Muse Musing 3

I met her in my dreams.

I had fallen asleep on the air mattress. It was a summer infested with heat waves, sex, and a fear of the impending bedbugs. My roommate had suddenly begun to explore her sexuality, disregarding my need for a night not filled with poorly muffled moans and groans next door. It called for nap time during the day, if I was ever at home at that point.

That day was 98 degrees Fahrenheit, and I had fallen atop the poorly pumped mattress, after having locked my door, but still hearing the roommate and her sister preparing for a debauched night out. Like in a poorly written movie script; they were reciting things heard most common in movies between two undeveloped female characters. Cliches are cliches for a reason.

Drenched in sweat, head muffled by the heat, I dropped into a different bedroom with sparse furnishing. The large armoire was located next to the bed, a set of drawers on the adjacent wall. There were no windows. The bed was swathed in cloth of deep red, and from what I can remember, fairly comfortable.

Sounds of laughter outside of the bedroom made me aware of my anger. Something must have happened beyond the dream that coaxed me to that room. It was my bedroom--the place I lived and slept and returned to in search of comfort--but it gave the feeling of a guest bedroom. Impersonal. Cold. The way an old enemy raises their eyebrows at the sight of you years later. The intensity of the hatred evaporated; but the lingering disgust remains.

I start packing, and as I do, I feel eyes. From behind. The way it always did, but now, now it's manifesting into being. I can sense it now. Not only eyes. A tongue, a long one. Long, graceful neck, lithe limbs, slender but strong wrists and fingers. She is coming into being, and it's an explosive welcome party. She very nearly slithers out from under the bed, opening her dark maroon eyes for the first time. Her red lips curl into its first smile, and I see brilliantly sharp and white teeth.

I'm stuck between seeing myself from above and from struggling within the confines of the body to escape. I'm not sure. All I can remember is the terror. She wears all white and it frightens me. It wasn't so much the large mouth of white teeth, the deep darkness of her eyes, or her blood-red fingernails reaching for my neck. It was the way the white fabric fluttered behind her with such whimsy that unsettled me. Like it was over. Like I didn't even have a chance.

She was fast, but somehow, I was faster. I threw my knapsack over my shoulder, bolted out of the room, and slammed the door shut behind me. I heard a sickening crack as she made contact with the door. I ran into the midst of drunk party people, hearing only of the cracks as she tries to claw the door open. I heard what I could only explain as an explosion and turned back to see white and red coming at me. I stopped at the patio doors where my mother was standing with a glass of champagne in her hand. She saw me, looked past me, and smiled.

And then I realized that the Woman in White was of her creation. Her creation to destroy me.

I awoke, hearing suffocating silence. I grasped for my cell phone.

For the first time in months, I was extremely glad I was sleeping on an inflatable mattress.

The Return.

Moments like these
where glimpses into
what has past
what should not be present
what will not be future

and yet

it's Halloween all over
again and again
Christmas sweaters
stained in sticky ketchup
and you can't
stop
it

and as you sink
feeling the stickiness
drag you down
into the depths
watching as others
decorated trees
lit candles
sang songs
had family dinners

all you see
is the Nothing looming
all you want to do
is curl up
and
cry

drip drop
drip drip drop

like the sound of her blood
oozing onto the concrete

and you awaken
to a dark room
and whisper,
"Merry Christmas, Mother."

OFFWM: Not Worth it.

An ice cream cone sat on a fish's head as it stood on its fins, waving from a sea of scoops of ice cream.

It was an ugly mascot--even uglier in the setting sun where the fading sunlight highlighted the manic grin of the fish in the sea of fire balls. But I waited patiently for him as he finished the last few minutes of his shift wiping down tables that hadn't been used all day.

Our first year. A special one. My first one. Took us a while to get here. He promised it'd just be the two of us in celebration. After my birthday fiasco, he promised he'd be better.

The newspaper review of his family's ice cream shop when it first opened up was framed in a faded gold frame. The gold flaked off in places, revealed the black underneath. From what I remember, the review was a very positive one, praising his great-great-grandfather's creativity or some such. I guess it's because he used to create interesting ice cream flavors. His grandfather used to do that.

They don't do that anymore.

He just waved goodbye to his sister and stepped into the sunlight just as it receded past his feet.

