Vase on the Mantle

As promised on my Twitter page, here is an excerpt from my latest piece. I'm submitting it to Breadloaf. Enjoy.

“Time to take what’s mine.” I licked her from chin to nose. Each button of her blouse made a Savion Glover on the floor. I grabbed her wrists and held them behind her head. I used a free hand to maneuver down my sweats. I blinked or didn’t. A swift leg came between my legs and I fell to my side. She scrambled back before rising to her feet, picking up the package, and throwing it down on my face. She kicked me again strands of her hair sticking to the accumulated sweat on her face. She stopped and pushed me onto my back. She reached into her sock and pulled out a blade. She straddled me. Her eyes were heinous. Her makeup was smeared and the roots of her fresh holiday press and curl were coiling up. The strands adhered to her face became furry like they were growing out of her, like she was become an animal. She rested her forearms on my chest. Her hands moved to my neck. Her palms covered my ears. She rubbed my cheeks with tender giving me hope with a smile. Maybe I just came on too strong. The meeting between my head and floor made me bite my tongue.
“If your mouth opens, I will slit your throat.” The blade split the top layers of my skin. She sat up and slipped out of her hoodie. “We’re going to make a pact. But before we do, give me your hand.”
She tossed her hoodie over my face. “I suggest you bite down.” The blade made an earthquake on my flesh. I kept my face covered. The first gash was straight. The blood droplets hit my cover, a few I could taste. The attempts to curve her insignia made my fingers twitch. Finishing one hand, she began on the other. My jaws began to surrender as my head fell to the right. The wet spot from my spit, splotches of blood, and sweat cooled my cheek. Soon, I felt nothing.

Lost to Me

In my aging, I have learned to hold dear a certain bit of advice my mother gave me. She said, "People are in your life for a reason and a season. Only a few are there for life". Making friends has never been a problem for me. I can spark a conversation and charm the pants off Satan. And while most take the lure only a few stay on for the ride.

  "If I were a guy, I'd date you." my best friend said to me as we mellowed from a jay. We were friends since Mrs. Dikeman's 8th grade math class. Through road trips, childish squabbles, prom, and graduation we maintained. Things changed as they always do. Her focus was to foster a love mine was success, to be bigger than my suburb, Virginia next. We joked that if neither of us married, that we'd move to Vermont and wed each other and she'd stay home and spend my money. And while I knew this would never happen, it resonated what I was losing as I watched her flit about searching for her bridal gown, standing poised and moderately ungrateful at her bridal shower while I faked a smile. And worse, giving my speech at the reception words slurring and to me meaningless.  I gave up Marlboro lights and contact with her. She made a house call after returning from her honeymoon. Her tone chummy as she prodded for information. She was almost a stranger and this made it easier to look away.

I joined Goodreads.com recently and had the option of inviting my email contacts to join. I saw that my former was among them, and I made it my business to uncheck her name as well as a handful of others who I no longer speak to. I thought I could read directions even if done late at night. But no. An invite was sent to everyone. She emailed me of course. And it is up to me now to respond. Losing was hard once, but since I'd lost her and another one close to me shortly after, the pain is only a tiny scratch  that would've made your eyes Niagara as a child but now can be ignored.  And what can I say I've learned from my past tense best friend and my second great loss? How not to be? How to wash soiled hands clean? I don't know that I want to. "I don't give a damn what books you're reading...I hope you aren't still mad." She emailed. Mad? How can I be? We're strangers, aren't we?

Harold's Wife

A small town girl makes good, marries well. Perhaps I should be grateful. I walk my children from the front door of our home to the end of the street to catch the bus every morning. I return to my pretty prison-my luxurious palace at the center of the cull-de-sac-and every day I hope to watch it burn to the ground. I’d prefer it were my soul watching the smoldering flames reduce this place into a blackened skeleton. My body would be inside charring and flaking along with the cerulean Ralph Lauren paint and every other worthless possession. I wouldn’t even scream.

