Shawn Main

Love Story

Mon, 29 Apr 2013 05:02:10 -0400

Her shoe tapped to an invisible rhythm. I looked to see if she had earbuds in. You know, trying to look without making it obvious you’re trying to look. Five silver hoops piercing her left ear, one thin barbell. No earbuds. The music was locked away inside her.

She held a worn volume in her hands. The spine was ragged, pages taped desperately together with the cover torn away. I wanted to lean in and ask her what the book was. Ask her why it made it her smile. Ask her how she could concentrate under the harsh neon lights. Ask her where she found her peace.

I kept quiet. This was not the place to make small talk with a pretty stranger.

The plastic of my chair made me rock from one ass cheek to the other. I wondered why I never brought a book with me. These things always take longer than you expect.

I wondered why the waiting room always smelled so sickly clean.

On the bus ride home, I watched the rain streak like tears down the window. Cars with bright daytime headlights honked and splashed water at one another. The bus creaked with every turn.

“Hey,” said a voice. It was the girl from the waiting room, sitting across from me. She leaned in like we had a secret. “How’d it go?”

“Oh, you know.” I shrugged. “I can’t understand a fucking word that doctor says.”

She laughed. A big laugh where she squeezed her eyes shut and sucked in breath and let it out in short gasps. I could see all her teeth. Other passengers eyed us like we were crazy people.

“There is evidence of increased central lucency, consistent with central necrosis,” I repeated.

“What does that mean?” she said and wiped her eyes.

“I have no idea,” I said. She laughed again and I couldn’t help but laugh with her.

Yeah

Mon, 19 Sep 2011 02:36:31 -0400

There was glitter on his hands.

“I should punch you in the mouth,” I said. I didn’t know if he would hear me. Television. 3 am. Beer.

Outside rain hit the pavement with a hiss.

“Oh, yeah?” he said. He had beautiful, big eyes. He aimed them at me, but they didn’t quite focus.

“Yeah,” I said. I took a swig of my beer. “Yeah, I should beat you senseless.”

“Yeah?” he said. He let his head loll back against the couch. Those big eyes closed. The couch was the color of puke.

“Yeah. I’ll drag you into that bedroom and I’ll swat your ass til it’s red and covered in welts.”

He shook his head lazily from side to side.

“Why do you want to cover me in welts?” He was having trouble focusing. “There are much better things we could do in the bedroom.”

“It’s my fetish,” I told him.

“Yeah?” he said. I don’t think any of the conversation was registering in his brain.

“And you couldn’t do anything else in that bedroom right now,” I said.

“Probably,” he said. He scratched at his crotch with one hand. The glitter around his fingernails shimmered.

“So who is she?” I asked. I finished my beer and set it on the floor. I slid my foot up his leg and kicked his hand out of the way. I could feel his dick through his jeans, through his boxers. I nudged it with my toes. “Some little slut?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Some little slut.”

“Oh?” I ground my heel into his thigh. “And do you like to bone?”

His big eyes opened. He looked around and squinted at the light. I couldn’t tell whether he recognized the place. The television was on too loud so we could hear it over the rain. I wasn’t paying attention to the television. I was thinking about that first night when he held my hand under the table at the diner. Like we were sharing a secret.

“We should go to bed,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said.

He fixed his gaze on me, trying to keep his eyelids up. “I like you,” he said.

“Yeah?” I said.

He closed his eyes. The floor was littered with empty bottles. I turned off the TV. I didn’t know how much I’d remember in the morning.

“Bill,” I said. He made a noise, but I’m sure he was asleep. “I like the magical moments better than the sober ones.”

Primitive Tools

Tue, 09 Aug 2011 03:38:42 -0400

Rose was slowly taking shape on the canvas. She had a chin, but no nose. She had breasts, but no nipples. She had ears, but they were too, too delicate- mere nubs of color. She had hands and she had fingers, which were splayed like bursts of paint. Her neck had the right arch. Her body the correct line. Her skin its true hue.

Eric’s water was muddy with color. His wine glass was nearly empty. There was red paint smeared on his jeans.

“It’s looking good,” he said, tracing the shadow along Rose’s inner thigh.

“What?” asked Rose- the real Rose, who shifted in her seat and looked up from her text book. “Is it ready?”

“It needs more detail,” said Eric.

“Are you going to finish it?” asked Rose.

“Probably not tonight,” said Eric.

She stood and stretched- balanced on her tip toes, her arms wide, her mouth contorting in a yawn. Eric shaded and her hips had form. Rose pressed herself against his side. Her body was warm against him.

“She doesn’t have eyes or a mouth,” said Rose.

“I’ll get to them,” said Eric.

“It’s like she’s made of glass,” said Rose.

Eric set down the brush and wrapped his arms around her. She reached out her hand and carressed the painting’s face, catching the wet colors on the pads of her fingers.

“Any first impressions?” asked Eric. He pressed his lips against the bony part of her shoulder.

Rose was silent. She shrugged and pulled away. She stepped lightly across the room and poured herself a glass of wine. Eventually, she said, “You have such primitive tools.”

“You’re melodramatic,” he said.

“You’re melodramatic,” she said.

“You’re my muse,” he said.

“Don’t call me that,” she said and took a chug of her wine. Eric continued to paint his way along Rose’s ribs. “Such fucking primitive tools.”

Starlings-1 by magnetisch

Tue, 17 Aug 2010 01:16:47 -0400

Starlings-1 by magnetisch

Abra's Tattoos - part 1

Tue, 17 Aug 2010 01:10:49 -0400

On Monday, walking to school, a boy Abra didn’t know approached her and complimented her tattoos. She needed to look down to check what they were. On her left bicep was a flock of birds in flight. On her right forearm was the word “explore.” The ink was faded and old. Both could use touching up.

Abra said “thanks” and asked what his name was. She didn’t care, but wanted to avoid questions about the tattoos.

He said, “Aaron,” and asked her what kind of birds they were.

Abra said she didn’t know.

Aaron said, “So you just walked into the tattoo parlor and said you wanted birds?”

Abra didn’t care for his enthusiasm. He had big eyes and drooping shoulders that bobbed up and down as he walked. She said, “Something like that.”

Aaron said, “Ha!” and threw his head back. Abra couldn’t decide whether it was a forced gesture or genuine.

Aaron said, “Did they hurt?”

Abra said, “I expect.”

Aaron asked about the meaning behind the birds.

Abra said, “I don’t know. These are my sister’s tattoos.”

* * *

During science class, Abra couldn’t concentrate. Mr. Dust was explaining chemical bonds, but the words tumbled from his lips and through her head without latching onto anything.

Abra shifted in her seat. Her desk was too small. The air conditioner was too cold. The birds on her arm were too still. She wanted them to fly off her skin and out the door. She flicked their silhouettes and said, “Go!”

Abra eyed the windows. She imagined herself dashing across the classroom with such sudden speed that she could escape her skin and leave it as a discarded husk on the floor. She imagined throwing her bleeding muscles against the window. She imagined a cloud of biting glass, red strings of blood, and the sun, warm against her exposed organs. She would land on all fours. She would race across the soft grass of the courtyard. She would bound over cars in the parking lot. The asphalt would be rough, the metal smooth, but hot. She would climb the brick jungle of the city and escape it in one desperate, skinless charge.

“Abra!” said Mr. Dust and she jumped. The dream curdled. “We’re having class up here today.”

Abra nodded and tried to smile. She was sure her expression looked contemptuous. Mr. Dust returned to his lecture. She shivered. The room was cold and her tattooed birds were trapped in a sky of goose bumps.

* * *

After class, Mr. Dust asked Abra if everything was alright. He said, “You aren’t acting like yourself today.”

Abra shook her head.

Mr. Dust said, “I don’t know if you’re agreeing or disagreeing with me.”

