Hell

Johnny John passed the gates of Hell wearing his worn out Levi's and a tired t-shirt showing Meat Loaf on a motorbike saying "Bat Out of Hell " and a big grin on his unshaven face displaying a feeling of home coming rather than the frown of the Eternally Doomed. Satan greeted him with a slap on the back and a smoke saying Welcome Home, that Johnny John instantly put to his mouth. "Hey, do you have a light?" Johnny John asked but at once regretted doing so. He held the sigarette over a burning corpse nearby and soon it was glowing like the ground he was walking on. Satan laughed and passed a wind so foul that made Johnny John's stomach turn like that time he had a spinach and cheese dip with a side order of cheap vodka and a prostitute with chlamydia in Prague, and from this point he began to doubt whether Hell would be the craic he had imagined or not. Johnny John's life was that of a true rebel, or at least so he had told the press; his upbringing and teen spirits had been corrupted by the stench of sewer oosing from the gutter where he was raised and as he famously told the journalist from Rolling Stone (the one he soon was arrested for having put his hand on her rebecca); that if God had created him only to make him suffer like this, then he flipped his finger to the heavens and said fock it, "Grace is not for him." Of course what he didn't tell the journalist was that Grace was the name of the girl he once asked out but she had dumped him for Gavin McAteer - a priest from Waterford, and so making sure he would never touch the subject of hounourable women or eucumenics again.

Satan og Johnny John stood on the brim of a lava river, and Satan asked him why he had spent "his whole life trying so hard, even too hard sometimes to get into Hell", when everybody else was trying to avoid it?

"Well", Johnny John said with a slick smile "it's hard to be a rock'n'roller."

Satan laughed and said even Marylin Manson is going to kick it with St Peter, Paul and Virgin Mary one day, and now that homosexuality was accepted, even Ringo Starr could go through the Pearly Gate.

On the other side of the river bank, there was shack under a neon halo saying The Stale Ale pub, and judging from the dirty windows and number of passed out people lying in front of it, he drew the conclusion it was an Irish pub. Satan showed JJ the way, and as they entered, the porridge like sound from a Fender died out and someone shouted "Bring out the accordion!". Panic struck JJ as the sour and untuned tunes from an old accordion turned into a melody he was almost sure was supposed to be Molly Malone. He once had a Molly in Amsterdam, he thought about her and instinctly put his hand in his pocket to see if his wallet was still there. It wasn't.

JJ walked over to the counter where a little girl with long red hair and an eye missing, was rubbin a dirty handkerchief on a glass and occasionally coughing something green and gooey on it and kept on rubbing it. Her left eye barely noticed him, or so he thought.

"Whaddyous want?" she said, now looking straight past him and he turned around to see on what. Old Elvis was singing a Westlife song together with the untuned accordion, and only now was JJ about to discover what Hell truly was.

"Hey pal, Im lockin' at ye- what the hell do ye want? Im not waiting for evva, ye know". The girl was getting angry now.

"Well, I'll have a pint please...Do yous serve Guinness here?" said JJ and at once the sound and songs in the room stopped as if vacuum had dawned upon them and they were now stuck in the akward silcence between a wife and her man in her underwear. Molly came out from a dark corner and said to him that Arthur McGuinness had been a good Catholic and that the only Guinness he could get around here, was the left overs in the livers of deceased alcoholics and construction workers. They all laughed for about 66 minutes while JJ tried to see what else they served. The little girl said, still cleaning the glass:

" We have a fine brew, a good Norwegian one. Here!" she filled the dirty glass she'd been rubbing for the last decade and filled it with a orange like fluid. He had a sip but gagged. "What in the devil's name is this?"

Satan looked up, he hated being distrubed in his contemplation. "I made a deal with an old man who sold me his soul and an everlasting lease of Ringnes, for a night with Elizabeth Taylor in New York. Too bad for him he wasn't more specific and ended up spending 10 hours in an elevator with her after she lost an Oscar to Audrey Hepburn, and was bitching from one end to the other, and he committed suicide the morning after. Here he is - John, come here!"

The poor man named John came over to their table, and the nuce was still hanging from around his neck and his boney body signalled a long eternity to be spent hearing this story every time a stranger entered this pub.

JJ was sorry. Satan said it's too late now any way, and on hearing this, JJ got up, and ran out through the door and jumped into the lava river. The burning sensation was short yet not particularly painful, and seconds after he felt his body being consumed in melted rock, he fell through something that felt like a wooden floor, and found himself lying in the centre of The Stale Ale, with a hundred or so pair of doomed eyes looking at him.

"Welcome to Hell", said Satan. "And now...karaoke!"

A Regular Tuesday (Prose, part 4/4)

by Ada

Although the stench really did bother me. And as if that wasn't enough, my stepping back had brought me a little deeper into the shed, to reveal that there was no floor but for the earth itself, and quite the uneven one at that. Why, it was as if someone had been digging in it, surely, and then put the dirt back in its place quite recklessly, without noticing the bumps they created, right where people were supposed to walk. And in such darkness as well – honestly! In the little light provided by the sunshine gleaming in through the open door, I could make out the shape of an axe lying on the ground, altogether specked with dark red spots, and I thought "Rusty, even that! Why, didn't the old man Mr. McCarthy know one should treat one's tools carefully in order to make them last longer?"

At any rate, it wasn't a very big shed, and the light did in fact reach the wall and followed it all the way up to the ceiling, and oh, wasn't that – ? I opened the door a little wider, allowing a bit more light in, the stench so overwhelming now I kept one hand over my mouth and nose, and the other on the door handle. Thinking back on it now, I must have forgotten all about the cat at that moment, as – yes, it was! Life-sized dolls' heads hanging by their hair, some from the wall and some from the ceiling. One of them positively right in front of me, and quite lit up from the open door. "How odd," I thought, "that I did not see it sooner!"

They looked quite funny, to tell you the truth, their eyes and mouths wide open as if in surprise, even shock, perhaps, by the sudden stream of sunlight on their faces. "But," I carried on thinking, "they don't look the least bit life-like, if you ask me, their skin all waxy and ashen-looking, as if about to rot and fall apart at any moment. But – oh! The smell! An animal must have crawled in her at one point, and unable to find its way out in the darkness, the poor creature must have curled up an died in one of these corners, bless it.

