At the bus stop to God knows where (F)

Mia sat herself gingerly on the grimy bench, careful to avoid the dried on gull droppings and sticky fudgesicle puddles lingering from long gone summer days and neglect.  The chipped green paint revealed the raw wood underneath; apropos, she supposed.  The sun beat down on her almost bare head, burning her neck where the hair had been only a few hours before.  This uncomfortable bus stop bench, of all things, had to be the one to remind her of just one more thing in her life gone.  To Mia, that cloud of hair had been a security blanket.  And now it was gone.  Did I really have a choice? she wondered bitterly.  Did a choice made under duress still a count as hers?

A breeze cooled the rapidly burning spot on the back of her neck, and she rubbed as if to rub off the burn.  No amount of sunscreen would protect that newly vulnerable patch. That might come with time.

A small hem-hem interrupted her brooding and she looked up into the face of a man.

“Is this seat taken?”  He gestured to the other side of the grimy bench.

“No.”

He nodded and sat with a grimace.  Mia studied him cautiously.  He seemed ageless to her, one of those men that could be thirty, or fifty, with nothing to really give it away.  Not that she cared anyway, she tried to tell herself.  His was a face she could forget easily, she thought, like so many before it.  One more face to add to the blur of faces long gone.

He wore slacks, pleated for some god-awful reason and his dockers were scuffed.  But his face was clean shaven and the lines surrounding those nothing features could have been from laughter or pain.  He gave Mia a small smile and looked away, stretching his legs.  The sun didn’t seem to bother him, in fact, he seemed to be thriving in it.  Like a sunflower, always following the warm end of the spectrum.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?”  His voice was the gentle tenor of an educated man.

Mia shrugged, “Yeah, suppose so.”

He looked at her and she looked away, not wanting to meet his eyes.

“So, where are you going?”

She shrugged, “Not sure yet.”  Not that she would have told him anyway.

“Ah….I’d like to say the same, but it’s home for me.”  There was a note of sadness in his voice.  Mia stole a glance his way, surprised to see the smile replaced by a faint shadow of pain.  She couldn’t understand wanting to have that kind of uncertainty in her life.  She would give almost anything to have a home to go home to.  Would give almost anything for life to be more than just one shrug and I don’t know followed by another.

“My answer isn’t ever going to change,” Mia murmured, unsure why she felt compelled to speak. ” I never know where I am going.  I never have, and I never will.”

He looked at her again, his eyes capturing hers for a moment.

“Why did you cut your hair?”

She looked at him, stunned, “How did you know?”

“Call it a lucky guess, but you keep reaching up to your neck like you expect it to be there.  And you’ve got a nasty burn forming.”

“Oh.”  She was silent for a moment,  “I wanted a change, I guess.”

“Was that the kind of change you were looking for?”

“No.”  Mia looked into those deep green eyes, like mature pine in spring, letting the word hang between them for a moment.  She wasn’t sure she liked the unspoken question hiding there.

“I’m Chance, by the way.”  He broke the silence abruptly, ” I should have introduced myself before I started with the philosophical nonsense.”

She huffed a small half laugh, “I’m Mia.”

“Good to meet you, Mia.”  Chance held out his hand.  Mia took it gingerly; his hand enveloped hers entirely and she was surprised to feel a thrill of excitement.

Letting the embrace go, they sat in silence for another moment.  The breeze rattled the leaves of the trees around the stop.  From a distance they could hear the roar of the bus coming their way.  A moment passed and it arrived in a hiss of air brakes.

Mia looked at Chance, her intuition nagging, a poke right in that vulnerable spot.

“Well, this is my bus.  Good to meet you, Chance.”  She held out her hand in farewell.  He took it, looking her in the eye.

“I am happy to have met you, Mia.  I hope you figure out where you’re going.”

She smiled and stepped onto the bus, the nagging becoming a pull she couldn’t ignore.  Mia sighed and glanced behind her; he was waiting patiently on the bench, head down.

“Chance, where is home?”  barely audible, yet Chance clearly heard the invitation there.

He shrugged and smiled once more, ” I don’t know.”

And rising to take Mia’s outstretched hand, he stepped onto the bus beside her, bidding goodbye to the stop to God only knows where.

 

The face of Apollo (F)

I can still clearly remember the day he came into my life.  Walking into my memories like a burst of sunshine on a cloudy day.  The problem, as it often is: that burst often blinds you to what hides behind.  What I wouldn’t give for him to have crawled in with a more apropos stop motion ooze.