"Hey," he grimaced as he saw me.

"Ready to go?"

"I can't today. Busy. The boys, you know. Next time, ey?"

He turned and walked away.

OFFWM: Tangerine Fishing.

A goat.
Sitting in a boat.
Smoking a tangerine.
How obscene.

On this boat, there's a man--the goat's pet--wearing a leather collar, bleeting into the air like some panicked animal. Poor thing, really, it doesn't know any better. It's perfectly safe here.

The goat is grey, the way his ancestors were, but he was addicted to tangerines. His wife and children hate it, so he takes this opportunity on the water to indulge.

The man is bleeting, gagging hysteric saliva onto the floors of the wooden boat. The goat scoffed, but remained immobile.

He's waiting for fish to take the bait. He has an entire bucket full of jelly babies and has to resist the urge to take one--or two, or three--into his own mouth.

They needed food on the table.

Several hours later, with three fish and fishing instruments in one hoof, leash in the other, the goat trudged up the hill, pulling the bleeting, reluctant human the entire way.

The air was perfumed with tangerines, and the human vomited by the mailbox.

OFFWM: Casseopia.

The sun sets at exactly 6:49 every day. Changes in season have no effect. And daylight savings has finally become obscure for a society that kept it for so long because of the lack of roots, of traditions, of history, and every human, every family, every social wants to feel the entitlement of belonging to something ancient and long-lasting.

But I suppose all that is obscure too.

Even the sunset is obscure.

From the windows, you can see forests and oceans and mountains rising up to the perfectly timed sky. You can see the stars, even in metropolitan areas. You couldn't do that before. At least that's what my grandmother told me.

I wonder if the sky looked the same millions of years ago?

But I'm restless. They're joining us. They're integrating. We don't have the same ideas. The same culture. The same...anything. What do we do?

Reject them. Barricade ourselves behind our philosophies and judge them. Keep judging until it's integrated into our history books, our truth, our DNA. Our children will carry this legacy!

We will hate and isolate until we are the only ones left.

And here, in our sphere, we can be safe, superior. Safe from harm, and no alarm. Safe from them.

The sun is gone. Systematic, but always beautiful, the way fire is beautiful. The forests, oceans, and mountains are no longer there. Just a dark backdrop and silver lights flickering, masquerading as stars.

I wonder if the sky looked the same millions of years ago.

OFFWM: Hook.

"So I was dating this girl for a year. We broke up last week."

"Sorry to hear that."

"We should meet up sometime. Catch up. Hang out."

"Sure. When we have time."

"I have plenty of time."

"I don't."

"Well, let's try to make it happen anyway."

"Sure."

"Hey, remember that time we... you know? Wasn't that great?"

"Is that what this call is for?"

"What? No. Of course not."

"Really? We haven't talked for over a year, and all of a suddenly, she leaves, and you're suddenly available to hang out?"

"No, it's not like that."

Click.

OFFWM: Done.

She saw the frog twitching on the table and she could feel a strange texture bubbling up into her throat. It's what she wants to do, so why does she feel so sickened? All life must end. All life must end. And once it's ended, it can never return, so why do muscles still contract and give reactions? Are muscles more hopeful that they'll be in use? Are the muscles lonely without a spirit to give it purpose and life?

That's awfully unscientific of her. There's no proof of spirit or the soul that drives a human, so why can she taste the peanut butter and jelly becoming stronger in her throat?

"What's wrong? Feeling sick?" snickered one of her classmates.

All life must end, and once it ends, it's done.

OFFWM: Flash Fiction Gone Wrong?

Tomorrow's the day.
The day that everything will change.
Changing the way the world spins.
And on this day, where the world will spin differently,
the clouds will turn purple, and the rain will turn orange,
but it's not dangerous. It won't be dangerous, you see,
because it's a gift. A gift from nature, of impossibilities.

Everyone says that it's impossible,
that you can't touch rainbows,
and you can't time travel,
and you can't eat with your elbows on the table.

But on this day, purple clouds and orange rain,
shows us solid rainbows don't actually taste like anything.
The world will open,
and we'll all see
that the monsters under our beds,
are us, clothed in idiocy.

I'm getting ahead of myself,
skipping through meadows.
All that I'm looking forward to
is a peaceful day off.

