Witch City

Witch City
Jess Mann
10-16-13

The bricks
give up their shadows
like the last gasps
of a throat garbed in rope
The shadows
feel the same
about their stories.
A grey cloud kneels
perilously close to the city
whose spires
claw at its gossamer questions
like fingernails glossed and chipped
tear at the nylon
over a painted
perfect
face.
Cheeks
hollow as church halls
echo
madly with the
shadows jostling
shoulder to shoulder
for absolution.
The gobble up the history
with erotic moans of bereavement
their entitled cameras
catching and rendering
every secret
every whisper
as firm as bone
as dense as clay
just as ungraceful
as they.
The bricks
reflect the shadows
evil pleasure at
the carnival of popcorn lights
and candy smile eyes
the shadows
draw their hoods back
for the kill.
They crack the necks
of every neon glowstick
every torch
they snuff voraciously
smacking lips
they suck the marrow
from the moon-
And what watery orbs
reflect the delicious hope
of light?
Two eyes
apiece
of naivete
and wonderment
and exposed raw nerve of soul
that crackles like a wire
split and writhing
pure life
half light
the bricks hold fast
their hatred
of the position they are in
a city built of mirrors
packed in red dust
and the spit of false tongues
their spell
forcing them to bear witness
again to the
collected
suffocation
of each
beautiful
flickering
flame.

A Rededication

Cowardice and Shame are two very close friends of mine.
They tend to travel as a duo, and where one lands first the other is sure to follow shortly after. They are ugly and crass and never where they belong, and definitely show up when I least would like them, which is typically when I am faced with the task of self promotion.

What have you been doing for the summer Jess?
You may well ask me that, as it certainly hasn't been posting content.
My "real world" job has kept me very busy these last few months, and on top of it, I decided I would train for a half marathon in September.
For some absurd reason, I find it easiest to quiet my mind during a long, challenging run. I was having difficulty finding any quiet time this summer, and so I literally chased after it like a hound for a ball.
What one does not take into account when undertaking the task of distance training is how much of the rest of one's life will be a slave to that goal.
I would awake in the morning with the grandest of hopes and plans. I would run, sometimes 6, often 8, and towards the end 11 miles at 5:30 in the morning. Then I would go to work for 8 hours. At 4:30 in the afternoon, when I got home, dinner was a thing that needed to happen, perhaps a visit with that strange and elusive creature known as "the husband" or in my case "the beard", and then, if something else didn't pop up, I would be able to sit down in front of the computer and attempt to bang out a few words.
Needless to say, the exercise was less than fruitful almost every single time and resulted most often with me face down next to the keyboard snoring.

This brings me to this moment, here, right now.
As the gorgeous season of Autumn closes in around us, I am releasing myself from the iron grip of distance training and turning my energies toward my writing again.
I know things about myself I could never have known had I not decided to run 13.1 miles on a cool, bright September morning, and one of those things is that I could teach myself to put things before my writing. I could train my body and my brain to make other plans, achieve other goals, and transform into an unrecognizable version of myself, but that is exactly what it would be.
My doppelganger.
A strange and unearthly facsimile of myself, which would retain my memories and personality, but with none of the artistic drive and sheer bloody minded creative madness which flows through my veins as thick and hot as my own salty blood.

So I see my two old friends, Cowardice and Shame, and I recognize that they are here to crash my party, so intimidate me into a corner and tell me I've had my fun, but now I made my choice, and I walked away from the pen and the page.
And I stand here today to rededicate myself to the fight.
I know how to be something I am not.
I promise you,
I promise me,
I will not give in to that temptation.

Words and stories need to be written and shared, and they are mine to give, and I am going to make my world about giving them back to you, patient, lovely readers, who knew, deep down, that I would return, that I could not deny this part of myself in the same way that I cannot deny the nose on my face.

Thank you for reading.
I promise to make it worth your while.

Perfect Execution. A Poem.

Perfect Execution
A Poem.
J.Mann


A vicious thing is hunger unserved.

Yet I lust for her like a hunter for a hare.
I preen my hounds and mount my horses and survey the land with the deepest echo of anticipation resonating in my gut because I'll flush her out of here.
Oh yes.
I'll snatch a glimpse of tawny haunch and skirt my quarry keenly. It may take hours. Perhaps I'll lose a morning, an afternoon, but always by the gloaming do I spy her.
Nibbling at the edge of my sanity.
Freezing in my gaze.
I raise the bow and take a deep breath.
It draws with an almost imperceptible creak, but I see her ears twitch. She doesn't move, but there is a quiver in her leg. I detect a shift in the very air surrounding us. A thickening of pollen. It turns to impatience in my mouth. A taste of blood I lick from my lips as phantasm.
I feel the scraping at the back of my neck.
It is almost too much to bear.
This moment.
Preceding everything and closing out a circle of failure with its completion.
A thrill runs from the thorn of her tooth, pressing possessively into the back of my throat.
A slow, itch of sweat, dribbles down the side of my face, but still I hold, and then,
a sharp intake of breath.
My pupils widen and engorge on the last dwindling rays of light.
I let go.
The arrow wedges itself in her side. I believe I see it directly pierce her heart
in the synchronicity of her fang sliding, hooklike into my jugular
the tooth slipping inside my skin like a hand into a silk glove
she's inside the vein, the tendons rippling out of her way like heavy red curtains
the artery, a golden cord she lets the bone pluck once, almost teasingly.
I imagine I can hear its thrum, a soft note that grows in ambience like a coal producing heat.
Then the cruel fang slits the artery, and I feel the cold, impossibly foreign discharge of venom into my bloodstream.
I slide backward.
A poppet for her to release to the ground.
Where I lie, next to my delicious prize.
My own demise.
A perfect execution.
A hunt for death.

Frustration Mountains and Valleys of Sand.

I feel it is my duty to inform you that Trailer Park Love Story is on hiatus.

I'm going to take this opportunity to do something a little frightening and let you all know that I haven't been able to write for a little while now.
Not.
At least.
Like I used to.

I could begin whinging and take up a solid few thousand words describing how devastating writer's block is, but chances are, you know already.
Being creatively blocked is something that happens to every creative person I have ever known, and it is maddening.
You call into question every single thing you do throughout the day, because if it isn't related directly to re-inspiring yourself, or rededicating your art, you feel it is a waste of time.
We are, however, just living our lives the best we can, and this includes weathering periods of drought.

Only, I'd forgotten what a person does when in severe drought.

One goes through every container one has and searches for a secret cache of water.

One such container of mine came up empty. I had my laptop crash on me in April. With it went a good amount of story beginnings. Things I hadn't backed up because at the time I thought, "meh, it's just a beginning, just a page or two, nothing serious."
How wrong I was, when I discovered that they were lost for good. In a time of drought, even the most meager amount of sustenance is crucial.

Since then, I have been throwing myself this way and that, trying to dredge up any page of writing I could find to start my fire again, and I have been missing out on what life experiences I could have been having, which is the equivalent of freaking out looking for a container to catch water when it rains, forgetting that you can just tip your head back and open your mouth.

Prepare yourselves, loyal, and friendly readers.
I am going to do some living.
And see what writing comes when I am no longer looking for it.

