Boomerang

Coffee seeps over the table, invading force of brown conquering everything it comes in contact with.
"Damn, Damn, DAMN!" Throwing ruined magazines on the floor, grab a pillow and fling it in frustration. The pillow sails in a graceful arc and poofs unsatisfactorily off the wall. Screaming into my hands, slumping down on the couch. I want to break something, ruin, smash, demolish. Too many adjectives and not enough action.
"Hey there beautiful." Without looking up,
"How did you get in?"
"You've never lock your door...luckily, your magazines are ruined." Pointless observation; reply laced with acid.
"Please leave." A few seconds...seems like much longer, and peer up through laced fingers. He is still standing there, looking down with a infuriating look of concern. Barely holding onto spiteful words, spit them out when he moves to sit beside me.
"I told you to get out. Leave now."
"Fine. As soon as I'm sure the coffee doesn't ruin the CD I lent you. And that book, you'll be sorry tomorrow, I promise. You love that book, remember? You were telling me about that Cynthia character the other day..."
Furiously launch off the couch, returning from the kitchen with a hand towel. Throw this down on the spill, and then stand with arms crossed and fingers ticking. He moves to put a hand on my arm, swat it away.
"Don't touch me." Swaying, lean back against the wall to make the world flatten out. Must be tears in my eyes, wipe them away, angry and this betraying body. Turn my face away, look down, pretend that this will keep him from seeing. Want him to think I'm still furious, not crying like some sappy girl on a CW show. A finger on my back, hesitating. Bit by bit a coaxing hand on my shoulder, bringing me back to face him.
Stare up into those green brown eyes. Hating and loving, with a sudden urge to pluck them out with my fingers and dash them against the wall like the pillow. His hands are on my wrists, stroking, teasing me into calm. A second too long looking into those eyes and the sobs make a dash for freedom.
"Damn it!" Face in his chest, his arms around me just like those sappy CW shows,
"Never leave again, ok?"

Stratagy Game

You revel in the stench of death. It seeps from the clothing, the tent, and most of all your skin. This is your love; you need nothing but this and the grey-brown lifeless environment that stretches for miles and miles. In the sticky sweet sun you hoist your gun, black and shining. You take better care of it then you do yourself. You don't have friends, a woman, or even enemies you love to hate. Instead this gun is everything, it has personality, you live and die with it as you would live and die with any comrade.

Standard issue camo, sure. All of this comes with the part, but you have made it exceptional. Boots, heavy, scuffed with devotion. Instead of a shirt, white Hanes wife beater, grey streaked with desert and sweat stained. If you weren't so terrifying you could be Brad Pitt's next big role. Pants, neat but by no means clean. Dirt is caked around you shins and crusts slowly off, leaving small whirlwinds in your wake. All this is nothing to the maniacal elation in your eye as you level the M16, waiting, watching and waiting.

A month, how long you were calculated to survive out here. Who knows, you have been here a day, a year, perhaps you have died already and your body has yet to notice and stop functioning. Except for killing, you have left your senses safely behind with your humanity. Grey eyes, blue once perhaps, vapid and dessert worn.

The wind flaps at the remains of your tent, now a single piece of nylon stretched across the ground that your crawl beneath at night. Today it bothers you, noise bothers you-gently place the gun on the ground and kick sand maliciously at the sound, burying your shelter without thought of the future. Your hands are cracked and sand now is buried deep in the rivets, your flesh is slowly becoming part of the desert.

Out on the horizon something white, fluttering briefly then disappearing. Nature does not flutter, not out here. Slowly you drop to one knee, cradling your companion. Lying belly down in the sand, your patience has now run out. Waiting, watching, they are fine, but here is Action and you want it now.

Someone is coming this way, someone clad in white, an ironic shroud. Did they know today would be their death-day? The figure must be a great distance away, an ant on the horizon. But they are coming this way at a good clip, running and stumbling across the dunes. A piece of black falls from beneath the white, whips and dances. Hair, you realize. A woman. More like a girl, alone out here in this wasteland. She is half running half dancing to the top of the sand drifts, she pauses now and cloth the white fall from her head. Floating out behind her the white shroud reveals her long hair and uplifted face. Wings, floating behind her, she is free and so very alive.

Too far away for a direct shot, and a direct shot is what is needed. You know she is not a girl, not a human even. A dot to be exterminated before it grows to it's full monster potential. You trust no one, not even Death.

She slips down her small sand wave and spins, face turned upward and eyes closed. Arms out she turns, letting centrifugal force take over her body.