A day where stress is a stranger,
unwelcome in my home.
A day where I can sit and write
without a thought towards students and homework
and lesson planning and all that
because that drives me crazy
just like Cat in the Hat.

I've veered off course,
the way my manual car would if I took the wheel
I've never driven one before
Why do I feel the need to rhyme here?

There's no point to this post
Just that I wanted everyone to see
that the world will change its spin tomorrow
not for anyone but me.

October Flash Fiction Writing Month - Goal Setting

A few days behind, but that's OK.

There are 31 days in October, I aim to put out at least 25 flash fiction pieces.

1 page limit.

No word limit, as long as they all fit on one page.

12 font.

Times New Roman.

No restrictions on when you put out those pieces, as long as you have 25 by the end of the month.

Blackberries in Summer. 1

The heat hovered still and quiet, drowning the town's inhabitants in a haze of grogginess. The cicadas were the only living creatures that had the energy to create any sound or movement. Their wings beat in haphazard movements against each other, and if you closed your eyes, laying under the willow tree by the brown river, you could almost mistake them for frogs. That is, if you were city-dweller.

Summers were always the time to go blackberry picking. Every time we went berry-picking, I wore my white shorts with big, lime-green polka dots. You won't catch me dead wearing those damn shorts with my damn pink shirt with a white, lacey bunny tucked into them now. But when you were little, you didn't really give a damn because no one else cared either. As long as you weren't cruising around in pure, sweat-sheened skin, you didn't care--even though you threw a fuss every seasonal wardrobe change. I was one of those kids. First day wearing shorts after a long winter of long pants, and I felt alien to myself, the way animals do when they look in the mirror. They begin feeling self-conscious, nervous, and threatened. So they hiss and spit and wait to attack, but the foe reacted exactly the same way. Every time.

We lived in the city. They called us the 'CDs', even though we visited Grandma every summer, from late June to early August. Since I could remember, we had gone to Grandma's place every summer. Those were the good years. Those were the years where blackberries were abundant and sweet, where we ran around staining our clothes with sticky sweet blackberry juice and licking them off our arms. Those were the years where fighting was off-limits out of the city, where every face in our photos was plastered with blackberry smiles.

Grandma's house lay hidden behind a thicket of empty blackberry bushes. It's been years since we've come to visit. After the divorce, no one wanted to come to a place that was a reminder of times that allowed smiles to grace our faces. It wasn't much of a secret either. One of the downsides to being so attached to a small town is that everyone knows you. Everyone knows your business. Especially business that sets blaze to shame and embarrassment. It's a source of entertainment for human beings. And small town dwellers live and breathe in the stuff.

After Grandma died, the house was left to anyone in the family who had the need for it. No one did. Reminders of happy times are painful. Especially when thinking back on them when unhappiness permeates the spirit of the house you reside in. It's a heavy stink. You keep scratching at it, but it won't go away. It seeps into the deep, dark grooves beneath your eyes, into your limp hair, and into the weaves of your mismatched pantsuit.

My ex-husband hated this house. He visited once, after the wedding was held here, and then refused to visit the house again. I'd bring the kids here in the summers, the way Mom and Dad did, and they loved it. You should have seen them, smiles sticky with innocence and naivety. Those were the good old days. Had I had grandchildren, I'd reminisce about those times until they'd start mouthing it behind my back.

The blackberry bushes are overgrown, thorny, and empty, even though it's height of blackberry season. This sets the mood of my visit: empty, foreign, and out of place. I could hear whispers from the older generation behind my back, remember her? She's back. How shameful. How could she show her face after what's happened? Do you remember what happened? Not really, didn't they get divorced? Shameful! The younger generation these days don't know how to appreciate a roof over their heads, clothes on their backs, and food on the table.

No one bothers to remember why the divorce happened.

Guardians.

They used to claw at me from under the bed, in the dark corners, in the shadows, wrapped up in the dark colors of the fabric of my clothes. They used to spur my creativity, my writing, and they took pleasure in my stubborn, self-indulgent, little dark episodes. I'd lock myself up in my room, entertain the thoughts of old days, as my fingers mindlessly flicked open my grandfather's Swiss Army Knife. They haven't shown up recently. As if Asia puts them into a deep slumber, or some sort of hypnotic silence. Regardless of what happens, whatever dark abyss I'm in, they don't join in on the fun anymore. They don't reach out through mirrors at midnight, and they don't haunt my nightmares.