Will post as soon as I have collected some.
xo

Dust to Dust: Part III.

People Who Live in Glass Jars.

J.Mann

Talula is up on a rock that looks like a huge dining room table spinning with her arms out, and I can still taste that chicken even though I don’t need to anymore. It seems like the saddest thing, this girl swirling around on a big red rock, her dress billowing out, and her head thrown back, and she’s just in the moment, just living it so perfectly. I wonder if I ever lived any moment like that.

“Talula!” I call, and she comes to a stop slowly, like a helicopter touching down, and then she laughs and climbs down and walks drunkenly over to me.

“What’s up baby Mae?” she asks, a little breathless.

“Shouldn’t we be walking some more?” I say.

Talula laughs, and throws her arm around me, and I’m terrified when I see it coming. This girl’s arm is about to slip right through me, and then she’s going to start screaming, and oh hell there’s nowhere to really run in this god awful desert, so she might tear off and get lost and-

But her arm comes to rest on my shoulders just as easy as you please, and she sighs. “I admire you!” she crows. “Somebody’s gotta keep me on track, or I’ll just never get home!” I think she’s going to laugh, but then she goes real quiet, and I have this kind of sick feeling, but we head back toward the road together, and she keeps her arm around me, so I guess it’s all right.

Then we hear another car.

Talula drops her arm, and turns, and when I squint, I can see it’s one of those volkswagon buses that the hippies used to drive. It’s a lemon yellow color, and it’s coming along sure and slow, with no kind of hurry. I’m about to yell something to Talula, like these are her people, and they have to pick us up, and then I see her face.

She’s scared to death. Her mouth trembles, and she looks around like an animal in a cage. “Not again,” she whispers.

“Talula, what’s wrong?” I ask, but she’s gathered up her skirts and she’s running. One of her sandals left behind in the red dirt. I look back at the bus, and stoop to pick up the shoe. I know she’ll miss it, if I don’t, and I start running after her.

It’s hard work running. Even when you don’t have a body to slow you down anymore, it’s like your ghost still remembers what it was like, and you don’t get to fly places, or shoot off real fast in any particular direction, or I’d already be in Vegas by now, and I was never the fittest person, so I’m left in the dust behind Talula’s long legs.

The bus passes me, and I realize this means it’s driven off the road. It’s heading straight for Talula, and that’s when I get real scared. I try running harder, faster. Maybe if I get there, then I can do something, although I have no idea what.

Talula sees the bus coming, and I hear her scream, and then it sways hard in front of her, and stops. I see a man in a black t-shirt, with a pair of those tight bellbottom pants jump out of the side door, and he tackles her hard like a football player.

I can’t hear what he’s saying to her, but Talula’s squirming underneath him, and screaming real hard, and it looks like he’s going to do something with his fly. His hand is reaching down there, and he’s holding Talula’s arm down with his other hand, and he’s sitting on her, and her legs are kicking, one bare foot just flinging clouds of dust up into the air. Her voice is harsh and like a birds. She does not stop screaming, she does not stop screaming, it is louder, and harsher, the closer I get, and the man starts hiking her dress up over her hips, and I’m close enough now, that I can hear him, and he’s crying, in these low, choked sobs.

“Talula, how am I supposed to…” but I can’t make out the rest of it, and I don’t know what else to do, so I just dig deep down for my mama’s voice, and I yell,

“You get offa’ her right now!”

He stops, and Talula squirms a little, but then she’s still, and they both look at me like I came out of thin air.

There’s a pause, and I don’t know what to say, and that’s all it takes.

Talula’s brown eyes are dark like an animal’s, and she pushes as hard as she can with her hips and her legs and her arms, and the man just kind of loses his balance long enough for her to slither out from underneath him. Her dress is mashed into the dirt, and she’s about to push herself off the ground.

The man isn’t looking at me anymore. He’s watching Talula, and I wish I could think of something to yell, but it all just happens so fast, and there’s a rock in his hand, and he throws it, just like you’d throw a baseball, and there’s a sound like a fist hitting the front door of a house, and then Talula’s head drops. Her whole body slumps. The rock bounces off of the back of her head, and the man just shakes. He shakes like an old person, like he just aged a hundred years, and I run for Talula at the exact same time that he runs for the van.

My eyes are full of tears, and I can’t see nothing but a yellow smear as the van tears past us and skitters back onto the highway. Heading in some direction, I don’t care where. I lean over Talula, and her head is turned on its side in this huge, dark puddle of blood. Her eyes are wide open, and her mouth is frozen open too. She just looks surprised.

I cry over her until the sun goes down. I wish I knew what had happened. I wish I knew for sure, but I feel like that man must have been her boyfriend, I shudder, when I think of the way she’d said “EX-boyfriend” before. She just wanted to go home, I thought. He wouldn’t’ let her go.

I sit with her all night. Her body, so still, and I listen to the coyotes, and I talk to the stars, and I wonder if another car drives by, how do I get its attention. Can a dead girl dig another her grave? It occurs to me then, that maybe Talula’s going to keep me company. It’s an odd thought, and it’s stops me from crying. Instead I just sit next to her and wait.

Sometime just before the sun comes up, I feel a cold wind blow through me. It’s the first time I’ve felt anything like temperature since I pulled myself out of the ground, and I look down at my bare arms, my fluffy nightgown, and when I look up again, Talula’s body is gone.

There’s no puddle of oily blood, no dress, nothing. It’s like she was never there, and I’m completely alone in the desert.

I cry again, for a while this time.

When I am done, the sun is up, and I drag myself up and away from the spot where he killed her. I get back to the road, and I point myself in the direction of Las Vegas 200 miles, and I start walking again.

I look back, just once, and I think I see her, near the green sign, just a shimmering wisp of white wavering like static in the heat rising from the asphalt: a ghost forever walking in the wrong direction.

                                                *

I sneaked out with Dervish again the night after I took him to Goldies. He only had to throw one rock. I was already waiting for him. This time, at least I was dressed, and I had on my sneakers.

We drove in his uncle’s truck down to the Biwater Cemetary, and Dervish parked sideways on the grass right by the gates, let me out, and rummaged around in the bed of the truck for what felt like half the night. I stood there, trying not to shiver. Something about the swamp air at night just got to me, and it could be a hundred degrees and every sane person from here to Mexico could have their fan turned up to Arctic Blast, and if I stepped outside, I’d just get a chill that ran the course of my whole body. Mama used to say it was the humidity. April said it was on account of me being retarded.

I looked at the stars while I waited for Dervish to find what he was looking for. They never seemed quite the same, and I didn’t know much about constellations or astrology, but they always made me feel kind of friendly, like earth had this group of gossipy neighbors who never want to be a bother, but always have their ears pricked up in our direction or their eyes peepin’ over the fence, just to make sure we didn’t get ourselves into to much trouble.

I watched one wink at me, and I imagined it was like the old man star in a fishing cap with a bunch of lures hanging off it. He was sweet. I though, winking at me, knowing I’d sneaked out with a boy to a graveyard.

Just then Dervish pulled his head out from under a green plastic tarp on the bed of the truck. He had a big mason jar with a lid on it, and a little bit of brown water in the bottom.

