Voiceless echoes are coming for us.
They're crunching leaves and bones
against their molars and ripping jugulars
with their canines,
stabbing at the only flesh not burrowed
under dreams and blankets.
I can smell the sulfur. I can smell the heat.
Every waning fairytale on its last leg
hobbles back into the pages
and yet you stand. You. The unlit cigarette
hanging off of my lips, the funeral of smoke
strangling my uvula.
You hug me, the hole inches onward
toward six feet. A foot per year.
You loved me once.
You buried me forever.
The night of velvet and fractured glass
bled on for months. Who needed
sleep when you were on call for
a fire department of a boy's body.
The first night, sneaking through the garage
riddled with mannequins and the
promise of panting glowing on his cheekbones
as he led me through the dark
to the sheets, darker still-
swimming with his smell.
He touched me first. I shivered.
He gripped my hands. I exhaled.
My breathing struggled to synch
itself back with my heart,
the uneven pace of both in a relay race.
Breathing and beating elbow each other,
begging for first. Begging. Please.
All at once, breathing made sense again.
Fumbling turned to fluid for the first
time in my sixteen years;
a preview of nights to come,
years after the house was sold and
the mannequins were dressed and undressed
time and time again.
I wrote this for my creative writing class to experiment with minimalist fiction. I'm pretty excited for how it turned out. Enjoy, loves.
Fossil Fuels
My father bought me a book to handle the divorce. It was a silly book about dinosaurs divorcing. They said crying was ok. Don’t blame yourself. I thought the dinosaurs were lucky because they were dead. Their moms weren’t crying anymore. The book got heavy in my hands suddenly. That’s when the coughing started.
I hated watching my mother cry. I hate when my father yelled. That made us all cry. I thought the divorce would mean less yelling, which meant less tears. The first night in our new house there was yelling but my father wasn’t there. My mother was yelling at God. She was crying at God. The tears in my throat cried themselves sick. They made me sick. The cough carried on with no explanation.
I lied to you earlier. My father was in the house the whole time because he was everywhere. He was my coughing fit. He was the God my mom was cursing. He was my sister’s loud music shaking our new walls. He didn’t buy me that book, though. But he was the dinosaur my book was about. He was dead but everywhere. He was fossil fuels filling our lungs.
My cough lasted for four hours. My mom couldn’t see well enough to drive. She was crying. My sister drove. She had her permit, I think. When we got to the hospital, I read a different book. The dolls weren’t coping with divorce. They were coping with shots. But I was shot too. Shot with surprise. When the doctor came in the coughing stopped. The doctor was a man. He hugged me. I don’t know why I remember that. I made it up. Nobody hugged me. The books hugged me. The fossil fuels hugged me. My dad didn’t hug me.
When we got home the bathtub flooded and my cough came back. My ribs hugged my lungs. They shot them. I was seven and I was getting a divorce from my own two lungs.
More Thom and Piper today. This is the prologue to their story. Enjoy, lovelies. I spot him the moment he walks in to the room, his Gatsby smile as bright as ever. His eyes scan the room, barely resting on one face for longer than a moment before moving to the next one. Until his eyes find mine. His charming smile becomes smaller, sincere, the corners of his eyes crinkling with memory and time. I return the smile and raise my hand in a wave, bringing my hand back on to my heart. His hand finds his heart too as he offers a small bow in my direction. I chuckle and hold his gaze until someone grabs his arm, pulling him into a noisy conversation about his latest achievement. A small infinity had passed between us, a roller coaster spanning years. Although much had changed, I was still seventeen when he looked at me, nervous and loving- an old friend who had been there through it all. Although the love had changed and shifted, the tiny string still held us together. And as he continued his conversation with another old friend, I watched him talk, watched him work the room. The piece of hair still stuck up defiantly from the back of his head. I knew he would be livid when he glanced in a reflective surface to find his hair out of place. I’m glad it is over. I am glad I have moved on. I am also glad that there is still a tiny ache in my heart when I see him. That ache is pure and real. I earned that ache.
