Saturday morning and Henry is in the kitchen making coffee.
She is still in bed, dreaming of a man with pale eyes and careful, callused hands. Soft words and soft smiles. A man who smelt of paints and grass stains, whispers of dreams and longing and hope and want.(more)
When she gets up, these things spill from her mind, gathering in tiny pools at her feet like liquid mercury, beautiful but elusive, slipping through her curious fingers like so many distant memories--fantasies from a life she never knew.(less)
Tell me your suffering. Tell how it felt when she died, when he disappeared, when you found out the cancer spread. There isn't a clear path to walk, but confide in me, I will hold your hand. Explain every emotion, express them again. We all suffer differently, but I've(more) been there too. Let's go on pointless drives. Let's scream at the sky with all our might, and get drunk at 10 am. At the end, we are all lost and alone, so let's be just that.. together.(less)
She picked the chocolate cake crumbs off of her sweater that was pilled and faded, that bulged around her bra strap and had a hole in the back from getting stuck in a drawer. She had eaten every sweet and salty processed product in her house and debated whether(more) to walk down the street to the Wawa to reload. The TV flashed a reminder that the remote control was low on batteries. She sighed and ran her finger over the newly hatched pimple beneath her lip. Spring was nowhere to be found and she couldn't muster up the strength to pull herself off of the couch.(less)
It should’ve been a comforting thought, but I just couldn’t muster a smile.
The nurse floated into the room with her usual happy-go-lucky smile that seemed to show you how wonderful it was to be alive. I wasn’t. I was alone. I wasn&rsqu(more)o;t a child who they could just call the parents of and tell them “Oh, your child was in a car wreck, but she’s okay now. She’s here at Joy and Luck hospital about 3000 miles away from you.” Yeah, that would go over well with my parents. I’m sure they’d understand. I’m sure they’d take me back. They’d probably take me to an Arby’s along the way simply to cheer me up because it was my favorite place to go.
That would be great, if they weren’t dead and I wasn’t in my twenties. But I was, and stuck in some random town in the middle of nowhere with my driver’s license, thirty bucks, and a pocketful of jolly ranchers and 2for1 coupons from the Starbuck’s near where I was living before to boot. Was. Heh. What a word to use. It was weird at first, thinking that I was alon. There was simply no one to help me, no one to talk to about how I hated my job, my friends, or even just about the weather. I simply had no contacts.
But hey, at least I no longer have anything to complain about.(less)
I heard that the fourth season was the best but the fifth got a little hokey. I never watched it when it was on because I didn't really watch TV back then. Not because it was beneath me or I had better things to do, I was just poor. Rice, beans, cigarettes,(more) and stealing drinks at the bar poor. I knew a girl that loved the show. She invited me over because her parents bought her the DVDS up to the current season. I never heard of the show, so I went over and we sat and watched for a while. When they killed the polar bear, I knew I wanted to be with her. She was gorgeous. brown, wavy hair to her shoulders, her skin was dark, soft, like Egyptian cotton, green eyes, no, emerald with flecks of gold exploding from her iris like a supernova. When they meet "The Others", we were kissing. Her hand was awkwardly wrapped around my neck like a choke hold. My fingers skirted across her belt. I had her bra off by the time they opened the vault. She unzipped my fly, and I don't remember much of the show after that.
I heard it ended up that they were in purgatory, and the island kept changing places, and one guy got off, or it was a dream. I never cared. She left me for another guy a few months later, and I my hate for her transferred to the show. Years later we still talk. I'm not as poor anymore. More like quinoa and collards poor these days. I watch TV more, but mostly alone in bed while I try to fall asleep.(less)
My eyes twitched between the faces that passed, but no eyes twitched back to my own. I stood for a while – until I was convinced that no one was going to stop and ask – and then I moved to a new place. I was hungry but I(more) first wanted to prove to myself that I wasn't a ghost. So I coughed.
At last, a man lifted himself from a book for a moment and looked at, what must have been, me. He reassured me that I was in fact still very much alive. But then he rushed back to his affairs. Now, I could do something about my stomach. The crash of a new realization came with the language that covered the signs and poured out of the crowd. In writing, it was a collage of knots and lines. In the air, each conversation was one long word of indecipherable syllables. It all meant nothing to me, but everyone else seemed to be handling it just fine.