Again I remembered the cat, and turned to look in its direction. And there it was, once again preoccupied with cleaning its already glistening fur with that little pink, rough tongue of his. But beside it, as now I had the good fortune of discovering, a second path made its way clear of bushes and ladders and sheds and black cats. Not pebbled, this one, but clearly trodden in the otherwise tall grass, and so, off I went, after having closed the door yet again, relieving the outside world and neighbourhood of the foul stench, and the poor dolls' heads of the sharp sunlight – Oh dear, I do have to laugh when I think about them, such an expression on their faces! –, down the newly discovered path, it leading me all the way out of the garden, and – what do you know! – right next to the Little Shop around the Corner.

But, oh!, where are my manners? I completely forgot to introduce myself! My name is Roisín. Yes, as in the poems and legends of Ireland, but let me tell you, although undeniably Irish by heart and nature, there is nothing poetic or legendary about myself.

And, as I was saying, there was absolutely nothing indicating that this day would in any way at all differ from any chosen previous one. And as I was walking home from the Little Shop around the Corner, my daily fresh bread rolls and yesterday's newspaper in hand, I could see absolutely no reason why it should.

Red Regret (poem, sonnet)

No one, no thing, can sit still,
With the desires of natures will to fill,
All consumed, entombed, in this nights chill.

We chase the fields of gray, we stray,
While an undeniable force leads the way,
And stifles the voice that calls us to stay.

It’s crimson that we seek to find,
Those ruby drops consume our mind,
Provision possessed, as good as blind.

This pursuit is past our own will,
And so you see to our dismay,
Our way of life, is life unkind.

So judge us not, by fang or fan,
For the blood’s the measure of the man.

A Regular Tuesday (Prose, part 3/4)

by Ada Marie

I followed a narrow, pebbled path leading from the gate to the back of the house, trying to overlook the fact that the once so tidy ground – it was such a delight for the soles of my shoes to walk on back then, as you just wouldn't believe – was now covered in straws of grass of a most unnatural green colour, not to mention the ants, busying themselves with carrying fifty times their body weight's worth of grit from one place to another. Mercilessly – oh, as if I had any choice but – I stepped, crushing their little bodies, one by one, noiselessly but for the rattling sound of my shoes against the pebbles.

Beside the house was a small shed, once built to keep old Mr. McCarthy's gardening tools – or so I always presumed, never having been able to actually look in it, what with the door always locked with a chain and padlock, and it having no windows and all. But as well as superstitious I have also never been of the curious or inquiring type, so of course I never gave much thought to what might or might not be hidden behind that severely locked door, and too many sleepless nights it certainly did not give me.

The path I was now following – and had followed so many times in my youth – happened to lead me straight past the shed, and underneath the great branches of an old oak tree. Up against the tree trunk stood an old ladder, and – can you imagine? – the path went right underneath it. Continuing to walk, with the inevitability of passing under it was not an acceptable option, why, it could fall right down on the top of my head! Walking around it somehow was equally impossible, what with the impenetrable vegetation covering every exit way previously known to me. So I turned around to walk back out of the garden and see if there wasn't by any chance another way of moving about, when I discovered – would you believe it? The damnedest thing! – the black cat sitting there, right in front of me, licking its front paw, as innocently as only a bitty kitty can, a yellow glint in its eyes as it stopped its grooming to look back up at me. It got up on all four legs, its tail straight up, the tip of it twitching impatiently. As it made to start moving towards me, I realized I needed to get out of its way, and the faster the better, lest it would start circling me, and then what could I do but be standing rooted to the same spot for the rest of my life!

The chain on the door to the shed had rusted and lay broken on the ground (oh, and after such a short time, too – it can hardly have been a very good quality piece of chain in the end, could it!), and I made my way towards the door, probably killing even more ants in the process. Useless little creatures they are, bless them! The door slid open easily enough, creating an ever-so-little stream of light entering the room for what must have been the first time in quite some date. The first thing I noted was the stench, which was simply unbearable! It absolutely prevented me from entering, and had me pausing in the doorway, where I could breathe in the fresh outdoor air whilst keeping an eye on the villainous cat, still standing on that very spot where I'd left it.

Except now it lowered its head, looking up at me in what I believed to be quite the threatening manner, that black little mischievous thing, as if about to spring up from its bouncy hind legs and jump me at any given second. I took a step back, to secure myself. Indeed, if the little creature did attack, I could simply take another step back, bringing the door with me as I did so, and off the wall the cat would bounce as safely protected behind it I'd be.

Napoleon's Goldfish (prose, part1)

Grandma Grey threw her glass eye at the wall and when it bounced back the third time the crowd concluded both that it must have been made of rubber, and that this was without doubt the most longest funeral they had ever been to. They had been waiting an hour and a half but still there was no sign of neither the corpse, his bride nor a priest that could put an end to this affair, that started with the popping of Jimmy Shoe on the corner of Orinocco Blues restaurant, and followed by a hasty closing down of their chip shop and the apperence of a scar across Mike the Moose's face from his eyebrow to his highest chin. Jimmy Shoe was the great great grand step and a hop nephew of the legendary Claudio McFlathery who was the illegimite child of Napoleon IV's goldfish and Irish mercenary who stopped by their annual St Patrick Day celebration in their country get-away in County Offaly for a drink and a bowl of mashed potatos a sunny day in November.
«I dunno about yous but I'm gettin a drink. Giveus a pint there, Larry» Grandma Grey said in a low voice, clearly strained by grief and a life long consumption of raw vegetables and tobacco. Larry the Leprechaun- for he was indeed short and red haired and had more than once showed up with pot and colourful towels, placed a glass of whiskey on the table in front of her. She had lost not only another grandchild to the potato industry, but also her favourite post man, and she didn't now how to get over this one just yet. Her daughter and Jimmy's aunt, Mary, had prepared some sandwiches cut in the shape of crosses for the occation, but no one touched them as the shock of the news of Jimmy's death after the day he had defied our Lord and sold his soul to the Devil for a good crop of taters and cursed the most devoted Catholic people on this planet. However, they didn't know that Jesus perferred Protestants.

A small village like this one could not support more than one chipper, and after the truckloads with Polish workers had stopped and settled outside the village, the Italians had seized the opportunity and opened a second chipper, and within a month, the competition had demanded three corpses, a bag of crisps and two curses.

The priest tore open the door and the rain outside came down as being poured from giant celestical buckets had soaked him way beyond wet and his black preist cloak stuck like a sticker to his skinny body, and his black socks made the wooden floor full of dark, wet stains. Maid of the house – Mary, looked at them at worried how on earth she would clean that up.
« He's ... gone» the priest said.

(to be continued....)