I sit at my vanity for hours on end staring at my vacant reflection. The more I stare, the more I see my face stiffen and crack like air dried cake batter. This lifestyle has ruined me. The hours flit away like the excess powered blush I apply every morning. It floats in the air before descending to join the other unused, discharged particles on the floor; another day lay to waste. After my face is smoothed over, I grip firmly to the handle of my antique silver hairbrush, and smooth down the wild ends of my thin blonde hair. The brush, which now is beginning to tarnish, was a gift from my mother. It was one of the few gifts from her worth keeping. With it sadly came my mother’s preoccupation with image and order. Nothing no matter how tender the bruise or the depth of the charcoal grey eclipse around the eye was too great to be shrouded by blush or smoothed down by comb and brush.

My reflection is often visited by my house keeper’s. I despise her for reasons unknown to me and my therapist. She was my husband’s idea. He thought it would be best to have someone keep up with the housework after I proved to be useless following the birth of our second child. If I were still an intellectual, I’d ponder why it seems only women are fit to clean houses.

Sometimes I’ll leave my empty vodka glasses on the mahogany wood table in the living room and yell at her about the eminent water stains as a result of her negligence. She’s threatened to quit countless times, but my husband’s finesse and wallet have kept her scrubbing our toilets.

The phone rings. The ball of my feet slap against the wood floors as I walk with indifference to the source of the high pitched chiming. It’s my husband. I’ll surely need to put my pills in the blender after I hang up.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hello, how’s work?”

“The same way it was yesterday. Look, I found a letter from your brother. He invited us to his house for a Halloween party.”

He didn’t find the letter. It wasn’t lost. I threw it the trash can. “Well, you can find time to tell him we aren’t coming.”

“I think it would be good for the kids to spend time with their uncle and their cousins-“

“I’d rather not, Harold.”

“What happened with your brother was a long time ago, when are you going to let that go? Try forgiveness. Isn’t that what that therapist is for? I gotta go. I have a meeting in five minutes.”

I didn’t say good-bye. There wasn’t a need. My hand was still stinging from slamming the phone on the kitchen counter.

I expect one of the other housewives to come cheerfully knocking on my door. She’ll no doubt be buzzed from her Vicodin cocktail. This morning it’s Heather Cables, my most frequent visitor. She finds any reason she can to invade my house, and lure me into conversation about her husband and pretentious daughter. It’s not as if Heather wants my advice. She simple wants my ears, a mere sounding board as she verbalizes her neurosis. If I were sober, her words would no doubt drive me to tears, but instead I watch her lips move, and periodically I’ll listen to a few words before my mind sifts to other thoughts. Surely I can piece enough together to have a succinct summary of her chatter. Her daughter doesn’t love her is the basis of our discussion today. I suppose this is better than despising your children as I do. The sound of their voices pierces my ears until I feel I may go deaf, a welcomed loss of sense.

“Well what do you think, Karen? Maybe I should try to speak with Warren about it, but he’s so busy with work.”

I don’t think. I don’t care. Today my mind is tormented not with the sound of Heather’s nasal voice but a darker and more maniacal tone. I hear it constantly and it alerts me to run to my vanity. I can’t forget to take my medicine. I won’t excuse myself in front of Heather. None of the dewy-eyed wives know that I too fancy the small orange bottles with the generic and robotic print on the sterile white label. ‘Mitchell comma Karen’. It is the only calm I have. You better not tell anyone, you dirty little whore. I can hear my heart racing. I fidget with my silk chiffon so Heather will comment on its’ beauty and not my nervous manner. She does of course, before continuing her woes. I can feel my back thrusting against the rank hardwood floor instead of positioned rigidly on my floral divan. I could see the scattered nude magazines lying next to me and feel the crumpled papers digging into my back. I didn’t want to look at his face. It was strained and contorted from his twisted pleasure and fear of being discovered. You better not tell anyone, you dirty little whore. I wouldn’t tell. I wasn’t even there. My soul had taken flight and had only been a third party briefly to witness the first of many rapes I endured from my brother. He’s a police officer now.

