Grass

Out in the hot summer sun I can still taste his lips.  They are sour with early morning sleep and perfectly pressed into mine; with my eyes closed I brush my fingers across my mouth begging it to remember the sweet sensation.  Sighing, I roll my body and stretch luxuriously.  Even here in the Summer Gardens where the world should be perfect I ache for the gentle brush of a kiss.

It's been two weeks since he left me; two weeks and as many nights of lonely aching on my pillow.  I vowed I would not forget any part of him, so when sleep eludes me I whisper his features to the night.
Brown eyes, with gold flecks.
Untameable hair that spikes up in the back.
Freckles across his cheeks in the shape of a long forgotten constellation.
He was the first to tell me about the stars.  He began in the way of the old story tellers, which made me giggle.
 "Once upon a time," he said.  "Once upon a time, long ago the land was still covered with green grass like the summer gardens."  I laughed at the absurdity of the statement, but at his stern look I held my tongue.
"There were stars, then.  Stars beyond belief.  Not the kinds that they put up in the dome to signify night, but great huge balls of fire, a million miles away.  All you had to do to see them was to walk outside.  There were stars that were named, ones that made pretty pictures in the sky- constellations."
He hugged me then, and I pressed my face into his chest, trying to imagine a world without the dome, a world with grass and stars and people that told stories that started "Once upon a time."

The day he got the message I cried.  We had walked to the borough center, with everyone else for the conscription notices.  Names flashed up on the screen, five out of the twenty thousand of us, being called to serve the "higher purpose."  Most picked for their skills; electricians and butchers- some though were chosen as a form of punishment.  A year without your family and friends, a year of hard labor to remind you not to steal or cheat your neighbors.  Sometimes the Republic sends for someone who is a known deviant.  The rare murderer, traitors to the state- any for whom there is no hope of rehabilitation.  They get sent up to the dome, to make repairs or replace the Watchers who's lifework it is to guard our protection.  Few return, non have within my lifetime.

When they called his name I stood in shocked silence.  It was unexpected; true he is good at the tannery where he works, but there are many older and more qualified men who should have been called in his place.  He was given a week to say his goodbye's and pack up his small life here.
"It's only a year, I'll be back before you even have a chance to miss me."  I smiled up at him, but we both knew the words we weren't saying.  The ones who returned from their year in Service to The Republic were changed.  The spring was gone from their step; there were sworn to secrecy about their Service, but they exchanged sad glances with others who had been taken from the borough square.

"I do love you."  That was all I could manage, the last day.  My affirmation, my prayer.
"And I love you too."  He was matter of fact, it was an unchanging truth in his life.  It wasn't until he was about to walk across the threshold that I lost myself.  Tears falling down my face faster than I could wipe them away, I wrapped my arms around his neck and breathed in his wonderful smell.

"Why wasn't it me?  Why can't I go instead?  I don't want you to go without me.  Please."  He held me in long silance, before pulling me away and looking deep into my eyes.
"We both know why they won't take you, why you're always safe here."  I nodded, though the prospect of my own safety brings me little joy.
"Blue eyes, Ana.  You have blue eyes.  One in a million.  One of five in the world.  They never take blue eyes. You're worth holding on to."
"So are you."  In that moment, I held him as my own for the last time.

The city car that drove him away looked like something out of one of his fairy tales.  Once it was sleek and shiny, but now the paint had turned the same grey-brown as the rest of the world.  I stood, blinking away my tears, trying to remember all of the songs and stories he had ever told me about the Republic Center.  That's when I made my vow not to forget, never to forget.

In the Summer Gardens there is a patch of green to one side.  "Agrostis stolonifera" it reads.  "Creeping Bentgrass." Each day I visit the gardens, and every day before I leave I bend to stroke the long green stems.  Bringing my fingers to my lips, I kiss them.  "Bring him home safe and unchanged.  Bring him home, please."  I'm not sure if I pray to the grass or the summer or the God of old.  Perhaps I pray to the stars themselves, somewhere out beyond the dome.  Stopping, I heave on the door and wait for the familiar pop as the suction breaks free.  Outside is grey and brown, but in my hand today I have a small piece of green.  Hiding it deep within my pocket, I walk towards home.