A Regular Tuesday (Prose, part 2/4)

Then, as I was about to set off walking again, past Mr. McCarthy's garden, my head indeed already about to be impertinently shaken in disbelief over its condition, I happened to glance down at the pavement, and what did I see but a big crack in the concrete, stretching all the way from Mr. McCarthy's fence and down to the very road itself. Now, again I must prompt you that superstitious is one thing that I am not, and may God throw my poor mother – bless her soul, never a selfish word passed over her angelic lips – out of heaven if ever an untruth escaped my own. But it is as true as is the Sahara the world's largest desert, the story about a former neighbour of mine – may she rest in peace, the floozy – who once had the misfortune of stepping on a crack so that the heel of her shoe got stuck in it and broke right off, so that – can you imagine? – she fell into the street right in front of a car, and was killed instantly.

Now, of course I would never be as flamboyant as to wear such high heeled shoes the manner of your poor, ill-fortunate young Molly there, but any the less it just goes to show, doesn't it, that you can never be too careful with those cracks in the pavement. One could argue, obviously, as those young minds usually do – as filled with newly acquainted logic they believe themselves to be – but, sadly, without much experience from a life quite lived, in sickness and in health (God rest my husband's soul, that he should not have the wits to curb his heart attack until he was done descending the stairs), not to mention learning-by-doing and by watching fatal accidents, that one could simply step over the crack in the pavement. But their restless minds, impatient to get themselves elsewhere, overlooks the fact that anything might happen. One could trip, or in other ways lose one's balance, ant there you are, one foot solidly and inexorably placed straight across the crack, and what, one may ask, do one do then? Of course, crossing the street was absolutely out of the question, as I could no longer see the black cat, and there was no telling how far it had followed the street, and I wasn't about to cross its path unwittingly, thank you very much!

However, as luck would have it, I seemed to remember being able to walk through the McCarthy garden and out on the other side, and thus end up quite close to the Little Shop around the Corner. And oh, I must admit I felt a good bit adventurous as after having had a good look around to make sure not a blessed soul (nor a damned one, mind you) was there to see me, I lifted the hook that kept the gate closed, and as "Dear me," I thought, "now that's a rusty gate and no mistake," I pushed it open with the tip of my right shoe – as open as it could be pushed, that is, for something seemed to be preventing it from reaching its full potential of openness. "How odd," I thought, as I snuck myself inside the garden, through the narrow opening, careful not to get any rust on my clean clothes, I am quite athletic for a woman my age, I must imprint on you. An age which I would never dream of revealing to you, of course, however much you might wish me to. One is a lady, after all.

The gate shut itself closed behind me with a loud clang!, which had me started a little, I must say. Admittedly, I had gotten myself into quite a state as I noticed how the hook had fallen back into its place, having the gate as closed and locked as if never it had been opened. But I told myself quite firmly that it was ridiculous of me to allow myself to be all worked up by such a small sort of a thing. After all, what could possibly disturb such a wonderfully regular day?

Dancing Barefoot through New York (prose-ish)

So after I said bye-bye to my best friend and watched her get on the bus that would take her to Chicago, I turned away and tried to take the first steps in this new phase of life towards the subway that would take me to the East Village, but this new life would have a rather confusing start as the subway ticket money machine thingy didn't like my $20 note and told me to go see a professional who run his business in Grand Central Station - professional help hah hah - but, ok, fair enough, I went back up again to the real world and I took a wrong turn as my mind was partly on that bus on the way to the airport I guess, and suddenly I found myself walking down Madison Avenue and Manhattan is all of a sudden hot like Sahara, so I look frantic for a Starbucks and a Frappuccino to reboot myself, but for the first time in a decade or so a person could walk down one block on Manhattan without finding a Starbucks - so I stop and sigh and look up to gather myself but there is no sky only corporate builidings and I know that I still have to find that ticket machine in Grand Central Station so I can go Downtown, but my attention is drawn towards a Chinese guy who's checking his bicycle tire for holes in a little water pit as a guy eating yogurt with both hands is crossing the street in a car cuts him off my sight, and I pull out a map and try to find my way to the station, which actually is the building behind me with big letters chipped into the white-ish stone saying "Grand Central Station"- to which I walk up to and enter, and suprisingly with little confusion find the Magical Mystery Machine that still for some reason has the same attitude as the otherone on the station on East 42nd Street and indeed I prayed right there that 3CPO would come to Earth and take with them these pieces of scrap that keeps cluttering up my life, and perhaps recycle or rejuvenate them as something useful like an electric tooth brush or a laser printer and just ...fock off to outer space while I could be safely on my way to East Village, which I realised would not happen so I go back out to the jungle and try to walk to Central Park by firstly making a wrong turn, making me go down Park Avenue rather than up it and so further distancing me from my new destination - however ironically bringing me a few steps closer to the original one however change of preferance in destination I still really wanted a cold coffe and still I wander full of wonder down another block without a Starbucks in sight and now I feel the top of my head letting out steam and with a student morgage of plentiful zero's -this gaz was worth gold, money was flushed down the loo every second and especially big was the steam let off by the excitement of almost being run over by a yellow cab after having failing to see the "Don't Walk" sign - I knew this was getting serious and looked for my Plan B solution - air condition, a Jew in black clothes, a big beard with long curled side burns under a black hat, stares at an approaching yellow cab through circular glasses balancing on his nostrils at the end of his long crooked nose that made me think of front lights on a gherkin, it drives past him but he shows no affection, being a man of God, of the Chosen People who waited 40 years in a desert don't seem to mind waiting another minute or so on Manhattan for the next taxi that picks him up and takes him to wherever- me, I was still in the same place, only now with my eyeballs resting at a Barnes and Noble sign and just by the look of the wooden interiors I could feel a breeze and a cold frappe down my throath - and in a wink I'm inside and my mind seems once more with me - we're one again -but this intellectual revival did not take place in the most sensible place, money wise, as a book shop tends to keep the mind's desires far away from the wallet's interest, and soon I'm standing with two books in my hand, a novel called The Edge of Yonder - whatever that means - , and the other being a poetry collection by Patti Smith, looking scrufffy but real on the cover in contrast to the three summer cannibals lurking outside the window in hot pants and high heels increasing the danger of traffic accidents by offering meat to every bidder or gawker, but Patti and I roll down our sleves and resumes the daily battle betweet the tits and the twats, and now I'm beginning to get a little chilly from the cold air, so I pay and return to the jungle, refreshed and with my mind clear of where to go - "Y is the Forgotten Vowel" she says and I can't help but ask "Y?" -"Y is the covenant between the Creator and the Artist" she whispers back through the shivers from pages of paper being turned and overtuned by the noise on 5th Avenue and now I can see the top of the trees of Central Park and I wished it could just rain even though I'd left my umbrella hanging on my bunk bed in room 305 in our hostel, something that would just remove this heat block from my brain, and indeed there must have been something in the gas leaking from my ears - they must have provided some sort of super quick astral highway for prayers- some super gravital wishing well with God on speed dial- for surely, a dark cloud relieved Central Park South from the straining sun and its companions soon gathered too- I sit down on a bench dedicated to some late Aggie and Alex, smiling, whipping out my book on the memory of these strange lovers and setting my peace with New York, at least for a little while before I had to head back to Grand Central Station to get on the bus to the air port - God bless this mess!

