The complex smells of death. Pulsating red light fills the black sky making long eerie shadows of the living dead dance across still standing buildings. Gabriel turns his back from number 10, looks around at all the empty faces, and then takes a deep breath of death. He never wants to forget. The putrid stench burns. He will never forget.

The screams of sirens wake him a little after one in the morning. Panic draws him out of bed and into the cold night. Smoke hits his eyes; tears come instantly trying to rid themselves of the burn. His blue terrycloth slippers shuffle him towards the commotion. A bathrobe slipped over striped cotton pajamas is all he wears. He joins the crowd.

They all stand together as one colorful beast; clad in flower print dresses returning from an evening of flirtation. Others sporting khakis and white shirts with name tags still attached. Some wrapped in blankets rubbing sleep form their eyes. They came out of their box apartments. They came form all night grocery stores. They came from nowhere in particular, dropping what they were doing to stare. Drawn, each one of them, to the flames like moths. They stood one step away from danger. Close enough to catch the lingering fetid smell. Close enough to burn their faces with the heat. Close enough to be a part, but far enough away for blame.

The collective beast whispers of conspiratorial theories; each one beginning and ending in drugs. Stories of a windowless van making weekly pickups floated over the crackling of timber. The woman from number 10 emerging only long enough to exchange packages with unknown faces. She and the white van disappearing again like phantoms under the cover of night.

Gabriel didn’t know the woman from number 10, but there were hints in the boy’s words. He would show up when Gabriel was washing his clothes or trekking groceries from the car. “I get to start school soon.” The boy declared proudly. “Sean has to stay at home. He’s too young, but I’m not. I’m a big boy. That’s what my mom says. Sean cries a lot, but I know what to do. I feed him. That’s when Mommy calls me her big boy. Did you know I can change a diaper? It’s gross, but Mommy’s asleep.” Again, Gabriel thinks to himself. The boy babbles. Gabriel tunes him out. “Mommy fell last week.” Again, Gabriel thinks to himself. “I’m a big boy. I made myself a grill cheese sandwich.” Again, Gabriel thinks to himself as the boy pushes the half eaten sandwich proudly in his direction. The boy smells, again. Gabriel knew.

Gabriel wonders how many others knew.

The fire eats at the remaining wood. A window explodes under the intense heat. The collective beast falls back and gasps at the spectacle. Assured of its safety it takes a bold step forward, right up to the line, the line of safety and blamelessness.

A firefighter comes out of the burning building with a bundle in his arms. He rushes to a gurney. Steps back. Three men begin working on the small body, skin tight and blackened, covering but a few feet of the gurney.

“Someone should have done something,” an unfamiliar voice echoes.

They all knew.

Gabriel turns his back from number 10, looks around at all the empty faces inside the beast, and then takes a deep breath of death. He never wants to forget. The putrid sent burns. He will never forget.

Sometime facing the choice of change is the hardest thing of all…

Deep within this colorless valley
floats a fog of indecision.
Days and nights roll into one
never ending nothingness.
Misery falls down like sheets of rain.
Its chill permeates the depths.
The mountain heights loom down
upon this empty soul.
At the summit, barring passage,
waits a black and angry tempest.
There is safety in this pale valley,
where time is the only enemy.
What lies over the top?
An oasis of colorful happiness?
Perhaps not a new beginning, but
a sheer drop into hell.
Climb the mountain’s height?
Face the fearsome storm?
Or live forever in this
colorless valley of nothing.

Bill had dedicated his entire life to the study of global warming. He had given up everything a conventional life would have offered him. He never intentionally cast aside friends, family, or a fat pay check, but he knew what he had to offer the world would one day be worth so much more than any fantasy life could give. After graduating from MIT he embarked on a five year fact finding mission. He spanned the globe from pole to pole. He crossed deserts. Measured oceans. He addressed countless audiences; teaching, educating, reassuring, preparing.

“It is not a matter of weather, or not it is happening. It has happened. It is now a matter of how fast, and what, we as a world community, can do to reverse the process.”

He had heard all the arguments, and patiently addressed each one with compassion.

“No, global warming is not just a natural cycle. People are causing the problem by the consumption of fossil fuels. There is more CO₂ in the atmosphere than was ever released in hundreds of thousands of years.”

Bill was tired of the fight. He was drained by all the people who wouldn’t listen. The countless hoards that wouldn’t change even the simplest things in their lives.

