42 minute read
I Needed Attention 44 A Powerfu c
did. She thought about what it would be like if he looked up. He never did.
Garrets hands moved rapidly through the gears and circuits in the robot, his fingers just barely beneath the surface. Jenna could feel Chaz's warm breath on the back of her neck. She saw Garret's forehead wrinkle in concentration; Chaz fucked her harder, gently biting the back of her neck. He moaned in her ear and climaxed.
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Jenna pulled away from the window, not turning around to look at Chaz.
Garret took his hands from the robot and closed the back, shaking his head with frustration. He touched a button on the remote control next to him; the robot didn't move.
"Will finishing this make me happy, I wonder." Garret sat cross-legged
in the driveway, his pants stained black. Jenna stood over him, offering a glass of water. "Of course, then I think to myself, 'It doesn't matter if it makes you happy, it just matters if you complete it."' "That's a silly way to look at things."
Garret smiled and took the water from her. "Maybe it is." "Are you really going to have it done soon? It doesn't look that close." Jenna squatted down next to Garret, gently touching the doll. Its eyes fell out.
Garret pushed them back into place, leaving a black stripe across both pupils. He looked at them for a second. "I'm right on track."
He gestured toward a remote control sitting on the ground next to him. "Hit the yellow button."
Jenna pushed the button. Nothing happened. "It doesn't even matter if I complete it, really, when you think about it. It'll be destroyed in no time at all. The eventual heat-death of the universe will make sure of that."
Jenna nodded. "I'll be inside. Chaz is waiting."
"Don't tell him about that." "It hadn't even crossed my mind."
Chaz stood next to the door, his head in front of the keys hanging near the window. They moved slightly in the breeze, casting tiny patches of light on the back of his neck. Jenna stared at him. She looked back and forth between him and the door. She sighed.
Chaz reached behind him, never breaking Jenna's gaze, and grabbed
a set of keys. He slowly started working one off the ring. "I'm not the way out."
Chaz pulled it off the ring and pushed it into his mouth. He swallowed it whole. "I never thought you were." Jenna looked out at her car. She hoped she hadn't locked it.
"You can't go through me. You wouldn't get anywhere if you tried."
Chaz pulled another key off the ring and put it into his mouth. It was more jagged than the last, he grimaced as it slid down his throat.
Jenna looked blankly at her magazine, not discerning words from letters. "If you're not the way out, then what are you?"
Chaz pulled the last key off the ring. He held it in front of his face
for a second, admiring it. He smiled and put it into his mouth. "I'm a locked door. I'm not sure if I lead anywhere, but you'll never know if I do." He swallowed.
"I thought you said you weren't the door." "I'm just not the way out."
"I could never build a robot." Chaz lay on his back behind Garret's workbench. He stared up at the sky, admiring openings in the clouds more than the clouds themselves. "I could make it pretty. I could make it so that women would want to keep it in their bathrooms. But I could never build it." "I don't think it's that hard. Wires and circuits and love." Garret looked down into the pile of severe{ body parts beneath him. He picked up the perfect pair of
lips and slipped them onto the robot's mouth. "You need the right parts, though."
Chaz pulled a pair of lips out of his shirt pocket. He held the knob be-
hind them in his teeth, grinning and making himself look strange. "I've never had the right parts. Not at the same time." "It's tough. You have to get them in the mail."
Chaz twirled the lips through his teeth with his tongue. He spun them round and round as Garret worked tirelessly, connecting connections. "Do you have the right parts?"
Garret's hands stopped and he stared at the robot in front of him. "I don't know. It hasn't worked yet, but I think I'm doing everything." "Are you sure you're building the right robot?"
Garret looked at him with loathing, but didn't let him see. He pushed the ears onto the robot. Its eyes still had a black stripe across them.
Jenna stared at Garret's back in the bathroom mirror, watching his awkward thrusts. He was precariously balanced, his leg propped up on the lip of the bathtub. She
looked bored, but he couldn't see. Her head was resting on his shoulder, looking into the mirror. She stared blankly into her own eyes and waited for him to finish.
They sat on the edge of their bed. Garret stared at Jenna's naked form; he wondered what she wanted from it. He reached over and placed his hand on her stomach. She slapped it away.
"That's not real."
Garret looked out into the hall, seeing the living room window, seeing the driveway. His table was still set up. "It's okay."
"It's not." "It's okay."
Jenna held the remote control in her hands, sitting in front of the work table in the driveway. She touched the yellow button and the robot began to move in a circle around the table. It made her smile.
Garret came out of the house and sat next to her, watching the robot move. It stayed away from the table edges. "You finally got it done, huh?"
Garret put his arm around Jenna. "Finally." "It's so little." "I made it that way."
"I think it's cute." Jenna pushed the button again. "I like watching it spin around like that. I'm glad you made it so cute." "Form is function." Garret looked at Jenna's chest, afraid to look at her eyes. "At least it should be."