Lost (poetry, sonnet)

Where are you?
Cause I’m right there.
What’s that you say not anywhere?

Am I with you?
Cause where is here.
Yet you assert this, no place for fear?

Could this be true?
We’re where we are.
So near the truth, and yet so far?

Our search is through?
We’re here and there.
Our true location we ought not share?

Well here’s the truth, free of cost…
I think we’re Bermuda Triangle lost.

The Promise (prose, short story)

by Constance R.

He winced as she gripped his hand tighter, his own breathing quickening as she struggled with her hyperventilation. He could only watch as the pain twisted her face, the tears and the lights that hung menacingly above blinding her.

"It's okay" He spoke gently, his voice hushed, trying to swallow his own panic and giddiness. "Come on--come on, you can do it."

He was Peter, freshly 16 with light brown hair that managed to hang just in the center of his vision, soft heather-blue eyes and a complexion that seemed to pale with the passing minutes. She was Dana, also a delicate 16, with black hair that now fell in wisps about her grimacing face and dark eyes that were squinting at the swarming world before her. She was the one he promised to protect, to never leave. The one he swore forever to. Together they were two quiet people, innocent and the essence of what their small community would have once called perfect and sweet. But they were now imperfect--misshapen, shunned, and glared at from newspapers and porches as the passed silently by, heads bowed, hands clasped tightly; one stomach knotted in shame and the other's bulging with a promise and curse.

Peter stroked Dana's hand lovingly as it trembled uncontrollably, as her fingers dug into his skin and her voice cracked and trailed off to disgruntled groans. The people's eyes in the hospital had held the same judgement as their friends and neighbors, critically tearing at them as they had stumbled in through the pouring rain, dripping and crying, unsure of how the life they had brought was to make it safely into the world. He had refused to leave her to the nurses and doctors, clinging to her hand, letting her know that a small part of the world was there to love.

He could remember the night, nearly nine months ago. Dana had been curled in his arms, the stars far above and the world seeming to hold its breath as they regained control of theirs. She had cried, silently, and after sleep had taken away the immediate shame he had also shed his tears. Somehow, he'd felt it that night--as if he could already hear the tiny heart beat, the gentle prodding of feet against flesh and the curious shape that would be revealed by an ultrasound. He thought Dana had known too. Or not. He wasn't sure.

As she had cried, he had whispered his assurance to her that his love was steadfast, and that no matter what hurricanes of trouble may come over them that he would always be there. He would not desert her--not for anything. He'd proven that to himself now, as he gripped her hand, through her blood and his brimming tears. He now knew for certain.

The shrill cry scared him at first, he and Dana's hearts hammering as one. But once it subsided to a steady, throbbing noise that filled the room, as the source was cleaned, wrapped up in a soft blanket and handed to him, the tears cascaded down his face. Rocking the child, Peter shook with his own sobs, looking down at Dana, who's eyes seemed far away and who's mouth gaped open as she drew ragged breaths. He brought her hand to his lips, kissing it gingerly, a smile breaking through.

"It's okay" he whispered to her, the child's cries subsiding as if on cue, the two of them peering down at her tear-streaked face. Peter leaned close, clutching the baby protectively, letting the child and Dana's cheeks brush one another gently. "We're going to make it--Just hang in there. It's over, I'm here...he's here. We'll pull through, I promise, I promise..."

A Regular Tuesday (Prose, part 1/4)

It was just another regular Tuesday, and there was absolutely nothing indicating that this day would at all differ from any chosen previous one I'd had the good fortune of experiencing. In fact I distinctly remember thinking to myself "What a fantastically normal and regular day," as off I went to the Little Shop around the Corner to purchase my daily fresh bread rolls and yesterday's newspaper - which always lay in the same place, absolutely free of charge, if only one knew where to look for it.

I made to cross the road, just as a tiny kitty-cat ran straight across my path, being all black as charcoal from the nostrils of its little nose to the tip of its tail, all the way down to the frantically trotting paws. Now, I really must hurry and say that I am in fact not a very superstitious person – must the sky fall down and the Devil take my soul if ever I spoke a lie – but black cats are an ill omen, however way of putting it!

So I decided that this delightfully normal day was as good a time as any to stray off my regular path to the Little Shop around the Corner, and try another way. Rather than crossing the road I continued down the street a bit, stopping every now and again to have a look into some forgotten neighbour's garden, my mind simply overflowing with exclamations such as "Oh my, those are some fabulous roses right there" and "Mrs. O'Malley certainly must have some time on her hands, creating a lovely garden like this." None as beautiful as my own, of course. Oh, may all sorts of blessings befall my modest soul but is my very on garden the pride of the street, or so I flatter myself thinking.

At the bottom of the street lives Mr. McCarthy, only he moved this summer, to London, apparently. May his unpatriotic old soul never find peace, so that he'll come back to the country that was bought him by young Catholic sweat and blood. No, actually, let him stay where he is, that unappreciative, dreadful old man!

As I looked over the little fence at his overgrown garden – what a shame that his granddaughter (for he certainly did have a granddaughter, didn't he now?) has done nothing to adorn those living things that have shot out of the ground at own will here, and now even the ivy climbing the walls of the house and – Oh look it! – covering the door so that no one might enter lest they have a machete at hand – I couldn't help but notice a collection of empty (I assumed they were so by the way that the sun seemed to shine through them – not that I gave much thought to it, of course) bottles in a first floor window. Oh, he always did love his comfort liquor that old Mr. McCarthy. Surely he has only been away since the summer, which can only be, what, some nine months ago now, on this undeniably regular day in early April.

Reality? (poem, sonnet)

Round, and round, and round we go
Riding the rhythm of universal flow
From where we came, to where we go
For all to guess, for none to know

Maybe there’s neither beginning nor end
Or way of knowing what’s round the bend
And although your theories you may defend
Lets be real, it’s all pretend

Realities as real, as your static mind is active
As basic as what’s found attractive
As helpful as a corpse inactive
And yet some how it’s where we live

Your mind unwinds and finds its place
While all these thoughts rewind behind, without a trace

Like Water On Stone: Prologue (prose, novel)

By Constance R.

