In Dreams

Perhaps I’ll be standing at the top of a life guard tower, shielding my eyes from the sun glittering off the waves.  Larger than life sea shells, starfish twinkling at the bottom of the turquoise clear water.

Perhaps I’ll sputter as chewed up sunflower husks fall from the ceiling, speckling my face.

Perhaps a lady made mostly of oblivious white hair will attack me with her strong arm, but Homer Simpson will save my life.

Perhaps I’ll stumble home at 4am and wash a bowl of uncooked rice, like I did that time someone gave me a pill.

Perhaps there will be a race with plump vampires climbing a steep wall, a vertical real life version of Frogger.

Perhaps I’ll lay frozen, a hunk of flesh, while the room is washed in television fuzz, as the room glares too white.

Perhaps a blackened lemon wedge will poison the world as it gets tossed from one unassuming salad to the next, with me following the acrid trail of destruction.

Perhaps I’ll have the world on dvd.  Play the same moment in a broken record sort of way until I can manage to squeeze through a fence, just barely escaping.

Perhaps a lady will stand at my feet clenching and unclenching her hands, like she’s gearing up to smack me.

Perhaps I’ll be standing at the sink when a girl, skimpy in her slinky gold bodysuit, will let her lush tits spill from the skin tight fabric and piss all over the floor, like the two boys did before her.

Perhaps tomorrow I’ll wake up with visions of skunks sweeping their tails to a choreographed showtune the way I did today.

In Which: Homer Simpson Saves My Life

We’re walking down the aisles, lit up bright with rows of beaming bars of light.  The reds seem more vibrant, the blues livelier, the yellow casts off rays like the sun.  You’re wearing that vest, the one they make you wear.  I think it looks good on you, it fits.  You think it’s a burden.

We’re in your store.  Or at least the one you work in.  It’s all aisles, up and down.  It’s all colors and boxes, and bottles of hairspray and tins of crackers.  It could be any store.  I could be anywhere.  But I’m walking down this aisle, number 4, with you wearing your smart vest.  Even with you here, we could be anywhere.

We pass kitty litter, with pictures of cats looking pleasant as they tiptoe from a box, leaving behind waves of clean scent behind their dirtied tails.  We pass the dog toys, the training treats.  We are talking about something inconsequential.  I can’t recall it now. 

It was then, in front of the dog doo pick up bags that you stopped and said, oh I meant to give this to you.

Out of your vest pocket, you plucked a shiny something and handed it to me.  It’s a button.  The kind you fasten to your coat pocket or lapel.  Homer Simpson smiles up at me, his round butt covered in blue jeans just stuck on a pin, smiling.

I look up at you in your vest and I’m smiling a big thank you.  I put that pin on right there and then, right on the lapel of my grey blazer.  Homer Simpson, fake though he may be, is a good man.  I sense spiffy good luck in the near future.

You like that I’m happy.  You grin with broad white teeth.  Overhead, white circles garble your name.  You say you’ve got to actually work now.  You’re putting that vest to use, though the vest does nothing but make you feel silly.  I still think it looks good.

I follow you to the end of the aisle and around the bend I’m hearing disgruntled muttering.  Your hand draws back across my body.  Be careful, you whisper, stand back.  She’s been here before.  You’re tense as you lean back whispering, watch out she’s got a strong left arm.

The shiny soles of your heels turn around the aisle end.  I follow, gingerly, listening for danger.  The dry lifeless cackle of an old woman hits my ears.  Before I see her, I can tell she’s armed.  She sounds wheezy, tired, as if the fight’s been fought.  Between bursts of exclamations, her throaty breath heaves as if she is lunging or thrusting. 

Things sound bad.  I’m afraid to see what it looks like.

Her hair is white oblivion.  It is cumulus clouds.  It floats gently above her flashy head, swaying with the winds of her thrusting, her lunging. 

The thin lithe of a fishing pole’s hook and sinker come whipping through the air.  Her hands, though brittle, made quick work of it.  She lumbers close and her breathy rasp screeches maniacally and I’m frozen quick, lost in her white oblivion.

The fishing pole whips at me and I know, surely, I must be dead.  There is no movement quick enough to escape her pole, her horrid breathing.  I can see the end of the fishing pole, the glint of the hook, but I don’t even put up a hand.  I just grimace and wait for the sharp stab of death.

Seconds pass.  A sharp plink and just barely your voice reaches my ears.  You’re saying something and I’m desperate to hear it.  You’re grabbing my arm and I am sluggish.  I say, I’m dying, just leave me. 

Slowly the sound comes back, my breath comes back.  I look down and Homer Simpson is smiling up at me, a fish hook stuck right in his happy grin. 

I think I hear you calling me an idiot. 

I think Homer Simpson just saved my life.  I’m smiling like an idiot.

Going Back

I've been in a state of confusion regarding writing topics. I've also been in a rut with my dreams which not only affects my mental well-being, but also my writing. A lot of what I write is inspired by a dream or thought. Instead, I've been waking up tired and dreamless. I've had nothing to look forward to when I wake up which makes me feel even more tired. It's a morning routine to recant to myself what adventures I've been on while slumbering.

