Blue

It's a thick color, blue. You can choke on it - you can also get in there and dig around for ages; ain't nobody getting kicked out of blue. You can beat blue to death and hardly tell the difference. Other people might notice, but they're not inside of it - everything looks different from inside. That much, you should know. We should all know. Why we like to get drunk in maroon, velvet rooms. No?

Maybe it's just me.

I tried to kill blue. I don't believe in it, killing. I think it's ugly. An idea. A dream. A person. None of those things deserve killing, but fuck blue. And maybe I wasn't even trying to kill it as much as I was giving it an arena. Which is damn generous.

You know what those things cost?

I tried to wrap it up, you see. You understand. I'm sure you do - there are many of us looking out from inside blue.

Binding it was tortuous. For me. For you. For both and all of us and that guy in the corner. Fucking brutal. There was a flesh-piercing pull to it. The fire was fine, but the aftermath smelled of charred corpses. Yes, that's ugly. That's what it smelled like. There is a lot of true in blue.

I tried to free it. That was smart. That was real thinking. That was cigarette-dangling-out-of-lip noir shit. Everybody loved it. Shit was like fried chicken. It left you feeling greasy. But folks liked it and sometimes you give the people what they like just because. Because you feel like you're drowning when you're in the blue, gasping, your skin's gonna turn just that color. Choked-out blue.

I play with blue. You eventually have to. Or you snuff the whole palette, but that's a little extreme for most peoples' tastes. Acidic. Something repugnant where you can't really find a decent foothold - you can't really find a decent argument. You understand. It's like an obscene catharsis, that whorish hue.

I laughed at blue and I loved blue. Just the same as I have done with you. I have cursed and thrashed and curtsied and shimmied my way around blue so many times it doesn't even matter anymore. My hands are stained with it. I can't wash the blue off my hands, no matter how hard I try.

Until, one day, the blue fades. Gradually. From near-blackness to dark to the one you settle on. Baby. Look at the sky and it's baby blue. Clear skies today? Man, on a good day, my skies are baby blue. Because it's always there. On the horizon. A wolf with blood-soaked jowls.

Best to take a broader view, extend your reach, see what you can find in the periphery. Don't ever look it head on and you might just make it. For a while. For a night. And that's alright.

It has to be.

Pot Shots

That's just the thing, see. That's exactly what I'm talking about. You don't want to listen because you know that it's going to get big - bigger than you can even imagine. Like a million elephants smushed into a big, gray putty ball.

I don't even want to get into it. It's like talking to a wall - if walls could be lying, self-righteous asswipes. They can't. I like walls. You can lean on those things. Leaning on you is an invitation to prostration. That means I'd end up on the ground, this ain't about your ass, man.

Call the shots how you see them; everyone deserves a kernel of your wisdom wouldn't you say, Corporal?

I'm feeling sick inside. It's this spinning, whirling kind of sickness. It's like that ride at the carnival with the spider arms. Designed to make you puke, I reckon. Never did make sense to me. I'd rather shoot a clown in the face with a fancy water pistol.

There are so many bullies. So many bully pulpits. So many people confused when they don't really need to be. You may not see it. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. But that's all I'm giving you. From now on, you get the surface. I have presented too many things I loved, only to have them shot down by petty insecurities disguised as opinion. Not that you're not entitled to them. I'm just saying you can keep 'em; I got bigger fish to fry.

The Cheese

The skittering beams of light seemed playful; this was progress - just a few hours earlier they had been terror - helicopters, blades chopping the light, waiting for him to make a mistake. It passed. Now, the light was thin and giddy, girding the apartment pretty. He thought of halos and wondered; he smelled an unidentifiable smell. It didn't smell like anything. But it sure as hell didn't smell like nothing. The mint in his mouth was too strong. He tried to spit it at the trashcan and a Newport skittered across the floor, trailing sparks.

This was funny. He laughed his ass off. He laughed until his face froze, contorted into a visage that felt wrong. Forced. It felt like he was wearing some kind of mask, like he was the mascot - he didn't want to be a fucking mascot. He looked at his hands and traced the veins up his arms. There was a baby crying somewhere in the building. It hurt him in a way - in a place - he never would have expected. He hadn't known it was there.

He is you and you are him and you're both a part of the madness that is we. That's confusing, but who wants simplicity? Not me. I want to step into the mud without testing its depth with a stick. I want to feel myself sink slowly into a mass of sludge until it fills my mouth, ears, nose, my everything. Until I am the mud and the mud is me. Strange as that may be - there are stranger things for us to see.

See ... you gotta figure that your brain is like a card catalogue put through a wood chipper - Dewey decimal madness. It's shredded in there. Or filled with holes. Either way, it's become something like cheese; you slice off the outer skin to get through the moldy parts - down to the pale, good parts that remain to be eaten.

You fucking grate that shit.

The First Taste Is Always Free

Rays of light dance across the ceiling, goaded by the wind which twitches the branches outside the window. Cars race to destinations that will not live up to the hype. People will die because it is imperative that you get home at 6:30, not 6:35 - I'm sure he'll understand when you shake the hand of the man whose child has died.

Incremental madness. I'll take it - sign me the fuck up right now. It is the axe-chop finality of real insanity that keeps company with the monster under my bed. And there ain't even a monster under my bed. That shit ain't meant to be taken literally. I'm much more afraid of what is actually under there. Monsters can be reasoned with. There's a smell, though, and I don't think it's listening to reason. I'd guess that, given the varieties of fungi that can grow on old yoghurt containers, it's probably like a goddamn rave down there. But I'm too tired to check.

Hey pretty lady, why do you walk on by? Nose so high. Like all the world is a shit-pile and you're made of Lysol wipes.

I see the statistics and go ballistic, mind racing that long stretch of dried out homily. I'd love to talk about it - how you skew the numbers, how you parse the gentle lies, but right now I don't feel like it. I feel like an old banana skin. Covered in flies.

Everybody wants to know how. Everybody wants to know when. And we make up reasons and timetables that are real damn convenient - most half-truths are, that's why we use 'em.

Your voice changes and you open your eyes, and then you start finding ways to close them, swallowing lies. That's the way the game's played - always has been.

And the first taste is always free.

It's Never Going To Work

The fucking thing won’t work. Can’t you see that, you pansy? Spraying Rustoleum on something don’t make it metal, understand? You can ignore me all you want, I’m just telling you you’re wasting your time. I’m telling you like it is.

Go ahead, keep working. I’ll just watch, how about that? I don’t even mind if you use the good tools, you know where they are. Duct tape ain’t a bolt though, son. There are some things you can’t replace – like steel. Good old steel. You take your strings and your gloop and Jesus Christ, son! Put on a goddamn mask – smells like a fucking McDonald’s burned down!

You be careful with that soldering iron, son! Jesus Calamity, boy, you’re gonna blow the whole fucking house to hell. I never should have given you the green light on this. It’s made you crazy. You do know that right? This is fucking bonkers. I know, I know … she said you could. Your mother doesn’t seem to notice that someone replaced your brain with a rutabaga.