Liberal Arts Education, part III

Grace pinched her cheeks and bit her lips, studying her reflection in the stand-alone mirror in the kitchenette of the sorority suite.  The long white dress had a flounce around her neck and it perfectly offset her complexion.  She pinched her cheeks again, and then sighing turned away and drew a cigarette out of her clutch.  She settled herself into her favorite nook by the window and took a long drag, watching the smoke curl away from the fourth floor and drift away from the red brick building. 

“Gracie!” 

“Ow, shit!  C’mon Sue, you made me burn my dress.”  Grace rubbed at a new grey spot on her ruff. 

“Well you shouldn’t be smoking in here, you know the rules.  Anyway, you’ve made yourself stink like a coal miner, you know Timmy hates girls that smoke.”  Grace slid down from the window and dropped the cigarette in the sink.

“Why should I give two cents what Timmy hates?”

“Because he’s your escort tonight.  And because you’re about to be the youngest May Queen in this schools history, and it would be good for you to smell like one.” 

“Sometimes, Sue, I wonder if you’re my sorority sister or my mother.”

            Outside, the old bell in the center of campus began its slow process of chiming out the hour.  Grace glanced towards the mirror again, trying to smooth the burn away from the dress.

            “Oh dear god in heaven above let me.  And put some lipstick on, I know you hate it but biting your lips is not going to make them show in photographs today.”  Sue plunged into a cabinet and emerged moments later, victories with pin in hand.  She began deftly pressing the burned edge under, pinning a rose in place over her handiwork. 

            “Now one for your hair…Gracie!  What?  What happened to your neck?”  Gracie smoother her hair back in place, taking the lipstick from the counter and moving towards the door.  “It’s nothing, not a big thing.  Timmy just tried to get fresh with me the other night, that’s all.” 

            “That’s more than fresh Gracie.  Why didn’t you stop it?”

            “I tried, obviously.  It’s no big thing, I told you.  I just won’t see him alone again, that’s all.  It was my mistake to begin with.  Come on Sue, you know I don’t like boys like Timmy.  Let’s shake a leg darling, we’re going to be late for my coronation.” 

****

            All Anna wanted to do was sleep.  Sitting in British Literature, she suddenly begrudged all the naps that she had tried to avoid as a small child. Preschoolers and college kids she thought to herself, naptime should be required for preschoolers and college kids.  In an act of extreme cruelty on the part of the school’s administration, this classroom didn’t even contain a clock. 

Stealthily, Anna slipped her fingers inside her bag and felt for the smooth cover of her phone.  Finally encountering it between the pages of her dramatic literature textbook she waited until Professor Pless turned around before dropping it into her lap.  Nine forty five…the class would be over in five minutes and she would be free to sleep her day away until her next class at one.  Head on the desk, she watched the minutes tick by until the general restlessness of her classmates made it clear to the professor that class had ended and so had their attention spans.  Sweeping everything into her bag, she turned to leave but was met by the sharp glance of professor Sophia Pless. 

“Anna, do you have a class at ten?”

“No, but professor, I have something I really have to go do…” Anna thought about the few short minutes of brisk walking that stood between her and bed.

“If it can wait for a couple of moments would you stay and have a word with me?”  Inwardly heaving a huge sigh, Anna let her book bag swing to the floor again.   

“Sure, what’s up professor?”  But it wasn’t going to be that easy.  Pless insisted on moving next door to her office, and it was only after they were both settled into chairs and Anna had refused the offered tea that their chat began in earnest.

“Anna, I’m not sure if you know but you’re the seventy-fifth recipient of the Grace Turner Scholarship for Achievement in Literature and Journalism.”  Of all the things that could have come out of Professor Pless’ mouth, this was what Anna had least expected.  Shocked, it took her a few moments to register the fact that she should respond.

“Yeah, I guess- I mean yes I know I got that scholarship but I didn’t know it was exactly seventy five years since she died, I mean I didn’t know it was so old.” 

“Well, since this is an especially important year for that scholarship the descendants of Grace Turner are planning a visit to campus.  We were hoping that some past and present Turner scholars would be available to attend a dinner in their honor.  Would you be interested?  One Graces great-great-grand nephews is on our Board of Trustees I believe, and thus the administration is seeing this as an excellent opportunity to, uh, campaign.” 

Anna made herself count to three, thinking about the yearbook tucked into her bag that showed Grace laughing.

