Dear Reader
It took me a little while to recognize my fatal flaw, as a reader. It's not a question of extremes, as much as underlying interest. Undoubtedly, some enthusiasts immerse themselves in environment too much, or not deeply enough; or sink into plots, and become entangled in the knots of artificial problems or trip over allegory altogether; some identify empathilessly, or delve into infatuancies, with heroes and antiheros. That's not me.
What I didn't realize until early teens, junior high, or high school the latest, maybe, was that I was maintaining extended conversations with the authors. Made up of course, extensions on the basis of what was given in text, or interview elsewhere. Nothing fascinated me as much--- the rest of the story being "words on paper."
I guess, like a vampiread, I wanted the Life behind or within the story line. I wanted to understand, why the devil did so and so feel it necessary to carry-in to existence this work, this body? I suppose I hoped to see for a moment through the eyes of the wordsmith, and perceive what effect he or she was trying, hoping, to achieve, in the mind of others, through the manuscript as laid out, long or short.
In my own search for meaning, I must have made the (ghasted! I know) assumption that there is a Purpose behind all things. Note the capital, as denouncement of something grand: that accident in art is minimized by a closer analysis of impact, and a penultimate point of acceptance or rejection of it, before final publicization (form/media determining in large part the arena of distribution, as print, gallery, screen). In short, that the writer had something to say, beneath the tip of the berg of what now appeared in our glare of vision.
Not necessarily something new. Something personal. Vital.
It must have been in the early teen-years that I first revealed, and sighted, my flaw--these quirks being unjudged internally until someone else balks and stops you in your everyday stride. Discussing a book, I was subsequently met with indignant tonguelash. I can't remember what book or what I said, but I remember distinctively the response. That I was wasting my time.
Writing isn't like that. Words speak for themselves. It's about characters. The work takes on a life of its own. It belongs to the audience. A typographical orphan. Beyond control. The search for meaning as in our own lives is futile... The author like a God is long gone mentally and busy, anyway nobody is expositioning themselves. Book closed.
To my fellow student-writers, majoring in nothing at the time, it was as if personally offensive. Yet irrational. A barrier put up by the readers themselves in their minds, Private Property/ No Trespassing. It puzzled me that our teachers nodded along, though we routinely pursue potential acts of major and minor characters in our imagination in literary assignments. Character study we call it.
To be sure I don't like chained link or barbed wire, and would avoid these as well, still I conclude that unnecessarily imposed fences, especially intellectual ones should be scaled, down to size. In defense of the antagonists, the only thing I could think of was the fear of Writer's Block. If we spent too much time pondering over Purpose, we would create nothing at all. Maybe.
Yet I am inclined to the idea that understanding intent is within the Reader's purview, as much as it is part of the Writer's prerogative. As a reader, I give much respect to the Author, and freedom to take us wherever inspiration in the moment or future will lead us. I can't ask for it back, but I can pay it forward, when I myself scrawl something down, with that invisible prefix "Dear Reader..."
Gunshot
"No thank you, I'm full." Is a gunshot in the air.
My ears ring, tongue licking lips to clear them of the gunpowder.
The duellists beneath this yellow lighting- a ninety-one year old immigrant grandmother, and a thirty-something girlfriend.
I watch, my eyelids peeled against my will (my torturer; the grip of familial penchant for drama).
My grandmother grins. All rates-ratus (grab a pipe, or a glass of wine)
"Ai-th-ee, please see this whorish-mule of a woman out."
She says to my brother; the boyfriend.
Shotgun shells litter the floor as she pushes her chair back, and disappears to pray.
Thoughts of Aging
Many people hate me. I realized this with a starting horror today as I sifted through my old photos. Nearly- no, every single person is either a glancing face or someone who detests me now.
Faces I have smiled beside. People I have spent more than half my life with.
It must be fair- it has to be. Bad things don't come in spades- they come in fucking decks. This is not coincidence. I am not absolved of guilt. I was horrible. I was evil, even.
I did not care for anyone but myself. I drained people until they were husks simply because I couldn't create my own joy, my own purpose, my own love.
So I stole all of theirs, and that of their families until I felt full, though I was a beast with a bottomless pit for a stomach so it took years for them to feel truly and completely bereft of life due to how methodical I was. Pepper them with love until they felt assuaged, then take and take and...