Such a facade he put on, the face of an honest man.  Hurting, victimized, but still moving forward. Applying himself to his work until the bruises from past mistakes healed. A clever guise for the monster he let pace restlessly beneath that Apollan mask.  Slinking quietly behind those features, I didn’t see it at first.  But it was only a matter of time.

Oh, how gullible could one be?

When I look back I begin to see it, but in the heat of the moment I didn’t see the clear red flags that my roommate tried desperately to point out.  Waving like mad in the wind he blew and I refused to acknowledge it until I was knee deep in muck and the mask had dropped to reveal the pure evil hiding beneath.

And by knee deep, I mean literally.  I’ve run out of places to run and he’s just laughing as I stand facing him, the late summer sludge of the river holding me tightly in it’s murky embrace.  He shrugs, as if to say “What the fuck is your problem?” and plops down on a boulder at the banks of the river, breathing hard and baring his teeth in that charming-gone-horrifying smile.

I examine him through straggles of muddy hair, watching him nonchalantly digging dirt our from under his nails with the same knife he had held to my throat just moments earlier.  Now, in the thick of it, I see what they were saying.  The conversations and jokes were more than just dark humor and self hatred, and a part of me wonders how many times he has played this game.  If I were to run to the right spot in this secluded wood, how many bodies similar to my own would I find strewn over the ground?

Another moment passes and he fixes me with a cold gaze, impatience starting to creep into that otherwise serene expression.  Those blue eyes bore into me, a possessive glance communicating plans I want no part of.

Taking a furtive glance around me I plan my route.  To my right there is a drop off to God only knows where.  To my left is the line of trees and deeper woods where I could hope to lose him.  Not knowing how far the drop is, I choose going further in.  I may get lost, but that gaze tells me that starvation would be preferable.  Surreptitiously, I move one foot backwards, feeling one shoe slide off in the muck.  A small sacrifice if I can get away.  One more step and the other shoe also abandons me for its new murky quarters.  Quietly I move a few steps back, all while he watches me like a cat with a new something to play with.  He’s got me where he wants me within easy reach, but one step too far and he will pounce.

Feeling my foot catch on solid rock, I turn and flee, willing my legs to carry me as fast as they can across the short grassy stretch and into the line of trees beyond.  I can hear him swearing behind me, his plaintive cries of “Claire, Claire!” echoing behind me in time with the rhythmic splashing signalling his pursuit across the river.

Almost to the line of trees and I can smell the heady pine scent of freedom looming, just a few more feet.  As the first branches cross over my head I feel a sharp pain on the back of my head, a rock thrown from some distance behind.  Stars pop across my vision and my bare feet catch on a protruding root.  On my knees I shake my head and struggle to get back up, to continue my flight.  All of my instincts scream at me to get up, to flee, but my nerves seem to have lost their will to cooperate.  “GO, GO!” I scream at my useless legs, but they wont budge.

Finally, after an eternity they spring back into action, just in time to catch the hand closing on the back of my neck.  The callouses of an honest working man, I thought, closing around me in a rage of possession.  How many times have I seen those hands, been shown the products of the hard work that produced the callouses?

Though only a couple of inches taller than me, he is still much stronger, pulling me around by the back of my neck to face him.  Those handsome features are contorted with rage, and something else: lust, desire maybe, and he draws me close to him, pressing my mouth to his in a fierce kiss, echoed by the prick of his knife in the small of my back as he draws me ever closer to him.  I can feel the pulse of desire through his body, his heart thumping against mine, the muscles in his chest hard against the raw skin of my palms.

Reckless instinct brought my knee up and between his legs.  Yelling with the force of the kick, reveling in the abrupt lessening of pressure at the back of my neck, I push him down to the ground.  Not wanting to waste any time gloating over that victory, I veered off and run as fast as my legs can carry me.  That lust won’t be stopped for long, even faced with a blow like that.

Sure enough, after a few seconds, I can hear him stumbling along behind me. I keep running, lungs burning, dodging branches left and right.  Coming into another small clearing I realize, too late, that I have run off in the direction of the ravine.  It looms ahead, abrupt and final.  Behind me, I can hear him closing fast, crashing through the trees and huffing obscenities.

He bursts out of the tree cover a moment later and laughs again, his expression changing in flashes from fury to lust and then, much to my surprise, sadness.