“I’m not asking you to enact drastic change. I’m asking you to turn off a light. Put a lid on your boiling water. Run your errands all at one time. Not only can these little changes make big impact on the polar caps, but you might be pleasantly surprised by the changes you see in your pocket books.”

It seemed to Bill that no one listened. Science was failing him as well. He was no closer to helping solve this great dilemma then when he first started. So when the opportunity came to join a fact finding mission on the Arctic Circle he jumped at the chance. A glimmer of hope arose in his heart at the thought that perhaps this time he would find that missing link; that all important fact or answer that would make all the difference. So he once again donned his parka leaving behind all the excess that left him cold.

But, like so much in Bills life after six months in this freezing waist land, he was once again loosing hope. Fed up with all the volumes of information and no answer Bill found himself trudging out in the cold and melting slush. As he wandered he began to recognize the rock formations. It was here many years ago he began his journey. He laughed at himself, remembering his first trek out on to the tundra. He was so green he managed to trip over the one and only piece of electrical cording for miles.

That day seemed so far away now.

“What am I missing!?!” Bill screamed out into the nothing.

“Look behind you.” The wind echoed back to him.

“Who said that?” He was sure that he had finally lost his mind.

The wind did not answer back. He turned anyway, and lying on the ground at his feet was the same cord he had tripped over so long ago. He picked up the five inch round neoprene wire. Curiosity got the better of him. He followed the line to what appeared to be a very large bolder. He brushed off the snow, and to his extreme surprise it wasn’t a rock, but a very large plug lying near an equally large electric socket. With great effort he managed to push and pull the plug into place. He then stood on top and jumped several times seating the two together. The earth shook under his feet. The air whirled and blew. It was at that moment that Bill knew the answer that had evaded him and all of science for so long.

All those years ago his simple trip had started to world on a catastrophic path to sure doom. How was he ever going to explain this!?!

“Well, you have to think of the Earth as a very large fridge space…”

Note: if you happen upon this post out of the blue allow me to explain — On the site “Write Stuff” an exercise was given. One person writes an explanation of what brought about a specific fear and then in turn leaves another fear to be explored by another; creativity being encouraged. I decide to put all the fears that were given (at the time) into one story. They are as follows: fear of mushrooms, wet surfaces, dirty sneakers, the unknown, potatoes, and finally making a mistake. It was a fun writing exercise even if my final out come is only so so…

Sally was oddly comforted by the sound her flesh made when she peeled her leg from the booth’s sticky red vinyl. Earlier when her waitress escorted her party towards the back of the Chinese restaurant she noticed, with horror, the bus boy wiping down a nearby table and chair. As she sat down inside her head she was screaming, please don’t be wet, please don’t be wet. She knew she was being silly. She had been assured by her psychologist that a person did not simply slip willey-nilley off vinyl surfaces. She was nearly convinced, but that still didn’t quell the nightmares. She could do nothing in her dreams, but watch as her five year old body hurled itself off the Slip-n-Slid right in to Mr. Thompson’s garbage cans.

The near miss of slippery chaos was all behind her now. The seat hadn’t been slathered in soapy water for quite sometime now. She was safe. She was on a first date. She liked this guy; he was handsome, smart, and fun to be around. She had no intention of showing him any of her odd little… quirks. Her father liked to tease her calling them phobias. Just because a person had a great deal of concern for the cleanliness of foot apparel didn’t make that person ’sick in the head!’ It’s really all his fault anyway. After the unfortunate incident on the death trap disguised as a child’s water toy, Sally’s father had forced her to wear the same tennis shoes that had only days before been covered in left over spaghetti and coffee grinds. Really — after that, how could any sane adult be expected not to fear grungy, filthy, germ infested, athletic shoes?

Tonight, safe in her black Mary-Jane’s, she had nothing to fear. Her seat might not be clean, but it was dry. She had already made it through the ordering process with only the slightest pang of panic over the entrée. Peking duck or Moo Goo Gai Pan was a lot to deal with. What would he think of her if she mistakenly picked the wrong one? What a woman eats on a first date says a lot about her as a person. She had to consider price, meal size, possibility of splash over, the list was long. Fearing of making a mistake wasn’t lunacy, it was good common sense. You only had one opportunity to make a first impression. She finally decided on diced chicken with walnuts; $10.95, little sauce, and you can fill up on the nuts while not appearing too gluttonous.