I belted my black dress, threw on my red jacket, sat on the crushed velvet couch in my front room, rubbing my thumbs in hasty circles around each other. Your headlights pierced through my curtains of hair as I watched your car roll into my driveway. Before you could make your way up the snowy walk, I was out the door coming toward you. My heart pumped too fast, my face flushed, I prayed I wouldn't slip as you grabbed my hand and opened the door for me. While you walked back to the driver's side, I exhaled sharply, trying to calm down. You made me so nervous. I'd never been nervous around a boy. You made me nervous, thrills running through my fingertips.
The talk was light and colored by trepidation, the night we met slapped around in jest. The oddity of us actually going out after the strangest meeting possible.
You look nice in real lighting.
I like your voice when it's not shouting over the bass dropping speakers.
More water?
Your halloween costume was clever.
I'm glad we're really doing this.
More pizza?
Sorry for that night.
What a great memory.
I can't believe that was real.
I like your tattoos.
Any dessert?
I love your dress.
You're smart.
Want to see my apartment?
(Bet you say that to all the girls.)
Just you.
Suddenly, the girls next to us caught us mid conversation. "We're studying interpersonal relationships in school. Are you two on a first date? Cause so far he's really into you, and she's still unsure. But oh my god you guys are so cute, and so are your tights, girl. Give him a chance." Your face grew brighter than the candle in front of us and I laughed loudly as I darted my gaze to your nervous smile. They'd given your cool away. James Dean sunk back deeper on your chest as you hugged your shoulders up to your ears and hung your head. We stood to leave, I thanked the girls for the best dessert I could have hoped for, and we ran all the way to your car laughing and blushing.
You stayed quiet until we reached your apartment. Suddenly you seemed unsure and vulnerable. I gripped your hand, suddenly the strong one in the car. They are wrong, I whispered, I'm not unsure at all. Show me your apartment. You smiled in relief and James Dean sighed on your chest.
We watched The Walking Dead.
You held my hand as my heart disintegrated in your palm.
We drove along the nighttime streets toward my house. Slow down, I thought, this can't be all. I'm not done tonight.
We had to traverse through the unplowed narrows to my back gate and up to my back door. You left me at the door, no kiss on my lips, and started to walk away. I grabbed your forearm, right where your compass inked out, pointing north to my chest. I'll walk you to the gate, I offered. I'll be the gentleman, I joked.
Goodbye was hard and then you met my eye line.
"You'll be around, right? You're not going anywhere?"
No, love. I'm always here.
Finally your lips met mine, hungry and soft. We kissed against the gate, then against the door. You walked away and I shut the door softly behind me, falling against it, eyes closed, breath hot and alive.
I ran to my front door, threw it open and stood on the porch, on the tips of my toes, a bird waiting to fall out of the nest. Your car was on. You flipped on the overhead light, tilted your head with a coy smile and beckoned me with your finger. My heart exploded. My eyes blurred. I loved you then. I knew right then, and I let myself go. (I blush even now, months later. I can't type that memory with open eyes.)
Your headlights, the frosty air, your arms. They held me captive against the garage door, squeaking and staring as we kissed again and again. The stars spun as we finally let go, as you finally drove away.
I fell asleep still smelling you on my skin and tasting you on my lips.
Outside the sky is trying to hold back October tears, letting a few get brushed away by the trees outside my window. Calm autumn tears. Transitional tears.
I'm huddled up in bed, a drawer from my bedside table in my lap, heavy with misplaced odds and ends. Bottles of lotion, old and new. Lip gloss from various Easter baskets and Christmas stockings. Old CD cases, lists of books to be read, batteries, bobby pins, dental floss, band aids. Everything labeled too essential to be far from my bed, but not essential enough to be sorted into a proper place.
My hand is swallowed by the open mouth in the drawer. I feel a bite and rip my hand out of the pile, dripping red from a hole lightly opened by a rogue thumbtack. I follow the stream of red and see that it's gathering on a folded up receipt page. It's crumpled near the back of the drawer, now cloaked in dark human red. I unfold the note.
A page of Barnes and Noble book recommendations, all crossed out. The top of the page proclaims "You may also like..." leading to a penned response that simply states "ME." Underneath that, "I love you, a lot. R."