“Claire…” holding out a hand to me he lets the knife fall to the ground between us.  It lands with a dull thunk in the trampled grass and he steps forward.

I stare at him for a split second and turn away again, to his vocal dismay.  Running along the side of the ravine, heading back into the cover of the trees I am granted a moment of reprieve only to be caught around the middle and tackled to the ground. His snarling face above mine, his hands marking the front of my throat to mirror the bruises already forming on the back.  With my vision beginning to go black, I scrape in the dirt at my side, grabbing hold of a fist sized rock.  Putting all my strength behind it I bring it up against the side of his head.  He recoils, holding his head and I slither out from under him, crawling away as fast as I can, trying to catch my breath.

A hand yanks on my ankle with the force of all his anger, bringing me back to the ground once more, the impact forcing the air from my lungs. Rolling over with the insistent force of that iron grip now on my shoulders I am confronted by abject rage, holding the sinewy muscles of arm, neck and jaw taught as a bow string.  All traces of lust have disappeared, those clear blue eyes under the burnished gold hair now clouded with hatred.  He looks at me as though he doesn’t know who I am.

I scream, the only thing can do and to my surprise he recoils once more.  Grabbing the only weapon I can, a stick, I stand at the ready with my back to the woods.  That drop off is too close for my comfort.  He stands looking at me again, the rage gone, a small trickle of blood running down the side of his face from the impact of the strike from the rock.

I bat at him with my makeshift weapon.  Catching it with one iron hand he yanks it out of my grasp, and I am caught off balance.  Catching me lightly, almost tenderly he looks me in the eyes, reaching to push the hair out of my face; again I push away.

“Claire, I love you”  His voice is soft, barely above a whisper.  He holds out his hand again, expecting me to come to him.

Shaking my head, I am firm. “NO!”

Running forward, I swing with my bare hands, catching him off balance.  Reaching him, grabbing the front of his button down shirt for a split second before pushing as hard as I can.

“you don’t.”

He fixes me with a look of surprise, stepping backward, catching the heel of his boot on a root.  He flails for balance, and I stand, fixed, as that trip becomes flight over the edge into nowhere.  I stand for a moment, breathing hard before collapsing to my knees with a sob.

Huge rocking sobs come one after the other until there’s nothing left but dry heaves and regrets.  Gentle rays of the sunset steal over me and the cool air of the northwest evening soothes my scrapes and bruises.  I can still feel the warmth of desire in my body, warring with the violence of the encounter, confusing my soul in an echo of the confusion on the face of Apollo as it crested the precipice of that cliff.

I dare not look over the side, I can’t follow him into that oblivion. I can’t, I won’t, I dare not.

Fire and Fury (F)

Five men stood around the roughly dug grave, staring in at the tangled wreck that had been the fuselage of a drop tank racer.  Though awkward, it would have to serve.  Adam had died the way he lived: in flames and fury.

The problem was that now they had to bury him in the charred mess of that same flame. Not to say that any of them were cheap, the flames had melted the fuselage of the car shut and he was now indistinguishable from the machine.  Knowing that this is what Adam would have wanted, the group had collectively shrugged off the offers to cut the recognizable remains out and had chosen to bury him in it.  He didn’t have any family to protest anyway.  This wasn’t the only time his life had gone up in flames and fury, just the latest and last.

The caretaker of the small graveyard had had other thoughts, and had thrown an almighty tantrum, huffing through his steel mustache and brandishing his ancient shovel, but in the end they had managed to wheedle this tiny spot in the back out of him.  Not knowing why it was such an issue, like anyone was going to see their improvised coffin anyway, they took what they could get and had gathered solemnly under the shriveled, twisted bald cypress.

The gaze of the unimpressed caretaker seemed to send with it a breath of impatience, felt like ice on their exposed necks. They looked to one another and shrugged simultaneously, as if to say, “Well…..what else do we say?”

It was Jared that broke the silence.  Rocking back on his heel, he looked up into the withered branches and sighed heavily, “So…should we go get a beer?”

The others looked up and stared at Jared for a moment, nonplussed.  The silence between the group dragged on, none of them sure what to do, when as one, they smiled a little and wiped their hands, murmuring assent to the proposed beers.

A gentle wind rattled the dried branches above them, needles falling with an empty clatter onto the tormented fuselage behind the group.  The caregiver’s disgusted gaze followed their quiet procession, steel pokers bidding them hurry up and leave; he had work to do yet.  Their shenanigans weren’t welcome in this hallowed ground.