I am 22 in four days. And I am hated with the ferocity of what I amassed as a teenager. I am now facing the brunt of it all, as I see those same friends interact with each other and celebrate their accomplishments. As they leave me now behind. I stand still, surrounded by crumbling towers and displaced bricks in the form of the pressure I strapped to the shoulders of guileless children who were responsible for my life, weighed down until now.
I deserve to be hated. I was sick, though it is no excuse. My mind waged war on itself and I selfishly fought to survive. But I cannot fix what I have done. I carry the same scars of my old friends, though they think it was my careless wrist that sunk the blade and not one missed as I tried to gut myself. My other self. The evil that lurked since I was still chubby-fisted and wobbly in my movements.
Why do I suffer for pain I caused, because of the pain I received when I was too young to spell my own name?
No good deed goes unpunished
"I would like to request a wellness visit for my neighbors."
The officer appeared tired and skeptical as he looked away from the computer he had been typing on to glance at the speaker. "And you are?"
“Angelica Austin.”
"Ms. Austin –"
"Mrs."
"Mrs. Austin, who are the neighbors in question?"
“Gaby and Vince Kaplan."
He grabbed a pen and piece a paper to write down the names. “What makes you think they require a wellness visit?"
“I must say, first, we don’t socialize with our neighbors. We are very private people. But I pride myself on staying aware and informed, so I felt compelled to come forward.”
“Gaby and Vince…?”
“We live in the corner house, right behind the police station. You can see it from the front steps,” she said, pointing. “We just moved in four years ago. A day or two after we moved in, Gaby and Vince stopped by bearing cookies and garden tomatoes. We thanked them, but I didn’t let them in. I’m not a fan of strangers walking around my home. Within a week, I put up very artfully designed, 36x36 inch “No Trespassing” signs by the front and side doors. I’m sure you’ve seen them.”
“Yes, ma'am, we all have.”
“That kept the pseudo-friendly neighbors from coming around. MYOB, I always say.”
The officer nodded and took a deep breath.
“In addition to the signs, we installed motion sensor lights, alarms, and video cameras as part of our top-of-the-line security system. We designed the system ourselves, Jared, my husband, and I. And we did all the installation. We didn’t want strangers crawling around and getting access to our home.”
The officer raised his eyebrows. “Ma’am, I’m going to need to record your statement so it can be typed up later.”
“Certainly.”
He pressed record. “Continue, ma’am.”
“Since the house was built for a family of five or more, we have room to spare for the two of us. We combined two and created our own security room. We blacked out the windows to ensure privacy – you can never be too careful. We have ten screens on two walls showing the views from the cameras placed strategically around the exterior of the house. Three additional screens show interior views from the three entrances. All the footage saves on two different servers. We have a generator in the basement, just in case. You never know.”
“The Kaplans, Ms. Austin...?”
“We have two to three cameras on each side of the house. There are three on the side facing Gaby and Vince’s home. The GabyVince cameras, as I like to call them, face their kitchen, dining room, master bedroom and bathroom. Although the cameras are meant to keep an eye out for intruders, I have the ability to zoom. I also have sound sensors that I can magnify to hear ants crawl. Which sensors allowed me to hear Gaby and Vince.”
“You do realize that is illegal, ma’am?”
“Protecting your home is illegal?”
“Spying on your neighbors.”
“I wasn’t spying." She paused. "Per se.”
The officer shook his head but didn’t say anything.
“The first time I listened to them talking, I wondered if they knew they had an audience. They were so nice to each other. I was convinced they knew, somehow. But every time I reviewed the recordings, they were always the same. Most people drop their masks at the door and let their monsters out when they’re alone. Family gets to see the ugly more than anyone. Not these two. They hugged constantly, for Chrissake. Or kissed. When they were both home, they said “I love you” a million times a day. I don’t remember the last time I said I love you to Jared. Or him to me for that matter. We just know. Who needs to say it all the time? Do you?”
