Partner to Pretext

I wrote today, in order to always possess my belongings. The sediment at the bottom of my teacup was granulated, creating a hemisphere of its own, contrasting to the white of the porcelain like a diaper to a garbage truck.

“I don’t need to stay that long”, she would say.
I recall the setting as being different than all others I had experienced before those moments, although most of the time they occurred at my nearby subway station. The stop I always traveled to to return home.
I never thought she was serious, serious about the suddenness and closeness of her mortality, mostly because she was as healthy as could be; a poster child for staying fit, albeit simply in mind and somewhat body. The decision was all mine when discussing death, however, she just the partner to my pretext. Never did she initialize this conversation, though. Her conscience was so wavering that it caused me frequent paranoia, in relation to myself, and of my correspondence with her being.

Never once had I considered the extreme mental trauma she carried within her day to day, a fatal flaw in our relationship. She never struck me as an unstable human, as someone with inner contrived issues. Not even issues that I could surmise were rarely brought to light, although we seemed to discuss difficult and macabre issues every time we were together. Maybe it’s not truly me who brings up these situations; maybe I like to ignore truths when it benefits my psyche most.

It turned out to rain one day, today, and the humidity began to wet my clothing so as it stuck to my skin. The cleanliness I had felt merely hours before now wore into a sense of unwashable sweat swimming through my pores. She approached me, sort of smiling, but more so heaving, out of breath from running to make our meeting on time, I suppose. Why did I not automatically assume she was in the same boat as me, the humidity hitting her in her lungs, too?

“Sorry, this humidity is really messing with my stride today”, she commented. “Same here.”
So we walked a little bit, I still daydreaming about what she was thinking rather than just out and ask her what was up. She paused a few times, and then would re-instate her part in my inner monologue by asking contrived questions to create dialogue. I listened, answered, never really putting all of the conversations, including this, together cohesively.

The next day, or the next week, as I remained in a daydream while we were physically in cooperation, she disappeared.

Well, she passed away. And I awoke from my ignorance and small-mindedness to an even greater, truer nightmare.


do you overanalyze? are you the other woman?

It is a true contradiction, in simplest terms, to define love. Yet, love precedes all schools of thought on it’s own subject. This is in how love is handled by those in possession of the emotion in question.
Is it love when comfort trumps all else? When fear of the future based upon prior engagements, or, better yet, tumultuous conclusions seen second hand, determine the course of love–is it truly a realized feeling? Can it be realized while we harbor these feelings within us, unknowingly pushing it upon the lover under consideration?
Can such a thing as love come to fruition without risk? Or need risk always be of concern and, without it, the feeling is simply attraction, want, temptation, sacrifice…without motive?

I don’t believe that any of us can say for certain, as we all feel love differently. Many at the time of being faced with it cower at its shape, shrink in its shadow. A shape unfamiliar to one’s own empathy, a shape that is not easily described, as it is out of the realm of one’s own mind.

The future is unknown, but not undeniable.


Choking Victim

There was a businessman reading the newspaper in his second-class seat. Some guy on a football team had scored a home-run in the second period as the ball exploded with blood across the field. It was his third KO with an overall death count of 5 in one game alone.

Another woman sat with earbuds fastened to her cranium, the subtle bass drum in the song moving her body violently.
The businessman’s suit began to glow as they dimmed the overhead lights to indicate take-off. A steward walked by and asked him to, please, turn off all physical devices. It’s an amazing phenomenon when a Big Shot decides to co-mingle with us middle class folk. Their intelligence helps to fuel our misshapen minds.

I was on my way to the museum, where a long lost relative of mine, Serendipitous Farlow, was on display. The second-coming of ‘Life: Those Who Were Found’, an exhibit of bodies exhumed from previous, unsolved murder cases that were televised on local news stations’ renderings of ‘Cold Case’ and ’24 Hours Until The End’. Student’s had a discount; friends and relatives still grieving could present the contract (or photocopies of) for free admission.

Many of the murders in this particular showing were from gruesome bewitchings of the soul. My ancestor, for one, was found with nothing but a stick of gum in her pocket and a tapestry to cover her bones. She had a condition known as noncutis, her skin starting to peel from the age of 1, ending at the age of 5. I think her family loved her just the same for it; you got good benefits that way. The gene didn’t pass on to her children. They were adopted, as I learned from Cold Case.

I could hear the buzz of a needle from a room in the overhead housing for the stewards. Maybe a stick-and-poke match-up was being held on the aircraft out of sheer boredom. Stewards were sort of the bane of every Level’s existence.