Jenna picked the robot up and placed it on the ground next to the car. She pushed the button on the remote again, forcing the robot to walk out into the street. She pushed it again, making it stop. A car sped down the street toward their house.
Garret grabbed the remote and tried to turn the robot back on. It wouldn't move. The car didn't slow down. He stared at the robot, pushing the buttons over and over again. Nothing happened.
Shards of plastic flew into the driveway. The car didn't stop. The driver hadn't noticed. Garret closed his eyes and fell to the ground, holding the remote control so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
The eyes had landed next to his knee. He picked them up. The black stripe was gone. "We need to talk about our relationship," Garret said, standing up. "Does it matter what we say?" "It never has before."
Before Alarm CIoks Sound
alice wildes
I say hello to the paperboy passing by,
ducking his head to avoidmy satisfied nod.
This is the sixth time I've left you at dawn-
dried pupils
sticky gums falling chest
I can't wait to do it again.
Made in 7922
jose Ilorenc panda
If only vibes were discrete, feet would play games, and drums could have names, unless jazz needs to eat moves the citrus line about a nostalgic acceleration causes a pagan prejudice of mine, affixed with canonical instrumentation. For weeks the east cis-atlantic never dance can-can but wish. For superficial and semantic, remember, Cisco was a fish. We paint our tribes without faces, tangent on a discotheque situation so discrete were the vibes,
but for free association.
1
-I
0
-I
I NEEDED
ATTENTION
blair bogin
I needed attention So I got a couple piercings And wrote in all caps
I mapped out places on my skin To burrow ink into Even though I knew I would never Build the courage
For permanence like that
And our temples kiss As we lye there cheek to cheek Chewing gum
Convinced there was more to him Than just sports and drugs
And his polar opposites Absorbed into my pores Colliding with the oils
Left from months before
From a boy I thought about marrying once Even though I knew I would never Build the courage
For permanence like that
Alone In The Light
(Chapter 2)
benjamin bass
The alarm was again Smith sat sounding again, and up in his bed drenched in sweat. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and the tears from his eyes as he sat up in bed, alone in the morning light.
"Fuck it's early." He grumbled turning off the alarm.
It was now October in Smith's small apartment. The breeze moving through his open window was not as pleasant as it was in August. The morning air was chilled and the light began to creep in later in the morning. He still followed his morning
ritual of waking with the fear of nightmares, smoking a cigarette, drinking some coffee and taking a shower. He still stood in the shower and fingered his wounds. And still he would stare at his face in the mirror and wonder 'who is this man staring back?'
When Smith left for the Army he was young and idealistic. He had dreams of
seeing the world and saving it from the evils that were out there. The Army tore him down and rebuilt him in a way that made him structured, more capable. As he moved up the ranks, he turned down the offer to go to Officer Candidate School. He did, however, go through Airborne
and Air Assault training. And until Iraq, he wanted to go to Ranger School; he still had his idealism and wanted to save the world. Enough was enough though. Iraq had extinguished the flame of his idealism with the tears of a little girl. He
wanted out. His time in Iraq had made him embittered towards the world. His heart was now incased in a thick shell of fear and distrust and nobody, it seemed, could get through that shell.
Within the first two months of the war, Smith found himself moving down the hall of a hospital in An Nasiriyah. To
his left and right .the family members of those men, women and children in the small, under-equipped rooms of "Saddam Hussein Hospital" stared at him. His M-
4 rifle was attached to vest with a small, quick-release hook. One hand rested on the pistol grip while his other carried his boonie-cap at his side, wrapped around,
and thus concealing, his video camera. This video was being made to document the treatment of the patients. His Platoon Sergeant had asked him earlier in the day if he was willing to come with him into the city and film the trip. Smith jumped at the
chance. The crew that came along was small. His Platoon Sergeant, SFC Davidson, and the Platoon Sergeant from 1st Platoon, SFC McCarty rode up front, while Smith
sat next to SSG Williams, also from 1s Platoon, in the back. SGT Thomas sat up top manning the Machine Gun. There was no second truck with them on this trip. It was unauthorized and a very big "no-go" from their Company Commander. But this trip was important. Rumors had reached the base that local children were being left to die in the hospital as the Mujahadeen fighters were being treated. Davidson and McCarty wanted to see for themselves so they loaded up in the Hummvee and headed off to the town.