Abra looked at the whiteboard. It was marked with arcane formulae that seemed to depict ripples in the water. She said nothing.

Mr. Dust sighed. He asked, “How are things at home?”

She thought about her father’s magic act. He was working on an illusion in which he wrote down information and sealed it in an envelope, appearing to predict a variety of personal details about an audience member. He had worked out the misdirection, but was still perfecting his left-handed penmanship.

Abra asked Mr. Dust if he could identify her birds. He put on his glasses and leaned down to squint at her arm. Up so close, Abra could see the wrinkles around his eyes and the ruddy blotches around his nose.

He said that they looked like starlings, pointing out the short tail and how the distant ones appeared black, but that you could see speckled green and purple feathers on the birds near her elbow. He explained that the European Starling was introduced to the United States by someone who was attempting to collect all the birds referenced by Shakespeare.

Mr. Dust said, “Someone releases a few dozen birds in Central Park and now there are millions of them in the country.”

Abra traced her fingers over the lines and imagined the starlings as colonists on her body. She said, “So they don’t belong here?”

Mr. Dust said, “No. They’re an old world bird. Here they’re a pest and they’ve displaced a lot of native species.”

Abra asked, “Can we do something about them?”

Mr. Dust shrugged. “What could you do? They don’t have any predators and we couldn’t kill or sterilize them all.”

Abra thought about her sister, Adelaide. When Abra was twelve and Adelaide was fifteen, Adelaide cropped her hair into a short bob and dyed it black. Their father said, “What would your mother think?” and slammed the door to his bedroom. The next day he asked Abra to cut her hair the same way.

Three years later, Adelaide got the tattoos that were now on Abra’s arms. Their father didn’t say anything. He just stopped asking Adelaide to participate in his act. Soon, he stopped talking to her entirely and then one day she was gone.

Abra didn’t know if he’d spoken her name since.

“So what can we do about your concentration?” asked Mr. Dust.

Abra’s right arm said “explore.” She wished it would say something else. She wished she’d woken up that morning with different tattoos. She rubbed her arms and regretted not wearing long sleeves.

* * *

emptythreats: Raoul UbacPortrait dans un miroir

Tue, 17 Aug 2010 01:07:48 -0400

emptythreats:

Raoul Ubac
Portrait dans un miroir

Abra's Tattoos - part 2

Tue, 17 Aug 2010 01:07:00 -0400

At lunch, Abra avoided her classmates’ gazes. She sat in front of the wide cafeteria windows with her earbuds in and her music loud enough to kill the universe. She watched seniors in the parking lot get into their cars. She studied their gaits. They used to seem so old to her, but now they were like overeager children who hadn’t yet mastered the movement of their legs.

The glass reflected someone standing behind her- someone whose bony shoulders shifted up and down nervously.

Abra said, “Hi, Aaron.”

She couldn’t see the reflection’s eyes, but she could see the white of his teeth as he smiled. He set his tray onto the table beside her. On the tray was a book with its spine so creased it looked like its pages were attempting a mutiny. As You Like It. William Shakespeare. Penguin edition.

Abra removed one of her earbuds. Aaron crumpled into a chair.

Aaron said, “Hi, Abra.”

“Hi, Aaron,” Abra said again. She wondered if that was polite enough or if she would need to make small talk.

Aaron clapped his hands over his ears in a dramatic gesture. He said, “Loud enough?”

Abra paused her music. A thousand vacuous voices chattered in the cafeteria and fought for her attention. She clenched her jaw and tried to focus only on Aaron’s voice.

Aaron said, “You’re going to go deaf by 18.”

Abra considered saying, “Who are you, my father?” but it wasn’t actually the sort of thing her father would say. Instead, she said, “That’s the point. I don’t want to have to hear anyone.”

Aaron nodded. Then he shook his head and said, “Yeah.” He gestured to the window. “Aren’t you so jealous that they can leave for lunch?”

Outside, a boy with a varsity jacket and a military haircut had pinned a girl with a dress-code-inappropriate skirt against the passenger door of his SUV. His hands rested stiffly on her breasts. Her hands fluttered at random as if she couldn’t decide what to do with them. Abra could see spit bubbling from their lips.

Abra said, “Why? So I can have a quickie at someone’s house? So I can smoke at the edge of school grounds? So I can go into a diner and have exactly the same insipid conversation I’d be having here?” Abra took a swig of her coffee. Aaron stared at his lunch. The coffee was too bitter. She hated the taste of it. “No. Those assholes have to come back just like everyone else. 45 minutes isn’t exactly an escape.”

Aaron ran his fork across his plate. He said, “I got you all wrong, didn’t I?”

Abra started to say, “Sorry,” but then thought better of it.

Outside, the kissing couple broke apart and drove away. The flurry of activity was over; the rush of bodies was gone, scattered throughout suburbia. The remaining cars looked abandoned.

Aaron straightened his back. He said, “I thought you were lonely, but really you just want to hide from everything…”

Abra said, “Something like that.”

Aaron said, “…including yourself.”

He stood and lifted his tray. Abra looked up at him. His big eyes seemed to shake in his head. Abra said, “Look, I don’t mean to be rude. I just get like this sometimes. I…” She stopped and smiled, trying to make it look sympathetic. “Probably best just to leave me be.”

Aaron said, “Come with me.” Abra tilted her head. “Come with me,” he said again. “We’ll go hide together.”

It was a cheesy thing to say. It was like a line in a movie, where the two mixed up strangers came together to learn about themselves and fall in love. Abra wondered if Aaron saw himself that way- as the protagonist in a bittersweet story about growing up. She said, “No, Aaron.”

Aaron’s chest sank. He reached out his hand and touched her shoulder where her birds looked like nothing but tiny stars. His fingers trembled.

Abra said, “You should probably just leave me alone.” She turned away from him and unpaused her music. The noise drowned the chorus of the other tables. She breathed easier. Aaron’s drooping reflection lingered behind her.

* * *

“And now, good sir, if you would be so kind as to tell me which card it is you want.”

Abra stopped outside her front door. She could hear her father speaking in the kitchen. He was using his booming “Alexander the Great” stage voice. Abra knew he would be alone, practicing.

“No, I’m serious. What do you want? The ace of diamonds? The three of clubs?… or, and this is just between you and me, are you the kind of man who’s after the queen of hearts?”

Abra opened the door and stepped inside. Something came flying at her face. Instinctively, she ducked and a playing card sailed past her. It bounced off the door and fell neatly into the umbrella stand.

“Ab! My good girl! Sorry about that! I almost took your head off.”

In the center of the kitchen, her father stood stiff and tall in his white tuxedo with its long tails. Cards were scattered across the floor, the table, the countertops, the stove, and each step of the staircase leading up to the bedrooms.

He said, “And I don’t do that anymore.”

Abra set her backpack down and fished the queen of hearts from the umbrella stand. Her father went through at least six decks each night, rehearsing for his show. Every nook and cranny had a card in it. She’d found cards on the tops of cabinets, inside pages of books, stuck to the shower wall. Their house was filled with cards the way most were filled with dust.

Abra said, “No, no you don’t” and held her right hand over her left bicep to cover the tattoos.

Her father said, “So, Ab…” She waited for him to ask how her day was and what was new in her life. They didn’t talk much, except when he was pretending she was an audience member. He said, “So, Ab, what card would you like?” and produced two decks of cards, flourishing them in perfect fans.

She said, “The hanged man?”

He stared blankly. She didn’t know whether he didn’t get her joke or was ignoring it or was trying to figure out a bit of patter in case someone said the same thing during a show.

She said, “The two of spades.”

He said, “Of course!” and flicked a card from the deck at her. “I should’ve known that’s what you’d want.”

She caught it and held it up to show him. She didn’t look at it.

He said, “Yes, the two of swords is more your speed. Best to let the major arcana be…”

His voice trailed off. Abra looked down at the card. Two of spades. Then she realized she had let go of her arm and he could see the ascent of her tattooed birds. She dropped the card.