You wouldn’t think a bunch of cardboard and scrap could smell so bad. Smells like a hobo’s asshole, son. It really does. I’m not just saying that to build up your self-confidence, either. That is one godawful, shit-sniffing smell right there. God in heaven.

You know … you’re a weird kid. Just plain fucking weird. You didn’t take after me, that’s for damn sure. When I was your age, I was chasing girls and setting records on the field, the court, and the goddamn diamond. All you do is make your stupid shit that never works and jerk off. Hell, I’m beginning to think you’re a queer. Not that I mind. Lord knows, I tell your Mama all the time – that boy is a fag or my name’s not Roy Pearson. She tells me we gotta love you no matter what … and I do.

I do, son. I do feel that way about you, y’know? That’s what makes all this so hard for me. I love you, boy. Don’t you hear me? I worry about you. Chemistry sets and textbooks ain’t no way for a boy to have fun. You’ll be fifteen next year. I bet you don’t even know what pussy looks like. It ain’t right, son. Get it now. Hell, your Mama and I been together longer than Methusala’s beard … I’m lucky if she brushes up against me by accident. If I were you, I’d get that Johnson girl from down the street and peg her ass against the garage. She’s too young, so I’m not saying anything – just, if I was you – you seen the tits that little bitch grew over the summer? Jesus, son. You could have your dick inside that little bitch right now.

Oh, the look. Fine. I know what you think, but it’s not like I’m the only one who thinks it’s weird. What am I supposed to tell Frank Butcher? His boy is the captain of the football team. What about Uncle Earl? Johnny’s broke every damn track record in the state. So, what am I supposed to say? My boy built some weird shit out of garbage again. Shit, boy, you’re making a laughing stock of the whole goddamn family.

Save it. I know, I know. You’ve almost got it right. I get it. You think I don’t support you. If you’ll recall, I was the one that bought you a chemistry set in the first place. I didn’t know it would turn you into a faggot, though. Do you know what a faggot is, son? Or has your brain melted from all them plastic fumes?

You won’t tell me what this thing is, huh? Some kind of big state secret or something. Are you in cahoots with the CIA, boy? Hell, I let you take over the garage and this is how you repay me? You just ignore me and keep covering everything in airplane glue and foil? Tell me, goddamnit. What is it?

You really want to know?

I asked, didn’t I?

The boy looked up with a strange smile on his face. His bangs were damp, hanging into his eyes. There was fever in his eyes. Something that didn’t belong, but somehow looked the part regardless.

It’s a machine.

What’s it do?

It shuts your mouth, Dad. It shuts it right the fuck up.

Roy froze. A crazy disbelieving smile bloomed on his face. He licked his lips wet and there were embers in his eyes.

Say that again, boy.

But he didn’t say it again. Instead, he raised two wires in front of his face.

Bye, Dad.

And then the wires touched. There was a moment when they both saw a spark leap between the exposed copper tendrils.

The explosion took out every building on the property. She found it when she came home. A big black circle that had flattened everything. She called his name, but she knew, deep down, that no one would answer.

They found debris as far as the edge of town. The smoke drifted all the way to Garberville. They looked at the textbooks more carefully, read his notebooks. They finally began to understand. Roy.

The boy hadn’t any choice, really.

The Swamp

He held the shoe box high above his head, swamp water up to his armpits. His spine tingled with the fear of the water, snakes, gators ... hell, who knew what all was in there? Cypress knees began to look like dinosaurs and, worse, like the things that lived only in his mind. The light was fading, and John was beginning to think he wouldn't make it. He didn't really care. Still, it was hard to be brave while shoulder deep in thick, green mystery.

He walked steadily. He put one foot in front of the other, making sure that each step was secure before shifting his weight. John had grown up in the swamp. He had been more sure-footed in his youth, however. Less fearful. Funny what the years do.

Seventy years, give or take. He wasn't quite sure, but he knew he was at least seventy. Doreen had always been the one who remembered. They had been the same age. John was always more concerned with people, with his work, with family - numbers annoyed him. He didn't like locking anything down. Can we keep this turtle, Daddy? The memory rose slowly in his mind. Anne. She was all power suits and business jargon, now, but back then she had been his partner, sun-kissed and always laughing. Daddy's girl. That sure changed.

He'd told her no. No, they couldn't keep the turtle. No way. It wasn't right. He tried to tell her how he didn't like locking things in. Like the numbers. No freedom in numbers. No safety either. He couldn't let her lock the turtle up. The turtle belonged in the swamp, not chewing lettuce in a cage. She had tried to smile in that tight-lipped way that almost concealed the quivering. Ok, Daddy. It had broken his heart. He wondered if that had been the beginning of it.

The sounds of the swamp were the sounds of his own heart. He didn't hear them anymore. Or they were all he heard. Something. They were a part of him. He knew that. They lived in him. The swamp ran through his veins. Sometimes, he wondered who had been in charge all those years. The trapper? The hunter? The fisherman? Or the place that made it all possible?

They had lived a good life for a long time. When Anne started to pull away, it seemed to loosen the bonds of everything. The swamp wasn't the same anymore. Money was killing it. Greed. Anne did not call him Daddy once she hit middle school. He'd spoken of it once to his sister, who had grown up in upstate New York with their mother. She didn't understand the big deal. And it wouldn't have been a big deal up north. But it is hard to accept that when you hear a girl yell for her Daddy, there is no longer a need to turn around. Dad smacked of distance. Which is exactly what it was.

The distance grew. Anne read books in her room and rolled her eyes at the things John loved. He didn't fault her for it. The world was changing.

He had talked to her not a week before. She couldn't come down, she said. Things were just crazy - she was so busy. John wondered if it would have been different if the roles were reversed. If Doreen had called about him.

Lost in his thoughts, John stepped into a sinkhole. He tried to pull his foot free. Tried to balance. To stay calm. He did not have the strength to pull himself up, and he began to sink slowly. He held the box as high above his head as he could - his chin went under and he held his breath. Slowly, the sun-cured arm descended into the thick murk beneath the surface.

No one was there to see it. An Arthurian perversion. The old man of the swamp. The sun dropped and the box hit the water, ashes spreading out on the surface in a thin film. Beneath, John was dying, but he was happy. He knew Anne would be fine. Better than fine. She always had been. He had always belonged to the swamp. And he had always belonged to Doreen.

There are many mysteries in the swamp, they say. Folks from up north smile and nod. The locals blanch and shake their heads.

Everyone has something buried in the swamp.

Duck, duck, goose.

It got my dander up, so we're gonna have to talk it out. Address it. No, not like a letter - like, we're gonna actually talk about it (and use fancy words that make our insides chancy - GERD). I got this feeling in my gut like it's all twisted up. Like when I read Where The Red Fern Grows and now I can never not see entrails hanging out of a loyal dog's gut. Man, I loved that book. I cried like a bitch. So did my mom. Not like a bitch, though. Don't ever think that I would call my mom a bitch! Cause I wouldn't. And she's not a bitch. And I don't call people I like bitches ... unless they are named Little Ann and they're smart and loyal and shit, tail-waggy.

