The Stone Tears of a Ballerina

“Get on your knees swine! I want you on your hands and knees now! I’m not going to tell you again!”
“Yes Mistress.”
“You like to roll around in your own filth and squeal like a little dirty piglet, don’t you?”
“Oooh yes Mistress, make me squeal! Make me squeal!”
“Quiet Swine!” I’ll tether that pink ass of yours till you bleed like a stuffed hog.”
“Yes Mistress!”
“What did the piggy say?”
“Oink, oink oink oink!”

Swine began to root at the ground as Mistress flexed and massaged her tone, sleek body. Her long black hair stayed in its perfect form as she stretched and posed in various mind bending positions. She seemly ignored the groveling being at her feet and began looking intently at her body.

“Don’t I have such lovely legs you shit rooting puss?” She hissed through a forced smile, never taking her eye off her leg.
“Oh yes Mistress, oink oink oink.” Sweat began to pool around Swine’s collar and his once white, pressed shirt began to murky in color around the arm pits.
“And isn’t my hair just perfect?”
“Hair…oink oink…hair…” He sniffed the floor around her shoe, making sure not to touch her in the faintness of ways. Teasing the tip of her shoe with his hot breath was enough for his penis to be at full attention.

“Oh you would just love to touch me wouldn’t you? You would relish the moment your nasty, sweaty palms touch and slide all over my wonderful curves.” Her slim, graceful hands slowly skimmed down fluid skin and followed skillfully down the valley of her breast to the soft, pudding like mounds of flesh between her thighs.

She wasn’t always like this, beating old pasty white men for 400 bucks per session. Mistress use to be a dancer. Her dainty feet never pushed her up to slide down a pole but only felt the thin cushion of silk and lace shoes that trained her toes to withstand the weight of her whole body. You would never understand the point of the word focus until you stood on your toes. She was beautiful. She still was, but something was cracked and hollow in her face now. Her ivory skin once draped in fabrics tailored to fit and caress in all the right places. Her eyes twinkled under the stars that were lured to her and the moon’s face was the only one that can match the sweet pleasantness of her soft features. Before, her ears housed peach fuzzed whispers of French delights and lovely things, instead of the haunty breathing of fat, middle age business men who only got off when their ass was the same color of a over ripe cherry.

Her body use to give birth to mind numbing art, dazzling silhouettes and fluid physical poetry. Now, she was a doll. Never touched, drool replaced the roses that were once laid at her feet, rippling fat the substitute of thundering applause and her smile a pin down frown that showed only anger, fury and unspeakable wraith that only a female body can produce and express.

The transformation was painful. She would sometimes awake in the middle of the night and feel it ripping through her soft flesh and shiny bones. Moans and howls would follow long into the night and little by little she began to molt her feathers away and step where she once leaped. There were tears, but they usually followed by confusion and self loathing thoughts. Words like ‘disgusting’ and ‘vile’ took the face of ‘okay’ and ‘maybe’. Actions that were once beneath her and out of the question became “temporary” and “new experience.” Her box pointed shoes were on ice and she was just on a break. How far away all that seemed now. Her only talent nowadays seemed to be ripping the animalistic nature from the mouths of these civilizes beasts. How she longed to be on stage and feel the smooth wood under her feet instead of the soft clicking of her heels as she leaves out the side door; to walk pass the family pictures of these rosy cheek men who carve to crawl more in their shadows than to walk tall in their lives light and she brought it all to life, didn’t she?

She remembered in days long passed that when she was upset or depressed her mother always told her to just practice. “Feel the muscles tightening in your body and focus hard on each formation.” She would use the negative for good and push her further to become a better dancer. When she lost her baby before it had a chance to form fingers she spent her time doing changment de pieds or Demi detourne until her thighs were swollen and her feet bloody and raw. Her elders would fawn over her and say things, “How did you become such a good dancer?” or “My! What form, she really has a delight for the art.” The true art was her shaping the misfortune into something beautiful and useable. That’s why there were always tears in the judges’ eyes and the audience hung off of each spin. They all saw the scars and the busted muscles and the aching and they loved her for what she made of it! Dancing solved it all. Except…one thing….

“Mistress...Mistress please…oink oink...” Swine’s face was red and bubbling up around the edges. He was hard as US steel by now. She slowly turned and looked in the mirror. Swine still had his business shirt on with the stain of coffee that Maria accidently slipped on him after his 9am conference call. His snout was moist and slightly brown from sticking it in places it had no reason to be. Tears swelled up in her eyes and her black hair hung around her face as if to cape it away from the rest of the world. Instead of crying she gently lifted her leg so that the black stiletto was gleaming from the bedroom light, high above her head. She used the pressure from the back of her throat that wanted to produce a sob to whisper the beautiful French words that once found warmth and comfort in her impassive ears. The words were too weak to block out the grunts and squealing of Swine who was rooting and stampeding across the marble floor.

Humble swine

He called himself a ladies man,a babe magnet,a stud.Above all, he was a man that prided himself on his good looks. No woman could withstand his charm, nor his devilish smile that liked the sirens song would beckon them to heartbreak. Yes oh yes ,many a hearts did he break. Young,old,rich,poor,vareid shapes and sizes succumed to his pouting lips and gyrating hips.There was one time he couterd a woman away from her husband of twelve years, only to rise on summer's eve to tell her. "Darling it's not you,you see i'm not a one woman man. It is just to damn a shame to deprive the world of women all this goodness".She watched his back as it exited her bedroom door.On another occassion he wooed a virgin to relenquish her precious cargo just because, just because.