I didn’t tell my husband about my childhood until after we married. He thought I needed to have a child; someone I could vicariously nurture and protect and devote what was left of my wilted life to entirely. You can’t resurrect the dead he’d often say after firing his employees. I knew though he often spoke of me.

I couldn’t confide in Heather about the musky metered breath I felt warming my face. She was too preoccupied with who designed my plate setting. Kate Spade. So I just remained quiet while my thoughts chewed their way through my brain like starved termites until Heather realized it would soon be time to pick up her daughter. I too would have to fetch my children, but not before I ran to my room holding my stomach and covering my mouth-mustn’t ruin the wood floors-kneeling down in prayer over my toilet. When I had composed myself, I crawled to my vanity and stood in front of it on my knees. I picked up my prescription bottle with such haste I failed to notice how light it felt. The top shot off from the pressure of my thumb and I looked down in disbelief at the powered residue inside of the empty bottle. I had forgotten to refill my prescription. There would be no time to run to the store, not with the children. No one will ever believe you. I can hear the school bus pulling up to the front of the street. I have to go get the children.

I held them both tightly after they bolted from the bus. I squeezed them in my arms the way they tried to hold me-when frightened-before they realized I had no desire to protect them.

“Hi, mommy! Look what I made for you.”

“Thank you, Lauren, it’s beautiful. Peter, give me your hand.”

I ushered the children in the house and had the maid fix them some sandwiches. I told them to go outside and play with their friends. I couldn’t stand for them to see me like this anymore. My hands trembled feverishly as I grabbed a handful of ice cubes from the freezer and transported them to an empty glass. I didn’t measure the appropriate amount of Vodka as I would usually. I poured continuously watching the cubes crack and float to the rim of the glass. You better not scream. I cradled my cheek in my hand. I could almost feel the hard slaps he inflicted on me to keep me quiet. I walked into the living room and sat down on my divan. I put my drink on the table on top of a coaster, and felt around under the divan for my cigarettes. Normally, I’d never smoke in the house. I’ll have to make sure to spray the house down thoroughly before the children come back. No one knows about this habit of mine, and little Lauren has terrible asthma; I can only suppose that’s my fault too. Karen, we’ve already touched on your Post Partum Depression. I want to address some of the other issues.

“I don’t want to talk anymore!” There was no one there. It was all in my mind. I tipped the glass to my lips followed by a long drag from my cigarette. I sunk back into the divan as the voices seemed to subside. I could feel the stiff cushion instead of the dusty and dank wood floor of my childhood home. You expressed some feelings of anger and betrayal at your husband’s reception last fall. I want to explore that.

The house was lovely that night. The air was crisp and cool and we set up heat lamps on the patio for the guests. We’d have Glazed Red Snapper with butternut squash and mixed vegetables for dinner followed by a choice of Crème Brulee or Mango Sorbet. My energy was exhausted by my vain attempts to keep up with my husband. I felt like I was in a high speed police chase trying to maintain his pace as he mingled with his colleagues. I lashed out at the maid to vent my frustration. All of the guests needed full glasses of champagne. I wouldn’t have been preoccupied with him if any of the neighbors had been invited. He said it would be a conflict of interest if any of them had attended. They were not as cultured or refined as us. He smoothed over his arrogant remarks by adding that I didn’t care for them-being the other housewives-anyway. It just would have been nice to have familiar faces about admiring the artwork, or remarking on the Swarvoski crystal center piece or inquiring about the designer of my dress. Yves Saint Laurent I’d reply with an artificial but content smile. My husband had left me alone and defenseless, and I was cornered at the fireplace by two ghostly pale women who looked as if they could smell a fresh kill from miles away.

“You must be Harold’s wife. I’m sure you’re excited about his success.”

“Yes, I am proud of him. Are you enjoying the party?”

“Oh yes. Your home is very- eclectic.”