“Sure, that sounds like it would be nice.”

“Wonderful.  I’ll get you the details.  Oh, and Anna?  You don’t need to watch the time in my class, if it’s boring you I suppose I can always assign another paper…”

Anna smiled ruefully, swinging her bag onto her shoulders. 

“Yes professor.”

Hard love

Tonight, the man with blond hair and blue eyes is unhappy.  He is staring at my folder instead of looking at me, and this is normal.  He doesn't like to look at me, not for any length of time.  Instead he finds constant reasons to shift around the contents of my file, glance at the guard behind the double pane of glass, or clean his glasses.  Surly, this can't be normal shrink behavior.  I've never been to a therapist before, though in the back of my mind something long ago learned reminds me that this is a psychiatrist, not a therapist.  Or maybe he's both?  Surely the county women's penitentiary doesn't have the budget for both.  They don't even have the budget for proper shoes.

He clears his throat, I wonder what he is getting out of these sessions-my sparse answers.  Is he learning to read my unstated thoughts?  He must be analyzing something, because he keeps coming back for more.
"Anna.  Your friend, Megan, spoke to me yesterday."  Megan?  My friend?  I suppose.
"Yes?"  He clears his throat again, there must not be any phlegm left at the end of his sessions with me.
"She said that about two weeks ago, she heard a fight.  You called her after, didn't you Anna?  Your neighbors heard a lot of shouting and banging.  They heard something hit the wall.  Do you want to talk about that Anna?"
For the first time, he has managed to surprise me.  I dig the bitten shards of my nails into my palms.  Emotion is pointless, life is now simply one breath to the next.  Breath.  In.  Out.  Reply.
"No.  No, I don't want to talk about it."  This was the wrong answer.  He seems at last to have struck on something that forces his eyes to my direct gaze.  I stare back, stubbornly denying emotion.
"Anna.  This is going to help you.  I want to help you.  Did you and John argue often?"  If I didn't know better, I would think he is genuinely concerned.  Damn shirk school must have taught him how to lie with his face.
"No.  We didn't.  He was mad because I forgot to put dinner on.  He likes it ready when he gets home.  I was tired and I forgot and we fought."
"Did John hit you, Anna?"  This seems to be the point he has been dancing around today, maybe even for the last two weeks.  He is staring into my eyes and seemingly without realizing it resting his body against the table.
"No.  John would never hit me.  He loved me.  The neighbors must have heard when I threw the pasta pot at the wall.  John was a lot of things, but he was never abusive."  The shrink, what was his actual name?- deflates and leans back, eyes dancing back onto the file.
"All right, I think that's enough for today.  We can talk about it more next week, if you're ready."

After the guard takes me from the room, I run the inside of my right thumb along the faint scar on my left wrist.  A grease burn, has left the echo of my other life in a small depressed circle.

Aftermath

The girl in the orange jumpsuit stares back at me.  Across the table, she seems too frail to have a file as thick as the one sitting on my lap.  Her brunette hair is pulled back into the utilitarian pony tail of all the women here, she looks no more than sixteen though the paper in front of me lists her age as twenty two.  Only a year younger than I.  I shuffle the file, collecting myself and remembering that she wouldn't be in here without a good blood chilling reason.  I smile, and I know that though it doesn't reach my eyes I'm young and handsome enough to make most of the women want to talk to me.

"So Anna, this is our first meeting.  Would you mind telling me why you're in here?"  She blinks, the orange fabric stiffly resisting the shape of her body as she leans back into the metal chair.
"I killed him."  This takes my by surprise, I have to glance back down at the file to check my facts before I speak again.
"Who did you kill, Anna?"
"My fiance.  John.  I killed him with his car.  I stabbed him with the kitchen knife while I was making Spaghetti Carbonara." She looks at me, earnestly.
"Anna, it says here "attempted homicide.  You didn't kill anyone; your fiance-John, he's not dead."  She lets a sigh escape, long and low.
"To me, I killed him.  I am here, and he is out there.  I will be here forever and even if I'm not, I will never see him again.  To me, I killed him."
This job is still new to me, I'm not used to dealing with more than petulant teens and their parents.  These women are different, they are mostly my age and they are constantly full of surprises.  I find myself imagining another life, if I had met Anna under different circumstances.  In her booking photos, she has a spark in her eyes that has vanished in the subsequent six months.  In another world, I would have found her intriguing, pretty.  She is staring expectantly at me and I try to look as if I have not just slipped into my own thoughts.