He was truly a dispicable bastard,gorgeous but dispicable.His reputation preceeded him so he was always willing to take the bet that he could make any woman fall for him. And so it was the house on Abel hill became a new kingdom to conqueor.The old woman's grand-daughter was a rose among daisy's. Her hair hung like silk in the halls of olympus,her eyes were like doves eyes; piercing flesh from bone and her skin oh her skin looked like velvet. She was truly a forbiden fruit.Many a men dreamed of entering her doorway only to be shot down by her grand mother and mother.Three women in a house alone strange, but for the prize that awaited a man bold enough to brave the bricked walkway it was worth it . The more unatainable for Markos the better,a stiff penis has no concious.

Like a Jaguar in the Amazon, he plotted and planned a way to gain entry into the household.For weekes he watched and observed that the young lady's mother every afternoon at 4pm would walk outside their iron gates to feed the ducks in the pond across the street. This was the window he needed. He approached one afternoon and asked to join her. "what's a beautiful philly like you doing spending your evening with ducks"? She turned an looked at him, he could see where the young lady got her looks from, her mother to was beautiful.She smiled a smile that he'd seen too often as his own, but he was intrigued. "I like ducks, feed them a couple of times and they always come running". She peaked his interest "yes they do,do they", he wanted to know more. "May i ask your name?" Markos believed for sure his charm was working for she tenderley touched his hand and whisphered. "My name is Tisiphone".

As days turned into weeks, Markos was finally ready to catch his prey."Well boys it's been 2wks and tonights the night i enter the sacred shrine", laughing haughtly while lifting his beer.Markos thought to himself not one, but two womenhe could potentially bed tonight. Eventually 7pm came and his fingers eagerly rang the doorbell to the house on the hill. An elderly woman answered definitely the eldest of the women. She looked to as if she had been quite beautiful.Her croaky voice floated through the doorway. "You must be Markos, i am Grandma Alecto come in".He entered a beautiful and spacious corridor, and was greeted by Tisiphone further inside the grand house.A sweet smell flooded his nostrils and with that he felt as if his mind was floating.Tisiphone took him by the arm into the parlor.No sooner had he sat down out came the daughter in a very sheer dress. She greeted him with the most sexy smile, "Hello my name is Megaera" he breathe deeply ,her beauty was overwhelming it took his breath away.

Tisiphone seeing his lusty expression asked "You like my daughter do you"? Not taking his eyes off Megaera he meant to say no, but he could'nt . "Yes i do " his mind realizing his error yelled why the hell did i say that? His thought was puntured by the old ladies croaky voice. "What did you come here for"? His mind, his thoughts were to exposed he could'nt help himself. His voice strained as he tried to keep from answering but he did. "I came here to have sex with the young lady and her mother ,then tell my friends all about it".He was screwed now for sure he thought.The young lady walked closer to him knelt between his legs then kissed him deeply, she was replaced by her mother ,then her grandmother who blew in his face a gentle breeze and uttered " PIG".He walked out of the house never rembeing what happened but never changing his ways. However each time Markos broke a woman's heart, a piece of himself underwent a strange tranformation until the man ultimately disappeared and the old woman's words came true.

How well can we ever know our neighbors? Perhaps we might better ask, how well do we want to? It is said that our relationships deepen as secrets give way to truth. It may be, however, that there are some stones better left unturned.Markos found that out to well the day he crossed the paths of three furious women.

You Son of a Beach

She was a brunette. Many a men complimented her on her good looks. She had a perfect nose, and soft, kissable lips. She worked out, and kept a toned body. She’d been referred to as a coke bottle because of slender, sexy figure. She had c-cups men drooled over. While her outward appearance was to die for, within, she died for an appearance…an appearance of goodness. You see, she wasn’t an ordinary woman, she was troubled, very troubled. She had deep secrets that were too terrible to mention, dark thoughts too demented to think. She was special, quite special…

2009. It had been almost 5 years since it happened. Since the reason she had to change her identity. She had lost it again…whenever she loses it, very bad things happen…lives are lost, families are destroyed…but she doesn’t mean to do it, honestly…but when you’re pushed, you gotta push back, even if it means shoving and tackling down…

At least those feelings had subsided. This was a new life, a new beginning. She didn’t have the most glamorous job, but a job’s a job, and men needed their fix. She was a whore. Literally. The woman described as practically perfect had succumbed to taking tips for sucking dick. Unfortunate, but you gotta do what you gotta do. Her usual uniform consisted of a small beanie tilted back, large aviator sunglasses, and a leather jacket. She wore a tight bra as her shirt so her cleavage looked extra big, the men seemed to like that. The leather jacket was large enough to act as her skirt, men seemed to like that too. Long black boots completed her uniform…she’d usually round up nearly $6,000 a night wearing her uniform.