The bleeding of my finger has stopped as the pregnant sky starts to fall. The page is ruined, marred by maroon. I contemplate keeping the page, blood and all. But I'm not that morbid. Not quite yet. This note was never junk, a love note that must have drifted into the drawer outside of a book's page, where it should have stayed. Maybe soon another note will drift into my hands, kept safer this time. Cherished and protected. This time.
It is ridiculous how much I love this song. I have been fighting the Miley love so so hard. First We Can't Stop was my guilty pleasure, then the VMAs lost me for a hot second. But this. This is perfection. Perfection. Why is this song my week? Give this a listen. Finally she chose to show off her voice, with feeling and power. And utter honesty.
I love the video. So much symbolism I could die. Mmm. Pain is deliciously addictive, girl. You lick that sledgehammer.
I understand this too. I understand how hard it is to try and battle all of these demons without hurting those closest to you. When I feel like the rest of my world is collapsing and misunderstanding me, I destroy the one beautiful thing I have in my life. I never mean to hurt that person, but I always accidentally throw them out of my life. I am so sorry. I hate that I do this. I am so sorry. The most I can do is try to piece us back together after my storm has passed.
The wall of steam pushed against me as hard as you did the moment I came through the door. In your ice box apartment you stood in a towel, dripping on the floor, laughing as you pulled me close. The droplets of water kissed my nose as you kissed my neck. You untied the bow around my waist. You undid my buttons. I slid my coat off and slid onto the couch as you stepped into the kitchen turning back over your shoulder toward me, a half moon smile lighting across your face. Your smile was turquoise that night. It illuminated me.
The music cradled my back as I laid across the love seat, aptly named. Hand in hand on that seat we fought off zombies and doubts. I fed you soup when you were ill, you rubbed my back as I cried. I confessed my shame to your open arms and confessed my love tucked into your chest. Our first date ran long on that seat; our last night cut short. I couldn't see how it would all end as I lay there that night, rocking with the music waiting for my moon to rise again.
You turned the corner again, this time in tight jeans, shirt slung across your back. I could taste the memory forming on my lips, sliding through my spine, stored in the memory card in my brain. You were perfect that night. Your eyebrow rose as you crossed in front of me into the bathroom. I had a perfect view of your flexing back as you brushed your teeth and mussed your hair. With your hands pressed straight into the sink, your shoulder blades kissed, your skin tugged tight. I could see us across the country, hidden away from it all, years from now. I loved you hard and fast in that instant.
I see you so clearly that night on the love seat. I'm still on that love seat, waiting for the new moon to pull back into my sky.
September skies are coming in so beautifully in her first week, aren't they? I love them. She's giving us some beautiful watercolor skies.
I have a special place in my heart for the special shade of orange that comes in September. It peeks through the shades at around six every night. My happiest memory is bathed in that light and I still feel warm when the skies ignite into those orange fields.
I love how sunsets change throughout the year. I love the light blue spring nights, the vibrant violet summers, the golden honey falls, and the bright pink and clear blue winters. I want to live in the sunset. I'd chase it forever.
The waiter leaves the water on the table and we both turn to watch the condensation run down the glass. Another testament to your goodness, this is my favorite restaurant. My favorite dishes. My favorite city. The only favorite you have is me, and suddenly I'm not delivering anymore. I watch the condensation spilling off the glass in silence and you watch me, waiting for me to spill.
Your hand reaches out for mine across the table. Your fingertips barely touch my nail beds, resting like feathers on top of newly erupted grass. I glance into your eyes, your eyes radiating love and honesty. My eyes give you nothing. I've become an actress in my own life, unable to remember her motivation or her lines.
The last dish comes as I gratefully jolt my hand back from the table. I can smile at the waiter, but not at you. I hear you beginning to speak, but it's all mumbles and colors flying in one ear and straight out the other. You don't deserve this. All you ever did was try.
I tried too, until I didn't. I don't know when it happened, but suddenly I didn't see you anymore. I didn't see much of anything, really.
You pay while I stare at your neck, remembering warmer nights in the late fall haze that have smoldered down into a match trying hard to blow itself out. You keep cupping your hands around it, hoping it will hold on. Until one night, I purse my lips, guide your hands away, and blow it out myself.