I miss them. They were, always have been, there. I never felt alone with them there. Sick as it sounds. They were there, watching me. Intentions unknown; like a woman in an abusive relationship. She can't leave--she loves him too much--too many good memories--she doesn't feel like she has the strength or support to leave--and she continues to stay against her better judgement. She knows better, but the heart refuses to move her body, her mouth, and she stays. She sits quietly, and she waits. She waits for things to get better--she wonders when it'll happen--and it doesn't--but she hopes. She's an optimist. Maybe one day soon. One day soon.

During this period of silence, I've always thought back to them, as if they were old friends. There were times when all I could remember were the moments the Woman in White would reach out and pat my head as I stayed curled up in the shower, crying about the possibility of being alone. Crying about how this douchebag tried to tell me that I was wrong--that if I were pregnant, I needed to abort it against my beliefs. That if I were pregnant, I needed to be emotionally healthy for the baby, but goddamn it, I was so scared because that meant everything had to change. She patted my head, quiet, ungrudging, and sat with me as I cried. Or the moments where the Woman in Black would go and behead him both ways and return, smile bloody and sweet, long tongue rolling out of her fanged mouth in silent laughter.

They came back tonight. Awake, as if they never left. The Woman in White's soft hand. The Woman in Black's devilish smirk. They let me cry. They let me be. They let me scream and hit the desk until I bruised my thumb.

Long time coming, White said.

Mm, Black hummed.

Good nap? White asked.

Black didn't need to reply.

They have the most frightful appearances, as if characters from a Lady Gaga video...except cooler. And by cooler I mean they're probably related to the Boogeyman or the Silence or the Angels. So maybe not cooler, but they're mine. They're my Guardians. I don't know what it means, or if it means that I'm some sort of descendant of some horribly dark and evil creature, but they can bring me back to reality, past the hopeless tears, past my fears. They're my Guardians.

I like the sound of that.

Sleepless.

Sleepness nights
music playing
fan blowing
heart beating
distant

Thoughts of tomorrow
eyes closing
mind wandering
heart stopping
close

Childhood monsters
creeping slowly
slithering stickily
scratching at the wooden floors loudly
too close

Adult fears
building
waning
constructing
hits home

Let the Lady in White
lay her hand across your eyes
Shhhh
And the Lady in Black
plunges her hand into your chest
Shhhh

Breathe relief.
Good night.

Drunken.

Tick tock goes the clock
and you wonder if you're sane

Tick tock goes the clock
as you touch the lion's mane

Tick tock Tick tock
The world is spinning 'round

Tick tock Tick Tock
Disappointment's all I've found

In the dark dark world
where fear preys on the weak

In the dark dark world
where the falcon loses its beak

In the dark dark world
and expectations fall and fall

In the dark dark world
where the old woman loses her shawl

Don't be disappointed
The world is just this way

Don't be disappointed
You can end it this and that a - way.

Down a bottle of wine
Down a bottle of gin
The world is full of swine
No one can begin again.

ATS.

Went back
back in time
where naivety
ruled our
sad little
pathetic little
useless little
hearts

Went back
to the days
where I thought
true love was
simple
easy
happily ever after
always ever after
honest ever after
death

Went back
to when we
were still so
young and in
love
but it was just
lust
and
loneliness
and
hurt
and desperation
because no one
would love this
stupid little
naive little
broken little
boring little
doll

Went back
Came back
to find that
we are still
All
The
Same

Modern Rising in Crescendo.

He imagines the Road like this: curved around mountains and glaciers and ditches with rivers, lakes, and avalanches cutting through them out of sight out of mind. No one ever knows where their destination is, but really who are they kidding? Every Road ends up at the same place, but from that same place, there are more roads that lead out of it. No one is ever in one place for very long.

He hears the current, fully-functioning generation complain about lack of this and lack of that and what to do and how did they get here? What is the purpose of Life? They're in their 20s. They're considered adults, so why don't they feel like they are? They're nothing like their parents and perhaps that provides most with a sigh of relief, ignoring the fact that their parents were settled in a career by the time they were 27. Half of the current yuppies are either in graduate school, or considering it to prolong the inevitable disappointment that they didn't get where they wanted to go. Most of them are still struggling to find temp jobs. How soul-stomping is Modernity?