Despite all the money being made, her “house” (if it could even be called a house), was a one bedroom closet. Everything she had was in that room, and she had to walk a mile and a half for a shower and bathroom. Most of the money went to Johnny. Johnny had found her on the highway dazed, confused, and in rags. He offered her the job, and she reluctantly accepted. Johnny had a particular thing for her, and had sex with her on numerous occasions, most of the time with her resisting. It wasn’t until a month ago she found out she was pregnant. It was Johnny’s kid, but he denied it. It didn’t matter to her, she’d keep the kid anyway and raise the child alone. It wasn’t until the child was born that she finally decided to end Johnny for good. She had the power to do it, she was a special individual, but ending Johnny would mean a new life again…

You see, her power is quite fascinating. She has the ability to manipulate minds, objects, thoughts…practically anything, but it was limited. It was limited to the point where it only worked if the manipulated person was manipulated to suffer. She could also materialize her own thoughts, with the condition being that they have twisted, demented, or horrific. 5 years ago, during an argument, she had lost control of her mind and thought up a horrific way to demolish the person she was angry at. She also manipulated said person to commit heinous crimes and murder. The police only figured out who it was because she had stupidly left behind a glove. It took her five years of running, theft, and multiple identities to finally escape.

She decided that she’d kill Johnny by making him hang himself. Nothing too horrific and just manipulative enough that it’d be plausible he did it to himself. Little Abraham was getting so big, it was a pity that he wouldn’t have a father in his life…

2030. Abe is finally 21. She was still a whore, albeit in another new town, under a new alias, but Abe was fine with it. Surprisingly, she still looked youthful. Her new uniform was much simpler than the one she wore so many years ago… it was just a leather bra and leather shorts. Her powers had subsided again, she was actually happy for once. She smiled as Abe trotted in. Abe was a grown man now, he had features of his father, a snout like nose, big floppy ears…and he was quite husky for a 21 year old. She loved him regardless because he was her son, her creation. Abe could be described just like his mother, one of a kind. Abe is special, because he’s the only half human half pig in existence.

Let us go rewind back to 2009. Johnny was actually a pig. Yes, a pig. He was an experiment gone terribly wrong. At the time, the government was interested in genetic splicing, and had spliced a willing human participant’s genes with that of a pig. The government had hoped that they could literally call an officer of the law a “pig”…they thought wrong. She never made this realization that he was a pig because Johnny had an assortment of disguises to fool her, while beautiful, she wasn’t exactly the brightest bulb. It did make sense now though, because whenever they were having sex, she always had the feeling a pig was fucking her, but she shook it off as just something in her head.

It doesn’t matter though, she loves Abe, and Abe loves her. They’re in Texas now, enjoying life. The sun’s about to set...She and Abe glance at the sunset. She proceeds to put the saddle and harness on Abe’s back, prepping to give him a ride. He oinks in agreement and they ride off happily into the dusk sky.

THE END

Quillen’s “Slip"

It sensed my face, knew I watched spellbound by its confusion—its pain, absorbed and defining a nightmare existence. “Slip,” a fiberglass sculpture shaped like an engorged “S” through a looking glass . . . Eyes blinking top and bottom, vulgar vertical lips breathing sighs, uttering sounds almost inaudible, almost sensual, always searching.

“Wow-wow; low, low, low, low. Oh no! Where did you go?” gave form—meaning to its multimodal essence, grieving and apocalyptic. Across the museum, “Slip” wails to Maria—woman without eyes, mouth, nostrils—just skin draped with cascading black hair. Like an unpainted, unfinished manikin on canvass, Maria only imagines how “Slip” appeals to all senses, yet like an abstract conversationalist, she communicates as well. Both endure.

--Sterling Warner

Posted on behalf of Sterling Warner

Something Short about something that happened at a party.

The following story takes place in San Jose, California. There’s an arrangement of friends who live in SJ and there’s this one house they all tend to gather which will be referred to as The house. That is where most of the story will take place. Most of the people in this story are close to failures in their early adult life, in someway. Each person in the story will have flaws that they can’t cope with or just are oblivious too. Even the narrator (myself). The way they try to cope with their flaws is through fleeting means. They all have their vices (cigarettes, alcohol, drugs, sex, sympathy, empathy, financial instability, bad habits, dumb habits, whatever) but I think I heard someone once say "a man with a vice, is a man with character" or something like that. Heavily sedated and unmotivated. These are my friends.

So, here's this one friend, let's call him Walter.

Walter came to The house with this a young girl named (let's say) Kelly Vu. When I first saw her, I figured Walter with a different girl. I won't even bother meeting her. You see, Walter is pretty good at getting chicks. One of the truest things that, in our small group of friends, we actually agree on is that Walter gets chicks. Then when he's hanging with the guys, he speaks of it as sport or hunting. I can imagine that Walter was a savage hunter in a past life that would take down a mammoth bison just by running straight at it with a spear and drag it to a cave. That hunter might of had sex with just about anything too.

Okay, so the chick, Kelly. When Walter brought her to The house this one time, it was actually the fourth time. It was another party, about 1 AM when Walter shows up. Kelly is with him again and she brought her friends. They all dressed like the girls in downtown San Jose on a Friday night who go to the clubs (instead of the bars). Walter was a bar person so I figured it weird that they might of actually met outside of an alcohol-involved setting. So, Kelly was probably different. Walter might actually hang on to this one for a while.

At some point in the party, I go and meet her and her friends. My other friend, let's call him Barry, was there as well so he could meet the other chicks. So, Kelly says "Hi, I'm Kelly. Sorry we haven't gotten to meet yet."

Good start on her part. I say "No, I'm sorry. Y'know, we don't see Walter a lot so I don't say much more than hi. I'm (my name), by the way" We shake hands.