His expression was blank. He let his stage voice go and said, “I should clean these up. I need to go in an hour.”

Abra nodded. Her father looked around the room like he was seeing it for the first time and didn’t know what to do. There was flawless pallor to his face, broken only by his high, red cheekbones that appeared as if he had carefully applied rouge to look young. Abra knew he had not.

She said, “Dad, where did Adelaide go?”

He stared at the wall. His chest rose and fell evenly. Abra sucked in her breath and held it.

The wallpaper throughout the house was yellowed and peeling. Some rooms contained single walls that were brightly colored from days when Abra had decided she should brighten the place. Once when she was feeling feisty, she decided the upstairs hallway needed a mural. She painted ferns and jungle cats, exotic fruits and waterfalls, but the project was abandoned after a day and half the hall remained a dull off white.

Her father said, “When you’re 18, all your sentences tend to begin with the word ‘I’. She’s doing what she needs to.”

Abra said, “Do you have an email address?”

Upstairs, Adelaide’s room was covered by a thick layer of cobwebs. Abra had never forced the rusty lock, but she had peered through the keyhole many times.

Abra said, “Or do you know what city she’s in?”

Abra’s father said, “She’s doing what she needs to.” Abra couldn’t decide whether he heard her questions.

* * *

Rooftops

Tue, 22 Jun 2010 04:54:00 -0400

Jack pried open the door with the “no access” sign. That part had gotten easy with practice. Kara was full of giggles beside him and clung to his wrist with both her hands. When the wood cracked, she whispered “shhh” and looked over her shoulder.

“Uh oh,” said Jack, “did the police catch us?”

“Nooo,” said Kara as if the question required a serious response. “But the people in 4B could come out.”

Jack said, “We’ll just tell them that you’re the new janitor.”

Kara screwed up her face. Her nose turned up at him and twitched once. He had the sudden urge to reach down and take the tip of it between his teeth. It was something he used to do with Ella.

Jack held the door open. “Roof. Final destination.”

Kara took the steps two at a time. Jack was out of breath when he reached the top. He wondered what good three years without cigarettes had done him.

The sky was blushing a deep red. Jack could smell the ocean. Dozens of gulls called out “caw” and “caw caw” from every direction.

“Look!” yelled Kara. She stood at the edge of the roof. Her thin flip-flops dangled off her toes and Jack wondered if one was about to go sailing down four flights. He checked the rooftop for broken glass.

“It’s cracking a crab!” said Kara and she waved her arms. Jack joined her at the edge and put his arm around her hips.

On the pavement below, just before the sidewalks gave way to sandy beach, a gull carried a crab in its bill. The pincers and legs dangled. The gull shook its head and beat its gray wings.

“There it goes again,” said Kara.

The bird rose up into the air and, flapping hard, hovered by the second floor windows. It opened its bill and the crab plummeted into the earth. The gull circled once and landed. It hurried over to the crab and started picking through smashed bits of shell.

“Isn’t it cute?” asked Kara.

Jack cocked his head and considered the bird. There was something captivating about watching it eat, but cute? It looked more like an angry, old man to him.

“We should have brought bread to throw,” said Kara.

“No,” he said, “it’s bad for them.”

“Screw that,” said Kara, “Everything fun is no good for you. They would have come to us. We’d be surrounded.”

Jack didn’t say anything. He watched cranes unload cargo from a ship at the harbor.

“Look at that,” said Kara. “It looks like the sun is sitting on the ocean.”

Jack looked at her. She wore earrings like little stars. Her eyes were very blue. She glanced at him and screwed up her face. Her nostrils flared. The tip of her nose twitched.

“We should have brought beer,” she said.

“Goddamn,” he said and looked out across the water towards the sunset. The sky was sheathed in pinks, purples, and reds. It looked garish to Jack now, as if it were trying to show off every color the world could produce.

Alcohol used to be a staple when he brought dates onto rooftops to watch the sunset. When he was 21 like Kara, there was always an excitement at being legal that made it a necessity. Four years with Ella and they all but stopped drinking. Then they all but stopped making love. Then he said, “It’s dead. We’ve killed it.” And he left.

He looked down now as the gull dug through crab guts with its beak. He wondered how much meat the bird could get from a single crab. Other gulls landed nearby and cawed threats at the eater.

Jack said, “That bird needs to go through that goddamn routine every day, doesn’t he?”

(via anodien)

Fri, 16 Apr 2010 04:12:55 -0400

(via anodien)

Small Talk

Fri, 16 Apr 2010 04:12:00 -0400

“Ugh,” said Rose. “Can’t you say you hate me instead?”

“What?” I asked. Her body was suddenly tense under mine.

“Don’t do that. Don’t you goddamn lie to yourself like that,” she said.

I brushed the hair away from her eyes, wanting to recapture the mood. “Well, then,” I said, gently, “I hate you so much.”

Rose didn’t say anything, but her upper lip twitched. Wrinkles formed around her nose. She went into the bathroom and slammed the door.

Rose had been wrapped around me all evening. During the movie, she’d pulled up my shirt and toyed with my nipple, saying “My god! I just love touching you.” I blushed in the dark of the theater and put my arm around her.

When she emerged from the bathroom, she looked annoyed to see me still there. I asked about the teddy bear on her dresser.

She said, “Do you really care about the crap my grandmother made me when I was little?”

“Well,” I said, “I’m curious.” And I was curious, but mostly I was afraid if we didn’t start talking that we’d be cast into uncomfortable silence.

“I should get some sleep,” she said.

We lay on opposite sides of the bed. I wondered if Rose would mind me curling up beside her, but I didn’t want to disturb her when she was upset with me. So I listened to her breathing and stared at the teddy bear on the dresser. The button eyes were blank and the stitching down the sides looked fragile. It was the sort of present a child might be given and then told to never touch.

* * *

I awoke to Rose straddling me. Her hair hung down in her eyes. I could see the freckles on her naked shoulders. She ground her pelvis against mine.

“Sex?” she said and ran her fingernails across my chest.

I nodded and yawned. I was exhausted. My sleep had been patchy. Mostly, I’d tried to figure out what I should say to Rose in the morning. I imagined us playfully saying “I hate you” back and forth. It would be adorable. Someday, we’d be an old couple sitting in rocking chairs, sweetly saying “I hate you so much” back and forth.

Rose unzipped my fly and tugged at my pants.

“I meant it,” I said.

From between my legs, she looked up at me and cocked her head to one side like she didn’t understand what I was talking about.

“Last night,” I said, prompting her.

Bitter recognition crossed her face. “God fucking dammit,” she said. She shook her head and clenched her hands.

“Rose,” I said.

“You don’t fucking get it, do you?” she said. “It’s like you’re a fucking wind-up robot. It’s…”

She trailed off. “This was a mistake.”

I left. I walked out into the street. My mind raced. I tried to figure out what had happened, what I could do to make things better.

That night I told my roommate the story. She said, “Fuck it. I don’t care how hot she is- it isn’t worth it.”

“But I think I’m in love with Rose,” I said.

She didn’t say anything else. I wanted to keep talking, but I felt ashamed. I felt annoyed at Rose, angry even, but, try as I might, I couldn’t feel hate.

via luceplace, liquidnight, Giacomo Brunelli - Untitled - from...

Thu, 08 Apr 2010 03:40:00 -0400

via luceplace, liquidnight, Giacomo Brunelli - Untitled - from The Animals

Insomniac, part 1

Thu, 08 Apr 2010 03:39:11 -0400

Insomniac: Whole story, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

Tariq checked the clock. Again. He watched the red, glaring digits as 2:59 became 3:00.