An-Nasiriyah was less than ten minutes from the company's base camp, but due to the intense fighting in the area, none of them had ventured there too often. As the truck had made its way through the streets Smith had seen barefoot children running with their donkeys, men sitting, staring at him, and women doing their daily chores. The five men were surrounded as they worked their way through the mazelike town. They could see evidence of the fighting everywhere they looked. Fresh paint trying to conceal holes in the wall, boarded-up windows, and large, gaping holes from a 20mm Cannon in a water tower. I
Smith was both impressed and dismayed at what he saw. At the site that they came to next, Smith saw where an ambush had taken place against American troops not more than two weeks ago. The walls were riddled with bullet-holes and scorch marks. The brass shell casings had all been removed from the ground, but pieces of vehicles remained half buried by a bulldozer. He
placed his hand on his M-4 to make sure of its location in case anything happened. Although he was filming, he still had to be
ready to fight. The truck moved down the street more and arrived at the hospital. What Smith saw there was more than he could have ever imagined seeing and he had become forever changed as a result. At 8:30, the door opened like clockwork
and in walked John. "Hey! Let's go. We've got to get to campus because I've got to... Damn, man, are you ok?" John said looking at Smith's dark eyes and somehow feeling his far-away aura. "What?" Smith was caught off guard. "Well, we're friends right? So I can tell you... You look like shit."
"Thanks. I love you too." "I'm serious, man. I consider you a brother. And I have to tell you. I'm a little worried." "I'll take that under advisement." Smith said, dismissing his friend.
"I know you may not want to hear this, but maybe you should talk to someone." "I talk to you almost every day."
"I mean a professional, ass." "I know what you mean, but the last thing I need to do is have my ass put on antidepressants or some other whacked out drug... then I'd be just like your girlfriend." Smith half smiled. "I'll agree she has issues, but the sex is
great... And that is not the issue here." "Fine. I'll think about it. Now piss-off and
let me enjoy my coffee." "Skipping today?"
"Let's just call it a 'per sonal' day." Smith said.
"Well, ok... but I'm going to stop by later and check on you." "Whatever works for you," Smith said with a smile.
John left and Smith reached to the side of the couch to the awaiting bottle of aspirin. He had gotten used to the hangovers now. With amazing fortitude, Smith kept himself from drinking until the sun went down as opposed to starting at noon every day. Although it would have made his days easier
to handle and the people less nauseating to him, he nevertheless waited until he had gotten home at night. He realized that he needed to find another method to sleep. And perhaps someone could help get rid of, or at least lessen, the nightmares. He stumbled over to his computer and opened his school's homepage on the web. Under the listing for the Health Center, he found
Psychological Counseling for students. He sat there staring at the screen. He stood up, lit a cigarette, walked around the room and looked at the pictures on the wall. He was a grunt with seven years of experience. He needed no help with his problems. The
Infantry handled their own problems. He then looked at his coffee table with the three empty bottles of whiskey and rum and a tear formed in his eye. With a sigh, he picked up his phone and dialed the
number. "Yes. I'd like to come in and talk to someone, please," Smith said to the
receptionist on the phone. "Yes, ma'am this afternoon would be fine."
He hung up the telephone and sat down on the couch. He looked at his shelves covered with memorabilia. "What the fuck am I doing here?" he said aloud to himself. Then he decided to take his mind off of things and cleaned up his
mess from drinking.
That rainy afternoon, Smith found himself walking in the door of the Health Center. The smell of antiseptic filled the
air and he shivered at the thought of the hospital in An Nasiriyah.
"Maku... Maku..." the voice sounded in his memories as though he was there again.
Outside was the morgue. The freezer was no longer operational and the bodies were beginning to decay. One had died from bullet wounds and the other had his face removed by the back-blast of a RPG
launcher. The stench was overwhelming as were the flies that covered the bodies by the thousand. "That is the most disgusting thing I have ever smelled in my life," stated Thomas. "No shit. That's just fucking nasty," replied Smith, holding the video camera around the corner of the door. He had no desire to see any more of the disfigured bodies.
"Come on Smith. Thomas, you stay here and guard the truck. Anything happens hit me on the radio or just start shooting. Either way, we'll double-time it out here." Davidson ordered. "Roger, Boss," Thomas said climbing back into the turret. "Anyone touches my truck, you give them a reason to get the fuck back, got it?" "Roger."
"Lastly, anything goes wrong inside, you just wait. If you don't here from us in a minute, call Scout-Six and get some air support in here. And remember, the emergency freq is on channel nine. If you can't get Scout-Six, get somebody." "No problem."
With the contingency planning out of the way, in a rather half-assed way, the
remainder of the men moved towards the doors of the hospital. "Look at that shit," Smith said pointing to the wall of the hospital. "Is that blood?" "Yes." Davidson replied taking off his helmet and rubbing his balding head.
The outside wall of the hospital was
draped in blood where body parts and bandages had been thrown from the windows in the Surgery Ward of the upper floor. To the East, in the lot behind the
hospital, lay ten empty, shallow graves. They had been filled with US captives
taken in an ambush, but US Special Forces
had emptied the graves in a nighttime raid thirteen days ago. The team made their way up to the door and onto the first floor. They entered to a hallway packed with patients waiting to be seen. Many of them would not be seen that day due to the severe lack of staff. The smell in the air was decay,
blood, sweat and antiseptic. The smell was nauseating to the four men. Moving up the stairs, they briefly stopped on the third floor, the floor where a captured US soldier had been held until recently. The
same SF soldiers that took the other bodies home from their shallow graves outside had rescued her as well. The floor was an entirely female floor so the quartet continued up the stairwell to prevent any claims of impropriety. They passed many people in
the stairwells. Some were frightened, some were angry and some were actually happy to see them. But all had an initial look of surprise to see armed US soldiers moving up through the stairs in daylight. This had been, after all, a bad neighborhood for US troops.