“Hang on a tic,” Dervish said, and unscrewed the top of the jar with a hard twist.

He poured the brownish water on the ground, and then took a bottle of water from somewhere else in the truck and rinsed the jar out. He shook it until clear little water droplets sprayed everywhere, even on me. I didn’t mind though. I giggled a little.

Dervish looked at me and smiled, and all of a sudden he caught me around my middle with the arm that didn’t have the jar in it, and brought me in very close to him. We hadn’t even hugged yet, and he looked at me like I’d never been looked at. I wasn’t even sure if anybody’d ever looked at someone the way Dervish looked at me, kind of hungry, kind of scary. I wanted to scream a little, but it was too exciting. I tried, instead, to think of how I would describe this moment to April, if she ever asked me anything about my life that is.

I thought he might kiss me, but instead he just busted out laughing, and then he loosened up his grip and thrust the jar at me.

“Here little girl,” he said, “for fireflies.”

I was delighted.

We took the jar, and Dervish followed me in through the gates of the Biwater. It’s not the prettiest place. Most of the old, historical graveyards are closer to the cities, so out here in the country, near places like The Pit, the cemeteries are whatever poor folks can put together.

Usually they started out as a rich plantation owner’s personal family plot. That’s where the pretty gates came from. And near the middle or the back there would be a little clutch of nice old tombstones all with one name all carved out in little storybook letters. The Biwater Cemetary, for instance, started out as the Chevelle Family Cemetary.

Surrounding the four Chevelle tombstones the other graves had grown up like weeds and wildflowers. Long after the plantation was gone, the local people just started bringing their dead here, and nobody had any money, so lots of folks just made their own tombstones: crosses nailed together out of spare wood, just shoved in the ground and knocked all kinds of angles by the wind and weather; painted rocks with names and dates, some said Sunrise and Sunset, some just said Mama, or Daddy. After the sewage treatment plant diverted one of their pipes through the swamp, the place became known as the Biwater. At least that’s what Mr. Pikes said. He heard I went down there with Dervish, and gave me the hell he guessed my Mama was too drunk to give me, but that’s for later.

Dervish and I made our way around mounds of dirt and, raised box graves, teddy bears and fake flowers left near smaller piles, or a smashed jar, or a pair of shoes left at the foot of some turned over earth. There was deep sticky grass on the side of the Biwater closest to the run off pipe, but on the other side of the cemetary, closer to the road, there were a few swamp willows dripping with ashen Spanish Moss, and over there winking around the branches just like that friendly old star, you could see the fireflies.

Dervish and me ran like children toward them, scattering anything we might have caught in the jar, but after some giggling and a lot of shushing, from me anyway, we got still, and they came slowly back. I held the jar, and waited, not even realizing I was holding my breath. Then the little bug was right there, and I lunged with the jar covering up the glass mouth with my hand and whisper yelling at Dervish to get the lid screwed down.

We were out there for a while, until I had at least fifteen fireflies in the jar. Dervish took my hand as we walked out of the Biwater, and I felt like I was walking on a cloud.

He helped me up into the cab of the truck, and as I got settled in with my jar of fireflies, he disappeared for a minute. When he came back he had a little stuffed chick. I’d seen it earlier on a little mound of dirt near the longer swamp grass, but everyone knows you don’t steal from the dead.

“Here,” Dervish said, holding it out to me. “It reminded me of your little chickie shorts.”

I must have looked upset because he stopped holding it out. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“We can’t take that,” I said finally, so scared of making him sad or angry and ruining such a wonderful night.

“How come? It’ll remind you of our first adventures.”

“I know, I just, you shouldn’t steal from the dead,” I said, so quiet the words almost dribbled down my shirt and didn’t come out at all.

“Aw, baby,” Dervish chucked my chin and hopped out of the car. I watched him walk around to the gate, and I thought he’d go put the little stuffed chick back, but instead he just tossed it, easy as a baseball, through the gates. I don’t even think he paused to see where it landed.

My heart went with that stuffed chick a little bit. I felt so sorrowful for it just scudding along the dirt like that, but Dervish had listened to me. He was a boy, after all, he probably just didn’t understand why I was being so sentimental. I looked down at my fireflies, and I felt the cab lurch as Dervish hoisted himself back in.

He had just called me baby for the first time. I couldn’t just let that go by without a slight thrill.

We drove back to The Pit, and I swallowed hard and reached across the bench seat for his hand, and he took mine. We stayed that way right up until he parked the truck beside Joel’s trailer.

Then he let go and hopped back down from the cab, came around and opened up my door. Instead of taking my hand though, he wrapped his big knuckled hands around me and lifted me right out of the seat. I was still holding the mason jar, and I was glad for the little space it made between us so he couldn’t feel how hard my heart was beating. When he set me on the ground, firefly jar or no firefly jar, my toes barely touched the gravel, and he kissed me again. I kissed up at him, and he kissed down at me, and I felt the scrape of his cheek, and the dry warmth of his lips and everything else was just magic and all that stuff you don’t want to hear about. My stomach felt like it was full of bright white lightening bugs for a full minute and a half, I swear.

Dervish silently walked me back to Mama’s trailer, and then he let go of my hand, and hugged me. I could feel my stupid heart beating away, practically screaming, “Take me anywhere! I’ll go! Just get me out of here!” Even though I didn’t know that’s what it was saying at the time. Dervish told me later.

“Goodnight Baby Mae. Can I see you tomorrow?” he asked.

“May…be.” I said, and we both laughed, and I watched him disappear into the shadows between the other trailers, and I left my jar of fireflies on the ground by the door, scared if I took them in, April would be awake and demand to know what I’d been up to.

In the morning, the first thing I did when I woke up was go check on my jar of fireflies, but they were all dead and stuck to the bottom of the jar in some of that brown stuff. I guess Dervish hadn’t been able to get it all out.

                                                                    *

            

Part II. Hope is a Terrible Thing

DUST TO DUST.

J. MANN

PART II: hope is a terrible thing

I walk for a day.

I don’t see anyone, but the ground shimmers sometimes, and I think I see people. I think, at one point I see an Indian on a red horse. He’s bent low, and he’s riding as fast and as hard as anything. Just went he’s right on top of me, and I think I’m going to be trampled, he vanishes, and I stop short, breathing heavy. I didn’t know ghosts could see mirages, and that’s what it must be, a mirage, even though I swear I looked into his eyes, and we saw each other.

One thing that’s nice about being dead is you don’t get tired, or hungry. I walk through the night, and at first I want to be scared. There’s howls in the desert at night, and you can’t see where they’re coming from. Some of them sound like coyotes, and some of them sound like screams. I don’t need to, but I climb a big rock formation in the morning, and I watch the sunrise. It’s bright like a kerosene storm lamp being lit, and the streaks of scarlet across the sky look like places where matches are struck to light it. If I turn around, I can see my lightening tree as a little speck in the distance, but I’m too far away to see the turtle rock. If I look ahead, I can see a winding, brown/grey snake, and my heart leaps. It’s the highway, and it’s not that far at all.