It was then that I found my one scrap of hope in four red letters that I did understand: "Exit." English, in all its under-appreciated beauty, tucked away and barely visible; a trail of bread crumbs. It wasn't much, but it was all I had and so I trusted that it would lead me to another clue.
Before moving, I held my hope inside my chest and looked once again for my list of instructions – names, phone numbers, steps to take – that should have been folded in my backpack. It still wasn't there. Not one bit of it. The exit sign was my last, and only, hope. And even that betrayed me. No more clues, only more knots and lines outside. I stood lost and alone amongst the crowd of the street.(less)
He puts his head in his hands, his face wet with rain and tears. Grime runs from his hair to his chin and drips off, forming an oily puddle of dirt on his palms that flows like a polluted river down his bruised wrists. His hair is too long,(more) and it's tangled and greasy, hanging in his eyes. His hands scratch against his stubble, which irritates the scrapes on the heels of his palms.
He cries bitter tears because he had it all and now he has nothing. He had the university, a stable job in his favorite field, a home away from the place he grew up. Now, all he has is a prison record, a name in the mutant registry, and the streets. He is the man who had been a teacher, nearly traumatizing half of the English 101 students at a prestigious university, an undercover dangerous mutant.
He will never have a steady job again. No friends--and he was just starting to make some--and nothing for which he can live. Just blocks away, the polluted river rushes, cold, muddy, and deep.
He could throw himself off of the old, dilapidated bridge and end his miserable existence. He could slip and fall into the murky depths and never see light again. He could walk into the middle grounds between the legitimate city and the mutant haven that had been the old city, he could walk there and die by a hate crime.
Would he rather be a martyr or a suicide?
Whatever would keep him in the darkness and out of the papers. (less)
Lost and alone - that's how she felt despite the fact that she was surrounded by people. She took the customer's money, gave them their coffee, took the next customer's order, and so on. Auto-pilot. Forcing a smile.
(more) "Keep it or not? Marriage - absolutely not. Let mom and dad send me away for nine months? Joy. I'm an embarassment. Carry it for 9 months, then give it to a stranger? Spend the rest of my life wondering where it is and what it's doing? Get rid of it and feel guilty the rest of my life?"
"I agree we're not ready for marriage. I hate your parents for making you feel like an embarassment. I'm not crazy about any of the options honestly", Phillip had said.
"Thanks for the help", she had said and stormed off.
Any of the above would hurt someone. In the end it was her body, her choice, her that had to deal with the consequences of her decision every day for the rest of her life. Yes, she was very much lost and alone.(less)
Isolation is suffocating, regardless the size of the cage. Even with the entire world to myself the air feels stale and old, like breathing in deep in an old-folks home.
I am the one remaining human being on planet earth.
Everybody else had sense enough to leave when the bombs dropped, the plant-life decayed, and the food chain began losing chinks. It didn't really hit me until the bacon was gone and by then it was too late. The headlines read "Earth Successful Evacuated", may as well have said "So Long Motherfucker, and Thanks for All the Fish".
Are these the thoughts of the final Dodo? Or the last Tasmanian Tiger?
As terminal as my situation is, at least I have all of the amenities left behind by the evacuees: game systems, movies, computers, books, remote controlled doo-dads. Sadly, they took all their sugar snacks.(less)
Sometimes, one wants to walk with someone. Someone big. Someone who knows where both of you are going. That way, you are free to just walk by them and enjoy the ride. You get to see and experience all kinds of things while they worry about the main part(more) of the trip.
Then again, during that time, you might see something that catches your eye. And that something is going to make you want to get off the path, away from that person who has stood by you, taking care of things and keeping you safe and happy. It's something you must do by yourself. So you get off the path and follow that one thing that you qwant so bad.