On the fifth floor, they took to seeing what kind of patients they could find. Smith
saw first a little boy who was lying under a net to keep the flies away. It hurt for the boy to move, but his burns were not completely incapacitating. His body was burnt in various areas and Williams and Smith looked on in amazement, as there were no fluids being given intravenously or at all. Smith maneuvered the camera to try and get a good view without being too obvious as to his actions. Then the team moved from the boy and walked out of the room and throughout the hall. Smith passed out candy to the visiting families and children
to help relieve some of the stress and fear that they had, and to let them know he was there to help and not to take people away. Two elderly Iraqi women stopped him in the hall and pulled at him to follow them into a room. In the room, the women pleaded with Smith to help their sister. She was badly
burnt on her face, arms, and torso. The women pulled at his sleeves and pointed to her. Smith lacked the language skills
needed to explain to them that he was not a doctor. When SFC Davidson came in the room, he brought a Doctor with him. The Iraqi doctor told them that the woman had been caught in an explosion from a falling bomb and was burnt. He went on to state that he lacked the supplies needed to treat her. The only thing he could do was to keep her sedated and remotely comfortable in her severe state of pain. "I'm sorry," Smith whispered to the women regardless of their ability to understand his English. "I'm not a doctor." "Smith!" Williams called from the door. "Come on, we're moving." "Roger..." he said half-heartedly as he looked at the woman in the bed.
Next they visited a young girl in a room to herself. She was a beautiful little girl, with dark eyes maybe eight years old. But the look in her eyes was much older. "The father... he... uh, Steal ...gas?" the
doctor said with his broken English. "She was... burn in explosion." "Don't you have anything to treat her with?" SFC Davidson asked.
"No! Mujahadeen take everything!" claimed the doctor.
He shook off the memories and found the elevator. He pushed the button and rode to the fourth floor and stepped off to the desk of the Counseling and Psychological
Services. A lump formed in his throat. Being here made him feel weak. It made him feel
'less than a man.' He had been an infantry soldier for seven years. And he did not think this would help him any.
"Uh... Thomas Smith to see Dr. Morgan." He blushed.
"Yes, Mr. Smith. I just need you to fill out this form please." The lady said handing him a clipboard and a pen.
Smith sat down on the chair of the waiting room and looked at the page. The questions were an assessment of his mental well being.
It read:
On a scale of 1 to 10, please answer the following questions: 'I am happy.'
'I have a lot of friends.' 'I have thoughts of suicide.'
The questions continued for almost two full pages.
'What kind of shit am I getting into here?' Smith thought to himself. 'I'm not suicidal, I'm just sick and tired of the bullshit.'
He finished the questionnaire with haste and returned it to the receptionist with an uneasy glance. She took it from him and moved it to the folder for the Doctor to pick up when he came out.
"Have a seat Mr. Smith. Dr. Morgan will be out in a moment." "Thank you, ma'am."
His mind was on the little girl again. Her
hands had been so badly burnt that two of her fingers were fused together. And due to the treatment - or lack thereof - two of her other fingers were becoming gangrenous. It was more than Smith could take to just stand there and see, or rather, feel the pain in her eyes and her face. She reminded him of his niece, Amber.~ His
initial thought was to pick her up and rush her to the Combat Support Hospital at the airfield less than ten miles to the south. There was a surgeon there. The little girl was not American, however, so Smith could not take her. The young girl started to cry from the pain when her father, a short man with dark eyes scolded her in Arabic. The
girl did her best to contain the pain, but it was too much for her fragile body to handle. She began to sob uncontrollably
and the father slapped her face. When her mother moved towards him, he slapped her as well. Rage filled Smith's heart and
Davidson knew it. It made them all angry, but they were not there to change this man's views of equality and they did not have the firepower to start something. Smith did not care.
Within a few minutes a tall, slender woman walked down the hall. On her blouse was a small badge that read "Dr. Susan Morgan." 'Son of a bitch,' He thought. 'It's a woman.' "Mr. Smith?" She said. "How are you? I'm
Dr. Morgan."
He followed her down the hall and into a small room. The room contained no couch, no freaky head-shrink things that he had been imagining on the walk over. He had been picturing this office all day long. He
imagined the walls covered with inkblots and other things. He imagined the shelves covered with Freud and other books. But in this office there were only two chairs and a desk and it was dimly lit.
he smirked. "I guess it's just that I'm not sleeping well." "Why is that?" -
"Do you really want to know?" He replied with a stern look. "That's why I am here," She said with a feigned smile.