A squint, a tensed finger, and a crack. The spinning ceases and the shape crashes to the ground. The white cloth takes on a life of it's own, no longer a captive of grasping fingers. You don't even pause to think. You know one shot was all it takes, and even if you did the unthinkable and failed to cause death instantaneously, the desert soon would.

Spring up from the sand and grab the only corner of nylon that the wind hasn't completely covered. Your shelter in one hand, gun in the other, stride away from the once human life form and off towards the distance, already thinking about your next opportunity to kill.

Film Noir

"Alice, c'mon. Just this once Al, just this one time."
Hand searching, breath in one ear, on a neck. Whispers, always whispers with him. The silver necklace is sharp, it hurts when he unknowingly presses it into my chest. The admonition is lost somewhere and turns into a sigh of ghastly pleasure. Hands are pushing the skirt up, up, up...and then a crash from the stair.
"You're brothers are horrible awful people!"
He grins, scotch rolling off his breath. Crash again as two oversized boys tumble into the landing.
"Good going C-man!"
"Awooo awo!"

Guilty laughter, falling over each other; pin curls have fallen out ages ago and are now limply slipping into my eyes. I am pressed into the contours of the hearth; massive dinosaur that heats the second story. Finally senses return enough to utter
"Have to go, dorm mother, friday then?"
"Gee, if I could get my hands on that woman just for a second..." violent gestures. Kiss and run, run all the way down the long long brick walk, drunk penny loafers slipping and sliding.

**
The next day he is across the cafe, my sisters don't notice. Neither do the brothers, except the two that wink and blow kisses before a blow ends their display. Smile to myself, then go back to comparing Betty D. and the new Vivian L. Neither of them are good enough for Clark G, it's decided.

**
At night, we light candles and sing songs of eternal friendship and bonds that cannot be broken. My guilty little secrete is locked at my thigh, in the garter where I have slipped his pin. Too soon, he says, to tell anyone. They won't approve, it must be a slow type of thing. So we continue in black secrecy.
"The years are binding us girls together now, restless sorrows shall try to tear us apart, but never shall we be..."
Not me. Sorrow is not my enemy...sorrow is loneliness and never shall I be alone.

**
I am draped in chiffon, cobalt blue. Matches my eyes, he says. The scotch is gone from his breath now, and he is holding me close close close as we waltz, foxtrot, sway the night away. We are on the landing again, the rest downstairs enjoying the Formal Dance, including our dates. But these stolen perfect moments...
"Won't the girls be pea green when they find out?"
"Green, sure...just dance with me now doll."

Hand on my bare shoulders, back, fingertips leaving a trail of shivers down my spine. Then a zipper being slowly pulled apart, down down down-fabric sliding off my shoulder. I'm scared, do my eyes show it? Whispered reassurances, kisses on my neck, shoulder, firm hand drawing me though the door into a room. For a second I think about stopping it, running downstairs to my safely boring date-the rich son of an executive who talks nothing but sales figures and deficits. No.
This is Life, giving in is delicious.

**
He is sitting in the little gorge under the bridge. This is our place; here he told me he wanted forever. She sits next to him, simpering, sweet, bouncy curls swept perfectly out of her eyes. Whispers in her ear, a hand casually on her knee, leaning in just a breath too close and they are staring into each other's eyes. And I am here, common peeping tom, watching my sister and my love.

**
His pin on my breast, I am proud now. Walk head held high into the house. Brothers open-mouthed, staring.
"Alice, hey sweet stuff where are you off to in such a hurry?"
Don't answer, just push through them and their clutching hands. Up the stairs, so familiar from dark rendezvous, open the door without knocking. He is there, white undershirt holding a tumbler, more scotch. How pathetic, drinking alone in his underwear. Slam the door shut, they won't bother us now. Brotherhood philosophy on perturbed females is to let them have their fun before then soothing with lies. How many times have I seen this?

"Al, what's wrong sugar?"
"Not sugar. Not to me at least." Silence, and then with a sigh, "Your pin, Charles."
For the first time, he sees my chest. Ironic enough, that's normally the first place his eyes wander.
"You're wearing it, Baby I thought we talked-"
Fingers fumble, take it off, palm outstretched, then fingers closing over it again."
"Just wondering, will you give it to her now?"
"Wh-"
"No, I just want to know is all. I mean, how many others have slipped it into their garters before me."

Don't cry, won't cry, I swore that to myself at least. Offer the pin, calmly slowly let him take it. He stands there, confused perhaps. A hand at my elbow, shake it off. Peel the white gloves off, finger by finger. The hearth is three short steps. Place the gloves on the mantle, carefully avoiding dust. Turn and raise the poker.
"Whoa, Alice...you need to cal-"

Smash and he's on the floor, skull cracked. But why stop now? Dead is not humiliated. Raise and lower it, over and over with thuds as I connect with bone and cartiliage. Blood and grey matter are strewn across the floor now; the perfect face is mangled and unrecognizable.