I’m almost there, as the sun starts going down. These sunsets are so big here. Big and purple like bruises and violets. I really missed eating today. I was thinking about all my favorite foods, as I walked, and it passed the time so quickly it surprised me to find I was almost on top of the asphalt. I’d been swimming in gravy and mashed potatoes and fried chicken from a greasy cardboard box. There was a place just outside the Pit where April and I used to go to pick up dinner for us and Mama, and they made the best fried chicken and po’ boys.

I took Dervish there, when he knocked on my window the second night after he’d moved into the Pit.

I still have no idea how he knew which window was mine. I guess he must have watched me a little. I didn’t think about it at the time.

I was in my chickie shorts that I wore only to bed because of how short they were. They were soft yellow like a baby chick and made out of the same stuff as a bath towel, so they were the best to sleep in during the summer months. I’d painted my toenails silver with little sparkles, and I was wiggling them because for some reason I’d heard that helped them dry faster. While I was doing this, I was poring over one of my older magazines. I’d already been through it six or seven times and cut out all the pictures I’d wanted, and torn out all the perfume ads, but I was bored, and I wanted to make sure I hadn’t missed anything.

All of a sudden I heard a loud knock right beside my head on the tiny window. I just about jumped out of my skin it startled me so badly, and it happened twice more before I could even bring myself to lift the little purple curtain and look.

When I did, I saw that ridiculously handsome boy standing about ten feet from the trailer.  I must have looked so foolish because he was the last thing I expected to see, and I got so surprised, I just said, “Oh!” just like that, one word, no more.

He was wearing a grey hoodie, and his jeans and boots, and he had the hood up like he knew he was going to be sneaking around, and he smiled wide when he saw me, and waved.

Still in shock, I lifted my hand and waved back slowly. Dervish looked down at the ground, then back up, and I swear my heart was not beating this whole time, but he motioned with his hand for me to come out, and I dropped the curtain, and had a little moment with myself.

I could stay here.

Or.

I could sneak out, which I had never done in my whole life, and see what this boy, the most beautiful boy I had ever seen, mind you, wanted with me, of all people.

I lifted the curtain back up, and he was still there, a slightly less sure look on his face, and that was what did it. He looked nervous, like maybe I wouldn’t come out, and that just did me in.

I held up my finger to say one minute, dropped the curtain, and took three deep breaths.

Mama would be out like a light on the couch. She’d gotten halfway through her Soco bottle before dinner tonight, so that wasn’t a problem, but, when I turned off my little clip on fan, I could still hear the television, which meant April was probably still awake.

I slithered off of my bunk casually, and looked down the little hall at the living space, where the tv was. It’s light flickered across the floral settee where Mama was dead asleep, and, bless her, so was April! They were leaned on each other like two little old biddies, and I paused a moment to think about how cute they looked, before sliding my pink hoodie out of the Rubbermaid container I used to store all my clothes under my bunk.

I ducked into the bathroom for five seconds, so I could get a bra on, because a lady never leaves the house without one, and I spritzed on a little of my best perfume from an actual bottle that I hid taped to the bottom of the sink, because April liked to just spray any perfume but hers after she used the bathroom.

I slipped out the trailer door, and wandered out front of the trailer. It was humid out, but a little chilly, and I was pulling on my sweatshirt, when I heard a whisper.

“I was beginning to wonder what I was gonna have to do to get you out here,” Dervish said.

I looked up at him. I couldn’t quite see his face. There was a shadow from a tree over it, and he felt even taller than he had the other day.

I was still wiggling my toes.

Oh damn it. I had completely forgotten to put on shoes.

I looked down in shocked disappointment. I guess I wouldn’t be going anywhere with him after all.

“You really don’t talk much, huh?” Dervish said.

I smiled. “I guess nobody’s ever noticed before,” I said, after a moment.

He offered me his arm, like a gentleman, like a movie star, and I jiggled my newly painted sparkly toes with pure agitated frustration. I could feel the dust between my toes, and every curly piece of dead brown grass was like a ribbon tying me to the front of our trailer.

“I forgot my shoes,” I said dumbly, and then I giggled.

Dervish looked down, and he got a wicked smile on his face. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Don’t move.”

Then he was gone, off like a ghost, or a light in the swamp that you think you see, but as soon as you look hard, you can’t be so certain anymore.

I fold my arms even though it isn’t cold out, but my legs are barely covered in my chickie shorts, and they are just covered in goosebumps. Dervish seems to have been gone a while, and I begin to wonder if, like a light in the swamp, he ever was here to begin with. I didn’t touch him. He might not have been real after all. Maybe I just nodded off on my bunk bed, and I had a this lovely, hopeful dream that I was about to wake up from any minute.

Just as I was about to give up and go back inside, I heard the sound of a car moving really slowly. I peered around the trailer next to ours, and it’s the truck I saw pulling Dervish’s trailer the day before. The lights were off, and he stopped when he saw me. I didn’t think twice. I just scampered right over to the truck. He flung the door open for me, and I hopped in and shut the door tight behind me. It was a little loud, my door, and we both looked at each other and froze.

I wondered in that moment, if I was about to see April storm out the front of our trailer, or worse, Mr. Pikes pop out of his tiny office. Even though I knew he was at home with his wife, my heart felt as big as a bowling ball, and I could hear every beat.

When nothing happened, Dervish threw the truck into reverse, and we tore out of the Pit like the devil was after us. He flipped the lights on, and I could see the ribbon of dust we blew out behind us, as we pulled off the gravel drive onto the main, paved road.

“Where are we going?” I asked, giddy, and nervous, and not entirely sure I cared.

Dervish looked at me sideways. “Well, I woke up this morning, and I could not stop thinking about this girl I met yesterday. She just seemed like nothing or nobody I’d ever met before, and worse, she smelled like sugar daddies, and jelly beans, and all the cotton candy floss I’d ever eaten rolled up into one. She smelled so good, I thought I might have made her up.”
I was blushing terribly, all the way down to my toe sparkles, while he said this, but Dervish just went on talking. If he noticed he was embarrassing me, he didn’t draw attention to it, and I thought that was polite. I didn’t care about that either.

“I had to help my Uncle Joel fix the plumbing on the trailor today, and it was probably the worst day of my life,” Dervish continued, but he didn’t sound so playful when he said that. He sounded angry and sad.

“And when we were done, my back hurt so much, and all I could think about was how much I just wanted some food, and to go to sleep, but Joel ate a frozen pizza, and only gave me a piece of it, and I was so angry, I just went to bed, and I was lying there thinking about how hungry I was, and all of a sudden this girl popped into my head again, and I thought I might go crazy between how hungry I was, and how nice this girl seemed, and as soon as Joel went to bed, I lifted his keys and snuck out.”

“To find me?” I asked, still not sure if I could believe him.

“I know!” he cried. “It sounds stupid. I just don’t know anyone, and you seemed special. Do I sound weird? I can just turn around and take you home if you like.”

“No!” I shouted.

 He pulled the truck over, and turned to face me on the blue leather of the seat.

I looked at him, my eyes must have been wide, because I felt like it took three hours to blink, and while I did, neither of us said anything. We just sat there, in the truck, looking at each other.

Then Dervish asked me something I hadn’t expected at all.

His voice was low and kind of ragged sounding. “Did I scare you?”