“Ma’am…”
“They were an anomaly to me. They cleaned and folded laundry together. I have a cleaning service. Of course, I follow them around when they come to make sure they do a good job. Plus, I don’t trust them. They don’t even speak English. No matter how loud I say it, they rarely understand me. Anyway, if one cooked, the other washed the dishes. We don’t cook; I love my state-of-the-art kitchen exactly as it is. Shiny and new. Looks the same as it did in the showroom. No, we order take out. Only from the best restaurants. I order, Jared picks up. No delivery. For obvious reasons. You understand.”
“Yes, ma’am. The Kaplans…?”
“Gaby and Vince have an adult son. He visits every once in a while, and I counted 30 candles on his last birthday cake - must have been a fire hazard and I wanted to warn them, but Jared convinced me it was not the best idea - so I knew they had been together a while. Long enough for the honeymoon to be way over. Like normal people. But I could see them dancing in the kitchen. And I could hear them going at it in the shower, and the bedroom and occasionally see them on the kitchen counter. They were embarrassing.”
“Definitely, illegal, ma’am.”
“I tried to stop watching but I had to keep an eye out for intruders. You never know when that car parked too long out front is a thief or a killer rather than an innocent visitor to a neighbor.
“That’s how I know.”
“Know what, ma’am?"
"That someone needs to check on them."
The officer perked up as Angelica finally seemed to reach the point of her visit to the police station.
"Did you see a crime committed against the Kaplans, Mrs. Austin?"
"No."
He sighed. "What did you see that brought you here today?"
"It’s more what I haven't seen."
He lifted an eyebrow.
"There’s no movement in the house."
He sighed again. "Might they be on vacation?"
"No. No one has left the house in at least two weeks. I noticed a while ago that Vince wasn’t going out. Maybe six months ago? Gaby was only going out to shop, looked like, then she was back home cooking, cleaning by herself. I only saw rare glimpses of Vince. No, dancing, or going at it like rabbits. A lot of are you okay? Do you need anything? I could see her helping him to the table in the kitchen or to the bathroom. About a month ago, I’d say, he stopped leaving the bedroom.
“Then maybe two weeks ago, I stopped seeing Gaby as well. She didn’t leave the house, so they are both in there. I’m worried. I don’t know what happened, but something is wrong. You need to go make sure they are alright.”
“Two weeks, you say?”
“Yes, Officer.”
“I’ll send a patrol car over right now, ma'am.”
“Thank you so much,” Angelica said, turning to leave.
“I will also be sending one to survey your security set-up.” Angelica stopped and turned back to the police officer. “What you have described is not only illegal, but also criminal.”
“But I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just trying to be a good neighbor!”
“Have a seat Mrs. Austin. As long as you don’t have any recordings of Mr. and Mrs. Kaplan engaged in private activities, you probably have nothing to worry about.”
Her eyes swallowed her face as she whispered, “Oh.”
SHATTER
“Welcome to the crew!” The words continued to ring in Mot’s ears. He still could not believe that his Uncle had signed him up for this kind of work. His Mom had been so excited for him. She was quite glad that he now had a job, and looked forward to him working on later getting his own place. Sure she was okay with having her second born child at home, but a mother needed some privacy~ ya know. Mot had noticed how his Mom, and Mr. Grid had been spending so much time together lately. He later found out from one of the older ladies from down the street that sometimes when Mot was out with his friends, or went on a long weekend getaway/vacation, Mr. Grid would stay, get comfy, even carry some stuff over at Mot’s home, and stay over not only during the day, but overnight, too (as the senior buddy of his put it). This kind of worried Mot he told his close friend, Roti, about it, and Roti burst out laughing. He had told Mot to start preparing to call Mr. Grid, ‘‘Papa.’’ At that remark Mot squinted his eyes, and glared at Roti. Not that he didn’t like Mr. Grid, he just did not want to see his Mom get hurt again. The others guys she had been only wanted to use her, and they did not care if they broke her in the process of using her. Now maybe if he worked hard at his job, he would be able to take care of his Mom, and she would not have to be with Mr. Grid. Mot knew his Mom needed help with a lot of bills, but he did not want Mr. Grid to be the one to help with that. His older sibling was traveling, and was somewhere in another galaxy. Mot would have to be the one to try to save his Mom, and be her knight in shining armor. Now he just had to concentrate on his work. Not stared at the piles, and heaps of creatures lying on the mahogany floor. Their boss had been at it again. This time most of the bones of these beastlings had been shattered. Mot felt shivers go down his spine. He definitely did not want to ever be caught in a room alone with the one, and only Daemon Queen. She looked kinda human, but everyone at work even the transients knew not to mess around with Sasha.