"Why did you want to hurt John?"  She gives a half shrug.  Her movements aren't defined, merely the suggestions of gestures.
"He hurt me.  Again and again.  It was time for me to hurt him."  This is something I have been trained to deal with, back to textbook scenarios.  Except that the textbooks don't tell you that sometimes, attempted murders look like they need someone to wrap them in a blanket and give them them a can of Campbell's tomato soup.  Mmm mmm good.
"What did he do to you?  Did he physically hurt you?"  That slight movement that suggests a shake of the head
"No.  He loved me.  He loved me and then he let me love him.  He loved me, let me loved him, and then let me go."
"He broke off your engagement?"
"No.  He tried but that was only because he was scared.  I was scared too.  We were scared together.  And then he told me I wasn't enough, I would never be enough.  But he wouldn't let anyone else love me either.  I was alone.  No love."
This is the most she has said at once and she is moving, actually moving, to brush a stray hair from her eye.
"He told you that you weren't enough emotionally?  Sexually?"
"Everything.  I'll never be enough, never be good enough.  He loves, loved me.  I think.  And then he tells me that I need to believe that I'm beautiful.  I need to believe that I'm enough.  And then. And then the one time I did believe he slapped me.  He called me a whore and he hit me.  And I took the knife and I tried to kill him.  And it felt really good.  But then, I loved him.  I love him.  And now.  Now I've killed him.  And I love him still."

For a moment, her eyes are shining and I see a little bit of the passion that blazes in the photo on my lap.  It's hard for me not to be enthralled in her blue eyes.  She stands then, and when she moves with purpose it's graceful and beautiful to watch.
"Excuse me Doctor, I believe I've become too emotional to continue.  I'm sure I'll have plenty of time to get to know you, a lifetime if John has anything to do with it."
I catch what might be a wry smile, but it's gone too quickly to tell.  She moves to the door and the guard who has been waiting outside quickly escorts her down the hall, the shuffle of her paper slippers echoing off the cement corridor.
I run my fingers through my hair, spiraling my fingers around the damn cowlick in the back that never seems to lay flat.  She is something different, never in my life have I met a woman more distressing or intriguing.  I know I should call my supervisor and ask to be taken off her case, I clearly have feelings in conflict to my position as counselor.  Instead I fold her booking photo and tuck it into my jacket pocket.  I can't wait to see her again.

Film Noir (Revised version)

Whispers, it’s always whispers with him.  Hand searching, breath in one ear, on a neck. 

"Just this once Al, c’mon."

The sharp, silver necklace stings when he unknowingly presses it into my chest. My admonition fades and becomes a sigh of ghastly pleasure. Hands are pushing my skirt up, up, up.

The landing of the stairs floods with momentary light from a passing car.  A crunch of wheels on gravel, and then a horn punctuating the night.  He eyes the hall below.

“The boys are back.  Took Grant’s new wheels out.  ’34 Buick, beautiful.  You can still smell the factory.”  A crash from the front hall.

“Charlie, where are you?  You can’t be serious about studying tonight…”
"You're brothers are horrible, awful people!"  Smoothing my skirt, I try to pat my blouse back into place. 
He grins, scotch rolling off his breath. There is a crash again as two oversized boys tumble onto the landing. 

“Oh so this is the extra lesson you’ve been working on!”
"Good going C-man!"
"Awooo awo!”

We erupt in guilty laughter, we are stumbling over each other; pin curls that have fallen out ages ago are now limply slipping into my eyes.  I am pressed into the contours of the hearth, the massive dinosaur that heats the third story. Finally senses return enough to utter,
"Have to go- house mother, Friday then?"
"Gee, if I could get my hands on that woman just for a second..." He follows his words with a decidedly violent gesture. Kiss and I run; run all the way down the long, long brick walk, drunken penny loafers slipping and sliding.

**
The next day he is across the dining hall.  My sisters don't notice. Neither do his brothers, except the two that wink and blow kisses before sharp nudges end their lewd display. I smile to myself, then return to comparing Betty D. and the new Vivian L.  Neither of them is good enough for Clark G., it's decided.