Moments after the nice elderly waitress left the table with orders safely placed, Sally was struck with a breath taking, heart pounding thought, Oh God, should she have picked cashew nuts instead!?! She took a deep cleansing breath, just like her doctor had taught her. She closed her eyes and envisioned her psychologist beeper number. This was a relaxation technique she had taught herself. She hadn’t told her psychologist for fear of crossing that thin veil between professionalism and being too needy. She then watched herself push the cell’s speed dial, and then, just to make sure she pushed away all the bad, she mapped out in her head an emergency route to her doctor’s office.

Things where going along wonderfully, no sign of neurosis. Sally was feeling especially pleased with herself as she laughed at a joke. Their soup was brought to the table. Steam rose from the cup’s content promising warmth. The yellow cast of wanton broth was so inviting she readied her peculiar looking spoon anticipating golden goodness. What was that, floating in her bowl? Sally made a face. She held the brownish, greenish, gray thing down, and then watched with a frown as it bobbed back to the top.

“Is something wrong, dear?” the wrinkled Chinese waitress asked Sally.

“Um, well…no….” Sally stammered, “I was…well…I was just wondering…what that is?” She asked, pointing at the log with disdain.

The elderly woman, who smelled of lilac water, placed her face unnecessarily close to Sally’s bowl. Without warning the woman turned and yelled in Sally’s face, “Fungus!” The ring of extra syllables hung in the air as she walked away.

Sally’s stomach churned. The sliver of fungus bobbed in the golden soup. Her head swam. She had no recollection of ever having a fear of mushrooms before, potatoes sure, who didn’t find those repulsive. Mushrooms! Fungus! Just bobbing in my soup! In a flight of panic she rushed from her seat and out into the oppressive evening air. Without even a glance back towards the restaurant or her date, she fumbled for her phone and headed strait for her doctor’s office.

Hold the words tight
Consider their weight
Each one has a center
A gravity to find
Leave one on top of the next
Resting perfectly in place

No mortar needed to hold each fast
They bind to each other, one to the next
Leaving seduction on the tongue
Sculpting each line to ward off the silence
Breath brings to life these lyrical magicians

Embraces with the eye
Examine each stone
Savor their feel deep down within
Roll them around on the tongue
Leaving not a syllable untouched

Words stroked by the lips
The tip of the teeth
A whisper ignites imagination
Visions dance before the eye
Made whole from a single word placed

All merely words trapped on a page
Needing only a glance, a breath, a voice,
A moment of magic,
To bring them to life.

I know it’s not brilliant, but we all feel the pain!!!

Oh this foul, foul, dirty deed
Like pieces of unwanted debris
The carcass of year’s receipts
Litter this once pristine room
Figures, files, forms,
What’s an I-9?

This pile’s for bills separated by month
This one’s for supplies divided enterprise
This paltry pile tells me who has paid
This one I fear…
Well, this one I simply fear

The inevitable yearly resolution
Promising myself not to wait
April comes in like a lion
Leaving no flowers
But devouring me for lunch

Once a year I open a vain
And hard earned green pours out
I know IRS is three simple letters
But I can’t help but wonder
Wouldn’t it be better with four?

Synonyms On Parade

Wishing for a cerebral synapse
Oh, for want of an inspiration
The urge to dance intense
The longing grows with every minute passed
I’m craving a Diet Coke perhaps I should…
Now the yearning getting frustrating
Aspirations are not enough
My appetite for a piece of prose
Faltered in my own voracity
Need another sip *burp*
This week’s “desire,” I got…
NOTHIN’

THE PEOPLE IN YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD

The sound of Sesame Street floats across the nearly empty room. It fills the quiet corners and chases away the ghosts that linger in the empty house. Lewis never cares what is on the TV as long as it is on. The constant drowning comforts him. This way he is never quite alone.

The light from his computer screen and of course the nearby TV fills the darkened room with a strange lonely glow. The left hand corner of the screen announces ‘you have been on-line for four hours.’ Four hours is nothing to Lewis. Some days he gets so wrapped up he forgets to go to work. Opting instead to linger at the keyboard; stroking like a lover.

Lewis has just finished posting a private message to Kitty452. While he waits for an answer he reaches up and lights a candle sitting close by. The magnolia perfume pushes away the sent of mildew, days old Chinese take out, and the nearly extinguished stench.

**ping**

The corners of his mouth turn up slightly into a satisfied grin. They always answer.

He has a way with words. A beauty he possesses inside that his outsides don’t match. This is not to say that he is troll like. If he cared to clean up he would be passable. Only last week, a woman form accounting asked him if he wanted to go out for drinks. He turned her down. She did not interest — not like the others. The other women, girls, even boys – it made no difference to him who answered his call. He could charm anyone. Telling them exactly what they wanted to hear.