He stared at the ceiling. Light from the street lamps outside leaked through tiny holes in the window shade and speckled the room with oblong, amber shapes. Tariq squinted and the shapes seemed to become swarms of tiny insects, crawling over each other on the walls.

He sighed. He thought it would be a good idea to get up and get a drink of water, but he didn’t like moving around the apartment at night. Whenever he turned on a light, the inevitable cockroaches would scurry for the walls and skitter under furniture. If he didn’t go out there, he wouldn’t have to think about them.

“You need to be up in three and a half hours,” thought Tariq. He turned on his right side and shut his eyes.

Layoffs were coming. 15% if the rumors were true. His manager had been on a pin all week. She cursed whenever someone walked into her office and apologized whenever anyone finished a project. Brad, his only friend in the department, kept asking Tariq about his sales numbers. Tariq felt uncomfortable when he admitted they were twice Brad’s. Brad said he didn’t know what he’d do if he were let go. He said no one was hiring. Tariq didn’t say anything. He was worried he wouldn’t be in the 15%. He wanted the excuse to leave. He’d been an art history major. He had no love for finance.

Of course, he didn’t know how he would pay his rent without the job.

“Don’t worry about work. You can’t solve anything tonight,” thought Tariq. He rolled onto his left side and squirmed until the mattress molded around his body. He pulled a pillow to his chest and spooned it.

Tariq thought about how he used to fantasize about sex as a way to fall asleep. He’d imagine himself someplace mundane- the laundromat, the library, the grocery store. He’d be washing his clothes or reading a book or buying dinner and from the corner of his eye Tariq would notice that a stranger was watching him. Tariq would look back and be surprised by how stunning this stranger was. They would hold each other’s gaze. They would bite their lips. They would hold their breath. And then, without a word, they’d be kissing, they’d be groping, they’d be fucking, they’d be doing obscene things atop the washing machine, the returns cart, the frozen foods case. Onlookers would point. A crowd would gather, offended and aroused. And at some point, Tariq would slip from fantasies to dreaming. And he’d be asleep.

But tonight it wasn’t working. Instead of a sexy stranger, Shelly appeared beside him at the bus stop in his mind. Her gaze wasn’t suggestive. She gave him a polite nod and turned away. Tariq was uncomfortable. They’d broken up nine months ago, so he figured it must have been a year since he’d last had sex. He missed Shelly, but even more, he was jealous of her. She’d gotten a job with a paper in Boston, she was dating someone, and, if her facebook photos were any indication, she was happy. In his imagination, Tariq watched while Shelly stepped onto the bus and was gone.

“Sleep,” thought Tariq, “you need sleep.” He twisted in the blanket. He could feel his heart beat. He tried to calm it. He focused on his breath. His inhalations were shallow. His exhalations had ragged edges.

“Fuck!” said Tariq aloud and he opened his eyes.

“Fruitless,” he thought.

“Wide awake,” he said.

In the darkness of the room, the dots of light on the ceiling resembled distant stars. Tariq closed his right eye and studied the stars. He imagined himself lying in a field, camping, with the Milky Way spread out like infinity above him. The stars twinkled. He made up constellations. He could see Anubis’s Scales and Yoni Major, Bifrost and Spanakopita.

Tariq had never been camping. He’d spent most of his life in the city surrounded by people and light pollution. Most nights you were lucky to be able to see the moon. The thought of being alone in the forest made him feel cold. He shook the thought from his head.

3:21.

It was no use. He would need to get up and move around, tire himself out. Tariq braced himself for the cockroaches.

Insomniac: Whole story, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

(via lusciousrays)

Thu, 08 Apr 2010 03:39:08 -0400

(via lusciousrays)

Insomniac, part 2

Thu, 08 Apr 2010 03:39:07 -0400

Insomniac: Whole story, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

The night was icy. Tariq’s breath was like fog and he regretted not putting on gloves. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his pajama pants and squeezed his shoulders up to his ears to protect his neck from the cold

“Just walk,” he told himself.

The streets seemed naked without the daytime crowds. Tariq felt exposed. In distant intersections, he could hear taxis murmur and whoosh with a sound like rushing water. High rises loomed like great, sleeping beasts, their curtained windows like so many closed eyes.

Tariq passed the subway entrance he used every day. It was barred with a sign directing the after-midnight crowd to another entrance down the street.

Tariq passed the shop with the all-night deli where he sometimes stopped on weekends en route home from the bars. The cashier would call him “usstaz” and Tariq would play with his phone to avoid small talk. The neon lights seemed garish at 3 AM. Inside, a man Tariq didn’t recognize slept upright behind the counter.

Tariq passed old churches with tiny courtyards and locked gates. He passed new restaurants hidden behind security shutters. He passed traffic lights leaning with the wind.

When Tariq reached the Rubicon Square Plaza with its staggering arch and statues of Roman legionnaires, he stopped. In the glow of the flood lights, it seemed like holy ground and the bronze figures seemed superhuman. It was as if Caesar, enormous atop his chariot, might have bent secret, ancient joints to turn his head and look at Tariq to tell him he was not welcome here, that this was a place for heroes and gods.

Caesar did not do this. The statues did not deign to acknowledge Tariq’s presence and he, cowed, did nothing to draw their attention.

Air whistled through the arch and the flag whipped to and fro on its pole. Tariq’s teeth chattered. His nose stung. He couldn’t feel his fingers. He shook.

“This is far enough,” he thought. “You don’t want frostbite. You don’t want someone to find you passed out on a park bench, frozen solid.”

He didn’t think that was how frostbite worked, but he knew he didn’t want it. Maybe he could go back and read the phonebook. Boring himself to sleep felt superior to suffering exposure. He bowed towards Caesar and turned to leave.

“I have found you, murd’rous beast!” called a voice.

Tariq jumped. He had believed himself alone. He had passed no one. He wasn’t aware of any other insomniacs out for 3 AM strolls. He searched for the source of the sound. He looked at the mouths of the statues. Some were open as if in battle cries. He circled around the arch.

On the far side was a man who wore what Tariq could only imagine was a paper-mache demon mask. On its forehead were enormous horns, curved and pointing toward the sky. The man was very tall, very slender and not dressed for winter. The mask wobbled on his head as he moved around the statue of a legionnaire as if he were dancing with it.

He spun. He leapt. He leaned against the soldier and gripped it by its bronze arms.

Tariq was rapt. He stood very still and said nothing.

The soldier was poised as if to strike. The stranger hugged his body tight to the statue and let his head fall back. Tariq could see the stranger’s eyes in the mask. They were wide and terror-stricken. The man let out a low cry, bestial and anguished.

Tariq wondered if the masked man had hurt himself. Perhaps in the exuberance of his dance he had cut himself on the statue’s bronze spear.

The masked man released the statue and Tariq had the momentary illusion that the statue had pushed the stranger away. The man crashed to the ground with a thump. The mask twisted as if his neck had snapped. His arms twitched and his body went limp.

Tariq sucked in his breath. He looked around the square. Empty but for the effigies and they were hardly about to help. Tariq didn’t dare approach the stranger, but he wanted to check for blood. He wanted to see if the crumpled man was breathing. He couldn’t call 911- his phone was still sitting bedside. The only item in his pockets was his apartment key.

Then, as suddenly as he fell, the stranger bounded to his feet. He dusted himself off and adjusted the mask so it rested squarely on his shoulders. And then he strode away, horns bouncing.

Tariq was stunned.

He didn’t know what he had just witnessed. He felt like his brain was groping in the darkness for some kind of explanation. He looked up at the statue of Caesar. Caesar was stoic.

He considered the buildings that bordered the square. The mall was dark. An office building was closed. There was a high rise, but each of its lights was out.

He looked to the statue that was momentarily the horned man’s bronze dancing partner. The soldier looked silly to Tariq now, waiting for an enemy who would never be there. Tariq walked over and examined it closely. The face was young- teeth gritted fiercely, but with eyes squeezed shut as if it feared what was to come.