His Road. Straight. Narrow. Ok, a little crooked. Lots of trees for scenery. At a mountain now. It's nice. Simple. 

His name's Jack. He's 26, considered barely tolerable in the appearance department by expectations of fashionistas--being vertically-challenged with a rather large, crooked nose, signs of adolescent baldness, and the beginning of a beer gut from the college years, decently settled into a routine of accounting and occasional party nights when he feels he can't take the monotony of adulthood. By the way, his place in his parents' basement is a dump too. He just never bothers.

A lake. Small. Meaningful. Just enough.

Here's Jane. She's 29, fits the high expectations for women's appearance in fashion magazines--long legs, big chest, small waist, long L'oreal-ad-worthy hair because she's worth it, and a decent wardrobe. She's got a decent job, and has moved out out of her parents' house because they've decided to sell it and move to the countryside where there'd be ample room to hunt and garden or something like that. She didn't know, and she didn't care. She's excited about her own place, decorated just the way she liked it: modern. To be honest, she didn't really know what that meant, but she knew that once she got comfortable there, she'd know, and everything would fall into place.

Somewhere along the way, Jack met Jane. If you asked him how they met, five years down the line from now, he'd tell you he forgot. In truth, he couldn't have forgotten a moment of it because it was like a fairy tale. He the frog, and she the lovely princess who's dropped her ball of gold into the pond. Except it wasn't so much a ball of gold as it was her cell phone on the subway on the way to work. And it wasn't so much a fairy tale as it was a nightmare. But he preferred not to dwell on it.

The Road curves. Left, then right, then sharp left. Trees are becoming sparse.

Jane would have forgotten the little details. Like how her slip felt smooth on her that day, or how the strong wisp of Bvlgari Aqva floated through the recycled air of the subway car. It was a pleasant smell, and she rather liked it, but if you asked her what stood out, she could only tell you that the man was balding, short, and chubby. He reminded her of a dwarf of sorts. Fortunately for him, he had been wearing a suit that day--on his way to a job interview--and that was all she could remember before the incident.

Darkness. Tendrils of it. Grabbing him at the throat warning him. Don't go any further it's not a good idea. Not a good idea.

It was a brief encounter, but Jack could tell you the--albeit cliche--details. The way her hair fell like an angel, or how her tailored suit was a raspberry pink shade, accentuated by a lovely red silk scarf. She didn't have on stockings that day, but her legs were smooth, or at least looked smooth, and he could feel himself heat up as he handed her the cell phone. He could bet those legs were as soft as her hands. He could imagine running his hands down her legs and then up to her inner thigh, and he could imagine the look of uncertain pleasure on her face as he reached even higher. And then there was a shrill scream. To his horror, at least when he awoke out of his daze, he was caressing her legs. He could tell you of the strong, sudden, masculine waft of Bvlgari Aqva, and the hairy knuckles that connected with his jaw, and the slow, painful, descent into warm darkness.

It was a favorite story to tell of theirs: how they met, how he saved her from a disgusting creature of a human being, and how he walked her to her company doors, and how they exchanged numbers. It wasn't difficult for them to fall in love--he was an extremely powerful and rich corporate, and she a magazine editor for a fashion magazine. A high-powered, highly-envied, and highly-attractive couple. They were married within half a year, and living in an expensive condo overlooking New York City.

His Road ends about half a mile east of Her Road. His Road is out of sight out of mind. Her Road is engraved always constant always a bitter memory.

How funny, this modern rising in crescendo, to forget the details of importance. It was important that her mother had called her that morning, droning on about how she was worried about Jane living by herself, causing Jane to be late for her daily trek to work. That there was a scuff on Jane's heels that day, from having taken a detour through a patch of grass as the city was repaving the sidewalk. That she had made it into the subway car just as the doors were sliding shut. That she was positioned where she was, between a pleasant old woman and Jack, the sexually-harassing dwarf. That the scent of Bvlgari Aqva had the ability to put everyone in the car in a trance-like state. That, because it was summer, her clothes and hair clung to her skin like moist snake skin, the way that sweat feels after a night of vigorous and passionate love-making. And it was, of the utmost importance, that, when Jack handed Jane her phone, she didn't thank him for it.