I looked over his shoulder at the road. We weren’t far from the Pit. I could have gotten out and walked home in less than twenty minutes, and only about ten minutes drive ahead of us was Goldies Fried Chicken, a drive in place I knew a lot of kids went to hang out, because it was open until midnight.

“Are you still hungry?” I asked.

Dervish slid a little on the seat, not a lot, maybe not even toward me, but it felt like he got closer. “Yes, ma’am.”

I laughed, because he just seemed so strange, so serious one minute, and so silly the next. I liked it. “Then just take us a bit further, dopey, there’s a place just up here.”

Dervish jerked the truck up off the shoulder back onto the road again.

“She called me dopey!” he said to nobody in an indignant voice.

                                                            *

I get to the highway sometime on the third or fourth night. There’s no way to keep track of the passage of time out here, and I’ve forgotten how many sunrises and sunsets I’ve seen even though it only feels like a handful. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to being dead.

When the sun has risen completely, I can see the hitchhiker. She starts out as a white blob way up on the side of the silver stripe that is the road. As I walk toward her, she takes a more permanent-type shape, and I can see she’s a hippie. She’s wearing a loose, white dress with a red cord cinching it in the middle, and she’s got long brown hair with bits that have bleached out from being in the sun so long. It’s straight, and reaches the middle of her back, but it’s not tangled at all. It’s smooth and silky looking. As we get closer and closer, I can see she’s got her thumb out, even though I have yet to see any vehicles on this stretch of road. She’s standing under one of those green signs that says how many miles until certain places, and I’m excited to read how many miles it will be before I get to where I’m going.

I don’t expect her to see me.

            She does though.

            She’s got on a pair of huge, green plastic, sunglasses, and she pulls them down as I get closer, like she’s checking me out, and I stop walking when she does that because maybe, I think, she sees a ghost.

            Then she takes a step toward me.

“Hey!” she says, like we’re already friends. “Where did you come from?”

“Who?” I say, confused. I don’t know if I’ve spoken since I died. I haven’t, so it feels weird.

She throws her head back and laughs, “You’re a trip, man. I like you.”

She has really straight, white teeth, and a big pretty smile. She looks like she belongs on a beach in California.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask, because it seems like the right thing to do.

“Oh, I’m looking to get a lift back home,” she says casually.

“Which way’s that?”

“West, baby. I’m from San Francisco!” She announces this all proudly, and then she laughs again.

It’s nice to be talking to somebody, but there’s something off about her, and it makes me feel sad.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Talula,” she says, and then she looks up at the highway sign like it’s the first time she’s ever seen anything like it. “Vegas. Two hundred miles? Ugh.” She puts her sunglasses back on.

I’m about to ask her something else, but then we hear something, and I turn around, and so help me, it’s a car, a big black thing, speeding toward us.

Talula whoops and thrusts her skinny, brown arm out thumb held high. “This is the one!” she says. “Come on baby! We’ve been waitin’ for you! Come on!”

I feel stupid, but I want to help her, so I stick out my arm too. I’ve never hitchhiked before, and staring down the road at this car barreling down at us feels exciting. I wonder if it’s going to pick both of us up. Maybe it’s a fancy gambling man in a dark suit who will drive us all the way to Vegas in no time flat. It’s getting so that you can feel the ground trembling under your feet now. It’s that close.

Talula’s right next to my ear, “Throw a smile on, honey!” she yells, “You get anything you want if you smile enough!” I look back at her, and she’s got one on from ear to ear. She looks like a toothpaste commercial. I turn back, and the car’s almost right there. I smile, knowing it looks nothing like Talula’s, but the car whips by us in a cloud of dust and engine thunder. It’s gone like a whipcrack, and Talula’s kicking at rocks and cursing up a storm.

“Aw man! Motherfucker didn’t have the time!” she yells, stomping her sandals and waving her arms. “This ride shit is really harshing my mellow, man!”

“How’d you get all the way out here?” I ask.

“My boyfriend,” Talula spits, “EX-boyfriend!” she says and whirls around. “We should walk on some. What did you say your name was?”

“Mae.”

“Wanna walk with me a little, Mae? I think we girls should stick together, can’t be too careful you know?”

“Okay,” I say, and we start walking, and I hope I don’t have to tell her that I’m dead.  

                                                            *

When we got to Goldies, there were a couple of cars parked around the side. The sign was bright yellow like the yolk of an egg, and, as the truck bounced over the curb, I flew up a little on the seat, and I was closer to Dervish, and my stomach clutched tight like a fist.

Dervish ordered fried chicken, a hotdog on a stick, and French fries. He got a coke, and I got a big cup of sweet tea with extra lemon. We sat on the hood of the truck, and I watched him eat like a starving animal. He wasn’t kidding about being hungry.

It was funny. I liked watching him. Just eating like that, he was still strange, and new, and I wanted to touch his dark hair as he bent his head over the red and white paper dish and dropped the chicken bones from his fingers with a deep sigh. I sucked at my sweet tea and pretended I hadn’t been watching so closely. I looked up, past the Goldies sign, at the stars. There was a plane flying over head, and I watched its lights fade into the distance. The medicine smell of a wetnap reached my nose, and I looked over at Dervish as he finished wiping his fingers and hoisted himself up on the hood of the truck beside me.

“Have you always lived here?” he asked after a minute.

“Not always at the Pit, but Lowport, Louisiana, yes,” I replied.

“I’ve never lived anywhere longer than a year or two, not even when I was a baby,” Dervish said. “I was born in Hawaii, you know?”

“Really?” I tried to remember anything I knew about Hawaii, and I could picture a tropical sunset, lots of palm trees, a beach, and a bunch of hula dancers. “What was it like?” I asked.

“I don’t remember much,” Dervish said, and he sounded sad. “We moved when I was two.”

 I whole landslide of questions piled up behind my lips, What happened to your parents? Why did you leave? Where else have you lived? What brought you to the Pit? I didn’t know where to begin though, so I just sucked down my sweet tea, and then I felt him get even closer on the hood of the truck. He held out a big, tawny hand in front of my face and counted off on his fingers,

“Arizona, South Dakota, and Texas for most of my schooling, until I dropped out and went off on my own for a couple of years.” He took his hand down and brushed my cheek with a knuckle. It was so sudden, my heart stopped, and I looked down, but he didn’t seem to skip a beat, and the hand went back down beside him on the truck, just as easily as it touched me. 

“I fell out with my stepdad,” he continued, “So I went looking for my real dad for a while, but the services caught up with me, and I got sent back home to my mom’s. So I ran away again. Then again. Until finally the only way they could get me to finish school was if they sent me to live with Uncle Joel, and that was fine with me. Joel doesn’t care if I go to school as long I help him with his plumbing business, and I don’t care to go to school as long as I can make money.”

“Why’d you move to the Pit?” I asked finally.

“Joel’s girlfriend kicked us out of her house, and Joel and I struck out two town’s over, which is here. I turn 18 in two weeks, and I promised Joel I’d give him a year, and then I was takin’ off for real.”

“Where will you go next?” I asked, breathless at the way he talked. All this travel, all these moves and ambitions. I’d never even been outside Louisiana.