Tariq noticed something lying at the legionnaire’s feet. It looked like a sword. He stooped and picked it up, finding it to be two wooden boards nailed together in a cross. The long plank was coated thickly in spray paint to give it the convincing appearance of an edge. He wondered why the stranger would have left the thing lying in the plaza.

Down the street, Tariq could see the horned man as a distant silhouette.

Tariq wondered what time it was.

He sheathed the faux weapon down one of the legs of his pajama pants. He rubbed his hands together.

“Shit, it’s cold,” he thought and he left the square, following the stranger deeper into the night.

Insomniac: Whole story, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

(via foralskelse)

Thu, 08 Apr 2010 03:39:06 -0400

(via foralskelse)

Insomniac, part 3

Thu, 08 Apr 2010 03:39:05 -0400

Insomniac: Whole story, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

Centre St. Grace Ave. Columbus St. Sunset Ave. Covert St. Lynch Pl. Penn Circle. Keep St. Bleecker Ave.

Tariq had to struggle to keep up. He knew the street names, but in his head they were a jumble and he couldn’t remember how one connected to the next, where each connected with the street that came before it.

All around him were brownstones and vacant lots. Homeless men slept like accordions braced in doorways. Barred windows protected cracked glass. Streetlights flickered.

Tariq walked quickly, but struggled to keep pace with the masked man whose legs moved with grace and ease. Every block or two, the man would stop outside an apartment building to take the lid off a trash can. Every time, Tariq would freeze. This was his opportunity to approach. He could return the fake weapon and ask the stranger what he was doing, who he was. But every time the man stopped, Tariq became self conscious.

“Here’s your sword. Who are you?” seemed like such an inadequate greeting given the late hour.

Instead, Tariq would watch as the man held his mask steady with one hand to reach inside the trash can with the other. Then the stranger would replace the lid and skip onwards. And Tariq would wonder why he didn’t say anything.

Outside a grocery store, the stranger pulled a bag of grapes from the trash. He spun the bag and studied them carefully. In the alley beside a bakery, Tariq peered around a corner to watch as he retrieved bagels and muffins, boxed quiches and flattened doughnuts.

Standing in the dumpster in front of a building labeled “Canal Street Casket Company,” the stranger lofted a long, white sheet and a long, black sheet. He held them up with outstretched arms and let them hang down as if checking the length. He wound the black sheet tightly and tucked it into the back of his jeans. It seemed to form into a thin tail. He shook his ass and the tail swatted at the air.

Tariq stood at the chain link fence of a used car lot as secret voyeur to the stranger’s scavenging. Trash bags were piled high all around. He steadied himself against a No Parking sign.

The man wrapped the white sheet around himself. He bent at the waist and flattened his back, so the sheet hung to the ground. When he raised his neck, suddenly the mask with the long horns made sense to Tariq. The man had disappeared and, in his place, there was a white bull with a paper-mache head. It dug through the dumpster with a hoof and let out a low bellow. Its nostrils flared.

Tariq’s brain swirled at this magical performance. He felt like the world was tilting and he was about to slide off. With a cry, he let go of the signpost and careened backwards into the fence. He rolled off it and down into a pile of garbage bags. The wooden sword smashed into his thigh and splinters burrowed into his skin. He turned on his side and struggled to regain his breath.

Across the street, the bull stood on its hind legs and lifted its forelegs to its head. Then the mask was gone and then the bull was gone and a man stood in the dumpster. He looked down at Tariq. His face was young- no older than 19 or 20- with a sharp chin and long eyelashes.

Tariq stared and the stranger stared back. For a moment, neither moved, neither made a sound.

Then Tariq tried to speak, tried to say, “Excuse me” but his words came as a fit of coughing.

And then he was aware there was something moving on the other side of the fence. Tariq turned to see a beast’s slobbering jaws as the thing raced at him. He saw mangy fur. He saw yellow fangs. He saw spittle spewing in every direction. But mostly he saw the two heads on a single torso. The guard dog slammed against the fence less than a foot from where Tariq lay. The chains bulged under its weight. One head growled. The other howled like a wolf.

Tariq felt his mouth open to form a scream, but the sound was drowned by the unearthly barking.

Then there was another sound, issuing from somewhere in the refuse around him. It was a voice, withered and commanding. It said, “What are you doing here?”

And Tariq didn’t know how to respond. He felt like his lungs had collapsed in his chest.

The barking was frantic. He couldn’t concentrate.

“What the hell do you think you’re you doing here?” repeated the voice.

Tariq’s muscles tensed. He wanted to roll over. He wanted to get up and run, but instead his body balled up, making him smaller.

Somewhere down the block another dog began to bark. Its high pitched “yip yip yip” pierced the beast’s cacophony.

“Answer me!”

“I…” said Tariq. “I…” and he couldn’t say anything more. He began to shake, spasms wracking his body. He was cold. He was terrified. He couldn’t tell whether or not he dreamed.

There was a crunch of garbage as someone raised himself up from the trash. Feet shuffled. Bags crinkled. Tariq could smell decay.

Tariq tried in vain to explain himself, “I didn’t mean…”

And then the figure was standing over him like a specter. Old, gray shoes with flapping leather and no laces. A short length of pipe clenched in squat fingers. A wiry beard.

“I asked why you were here.”

Tariq knew the old man. Or, at least, he’d seen him around the neighborhood enough to have dubbed him “Santa Claus.” Tariq used to see him collecting bottles in a sack and he’d say to Shelly, “Looks like Santa’s giving you your neighbor’s recycling this year.” Shelly would laugh and tell him to be quiet. She had a good laugh.

Tariq didn’t want to be thinking about Shelly. He wanted to answer Santa. Tariq said, “I don’t know.”

If he were still with Shelly, she would probably be kicking him in her sleep right now. She had violent nightmares. Tariq once woke to her biting into his hand like it was an apple, like she was trying to tear the skin off.

Santa leaned down. His face was wan and wrinkled. He exhaled a cloud that stank of ether. “Child, this is not your world and you are not welcome.”

Tariq closed his eyes. His mind shut out Santa, shut out the hardness of the concrete beneath his head, shut out the barking of the bicephalic dog, shut out the gripping cold.

He thought instead about work. He thought about his boss and about Brad. He wanted to hug them. He wanted to massage their shoulders and say, “Fuck it.” He thought about his parents. He wanted to tell his mother that he was okay, that he was happy. He wanted to ask his dad to tell him the old story about how he immigrated at 21 knowing only three English phrases: “Hello,” “thank you,” and “I can work.”

He thought about the bull mask and the pretty face underneath it.

Metal thudded against his ribs. He opened his eyes. Santa beat at him with the pipe.

“I told you to go.”

The old man’s eyes were oily and cruel. He slammed the pipe against Tariq’s sternum.

Tariq was full of hate. Before he could think about what he was doing, Tariq was on his feet. Blood rushed into his arms and they felt hot. They felt like someone else’s arms, moving by some other instinct.

Tariq felt as if he were watching himself as his hands reached for the plywood sword in his pants. He felt like a thing possessed as he menaced it at the cracked, homeless man who bore the uncanny resemblance to Santa Claus.

And then he struck the weapon against Santa’s skull and things broke apart. Shards of wood and scraps of silver paint sprayed into the wind. Flecks of red blood spattered across the pavement. Half of the board that would have been the blade clattered to the ground. Santa’s big frame collapsed. His head led his torso down into the curb. Scarlet strings wept from his temple. His eyes peeled back and closed. His mouth went slack and hung open. Air escaped his lungs in wheezes. His pipe rolled into the gutter.

Tariq gripped his broken sword tightly. Santa gurgled. Tariq couldn’t tell if the old man was conscious, but he wasn’t getting up.