My life ended at age six. I remember it so vividly, that last fleeting moment of tranquility, that last breath where everything tasted crisp and pure like mountain air. That last moment before my world was to come crashing down on top of my head and crushing what little pure and innocent soul I had left inside of me. I remember being alive, sitting up in my room, staring out my window into the dark night.
It had been my birthday that evening; Family had gathered and we had celebrated the usual way with cake and ice cream, presents, games, laughter and joy. And candles. Who could forget those candles? How I did love blowing them out... and especially making a wish. Mine never really came true, and I didn't really expect this one to, either.
My oldest brother Mathew was always teasing me, night and day—not that I really hated it, of course, but it did get on my nerves every so often, and tonight happened to be no exception. I remember being perched in front of my birthday cake like a bird before the plunge, thinking about something to wish for. Mathew happened to reach out and pinch me on the arm and whisper 'fairy-boy' just as I was deciding and my eyes opened. I blew out the candles hard, as if that were to force my wish into the smoke as it drifted up and away to those who might have granted such things.
The party continued like every other; my grandmother and grandfather playing poker with the grandchildren; my parents stealing loving glances at one another as they passed in the kitchen. My brothers resumed wrestling in the living room as my aunts and uncles argued about politics and Nascar—And then there was me, right in the center of everything I observed every gesture, clung to every word. That was one of the many strange hobbies of mine when I was young, memorizing my life much like an actor memorizes a play, perhaps hoping that one day I would get to recite it all. Maybe even please an audience, capture fame, and I guess that's what I'm doing now. Except for the fame part, I've never really wished for that.
The party ended around 9:45 as the last of my relatives filed out the door. The entire event left me feeling warm inside and simply contented with my own existence, as most children are. I went up to my room that I shared with my second oldest brother, Reagan. I didn't usually mind him, though he snored on occasion and sometimes talked in his sleep. Normally I would stay up and look out my window, watching the moon and stars twist about the night sky, and that is exactly what I did. The night crept on, my head full or memorization and deep thinking. I had always liked the night more than the day; it just seemed more peaceful, at ease, unlike its predecessor which was packed full of chaos, schedules, school, family and chores... Nighttime was my freedom. My time to think and do what I wanted, which admittedly wasn't much, except contemplating the infinite ways of the Universe. I loved to think about where my life would be going; what kind of a job I might have, my family, where I'd go in the world, who'd I'd meet and what I'd see. Yet, I never really contemplated the here and now. The little things that I recorded in my mind but never analyzed with care.
As I was coming to that small realization as I sat poised at my window, that sickening explosive din shattered my thoughts and scattered them across my consciousness. Though at the time I was unaware, it was from that immediate second that my very life was to be flipped upside-down and violently shaken until all of it's contents crashed to the floor.
I was out of the room before Reagan could jerk himself out of bed—I was down the hall before my parents left their room—And I was standing in Mathew's bedroom doorway as he slid from his bed onto his floor, a faint red spot on his white T-shirt growing more and more pronounced with the passing seconds. That alone left me enough time to go over and sit down beside him, to place my hand upon that red spot and watch as it extended past my small hand without any hindrance at all. Within 10 seconds my parents were inside the room, my mother howling and covering her face with her hands and my father just standing and staring. Reagan arrived shortly after, but soon ran back to fetch the phone downstairs. But what I remember most is that red spot. How it grew and transformed and soon migrated to the floor, where it crept silently past me, wetting my knees, shins, and feet.
At first I didn't quite grasp what it was, that inevitable crimson that flooded out of my brother's chest, that trickled from his nose and spilled from his lips. I think it only sunk in when I looked into my brother's eyes and saw no flicker of life; only that cold, blank, dead stare—The one you see in animals as they lay crushed on the highway, their bodies mangled and the life pressed out of them. It was only then that the word entered my mind; Dead. I don't ever really recall seeing the gun, though I'm sure I glimpsed it. I don't remember the ambulance, or the police cars, or the black body bag. I only remember those dead eyes and that growing spot of red—and his taunting, mischievous smile. Who could have forgotten that? He wore it like this was all just one big joke. Like the entire ordeal was amusing to him; That the fact that I would never again have him walk me to school—that never again would I be able to run away from him as he doused Reagan and I with the garden hose—That never again would I be able to go to him when I was terrified, when nightmares clawed at my dreams or when my parents screamed to one another at three A.M. That I would never again see him.
For years I couldn't understand why he died. The term suicide made no sense to me—All I understood was that he left us. In his place there was this strange filling up of space that seemed to occur once the funeral was over, after the mourners had gone home and after the tears had dried out. There was that strange feeling that left the entire house with a dense fog. No one really laughed or joked and everyone kept busy—Especially my father; Mathew had been his favorite, everyone had know that. Mathew had always been rather intelligent, did decent in school, participated in sports and was popular. Your average pleasant fifteen year old kid. Yet something had gone wrong—some fuse had gone out in his mind, and he snapper. I never figured out why.
It was only one day when I was sitting up in his room, like I wasn't suppose to, contemplating the ever fragile ways of life, when it can back to me—my wish on my birthday I had made a month or so previous. When I wished he'd leave me alone. But how could I have know that it would be forever? Even to this day, I still feel that that played some part, no matter how small, in the destruction of his life and the ensuing chaos and hell of mine.

Desitny's Frailty (poem, sonnet)

Crazy as the night is to consume the day
The passing of all that comes my way
My will hears my thoughts, tastes my cry to stay
Nothing but white noise to perpetual motion

Blue as the song of sounds voice
A maze that’s lost me in its choice
Turn up the volume, I can’t stand the noise
Fate has consumed, entombed, and concealed

Lost as the self in the world of the lost
Reality’s dimension sees my end, my cost
I know not the time that’s flown past
My eternity’s there, but I am where

I am here, and now, and how I so desire
My will is ember bound, my fate from the fire

Itch (poem, lyric)

By Constance R.


Pull back the hammer, sound the bell
Clap of thunder, all is well
Hunger fed, heart made still
Test of patience, war of will

Sickened grin and nervous laughter,
Problem solved, tied to rafter
Breath not drawn, nervous twitch,
To and Fro, can't scratch the itch

Eyes a'flicker and tongue of flame,
Earth shatter, falling rain
Hands held tight, swept away
Briefest dark, red-ridden day

At the Back of My Mind... (prose, short story)

by Ada

My tremulous shoulders reveal an emotional outburst, but I hide my swollen face in a mascara stained paper towel clutched in my trembling hands. All around me I can feel my well-behaved relatives shooting glances in my direction, feeling sorry for me, but wishing I could get my act together and behave like the civilised human being I was brought up to be. Dressed appropriately in black, they feel they have a right to judge me, the rebel in jeans and t-shirt.