It's all a lie, I don't like dogs.

I don't dislike them either. I just prefer cats. Dogs are kind of like really clingy chicks with Dad issues. The bitches. The dogs, I mean.

We all love to laugh. Especially at the expense of others. Why is that? I mean, I get the appeal of laughter, but I am more inclined to cry at the expense of others. Why? Cause I just got ten emo points, and one more power up gets me fingernails that stay black forever.

I don't really hate people. There's a few people I really don't like. But it's not like I want to do anything crazy like cram all their facial orifices with cat litter until they die like fucking dog bitches. That's something someone like me would never even think about. I think about wildflowers and Jesus.

I don't even know what's going on. Frankly, I'm offended. You should probably be offended, too. Don't blame me though. Blame Nancy Reagan. That may not make sense to you, but, trust me, she deserves to shoulder a lot of the blame.

I met a girl once who knew a girl twice as pretty as she was. And she was beautiful. It wasn't even that the other girl was prettier. They were just different. Like apples and tow trucks. Both gorgeous. But the one girl thought she was ugly. I told her she wasn't. A few hundred times - then I stopped. Some people you just can't reach. So you get what we had here last week. Plagiaristastic.

Duck, duck, duck, goose! What a terrible game. Musical chairs. Even worse. What the fuck is wrong with us? Why do we want to make one kid feel singled out for the amusement of the others? It's not right. It's not cool. I gotta say criss-cross applesauce because "Indian Style" is somehow offensive even though it just describes a way of sitting. Which, I get it, we don't want anyone to feel singled out and you're not supposed to say Indian anymore, even if it makes you secretly gleeful because it makes Columbus look like a retard. No, we gotta single out little kids. We don't worry about how real, actual geese feel about their shit being appropriated. Do you know how much abuse is endured by a wooden chair during a rousing game of musical chairs? You inhuman sociopath.

I almost died today. I understand, it's hard to hear a super loud motorcycle horn when you're driving with earphones in. You tried to single me out. Goose me. But I was quicker. So, duck you ... bitch.

Little Johnny

Little Johnny didn't know shit about why you were always mad, always drunk. Sure, you had reasons, but a seven year old don't see reasoning the way we do. You hated your job. The car was always breaking down. The bills were always late. Periods tended to come late in the Jackson household, too. Johnny wasn't lonely, but he sure didn't understand you, and you never even noticed.

So, now Johnny's all grown up and no one talks about it. You don't drink any more and it's probably for the best although there is a drab, presbyterian, uniformity to the days - that's new. Back in the day, things were exciting at least. Someone was always yelling or crying. Excitement is not always a good thing. Yet, these new still-born days seem to drag on forever... 

You're always working that lip. Like your mouth is a blind mole looking for the vodka tit. Like you've decided, fuck it, if I can't drink vodka, I'll just keep doing this until there's enough blood to drink.

Someday, Johnny's son will wonder about the whole thing. The strange distance. The odd affirmations. The sentences that are shush(!)ed before they even get started. There's no going back, and everyone knows that - they also know they liked things the way they used to be and, for the life of them, they don't know why. 

The Hunted

Soft, curling tendrils of cirrus filled the sky, clumping in places, spreading out and then balling up like a shoddy tinsel job. Christmas was a vague memory, however, it did not register - it was static crackle and the smell of pine trees - a New Year for regrets looming. He rested his back against the old oak, wrestling with it until he found a semblance of comfort.

Pulling a bent cigarette out of his pocket, he gazed across the water. Small bits of tobacco fell like cloned snowflakes - little brown specks expertly shredded - he found a box of matches with three sticks left in the inside pocket of his coat. The first one broke, but the second flared wildly in the breeze, just long enough. It didn't matter. It was the last cigarette.

He'd been running out. Of everything. He ran out of excuses and that led to running out of family. He ran out of money. He'd run out of his apartment when he heard the sirens. Now, he was out of cigarettes and, with one match and some pocket change to his name, he was running out of time.

A hawk skated lazily on the updrafts. He smiled. Then his stomach reminded him. There was nothing lazy about it. The hawk was hunting. The updrafts were life or death. Suddenly, he winced, thinking of the field mouse that would dash out from cover at the wrong time - the hawk's arrival seemed a bad omen, now. He knew what it felt like to be hunted.

He was tired of running, wolf-snap at his heels. Were they still coming? He knew they would never stop coming. He had left too much behind and there was nothing ahead of him save the game - the game he was growing tired of. The game that shook him ragdoll limp, that left him tasting his fatigue - a soft ugliness that grew with each step, throttled by the thirst. It tasted like ash and melancholy. He could smell it on the breeze, too. The lines were blurring - it was no longer clear where he ended and the world began.

For God so loved the world... He heard it. The refrain of years, incense sticks and slight of hand tricks. What kind of father gives away their son? He knew the answer. He could relate. He wondered if his boy would ever understand and accepted that he wouldn't. He would grow up chewing through stories that, combined, formed a collage that seemed noble and despicable at the same time. He would love his father - the one he would never remember - because no one else did. Because that contrary streak was legacy - the only thing he could leave his son aside from disappointment. Heart constricting terror - an anxiety that would follow him for the rest of his days. It didn't matter. The boy was young, and it was better this way.

He cast the smoking butt into the water in front of him, heard his grandfather's voice, chastising - he watched its progress through the riffles and wished he could take it back. Nothing mattered, but, somehow, this did. It was the biggest betrayal of all. He closed his eyes and tried to look inside his head, skull aching, wondering who would tell his son not to sully beautiful things. To stick by the ugly things if they were important enough. There was a sharp pain in his chest and his breath caught - why would the boy listen to a man he had been raised to hate? Even if he could deliver the message somehow? Deb would raise the boy to be everything he wasn't. And that was mostly good. For the best. Mostly.

He stood up and tightened the laces on his heavy work boots. One last look at the sky, ochre insanity - he gasped at the absurdity of it. Lurid. The woods had become silent. His motion stilled the birds and mice - the hawk was still hunting. And then he heard a whining sound from far away. He stood, motionless, as the drone swelled into siren song he knew too well. 

He hitched up his pants, tightened his belt, and filled the pockets with handfuls of pebbles. He filled every pocket in his coat and then shoved the remaining handful of rock and grit into his mouth. He walked into the water slowly but deliberately. The sirens were getting louder, but they would not succeed in their hunt. They would find only tiny flecks of tobacco where the man had been sitting. Footsteps to the water. They'd know he couldn't walk across it. Case closed.

The hawk stooped and fell on its prey, tasting the good blood taste, tearing with its beak and talons. 

Safe for another day.

Big Fish

It was dark, but I knew they were watching me, feeling me ... they could sense the jaw-snap fear. The old man had told me not to fear the dark. Easy for him to say. I lay in the dark feeling them ... it didn't matter. Light or dark. It didn't matter. They lived on my shoulder, in my ears, they played their games ... electrical static in my brain.