"Well," he started, "This isn't your normal college-related problem. I've been home from Iraq for about seven months. Since then, I've spent night after night sweating to death and I wake up in terror. I scream at the air. My dreams are filled with blurred images of my dead friends' bodies..." His
eyes begin to swell with tears. "Tom," she said, "Take your time. I'm not going anywhere." "1... I just miss them all so much. And it's MY fucking fault they're dead!" Tears fell down his cheek and she handed him
a tissue. He could see in her eyes that she was already shocked. His emotional override stepped in and he shut off the tears. Time to be a big boy. "See. I told you." He readjusted himself in the chair.
"Well, regardless of how not normal this is, I am still here to help." "You'll do nothing, Smith," Davidson said
softly. "We are not here for that." "But, boss... she's just a kid."
"I know, stud, and I am sorry. Let's go." The rest of the crew walked out of the room and moved towards the stairwell. Smith lingered. His eyes fixed on the girl's
tears. The father raised his hand again to strike her and Smith lost his temper. Smith threw the man against the wall raising his M-4 with the speed of trained killer.
He buried the muzzle of his rifle into the man's forehead with force, pinning him to the wall. "If you so much as THINK about touching her again, I swear I will find you and put a bullet in your dumb-ass, narrow-minded little skull." Smith said in a voice trembling with fear and hate. "Maku... Maku..." the man said shaking.
"Maku my ass! You know exactly what I am saying," Smith continued. "Don't fuck with me!" "So... Sorry..." the man said. "SMITH!" came a cry from down the hall. "Roger!" he shouted back.
He released the man and watched him shrink to the floor with his head bleeding from
the force of Smith's muzzle. He looked at the little girl and gently grabbed her hand.
"I'm so sorry." Smith said as his eyes filled with tears. "I am so sorry for everything."
Over the next fifteen minutes, Smith briefly described his dream of the children and of the day his Hummvee was hit. He told her of his feelings of uneasiness in class and
waking up in the morning screaming from time to time. He told her of the explosions and the bodies. He talked of Allen and his
guilt for Allen's death. The look on her face was not as reassuring as he had been hoping for. After 3 years of dealing with the "I broke up with my boyfriend and I'm depressed" of
other students, she was not fully prepared to deal with death and dismemberment. But the talk continued and the initial look of shock eventually melted into a more relaxed, caring tone. And over the hour they discussed his dreams and they discussed his drinking. But one hour is not enough time to handle his multitude of problems. This barely scratched the surface. When the time was up, she wanted to continue talking, but knew not to push it. "Well, Mr. Smith. I think today was a good
start. How about you come back in a week and we can talk more then?" "Sure... I guess." He answered reluctantly.
He let her go and walked to the hallway.
There, he found Williams waiting for him. The two of them made their way down the stairs and out into the sunshine. Waiting at the truck was SGT Thomas and SFC Davidson and SFC McCarty.
He rose, shook her hand and left. Talking to someone had not lifted a weight off of Smith's shoulder. He felt no different now than he had an hour ago. He left the Health Center in the cover of the rainy sky. He stopped and lit a cigarette and watched the students pass him by. He still was not sure how to interact with them and was still afraid to be there. He was afraid that spending his time and money in college would not help him. He was confused and a growing concern developed. He felt like a ghost in the land of the living. He could see people and interact, but for the most part, Smith felt as though his life on the campus
went unnoticed. 'Shit, maybe I am a ghost,' Smith thought.
'Maybe I died in Iraq and now I'm just a ghost... I hate this shit.'
The rain fell on him as he walked. He loved
the rain. No one paid attention to anyone in the rain. Everyone was concerned with the rain's effect on their hair or clothes and failed to pay attention to passers-by. He put his headphones back on and pulled his hat down just above his eyes. As he smoked his
cigarette he made his way through campus to the bus stop. As he walked, he felt as though the world around him was moving at a very high speed and he was somehow moving at a slow speed. The images of the people walking past him blurred in his eyes. His stomach felt as though it were running on pure adrenaline. He desperately wanted to get home where he no longer had to deal with anyone or anything. He stepped up his pace and moved steadily towards the bus.
When he got home and sat down on the couch. Already debating with himself
about getting drunk. It was only 4:30 in the afternoon but he could feel the itch growing within him. "Fuck it." He said grabbing his keys and
heading out the door.