“So Mrs. Mitchell, what do you do for a living?”

“Well, I actually don’t work.”

The look on their faces made my shoulders raise and tense like the head of a cobra. Instead of feeling like I was quick, agile, and ready to strike, I felt frozen as does the prey. Their silence and judgmental gaze made me feel like I was worthless. There was nothing I could say. The women had diverted their attention to someone behind me.

“I think I see Mrs. Graves. She just opened her private practice last month. Excuse us, Mrs. Mitchell.”

The last of the champagne was consumed and all sticky orange coated spoons and plates were washed and laid to dry and my side of the bed was shadowed while Harold’s bedside lamp kept me from my sleep. I rolled over to face him. He didn’t notice. He continued thumbing through the pages of his book.

“Tomorrow I’m going to start looking for a job.”

“What prompted this decision?” He asked, refusing to look me in the eye.

“I’ve felt this way for awhile now. I think it’s time for me to establish myself.”

“Karen.” His tone, the way he snatched off his glasses-like grabbing the arm of a misbehaving child-made me his inferior. “What makes you think you can handle the work force? You can’t even take care of this house. You-you can’t go one day without taking your meds.”

I looked away from him. He began to resemble my brother pressing himself down on me as I drifter even further from my mother’s watch. It was then I realized my place in both of these houses; unwillingly forced on my back. No one will ever believe you.

My glass is almost empty, and the voices persist. My cigarette continues to burn although I’m not smoking. That’s how life is. It continues on with or without you. The pages of the classifieds I circled and underlined had yellowed as if stained with coffee, and a year to the date of the reception found me yellowing as well. Yes, life does press on. I can’t decide which is the way for me. Which would you choose, Karen?

“Didn’t I just say I don’t know?!”

Would it be your choice to leave Harold and provide for the children and yourself without his money or would you stay married and remain discontent? Let’s face it that is the question at hand.

His money. That’s laughable. When I met him he was a bus boy at dingy blue collar diner. I’m surprised he didn’t attempt to write his high school diploma on a piece of notebook paper. I had everything when I met him and now I live like an indentured

servant to a pompous pusher. It’s not a question of staying or leaving. This is question of hatred, either of self for staying or from my children for leaving. I didn’t say these words. My tongue felt mealy and numb and the only audible sound I could make was a guttural, baritone wail. Well, there has to be something about your life you’d change.

Excuse me, I believe you and I spoke earlier.

Yes, Mrs. Mitchell.

Her frantic eyes darted over my shoulders, pleading for someone to save her from me.

The look you gave me when I said I didn’t work, what was the meaning behind it?

I don’t know that I gave you a certain look-

You did. My shoulders tensed again and I leaned forward in a sudden rush of confrontation.

Well, would you like me to apologize for this faux pas?

No. Just understand that I’m more than just Harold’s wife. None of you would be in my eclectic house tonight if I hadn’t drafted the business plan that got him started. How dare you treat me this way!

Karen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.

Her eyes were the size of silver dollars as my hand gripped so easily over her mouth and chin. I mimicked her words. How mild and weak she sounded. How revolting. My grip tightened. You better not scream, I told her. No wonder my brother loved those words, simple as they were but so insolent. Her fall seemed orchestrated like the faints of newly healed cripples on televised holy shows. The chatter stopped, heads turned to see me. My look dared anyone to speak. I picked up my champagne glass with my rebuking hand and tilted my head back to take in the celebrating bubbles. I threw the glass into the fireplace and the fire blazed brighter accepting its’ offering. I walked into the dinning room, and jumped onto my table, replacing my Swarvoski center piece with my tense body. I stomped the right heel of my Christian Louboutin pumps on the table for more bewildered stares and cavernous jaws. With clenched fists at my side I began to scream.

I am more than these clothes, and this house! I have a name and isn’t Harold’s wife. It’s Karen fucking Mitchell and you’re here tonight because of me!