They're not real. The old man always says it. And I always agree because, well, what's the fucking point? You can't convince him, and you sure can't convince me. Not when I hear their whispers. Not when the smell of old blood follows me like prank perfume - they are real, no matter what he says.

They found me several years ago. I don't know how, and I don't know why I was picked. I had lived a boring, if easy, life - I was not some kind of spy, not some soul scouring superhero. I was just a man. Until they made me even less than that.

They play me like a big fish. They never pull too hard. Sometimes I can feel their hot breath in my ears, but they know when to back off, when to stand in the corner and just watch.

Sixties AM Gold

Man, you wield that passive aggression like a scythe! I feel it, deep down in the bones of me - embedded, it doesn't even bleed. I don't care, see. I understand that it's hard to understand. Your bubble is thick and viscous, it is a force field - damn effective, at that.

See, I get it. Everybody's gotta be all worried because I have human feelings, right? Maybe I don't? Maybe I lowered my expectations long ago. Maybe my mind is wandering the back allies cause I fucking like back alleys.

In real life, I do like fields of wildflowers. I like hugs and smiles and 'Sixties AM Gold'. You want to read about that shit? Cause I sure don't want to write about it.

They Never Are

"So, what now?"

"What do you mean? We bury her."

"That's it? You're good with that. We bury her..."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know, she was our mother."

"She was no fucking mother."

"That's the whole point, though. She can't hurt us now. We can get some kind of ... what the hell do they call it ... closure?"

"Yeah, we'll close it by putting her in the ground and hoping there's a hell."

"That's it?"

"That's it, Sis."

They walked up the steep path, puffing slightly. At 34 and 32, neither Sean nor Maddy were in 'sprinting up the hill' shape anymore. They knew the hill, and it knew them. It had even changed with them. Where once the hill had been an oasis of green, there were now stunted scrub bushes and empty beer cans. It was sad. It made Maddy especially sad. Sean was more concerned with his elevated heart rate.

When they reached the top, there was an awkward silence. The hill looked down over the whole neighborhood, including their mother's house. It was theirs now. Neither of them wanted it. They didn't even want to go inside. They'd sell it to a neighbor. Get rid of the damn thing. Exorcise the demons.

Sean lit a joint and passed it.

"Just like old times."

Maddy looked at the joint and frowned, then she shrugged and took it, inhaling deep.

"I thought I'd stop hating her when she died, Sis."

"Me, too. But now I just feel like I'll never get a chance to tell her how badly she screwed everything up."

"At least Dad got out."

"He fucking died, Sean. I don't know if that's a 'win'."

"Can you imagine if he hadn't?"

"Jesus."

They sat in silence, passing the joint until it was hard to hold. Maddy ground it out under the heel of her running shoe.

"Do you think she knew?"

"What?"

"How much we hated her?"

"Naw, Sis. I doubt it. She was fucking evil. And if she did know, it probably made her happy."

"Anything you want before we sell?"

"Nope. Literally, not one goddamn thing."

"I want her jewelry."

Sean cocked an eyebrow.

"Why? You gonna sell it?"

"Nope. I always wanted to see it ... touch it ... when we were kids. She never let me. I think 'things' were the only thing she loved. Especially the valuable shit. It's all that mattered to her. I'm gonna throw it all in a fucking lake."

"Will that make you feel better?"

"I don't know yet."

"That's a good point. I brought some booze, want some?"

"What the hell..."

The flask was filled with vodka.

"You drink too much."

"Yeah, I know. I do a lot of things too much."

"Why?"

"Really?"

"Yeah, I guess it was worse for you, huh?"

"Maybe. Different. She didn't ... she hurt you in different ways."

Maddy lifted the flask.

"To Mom. Rest in misery, you sadistic bitch."

Sean laughed, and then they were both laughing. Bright-eyed laughter that lived around the corner from sadness. It had been like that as long as either of them could remember. Laughter and tears. Both important.

They started back down the hill. They walked around the shining neighborhood and looked at the houses. Same old houses. Most of the same people, older now. Maddy wondered if any of them knew, but she doubted it. Mom had always kept the crazy at home. No one ever talked about it.

They saw a figure approaching through the darkness. An old man. Then they saw the little dog. Mr. Johnson. They had dreamed about living with the Johnsons as kids. Their house had always been filled with games and smiles. It hadn't been brittle. Their house had always seemed about to split down the middle.

"Evening kids. I was real sorry to hear about your Mom. We all were. If there's anything we can do, let me know."

Sean's mind raced. He couldn't think of anything to say. Maddy stepped forward and began to sob. The old man put his arms around her. It felt nice.

"It's OK, sweetheart. Everything will be OK."

"She wasn't how you think she was..."

The old man's face went blank, there was a sadness there.

"They never are, sweetheart. They never are."

The Screams

You were the one, but it wasn't your choosing and, in that injustice, there was truth, hatred, anger, lust, sadness - living. Sun-streaked walls don't give a shit about you. The woman who covers her face will only slink by, avoiding you for the same reason you avoid yourself. Can you blame her?

You belong in the night. Your counsel, the rats and vermin who take over our sanguine streets when the sun gives up. They crawl and feed, blood on teeth, gnashing. They are honest and you are not. You flinch when you see them. Imagine how they must feel about you.

You are not the sum of your mistakes. You are your mistakes - they are brands that match the scars, lacing forearms.

You close your eyes and feel clammy hands. Soft fingers ply the gentle delusion that placates the rage - the rage makes you want to be one of those with bloody teeth. Flex your arms. Test your fist against the face of someone weaker than you. This is the way the game is played.

Count to ten and then start looking; you won't find them. They slip between cracks and you aren't even sure what we're talking about anyway. Vague, I know. It is our intention. Specificity is a lie. Your answers don't even begin to address the problem. You are the sharp crease in a lawyer's tongue. You are younger than you used to be.

Regression is a form of near-inert inertia. You remember some things so vividly, your brain is selective. Whether it pleases you or not may have something to do with the way you have treated your brain. It may have something to do with the Mayans or global warming or the Rothchilds. It may have nothing to do with anything. What did you expect?

It's coming back now. You turned your head and bit the inside of your cheek until you were choking on the tart, red blood. You told yourself it would pass. Don't think about it. That was a mistake. That one will follow you. Trailing that blood, the taste still rich and vibrant.

Your hands are claws. Sink them into the dirt and pull out life. Pound your fists and tear the hair from your swollen head. There are no saints here. There is no redemption.

You wanted her to hit you. You wanted scars and blood and destruction. Too many facades, you decided you were above it. Who the fuck do you think you are?

You are an earth destroyer. You are the most wicked of all the beasts, you who will not accept the terrible dignity engendered by your selfish soul - the one you don't believe in. 