“Oh that’s easy. Las Vegas,” Dervish answered.

“What will you do there?” I already missed him. How could he leave? He’d just got here. I felt another knuckle on my cheek, and I turned to look at him.

“I don’t know for sure, but I’ve got a good idea,” he murmured, and then he smiled that smile at me, and I didn’t even realize I was leaning, until he slid those knuckles alongside my jaw and kissed me.

I shut my eyes, and I felt weightless. My entire world was inside his mouth in that kiss. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think outside of the stars, his salt rimed lips, everything I had ever felt about the Mosquito Pit slid away, and I knew then if he ever asked me to do anything I would do it. I wouldn’t even blink. I wondered if he could tell. I wondered how much I told him with that first kiss, because it seemed like he knew everything already. 

My Love Affair with Trailer Park Love Story

Hey Everyone,

I got such a positive response for my freewrite on the trailer park love story, that I've decided to expand it into a much longer project.

Because it was born on this blog, i will be making it available (FOH MO' LESS DOLLAHS...ahem...for free), on this forum in the chunks I write, as I write them. 

There will be one or two passes for surface edits, but otherwise this is as raw as it gets.

I would love feedback, and sharing, so please please please, post links to this story EVERYWHERE. 

Tell me what you think, tell others what you think, just share it, and send people to it. 

I will post new chunks every Tuesday.

much love, much tinder,

let's do it,

J            

DUST TO DUST. Part I

J. Mann

When I pull myself free of the sand, there’s a moment where the last of my ghost doesn’t want to be free of this shallow grave. I sit down on the packed, dry earth, and I look at where he put me down.

            The wind blows a little of the loose dirt off one of my bare toes. The pink, faux feathery toe straps of the slippers I was wearing blow away from my cherry pie  varnish toenail, and for a moment I think I’m at the bottom of the ocean. I think about a sea anemone I saw on tv once. It was pink and waved like the toe feather waves, and a little pink fish swam in and out of those lovely, tender little fronds underwater, just like my poor dead toe. Except my toe doesn’t move like that little fish darting back and forth, like I used to tap it when I was nervous. My toe is dead now, just like the rest of me out here in the desert.

            It’s the week before Christmas, and a week before that I was still in the trailer park slipping Dervish the sweet eyes every time I saw him. A week before he kissed, married, and killed me.

            My name is Mae. I was sixteen years old, and I have been dead for a night, and most of this day.

I don’t know how long I stare at my toe, before I decide I had better be getting a move on. I want to remember this place. I want to be able to find my way back here, because I have this strange desire to keep my body company. She doesn’t feel mine anymore, but I have affection for her, and it’s lonely out here.

            I know Vegas is close. Dervish is lazy, or bold, and he only drove my body about an hour outside of the city lights before he dug my shallow grave.

If I can find the highway, I can follow it back to the city, and I had better get a move on. I’m sure Dervish is still there. His eyes were too big when we drove into town three days ago. Has it only been three days? Time is so strange. I guess more so when you’re a ghost. I think it will take me a while to get the hang of this.

            I reach out for the soft, plump little toe. I want to give it a little, comforting squeeze, but I don’t have fingers, and the shape that is my hand passes through the little toe, and it fills me with an infinite kind of sadness that takes possession of my whole being for a minute. But then I shake it off. I look down at my hands. I can see them plain as day, and as my big sister April used to say, ‘don’t let nobody tell you what you are, you square your shoulders and tell them with your walk.’

I know I need to walk away from the grave.  I look around at the landscape. There is an odd rock formation, and a lightening struck tree nearby. Side by side, the tree looks like a scarecrow a little, and the rock kind of looks like a humpbacked turtle. They could be having a conversation about where this young girl came from, and I sort of wish they were, but they’re just a rock and a tree, and I am not a girl anymore.

            The desert feels different than it did when I was alive. When Dervish and me drove through it was exciting and foreign as the moon. I drank up everything through the window of the, pale blue Taurus. It had all been so big and important, and that little breeze of loneliness blew at me through the window, and even though I thought it was the wind of change blowing me and Dervish into the city together, blowing us like a ship into the future, and I had imagined this is what all the great discoverers must have felt like when they sailed from England to the United States for the first time, like in those movies, where everybody calls it “The New World”. That’s exactly how it felt driving to Las Vegas to get married. Dervish held my hand, and it was sweaty, and mine was dry and we laughed, and he leaned over, as we took the exit for the city, and kissed me, and I was glad I’d just put on my cherry lip gloss, because I knew I’d taste hopeful and pretty to him.

            He tasted like dirt a little, but I didn’t care. He was Dervish, and he was mine, and we were in love, and only a few days earlier, I didn’t even know if he knew I was alive.

                                                                        *

            I was Aggie Dell’s third daughter, and I was the good one. Mama was on the welfare, and took up with any man who had work long enough to buy her a decent necklace or a fancy dinner, or at the end, a space heater for the trailer. My oldest sister, Subelle ran away when she was fourteen. I was only seven, and I thought for years she’d come back and pick up me and April and save us from the trailer park.

            In my daydreams, she rolled up in a convertible the color of pistachio ice cream, all grown up with suitcases just spilling big hoops of taffeta dresses in every cotton candy color imaginable. April and I would run out of the trailer as it trembled and shook and hail fell from the sky and shot it all full of holes. Mama wouldn’t notice, she was never awake before three in the afternoon. In the daydream, she doesn’t get hurt, Subelle just scoops up April and me in a swirl of candy colored dream floss, and we all ride away from the Mosquito Pit cackling like witches.

Our long blonde hair is all alike, and Subelle looks just like I remember her, like an angel, but older, and more beautiful and wise, and exactly what I want to look like when I grow up, and when I ask her where we’re all going, she laughs loud and carefree and says, “I’m taking you girls to the beach!” and I understand that we’re going to California, because that’s where everybody runs away to isn’t it?

Usually the daydream ended there, but it started ending sooner when I told April about it. Subelle was my age when she ran away, and I was starting to wonder if she would ever come back for us. April had dropped out of the high school and had a job at the corner store selling live bait and liquor, and other necessities.

She got fat pretty soon after that. Not that she wasn’t pretty, April was as pretty as Subelle to begin with, but she got so angry, and she didn’t do anything with that anger, so it just stayed in her. I don’t even think she ate that much, she just fed that anger inside her until it got too big, and then she got too big, and she was fat before you could blink and pull off false eyelashes.

It didn’t matter to the swamper men who came to the store to buy chicken livers. They looked at her thick eyeliner and her double DD’s and her grubby fingernails and thought she was a kind of girl that she wasn’t. She read a lot of books that she ordered off the internet at the library, and she didn’t want anything to do with those men, but that didn’t stop them from giving her the trouble. It probably made it worse.

            Fat April got meaner the fatter and angrier she got. She was fed up with the Pit. She was fed up with Mama sleeping all the time, and not working. She even seemed fed up with me because I still went to school, and I didn’t drop out and get a job like she did. Sometimes she sniffed at me, when I was getting ready in the morning, putting on my mascara.

“You putting on weight, Mae?” She’d ask, and after I didn’t answer, because I didn’t pay her no mind anymore, she’d get meaner.