Barry shakes hands too and does his thing "I'm Barry," he raises his hand in a wave gesture. "Sorry I didn't get to meet you, even though I live here, I'm usually working. Also, I figured I wouldn't see you around that much."

"Yeah, no kidding." I say. I look at Barry and does that probably-shouldn't-have-said-that-look. I take a drink to make it look like I don't want to talk anymore.

Kelly looks up in thought for a moment, then her eyes squint in suspicion. "No kidding? What do you mean?" she actually asks playfully.

"He probably meant that Walter is a man-whore." Barry answers with pleasure.

"You see. I figured I wouldn't introduce myself the first time you came here cause Walter comes here with a different chick every time. At first, I would go and meet them or he'd introduce them to everyone, at the least." We make our way to the backyard for a smoke. Then I continue "But, eventually it didn't even matter cause he came with a different chick at least every other week or month. I think I've seen at least seven different chicks within this year alone already and it's only April!" I knew I was making my friend look real bad, but we've been drinking. I'll just talk about things I observe.

Then Barry had to come in with "hope you're wearing protection with that guy."

Then I just had to continue. "There was this time where he said he was going Christian and I actually have a good photo of him where he wore a shirt that said 'Christian' on it with a little halo over the t. He didn't want to or have to say why he was doing that. We all knew. He's somewhat transparent in my book, no offense, he's a good guy, but he was only doing it to get with another Christian chick."

"Virgins are tough sport," Barry adds. "Also, he still kind of texts Alison a lot. In fact, I was just with him and he was tex-" Kelly put out her cigarette and walked away as if she didn't even pay attention. Barry and I watch her walk away both knowing that we would never see her after tonight. Also, we were both just watching walk away cause she was hot and both of us were actually thinking "I'd have sex with her". And of course, I know we both thought that cause Barry said it outloud.

Later that night, Kelly and her friends got real drunk and made quite a mess in the kitchen and bathroom. Walter wasn't around when that happened so it was difficult to even get these girls' names when they could hardly hold a decent conversation.



Two weeks later, we forgot her name because Walter got with another girl already.

A Page out of Adolescent Love

Morgan had to print out five pages of essay for history, four pages of book review for English, and cover the 11 problems he skipped for geometry homework. It didn't help that he woke up at 7:52 AM, eight minutes prior to the school day starting. He saw the clock, smacked his forehead and said "Fuck it! I'll miss first period." Photo 2, it was his favorite class and he actually had the homework done for that. He checked his cell phone. Maureen didn't call back.
Morgan and Maureen had a pretty rough argument last night which heavily distracted Morgan from his homework. Maureen felt they were drifting and Morgan simply disagreed. The argument went really sour when Maureen got a text from a senior who played bass, had a pretty tall mohawk, and jumped over a pile of 50 blind folded lower class men with his motorcycle for senior prank day. Over the phone Maureen told Morgan to hold on as he was trying to make a point. She laughed. "What's so funny?" Morgan sounded as if it was a demand.
Maureen was hesitant to answer, "It's just a text from Scott. Y'know, the bass playe-,"
"Yeah, with the mohawk and jumped over fifty lower class men with his bike, whatever. Oh, its fifty! What's going on between you two? This should make 180. Are we really drifting or is he your guy on the-75 degree angle-side?" Morgan was speaking without thinking. He was trying to do geometry while talking to his girlfriend and didn't realize he couldn't juggle both.
"75 degree angle-side? What the hell are you-Y'know... I've told you so many times Scott's a friend. He's no threat to you. Y'know what else? I don't think we should continue talking tonight. You have a lot of homework. I lov-" she pauses to sigh. "Bye, Morgan." *Click* Maureen hung up. In the year and two months they were together, she never hung up like that. Morgan must have left three long voice mails after that. He would of left more if he didn't have so much homework to cover.
With only three hours sleep, Morgan sloppily got ready for school. Quickly printed out his assignments and stuffed them into the binder in his backpack. Got dressed, mouth washed, splashed water in his face, ran to the car. "Shit! Where's my keys?!" he exclaims with absurd shock. Runs back into the house, up the stairs and searches through the chaos that is his room. Piles of wires, video game controllers, skateboard wheels, and his entire wardrobe litter his room. Took him five minutes to find it. He's got thirty minutes till second period. Runs back out to the car and it didn't start. The battery was drained because he left the headlights on overnight recently. With no way to jump the car, Morgan had to walk about fifteen, ten if he ran, five if he took his skateboard. On the way he biffs a couple times thanks to several well placed pebbles.
When Morgan got to second period, physics, Debra and Tina, Maureen's closest friends, were there and they didn't seem happy to see Morgan. They're usually chipper and say hi with a hug but Morgan was getting the shoulder. Morgan tried to say his hellos but got nothing. With his back turned, they would speak in whisper and intentionally say Morgan's name loud enough for him know they're talking about him. They would laugh and Morgan would turn around and they'd just be straight faced. Maureen must have gotten to them that morning and told them about the argument.
When it got to first break, ten minutes, Morgan waited at the usual spot for Maureen near the library. She didn't show up. The bell rang and for the first time that year, he walked to third period alone. It was his geometry class and knew he had to face the music about the unfinished homework.
Mr. Yilma didn't say anything at first, which was bad. He just reviewed the paper Morgan gave him and looked at him for a moment. "Are you kidding, Morgan? I'm sorry to say it, but I'm seriously starting to think you just suck at math. . ." Mr. Yilma went on about tutoring sessions. Morgan just nodded and waited for the bell to ring.
Lunch time eventually started and Morgan ran to Mrs. Belmund's class to turn in the photo homework. When he was coming up on the art department he saw Maureen and Scott talking on a bench. They were sitting pretty close, but not intimate close. Either way, Morgan was not happy to see that. Not willing to lose his cool in public, he turned back, walked away from the photo class and went to go find a place to curl up in a ball and rock back and forth until lunch ended.
Fifth period came up which was Morgan's history class. Turned is his homework, took notes and mostly thought about what Maureen was doing with Scott. What the hell were they talking about? Is she into him? The mohawk? I could grow a mohawk. I could jump over fifty- Could he jump over 100 lower class men? That would be a very uncomfortable pile of people.
Sixth period. English. When asked to turn in his homework, he realized he gave the English homework to the History teacher. Morgan being so deflated by this period in the day, didn't even bother to explain himself and just said "You'll get it tomorrow, Mr. Baird. I know this will hurt my grade, but . . ." the bell rings and Morgan just slumps out of his chair as well as the conversation. He was going to say "girl troubles" and hope that Mr. Baird would understand but saved by the bell.
On his way home, Morgan felt he had one of the worst days of his life so far. To add, when he got home he noticed that his mom's car was gone. That means 'no already made lunch' by mom for Morgan. Morgan curses and unlocks the front door and opens it. A folded piece of paper falls from between the door and frame and lands on the floor. He knew it was from Maureen because it was folded into the shape of a heart. Morgan unfolds it and reads:

When you read this, I want you to know that
the two of us are OVER. And none of this
'I Love you so much that it kills me' and all
that shit. I'm tired of hearing it. All
day you're running through my mind
because I can't forget the awful things you said to me.
The next time I see you I will
grab the first guy I see and kiss him. I'll
be unable to contain myself and
just laugh in your face. Then,
as quickly as I can
I will fuck him then find you,
wrap my arms around
your neck. Choke
you and never let go
until you are dead.
You are my
biggest mistake.
Love,
Maureen
(Don't Forget it.)

This wasn't a good day for Morgan and this letter was just harsh to say the least. He was just about to fall to his knees and curse the almighty for bringing him into this world when his cell buzzed. It's a text from Maureen which read: "If you got my letter, read it AGAIN but read every other line, starting from the top." Morgan thought this was some kind of sick joke but read it again anyway with the new instruction.

After finishing the letter the second time, Morgan smiled for the first time that day. He walked up to his room and was surprised to catch Maureen's unforgettable scent. He opens the door and there she is in her bra and panties. With a smile Maureen says "Hey, babe. Your mom let me in earlier before she left. Now, shut the door and c'mere."

Clash of the Titans ( Caribbean style)

The Flames from the kerosene " flambo" somewhat illuminated what was to be an interesting night. Rain fell buckets earlier in the day yet on midnight of October 4th it drizzled lightly, softly on our tiny village.8 days of non-stop darkness all because a transformer blew and T&TEC ( Trnidad and Tobago electrical Co) was not about to test the lighting bolts that raged against the sky." Dis is chupidness now, 8dys an no power, all meh meat dem go spoil". My mother was livid, she stood infront of the fridge as if by sheer will she could preserve it's "precious" contents.In the distance drums could be heard amist the sound of rain on galvanized roofs. Uncle lucky's luck ran out and only adults were going to his wake." Watch Stasha,there is dumplings and smoke herrings in the pot". We watched our mom depart the draped doorway with glee, we knew well enough that lack of grownups did'nt mean we could'nt have some fun.

"Kizzy ey Kizzy" a voice calls my name, " who dey"? it was Kellyann my cousin. I took up the kerosene lamp and my sister and headed through the back door. already 8 of us were gathered with bottles and spoons eager to drum songs of our own.Our voices rose high , the lightning and thunder occassionaly added to our backyaed symphony.Four or was it six songs later a whispher could be heard from beaneath the steps, Mable just joined the party. Beaneath her arms was a nip ( Trini term for 12 fl 0z) it was mountain dew , the open bottle filled our nostrils with a sweet aroma peculiarly to sweet for mountain dew. Nevertheless we drank it all, a few songs later we called it quits for the night . After groggy good nights and heavy eyelids, my sister and i were tucked snugged in our beds.

I did'nt seem to be asleep that long before "Oh gosh" my tummy, it was in a world of hurt, the out house was calling. Our latrine was too dark for me to go down back, so i opted to go across the street to Auntie Eunice's, it was still drizzling and the drums still blared in the darkness. Mummy was'nt home yet, wakes on the Islands usually go on into the wee hours of the morning. My head felt a little to airy, but i was determined to make it across the street. What the hell? could my eyes be playing tricks? There blocking my way was a man so tall i could'nt see his head, his legs strecthed across the road way urging me to dare passing. Oh crap, a phantom !!( An entity said to be extremly tall, if when crossin the road it catches you in it's legs you'll never be seen again). What i went to the latrine to do, was going to happen wheter i wanted it to or not. I was beside myself with fear, i could hear the blood pounding in my ears ; all singing voices and drums faded into nothingness.