He will come for you in the darkest hour. He will smile and you will sink back into a revery that you never imagined. He will forgive you, though you don't deserve forgiveness. But you'll take it. If you respected yourself more, you would riot. The walls would crumble and you would kill, eat the hearts of your enemies. But you are civilized. You do not attack with tooth and nail, do you? You lurk in the dark with whispered lashings. You play the angles and try not to get your hands dirty. And you feel superior, though your hands should be covered in filth, excrement, blood ... you should try to sleep through the screaming, but you will hide because that is what you were taught.

My heart aches. My soul burns. You say these things and hope that they will be your bivouac. Trafficking in words is a coward's bet. Still speak. And listen. Feel the spittle on your face and blink, slowly, fighting the rotation of a world you never understood.

Isn't it precious? Do you like the new furniture? What will you do when the time for working is done, will you then seek the piss and loam that is your birthright? What will you hide behind when the curtain falls?

You try to think of noble things. The times you stood up for "justice" and other saccharine myths, but it is all ignoble. You are so turned around that your fall is only fair. No one can spin so much and not feel the helicopter's stare. Your streetlights are cameras. Your Bible, a decoration that you never touch. It is there for show.

The day is wrung out. You are a failure. Why can't you be like the others? Why can't you play nice? They weren't nice to you? Turn the other cheek so they can hit you again. That is your salvation, mixed nicely with sin.

You have traded authenticity for convenience. You have distinguished yourself, but not in the way you intended. You tried to rise above the mass of whirling madness when your proper place was right in the middle. Where the screams are loudest.

Don't look at me like that.

Don't look at me like that. Look at me like I just gave you a Chanel purse full of truffles and orgasms. OK, now I'm getting the sexy eyes, but I need to see that truffle melting, baby. Yes, of course I mean the chocolate kind. You think I want you to root around like pig? Wait a minute, let me get the latex pig costume, this is gonna be so fucking hot. Yes, I hosed it off. Jesus!

What do you mean? Right, Deliverance. OK, fuck the pig costume ... I mean forget about the pig costume. I'm not even feeling that turned on anymore.

Look at me like I just told you that your best friend died and then I got all fucking stigmatafied and glowing and said I could bring her back to life. Needs to be more attentive, rapt, it's a fucking miracle for Christ's sake. 

Now you're just looking at me like I'm nuts. You're nuts! I'm not the one who thought we should visit my parents for two weeks. Do you know how long two weeks is in 'visiting my parents' time? IT'S LIKE A THOUSAND LIFETIMES AS AN IMMORTAL!

So what, that doesn't make sense? Why are you so pissed off? I don't even want to talk anymore. Is there anything on TV?

Windows

“You were saying about the windows…”

“Right, the fucking windows. So, this place is nice, right? I had some time to fuck around and I’m playing with all the toys. Fridge is NASA certified and shit, feel me? I’m looking around. Not like I’m gonna boost anything. I’m not that dumb. Just waiting. But, you know, I didn’t know shit that nice existed. Then I saw the remote for the windows. Well, I didn’t know what it was at first, but I hit this button and all these walls start sliding and there’re windows behind ‘em. And the windows you could see, they’re all sliding open and shut. Red button covers them all in a sheet of steel. Fucking James Bond shit, you know?”

“For reals? So, what did you do?”

“Nothing to do. He showed up. I’m sitting there with the fool and I even said, ‘you got this nice fucking house and my dishwasher’s broken, bitch.’ He looks at me like I’m crazy. He didn’t get it you know?”

“They rarely do, brother.”

“Yeah, true. This guy, though. I don’t know, man. I like it when they’re too scared to talk. This guy was used-car salesman through and through, dig? Like trying to sell his life to me. I got a wife and kids, man. Yeah, that’s nice, me too. You don’t have to do this! Of course I have to fucking do it, it’s my job, I got a family to feed.”

“Fuckin’ A.”

“Right, so he’s blubbering and shit. Offers me money. I tell him if he’d paid The Boss in the first place, none of this is happening, right? So, I know he’s buying time. For what, who the fuck knows? Me, I’d just want it done, you know?”

“I feel ya. There’s some that just can’t accept that it’s already done if you’re there, dig? Like, the time for negotiation is long past.”

“Exactly, he’s trying to tell me all this shit. And I’m like ‘I have a life too, you fucking dick. I’m trying to finish this bit and get home. So, shut the fuck up.’ He didn’t, so I busted him good. Fucker’s out cold. Real cold. Then I get distracted by all the Star Trek shit again. Finally, I look at the clock and I’m like, ‘Shit! Jenny’s dance recital! I gotta get this shit done so I can clue the boss and get cleaned up.”

“And?”

“Well, I told you. I killed the fool and left. Made it in plenty of time. You should have seen it, man.”

“I bet, how old’s that little girl now?”

“Seven. She’s been doing the dancing thing for like a year and a half now. She’s good. I don’t know shit about dancing, but all the other kids looked like fucking retards, feel me? At least she looked like she’d paid some attention.”

“That’s beautiful, brother.”

“What about you? How’s your shoulder?”

“Healing. Wish I could stop thinking about it. Feel like a chump, you know?”

“Hell, you didn’t know she had anything - ”

“Yeah, but why did I even get close enough? That’s what bugs me. I’m just gonna stop letting ‘em talk, period. ‘Cause this chick was all sweetness and light and wait til my husband gets home, we'll sort this, would you like a drink? So, I figure, what the fuck? She goes and makes a drink, on the rocks, and after she hands it to me, she stabs me with the fucking ice pick. Real nice one. Old timey. Probably from Restoration Hardware or something. Bitch is too good for an ice cube tray, right?”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, so she sinks that shit into my shoulder and then dangles. Like, what the fuck I’m gonna do now? You could have at least stabbed me in the throat. This is gonna be a bitch of a broken wing. I’m sitting there with an ice pick in my shoulder and she’s got her mouth covered like one of those pervy Japanese chicks in those Chinatown rags. Oh no! What did I do? Hee hee hee. You know? She doesn’t even try and hit me or anything. Just stands there staring at the ice pick. Oh, and you’re not gonna believe what she says next…”

“What?”

“She looks right at me like she’s buying drapes or some shit and she’s goes, ‘you can rape me, but please don’t kill me!’”

“No!”

“No shit, man. Said it just like that. Like she’s giving me the consolation prize.”

“Ha! What’d you say?”

“I said, ‘Ma’am, you flatter yourself. Plus, I’m not a rapist.’ Then I shot her.”

“What about the husband?”

“He comes in and I’m sitting waiting for him next to his dead wife. He starts to go mental, and I stand up and slap the everloving shit out of him. Sounded like a fucking hand grenade. So, he mums up. You can tell he’s looking for an out. Some kind of excuse. Something. So, I make it real clear. You owe The Boss money. Your wife is…excuse me…was a fucking retard. You got the money? He does that wide mouth thing like somehow something is gonna come out that will turn me back into the fucking boy scout I am, right? So, I capped him. Bailed. Felt a little bad about the bitch. She wasn’t a necessary hit until she volunteered, you feel me?”