Walls.

Let's break down some walls.

You're sitting in a cafe, alone, going over some editing work you agreed to take on, without much forethought. Just more work. As if you didn't do enough at work already.

Soft music in French, one that echoes into your eardrums, brings you to a temporary Nirvana, where you're floating on music notes and scales. You watch as the treble clefs float by. You don't understand a word that's being sung, but it feels nice, down to your hair follicles, the way heat does after a long walk in the snow. Helps erase the tension that's settled permanently into your shoulders. Even the Daoist masseuse commented on the chi-blockage resting in the pressure points there and in your upper back. You could only smile at her sheepishly and say that it was an occupational hazard.

A group laughing in a chorus of farm animal guffaws snaps you out of your Nirvana, and you observe them for a while. They were Asian--of course they were; what were you expecting in Asia?--young Asian men, perhaps in their late twenties. You could never tell with Asians. Being one, born in the West, you constantly get asked if you were ten years younger than you actually were, despite wearing a miniskirt and tubetop. Now that you've returned to your roots, you realize that you couldn't tell their ages either. Not that it mattered.

You are single, employed, independent, financially-secure, and don't need no man to fuck everything up. At least that's what you tell your girlfriends back home. Who needs a man when you've got everything you need?

But humans are hardly ever that simple.

Let's break down some walls.

You wonder, as you continue to watch these boys from the corner of your eye, why and when you changed your perspective on true love.

Little girls were taught, by way of romantic Disney adaptations of fairy tales, that there is nothing better for a woman than to find that Prince on a white horse who'd whisk her away from some unfortunate life calamity and give her her happy ever after. You were no different. In fact, that's all you could think about during hours of math and history (what's the point of history anyway? You were taught Columbus discovered America, only to have your middle school teachers tell you what a dick he was, and still continue to celebrate his honor with Columbus Day). You wanted to be Belle, Aurora, Ariel, to be beautiful and have that special person to reach out, confirm to you that you were, indeed, beautiful, and that they'll give you the love you feel is lacking from your world.

You didn't realize--stuck in your fairy tale fantasies--your parents' marriage falling into a dark place filled with nights of frightful hallucinations. Your mother fucking random men--bringing you along on the pretense that she was going to meet an uncle, and baby, stay in the living room. You didn't understand why you went to see that uncle so often, when Daddy was at home, sleeping, because he had been working overtime.

Don't call him your father!

After Daddy found out, your mother was a smoking wreck; constantly shrouded in smoke. She smoked--for stress, she said--and it choked you. Her guilt was laced in the smoke, and it found revenge in your lungs. You felt it seeping into your skin, into your hair, into the deep weaves of the fabric of your clothes. You went to school with guilt laced into your smile, your eyes, and the deep grooves of pencil on paper. Her guilt became yours. You soaked up all the guilt, and she remained stubborn--I don't know what you're talking about! You're paranoid!--and passive. It didn't affect her. She continued to see that uncle, that uncle with the gun hidden in the Christmas sweaters in the closet of the master bedroom. She told you to keep it a secret as she stuck it in her purse. You kept it. Because you loved her. Because you thought she loved you.

Months later, she shot herself.

Even then, you held onto the idea that is was the life calamity your Prince would save you from. You waited through adolescence, making up imaginary friends to keep company in that big, dark house alone; through puberty, pushing those imaginary friends away in efforts to be normal; through the first few years of college because you were convinced that you'll turn into a beautiful swan. You buried yourself in books and writing little romance stories to keep the hope alive.

And one day, you met him. Sitting across the table from you in some theater class or other. They warn you about this kind of man--especially this kind of man majoring in theater--but fairy tales don't, and you figured that you couldn't be that unlucky to run into a villain so early on in your story. It's still early, you told yourself.

Little did you know, villains are far more common than Princes.

He was your first. It was--looking back on it--passionate, frenzied, and dammit, you had no idea what the fuck you were doing. All you knew, staring wide-eyed at your calendar, was that your period was late, and he was nowhere to be found.

God fucking dammit.

He told you to abort. But you felt strongly against abortion. If others chose that road, good for them, but you couldn't. You wouldn't.

He called you stupid, called your beliefs stupid, and walked out of the door. Just like that. Simple, clean, and guilt-free.