Fear though can make you do amazing things,even be brave. I clenched my fist and yelled at my foe " If you think you go catch me tonite yuh lie" i hurled prayers and curses at the beast, it arms stated flaying widly i thought for sure "ah dead". Death gon surley ride my horse tonite, the beast threw something at me which struck me over my left eye instantly i knew it drew first blood. Ah ha; a big stone came in the view of my other eye, i hurled it at the beast who was now bearing down on me. I ducked an the beast grazed my cheek.

The battle went on for hours and i was going to pass out for sure, but i knew i was'nt going to go down like this. The sun was comming up i knew help was sure to come. In the midst of all that i felt as if new eyes were on me.I turned and their standing looking absolutley pertified was Uncle Francious. Yes help at last, yet suprisingly he was looking at me as if i'd gone mad .

I looked on the ground and there was a coconut with blood on it, i looked up to see that the monster i was fighting for six hours was Auntie Eunice's coconut tree.I looked at Uncle in utter humiliation, the only thing he could say was " I promise to never speak of this to anyone.

Deformed Cats in Public Bathrooms

May, 2000

The clock had just struck 3 AM and my eyelids were heavy. We laid in his bed, fully clothed with naked thoughts. Above the blanket our fingers were intertwined. From afar they looked like two off colored tarantulas making love. An image slightly disturbing and comforting at the same time. He was humming a song, one that was familiar to my heart. I remained still as his voice warmed the atmosphere. The tune was of constant grace and it made me think of late night dances at closed jazz clubs and walking through alley ways that were cluttered with discarded, premature dreams. A sleepy smile crept onto my face as I began to roll around in my sub consciousness. I’ve heard that melody before; the recollection of it though was far beyond faint. It was in the middle of my dissection of the harmony that he spoke.
“Hey.”
“Hmm?” I didn’t even bother to open my eyes.
“I have an idea.”
“It’s late Fu.”
“It’s nothing like that.” He pinched my arm to emphasize the point. “Just be still, I’m going to make a song out of your heartbeat.”

I didn’t say anything as he laid his head on my flat chest. I knew if anyone could create a song out of it, he could. He did it with footsteps, raindrops and smiles. His fingers brought to life the shadows of waves, swaying braches, and abandon buildings. It was as if he were the puppet master of everything odd, lonely and forgotten. I remember anticipating. He had a way of doing that; making me feel like something big was gonna happen. I wasn’t one to really judge, but if you couldn’t bring beauty out of it then I knew it didn’t exist. Minutes passed, and the clocks face began to blur as the sleepiness returned. I begin to have mini dreams filled with farmers digging giant holes for zombie potatoes and me waltzing with a guy who I knew would abandon me later that night. He sighed, and both me and time halted our sleep walk through reality. Without a word he turned his back to me and slept.

I wanted to stand up and defend myself, shout, “It knows how to be soft sometimes!” The real truth though was that I had an ugly heart beat, so fast and angry. It would never lull my lover to sleep, nor clam my frighten child. He finally knew it. Disappointment spooned against me that night. It wouldn’t be till morning that I fount the note stating that: A heart beat that leads inspiration, should never be confined in the notes of a song.

July, 2000


I never felt as peaceful as I did when he scribbled suicide notes on my back during my sun naps. I got so use to deficering the back word code that I would sometimes hear it flow from his mouth. Black sharpie ink zigzagging down my back like oil and the flutter of bird wings to my far left. The words are etched across my mind just vivid as they are on my tattooed back. I would sometimes ask him about his shady obsession with poetry and death, and he assured me that they were one in the same. Hand in hand. Together forever. The grim reaper would be his angel and the blackness his heaven. He wasn’t brave or ignorant. Just at home. Strangers were his only family.


September, 2000

I got a headache when he first taught me how to head bang. He did it so well that I just figured his brain cells were use to being shaken around like a boggle case. He was silently drinking his beer as he watched me pant and quiver on the filthy garage floor, like the musicians themselves rode through my body on horses made out of heavy bass, erratic drums and prideful guitar guts.. I couldn’t read his eyes from upside down, but his out stretch hand I understood. After I caught my breath he helped me up and patted me on my back like I just went through a rite of passage. He pulled out his shiny bass and I sat behind him and started braiding his red hair. He began to play all the right, rough cords and time became hazy.
“What about demon Destroyers?”
“You gonna be playing gospel?”
“Heh, you’re right…Oh what about Dysfunctional Disturbance?”
“That’s stupid.”
And as his fingers plucked each string and the bass whined with obedience I began to hear his inner clickings of his heart. His eyelashes held the vibrations of the amp and his tough finger tips demanded perfection from each cord. The heavy mummers formed a thick melody that hung from the ceiling like plump bats. I hummed along with his Frankenstein song, watching it as he strategically chose every organ, facial feature and thought.
“I have to give it a name, you know?” The touches were softer and the image became sorrowful as it looked at Fufu longingly.
“Dismissive Demise?” He asked, tempted to reach out and stroke the face of the monstrosity.
“Lame.”
As the creature became filled with beliefs and ideas, as it towered over us intimidently, drenching everything in the room with an eerie foretelling, he just sat there, flinching every time I pulled a knot out in his hair.


October, 2000

He brought me a bubble pipe as an early Christmas present. It wasn’t shiny like his bass but it won my heart the moment I unwrapped it.
“For when you feel like being cool.” He said.
I smiled, already knowing what robe to buy for it. He never got my strange fascination with bubbles, or why I’d pick a bottle of them over a first class fire works show. At the time my oral fixation was not yet completely gone, so the pipe was perfect. I told him it was. I remember it, plastic wood that was smooth and cold.