#SHATTER ©️ 04.11.2023 Sat’rday
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=uOi_qHmKSK8
October Drabble Winner
Spooky season really brings out the talent.
I had a metric buttload of entries this month, and it was lovely. I had a tough time deciding who would come away with this month's HUGE JACKPOT OF BIGTIME MONEYCASH, but in the end, I went with some new talent here on theprose-dot-com.
Bursting in on the scene with an honorable mention is @CatOnTheCob with an uplifting little tale of family love. https://www.theprose.com/post/771379/my-mothers-funeral
@Ethereality killed it with a tale that made me laugh out loud. https://www.theprose.com/post/771293/the-hole
@FarrellTimlake has been on Prose for a minute, but he got my ANT-tention with https://www.theprose.com/post/770684/the-night-march
THE WINNER, YOU ASK?!? @TaraRoberts impressed me with her culinary delights in https://www.theprose.com/post/772648/the-harvest
So My Sister Is a Fugitive, Or Not Really
Okay. So let's review. I, twenty-two years old, cripplingly broke and bitter went to the bank. Okay, normal. And why? No, I was not going to rob a bank Mar!
I had gotten a job and, was going to deposit my first paycheck safe and secure in my back pocket of skinny jeans.
There's some stupid backlog on today of all days. A Thursday at two in the afternoon. Lucky for me my boss was easygoing. Way too nice to deal with my sharp, salty tongue brimming with lovely sarcasm and barely concealed envy of his sleek desk and gorgeous wife and adorable kids all loving and smiley on his framed pics.
But none of that would really help me. Humanizing? Sure, okay. Of any importance to keep me alive in a savage, greedy, and completely spazzing soon-to-be bride's arms? No.
I'd barely been close enough to see the asshat who'd cut the line. And too in my own world to care, staring down with the clients today being execs I'd have to assume from such polished, fine looking suits, shined shoes, and Blackberries.
And then the Phaser appeared, raining down smoke bombs with a noxious paralytic.
In pure instinct I dropped like a sack same as everyone else.
Waited for one pair of boots to pass me by before I raised my head, arm, outward shielding my face to keep that fact covert. Yeah, my world is a comic book. And I had a fairly mundane, unexceptional power of being immune to poison.
What I hadn't expected, was for their getaway to have a bird's eye view of the place, helped along by a Feather mutation and his dominant power being X-Ray.
I had gone to the bank on Thursday morning. And never had cashed in my check since a ringleader wearing the honey blond curls and jutting, angular features of my sister Marilyn had scooped me up in her arms.
"I do apologize doll," she simpered, though her smile was too slick and knife-like at the edges. "Business and all. Busy, busy, oh you won't be harmed."
I'd not stopped glaring at her.
"Yeah I'm sure I won't Mars Bar," I huffed, past the rushing air current.
"I could drop you," she warned.
"And have Mom on your butt for the rest of eternity. Please," I sneered, "she may be blind to how prissy and moody you often get, but she is still a psychic user."
My first sign that I may have made a dumber than usual mistake.
The flash of confusion to this deeply personal and pertinent lore drop.
"You and-- me, don't get on do we?"
"Oh no, I'd say we get on just fine," I hummed. "I simply love, love, love how you always have to have the upper hand or make all your snide jabs at me. Lovingly dismissing me as a failure when I had to drop out-- of-- ?"
"Stop talking," she said, holding me close against her chest. "Don't. Look."
Travaille-le!
He worked it, her body that is, from dusk till dawn. Gliding down, and making her forget even where, & when she was— her head felt so dizzy- spinning in an addicting motion. Her lips quivered with each of his expert hand, ‘nd tongue twistin’ techniques. Her body was in quite a state of an electric frenzy, one that was driving her almost mad with glee. She felt like she was being handled by a god, or some demi-god. Maybe this is what it was like to be jumped in the line with Zeus’ lightning rod. What a crazy shockingly powerful feelin’.
#Travaille-le!
Thorsday 02.11.2023 November ©️
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=kMXBJW1PuU8