**
At night, our house is full of candles and songs of eternal friendship and bonds that cannot be broken. My guilty little secret is locked at my thigh, in the garter where I have slipped his pin. It’s too soon, he says, to tell anyone.  “They won't approve; it must be a slow type of thing.”  So we continue in black secrecy.
"The years are binding us girls together now, restless sorrows shall try to tear us apart, but never shall we be..."
Not me. Sorrow is not my enemy...sorrow is loneliness and never shall I be alone.

**
I am draped in chiffon, cobalt blue. Matches my eyes, he says. The scotch is gone from his breath now; he is holding me close as we waltz, foxtrot, swing the night away. We are on the landing again; the rest are downstairs enjoying the Formal Dance, including our dates. But these stolen moments are perfect.
"Won't the girls be pea green when they find out?"
"Green, sure...just dance with me now doll."

Hand on my bare shoulders…back…his fingertips leaving a trail of shivers down my spine followed by a zipper being pulled slowly apart.  The fabric slides down off my shoulder… I'm scared, do my eyes show it? Whispered reassurances…kisses on my neck…shoulder, firm hand drawing me though the door into a room. For a second I think about stopping it and running downstairs to my safely boring date, the rich son of an executive who talks nothing but sales figures and deficits. No.
This is Life, giving in is delicious.

Kicking off our shoes we waltz through the blue-black night, leaving layers of ourselves strewn across the floor.  Hands squeezing, eyes searching, slowly he caresses me onto the bed.  I can’t help the words before they’re out in the air.

“You love me?”

“I gave you my pin, didn’t I?”

**
He is sitting in the little gorge under the bridge, our place, where he told me he wanted forever. She sits next to him, simpering.  Sweet, bouncy curls swept perfectly out of her eyes. He whispers in her ear, breaths something into her neck, and they both dissolve into laughter.  His hand rests casually on her thigh, slowly inching it’s way up.  There they are, staring into each other's eyes.  Meanwhile I am here, a common peeping tom, watching my “sister” and my love.

**
His pin on my breast, I am proud now. I walk, head held high, into the house. Brothers in the hall are staring as I march past.  One of them flings a question at my back.  "Alice, hey sweet stuff where are you off to in such a hurry?"
I don't answer, just push through them and their clutching hands. Storming up the stairs, so familiar from our dark rendezvous, I open the door without knocking. He is there, in his white undershirt holding a tumbler, more scotch. How pathetic, drinking alone in his underwear. Slamming the door shut, I know they won't bother us now. The brotherhood’s philosophy on perturbed females is to let them have their fun before soothing them with lies. How many times have I seen this before?

"Al, what's wrong sugar?"
"Not sugar. Not me at least." Silence, and then with a sigh, "Your pin, Charles."
He notices my chest for the first time tonight. Ironically, that's normally the first place his eyes wander.
"You're wearing it, Baby I thought we talked-"
"Just wondering, will you give it to her now?"
"Wh-"
"No, I just want to know is all. I mean, how many others have slipped it into their garters before me."

I won't cry.  I swore that to myself at least. I offer the pin calmly and slowly he takes it. He’s standing there, confused.  His hand reaches my elbow, I shake it off. Peel my white gloves off, finger by finger. The hearth is three short steps away. Place the gloves on the mantle, carefully avoiding dust.  Glance to the left of the fireplace; iron will be my friend tonight, cold and unrelenting.  Turn and raise the poker.
"Whoa, Alice...you need to cal-"

One smash and he's on the floor, skull cracked; Again I lash out, hitting him full on the lips.  Dull red creeps across the grey stones, his once perfect face is now mangled and unrecognizable.  I step across the mess, carefully replacing the poker. My gloves are pristine, I put them on one finger at a time; lingering.

**
Outside a girl is passing by, hurrying to return before House Mother admonishes her for being out without a Permission. She passes the stone steps where a lone figure sits, turning over a piece of gold and black enamel in her hand.