On this deliciously dreary afternoon I ventured back in time to my old high school to see my dear friend and former English teacher. He had a few books to recommend to me and I always love our chats. (Side note, nothing on Earth says "I care for you" like book recommendations. It's like peering into the souls of your friends and glimpsing their heart.) Sadly I missed him but I decided to stick around and walk the halls down to my old theater room, hoping to run in to my old theater teacher.
I creaked open the door and the room was black, not a soul around. It was perfect. I was so tired and so much in need of rest and in need of a trip home to that safe place. Students hadn't been there yet and the only people around were the ghosts of days gone by. There is nowhere more quiet that a school that has yet to open its doors to students for the year. I needed that kind of quiet today. It was a long night and an even longer summer.
Even since I started doing theater in my junior year, an unbelievable 5 years ago, that room became my safe place. I learned about happy thoughts, I learned about releasing your inner child, I learned how to breathe. I grew up, I cried (a lot), I laughed (a lot), I loved, I was hurt. I spent more time in that room than anywhere else during high school, even my own house. My laughter still sings off of the walls, mixing with the silver memories of the people who came before me and after me. The people who used that room left so much of ourselves there. Where else were we allowed to paint the walls with words and colors?
I shut my mind off and reclined in the easy chair in the front row as a 16 year old Emma flitted across the stage with her friends, a 17 year old Emma recited a monologue stage right, an 18 year old Emma left the room for the last time after hugging her teacher goodbye, and saying hello to a now friend. I stole kisses in that room. I can still taste those sweet innocent embraces and the nostalgia in that room hugs me close each time I enter it. In that room I learned the difference between being tough vs being strong.
As I tiptoe in and out of my past, the feelings in that room stay constant. I miss how I felt in high school, how easy it was for me to find positivity and to recharge. The root of all of that was this room, this chapel of the creative; a sanctuary for the open and honest. Since I left high school, I've experienced a lot and it's jaded me. I haven't found a place like that room where I have felt so completely safe and comfortable and I remember after my visit today how vital it is to have that place. I want to try to keep my hope rooted in that room and rooted in my 16 year old self even as I grow and change.
I am so lucky I got such an amazing experience in high school and I am sorry if you didn't. Or if you wasted your time in high school by counting down the minutes until it was over or treating those around you like dirt solely because you felt like dirt about yourself. I was lucky, I suppose. Lucky to be surrounded by people who respected my opinions and allowed me to be open and allowed me to be myself. Lucky to have a room like this that I can always come back to.
"August, die she must. The autumn winds blow chilly and cold."
-Simon and Garfunkel,
April Come She Will
I hope August doesn't die too quickly. It's coming in beautifully today though. It's super windy outside and the clouds are holding hands with the trees outside my window. As soon as this post is up, I plan to spend the day curled outside under a tree with a book in hand and a puppy by my side.
August is shaping up to be a great month already. I'm getting ready to move into my new place which I will be in on September 1st, I start my first real dental assisting job (which is an unpaid internship but.. whatever) on MONDAY! GUYS WHAT. Yesterday was my very last day of school. I cannot believe I did it. In one year I finished a dental assisting program.
My favorite part of August was always going back to school and sadly this year, I don't get to do that. I have to wait until January until I head back to school to finish my English undergrad but, I'm nothing if not patient.
I hope you are all as excited about August as I am. I love the fall and I love how August ushers in the fall so gently. We are so close to pumpkin things and cozy sweaters and chilly rain storms. I cannot wait. I'm paralyzed with happiness.
August always makes me feel nostalgic too. Nostalgic for first days of school and endings of the epic summers of my younger years that weren't so focused on work and adult life. (What even is grocery shopping?) And if you know me, you know I love nostalgia. It's probably my favorite of all emotions. It's warm and also chilly, distant but so close.
Here's a song I've been listening to on repeat for the past two weeks. It's by a guy named Julian Smith who I have stalked on youtube for years. You may know him for his Malk video, or perhaps Hot Kool Aid? (Personally my favorite video of his is this one right here. This is my theme song.) Anywhhaaaay... he's so cute and so hilarious and also has a beautiful voice. This song is so perfect and nostalgic and beautiful. And I'd marry him tomorrow so. #noshame