But sometimes this does not go as planned. Many times you will look back and realize that that big person has gone their way while you were wandering off. And now you can't find the way back to the path. You have no idea what to do or where to go. That thing that caught your eye seems useless and meaningless now. You just want to be safe again. You feel desperate, fear takes over you, and makes you shed tears and scream your heart out. And then, when everything seems lost, the big lady finds you. She takes your hand and takes you to a friendly place where your safety person0s name is called. And then everything is well again. And you learn your lesson: Never walk away from mom in the supermarket.(less)
The crowd press in on me. Families chatter away. To my side, a young woman talks excitedly to her boyfriend.
'Last year, the display was absolutely breathtaking. Lasted for almost two hours, and each firework was different, would you believe it?'
Out of the corner of m(more)y eye, I notice a child, perched on her father's shoulders. Her beaming smile reveals the dimples in her glowing cheeks.
Everybody here is with somebody else, sharing the experience with their nearest and dearest, forging memories to cherish for the remainder of their lives. Never have I felt so out of place.
As the first rocket shoots into the velvet sky, a gasp ripples through the crowd. Fingers point, eyes glint at the spectacle. A tear runs gently down my cheek. It lingers on my chin, as if waiting for the incentive to fall. Above, the sky is an chaotic explosion of rich crimson and gold, yet my eyes are not focused skyward. I am staring deeply into the puddle beneath my feet, which my tears fall into at a steadily increasing pace.
Lost & Alone just opened last week on 3rd Street. Ocean, the shop owner, who refuses to answer to anything beyond his self-prescribed sobriquet, is a master at his craft. My favorite injection is his proprietary blend, L2A.
(more) I sit in my favorite chair, next to the never-lit fireplace. What appears to be a hybrid bust of Johann Sebastian Bach and Alexander Shulgin hovers over my head like a wraith. I can hear Ocean synthesizing my batch with the converted espresso machine, left by the shop's previous owners. Ever since my first dose, I have been unable to determine if the incessant whirring is the machine or the traffic outside. It doesn't matter.
The timer tings. Ocean jumps over the counter and rips open my eye, throwing my head back against the rotting leather headrest. His carnality radiates the heat that the fireplace lacks. He seems to be more determined to dose me every time—I consider this my philanthropic duty to society.
As the needle punctures my cornea, I can see right down the barrel of the syringe. It begins to pulsate. Oh yes. Here it comes. The loneliness. Sweet, sweet loneliness. It washes over me in an orgasmic rush of euphoric isolation.
If only the others knew the serenity of augmented isolation; separation from the human race; divorce of the Self. I am addicted to loneliness in it's purest form. The lonelier I become, the more alive I feel. I will not be able to recognize my own breath after this dose.
As always, Ocean will rape, rob, and torture me as soon as I am under. What he does with my shell as I shed my existence is none of my business. I hear Bach: Sonata no. 5 in F minor. It doesn't matter.
Jake was the first twelve-year-old she had ever had in custody, and he was the first person of any age to escape it. Roslyn Jackson glowered at her Number One. With a tight jaw she asked, “Have you drawn a perimeter?”
(more) “Yes, ma'am,” John assured, “Assuming he has walked for six hours...”
Roslyn cut him off, “I don't need to know the math, John. Do we know where to start looking?”
“Yes, ma'am,” he continued, “There is a small settlement 10 kilometers northeast of here. Otherwise, it's open desert for 30.”
“We have a team doing a house-to-house search. We, uh, are going to need to bring in a helo to track him if he's not there.”
A helo for a fucking kid. A smart fucking kid. Lost and alone in the desert. Oh Dear Goddess, Ezili Dantor, why do you curse me with incompetent children to manage? Roslyn dismissively turned her back on John and looked into her computer monitor.
It was noon and it was hot. Jake had only half of a bottle of water left. The basin he traversed had a slight incline that he made it to the top of an hour ago. In the distance, he saw what looked like a fire house; just a greenish building and what looked like a flagpole. He knew he couldn't make it there before the heat of the day. He would be dead if he tried. Instead, he found shelter in a shaded depression in the wall of a sandy wash. After making sure nobody was home, Jake lay down wiggled himself in, backwards, allowing him to see up and down the length of the wash. He put his backpack in front of his face to shield it from blowing dust and slept.(less)