“Fuck yeah, collateral damage. I always want to explain it, but they get so emotional. Your husband is a lying prick and he owes everything you own to my boss because he’s a sick fuck who doesn’t like to pay for his sick fuck hobbies. Got nothing to do with you. Go sit in the bedroom. Wait five minutes after you hear the shot, and then call the police. But they never do the smart thing. Never. How long we been doing this, twenty years? Anyone ever listen to fucking reason?”

“Naw, they don’t get it, man. They’re convinced they’re above that shit. They’re like little kids. Hit off the tee. Just fucking hit off the tee until you get the feel for it. But they want to jump right in. Gonna hit that long ball, first try. They got all the answers. They’re gonna save themselves and me in the process, you know?”

“For reals. We need resumes. No joke. No name. Just a list of people we’ve hit and why. References, you know. Like, shut the fuck up, ‘cause this is what I do. End of story. The proof is in the goddamned pudding. I’m not some meth-head out to steal your DVD player. The Boss said you die, so you die. Shit, I got a mortgage to think about.”

“Ha! Right. But they’re convinced they’re gonna be the ones you let off. Like it wouldn’t end your fucking career, even if you wanted to. I won’t lie, sometimes I feel like The Boss takes it too far. I get it. No loose ends. Erase the drama. But some of those idiots deserve less...they don't need to die. That’s my personal feeling. But whatever. They made the bed. We just tuck ‘em in, yeah?”

“Yep, you got that right. You fuck a dog, you wake up with fleas. People gotta understand that.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that they’ll never understand. And they’ll always feel like the victim whether it was on them or not. It’s all fucking rosey until the piper comes collecting.”

“Yeah, fucking truth. They got nice stereos and shit though, most of ‘em. You gotta give ‘em that. Should of sold some of that shit and handed over the cash, yeah?”

“That’s true. Sometimes I wonder who’s going to end up with that bomb stereo. What’s gonna happen when I’m gone? Who gets the Benz and the watch collection?”

“You ever go back and check things out?”

“Naw. Thought about it. But there’s never any going back, is there? For anybody.”

“Nope. You just keep rolling.”

The men drank from the pint bottle, blowing smoke out of the window crack. Down by the docks it was quiet. They were big men, but they looked like anyone else. Two guys sitting in a car, talking about work.

“I gotta get home, man. Today’s my day for bringing snacks to pre-school. I gotta figure out what the fuck I’m bringing.”

“Yogurt, man. Mine love yogurt.”

“That’s a good idea. I’ll get a gang of fruit, too. Some of those fucking roll-up things. You want me to drive you back?”

“Naw, thanks. Car’s right over there.”

“Ok, brother. Talk soon.”

The sound of two big Hemi engines startled the herons on the waterfront. They flapped gloomily in the thin light. They swept their wings and moved twenty or so feet down the bank. Hunting. Surviving. They knew the score. Keep moving. Don’t stay in once place for too long. Be more cautious than you think you need to be. That’s how you stay alive.

The Thing You Have Become

You didn't know you had it in you, this biting self-loathing. It snuck up on you like a dark-park lurker, teasing, leaving you standing gape-jawed and feeling dirty. The last time you went outside, the sun actually hurt. Your eyes spun, pupils shrinking to block out the fucking light. So, now you stay inside. You find patterns in your thinking and let them spin you right round, baby. It's like a round, actually, the thoughts. Three blind mice ...

The room is abject horror disguised as authenticity. You have record albums on the walls, but you sold your record player long ago. Stacks of paperback books everywhere. Most of them, you have never read. The ones you have, you read over and over until the words corral the roundabout nonsense in your mind.

Cold hands. Your hands are always cold. They are always brittle, dry - when you do have to go outside, interact, you keep your hands in your pockets. Hand shakes are like being stripped naked. Wow, your hands are so cold! Like ice cubes! You want to scream, 'they're my fucking hands, this is none of your concern,' but it is their concern in all likelihood. You worry about the cold hands, too.

Your leather throat constricts. It is leather because it has been cured in grain alcohol and smoked to a fine brown. The constriction had nothing to do with you. It has to do with an old man who couldn't keep his hands to himself. It has to do with the choices you made which, once noble, now seem silly - the playthings of a child. The constriction is your judgement. You do not judge yourself too harshly.

You wonder sometimes if anything is real. You fear that you are a construction of cliche and latte. You probably are - everyone else is - but it doesn't seem to bother them. You wish it didn't bother you, but it's like a hot wind. It's like cold chicken skin.

Every so often, you get so fucking mad. And you punch something. The wall. The table. You always hit it just hard enough to scuff a few knuckles and wish you were the kind of person who could punch an inanimate object hard enough to shatter bones. You wonder why you think this way. Some days you blame your parents. Some days you blame her. There are too few days where your shoulders chafe from bearing some of the burden. Too damn few.

Some days it feels like a blessing and some days it feels like sharp, blood-wet talons down your spine. You twist and stretch and scream at it. You wake up shaking, greet the half-asleep you in the mirror. You shudder and you should. Jesus, you feel for the folks you encounter in your sleep. They must cross to another synapse when they see you coming.

It's the buzzing. It never stops and it is like a million mosquitos in your ear. And sometimes you chuckle, shrug it off, think about the alternatives. Sometimes you worry that the noise is leading you to some buffed calamity - some glittering disaster that will make sense of everything or will finally force you to accept that nothing makes sense.

You'll drive on this route forever. You missed your stop long ago, in a haze of procrastination and bourbon. You'll surround yourself with beauty to compound the ugliness you feel when you are forced to face the thing you have become.

The Long View

Tom Heiffner stood thoughtfully, breathing in the stale, dusty air and staring idly at the rolling hills that were his destiny. The hills were his only friends, as much as he hated them. They brought the rain his crops desperately needed. Sometimes they sent storms that left him standing, smelling ozone, and marveling, yet again, that a man's work - a year's worth of sweat - could be obliterated in one night. One night of frost at the wrong time and it was all for nothing. These thoughts tumbled over each other in Tom's brain. But that was nothing unusual, these circular thoughts were his constant companions. The one thing he could count on. Besides the hills.

The sun was dropping fast as it is wont to do in places where the horizon is a long way off. There were splashes of gold, pink, and a deep red that reached down inside him, twisting, forcing his hand. He turned a plug over in his cheek and spit a long stream toward the hills. Folks called them mountains. Folks were wrong. Tom had seen mountains in Colorado. The years had done little to diminish the impression they'd left him with. Grandeur. He knew that was what the mountains wanted him to see, but he only saw something huge that he couldn't control. There was enough of that at home. Even if the mountains were really just hills.

A man gets to where his stomach is his wristwatch when there isn't anything but work. Tom's stomach was telling him that it was time. His stomach had yet to accept the fact that Myra wouldn't be banging the dinner bell. That he would fill the empty hole with coffee, whiskey and corn pone. Myra. Tom squinted at the hills while he pulled a pouch of tobacco out of his overalls ... he'd been stretching it with chaw, it was about through. He spit out the plug and rolled a smoke without thinking, lit it with a thumbnail match. He pulled the smoke in deep and thought about Myra.