He'd tell you he'd regret losing you later. That losing you taught him a lot about love. But by then, you knew they meant nothing, and gave him the middle finger.

You left the country when you graduated.

The relationship you had after Pretty Boy and during which you decided you were leaving the country was significant to you, but it hurt too much to dwell on.

He broke up with you. He'll never tell you why.

In your dreams, days before the break up, he was sleeping with the female friend that gave you dirty looks whenever you were together. You felt sorry for her, but now you hated her. In a cloud of bitterness, you hoped the two assholes were happy together.

In the rebound stage, the last stage before recovery, you--without admitting to it until now, two years later--fell in love with a boy several years younger. You hated how he wore a suit, but couldn't own up to his responsibilities You hated those sideburns he grew into muttonchops. You hated his arrogance. You hated his foul mouth. You especially hated his blatant disrespect to women. But you loved the way he held you tightly at night. Made sure you ate when you were busy with work. And he never smoked in front of you because you told him how much you hated it.

Walls up.

The boys at the table stand, laughing heartily, and leave the cafe. None of them caught your eye. The music can no longer soothe the prickling at your chest.

The job you have now is unfulfilling. You feel overworked, under-appreciated, and it gets in the way of your passion and dreams. This is only temporary, the way fairy tales and stories are only temporary. The way Life is temporary. The way happily ever after is temporary--shrouded in guilt, lies, mistakes, and smoke. You wonder how the princesses fared in a royal, domestic life, when they sang and dreamed of adventure and love.

You smile. Perhaps they were envious of you, your freedom, and your independence. They were reading your stories and dreaming of travels and comfortable cafes.

You saw him again last year. He took out a cigarette and lit it in front of you as if he were a grown man. And he didn't give a fuck.

Average.

A is for Average

Bennett is of average height for a spiffy, young man of his late 20s. He has an average job that gives him average income and average satisfaction—which is better than none at all. He has an average girlfriend named Mindy, who is average in bed. He likes her, but the “spark” that fairytales sell doesn’t exist in their, overall, average relationship. The only thing that’s unaverage about Bennett is that he’s as hairy as a clogged drain. Mindy nicknames him her Teddy.

            They get married, have two average-looking children with average intelligence in an average house. Their children grow up, get married to average spouses, and Mindy and Bennett settle into old age, and die average deaths. What is an average death? Perhaps from old age, and illness due to deteriorating immune systems. But who cares? In the end, they’re dead, and that’s pretty average.

B is for Barely Average

Now imagine Bennett of average looks and intelligence on his way to an average day of work, when, unaveragely, he has to take a new street to work. Not out of spontaneity, as the street he usually takes is going through some construction, and he is taking a necessary detour. A blind man stops him at the light and asks for a cigarette. Bennett doesn’t smoke, so he says he’s sorry, and drives away as the light turns green.

C is for Complicated Averageness

The detour is unnecessarily complicated, and Bennett’s lost. He’s never been to this part of town before, and now he’s hopelessly late for work, but he refuses to call in sick and take an opportunity to take a day off from work. He likes his job. It is decent, with decent pay, and he works with decent people. Being lost doesn’t mean he has an excuse to bail out on work. He has an unaveragely strong morale about his responsibilities.

            He calls the office, explaining the situation. They manage to talk him back to the main road. One his way out of that seedy part of town, at the last spotlight to safety, familiarity, and freedom, a blind man is at the intersection, making his way across the street. Bennett waits patiently as the light turns green. He waits to make sure the man crosses the street safely. The man’s foot touches concrete, and he turns and gives Bennett a friendly wave before continuing his journey.

            Bennett goes to work, unable to identify the feeling the man left in him. He finishes work early, goes home to Mindy and makes passionate, unselfish love to her, which soothes her lonely, and recently feeling abandoned, heart.

            Life eventually ends average.

D is for Disastrously Un-Average

Returning to Bennett’s complicated detour, the blind man isn’t a man. It’s a beautiful woman with long, dark hair, a straight nose, and a mouth with full lips.

            Bennett is immediately taken by her. After all, due to his dedication to his work, Mindy packs up their teenage children and returns home to Ohio to live with her parents. Being a man who respects his wife’s wishes—unaware that she only wanted him to chase after her, just like in those average romance movies—he continues life in that average house by himself.