He made his way to the liquor store. Upon entering the store, he was greeted by the cashier who recognized him from the
frequent visits. "Starting early today eh?" The clerk asked. "What's it you?" Smith snapped with a
look of anger in his eyes. "Hey... sorry man. I was just making small talk." "Sorry." Smith said composing himself. "It's just been one of those days. I didn't mean to take it out on you." "Hey, man, it happens." He half-grinned
intimidated by Smith's size and demeanor. "You have no idea." Smith said placing a
bottle of Rum on the counter. "You get lost?" Davidson asked in Smith's mind. "Sorry, Boss. Just handing out the rest of my candy to the kids," Smith said attempting to make an excuse for his tardiness." "Candy huh?" McCarty asked. "Just tell
me you didn't kill the fucker." "No... I didn't kill anyone," Smith replied.
"As much as I wanted to."
McCarty and Davidson shook their heads at the young, idealistic NCO. They knew
Smith had trouble separating his emotions from his duty. They knew he wanted to feed every child he passed on the highway and put
a bandage on every skinned knee. Davidson was in the first Gulf War and McCarty had been a Marine for many years before leaving and then coming back into the Army. They
were more detached and cold. They could separate the two and even put emotion on a complete hold. Thomas Smith could not. The five men climbed back into the Hummvee and headed back to base. Joking and laughing on the way home at the things they passed and other stories from their lives. All of them tried to instantly shove the images of burnt children out of their minds. That night, however, Smith's head was flooded with such images. These
images were not the happy images of children playing in the yard at home... The
children in his dreams were engulfed in flames and covered with burns. They were screaming and yelling for help... and Smith
was alone in the dark of the Iraqi desert.
When he got home, he sat down on the couch with his glass of ice. It was about 6:00 when he began the ritual again. One drink,
then the next until reality melted away into a blur. Around 9:00 the door opened and John walked in. "Hey, dick." John said with a smile, which
quickly faded into a look of concern as he saw the bottle and the state of Smith's demeanor. "Dude, it's 9:00 on a Wednesday
and you're drunk. Don't you have class tomorrow at like 8:00?" "Nah. Class is at 11," he slurred. "Want a drink?"
"Not really. But seeing as how I don't want you drinking alone, I'll have one with you." "Well, that's good. More than one and we may have to go get some more liquor. And it's your turn to buy the pizza." "When did you get this bottle?"
"Shit, what time is it now?" "It's about nine." "Well, then I got this about three hours ago... err... something." "Jesus. It's lucky I brought my own then." He said opening his backpack.
John had planned on drinking with Smith
tonight, but he did not realize that Smith had a three-hour head start. Drinking was a ritual that the two shared from time to time. It helped them to let go and stop dealing with life's little pressures for a few hours. John did not realize, however, that Smith was drinking this much by himself.
John sat down with Smith and poured a glass. A few seconds later he realized that Smith was watching another Army movie on the television.
"Why do you do this to yourself, Tom?" "Why do I do what? Get drunk?" Smith replied.
"Why do you get drunk and watch movies like this. I am sure that this is not helping you any." "What the fuck would you know about what is and is not good for me?" "Look, all I am saying is that you might
sleep a little better if you'd turn off the movies, put down the bottle, and just try to relax." "If I could relax, Johnny-boy, I wouldn't need the bottle." "And the movies?" "They remind me of happier times."
"Dude, people are getting shot and blown up in this movie... just like the movie you watched on Sunday." . "Well, the brotherhood these guys have
with one another... the simplicity of life... It's so much easier there... it's so much easier when you..." "When you don't have to think for yourself?"
"Fuck you! I think for myself." "That's not what I meant and you know it." "Why don't you go home now, John. I've got some homework to do." Smith replied with as much of a sober sounding voice as he could muster. "Homework? You can barely stand." "Well, lucky there's no standing involved with my homework then." He smirked. "Sorry, brother. I'm here for the duration." "What are you? A rash?" "Dude, if you want an ass kicking... keep talking."
"Bring it on little man." With this, the two smiled and finished
the remainder of their drinks. They removed their watches and moved outside to the lawn. They had a ritual of fighting one another on occasion. It was nothing serious as neither was allowed to strike the other below the belt and headshots were kept to a minimum. These rules allowed the two of them to go to school or work the next day without the bruises and other visual identifiers of fighting. Neither of the men was small and their blows landed with some serious impact from time to time. They threw their punches and laughed. It was just a way for the two to let off some steam. And in this manner, the two had
remained good friends as they could take their anger out on each other and not let it build up inside. The two were, after all, very different people. John was a devoted Democrat who despised the Republican
president. He was no less patriotic than Smith, but he had a different view on how things in the world should be handled.
"Y'know," Smith said taking a break to catch his breath, "I talked to a shrink today." "Oh really?" John said moving from a fighting stance to a more pensive one. "What did he say?" "First of all," Smith said taking a sucker-
punch at John's gut, "He is a fucking She. And SHE," another punch, "didn't seem to have shit to say. I think I actually scared her." "That one hurt, ass," John answered. "Let's take this back to the house. I need a cigarette." "That's right. Because I'm the fucking man." Smith triumphantly raised both hands into the air. "You wish." A retaliatory sucker-punch came in from the back.