Polistes exclaman

I like to be up close and personal with my victims.  Some killers like things clean and neat, a rifle through a window, a quick squeeze and away; not me.  I like to taste the blood and feel the organs crush.  There is something roughly spiritual about killing, taking a life force from another even as you see how tenacious your hold on mortality is.  
Today is much the same.  Different house number, scribbled on a paper as I sip my Starbucks and click my phone shut.  The other cafe patrons take no notice of me, just another young woman in yoga pants and a track jacket.  Smoothing my hair I stand and hold the door for a young mother who is flusterdly trying to balance a baby carrier and purse on one arm and a diaper bag on the other.  I return her gracious smile, wondering how much she will bleed if she is the one I got the call for today. 
After dark, I park my minivan across the street and count mailboxes.  One twenty-eight, one thirty, one thirty-four...two more blocks.  Two eighteen, two twenty, two twenty-two.  Target acquired.
Two twenty-two has the curtains drawn on a pristine sitting room.  The back corner has what might be a study desk, and the silhouettes of bookcases line the right side of the room.  I know this house, it's just like every other cookie cutter construction on this side of the iron gates.  There will be impressive leather volumes on those shelves that still crinkle when they're opened, a neatly swept fireplace awaiting this years yule log; the rooms are currently being permeated with Maratha's fall collection candles.  Just like every other house, until tomorrow, when the neat lawn will be flooded with media personalities and the drapes will be drawn shut against the morbid curiosity of neighbors.  Two twenty-two.
There is a car parked in the drive, and lights on in the connecting garage.  I look back at the paper, reading the instructions one last time.  Top floor, second room on the left.  Bed under the window.  I look in my mirror, smooth my brows and pat my nose with a tissue to remove excess powder.  Tucking my phone into my pocket, I slide out of the car and jog across the street.
Tap tap tap.  Pause.  Breath. The door swings in, revealing a polished woman wearing a cardigan and a yellow glove, clearly cleaning up the aftermath of dinner. 
"Can I help you?"
"I'm so sorry, I just didn't know where to go and your lights are on and it looked like such a nice house, and I'm really starting to freak out."
I am gushing, and I can see my panic already wearing down her wariness.
"What's wrong?"
"Well my car won't start and it's getting dark- I was supposed to pick up my son from band practice hours ago.  I called Triple A, of course, but the tow company hasn't shown up.  I'm getting really nervous and I don't like waiting in the dark, I know it's such a safe community but there has been a group of boys on skateboards past the car twice already.  Would you mind terribly if I used you bathroom and just waited in the light of your garage?  I'm so sorry to impose."  My apologetic air is pathetic, it makes my skin crawl but she is already opening the door further.  She can sense a fellow wasp in distress. 
"That sounds horrible, of course we won't make you wait in the garage.  I'm just cleaning up from supper, why don't you sit down with us for a while.  Would you like a glass of water?  Tea?  Juice?"
"Oh, no thank you I couldn't impose.  Would you mind terribly if I used your bathroom?  I've been out there for the better part of two hours already."
"Of course, it's right upstairs, first door on the right."
I nod my thanks and climb the stair, being careful not to touch the polished white banister.  I wait until I can hear the water running in the kitchen again before flicking on the bathroom light, closing the door, and creeping across the hall.
Second door on the left.  I remove the long thin piece of steel from my sleeve, careful not to prick myself with it's needle tip.  Pushing open the door I brace myself.
There is a bed, under the window.  It's a crib.  Above it hangs a mobile, still playing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star In the tired sort of the way that tells me that it's been unwinding for a while now. I creep over, careful not to step on a plastic fisher price monkey or a set of stacking blocks strewn across the floor.
The baby is maybe a year old, clutching at a tattered blanket.  It snuffles and stretches an arm out before settling back into sleep.  Poor child, almost innocent.
I close my eyes and see the old image, hand around my throat, my head bouncing off walls; those beautiful eyes, beautiful eyes, beautiful eyes.
Open my eyes and plunge the rod down.
It slides easily into the soft flesh, I feel the satisfying *pop* of a lung.  It recalls the childhood joy of bubble wrap in relatives Christmas presents.  These bones don't crunch so much as snap, so pliable still.  I linger over the left side, drawing out the pleasure before thrusting down again.  The child expires with my hand over it's mouth, blood covering the blanket still clutched in it's hand.

For tonight, at least, I know I am alive.

Born again

I have a new lover, and a new lease on life.  The stage is a fickle mistress (Mister?) but damn it I've missed you theater. 
I think this summer will be an endeavor in auditions.

First play

Last play

Also: Having discovered the new photo formatting tools it will be hard not to over-post photos just because I can.  Damn you blogger, damn you.