Take a bow, Sheila. You’ve earned your applause. Now drop the act.

No, not today. There’s no acting today. A bit of hiding, but no acting.

The valium I took earlier makes me feel detached, almost like I’m floating underneath the ceiling. But I’m still connected with my feelings. And with my memories. I’m bringing all of that up there with me, staring down upon the rest of the people, quietly absorbed with their hushed grief. Which is how I can tell that even the people behind me are staring at me, and wondering.
“Sheila’s upset,” they whisper. “Look, her shoulders are shaking, she’s crying so hard. I didn’t know they were that close.”

Well, there are a lot of things they don’t know.

Like the fact that his eyes are staring at me through his closed eye lids from the closed casket. And that I can see his hands, scrubbed clean, folded upon his chest as in prayer. They’ve washed his hands of this world for him, and made him ready to enter the next one. I close my own eyes, and see an image of his heavy body in the cold, damp earth, so real I can almost smell it.

His hair and fingernails still growing.

Worms feasting on his rotting flesh.

My head aches, and as I rub my temples I feel a nausea coming on. And I remember things so vividly that I can hear and feel them. His voice, telling me to lie still or else. His hands, always clammy against my skin, ever since I was too young to understand what he was doing. I can’t focus on what the minister is saying. His compassionate voice seeps through only in bits and pieces: “…a real tragedy… at such a young age…”

What does he know?

I finger-brush my hair away from my face with both hands, and look up finally. Teary eyed, putting a hand in front of my mouth to stop the craziest of sounds coming through it, I let the world see me for what I am.

It’s my cousin’s funeral, and I can’t stop laughing.

“This is life,” my uncle says, standing in front of the casket. He turns around and looks at the wooden walls concealing his son from him. He swallows heavily, and when he continues, his voice breaks appropriately. “Loving and losing. That’s what it’s all about.”

And I just can’t stop laughing.

The Voices (poem, unconventional)

What is what
They’re in there
No if-and-but
It’s me they share

Through influence
And logic’s lies
They make my sense
And paint my skies

One says left One says right
Then turns round Stands their ground

Right along Left in wrong

They race and run
Shout their madness
They have their fun
Fun relentless

Hahi Hehe Hoho Hahe
Confusion sought Conclusion’s rot
No sight, you see Nowhere, you’ll be

There’s one, no two
They multiply
It’s never through
Through either eye

Go here, go there
They order on
We get nowhere
As equal pawns

I like it here What’s there to fear
Well-known showing Keep on going
I’m right you see Listen to me

Leave me to moan
Don’t drone my mind
Leave me alone
My way I’ll find

Now to think straight
Voices at bay
No time to wait
I’ll go that way I’ll go this way

Made of Matches (prose, short story, cont.)

by Constance R.

Jean flipped open the phone and dialed, her glare fading into a soft, helplessly hopeful sulk, finally giving in to company-desperate temptation. It seemed to ring for an eternity, her heart sinking with each tone, the tears drawing closer and closer to spilling over and her jaw clenching tighter and tighter until her teeth were sure to crack. But when a male voice answered 'Hey' she nearly burst into hysterical laughter.
"Ryan--Hey, Ryan!" Jean sputtered, her heart racing with exhilaration. "Oh my god, it's so great to hear your voi-"
"Hey, this is Ryan. I'm not home right now, so leave me a message and your number and I'll try to get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks!"
As Ryan's voicemail beeped to commence in leaving a message Jean remained silent, her hand holding the phone beginning to tremble and her breathing starting to quicken. She snapped the phone shut with such ferocity that she dropped it, her hands curling into fists. Her nose twitched with anger as she slowly bent her head down so her chin settles against her collar, tears silently flooding down her cheeks and seeping into her shirt.
"...So you can take the time to change your god damned voice message, but you can't take a minute to call me?..."
In a jerk, all the air that had been held tight in her chest let loose in an aching moan, her hands uncurling and moving up to cover her face. With each gasp her tears momentarily surged, her body rocking back and forth in her chair and her skin chilled and goose bumped with longing.
"Damn it, Ryan..." Jean barely managed through sobs, her lungs becoming quickly sore and her sides pricking with pain. "Damn it, I miss you...Why can't you call me? Why won't you call me?...Am I really that bothersome?... If you'd just ask, I'd have gladly let you alone! You didn't have to go and deliberately avoid me like that!"
With a shudder and groan Jean gently slid off her chair, leaning against the wall and continuing to talk to no one as she cried.
"I didn't mean to pester you so much...I just love you, you know, and I hate being away from you, I hate being alone...it makes me feel so stupid--why are you punishing me? What did I do wrong?"
She was unable to get out anymore as her sobs overpowered her voice. She had often made such accusations in the past month in her head, cursing those that 'avoided' her and then cursing herself for causing whatever unseen trouble that must keep them at bay.
It was quite some time before her tears finally stopped and she took a deep breath, picking herself up off the floor and scooping up her phone, stuffing it fiercely into her pocket as she continued to scold herself in her head.
After standing there silently for a breathless five minutes Jean was finally able to compel herself to leave the living room and move instead to her apartment's small bedroom, perching herself in front of her patiently waiting computer and accessing the Internet. She didn't bother checking her email, which proved more hopeless and barren than the lack of phone calls, and instead went to scrutinize her horoscope. She began reading it with fading interest, her head resting on her hand.
"Virgo: Today is not the best day for you. You would do well to remember to keep away from fire elements--their unpredictable and sometimes misleading behaviors may make you think they are something they're not, and in turn can lead you to feel depressed and neglected. Keep in mind that you are a wood element, and that things made of matches burn easily. Keep your head, and always look on the bright side, even when things are rough and unpleasant. Everything may not be as it seems."
At this Jean returned to glaring. This message that had promised each day to be uplifting and encouraging by predicting the day's events only pained her more so. Her hate for the world and its lack of interaction with her grew with each moment as she sat staring at the message displayed on her screen. She abruptly slammed her hand down on the desk as she felt the tight return of anxiety surge through her chest; Her hyperventilating did nothing to cool the headache that clawed at her temples, and as the panic attack went on she broke into a sweat, her breathing shifting unevenly and beads of perspiration slowly sliding down her forehead. She wasn't entirely certain what had set her off this time--the horoscope's accusations, maybe, or her own.
"No," She gasped "St...Stop...being...ridiculous..."
Jean grabbed at her chest as she struggled to restore calm, her hands shaking and the throbbing in her head remaining persistent, nausea beginning to twist in her gut. A moment later and it ceased, Jean leaning back in her chair as her breathing settled, her leg bouncing with unrest and her hands trembling slightly in her lap. She despised her panic attacks--they always felt like they were lurking right around the corner somewhere, especially during her long weeks of confinement, and she had begun scolding herself each time one came on, trying to force them to stop and to keep some sort of steadiness.
Pushing herself up from her chair, Jean sluggishly shuffled over to the bathroom, not bothering to close the door as she entered; After all, who was there to walk in on her? She began running water for a bath, sighing as her stomach persisted to ache with nausea as she commenced undressing. All she needed to do was relax--for a fleeting moment she convinced herself that she was just stressed about work and school, and that Ryan would come around when he felt like it.
Stripping down to the likeness of a jay bird, Jean submerged herself in the pleasantly hot water, turning it off with her foot and snuggling down so that water reached her chin. Her eyes drooped closed and her body relaxed somewhat; but as she sat, she could feel her face growing hot. Not from the water, but from the fresh batch of tears that threatened to spill over. She held them in with all her strength, sucking in her breath and trying to keep it from shaking. There had to be something more than the loneliness, she though to herself, but she knew there wasn't--all she wanted was company. To feel Ryan's arms, in particular, wrap around her and hold her tightly--and not just because she's asked him to, but because he wanted to. She wasn't all too sure if that would ever happen again, though.
Jean's eyes shut themselves tight as she submerged her head, her hands gripping the sides of the tub with determination and her jaw clenched firmly. A steady stream of bubbles escaped from her nose, her dark brown hair swirling about her face as she focused on keeping still. After 30 seconds her lungs started to ache. At 40, they were beginning to burn. She didn't know what she was doing, or why, but she was set on finishing whatever it was. 50 seconds and her head felt light. After a minute she lost count, her torso jerking involuntarily and her lungs feeling like they were slowly collapsing in on themselves. She sucked in water as they screamed for air, her fingers digging into the sides of the tub with the intent to kill. Her torso jerked again, more violently this time, her head feeling hollow. Opening her eyes she saw only faint colors fading to black, and as she choked a burst of crimson erupted from her nostrils. The only thought that seemed to ricochet off the inner walls of her mind was that if she were made of matches, she would douse herself with water to keep from burning up--to keep from being played with by the reckless. To keep from being hurt.
Jean unknowingly flung herself over the side of the tub, coughing up water as she sputtered and convulsed. Her mind remained a dark muddy pool and her eyes refused to register anything but black. Breathing in ragged gasps, Jean's head lolled to one side, water streaming from her nose and mouth. Tears cascaded down her face as her mouth gaped open, her chest heaving and her body trembling with the chill brought on by her selfish act. And then everything faded into a dull, hollow emptiness.