The calm I felt was surreal. It was like the end of a long search one that my pills could never provide. I could feel the roar of the fireplace rose my cheeks and warm my winter’s blood. I could be better now. Such a lovely home. I know. The smell of smoke was curious but not alarming as I drifted off to sleep, my cigarette still burning. I let it live. I wasn’t to be the one extinguishing it anyway. The children, thankfully they weren’t inside.

My soul rose from the ashes like a brilliant phoenix. I spread my lava-red and gold wings to infinity. The smoke folded and rounded under the force of my span. I was higher than my cull-de-sac and more beautiful and luminous than the moon. It felt like the day had never happened. It was like I wasn’t there.

My distrust of Carmen Electra and the products she endorses

The title alone is a mockery of me. Of all celebrities to put your faith in: Sally Field for Boniva, Diddy for Proactiv, that old tired woman for the Sleep Number Bed, I pick Carmen Electra and her cursed stripper pole.

I had the best intentions. This wasn't some attempt to keep a boyfriend or begin a career to finance my higher learning. This all came about for the new year and weeks later after a comment about my belly fat. I was crunching away on pretzels and cream cheese, minding my own damn business. "You know that's basically all fat, right?" a friend of sorts asked, her large hazel eyes filled with pseudo concern. "It's because she's pregnant." a co worker commented justly so with his Miller Lite baby about to explode out of his work shirt like an Alien offspring.
"I mean, you know where it's all going to go. You carry most of your weight in your belly." How I love people and their unwarranted comments on my body. Can't get enough. However, it was what I claimed I needed to get myself motivated to work out. When you're skinny and always will be but need to get toned, you make small talk with others about weight and when you even mention weight loss and yourself in the same sentence you get "What are you talking about?! Have you looked at yourself? You're fine the way you are." So, you eat. Then you wake up and realize that while you are skinny a one piece bathing suit would probably be more flattering than a more daring two piece number.
I cut back on my portions even more than usual. I planned to run, do yoga, and purchase the stripper pole I'd been vying for since I slid my first dollar into a garter. I researched poles and decided that I could go the recession conscious way and get the $130 pole in the pretty pink and black box with Carmen Electra splattered across it. I power walked through the mall recalling the comments made thinking on the boys I gave to the past tense and how they'd kick themselves when they saw me again. "You only live once" I said to the check out guy after he told all sales were final. "Whatcha got there?" a tall snowy featured man asked with daughter in tow. I gave him a flirty eye and smile "Oh nothin'".
This morning after five minutes of easy toil according to the instructional DVD, I'd be swinging my way to a rocking body minus the extra baggage I've acquired. "Maybe you can resell it on ebay." my male assistant said. Looking at me with those damn boyish cognac eyes. If I weren't so embittered I might have been charmed. Instead I was overcome with disappointment and buyer's remorse. Clearly stated on the back of the box not covered with Carmen Electra's cosmetically altered and Photoshopped body and also not in bold and jazzy pink writing were the words of my undoing. The pole was made for ceilings not exceeding 8 feet and 6 inches. The nine foot ceilings in my apartment made the pole unusable and potentially unsafe. Such items can't be returned for obvious reasons no matter how many times you tell the cashier you swear on your gene pool that no bodily fluid of yours even looked at the pole. I can only blame myself I guess for making a hasty purchase, but I can still give the stink eye to Carmen Electra and all things she stands for.
If you are in the market for a stripper pole no matter what your intentions may be, look for one that costs more than $100 as you will be attempting George of the Jungle type moves. Average costs I've seen range between $230 and $400 and some even have attachments if you have vaulted ceilings. One company in particular boasts to have been featured on Oprah and if there is anyone you can trust...

The Bust Stop

At 8:45 I turn the lights off. Not to sleep, but to watch an exhaling shadow first then a woman materialize. She is always early for her 8:55 bus as I am to look down from my window. Perhaps she is scarred to be in the dark. The time has not quite been set for spring though the March days have lengthened. The street lights are flickering on now, a spotlight to procure her glamour. The honey shade of light gives me swinging leg, a cheek round and high, dark tresses neatly curled. Ten minutes is never long enough. Soft screeching brakes make her stand, throwing a quick sass of hip for her time wasted, and off she’s carried away from me until tomorrow.