The two laughed and moaned their way to the couch. They were notorious for hitting each other off-guard. When they got
inside they sat on the couch and both lit a cigarette. Smith proceeded to tell John of his day at the Shrink's office and how he felt just as empty as he had the day before.
In the desert, Smith's only release was the Medic, SPC Mason. For a kid still in his
teens, Mason had a good ear for listening and was more likely to be understanding and comforting than the other soldiers. He didn't judge Smith for his feelings or thoughts. But as the weeks went on, Smith's heart became hardened and the two of them talked less and less. "Doc," he said fumbling with his Zippo,
"I'm having some trouble processing the things I saw the other day at the hospital."
"You want to talk about it, Stud?" The kid replied.
"Ah, yes. McCarty mentioned something about that to the CO." "Well, it's just not sitting right with me." "What do you want to do about it?" "That's just it, I'm powerless to do anything." "Well, then, Sergeant, don't beat your self up over it. It's beyond your control." "Yes well..." Smith's thoughts trailed off
to nothingness. "Forget it. I'll be alright" "Well, if you want to talk about it, you know where to find me." "Thanks Doc." "Well," John extinguishing his cigarette
in the ashtray, "I think you just need to keep going. Maybe one visit with the
counselor wasn't enough. These things take time you know." "Or maybe..." he grinned, "I should just keep
drinking and tell the world to kiss my ass." "If only it were that easy." "If only."
The two spent the remainder of the night watching movies while they laughed, drank and smoked. Around 2 in the morning, John left his friend and stumbled the three blocks to his house. He assumed his friend was in a good mood and that was what mattered. Smith had no intention of going back, but he spent the night appeasing his friend and making John feel as though he would return to counseling. He finished his last drink
and stumbled into his bedroom, altering the angle of his pictures using the wall as a leaning post. He kicked off his shoes and fell
into his bed. The room swirled around him and, soon, his eyes became heavy and he drifted off into sleep alone, in the dark.
sex show
stacey laskin
Abandoned glasses sparkling with red and gold inches of drink clink in dirty plastic holders.
The seats are deep-swallowing faces, rows and rows of sucking black holes. The music creaks, then sways. Curtains, black felt and lint-covered, slide open, slinking their hips
while they ride backstage.
A spotlight flashes:
the girl strides onstage, a caricature in white lace: Her grimace bored. Her legs long and spread. The light follows her, unable
to hide its eyes. She circles her ass in practiced time, counter-clockwise, to the left.
In the crowd, springs shift and ice melts. The liquor flows, drowning paying customers in a pool of rosy light.
The girl watches from stage, -mouth open, squeezing her breasts and wondering what time she'll get off tonight.
PENETRATE
leak oren
Leave my body a crimson pear over-ripened, or a ruby plum treat
Leave your mossy eyes that search to rate my skin, it is supple but will not tear
Leave my words set as a savory trap, so succulent, inviting you to swallow and eat
Leave me after you pick and pare, after I hang fresh and allow you to reap
Leave my body a seedy core, a part brown uberous pit, that you plucked from the tree
Stain in the Grass
leslie bacon
I confess-I don't know many good stories. But there is one I like, so as we rest in the grass, basking in Idleness and dirt, I ask Nell: Do you know why priestesses can't go near rivers? She drinks up the possibilities, offering an explanation after a minute No... not that, I tell her. The water's so tempting they might jump in.
The sun shines on her plainly; Nell is a stain in the grass. Without strength, she reclines onto the ground Every muscle as stiff as a board and painful. I bend around her, kissing her furrowed skin; but I Want her real face to return. The grass catches bits of her hair. The moist and fragile strands, parted from their skull, dry Instantly on the ground beside her head.
As I finish the story I grow angry For all her dying, Nell asks,
Is that the end? Honey, I'm afraid so.
I make a gentle nest in the grass around us. Clouds sail over head, trailing shadows, like deciduous bruises, along the grasses below them.
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Skowalter
melissa bailey
You stood by the fountain black shorts, red shirt, orange bag. I thought to myself, "You look like fire."
Letter To My Six-Year-Old Self
andrew roberts
I saw me towering over me; much smoother, wearing a snobby grin on my face and a tucked polo shirt, a belt, and crisp, pressed pants. Carrying books, contemplating marriage, hair combed to fine lines, a developed touch of class. But now that I'm here, I still wear sweats, adore spider-man and laugh at poop jokes. Fifteen years later that convoluted image of class is the arch rival to your loose jeans, thrift-store attitude, as the only boy at the bar with a superman watch, nursing a beer in the corner. Little Andrew, you were a sucker. Bless your intentions, but you thought beer was gross, sex was resistible, and smoking was for the birds. Fifteen years seemed so far off, but you, in budding, self-righteous bullshit saw the devil through a nicotine cloud, a bum in a bottle, and the breasts and inquisitive hands of a woman would wait. The concept of self-amusement as a means to self-confrol was folklore, an urban legend derived and reserved for pervs that stole your lunch money. Such a rebel you were with grandpa's remote control, when those nights on a cozy couch with the family fast asleep brought fuzzy porn to your world. It was like you'd just entered the magical Kingdom of Narnia, and some mythical place where you weren't such a good boy had been breached.