“Doesn’t matter how much paint you slap on that face, it don’t mean you’re better than me,” she’d snarl, and slam the door to the trailer as she left for the store, even though, she could have given me a ride if she’d been inclined.

I took to doing my make up in my bunk bed. I’d lie on my stomach with my rose colored caboodles box, where I kept all my niceties open, and a hand mirror propped up so I could see my face up close. After I started doing that, April didn’t get so mad at me in the mornings, and I always got a ride to school. Even if it was a quiet one.

April was kind of obsessed with cleaning. She and I never had many friends, and she spent her days off doing laundry, and cleaning up the trailor, when she wasn’t watching movies on our tiny tv. I wasn’t so much into cleaning things. I liked collecting stuff instead.

I collected the perfume ads from all the magazines people got at the Pit.  Mr. Pikes, the lot manager, told me I could have any magazines that people put into the recycling bins outside his office. Mrs. Campbell, a friend of Mama’s who came over some nights and watched the tv with Mama brought me a stack of magazines whenever she went out to the liquor store. She liked me, I guess. Her breath always smelled like medicine, like Mama’s, and she was missing some teeth, but Mama didn’t have many friends, so I liked her back.

I could tear out a perfume ad perfectly, with no ripping on the edge. You had to keep the page whole. Then you could punch three holes in the side and put them in my special, perfume binder. It was aqua, the color of California pool water.

I never used the perfume in the ads. I just liked to flip through the binder and admire all the ads. They looked so glamorous, always glossy and glamorous with splashy pictures of cities lit up at night like fireflies, or lovers entwined with silken sheets. I could peel the ad open just a tiny bit and sniff at the sample hidden away inside and close my eyes and imagine I was classy and glamorous like those beautiful women in the photographs.

Poor April could wash her clothes a thousand times and it wouldn’t do any good.  That’s why I never used those samples. No matter how hard you wash something in The Pit, it’s still got the dirt of the trailers on it. That’s something that just doesn’t wash off. Not if you’re still there.

            If you get out, I used to think, I bet it’s easy to get clean and stay clean, in the rest of the world.

One day in July, after my first year in high school, I was sitting in a yellow and white plastic chair behind the trailer. April was sitting in a chair beside mine that was mint green and white.  The bottom of her chair drooped, and she balanced a thick book on her pale, chubby knees, and read silently. Even then I could feel her getting angrier just sitting there next to me. Even though I wasn’t talking to her or anything.

I had a pile of magazines that some of the ladies had brought me next to my chair. I had already gone through them and torn out the ads I wanted. My binder was tucked under my arm, and I was dozing off a little, daydreaming about the pages of a magazine open on my lap.  I was imagining what it would be like to be on a boat covered in Christmas lights. I could have a diamond clear martini glass between my fingers and a whole bottle of gold colored perfume waiting back in the cabin of this boat. 

After a while, April said the sun was too bright to read her book, and she folded it over her eyes and fell asleep. I thought about waking her up and telling her she was getting a sunburn, but she might have been even angrier at me for disturbing her, and I got to enjoy ten minutes without her sighing every time I asked her where she would go if she had a boat.

That was when I saw Dervish for the first time.

It was true. The sun was too bright that day. It felt almost white hot out there. If I let my eyes go out of focus, I could even see the heat waves rising out of the black asphalt road that circled through the pit and the trucks and the homes.  I might have been falling asleep myself, but there was this rumble that shook me out of it, and a new pick up that I’d never seen before came bouncing over the gravel, towing a shiny green trailer that looked like a big hard candy, all gloss and shine, in the afternoon sun.

I don’t know what it was about that trailer, but I felt like it was the most gorgeous thing I’d ever seen, like a stagecoach from a Western, or a car in a fancy old train where people drank champagne out of shallow glasses that tinkled and rattled like jewelry. I wanted to elbow April awake and point it out, show her that something was happening, but behind my curiosity, there was this pinch deep down in my stomach that told me to shut up and wait, because something else was going to happen.

The truck pulled to a stop in front of Mr. Pike’s rabbit hutch of an office. It was about the size of an outhouse and Mr. Pikes was almost never there, but he came out that day, swung open the door as soon as the truck was in park, and Pikes went around to the driver’s window, while the passenger door opened, and the truck shivered as the weight of somebody got out on the other side.

Dervish was tall and wrought tight like a rope. His skin was tawny and he had a mop of dark hair that looked like it might be curly if it was clean, but it was so dusty and dirty clod, he ran his hand through it and it stayed in place like some old movie star. He was wearing a white t-shirt with a band name that I didn’t recognize on it. His jeans were slung low, and he wore boots like a cowboy. He had broad shoulders and a sunburnt neck, and staring at him across the Pit, I thought he was the most perfect looking person I’d ever seen.

He kicked the tires of the truck, stuck his hands in his pockets, and ambled to the back of the trailer. I froze in my little plastic chair. My denim cut offs suddenly felt too short, and I could feel the soft skin of my thighs sticking to the plastic seat uncomfortably. I wanted to move, but I was afraid I’d make a squeak or a peeling noise, and I just couldn’t stand that kind of humiliation. Instead I just looked at him, terrified that he would look back.

He didn’t.

Mr. Pikes scuttled away from the pick up’s window back to his office. He was short and narrow, with an unbelievably round belly that made him almost look pregnant. He waved to Dervish, whose name I didn’t know yet, and the boy loped lazily alongside as the pick up started crawling off the asphalt onto the dirt of the lot.

April started awake just as the back of the lime green trailer slipped behind a line of homes.

“I’m so bored,” she yawned.

I stood up from my chair finally, gripping my perfume binder to my chest.

“Not me,” I said, and before I knew what I was doing I was standing beside Mr. Pikes’ office door.

“Who’s that?” he called out through the screen.

“Just Mae Dell,” I said in a singsong.

“Well little Mae, I don’t have any new magazines, and I’m busy right now, so what is it you need, honey?”

I opened the door a crack, and felt the relief of Mr. Pikes’ office fan working doubletime in the back of the tiny room. He was wedged behind his little desk with all the lights turned off. I like that dim coolness of a room in the dead heat of summer, but after the sizzle of the sunshine outside it was hard to make out one shape from another in the gloom. Mr. Pikes was just a potato shape. I pointed my face at him.

“Did we get a new set of neighbors, Mr. Pikes?” I asked, sweet as pie.

“Yes, honey,” he replied.

“Where they from?”

“Didn’t ask. Honey I gotta do up this paperwork before I can get back home to Mrs. Pikes. I got the grandkids visiting this weekend. Do you need anything, or can I get back to it?”

I could finally make out Mr. Pikes looking up from his desk and reaching for a glass on the desk. Ice clinked in a sound that made my mouth itch for some sweet tea.

“Just curious,” I said, backing down. I pulled my face out of the doorway and let the screen shut.

“You all right, honey? You been out in the sun long?” I could hear Mr. Pikes ask.

“I’m fine, thank you.” I said, and turned heel to walk back to April, who surely was fried to a crisp in her chair at this point. I looked up just in time to walk right into Dervish’s white t-shirt.