            Thus, this encounter with that pretty girl is a relief. He sets on his blinkers at the light and helps her across the street. He introduces himself—Bennett, 32, marketing assistant, would be honored if he could walk her across the street—takes her hand and helps her. She thanks him with a smile and continues on her way.

            They never see each other again, and Bennett eventually dies a painful death due to pancreas cancer; his last moments remembering the softness of the mysterious blind woman’s hand.

E is for Exceptionally Un-Average

Let’s say that ending D is too gruesome, and that it’s too assumptive that the first and only meeting with the beautiful girl was the cause of Bennett’s pancreas cancer.

            Bennett returns to the light to find that, at 8:30 every morning, the girl is there. So every morning, at exactly 8:30, Bennett is waiting for her.

            There is hardly any time for them to have a decent conversation, so Bennett invites her to a café in the area. He discovers that her name is Anna, and she tutors blind children at a church nearby.

            After a couple of months of paradise, Bennett asks her to marry him.

            She says yes.

            Three years of marital bliss, Anna tells him that she used to be married to a man named Jason who left her for a woman who could appreciate his manly physique. She asks Bennett to, please, develop the film taken during those years.

            Bennett promises he would.

            Instead, he throws the roll of film in the back of his truck, and gives her photos from his own failed marriage in panic when she asks him for the developed photographs.

            A year later, Anna is diagnosed with leukemia and passes away.

            Bennett has nightmares for months afterwards, and it’s always the same one. He’s surrounded by fire, and Anna’s voice looms over him like the smoke that’s suffocating him with his own guilt. In the fire are pictures of Anna in compromising, sexual positions with her ex-husband, Jason, whose face Bennett couldn’t see, but had the body of an Olympic swimmer. In the end, Bennett is burned alive to Anna’s malicious laughter.

            He tries to find the film, but can’t.

            Eventually, he goes crazy. He babbles at his psychiatrist appointments, and one day, overdoses on his medication on accident, and ends up living out his guilt, in whatever way that may be.

F is for Freedom

Too much, and perhaps indicates too much religion for some’s taste, no?

            Anna’s ending is the same: she passes due to leukemia.

Fate is fate. We cannot change it.

            Bennett feels guilty. He finds the roll of film in a box of Anna’s possessions, questions how it got there when it should have been in his truck, and realizes that before Anna had been hospitalized, she had cleaned out his truck. He goes to develop the film only to find pictures of Anna holding up paper that said “I love you, Bennett. Thank you.”

            Bennett cries for months. Loses some weight, bald spot becoming more distinct, and he begins praying to a higher power—God—but doesn’t know if he really believes in an all-knowing, all-creating, all-powerful God. He begins to search for other options and settles comfortably with a branch of Zen Buddhism and starts meditating. He never reaches Nirvana, but he lives an honest, charitable life, and regardless of whether or not you believe in karma or an afterlife, he feels content and thinks of Anna often.

            He dies a quiet and peaceful death, and somewhere, beyond logic, he and Anna meet again; all is forgiven, and this is where the story ends. If you are quite unhappy with the religious undertones (or perhaps, not so subtle) of his life journey, it’s safer to stick with option A, or write your own. For now, this is his, and this is as average as it gets.

The ObsElite: Echomemory

[The ObsElite consists of Andrew Taylor and Rochelle Liu.

Echomemory was written and sung by Rochelle Liu. 

Composed by Andrew Taylor. 

Guitarist in this current track is a friend of ours, Golf. 

Producer Art Somrat.

Date: May 5, 2012]

I'm standing at the edge
dancing with the moon in hand
And the world closes up
with words unspoken

Dreams stale
Still left to expand
Expectations rise
crash and burn

The world won't stop turning and
we cannot return
Tell me where to find our
missing memories.

Sat at the end of forever
and time stopped for our
echomemory
Wisps of lonely voices
our hearts singing in our
echomemory

Remember the times where we
fell upon our feathers?
As we spread our wings
like little suns bleeding fire
Greedy like powerless kings
I embrace the crying star
the place where we

Sat at the end of forever
and time stopped for our
echomemory
Wisps of lonely voices
our hearts singing in our
echomemory

Sat at the end of forever
Time stopped for our
echomemory

Wisps of lonely voices
Our hearts singing in our
echomemory