Ten minutes-stop. Carefully replace the poker. The gloves are pristine, put them on one finger at a time, casually lingering.

**
Outside a girl is passing by, hurrying to return before Dorm Mother admonishes her for being out without a Permission. She is passing the stone steps when a figure plummets from a second story window, landing headfirst on the bricks below in a graceful dive.

Fantasy Girl

Here there is music and sweat and smoky delusions. Here there is a throbbing beat that you feel through your core. Here there is hair whipped and hips swinging and exhibitionism at it's best. And here I am, and I know you see me. I know the words, every one, to this thing we call music these days; it seems off the cuff but every move has been calculated to make you salivate and want. Right now you want another beer, and you want a bathroom without a line, but mostly you want me. I know this, I'm counting on it.

Here I am, here I am, come and get me, try why don't you. Sweep this way, flick that way, each carefully choreographed move. And now you are walking this way, and I am dropping to the floor and oh so slowly rolling up again. And you see and you want. A laugh, dashed over my shoulder and shattering on the wall. My girls, the ones who think I'm here with them, try to join in. They don't see through the charade, no one does. Frustrating, to be so good at this that no one challenges me.

Here you are now, and you hands are questioningly fingering my waist. And for a moment I let you Believe; then my fingertips are outstretched and they see the universal distress signal and pull me away. And later we talk about Creepers, with you holding the title of Most Supreme. And everyone is playing my game, and I am always winning.

I'll see you next weekend.

The Age of Innocence

One little

Two little

Three little freshman...

All snug in one bed!

And there is a girl, and she is confused and breathless-innocently blissful to find herself in this situation.  A month ago she would have balked at this idea, and now here she is...

And there is another girl, and she is wondering if she's losing this tenuous connection, and she worries that she doesn't have anyone here, and she wants someone, something now please.  

And there is a boy, and he is confused and doesn't know what will get him the best possible results.  He is linear, very linear, and quiet and possibly very smart or maybe very vapid.

Squinch your eyes together, squinch them tight and believe... believe.  In the movies it works, if you try hard enough.  And we will fly back in time; just like when you play a video backwards, our innocence and wide-eyed curiosity will be sucked back into ourselves.

We will walk to the graveyard and call ghosts with seances, clutching each other with delicious fright.  We will throw snow at each other and clip magazines and go to Floor Activities with enthusiasm and fervor.  

And then the second girl will find her place in a house of smoke and Men, leaving the boy behind.  And the first girl will wait a while, lingering before she too abandons the boy and the frivolity for real Mature Fun.  And the boy will forget about them, because he will find a girl to lie in a bed with, just the two of them now.  

Years from now one will pull out a candid shot, all three with limbs intertwined.  A smile and a memory, and then back to Reality.

*

*

*

"All three with limbs intertwined..."

Falling off

"So you want an edge?  You said, days ago, that's what you were looking for."

Bright lights, cracked cement coming at my face, somewhere someone is laughing.  Blood, mine? covering the inches of ground I can see out of swollen eyes.  Pressure on my neck and skull, lights are dancing around my eyelids; the flashlight comes down with a crack... fingers snap.

"Here is your fucking edge, you asked for it.  I'm just giving you what you want."

And things are darker now, the flashlight no longer trained on me casts shadows over my mangled body.  The world is dissolving into pure senses, taste of blood, thunk of bone on cement, smell of alcohol on his breath.

Rewind

"Hey there Mr., what are you doing tonight?" 

 Shiny purple top, cheap plastic boots.  You look at me, for seconds I think I have misjudged.  Getting ready to run before you call the cops, when you say "How much?"  Take in your outfit, well cut suit, not tailored.  So Lowmans variety, I would say.  Middle class striving to give the impression that you are oh-so much more.

A number, a barter, a deal.  You follow, I lead.  

Small cot, sheets need washing.  Remember to do that.  These are things I think about while he gets what he pays for.  Tomorrow maybe I'll see about stealing more fake-tanner, I'm almost out.  Wonder what he would do  if he knew my actual age could get him thrown away for life?  Almost laugh, change it into a panting sigh at the last moment; don't ruin it for him or he might not pay up.

"What's your name kid?  'Case I want to find you again?"  He is grinning, I count the bills.  Give him a name, the false one, and he turns to leave.  Glance back.

Pause

He is at the door, framed by the halogen glow of the light outside.  Reminds me of the porch light back home.  Legs crossed; my top is pushed off one shoulder and twists around my waist. Boots still on, skirt bunched up around my middle.  Don't look glamorous or desired, I look pathetic.  