Tariq scanned the street. The stranger with the bull mask was gone. The two-headed dog continued its barking, but Tariq felt now like he was seeing a desperate, caged animal. He pitied it and turned away.

He looked up one block and down another. He didn’t know which way to go. Picking a direction at random, he ran.

Insomniac: Whole story, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

(via darksilenceinsuburbia)

Thu, 08 Apr 2010 03:39:04 -0400

(via darksilenceinsuburbia)

Insomniac, part 4

Thu, 08 Apr 2010 03:39:03 -0400

Insomniac: Whole story, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

Tariq was euphoric. He felt like his flesh was steel. Proudly, he held the broken boards at his side as he strode down the white line in the middle of the road. Vaguely he attempted to retrace his path, but his attention was inward. He imagined himself calling out challenges to the sleepers in their beds. He envisioned a coliseum of spectators, leaning out their apartment windows, chanting his name. He saw himself beset by barbarians with long spears mounted atop roaring sedans. He felt barrel chested and waved the sword, pretending to parry and strike.

On the jagged end of the wooden sword, some of splinters were stained red with Santa’s blood. The fantasy collapsed. Tariq’s invincibility deflated. He had hurt a troubled stranger.

He stopped. His heart felt rubbery. He had the sensation he was carrying a murder weapon. He returned to the sidewalk and skirted around the circle of light under a lamp post. He stopped in front of a trash can. He opened the lid to discard the bloodied item, to be done with it. His hand shook.

Tariq imagined the stranger who could transform himself into a bull. He imagined the stranger finding the sword here and realizing what had happened. He imagined the stranger hanging his head in shame.

Tariq slid the sword back down his pant leg. The edges scraped his skin. He wanted to be back in bed.

He continued to walk. His way meandered. He turned corners. He crossed his fingers. He hoped he was aiming himself towards home. He considered knocking on a door and asking directions, but his vision was blurred. Buildings looked like enormous gravestones.

The wind had died down, but the chill remained. A song rose up in the hushed air around Tariq. It was jaunty, half hummed, half whispered. Tariq followed the sound.

“That Dionysos /
He gave me a twirl /
He told my master /
Go without the girl!”

Down the block, a woman sat on the sidewalk with her legs outstretched like a small child. Her gray hair spread in every direction and tangled around itself.

Tariq stared. She had a hammer and chisel in her hands, a metal pail at her side. Carefully, she positioned the chisel in the sidewalk and pounded it with the hammer. She blew away the dust and examined her narrow indentation.

She sang as she worked:

“Well Dionysos /
You’re the god of wine /
My man can’t do it /
Without any twine.”

She continued to chisel until she had a straight line of about three feet, crossing perpendicularly over another crack in the sidewalk. She then lifted her bucket of water and poured it into the indentation. It spread at the cross and filled the crack.

Tariq’s skull felt like lead. He wanted to roll up into a ball in the alley. Instead, he approached. She looked up and squinted. He was reminded of the way witches were drawn in children’s books.

“I’m sorry,” said Tariq.

She cradled her tools to her breast. “Are you from the government?” she said.

Tariq shook his head.

She looked over her shoulder. “They don’t like my art,” she said and she smiled. Her teeth pointed in several directions.

Behind her, Tariq could see rows of cracks in the sidewalk. Some were parallel. Some circled around. Some intersected at odd angles. If he hadn’t seen this old woman carving them, he never would have assumed they had any design.

He stepped closer. Then he stepped back. The cracks were gone and he was staring into giant, thin letters. Invisible to all but the most careful observation, they formed words: you are not in hell yet.

The old woman packed her hammer and chisel into her pockets and sang:

“Dear Dionysos /
He gave me a crown /
Couldn’t get to Olympus /
Without going down!”

Tariq continued to gaze at the letters. His mouth was dry. It was as if the city were whispering secrets in his ear.

Tariq crossed the street and examined the cracks on the opposite sidewalk. At first he thought these were ordinary wear and tear. Then he spotted a distinct N and then an M. The words became clear: Fuck the man.

When he looked up, he noticed that the old woman was waddling away. He hurried to catch her.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I was wondering if you could give me directions. I’m… lost.”

“Yes, yes,” she said. “That’s good. First, we see Flynn. He’ll be starting soon.”

Tariq tried to argue. The exhaustion that he had sought was upon him. He longed to lie in his bed and let go of the night. But the old woman just chortled.

“Come, come,” she said. And he followed.

The sky overhead was a muddy shade of blue, but a mist was settling on the city around Tariq. He could see the faint outlines of distant skyscrapers, but in the haze they looked like arrows pointing towards the heavens.

The old woman’s steps were plodding, but Tariq’s feet were like lead and he shambled along with her.

“You see,” she said, “when I was a little girl- yes, yes, I know, you can’t imagine me without these wrinkles and warts, well, let me tell you, I was not born with them! Well, when I was a little girl, my mother would take me to the park after school. My father, you see, was a mean, old drunk so she didn’t want me home until after he had fallen asleep. So I had to play all afternoon, which might sound like a very nice thing for a little girl, but, let me tell you, I was a shy child. I was embarrassed about my father and I couldn’t speak well. I didn’t dare ask the other children to play with me. So I made up a game- I pretended I was playing hide-and-seek with them and I would hide behind trees and sneak around. No one ever caught me. I could tell myself I was very good at this game and all the children must be impressed. But I knew it wasn’t true and I was very lonely. I longed for a friend.”

The fog grew thick around them until Tariq couldn’t see the buildings on the other side of the street. It felt like the city was being slowly erased. He had the sensation of stepping into limbo.

“This went on for many months,” continued the old woman, “until I was climbing into an apple tree and there was a little boy sitting up there. He says, ‘Oh no! You’ve caught me!’ and runs away. Well, I didn’t know what he was talking about, so I go looking for him and find a girl behind a bush. She says, ‘Phooey!’ and she runs away, too. Well, I chase them and find more children and then more children and more children- they’re under blankets, they’re behind rocks, they’re holding up leaves to look like plants, they’re submerged in the river. By the time my mother comes, there’s one hundred and fifty of us. And they’re just like me- they’re all very shy- this one thinks the children will laugh because he has dirty clothes, that one doesn’t want them to see her limp. So they play their own games by themselves, but now we’re all caught. So the next day, when I get to the park, I know where to look- we can’t hide from each other anymore. And now we can play new games together. I take them to the tree with the most delicious apples. The little boy with the dirty clothes knows about a cave where the snakes mate in a great big ball. The girl with the limp knows a glen where giant caterpillars spin enormous silk chrysalises.”

Through the fog, Tariq could see the inky forms of fishermen. They carried long poles and huddled around the glow of a fire.

“Eventually, I stopped going home,” said the old woman.

She led Tariq towards the fishermen and a great, open gate appeared before them in the fog like the drawbridge of a castle. A gatekeeper stood unmoving atop the structure as if he too were hewn from rock.

Tariq stopped and squinted. The silhouettes didn’t appear to be moving, the fire didn’t flicker.

The old woman motioned for him to keep up. “Come now, he’ll be starting soon,” she said.

Tariq stepped forward tentatively and the frozen figures came into focus. He recognized them as bronze legionnaires with long spears. What he believed to be a gatekeeper was the statue of Caesar, forever making his march toward Rome.

Tariq rejoiced to see Caesar and his army. He knew where he was. He couldn’t see the vanished buildings encircling the Rubicon Square Plaza, but he knew his way home from here.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. He smiled at the old woman. He felt that was insufficient, so he gave a small bow.

She pursed her lips into a pout. “You can’t go yet. Flynn’s performance is about to begin. We can watch- he won’t have to know. Besides, it’s not even dawn yet.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Tariq. “I really need to get to bed.”

She shook her head and raised a dainty hand. He stretched his hand out to shake it and she stuck her nose into the air. He leaned in and kissed the wrinkles on her knuckles. She smiled and held onto his hand. He wanted to say something sweet and poetic, but his head was wrung dry.