When Jean finally came to her senses, the once steaming bath water was cold and tinged a dirty pink, her hair half-dry and her ribs, nose, throat and lungs aching. Her head was pounding resentfully as she squinted about the dizzying bathroom and her ears gave a painful throb as her phone gave a seemingly shrill beep. Coughing, Jean weakly reached out for her pants, which lay in a heap just out of reach, her fingers fanning out in a desperate attempt to snag a corner of her clothing. She whimpered slightly as she leaned further over the edge of the tub, taking hold of her pants and numbly searching the pockets with increased clumsiness. Once her phone was revealed she could see the status light on the front blinking rapidly: one missed call. Flipping open the phone, Jean stabbed the talk button with her index finger to listen to her voicemail, her heart pounding with excitement and causing her dizziness to surge.
"One new message and 12 saved messages." The jerky automated voice said. "First new message, received at four twenty eight p.m." Jean hurriedly flipped the phone over-- 4:32.
"Hey, Jean--" Ryan paused uncertainly, Jean's breath becoming caught in her chest and causing her to wince. "Yeah, sorry I haven't called you back--everything's been so crazy. My sister came in from out of town a few weeks ago and I was preoccupied with that, and then my dad called up and said that my mom was back in the hospital again--you know, her back and all--so I was up to see her and help my dad out around the house. I'm really sorry I haven't called you, or been over there. Gas money is tight, and I really don't have much to spare--but I should have gotten up there at least to check if you were alright. I'm sorry..." he paused for a long moment, and Jean could hear him exhale hard through his nose like he did when he felt he'd just done something wrong. "...I miss you...actually, I think I'm going to come over there. I just have a bad feeling...I don't know, you know how that goes. I'll see you in ten minutes. I love you." another pause. "...bye."
Jean let the phone gently slide out of her hand and onto the floor, dragging herself out of the cold bathwater and snagging a towel from a nearby hook as she shakily brought herself to her feet. Stumbling, she made her way out of the bathroom, wrapping the towel about herself and making her clumsy way into her bedroom. There she struggled with her dresser's drawers, jerking out clothing and sluggishly pulling them on, letting her towel drop to the floor. Once dressed, she made another dizzy trip out to the living room, collapsing onto her couch and listening to the pounding of her heart in her head. Soon Ryan would be there... and everything would be alright.

Shiny, Shiny Boots of Leather (prose, short story)

by Ada

She knows she's not being followed, yet she keeps walking steadily on. There's nothing or no one to be seen, and ahead of her and behind her the lanes stretch on for miles of visible road.

Empty.

She should be tired, but she's not. Her feet should ache, but she's too numb to feel it. She staggers on, in her high heeled leather boots and torn stockings. Her right hand clutches a purse, its reins hanging towards the ground, swinging from side to side in sync with her movements. Her fingernails are painted red, but several of them are broken, and the polish is peeling off. Her index and middle fingers are scratched where she scrapes them against her teeth above the toilet bowl twice a day, after tying her hair in a pony tail at the back of her neck. The hair hangs in greasy, dirty blonde waves around her face now.

Her age is hard to determine. She's dressed up to look older than she is, but underneath her makeup hides a face that might not yet be out of her teens. Her skin is white, apart from her cheeks on which a fake blush is powdered, and black mascara and eyeliner gathers in a tiny net of wrinkles around her eyes. Mimic wrinkles witnessing of a better time, with things to smile about, not so long ago. Her red lipstick has been rubbed off, and her bloodless lips are visible through the remains of it.