Twenty minutes till and I stand in the mirror mowing down my stubble. No beard to speak of. Hairs are splotched on my oval earth. I don’t know how I didn’t miss a stair as hastily as I galloped to front door of my building. The humid atmosphere was a thousand camel licks on my skin. I look down at my watch. She’d just be taking her seat. I think of what to say. Maybe I’d be nonchalant and let her come to me. Or maybe use some slang I’d overheard from a bunch of kids in the supermarket. She sits hands in lap staring out. She is a nightingale perched cooing to me. She hears my footsteps and doesn’t flinch (no, not a bird, a tigress). I stand behind her just under the half moon ceiling of the bus stop. She turns to me giving me a once over. She leans back out of her crouch, deeming me safe, and the light thwarts the shadows over her lips. I coil inside. To kiss her would drown me.

“Hi.” My peppy tone is my certain undoing.
“Hi, how are you?” How wrong I am and glad of it.
“Hot.” She smiled. I sit down.
“I’m usually alone for the 8:55.”
“I know.” I unnerved her. The eyes narrow and they dart to each bush and dark corner.
“I mean I live right here and I see you out here by yourself all the time and I feel compelled to make sure you’re safe.”
“That’s very nice of you.” She exhales and smiles and this time it is full. I extend my hand.
“I’m Kyle.”
“Marissa.” Hands soft with a touch of chill.
“Enchanted.”

Twenty minutes till. Now five and still I wait. She’ll be here and I won’t move. She’s already mine her scent in my sheets. I’ve traveled the world with and without her. I’ve asked my boss for a raise or got on the internet to find a better job. I am always already there.
“I’d love to take you out some time or at least just drive you home once.” A laugh is the gift at my doorstep. This moment is finding money in the wash. Then it is gone from me. Mechanical cringe of old brakes and rows of lit windows. She stands and pauses before the doors swing open. She looks over her shoulder at me.
“Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Trashbag sledding

"I didn't take Physics for nothing" a friend of mine said as we stomped through the snow back to our apartment building. We'd been hit with an inch or two of snow in the Nation's capital. Outsiders say we call in the cavalry whenever we get the slightest accumulation. Salt trucks line the highways waiting for anything solid and white to hit the pavement. Traffic is backed up for miles 'Winter Storm Warning' plastered on our TV screens. The weather is far from the infamous '96 blizzard during which I enjoyed a week of no school, but I felt childlike running through the parking lot of my community laughing, tossing loose snowballs like handfuls of glitter. "Let's go sledding." the Physics buff suggested. None of us had a wooden sled or its' middle class cousin the trash can lid, but we hurried inside to grab white trash bags. We layed them out like picnic blankets. Nothing except the red drawstring was visible under the street lights. My gloveless hands gripped the bag's edges before scooting then sailing down the hill barely missing the wood barrier of the playground. Up and down panting and laughing and colliding, we knew our other friends would be sad they missed out. "We should've brought a camera" my other friend lamented. The only evidence is the rear-shaped impressions atop our slope.

Intro

Inspiration is like
catching fireflies
in the summer evening
they do this for love
I'm told
to get a mason jar
but I'm focused on the light
the bright green-yellow
flashes, pulses
and I follow behind it
Ignoring the reality of the present
I reached out to grab ahold
of the light
allowed me to see its' wings
The light stopped suddenly and I trailed behind
skidding across the grass
waiting for a sign,
eyes darted
in the darkness
the light beckoned again
And I snatched it in my hand
selfishly
feeling it tickel my palm
Looking for an open jar,
a thought ocurred:
this light can't just be mine
to keep clinched under my fingers
sticky from the heat of the chase
The having the losing of a non-possession
My hand hinged open and set it free
And this is why I write