April 2008: Drowning Highchairs

Passiontide, pt 1.

“Why the fuck did you bring him here?” Steve Hall asked, furious.

“Look at me, Rev,” I said. “Where else would I take him?”

We were in his office. There were boxes in large piles all around and behind his desk. Each box had, in large, hand written red letters, the word “ReNcarn8" written on the side. When I came in, he had stood up and thrown his chair back with such force, he’d almost knocked a stack of these boxes over. Now he was leaning over the desk and his face was red with anger. I had other things to think about. I took a rag from the corner of the office and tied it around my upper arm. I pulled it tight, the knife wound was deep. It would heal quickly, but that wouldn’t matter if I lost too much blood.

“I don’t rightly give a fuck, Tucker,” Steve screamed. “Anywhere but here.”

“Steve, c’mon. I don’t have anywhere else to go. You know that. Can you please just trust me?”

“And what if they come looking for him?” Steve sat down. He was still angry, although a little defeated. What had happened, had happened.

“They won’t.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because we don’t exist, Rev. The ones that can even remember us are sure we’re dead. They don’t have protocols for this situation.”

Follow the link, people.

Perfect

I think it's odd to have a crying routine। To set yourself up to cry. My mom cries while doing simple mindless household chores, things like laundry, ironing or cooking. My best friend picks out a movie, or novel, some sort of heart-wrenching saga you can't help but wallow with tears in. I've heard people cry in the shower, the rain cleansing their tears, diluting whatever pain they might be in. My husband always cries at home in his study after pouring himself a good glass of whiskey and opening his newspaper to hide his face behind. He never cries in front of anyone. I could hear him sobbing in his room as I rocked in my rocking chair. I contemplated walking over to him and comforting him but it was a useless thought since I knew he wanted to cry and had taken so much effort and care in making himself ready that I did not want to steal his moment. So I rocked.

Click here to read the rest of Ms. Masson's Story....

The Scarlet Woman

“I have no fear of this machine” ~ Jeff Buckley

___The factory looked like a city in itself with large towers and tiny twinkling lights. The plant was an organism exhaling in billow breathes, a seeming cloud factory. An ardent laborer, the factory was always awake, blinking in different constellations. Its organs stretched across warehouse rooms: ligaments of conveyor belt, kidney vats and stomach of hoppers. It excreted heat, smoke, and all of Petal Plastic’s products. Petal’s brain center was a web of circuits. The black widow, creator of the company, was Scarlet, the plant’s eyes. I was its smiling veneer.

Continued...

Things That End With "Y"

Make me know that you care. There’s nothing I’d rather do than cradle you in my arms and call you my kin. I want to take what’s left of me and plant it inside you. Let the seed crack open, cut through the stringy roots inside, and sprout into something that is better than me. Better than what I have become. Mommy will always love you, my little panda bear. I want the world to see what I have seen in you that being the innocence of it all.


peter can't part the sea or divide waves. He can only cause ripples. Click here to read the rest of his story.