“Thank you,” he said again.

The old woman gripped his hand tight and yanked on his arm. He stumbled forward. He tried to pull free, but her grip was firm and she led him around the arch.

“I have to go,” he said.

“Shush!” she said.

“Look!” he said. He wanted to swear at her, but the words wouldn’t come.

In the mist, Tariq spotted someone moving and the old woman stopped. The shadow raised its arms in the air and swung them in circles. Tariq recognized the agility of the movements. It was his masked stranger.

The old woman led him to one of the statues at the edge of the square. She sat just outside the illumination of the floodlights. There was a buoyancy to her. Tariq was reminded of a smitten teenager.

The stranger was visible now. He stood beneath the flagpole. With the spotlights shining up at him, he made faces, opening his mouth wide, then scrunching his eyes closed and squeezing lips together to a tiny point. The muscles across his torso swelled as he stretched.

“His name is Flynn,” said Tariq. It was meant as a question, but his inflection didn’t rise.

“Yes, just like Errol” said the old woman. “Now, sit. If he notices you, he might get too timid to perform.”

“What’s he doing?” asked Tariq.

“He likes to say it’s Euripides, but it’s not.”

Tariq didn’t understand. “Who is performing for?”

“The cockroaches. Now, will you sit?”

Tariq sat. The stone was uncomfortable beneath his legs. He wondered if he would fall asleep against it. The mist obscured the ground. Tariq wondered if there was really an audience of insects in the cracks. He imagined their antennae poking up towards Flynn. He imagined the plaza writhing with thousands of delicate, spiny legs.

“Theseus, my son, you know the suffering time draws near.”

The old woman gripped Tariq’s arm. He turned his attention to Flynn. Flynn stood very tall and stately. His brow furrowed and it drew up wrinkles around his face, giving him a wizened visage.

“This very morning, our ships make ready the black sails for their journey to Crete. This very morning, I am to draw the names of the fourteen youths that will be doomed to act as tribute to Minos’s abomination. This is a heavy morning for me. Yet you, my only son, come to me and entreat me to send you among the condemned.”

Flynn stepped close to one of the statues and spoke to it directly. The statue stared back at him, defiantly, spear and shield in hand.

“If only you could see how the fourteen of times past behaved. When their names were called out, they fell to the earth, they cursed the gods, they wept, they begged. They behaved like the beasts of sacrifice and became little more.”

He shook his head and looked up towards the obscured sky, averting his gaze from the statue.

“You tell me you can slay the monster at the center of the infernal labyrinth, but you do not know what it is you will face. The Minotaur may have the appetites of a beast, but it has the heart of a man. It will not let you go.”

Flynn reached out a quivering hand and placed it on the statue’s shoulder. Tariq felt he could see the statue’s expression soften.

“My child, for so long we have been strangers. When I am gone, this kingdom and all its glories shall be yours. Why must you now dare so much?”

Flynn paused. Tariq waited for the statue to respond. Flynn nodded in resignation. He lifted a white cloth from the ground and unfurled it. The edges were frayed, but it was spotless. Tariq recognized it as one Flynn had recovered from the dumpster outside the casket company.

“If you demand this of me, I will grant it to you and feel like it is myself I have condemned. But promise me, at least, that if your journey prove successful, you will fly this white sail so that I may know the instant I can that you have returned safely home to me.”

Tariq looked to the old woman. She leaned forward, mouth agape. Her hands were tucked tight against her torso. Tariq wrapped his arm around her and she fell against his chest, never diverting her attention away from Flynn.

Flynn’s body transformed. His back arched, his shoulders broadened, his face grew young and defiant. He moved with confidence and courage. He became Theseus the hero. Tariq was transfixed.

“Every man must make his own path,” he said and hoisted a black sheet up the flagpole as his sail. He climbed after it. Tariq had the sensation of the ground rocking back and forth with the waves.

Flynn told the story of the journey to Crete. He told of the cruel hunger of the unholy Minotaur. He told of Theseus’s love affair with the young Ariadne.

Tariq barely breathed lest he disturb the actor.

“Theseus,” said Flynn in the soft voice of a young woman, “I was raised as princess of this isle, but to me it has always been as much a cage as the labyrinth is to the Minotaur. My father, king Minos, betrayed the gods when he did not sacrifice the snow white bull as he had promised. My mother, queen Pasiphae, betrayed the laws of nature when she lay with that bull. They locked the monstrosity within the earth, but they could not so shackle their crimes inside their minds. At night, they cannot sleep. They claw at the walls. They scream. They pray and the gods turn a deaf ear.”

Flynn stepped close to his statue and reached out a tentative hand to brush the statue’s cheek. He blushed and Tariq could feel himself grow warm. The old woman patted his chest and said, “Your heart is racing.”

“I, myself,” said Flynn as Ariadne, “have known nothing but doubt. I could not want for a future. I am like my half-brother the Minotaur who must roam between worlds. I have not known love. I have not known the touch of man. Long have I wondered if I would ever have either. Yet, when you stepped from the Athenian ship, I saw a certainty in you that burst my heart.”

Flynn pressed against the statue and nestled his face against its neck.

“I would love you,” he said.

The old woman stroked Tariq’s arm. Tariq realized he was shaking.

Flynn pulled away from the statue and wiped at his eyes. “But first you must take on your destiny. Let me give you aid. Take you this…” Flynn reached towards the feet of the statue. His arm was shrouded in mist.

Tariq knew Flynn was looking for the wooden sword. He could feel what was left of it pressing into his thigh. Flynn swallowed uncomfortably and the character of Ariadne vanished. Tariq tried to lift the old woman off himself. He wanted to reach the broken boards. He wanted to run to Flynn. He wanted to apologize. She looked up at him and shook her head.

Flynn nodded and Ariadne was back. “Take you your white sail and unwind a long thread from it. You may find the Minotaur, you may slay it, but if you would escape, you will need a guide home. Otherwise, you may be lost forever.”

With that, he held the white sheet and gripped a corner. Plucking free a single strand, Flynn raced across the plaza, sheet unwinding behind him. He moved into and out of patches of fog. He circled statues and the thread tangled around them. The sheet bobbed as the thread pulled away, as the string grew longer, as the cloth became smaller and smaller. Eventually, it was just a tiny patch, no larger than a handkerchief. And the plaza was covered with thin white lines, connecting everything together.

Then Theseus was gone and the great horns of the Minotaur were visible through the mist. It stomped. It snarled. It bellowed. It cried. The mask was hideous. Tariq felt the old woman grip him tightly.

The Minotaur charged through the arch in their direction. The old woman let out a tiny cry. The Minotaur froze. Tariq wondered if they had been caught. The Minotaur struggled and Tariq could see it had caught itself in the web of string. It roared. It tried to run, but the threads formed a great corral. It followed the thin white lines until it faced the statue of the young legionnaire. The Minotaur dipped its head low and pawed at the ground with its feet.

A voice called out and echoed. It seemed to come from the statue and not the mask. It said, “I have found you, murd’rous beast!”

Tariq gasped. He knew this part. He had seen this practiced earlier in the night. Tariq remembered it like it had happened fifty years ago, like he was being reminded of a story told to him as an infant.

The Minotaur raced at the statue. It tipped its head and the statue seemed to side step. It jumped forward and gored at the soldier, but with less than the slightest movement the soldier deflected with its shield.

The monster grunted and twisted in circles, losing track of Theseus. Then with a cry, the two were pressed against each other. Tariq couldn’t see the statue’s spear.

The head fell back and from the mouth of the Minotaur emerged a horrid death knell. The pain was both monstrous and human. The Minotaur crashed to the ground. Its head bounced once and twisted until it had broken.