Coffee leaked from a fisherman’s IV once the seatbelt sign finally dimmed. The caffeine gave way just enough to stain his clothes and proceed to seep into the pleather chair. Some passengers inhaled the coaxing smell. Glue was not allowed to cross state borders. The smell of phishsticks flowed throughout the cabin, and some women let out moans of pleasure at the thought of soon sinking their teeth into complimentary trough water vermin.

A few days ago I traveled to the Artifact Hall of Fame in Custer, Michigan, where championship rings and Native turquoise could be touched and educated upon. There was to be a lesson on how universities prospered in the 21st century, until they were no longer of use. I got a peek at a coffee cup that was said to have healing, energizing powers within its mold. I could see some grinds at the bottom of the cup, but when touched, I discovered they were simply drawn in. In the gift shop that day, I was so enamored with a book of pure nonsense text that I decided to buy a video tape of old men speaking about the power of country living in the elevated vacation towns of Colorado.

I could hear a woman speaking to her tape, arguing with the transparent man about all-you-can eat food stops, saying they should stay home for the winter so as to not get any viruses from neighboring communities. Some magic they had begun to practice in the home also warned against dehibernation. The Big Shot up ahead scoffed a little. I saw him type a message of sorts into his recorder, probably to be sent to a co-worker about an upcoming charity trip to help the people of Seattle battle the severe sugar drought. Only Big Shots could do charity work like this, while those on other tiers gained little to no reward in their daily workings.

Keep On Dancin’ came on overhead. Most of us middle classers stood up to dance. Suddenly, the plane began to descend, somewhere.

The Man Who Didn’t Really Drink

It’s too late to start thinking, but too early to just throw it all out before bed. But he didn’t think so, so instead he grabbed a few beers and sat on his La-Z-Boy until he would finally pass out while drooling over his blanket. Sometimes it was too depressing to even try to get up from the recliner and fetch a beer, just to sit back and guzzle it only to have it shot right back up through his throat onto his blanket filled with empty memories. He took all of his unfinished sentences to dark places, and made so many people uncomfortable with his stories that he made a point to always locate a hiding spot as soon as he entered a room to retreat to once that event took place.

As it always would.

But sometimes writing didn’t come to him as freely as he’d like, and he would finally get up and sit in a creaky old wooden chair he picked up off the street and grab a pencil and some paper from the trash and scribble some stick figures. He would transcribe the stick figures into a written landscape. Maybe the one with the straw line hair would break up with the rounded figure because of his circular shape. It was asinine, but it was literature. Is there an in between?

But no characters he created really represented who he was, but who his exterior wished to become in order to reflect his inner, cruel soul. But tomorrow, he thinks, he’ll finish his own story. Tomorrow, at least, is a new day. His mind will definitely have more to offer.

And now it’s morning. And, to think, he spent all of his time thinking about how little he and his characters had left.

Convoluted Soul

This is a little bit I wrote almost two years ago, just an experience, nothing too special

‘After every talk and text, every back and forth stubborn argument, every politically correct discussion, things end in the same method of communication: passion or no passion.
Early in December, on a fairly warm night for that time in Massachusetts, one girl and one short, confused teenager other than herself ventured out into the arms of Cambridge to see the likes of a band she enjoyed from a local suburb of Wayland.
“Thanks so much for taking me” she says as they drive along in his 1998 Volkswagen hatchback.
“No problem. They sound pretty good. But you’re also welcome for my splendid company.”
He had some issues-all centered on his cynical sarcasm that held him back from any suitable girl; they would all just eventually walk off, slowly, since his tendencies were very lethargic.
They finally parked after countless runs around the area of the club. Stepping out of the passengers seat, the girl, Joni, found herself content with her cheetah TUK flatforms and shorts with tights pairing with a simple black sweater to top it all off. She loved this band-she claimed to have never heard a better ‘local’ band in her years of living.
“They better be good” he joked, the man escorting Joni to this evening event. They stood outside and smoked the camels he had brought out, and Joni voiced her dislike.
“I don’t understand why camels all of a sudden are the hipster’s top choice-“
“Hey, you smoke spirits-probably the most hipster cigarette on the market today ma’am, don’t mess with me about my choice of tobacco.”
She loved to make fun of him or, any sight chance she could, prove him wrong. He was not her type, if that’s what you want to call it. He was from a town out of Boston and took some classes at a music college. But, hey, they can’t all be winners.
Upper East Side was a great, small jazz club, which made everyone freak out when they entered regardless of the band. Joni was excited to go in, and she recalled the first time she had seen the band.’