Kelly Kapowski gave you your first miniature hard-on, but your real life girlfriend at 21 is even hotter, and sports curves you didn't know existed. You didn't care about a straight-tooth smile or flaunting a six pack for your girlfriend back then. You just wanted to win, I guess that never changed. You always left it all on the field, cried for your failures and fought for underdogs, too short and scrappy to see out the window to a burning world...
A world where at six, such a sweet kid hears a "fag" be called such for the first time, and pretends he knows what it means. I remember wondering what the hell is wrong with that yellow girl's eyes, then meeting your first black friend, who you just presumed knew Michael Jordan. As it turns out, you shit, half the world's population (yes there is a population outside "Carriage Estates") has those "funny" eyes, and oddly enough not all black people know each other. Our white America could do no wrong in your eyes, with such heroes as Columbus and Jefferson. Yes, that's who you should become. Cleanse the godless savages and rape an entire culture, but for the love of Christ, don't use the word "nigger". These are the lessons your infallible text books and white geniuses with a chalkboard taught you. You, so innocently bigoted and naive, you could be so dangerous to the status quo behind those brown eyes if you can wake up in time. You, in some ultimate desire to come original; you, to come faithful to come sexy to come cool, to come noble, to come supernova....You've come quite handy at the trade of being spread thinner than the frame you thought you'd grow into.
Freak Confetti
tina morgan
I sat and watched tv until bodies and faces were tracers and the spaces between buzzed like static.
This moving Monet became "When Springer Ruled the World," a snarky, mocking look at the days when
catfights and transsexuals took over the ratings
conservatives, shocked at the state of the nation as toddler and teen watched midgets make out women in worn white miniskirts battle over hunched paunchy men with moustaches in Sunday shirts and Dockers slacks ripping wigs, weaves, bra straps spiced with
frenzied bitch slaps, full-on wrestling matches
hillbillies
hoochies fetishists Klansmen. My eyelids smeared them and as the fishnet leather geriatric
from "My Grandma Dresses Too Sexy" rose to cover her high school boy toy with
groping wet greedy kisses
they blurred into one fuzzy image
and I was lulled to sleep by bleeps and neon figures.
I had a Fellini-esque dream
where they all held hands
singing, and the naked women were still pixilated. In fact, everyone was breaking into tiny boxes. Freak confetti swirled and I was swept toward the
eye of the tornado, where God sat,
clapping and laughing.
Cheese, Porn, and Panty Raids: A Cure for Boredom.
justin a. jackson
Slept in until 3, then discovered a new use for cheese.
Reorganized my porn collection, and then planned a panty raid at I Phelta Thi
Used porn collection... 7 minutes later, pretended to be Betty Crocker
with an easy-bake oven.
I bought a home enema kit, and had to go to the hospital because I can't follow directions.
Wrote a rock-opera about a midget and a rodeo clown, then made a map with a light-brite and a twinkie.
Breakthrough
alexander hawthorne foss
I step outside and feel the sun lick my body; warm greetings from an almost familiar world that seems to have rearranged itself overnight. My skin tingles as a jogger bounds by my freshly opened eyes, body and breasts bouncing and flesh coloring red with sweat and hormones; as my breath quickens and my pulse hardens.
Remember when I'd have held my breath until she passed, unsure of what her flushed body meant? Remember my anatomy coloring book and the skipped pages near the end? My world was similar; pages of urethra and clitoris unopened and unmentioned; drawings of scrotum-and foreskin left bare like the smooth plastic skin between Barbie doll legs; her breath and sweat invisible beneath unopened plastic wrap. Remember crushes, and bodies idolized like mannequins whose perfect worlds were separated from mine by a pane of glass, whose colorless forms remained unspoiled and colored by imagination, but only from a distance.
Your skin was the same at first, pure and abstract, and your world separated from mine like a bubble, until I smelled your breath as I sat by you during Shakespeare in the park, our bodies dripping in the musky heat through opening pores.
How fast years of mental packaging opened and disintegrated forever in the wash of new colors, smells, and sensations flooding my newborn body beneath your comforter that night; overripe peach kisses, skin sliding on skin like wet paint, your warm breath trembling at my ear. Lost in the soft world of your hushed breasts, I marvel at my past world of models and dolls smashed open like a watermelon rind, spattering me breathless with streaks and dribbles of warmly colored fruit juice.
Walking outside next morning, I wear dried skin stains like new medallions commemorating our bodies; my own body discovering a newly sensual world, my skin opening and breathing for the first time, marveling at fresh colors never dreamed of before.