The sweat running down her back is cold, and it clings her tank top to her body as if it were the forecasted rain that never seems to show up. She pulls the fake fur closer around her with her free hand, and shudders. The zipper is broken, and she holds it shut against a wind that out of nowhere starts pulling at the trees around her. There are no shadows on the ground in these final, grey hours before dawn. No colours, no contours. Through this washed-out world she shuffles, like a somnambulist, one foot absent-mindedly placed in front of the other.

Left foot.

Right foot.

Left foot.

And she stumbles. Falls down on her knees, crawls a few steps before getting back up, without stopping. Moving forward being her only purpose, she doesn't pay attention to anything else. The sharp pain shooting up from her right knee, where a patch of crimson is emerging through her stockings, doesn't stop her. If anything, it gives her something to focus on, something to take her mind off something else. It's no different from the cuts and scratches on her arms, straight, parallel wounds on top of straight, parallel scars.

Her fingers are stained yellow by the cigarettes she's now craving. She's got a package of Virginia Slims in her purse, but she knows there's only one left. Her hands are starting to shake, and she moves her feet quicker, as if trying to walk away from her nicotine withdrawal, but she ends up taking shorter steps, and just gets nowhere faster.

Clouds are gathering above, and with them a promise of rain, finally. But she doesn't notice. The weather means nothing to her, apart from the immediate discomfort of it. Her skirt, tight and short, is riding up her skinny thighs, but she neglects her usual habit of pulling at it to keep it in place. He hates that habit. Or, he hated.

She stops. For the first time since she left his house in the middle of the night, she slows down and stops. She stops, just as the first few drops of rain falls down on her, and on the thirsty ground around her, not believing its luck. In disbelief it leaves the drops where they fall, forming small pearls of precious water on top of the sandy ditches and the dark tarmac, before greed outwits the incredulity, and the treasure sinks into the earth, leaving only a damp patch on the surface.

She's rummaging her purse, seeking the cigarette pack in a panic that increases as quickly as it overwhelmed her. She finds the package, and - hands trembling - she shakes out the last one. Fumbling to put it in her mouth at the same time as searching for the lighter, she drops it to the ground, where it soaks up the droplets of rain that fall with it.

She's immobilised for a moment, just staring at the white, broken cigarette, like it's a worm coming up for air after its underground tunnels are flooded by the overhead rain. Then, with a high-pitched sound, like a shriek of pain from a wounded animal, she falls to her knees as the events of the night overwhelm her.

In glimpses she can see his face above her in his bed. Her hands tied to the headboard, she has no choice but to endure the cold blade of the knife against her skin, wondering when he'll actually cut her. For three nights a week he loves her, controls her, consumes her, and then hates her. It's the way he likes it and it's what he pays for.

No more.

With his back to her, getting dressed, she was the one to take control, knife in hand, and an uncontrollable rage surging through her.

Now, miles and hours away, she's crying so hard that her sobs become gagging, and she retches dryly a few times without throwing up. She sits in the ditch with her legs stretched out in front of her, like a rag doll. She has no strength left in her, and just sits like this, feeling all the aches of her body submerge into one, all consuming pain.

Now, after claiming her body back, and her control back, the fear and shame has been replaced by emptiness and solitude. And more fear. And more shame.

Above her, the sky opens up, and lets out an ocean. With the water drip-drip-dripping from the tips of her hair, down her face, commingling with her mascara-black tears, she grabs her purse, and, clutching it in her fist as before, she gets up upon her high heeled boots, and keeps on walking.

Rainy Weather (poem, sonnet)

By Icnived

Round the corners edge
Down the charted ledge
Through the withered wedge
Past the hidden hedge

Past the forest tree
Through the mazes three
Down the mounts decree
Round the rivers free

Round and round we go
Down in hope we show
Through the world we flow
Past sanity for all we know

We are the life to life
Water rain, this is our strife

Wave (prose, short story)

Sitting in the windowpane, staring down at the people walking by in the street, I pulled my legs up under me and leaned my head against the cool glass. Jim Morrison on the stereo, singing Hello, I love you, won’t you tell me your name.
“Deirdre,” I whispered, “Deirdre is my name.”

It was Coral’s second suicide attempt. The first one was still fresh in our minds when we again got the call from the hospital. Between them I would lay in bed for hours, on my back with my hands under my head, lights off, staring up at the ceiling, watching the shadows dance as cars passed by underneath the window. I kept putting off buying curtains, and it never got completely dark. Sometimes I lit scented candles, and put them in the windowpane. The draft from the window, which had made white roses of frost on the inside of the glass during the coldest days of winter, made the shadows from the flames flicker unpredictably over the room, and spread through it the smell of roses or lavender.
We had quite the absurd conversation in the hospital bed, Coral and I. She had made room for me to lie down beside her, under the covers, as I had just come in from an icy summer rain. The umbrella had kept me dry enough, but I was still shivering with cold as I leaned down to kiss her on the cheek, and the bed was invitingly warm and dry. I kicked off my shoes and crawled in next to her.
“I had my suicide note all worked out,” she said. I didn’t know how to tell her I didn’t want to know about it, so I cuddled up next to her with my head upon her shoulder, saying nothing. “I had this perfect quote I wanted to use, and everything. But then I forgot to write it.” Her voice broke off, and the silence that followed was painful.
I put my arm around her and found her hand, and, above it, the bandage covering the wounds on her wrist. I couldn’t help fingering with it. It felt strangely intimate. Even though I wanted the conversation to end, I heard myself asking, “Which quote is that?”
There was a slight pause, then “That to die is to wake,” she said simply.
I didn’t know what to say.
When she again spoke, I could hear impatience in her voice: “P. B. Shelley. ‘He hath awakened from the dream of life’.”
I cried silently into her shoulder. I don’t think she noticed.

On my way home, I leaned my head against the cool bus window, blindly gazing at droplets of polluted water snaking their way down the glass, crisscrossing each other as they went. It looked wrong. The young boy behind me was listening to loud music in his head phones, and I could make out a familiar melody, and found myself adding the lyrics I couldn’t hear.
I’m too messed up I should’ve followed you. Where’d you get that smile and the fine hair?
On the aisle across from me a woman my age was reading The Catcher in the Rye, expressionlessly, and it somehow didn’t make sense, as if I was watching a movie and someone had swapped the familiar soundtrack to something that didn’t fit at all. I broke my promise, and read the small piece of paper that had been put in my hand just before I left, with the instruction that I was to wait until I got home before I read it. Four short lines in her handwriting. I recognized the words immediately from a CD she had once borrowed and somehow never returned.

Wave thou art pretty
Wave thou art high
Wave to the city
Wave wave good-bye

The first thing that hit me as I walked into the apartment was the red-blinking light on my answering machine, and the knowledge that I should never have left the hospital.