He should have known. Love can only do so much. She'd loved him - he never doubted that. And he'd loved her with everything he had, every bit of his understanding of love, however distorted it was. He chuckled. Damn fool, that's what he was. When he had first seen Myra, she'd been dancing up a storm. He was holed up in the biggest town he had ever seen, and she was the most beautiful woman there. He'd watched her all night. And the next. And the next. Finally, she approached him. Fire in her eyes, dress tight and damp - he wasn't sure if she was going to hit him or ask him to dance. She did neither. She led him upstairs. Days passed. Her expressions grew softer. Her lips more welcoming. And then he'd told her that he intended to marry her and take her back home with him. And she'd smiled like she'd won a beauty pageant - which she had. They were married that Sunday, and they left for the farm the next day, Myra sitting shotgun on the old wagon.

Myra hated the farm as much as Tom loved it and for the same reasons. He thought about that now and felt like a chump. She'd left just about the time he'd started to settle into the thing - he was just figuring out what a husband did when she left. He'd waited for days before he realized that he had made the worst mistake a man can make. Worse than planting early. A damn sight worse than planting late. He'd tried to make a flower grow in the desert. He'd let the lights and the music and the glint off Myra's smile convince him that he could turn her into what he needed - a partner. Hell, she was pretty, though. He'd never seen teeth so white. And she'd had this smell ... a little bit of perfume and womanly magic. He didn't know what it was, but some nights he remembered that smell and the hangover the next day was always worse.

The old dog stirred in the dust. Tom slapped his thigh and the dog sat at his feet. He held the big, rough head in his hands and smiled. The dog would never leave. Myra was gone and the weather was a gamble ... the bank already owned his land, but they would never take his dog. God would do that, and he figured he'd follow pretty close behind, the way the dog had followed him for almost ten years now.

"We're in for it now, Dog. You know that, boy? The worst of it. Ain't nothing left to lose. Ain't nothing to worry about neither. This is the finish line ... well, nearly. We got this land and we'll make it pay somehow. Or we won't. You and me don't got fancy notions, Dog. I should have known. Damn fool."

The dog made a keen heartbreak sound and the old man cuffed him gently.

"I sure didn't mean my whining to catch on, Dog. You and me'll be alright. Near dark, now - get up and move, boy. Let's go get us a drink and something for our bellies."

The dog loped slowly, keeping up with the man's long strides. From a distance, they might have looked downright respectable. Had to be something in a man that walked with such purpose, didn't there? Had to be something in a dog that would watch his man like that. It was like the whole damn place didn't exist, just Tom. The dog rumbled happily, his throaty acceptance. It was just exactly like that. Like the man said.  He'd never liked the way that woman had smelled anyway. And he hadn't liked what he did to their land, their home. It wasn't natural, no matter how you looked at it.

He Needed To Die

He tried to open his eyes, but they were glued shut - sand and sweat and blood. He rose to one knee and the pain between his temples took his breath. Sudden. Shocking. It was a color he did not recognize, bright and vibrant in the darkness. He rotated his neck slowly; it sounded like broken glass. He could feel the sun, deadly hot. What the fuck? Then, everything slowed down. He remembered. He was supposed to be dead. He was close to it, now. Not close enough. He pictured the man's face and wished he'd chosen the bullet. His optimism had been folly. The desert does not empathize. The desert takes what it wants.

He tried to spit into his hand, but there was no moisture. He rubbed his eyes, but it ground the grit deeper. Sandpaper madness. Fuck. Where was the man with the bullet? Why had he been so stupid? Hubris. That's what they called it, right? He flashed to a college classroom: girl in the front, always dressed nice, pretty, perfect posture. He'd never spoken to her. Something about heroes. He couldn't remember.

The gun had freaked him the fuck out. That's what it was. The man smirking. I can shoot you or leave you here. He could hear himself begging: Don't shoot me. Just don't shoot me. The big man had looked almost shocked at his choice...which made sense, bullets are fast. But the gun. He'd looked at the end of the gun and just lost it. And there had been some hope in the decision, hadn't there? Stay alive ... it seemed ridiculous now.

He didn't understand. That was the injustice. Why him? What had he done? He tried to remember, but he was so thirsty. His head was so big. So fucking loud. Oh, Jesus. He was going to die, blind, in the desert. He wanted to rise and walk. He wanted to be the man who comes out of the desert. Louis L'Amour revenge fantasies blossomed. But this wasn't a book.

He had done bad things, sure. There was no denying that. But bad enough to die for? He searched through the slideshow in his mind. Some of the slides were blurry. Maybe he had done something during one of the black nights. Maybe it was mistaken identity. It didn't matter.

It was over. He knew it, but he couldn't accept it. Couldn't make it right in his mind. If only the man had explained. He'd asked and he could still hear the laughter. Does it fucking matter? No, it didn't matter. That was clear.

He let his head fall back and he could see the sun, just a redness through his eyelids. He could feel his skin burning. He tried to yell, but his throat was shredded. The sound that came out was something close to a howl. Pain. Fear. He smelled sweat and dry-heaved, gasping as he remembered the broken ribs.

The calm came slowly. Like an opiate ascent. Warmth. Not heat. Not the burning of the sun. A warmth from inside. Some kind of benevolent tranquility. He felt his muscles relax. He was relieved. Confused. Scared. He could feel death coming. He wanted it more than anything. He also wanted to live.

Pieces of the conversation came back to him. He remembered his pleading tone. The disgust on the man's face. Hell, he was disgusted with himself. He didn't know why. It was irrelevant. He did not know where he was. The man would not have left him an out. The desert promised death. And he couldn't even accelerate it. In his mind, he was on his knees, begging. Please. Please come back and bring the bullet. Bring the gun. I won't say a word. I promise. Jesus Christ! I promise!

The smells were strange. He had been lost in the labyrinth of his smells. Now, with the calm, other smells emerged. Some plant baking in the dust and sun. Sage? It was a sweet smell. It turned his stomach and made him shudder. Quick flashes. Christmas morning. His grandmother's peppermints. Acolyte candles. Altoid kisses behind the bleachers. There was also a smell of decay. He wondered if there were vultures circling.

His body was wet. A special slickness composed of sweat and blood. He had soiled himself. He could feel that, too. Smell it. He could smell his body becoming a part of the desert. Hot sand. The smell of wreaths and old wax. Resignation.

His brain was sluggish, still stuttering over the question. Why? In some velvet crease of the brain, he knew. Just as the man had said. It didn't matter. It was what it was. Everyone has a job to do. He fell on the hot sand and watched stars and cartoon faces explode behind his matted eyelids. The man had done his job. Now, to hold up his end of the bargain, he need only do the simplest thing in the world, let go. He needed to finish it.

He needed to die. 