‘Yes, Kitty452, you’re right, your husband doesn’t understand you. I can feel your creative spirit crying to get out. You should have music in your life. Not sports and a beer can.’

‘Tommyboy, I don’t know if I want you to know what I look like. What if you’re a pervert like you hear about on Dateline….alright, I have long red hair…what? No my skin is milky white…I can’t believe you just asked me that, but yes I am starting to mature. My breasts are small, but round and full.’

He has made grown women weep with longing for a better life. Young men harden with just a sentence. And, aging men forgot their balding head and found they were wanted by something young and forbidden. He feeds off the power he holds at his finger tips. He is a master at providing what they all need – acceptance.

‘Oh dear child, sweet Summerrain24, your parents don’t hate you. They just don’t understand you…No you really don’t want me to be your father. I’m just happy to be your friend.’

A small box full of 3×5 note cards sits next to his computer, always with in arm’s reach. Every time he meets a new friend he meticulously makes a new card. Noting the site, time, screen name, and finally the screen name he is under. From then on he lovingly adds a time log for every encounter; sometimes adding special little notes. He rarely refers to the cards. He keeps most of his friends locked inside his head. Recalling with vivid clarity the conversation they had the night before, last week, a month ago.

He never lingers in one chat room for long, or outstays his welcome on a forum. His goal is not to be noticed, but just to offer what is missing. Once he has established a relationship he will move it into private room or e-mail account — noting the card. Now, in the privacy of his element he can weave.

‘Tommyboy, you talk to me so sweetly. I wish, no never mind…No, I can’t say I’m too ashamed…Ok, I wish I could see you. Feel you hold me. I know I’m just being a silly girl and you would never go for someone so stupid and silly…Yes, it is silly…I want you…’

‘Dear Kitty452, I’m sorry to hear about the fight you had with your husband. I hope I didn’t add to the problem…Did he hurt you, because if he did…Good, I’m very glad to hear it…I wish I could hold you too…I want you…’

He weaves his tales and lies. They are merely flies caught in his web. Lambs to the slaughter.

‘…I want you, my Summerrain24, to trust me…I can help make everything right again…I will protect you from the demons that control your life. I think if you just gave your parents some space they would see your side. You are all to close for the wounds to heal…No I didn’t mean you could come stay with me…are you sure you have no where else to go…

He knows, even with out looking at his carefully constructed journal, when the time is ripe.

‘Ok, if you are sure you have no other choice. You can come see me. But please don’t tell anyone. The last thing we need is your angry father showing up. Once you are here and safe we will call him and tell him where you are…here is where you can meet me. It’s a public place so if you don’t feel safe you can just leave…’

Lewis lights another candle to rid the small room of the odor of rotting flesh pushing up through the floor boards. He needs more lime, but not tonight. Tonight he has found another hunting ground. This one will be a challenge.

The TV catches is unconscious attention.

“Who are the people in your neighborhood, your neighborhood…” He sings along with the familiar tune as he considers this first brush with danger.

The key board clicks to the rhythm of the music as he types out his first sticky silk thread…

‘The sound of Sesame Street floats across the nearly empty room. It fills the quiet corners and chases away the ghosts that linger in the empty house. Lewis never cares what is on the TV as long as it is on. The constant drowning…’

NOTE: Jeff, I know yours is similar, but I assure you it was not written in response or meant to copy your intriguing piece. I’m not sure this piece works anyway…

WARNING: drug references and a few “grown-up” words ahead:

LAST NIGHT

I was once told that creatures of the night can’t see themselves clearly.  No mirror on earth can capture what truly lies inside.  But I know this isn’t the truth.  I see the truth.  I am a slave to the night.  It has a hold on my soul.  I can feel the night’s pulse deep within me.  It beats like the kick of a drum; awakening me from its first call.  But now I have nothing left.  The night life has consumed all.  The fire and excitement has long been lost; exhausted now by the ever present hunger for more.     

I watch, with little emotion, my beautiful features in the bathroom mirror.  My fingers tingle.  A reminder of the last few precious drops of cocaine leaving my system.  I need something else.  My body cries out for more.  I will never make it through this without some kind of chemical courage.  How does one end a lifetime?  The undoing of it is easy, but the valor is hard to find. 