The half a second where I bashed right into his chest was the single most exciting thing that had ever happened to me up until then. I made a little gaspy noise of surprise, and I felt my stomach lurch and my face color. I clutched my perfume binder to my chest, and stepped back looking down.

“Oh, hey, sorry,” said the boy’s voice.

I stared at the toes of his boots. They were scuffed and dusty.

“Hey, are you all right?” he asked.

I swallowed hard and looked up at him. He had milk dud colored eyes, all sweet and caramel and chocolate. I was close enough to see the way a smile wrinkled them at the corners. I was close enough to see the freckles on his nose; the bright red mole on the corner of his mouth that looked like a fleck of raspberry jam.  I was too close. His face swam in the heat, and I gulped for my breath.

“That you Dervish?” I heard Mr. Pikes call from behind me.

“Yes Sir,” the boy answered.

“Dervish?” I repeated.

“Hey, you can talk!” he chuckled, and I blushed hard again.

“Is your Dad coming with those papers?” Mr. Pikes asked, oblivious.

Dervish bent strangely to look directly into my eyes. “What’s your name Candy Apple?” he whispered.

“Mae.” I said.

“Mae?”

“Yes?”

“You smell amazing.”

And with that, he stepped around me, and jerked open Mr. Pikes’ door.

I trotted all the way across the lot back to my chair, and then didn’t stop to wake April, when I should have. I pulled open the door to our trailer, and I went inside to my dim room, my heart pounding.

                                                            *

I can’t leave the toe behind.  It feels like abandoning her, abandoning me, and I want to protect her. It’s hard to explain.

I spend a lot of the first day trying to push sand over this one little token I have left. Something I took for granted while alive, reaching out and pulling up a handful of sand, is impossible now but I try anyway. I sit on the ground slipping and sliding my hand through and over the ground, and I relive every handful of dirt I’ve ever let foolishly slip through my pale, fleshy fingers.

I think about sandboxes I played in as a child, that syringe I found at the one in the playground and brought to Mama, before she wouldn’t take me there anymore.

 I think of the dust of the Mosquito Pit, yellow and brown and cracked. Some of the other women tried to till the earth. They planted tomatoes, little herb gardens. They all died- the plants, not the women- they gave up and all bought those hanging plastic ones from the late night infomercials and grew upside down herb gardens and tomato plants in cubes and stuff. That dirt, the untillable ground of the trailer park ran through your fingers like chalk dust with little loose rocks in it.

I remember sugar and flour from a yellow cake mix box, and how easily that slid through my grasp. I loved the feeling of it sliding through. I never thought I would want it so badly.

 The sun goes down, and I watch the stars. It’s probably cold, but I don’t feel it, and all I can think about is how the little toe is sad and vulnerable out in the desert night. One of the stars I watch goes out after a little while. This is very scary for some reason. I don’t like that it was there one second, and the next, just gone. I wait for it to wink back on like a streetlamp. I wait and I wait, and before long the sky is turning cornflower blue, and then the sun rises, and it’s salmon taffeta pink clouds strewn everywhere like the change room floor of a fancy lingerie store.

I don’t know why I try, but I press my lips to the ground just beside the toe, and I close my eyes, and I blow. A tiny drift of red sand settles gently beside the cold little toe, and a joy bubbles up inside me so instant and glorious that I whoop and holler with victory.

It takes most of the next day to cover up the toe by blowing sand over it, but I do succeed, and when I stand up and look over my handiwork, I realize that aside from the turtle rock and the scarecrow tree, there is nothing to this little spot of desert that seems out of the ordinary. You would never know I was there.

It’s an infinitely sad thought, and for a moment I want to sit down again and weep for the loss of my toe, my life, my family, and hell, even the Mosquito Pit, but I don’t. Instead I square my shoulders, and I think about Dervish’s hands around my neck, and I turn away from the place he put me in the ground.

I begin to walk the way the car had gone. It’s tracks are still there a little, smudged by the desert winds, but I can follow them, and I know if I can find the road, then I can find my way back to Vegas, and to him.

Hell. I’ve got nothing else to do, and all the time in the world. 

Another Stab at Poetry

Heliotrope

The striations are

As in stone

Veins

And spiderwebs

And electricity

All of the colors

And all of the pain.

They ask you to define the pain on a scale of 1 to 10.

And the laughter that escapes

Me

Might be loud

And frightening

But it’s really nerves

Just a mawkish awful reaction

To a hilarious method

For putting pain in context

Filing it in a cabinet

On a floor

That can be reached by a clean, metal elevator

or a folder

Color coded

By pain

It is tympanic this pain

And fluffy on the outside

Like cotton

But dense in the middle

Like dark matter in space

It is friendly

Like a handshake grip too tight

And too long

And accompanied by a long-toothed smile.

It is unfriendly

Like a silent

Evening between husband and wife

Spent in separate rooms.

or the step of a stranger

behind you

who matches his pace to yours

and who ducks out of sight

as you give in

and glance over your shoulder.

It is a smooth hard

Like a bloodstone

And crumbling soft

Like chalk.

It trembles and quivers like a poisonous jello mold

delectably horrid

Like a chicken liver mousse spoiled

on the table

out all night long in the heat.

I want to take the kind doctor’s face

And wordlessly knead it in my palms

Until he cannot bear it any longer

The awkwardness swallows his concern

And he has to relegate me to the file color of madness

For that is where this pain belongs

Inside the down of a chicken armpit

Up the arse of a clock

Climbing the links of a faux gold chain like

An inexplicable water droplet

Its brother following dutifully in a beautiful

Carousel

Of agony.

This pain

I say

To the doctor

Is Heliotrope.

then I flap my arms

And scream.

Falling down the rabbit hole of LA billboards, New Age Divas, and Fantasy Fiction.

Hello there.
I am writing the entrance essays for a creative writing grad program.
It's horrifically dull, what with all these absurd word count limits and page edits and whatnot, but I suppose that's what the joys of academia are all about, finding your own method to exploit the cage.
Publishing in general...I think.

Red wine helps.

Bret Easton Ellis revisiting helps.

Remembering what you are grateful for, and where you find inspiration, also helps.
I am reading What the Dickens by Gregory Maguire right now.
Gregory and I have a long standing relationship. Half my life actually.
I got Wicked (The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West) for Christmas my freshman year of high school. I was fourteen.
I also got a best of Enya cd.
I read Wicked in four days flat. Which is a bit of an achievement for me considering I am a very slow reader. There are still Enya songs that call to mind very specific scenes. Watermark. Look it up. It's heartbreaking, and every time I listen to it I mourn Fiyero and Elphaba and Nor. It's totally dorky. I know.
Anyway...
I hadn't read anything by Maguire in a while, and somebody passed me along this YA book of his which is supposedly a re-imagining of the tooth fairy legend. I'm digging it, but it's got me feeling very ethereal, and faerie close, and I've got all kinds of pent up writerly type energy that simply does not coincide with structured essays examining the style of prose I write.
So I go bananas about magical realism, and I write a whole bunch about Neil Gaiman and Audrey Niffenegger, and then I paw open an old copy of The Informers by BEE, and I'm lost to the world, all turquoise fingernail polish and cheap red wine for at least twenty minutes.

Disappear Here.
I am.
Again.