“An old Sherlock one eh?” Was the first responds out of my mouth. He didn’t say much just looked down the street, waiting for nothing. He had that stupid ear shirt on again. A plain white tee with nothing but a giant, pink, human ear plastered on the front. No brand name on the tag, no words, nothing but the ear. I never got it and I found my mind drawing imagery hair growing from the inside of it with lice nesting and festering on each strand. He didn’t know anything about the shirt either, just that you liked it because of the dumb ear. Man I hated that shirt, with a fucking passion. It tripped my mind out for no reason and I always felt ignorant with it around. One big joke that everyone got but me. Of course that wasn’t the case, but man did that giant ear know how to make me feel that way. Fufu thought it was funny, me getting bent out of shape over such a simple body part. I don’t think it was so much the ear though, just the fact that it took up the whole shirt. How dare something so unimportant take full range of my brain capacity. Why be so loud when you don’t have anything to say?

“It’s just a shirt.” He would laugh, but no, it was more. I swear it was listening to everything and growing after every sentence. Every time I saw it was at least 3 cm bigger. But damn I hated that shirt. I would give my right ear to have it with me now though. To stare at it and hate while Fufu looked down the street, waiting for nothing to happen.



December, 2000

Fufu had locked himself in his room again…for work. I couldn’t bare it at times. His creations were nothing short of masterpieces but the things he would do to himself…It just wasn’t worth it in my eyes.
“It’s the only thing that makes it so, no other way.” He would yawn, totally drain and weak. I could always tell when those days would come. The vision would leak from the corner of his eyes a couple of days before. Seeing the fragments of imagination splatter on the table or his shirt always made something cold and dead inside cringe. I always wanted to go out and prepare, buy earplugs or make up an excuse to go home before you creep away. I was never fast enough though, and a part of me always wanted to stay.
“Just in case.”
“Just in case what?”
“I don’t know.”
He would sneak away and lock the door, wrapping himself in a grey cocoon. His screams and unintellegetable whispers would chain me to listen in the hallway. I never knocked or try to talk to him through the door. Just sit and listen.

Hours later, when the lock unclicked, I would cautiously step through his now weak barrier and snap the images with my eyes. Little shards of him sprinkled throughout the room like pink snow and just like the cheery people in those plastic snow globes we were trapped in a perfect world. Even still, despite the self inflicted scars I was always in awe of his blaze. Every time it happened I would spend hours in the bathroom trying to remove the scorch marks off my face. That’s when pain was added to the menu. And well, the beginning of something beautiful to me.



February, 2001

I remember Fufu convincing me to sneak out after midnight. It was the first many times and the moon smiled at me like a long lost child finally coming home. In all reality that’s exactly what it was. The night’s arms were an extension of my own and I never heard the wind’s voice as well as I did then. He met me half way and side by side we walked together to the raggedy fence that over looked Weeping Man’s Field.

Anyway, Fufu would smoke on that warn down fence and I couldn’t help but stare as his eyes would dim just so when he inhaled. Like a little candle flickering under the winds solid hands. I would let my legs dangle and blow bubbles with the pipe he gave me. And there we were. We never really spoke during those times. Just sit and watch the poisonous smoke mingle; slightly caress the black bubbles that had the ability to capture darkness in a fragile sphere. “If the night could cry, those would be its tears.” He always said the most depressing things with a smile on his face. I would too, finally seeing the beauty in dark, ugly things. Mainly myself.

June, 2001


And when the sun would still be wiping sleep out of its eyes we would go back to his house and huddle under his dinosaur blanket and he would tell me about drinking, drugs and sex. My eyes would be wide as he describes the hot, sticky mazes of a woman’s body and the twisted, distorted images his eyes would revile with different types of liquor and how his lungs would shrivel when icky black haze would hot box his entire body. He never laughed at my questions and I think in a way he envied me for being curious of a life I would never live. He had done enough living for 500 men it seemed like and yet the thirst remained. He was always reading and drawing pictures and reading some more. Being home schooled never took away the opportunity to travel. When I would finally quiet down and settle on all the conclusions he gave me it was his turn to pry. All he ever wanted to know about was Heaven and Hell. What do dead carnies sing about? Why can’t our hope mimic that of racehorses with broken legs? And why did he just suddenly get so sad for no reason. That’s all he ever wanted to know. He already knew everything else in the world.



December, 2005


Fufu got drunk and I had a slippery tongue from all the popcorn I had eaten prior to us giggling and stumbling down the stairs. It was cold as hell in his basement, but our fingers were on fire as we blazed song after song on ember colored paper. Our words spewed out of our mouths and became puddles of strewed wisdom that cluttered the floor like inconvenient teardrops. We splashed through them only on accident on our way to the kitchen or bathroom and each time we did it was a risk of coming alive with floating passion or drowning in sinking realization. I sat shivering, watching you tear off raw tips of reality with your ferocious fangs and chew it up into something suitable for us. I would then wait patiently for you to regurgitate it so my fingers could morph it into something tangible and unforgettable…and we did that till dawn. Each of us working in our own space but connected silently by things that are to soft to be punctured by words. With the house trembling underneath us, the walls shaking around us we lived in complete chaos and learned how to tame the things that were once unobtainable.