My face is unspoiled by the night’s hold over me — black raven hair, brilliant green eyes, a face chiseled by the gods themselves.  I stare at the face that has seen years of darkness; that same exact face that entered into this nightmare.  It seems ageless.  It is no matter.  The beauty others behold in me is eaten up by this monster I have become.  The monster I must kill.   

Lost in the depths of my eyes I pick up the smoldering fag and take a long deep drag.  The burning in my throat is sumptuous.  I hold the smoke inside as long as possible and then let it out slowly to watch it dance around my head.  God, I need something to pull me through this.  Maybe in my purse.  Dumping the entire contents into the sink, I fish through the encumbrance only to find empty prescription bottles.   Frantically shifting through the carcass of my life I hear a coin drop down into the sink.  The tinkling amuses me.

Fuck… it wasn’t a coin.  I spot the sparkling twin precariously perched on the edge of the drain moments away from oblivion.  The two karat earrings Lewis gave to me.   

“The jeweler said they are a pair of flawless diamonds.  I thought they would look great against your hair,”  Lewis had told me so long ago while the moon still captivated my attention; giving over to my every whim and desire.

I examine the lone earring.  The light dances inside of it as if trapped by its allure.  One slow sweet breath and it is gone; chasing after its twin.  I have no need for diamonds where I am going.  I know my destination as sure as I know anything.  Hell burns deepest for the fallen.  This death I choose is too good for me.  Everything is done.  All that is left is the deed.  I have planned it down to the hour.  It has to be the morning sun that carries me to freedom. 

My hand begins to shake.  Oh dear God, one last high.  I can’t do this alone!

Lewis.  I know he has what my body screams out for.  He was my once savior.  He introduced me into this world of eternal night.  But I opened the door and the snakes made it in.  We feasted on the night air, Lewis and I.  Love is not a term I care to use to describe what we share.  We are the same creature.  Together we executed our wicked fantasies.  The sex was raw and driving.  The drugs followed like the turn of a faucet.  Even the hard pounding music we shared was intoxicating.  The people around us our mere playthings.  Right down to the end.  Would the blonde laying naked in bed next to my Lewis replace me?  Did I care? 

I knew if I woke him demanding he cook for me I would never go through with it.  I would get drunk on his steel eyes.  I would be lost forever in this glorious night.   

  It is time.  I can feel it.  The burn of the morning sun calls out to me. 

Opening the front door I can see the decaying remains of my last night being choked out by the new morning sun.  Maybe if I hurry I can hold on to my beloved night for just one more fleeting moment. 

“Where to lady?” the cabbie asks. 

Safe in the cab I turn back to the home I have known for an eternity.  Lewis is standing naked at the upstairs window watching this cowardly death of the life I have come to love.  I place my hand on the glass still cool with night’s embrace.  We hold each other for one last time. 

“Long night?” he adds looking in the direction of my gaze. 

“The longest.  And my last.”  I reply never taking my eyes off my captor, my savior, my lover, my friend… my destruction. 

“If we never drown we never know how well it tastes.  So tell me how it tastes and I know just how well you drown” 

“What?”  

“Nothing, just a line in a song.  Where can I take you?” 

“Kaplan Drug Rehab. Hospital.  West 7^th.” 

And with those few words my last night is gone.  The sun breaks through the darkness.  My death is complete.  Now all I have to do is… learn to live.

Standing before the fork in the road

Wishing for the road “less traveled”

Both over grown with thorns and brambles

What travelers lament, I can only guess

For today I have to choose a fated quest

Which shall I pick the right turn or wrong

Tomorrow I will surely know

But for today, all I can say is

Off I go!!!

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT:

I watch with amused anticipation, each day from my windowed office, the bag lady in the house coat and pink slippers. She shuffles past my window every afternoon around three, pulling behind her a shopping cart full of discarded junk. I wonder in amazement at the odds and ends she has acquired over these long winter months; the pink slippers showing up only a week ago. Where did she find them? Were they a gift or picked out of a neighborhood dumpster? They look right at home on her feet as if she was wearing tennis shoes or sturdy boots. It is not with pity that I watch, expecting her daily arrival, but with wonder. She always caries with her a smile and gives it away with warmth. Today she is early and gives me a wave. I return the gesture in kind. Before she is gone from my site she spies a discarded treasure. She bends down to pick it up, smiling with excitement at what she has found. I once again stare in wonder and amazement as she flourishes her prize like a jeweled incrusted sword. She flashes me a warm smile of triumph and disappears around the corner. Some people are especially pleased to find a fork in the road. *wink*