His eye, the one eye that I can see, is full of intense blue.  Some girl somewhere fell into those blue eyes once, dreamed of spending her days with him.  Now that girl is waiting at home bemoaning the long office hours he works.  She wears red lingerie-has fallen asleep on the couch waiting to surprise him for their anniversary.  And that intense blue is staring at me.

Play

"Why do you do it?"  Clear my throat, they ask from time to time.  But his eyes, it's hard to give him the sexy answer, I want to give him the truth.  Can't though, stick with the Code.  Tomorrow I'll just be another exciting night adventure, don't cast myself in everyday light.

"The edge."

Fast-forward

You ask for me, I hear you asking all of the other girls.  "Here I am Bright Blue, come find me..."  But not a word, wait for you to work your way down the street shining your flashlight in face after face.  

Wordlessly you hold bills up, I nod and beckon, nod and beckon.  

Grab my arm outside my door, spin me into your arms.  Gaze up, up into blue.  You kiss me then, break the Code and kiss me like you mean it.  Release slow, slow, slow.

Laughter, don't know why I do, but there it is.  And I see what you are going to do and I don't stop it.

The crack of the flashlight on my skull reverberates around the alley, and still I am laughing.  You are lovingly beating me to the ground, caressing me with blows.  This means so much more then the other kind of caress.  Tonight, I am alive!

Whisper in shouts, tell me that this is what I asked for.  Feel your boot press into my spine, feel it bend almost too far.  And for once I am not saying it mechanically, for once I mean it.

"Yes, yes, yes!"

Stop

Another suitcase in another hall

There are lights on in the house.  The old rundown house that I used to fantasize of fixing up; the one with wild grapes climbing the white picket fence outside.  In it's dilapidation it was transformed from just one more New England farmhouse to a romantic daydream.  In this dream we fixed the garden out front and painted the siding, and maybe even broke the padlock off the front door and cleaned the inside too.  There would be bright curtains in the windows and the whole town would marvel at the fairy magic that happened overnight. 

My best friend told me an old lady used to live there.  She had two little dogs, a black and a white one, and they used to bark and whine in the tiny yard when she creaked outside to give them a "walk."  Then, one day the black one was missing.  Soon she didn't go outside, and then there was a lock on the door.

And now I'm here, remembering fair grounds and dark rooms, dancing in smoky basements, being scared in the woods and that last kiss.  And somehow in some other universe those moments are happening still and always; and in a dark hotel room I am putting a ring on a nightstand and at the same time we are shouting "I'm likable, damn it!" and I am in still trying not to fall.  And that girl, that version of me, will always be there, and she will always be trapped in those minutes... and she is frustrated.  But now I can't see, there are too many tears because I didn't, couldn't cry earlier.  I am shaking and cold despite the wood fire.  For the fist time in my life, the very first, the smell of the ocean is disgusting and vile.  This scares me, because maybe this time things won't turn out all-right, maybe this is the end of good and happy and here I am, trapped.  And I built this trap, I made this cage for myself but I can't help it, can't stop adding bars.  

People tell me that this is temporary, but I don't believe them anymore.  This is Life, and so this is it.  And in some parallel cycle I am stuck in the same place I was all those years ago; the days when I didn't think things could get any worse.  I gave up on humanity as a kind thing during those two years, and began to see mankind as evil, malicious, out to hurt.  Perhaps that's too much, too far.  But overstated or understated true.  Melodramatic, but true.  And here I am and here I have given up on myself, too.  So I'll force myself back to those places of evil memories, tell myself it's the right thing to do.  And I'll sit shaking in the swing that was my home, and remember what it's like to not have a friend in the world.

And I thought that Meadville was worse, so much worse.  And perhaps now I can't return without the shaking and nausea in my stomach.  But in some sick joke, I left my heart behind in Pennsylvania.  And I don't know why or how, but I know that I'm useless without it.  So now for a while I'll be a shell again, and maybe I'll start listening to more country and trying to learn obscure sports terms and pretend that this can change things.  But every time I have ever loved someone they have left, or I have left, and it always goes the same way.  Two weeks and we talk daily.  A month and we are repeating the same dry meaningless stories.  Two months and life is too much to relay, we fall back on pleasantries and meaningless small talk.  Then the talk stops, fizzles away and I am left alone, normality I suppose.  And I'm used to this, I know how it works and so I must again go through the motions... but each time it's harder and the hurt covers more of me.  And so here I am... putting my memories in a box and praying with absolutely no hope that this time will be different, this person can do what no one else has managed to before.  Don't let me slip away, please.

And now there are lights on in the house, and I am alone.