The making of a Victorian ghost (F)

Tristan stood rooted in a mist of memories capering past him.  Flickers of laughter here and there, tears and fights, conversation all jumbled together in the cacophony of a life lived in chaos and self destruction; all of it now rooted to the shell sprawled on the sticky stone floor.

Flame from the oil lamps lent a warmth to the pallor of waxy skin, softening the angles of cheek and chin.  Shadows danced over what could have been handsome, softening the clear evidence of disregard to dress and physique.

Ma had constantly nagged him with her opinion about his love for whiskey.  She had known it wouldn’t take him anywhere worth being.  Youth and arrogance had thought they knew better than she.

Tristan examined himself.  Held out a hand, a foot; seeing the tiniest static crackle and a hint of transparency in what otherwise would have been taken for solid flesh.  He doubted that even ma’s very active imagination would have stretched this far.

Bottles littered the floor.  He, apparently, had surpassed his limits.  Trouble would be a societal deadbeat.  Past that, he was certainly dead.  The still lump of his body amidst the bottles spoke to that in no uncertain terms.  He shook his head, bidding those memories to disappear and considered his predicament.

He was a pathetic sight,  sprawled out here.  What a sop.  Though sense was dulled, he could smell the fumes of his weakness wafting on the gentle breeze wandering in through the windows.

The soft sound of the tide coming in drew his attention from his prostrate form and he scowled out over the bay for a moment, watching the gentle bobbing of the waves, an idea beginning to take shape.

Tentatively, he reached out and poked himself with a careful finger.  He trembled slightly and pushed harder with one foot, half expecting it to fall right through.

Satisfied that he was still solid enough, he began to move the bottles away from his body.  He was going to need a clear path.  A glance out the windows showed the tide at its peak.  Now was going to be his only chance.  He grabbed his wrists and pulled, grunting at his own weight.

“Ugh, ” was his disgusted exclamation.  Bottles rolled as he moved, clinking and pittering on the wood floor.  His body pulled with a wet hiss, the buttons on his coat pit-pitting occasionally on the uneven flooring, leaving a fresh trail of tiny gouges to mark his passing.

With each labored step, Tristan became more disgusted with himself.  All of his poor choices and look where it had left him, dragging his own body out of a pub.

Coming to the short flight of stairs, he started down with a thumpthump and sickening crack-pop from his lolling head.

Gross, thump thump crack-POP.

Ugh, damn it. Thump thump, crackpop.

Three down, two to go.  He was just hoping his head wouldn’t fall off when, with a crackle, his hand lost all solidity.  His wrist fell through his now useless hand, letting his head fell to the stair bellow with a resounding crack.  Oh Hell!

Tristan seized a handful of damp, dark hair and shook hard.  Reassured that his head was still well attached, he resumed his labored tugging.  Four stairs down, one more.  He dragged himself across the dining floor and pushed the doors open.  A gust of wind caught his flaccid hair and tugged at the clothes on his body, the shadow of a summons to move on.

Out over the patio he dragged himself, to the beach stairs.  He started down.  Almost there, he thought.  Another crackle and both hands became momentarily incorporeal.  He threw them up in frustration, watching his body hit the steps and slide a few feet into a grotesque half cannon-ball: legs tucked halfheartedly up to his chest, head pinned in the open space between steps.

His mouth had opened, his tongue protruding like some giant, purple slug.  Gingerly, Tristan pushed it back inside his mouth and heaved himself out of his unfortunate position.

A few more minutes brought him to the waterline.  With an almighty push, he sent his body floating out with the now receding tide.  Drowned in alcohol, it was only appropriate that he have a burial at sea.  Or as close as he could get to it, at any rate.

Stars blinked overhead and he saluted to himself, a weak imitation for a weak man.  The memories returned, settling on his shoulders in mephistopholic fashion, fluttering into view every now and again.  He let them whisper and cavort for a few moments before turning his back on the bay and heading back toward the stairs and the mess that awaited him.  The light flooding through the windows above Tristan beckoned him away from the soft pink glow growing in the horizon.  He stood straight and ascended the steps; there wasn’t anything for him out here.

With a deep sigh, he clicked the doors shut and bid goodbye to that vague offering.  His apron waited on a hook by the door, ready, as always, for a long day ahead.