs, scanning quickly.

LB’s file.
Tom: Paranoid schizoid.
Leslie: A cutter, binger, purger and generally self-loather.
Gillian: Thinks she’s a witch.
Adam: Serial arsonist. Shouldn’t he be in prison?

Wait. Was that my name?

I hesitate. Flip back. My file.

Of course I’d have a file. Total immersion. To Mr. M.D., I’m just like every other patient. I hesitate again. I don’t really care what he’s written. I’m not staying. I’m not actually a patient.

I’m trying to find one reference to shock treatment, water-immersion therapy, sleep deprivation – something that points to abuse, something that screams Pulitzer.

So far nothing.

I flip the file tab with my fingernail. I pull it out before I lose my nerve.

Patient unable to remember incident. Claims flashbacks are only dreams. I feel with continued questioning, the night of the 21st will return.

What the hell?

Patient still believes she is working on story assignment. Caught again in restricted areas looking for shock therapy equipment. I assured her such methods have not been used for many years. May need to increase anti-psychotic.

I hear the door behind me click. Mr. M.D. is standing still, surprised, looking at me.

“You know the patient files are off limits. Would you please put that down?”

“This is my file. These are notes about me. You know about the assignment?”

“Please sit down. We can talk….about your ….assignment if you like.”

*****************************************

The room swims. I feel my arms stretch out to catch myself before I become aware that I’m falling.

Black.

I crack the door to let in a sliver of light.

I hear him, snoring in the bed. He’s congested in addition to being drunk. He rattles with snot and phlegm. He’s dead drunk but still I tiptoe toward the bed.

He’s flat on his back, arms splayed, face turned toward the wall.

My hate wells up like vomit, chocking me, infuriating me further. I have hated him for so long.

I wrap the handcuff around his wrist, pulling his arm slowly toward the headboard. The faint click, click of the cuffs sliding home sound like shots in the dark. I freeze. He farts and snorts, resumes his snoring.

I repeat the same steps on his other hand. Slow. Click, click. Done.

He’s a big man, heavy as well as tall. Awake, he could bat me away like a fly. But asleep, and tethered, I have a shot.

I climb into the bed next to him, then straddle. Slide up. He turns toward me, says my name. I freeze. He smiles in his sleep.

My fortitude wavers. It was that smile that first attracted me. He has an amazing smile, it lights up his whole face. That sounds so cliché, but until I’d met him, I never realized how appropriate a cliché it is.

He was married to someone else then, as was I. He was all I wanted in the world. I got what I wanted, and it ruined my life.

My knees rest in the hollow of his shoulders. I press the pillow down onto his face.

At first there is nothing. I sigh. Press harder.

I feel his gasp. He turns his head, trying to find the air.

He’s awake now. Pulling his arms against the restraints. The clanking against the metal headboard is distracting. I lean my weight onto the pillow. Keep focused on my goal.

He bucks with his legs, propelling his body upward in an attempt to knock me off. I tighten my thighs, hang on.

According to my research, death by suffocation takes a few minutes. My arms start to shake with the strain of pressing into his face. It seems to be taking hours.

His arms suddenly go limp. I feel his chest rise .. once, twice .. no more.

I lay my face on the pillow, still covering his. I’m exhausted but free. Free from him.

300 words

For a short-story challenge issued by O Magazine.

Alternatives

Tuna, chicken of the sea. One can for me, one can for Mister, the grey and fluffy tailed. Diet coke. Salad, in a bag, Strawberries.

The man in front of me glances back as I load my items on the conveyor, he flashes a smile. Or was that my imagination.

He reminds me of a man I might have married before mother came to live at my house. Dark hair, brown eyes and the slightest hint of a dimple.

Bisquick. Whole milk. Cottage cheese.

He glances back again. There, unmistakable, a smile. I push my glasses further onto the bridge of my nose. I smile back.

There’s a twitter behind me. Blonde. Long, sun-kissed legs. Blue eyes and the merest smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks.

She watches him as he pays the cashier. He turns back, leaves her with a wink. She flashes a smile full of white, straight teeth.

I finish loading my items on the belt. Coffee, colby cheese, box of wine, rat poisoning.

The cashier barely registers my presence. $94.20. Shit, I spent too much.

At the front door, I notice the shades are drawn tight. She must be having one of her spells again.

I walk down the hall into the kitchen. I hear her muttering before she yells out, “What took so long? I’m nearly starved!”

“Let me put these up, then I’ll bring your lunch.”

“Bring me a glass of wine first. My head is killing me.”

I pull the plastic stopper out of the box of wine, fill a glass. The rat poisoning sits innocuously on the counter.

I close my eyes and think about the man at the checkout. Alternatives to this life.

I walk down the hall with her wine, careful not to splash where Mister might accidentally taste it.