MILO, Pt. 1

This is something I wrote in hopes of making a very broadened, expandable short of.

It was 2041, 21 years after a deplorable year for each and every person living in America. She stood up too quickly and soon fell back over. She clicked on her SeeMore glasses and checked the weather and what she had planned from the night before to wear, yet had forgotten to write down.

Skip that. Lets go back to 2013. A year she never thought to think of, but the year that held the most potential for her future: career, love, friendships, that she needn’t forge.

‘The teachings, good, bad, or indifferent, were a warning. It wasn’t going to be easy.’ -John Ashberry

‘Would you like to donate a dollar to Research for Humanity and the Arts?’


‘Just asking if you’d like to donate-‘

‘Oh, no no no I get that. Just going through the process of figuring out what the fuck this research firm is before I make my final decision, sister.’

‘Well, it’s-‘

‘I mean sweetheart it’s a scam, and hey you don’t gotta tell me, and I wouldn’t tell your manager or nothing about you telling me it’s actually ‘Mr. Happy over there’s Get Me Out of This Shit Job Fund While the Getting’s Good,’ pointing to a stout man of about 50 with an expensive hairpiece and poor man shoes, that’s all well and good. But I don’t know why you’re helping this schmuck. If you were honest, hell, I’d donate two.’

She looked disinterested and began again. ‘The charity you’d be donating to helps find cures for cancer and other people with medical issues, Beth Israel funds it a bit…’

‘Alright, yeah no I’m good for today. I mean, ‘Research for Humanity & The Arts’, could’ve thought of something a little more creative, am I right sister? Have a good one, lay off that lipstick too if I’d be so bold. Eek.’

Milo Scheon showed up only 25 minutes late to the gig and received minimal complaints from the management team he was supporting for the night.
‘You know I love Underwear the Message; I think their sound is soulful yet waspy. Do you feel that Milo?’
‘You know, man,’ he started, ‘I don’t dig their sound. At all.’
‘Yeah, man, I respect your opinion, I just wanna know what you think of their sound.’
‘Sound? They sound like shit, man.’
‘Milo, for once, can we just intelligently talk about a band?’
‘Brad, there is not a chance in hell that I’m gonna talk intelligently about a band from Worcester who sings about creaming their pants during a school day. I mean, what the fuck is school, man?’
‘Milo, you always get so defen-‘
‘Brad, shut the fuck up. Remind us all about your glory days with, what was the name-right, Porno-Holics?’
Everyone backstage laughed, even the bassist for Underwear the Message who, although hurt by Milo’s comments, found him irresistible.
‘What’s the story, what’s the line-up? In other words, when do we get to go home and when will Gale send out the checks for this week?’
Brad shrugged and turned to the guy next to him. ‘August?’ he inquired to him.
August had a way of never knowing jack shit.
‘He told me last night he’d be here today. So, tomorrow.’
But bulshat anyway.
‘Yeah, yeah and he said a few other things. I may be auditioning for Godscum!’
‘You mean that Godsmack cover band? With two 13 year olds and a mother?’
‘Hell yeah! The Brady Bunch is together again.’


Walking fast down the brick-paved street, at every corner she took note of the stagnant setting and the ever-changing facades of the people she passed. Walking by a corner store, a woman seemingly dressed to impress, with a full business suit and Bluetooth insert included, gave her a sharp look. A few steps forward and a small group of tourists emerged, one middle aged woman turned quickly to allow her to see the egregious black roots spreading downward into a peroxide blonde. With a quick glance across the street, she noticed another cluster of women with whale-clad pink shorts, severe tan lines exposed by their string halter tops. She walked further and peered into a store window to her right. A bust made of pure white plaster coyly eyed down the street sporting a large turquoise necklace around the elongated neck. The hair-do and the expression on it’s face created such a sharp contrast to the live people she had been seeing her whole life-since anyone had been seeing as long as she’s been alive. A sign came up fast upon her line of vision and instead of reading the words, she again looked past to the end of the block, up high into the vast landscape that held her and her unsustainable life source. The brightness took her by surprise, as if she just took a larger step North, then she would be able to completely disintegrate her past and all of the faces she had come to know, that had come to move her in any sort of way. When she looked back down, all she could imagine was a vast landscape full of dirt, years of over consumption of each life source, vital and departed alike. Claustrophobia struck her down and her stomach began to rile with pain, but she kept ahead, not realizing all of the intense observations she had made within the past 13 seconds of walking down that dull-lit Charles Street were the cobblestones of time that was, to come.