Theseus did nothing to celebrate his victory. If anything, the statue looked mournful in triumph. Tariq could feel a wetness about his eyes. He brought his hand to his mouth and bit his fist. He wanted to cry openly. He wanted to applaud, but he felt like revealing his presence now would be some intense violation.

Flynn was back on his feet without the mask. Sweat dripped down his face. He located the tail end of the thread and gripped it with both hands. He followed the thread round and round as it circled back through the square, back under the arch, back round the statues.

“Ariadne!” he called, voice low and haunting. “You would have me take you away from this, your world, but, alas, that is not my place. I have seen the deep. I have vanquished the thing we all feared. I have spared many lives and you have helped me find my way in the dark. You have saved me. But that way now leads me home to reclaim my throne alone. Our paths are not entwined.”

Tariq was confused. He tried to piece the story together from fragmented memories of high school English classes. He was uncertain what was to come.

Flynn climbed once more up the flagpole. The mist was beginning to abate. The black sheet fluttered in the breeze. Tariq could see gray sky above the square. He could see the spires of distant buildings.

Flynn lofted the tiny remaining patch of white cloth in one hand and waved it desperately in the air.

Tears dripped down Tariq’s cheeks. He wiped his face against his sleeve. In his lap, the old woman sobbed.

“Then that is all.” The voice was Theseus’s father again. When Tariq looked up, he was surprised to see Flynn standing on the archway, propping himself upright with a hand on Caesar’s shoulder. Flynn’s faced was aged and weary.

“For all that he dared, for all that he imagined, for all that he could hope, we will never be free of our demons. He was but mortal…” The thought trailed off as he looked to the waving black sheet. Tariq felt like he could hear Theseus in the distance yelling to his father that he would be returning home, that he was not lost.

Clouds of mist blew past. Tariq had the sensation that the world was speeding up. Flynn stepped to the edge of the archway and closed his eyes. He stretched his arms outward.

“My world is no more,” said Flynn and he fell forward. His body was stiff. Air rushed around it.

“No!” cried Tariq. His body felt numb as if it was barely there, but he found himself moving with intense urgency. He pushed the old woman from his lap and found his feet running, barely touching the pavement as he sprinted towards the falling actor.

The world seemed to move quickly, but Tariq felt as if he were taking it all in at once. He could see woman with the wrinkles and the tangled hair, embarrassed he was ruining the play. He could see the pale sky overhead- blank, as if the day hadn’t yet decided what time it was. He could see cars driving past the plaza, headlights illuminating the odd patch of dissipating fog. He could feel the sword rattling against his leg. He could hear his heart thudding in his chest. He could sense insects taking flight, fleeing from under the crush of his feet. Somewhere, standing on the far side of the arch he could see Santa, his temple black and blue.

And above Tariq, Flynn careened towards the Earth. Tariq was barely aware what he was doing, but he arms were outstretched and Flynn landed in them, caught like a child who had fallen asleep in a parent’s arms. Flynn’s eyes were wide.

“I… I caught you,” said Tariq. He didn’t seem to believe it had happened.

“You ruined the ending,” said Flynn. There was no anger in him.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“I wouldn’t have. Just like wearing the mask, falling takes practice.”

“I’m sorry.”

Flynn didn’t answer. He reached up a hand and felt Tariq’s cheek. He ran his fingers through Tariq’s hair and pulled Tariq’s face close to his own. Their noses batted at each other and they kissed.

Insomniac: Whole story, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

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Thu, 08 Apr 2010 03:39:02 -0400

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Insomniac, part 5

Thu, 08 Apr 2010 03:39:01 -0400

Insomniac: Whole story, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

Tariq’s alarm was an insistent buzz. The sound was shrill and terrified. He batted at the clock and it went silent. Outside the window, Tariq could hear the sputtering of a bus and the chatter of school children.

Blue light seeped around the window shade and through its tears. The room was too bright and Tariq’s eyes felt very dry. He forced his eyelids open. He watched the clock until its red numbers came into focus. 6:31.

His body ached. The tendons in his arms felt too long. The muscles in his legs felt too short. He didn’t want to challenge his back with movement. He groaned. He felt like he had slept for about ten minutes.

The morning would be rough. He could imagine his dead voice on the phone with clients. He could picture a meeting in the conference room about layoffs. He would need to force some humanity into his voice to commiserate with Brad- to tell him everything would get better.

Tariq pressed with both arms and forced his body to a sitting position. Someone’s hand rolled off his chest and into his lap. The sleeper’s fingers stroked Tariq’s leg. He could see the abrasions from where the wood of the sword had dug into his skin. He had tweezers in the bathroom, but wasn’t sure he had a good way to sterilize them. He thought about how important it had been to him the night before to return the fake sword.

“What nonsense,” he thought.

He looked across the bed to where Flynn lay. His mouth hung open slightly, but twitched up into a smile like he was enjoying pleasant dreams. His chest rose and fell evenly and smoothly.

“It’s like his breaths were assembled in a factory.”

Tariq thought back to end of the night. He could still feel the hard stone of the plaza against his spine as they rolled back and forth, tongues struggling in each other’s mouths. He remembered how they had carried each other home, like they were drunk and giddy and nineteen. How they had paused at every street corner to make out. How they had fallen, groping, against trash cans, too eager to touch each other, to press against one another. How they had fucked on the hallway floor with the apartment door wide open and their clothes half on. How they had limped to the bedroom in search of lube. Tariq wasn’t exactly sure whether he had fallen asleep mid penetration.

He could smell coffee now, wafting in from the kitchen. The pot was set to be finished brewing when he got out of the shower. He would need to hurry to leave on time.

“This day will require lots of coffee.”

He watched Flynn. Tariq would need to wake him before he left. He felt bad at the thought of kicking him out. Tariq wondered what had happened to the sword or the bull mask. He vaguely remembered realizing en route home that they forgotten them and Flynn saying, “Fuck it. I can make new ones.”

Tariq figured he could give Flynn a few more minutes to sleep. He stumbled to his feet and looked out the window. Crowds passed on the street below. They wore heavy coats and avoided eye contact. Everyone walked with determination and purpose. Tariq wandered towards the kitchen.

Santa and the old woman lay asleep together on his couch. They had the black sheet from Flynn’s performance tucked around them. Their clothes were scattered across the floor. Tariq was surprised that with Santa’s ample frame they could fit on the couch so snugly.

The bruise on Santa’s temple was swollen. The skin was deep purple like a sunset. Tariq examined the wound and Santa opened his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” asked Tariq.

Santa yawned and Tariq could see his missing teeth.

“I’ve had worse,” said Santa.

“Can I get you anything?” asked Tariq.

The old woman exhaled a snore. She shook her head from side to side without waking.

“Quiet,” said Santa. “Beatrice could use some sleep.”

Santa leaned down and kissed Beatrice. She cooed. Tariq went into the kitchen. He normally loved the smell of coffee, but now it made him feel queasy. He turned off the coffee pot. The clock ticked on the wall. He watched the second hand. He imagined it as the finger of a nervous accountant, overzealously double checking inventory. The clock read 6:44.

He walked back past Santa. Beatrice stroked Santa’s beard with one hand. Santa’s feet were out at the bottom of the sheet. His toenails were large and yellow and Tariq wondered at how his toes could be so hairy.

Inside his bedroom, Flynn’s hand was moving back and forth like it was searching for Tariq and couldn’t believe he wasn’t in the bed. Cars honked their horns outside the window. Flynn opened his eyes. He smiled at Tariq and his eyes sank closed again.

“What’s the matter?” asked Flynn. “Trouble sleeping?”

Tariq walked over to the bed and sat. He didn’t respond. Flynn’s hand stroked his thigh. Tariq located his phone on the nightstand. He figured it would be about an hour before anyone at work decided to call. He turned off the phone and pulled up the sheets on the bed. He crawled in and wrapped himself around Flynn. Within seconds, he was asleep.