I'm not sure how to improve my dreams, but I've been returning to old (and unfinished) writings to try and siphon creativity from them. Here is something old that I'm working on completing. It kind of falls apart, but the first paragraph flows beautifully (in my mind) and I would love to complete it. The second one kind of jumbles around and I enjoy the third one. It all needs a lot of work and, cross your fingers, hopefully I can manage to work something out.




How sweet the sound of keys pressed softly in the dim glow of a fading sun. While dusky shadows trace a silhouette, fingers fold over the twinkle of each ivory bone. In the cramped corridors of what was once a pulsing nightclub, the silhouette plays for no one.

Outside, the city bustles. Like ants scavenging, the people follow an invisible trail, eyes trained to the floor. The pavement slops, wet with a gritty dirt that coats the city's streets and walls. Yet, the people don't see this. The streets are packed with jostling arms and pendulum legs swinging back and forth, back and forth, with no thought. People seem to move regardless of destination or will. Out here people have all the time in the world, but can't stop to breathe, or think, or listen.

From deep in the heart of the jungle grown from seeds of concrete and vines of steel comes a most unusual occurrence. Something has changed. People walk with the same automatic movement, but something, perhaps, seems different. Through the heavy stale sound of silence, a certain brightness brews. For most, the brightness, the twinkling lightness is a sensation almost forgotten.

He bleeds in a pool of inky black, slipping with his eyes closed. Around him business suits clatter by, each sleeve ending in a pale hand grasping the sleek leather handle of a briefcase. Skirts cut business appropriate short swing past, the puff of air moving slight his hair. His pants soak slow in the warm wet of his own life and when he opens his eyes, he’s staring at crotches jostling and cloth covered butts shuffling away.

It’s warm in his head, in a most unusual way. The leak in his side throbs less making it easier to focus, easier to steady himself on the ground. But with each movement, the warmness in his head seeps as if hot blood had never reached

Piss and Vinegar

Woke up with the room pulsing deep in my head. The slight spin of the ceiling and leftover remnants of liquor still clinging to my lips only reminds me of the way last night spiraled.

I look for water. The room is still dark. But in these hotel rooms, you never know, night or day. Those curtains are made to keep out any hope of sunshine. Welcome to your dim lightless hole, we hope you enjoy your stay.

Water. My hand picks up a bottle. Lightweight, empty. I chuck it to the floor. Sitting up, I see the bodies. My friends. Two curled up together, one beside me, the last sprawled across her own bed arms splayed in a drunken heap.

It’s still dark out. I think. Those damn curtains, makes it hard to tell. I slip off the bed and trek through the sea of bodies, clothes, and shoes. The bathroom door slides with a swift satisfying smoooooth hhsssssssssssss.

The light switch, here, somewhere. Here. White light cuts quick the darkness and my eyes clamp shut. I let the door slide shut again.

Slowly, I adjust. Head throbbing still, just pulsing slight in the deepest parts of my brain. Hands in front of me, I steady myself on the cluttered white counter. Five girls crammed into one minimized hotel room. Five girls’ worth of colored pots of this and that shit.

I turn the faucet and reach for the ever faithful glass hotels always seem to have ready in each bathroom. Brimming with cold metallic water, I drink. With each gulp I notice giggling and hushed whispers. The door hisses smooth.

A girl twitters, skips a beat and slinks in. Gold jumpsuit cut short, booty short. Next a boy: tall, shirtless, and smiling with a secret. After him, another boy, this one shorter and less memorable in general.

They saunter around me touching with feather light hands, my hair, my face, the pads of my fingertips. They giggle. The girl, her butt wriggling in her short shorts, the gold just twisting and shining in that white bathroom light. They laugh and tease my hair, blow kisses by my cheeks; so close their hands cup my face, their breath blows cool.

Now they break away. The short one standing in the bathtub, laughing head bent over. We should pee, the girl suggests, eyeing me. A round of sniggers.

They surround the toilet. The shirtless man, with his penis tucked between his legs, winks and turns his back on the toilet bowl. He steadies himself; turning to be sure he’s aiming proper. The short one plunks himself atop the tank lid and holds his sturdy dick ready.

The girl, with her legs locked straight curves at the waist and lets her gold jumpsuit glide off. Breasts bloom from the gold, a pair of lush tits split by the dark line of her cleavage. She laughs. We watch as her breasts laugh with her.

And then showers. They pee; the short one holding his squat strapping dick, the topless one facing the wall and trying to aim. The girl, her breasts, letting loose her body temperature piss.

Ohhhh, I shudder. Piss, pee, goddamn urine. My head still pounding. Their laughter still cackling. Why, I trill, why all at once. Why, I quaver, why like a trio of raving lunatics, why in such awkward positions. Why, why, I tremble, is it so damn yellow.

They blush. They laugh.

The door slides open, hissssss. Big hair, blonde, twisted in two spiraling columns climbing high. I know you.

Big blonde hair, doesn’t notice the three ranting pissers. Tall blonde columns of highlighted hair, turn to me, he says I should judge a contest.

Eddie, those two blonde spires repeat, Eddie says I should. When my hair is this twirled magnificence, the blonde spikes say, Eddie says I should judge a contest.

The girl has her breasts tucked away, nipples burning hard behind the gold jumpsuit. The short man brushes my hair. I hear laughter, little chirps, little chimes. The shirtless man brushes his bare chest against my arm.

Big blonde hair, breasts, piss and vinegar. Laughing. Laughing, the door slides a smooooth satisfying hssssss.