Fu was sitting in his chair, cigarette perched oh-so-gently on his bottom lip, dressed in dirty blue jeans that barely hung over his narrow ass with a white wife beater. His eyes the very source of that thick hard bubble around him that kept what he was thinking in and others out. Always in a far away place, but his isolation brought everyone and everything closer, and life didn’t have a grey tone film around it, he was seeing things that one would think could only breathe in dreams… It sounds corny as hell, I know, but he was just so beautiful to me at that moment and I remember saying that this would be forever.
“Forever, ever?”
Yes, till the end of time. No knocking on wood, or salt over the shoulder just me, him and God, painting the every lasting love I felt that day, and if God could hold the sun a little bit longer so it wouldn’t have to end…and He did…


Present


Sometimes when I’m all alone for a long time, the blue and red lights from the ambulance and the police cars flash from behind my eyes, rotating colors with each blink. I could smell the plastic gloves used to scoop up brain bones and muscle matter. I wasn’t there and he wasn’t here but the moment he took his last breath was when I heard my soul wail for the first time ever. Then the phone call came…

Ever since he left I’ve been longing for home. The bubble pipe is dusty and chipped from when I threw it. I still listen to underground grind but sometimes instead of crying from my voice going course, I cry because I’m all alone and their angry screams of liberation oddly echo mine of sorrow.

Now when I dream of him there are always feathers. Sometimes there are so many I can barely see his face. I don’t look at the old pictures anymore. Every time I take one out little pieces tear off and fade away. So I wrapped them in a brown bag and put them in a box somewhere. When his face is teetering on the edge of my memory, then I suppose I’ll fish them out again.

My memory sucks now. I mean before it wasn’t that great either but it’s ten times worse now. I don’t think it matters how old I get though, I’ll always remember the hot vomit that surged up my throat when I heard the dial tone that went forever. I still have scars on my hands from the glass that got shattered when confusion and pain clouded my eyes. People came from all over to see me. I was never hugged so tight before in my life, and I regretted all of them for not crushing me.

Before I moved away I made sure to keep my closet door open to let all the screams out. Every since that last dial tone I’ve been time hungry. “The little white rabbit syndrome” they called it. I was always zooming, whether it be in my car, at work, any and everything. The faster I went, the more time I bought and I needed time. I had to look, search and dig. For what? I didn’t know back then, but the urge is so strong, the pull so great. I had no choice but to.
It happened without me noticing though, the realization of me changing and growing up without him. When I spoke my words had a tint of each memory, when I walked it was his shadow beside me and when I touched and listened and laugh it was his melody that kept me smiling.

I don’t feel incomplete anymore, with God in my life more than ever now I feel like I’m getting closer to finding home. Even though it was Thomas Wolfe that said, “You can never go home again.” But I’ve already decided to spend my whole life searching for a way to do just that.

Phone

Crap where’s my phone?
It’s not here
Not in my pockets
Not in my hand
Where’s my phone?

How will I live without it?
No contact
No connection
I’m isolated!

How will I know what my friend just tweeted?
How will I text my friends where I’m at?
How will I check my email?
How can I be around so many people, but still feel alone?
I’m disconnected – cut off.

Breathe
Calm down
This is part of life
Can’t worry about what you did
Focus on what lies ahead

Sometimes it’s okay to be alone
Think. Reflect on what you’ve done
And let fate take its course
Whatever happens now is out of your hand

But I still really wish I had my phone.

Benjamin Button II: The Sequel

The anger turned my face a bright red. I couldn’t think straight. My mind was a wreck. Did what just happened, really happen?

“How the hell did I get into this mess?” I thought to myself.

I started to refocus my thoughts, so I could explain what happened. My anger was preventing me from refocusing, though. That was a problem with me; I tended to answer questions with anger rather than logic. Yet again, my anger got me in trouble. I tried thinking back to literally moments before. My face regained its color, I had somewhat cooled off.

My mind blacked out…I think I blocked out what I had done, it was pretty bad. All I remember is when I finally unleashed my rage, because it had been bottled up for far too long. I was that type of person…I turned the other cheek so many times; I practically was waving my head from side to side. Deep down, I felt angry, betrayed, hurt, and ready to attack. If I were an animal, I’d pounce and go in for the kill.

One wouldn’t suspect me as that type, I mean my exterior was pretty basic, I was a normal looking person, not a brute, or mean looking one. On the contrary, I was very approachable, friendly…but people don’t know that in me, hides an angry individual.

There have been countless times when that angry person has been unleashed, countless times when emotions trumped logic. A perfect example is what just happened. I let my anger get the best of me, I let my anger dictate my words and thoughts, and let my brain flat line. I can’t even begin to describe the incident, but voices were raised, expletives were yelled, and egos were damaged. In any case, it had to be done, because karma’s a bitch, and bitches deserve what’s coming to them. Bitches deserve what they get.

Do I really think they deserve what happened? Maybe. Was I in the wrong for what I did? Possibly. Do I resent it? Hell no. There's only so much one person can take. I suppose it shouldn't have even resorted to that, but I have no regrets.

I try to tell myself that I’ll get help for this “problem” but I don’t see it as a problem. I see it as a normal guy, handling normal business. We all have our faults, and this is mine. They say it’s not good to bottle up your emotions, and it probably isn’t, but hey, at least I haven’t gone postal yet, right?