Finally Bagged One

When I was young, the woods were my playground. I fished, burned things, made slingshots and bows. I used my scout knife to whittle absurdly sharp arrows that flew sideways and broke with astonishing ease. Which was cool. Because I liked whittling arrows.

I was a strange kid, which is kind of like saying 'I am a person who eats food', but it is true. I was a strange kid. I wanted, more than anything, to be rooted to a place. To not move all the time. And yet I was obsessed with birds. So, perhaps I just wanted to be untethered, but led by my own capriciousness, not the whim of the United States Government. 

I read about birds obsessively. I spent hours looking through my mom's old field guides and I looked for hawks everywhere I went. And I always saw them first. And my folks called me 'eagle eye'. And they were right. 

Raptors were my favorite. I stared at glossy pictures for hours. I can't remember what I thought about when I looked at the birds. Maybe I thought about nothing, which would certainly have been a relief. In hindsight, I worshipped hawks. They were beautiful, but strong. They were agile, but deadly. They were free to fly wherever they wanted, soaring on updrafts. They did not worry about where they would be moving next. They did not need friends. They were probably the closest thing to being free that my mind could comprehend at six years old. They were my heroes.

As I got older, I got better at making bows. I learned to make thicker arrows that flew straight because I notched feathers into the butt ends. When I was ten or so, I asked Santa Claus for a real bow. A compound bow that would send arrows into the heavens, straight and fast, plunging back to earth like a Peregrine Falcon.

My Dad bought me a BB gun. I don't know why. I really wanted a bow, but I was not disappointed for long. I was too young to understand that guns could be anything other than fun. And I was a good shot. Eagle eye, they called me, remember? I made a shooting range in our garage and it was a good BB gun. Pretty soon, I could shoot the flame off a candle. 

My sister was older than I was and she did not want to fly; she wanted to find a book that never ended. A wonderful book that would stay with her, day after day. Year after year. She did not understand that her spastic brother, four years junior, just wanted to talk to someone. She was the only one who was experiencing anything close to what I felt. But she did not want to talk. She wanted to read and to be left alone.

There were many things that I considered a game that my sister did not. I wanted someone to play with. She did not. I wanted someone to tell me that it sucked that we had to move so much. She wouldn't. I was annoying. She knew how to stop it. Fast. My stomach still clenches when I think about it. 

I loved the gun. I loved the gun because I was a good shot. I loved the gun in that way young boys have of imagining things that will never be. Things that I didn't even want. Things I thought I should want. 

I shot through BBs by the hundred. I also clipped Q-tips in half so I could shoot the gun inside. Tamped down the end of the barrel, ten pumps, that Q-tip would fly a good twenty feet. And it would fly straight, especially when wetted with Juicy Fruit spit. 

So, I shot Q-tips at my sister. It wasn't a cool thing to do. It didn't hurt, but it violated a lot of things. It involved pointing a gun at my sister. It was wasteful. It was immature. It was everything that I was not supposed to be. It was careless.

I don't think my sister ever said anything because I don't remember getting in trouble, and I still have the gun. It would have been taken. No doubt. I don't know why my sister didn't tell anyone. Maybe for the same reason I never said that every argument ended with me in the fetal position crying, the ache inside me spreading.

Things escalate. That would be a pretty good subtitle for the autobiography I will never write. The story of JD Mader - "Things Escalate". 

I never had a pet when I was a kid and I didn't really like animals without wings. I mean, I didn't dislike them, but I also didn't feel bad shooting my neighbor's cat in the ass. One pump. Cat took off like a bottle rocket. I never would have hurt an animal. I shot myself point blank with one pump all the time. In the foot. The stomach. Sometimes the temple. The eyelid, once. I knew the cat would be fine. It's not one of my prouder moments, but I wasn't one of those kids who tortured animals. There was enough torture going around.

I don't remember when I started shooting at the grackles and black birds that sat in the top of pine trees, level with my bedroom window on the second floor. I shot at them with Q-tips and they rarely moved. Sometimes, I would get close enough that they would flap away, indignant. I only did this when my parents were gone. I'd smoke cigarettes on the roof and shoot Q-tips out my window. 

I have no idea what compelled me to load the gun with BBs. I suppose, since I had never come close with a Q-tip ... maybe I didn't make the connection. Maybe the candle flames had been snuffed in my mind as they had been in the garage. All I know is that, one day, I loaded the BB gun, pumped it ten times, aimed at a black bird high in the tree and barely visible - an impossible shot - and I pulled the trigger. Just as I had been taught to do. Just how I'd practiced. I held my breath with one eye closed and gently squeezed.

When the bird fell, I was dumfounded. It spiraled to earth like the ducks on Duck Hunt. My heart stopped. I dropped the gun and ran to the yard as fast as I could. The bird was still alive. I had hit it in the eye, and it was bloody, gasping. Suddenly, the boy that I thought I was evaporated. Because the boy that I thought I was would never have shot a bird. And if he did, and it didn't die, he would have put it out of its misery. Like a man.

The boy that I was did something I will never forgive him for. He ran inside and got two plastic bags. He put the bird in the bags. He watched it open and close its beak, making intricate patterns in the blood that smeared the inside of the plastic. 

The bird wouldn't die. 

I didn't know what to do. The gun was upstairs. I was in the yard, tears streaming down my face, a dying bird suffocating in my hand. I remember thinking how beautiful the ink black feathers were. 

I dug in the dirt with my hands, frantic. I tore my fingernails and pulled roots and stones from beneath my mother's favorite bush. I put the bird inside the grave, still alive when I put it in the ground. Still alive when I scooped handfuls of dirt on it. Still alive when I went upstairs and washed my hands and put the BB gun in the back of my closet. I knew I would not get caught and that was the worst part. 

I know the bird died eventually, but in my mind, it will always be under eight inches of dirt, gasping, eyeless, with it's head pressed against bloody Zip-Lock.

Green Sweater

You wore that green sweater all the time. I remember wondering if it was your favorite or your only. I wanted to be both, see. Your favorite and your only. Not really. In that way that twelve year old boys have, knowing they can outman the compromised adults they see around them if only given the chance.

We rode the bus. Nothing special about that. Except it was special. Because I could see glimpses of your smile, your hair. I rode in the back, of course. You sat right at the front, backpack still on, like you were ready to hit the ground at a dead sprint to get the jump on learning. Straight back, green sweater. You smelled like flowers.

No one spoke to you. I wonder, now, if that hurt? Did you feel snubbed? Did you not realize that the other girls feared you and the boys were terrified? We were content to get our short glimpses. They kept us going for weeks. The girls just wanted to be you and some of them took it hard. I hope to hell you didn't think it was because no one liked you. You were just a different species, and we couldn't relate.

The weird thing about time, the part I can never understand is this: I have no idea where you are. What you're doing. You're a few years older than me. We wouldn't recognize each other on the street. But I would instantly recognize that green sweater. No doubt. And sometimes when I walk through grocery stores, I realize that you smelled like laundry detergent, not flowers.