Excerpts from a longer (short) story about domestic violence
She often had a nightmare that she floated in a pond paved with coloured stones, their smoothness and intensity of colour calling out, the water warm like a bath. She is excited by the stones so available to grasp, a fire is kindled in her stomach. She reaches for one, but her hand is heavy. The water churns and the stone is unobtainable, concealed in the froth. She wants to dunk down, but her brain is unable to command her actions. A stone from outside the pond, a drab, hard, rough stone, hits her in the head. She feels the pain in her dream.
She realizes that the stones in her recurring dream are life's possibilities. Excitement for adventure in all its forms. Living life to the fullest even in the simplest way. The devil in life, rage, prejudice, subjugation, brutality, fear, throws the stone. The dull one, to silence her, shame her, blame her.
The Prose Universe Part 1
The day is hot and sunny. A light breeze blows into the town square. President James M. Byers stands on a podium in front of a large crowd. In the background is the Emperor’s Palace. Weeks earlier, it had been the home of the Emperor, the most powerful man in the country. That was before the war ended thus ending Emperor Jim Lamb's rule.
“Today society changes”, said newly elected President Byers. The crowd starts to cheer and applause the president. When the crowd calms down President Byers continues to speak. “We the people of Twain shall form a government that follows the will of the proletarian masses and not the will of the bourgeoisie. We form a government that shall take the power that belonged to the aristocrats and the oligarchs so that it gives it to the people. Corporatism has destroyed the middle class. It has made the rich richer and the poor poorer. It shall no longer!!!” The crowd erupts into applause and cheers.
The video stops and the lights come back on. The history teacher stands in front of the high school class. “I’m sorry class, but we will have to continue the documentary on Monday. It is time to pack your things and go to your next class. Remember we will have a test over the Twain Revolutionary War, which happened 500 years ago. We will discuss the first Secretary of State Phynne Belle, the First Secretary of War General Paul D. Chambers, First Lady Winterreign, and the First Secretary of the Treasury Esther Flowers.”, said Mrs. Fidaus. A sense of gratitude is felt throughout the room. The class was glad class is over and begins to leave.
I, of course, am one of the last to leave the classroom. I run down the long student packed hallway in fear that I will be late for Ms. Bunny’s class. Ms. Bunny is the school’s music teacher. She teaches students how to play a different number of instruments. However, she doesn’t like people being late for class. “Slow down and stop running in the hallway”, a medium pitched voice cried out. I turn around and find that the voice belongs to Principal Ruby Pond, who was standing next to Vice Principal Soul Hearts and Superintendent Samantha Fowler. “Yes, ma’am.”, I reply continuing on my way to class and walking quickly to my seat.
After Ms. Bunny’s class, I head off to Mr. Syne’s class. He is my Algebra 1 teacher. On my way, I run into Dusty Grein, one of the school’s English 4 teachers. Supposedly, he teaches an english class in a laid back way, but grades very strict. It makes him one of the toughest English teachers at the school. I also run into Mrs. Alice Anne, who teaches philosophy. Her favorite philosopher is a guy who’s nickname is Creative Chaos and lived 200 years ago. Why they called him Creative Chaos, I will never know.
Gray Skies Glorified
Even though this is Seattle, it’s not supposed to rain in July. My tickets say Lollapalooza ’92, Take the Day Off, Kitsap County Fairgrounds, Rain or Shine, Wed. July 22, 1992 1:00PM. I was totally psyched about this show, but when I bought the tickets I assumed it would be a glorious sunny day. Now I’m not so excited. I hate being cold and wet. Plus, I can’t afford to get sick. I work two jobs and go to Shoreline Community College. I’ve got rent to pay and car insurance and everything else. It was bad enough that I had to take today off.
But God, I had to come to this show, I mean, it’s Lollapalooza! I just wish it wasn’t so far away. I didn’t even know how to get to Kitsap County until I pulled out my Washington roadmap. My boyfriend Danny and I just got off the ferry at Kingston and we’re driving in my ’85 Civic down a curvy two-lane road flanked by tall evergreens, ferns, and blackberry bushes.
The car ahead of me churns up the water on the roadway. The spray is so heavy that I can’t even see the road or the car. Gray mist is pretty much all I can see out of all my windows and mirrors. It’s practically the longest day of the year, yet it’s dark on this road in this weather, even at twelve-thirty in the afternoon.
We missed the ferry we meant to catch and we’re gonna be really late. I had no idea it would take so long to get down here. We better not miss Pearl Jam. They’re my favorite band. I’ve got Ten playing in the tape deck right now. Eddie is singing about a girl. He knows she’ll have a beautiful life. He knows she’ll be a star. I wished he were talking about me. I once thought that was possible, now I’m not so sure.
Danny doesn’t care about any of the bands on the line-up. He basically came along for the ride. He doesn’t care what we do, especially since I bought his ticket, and I’m driving. He likes heavy metal: Queensryche, Metallica, Tesla. I’m all about alternative, especially the Seattle Sound: Alice in Chains, Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Soundgarden.
I start to see cars parked along the road ahead of me and decide that this must be the overflow. I pull onto the shoulder. We’ve got to be two miles away. I wish we hadn’t missed that ferry.
“Did you bring a raincoat?” I ask, pushing down the door lock.
“I don’t own a raincoat. Did you?”
“No, but I wish I did. We’re gonna be drowned rats before we even get there.” It didn’t occur to me that it would be pouring over here. It was just overcast when we left. I grab my backpack out of the back seat that has a couple of Dr. Peppers and some Doritos for later. I also grab my blanket and wish it were a tarp, instead. I’m wearing jeans and a flannel and a pair of Doc Martens. Danny’s in jeans and tennis shoes and a light jacket. He brought nothing with him—not that I can see, anyway. I’ll bet he’s got a prescription bottle filled with joints hidden somewhere on him. I can’t believe I’m going out with a twenty-three-year-old stoner. He never even offers me a toke. Maybe if he did, I’d smoke with him, but probably not. Adults shouldn’t do drugs. I quit smoking pot in high school. Now I only smoke cigarettes, but rarely. I’m trying to quit. My family doesn’t even know I smoke. They would flip.
We take off walking through the wilderness until we come to a chain link fence and then some signs and finally the entrance. Danny reaches out for my hand timidly, as we walk. He’s a nice guy and we have a decent time together, but I don’t love him.
We really have nothing in common. He’s the kind of guy you can walk all over. No balls. Totally not my type. But I’ve kind of given up lately. Lowered my expectations, I guess. I no longer anticipate finding someone who will knock my socks off.
Lush is playing already when we finally get to the fairgrounds. They sound pretty good. I’m not familiar with them, but it’s nice to have females represented in a male-dominated line-up. We follow the throngs of people to the main stage area. There’s already a huge crowd; thousands and thousands of people, I’ll bet. A sea of heads bob up and down in unison. Bodies are being passed above heads, through the crowd. Danny and I find a spot way in the back and spread the blanket over the muddy grass. I sit cross-legged, wet and grumpy.
Danny and I sit there, barely talking and I wonder if this concert would be more fun with someone else. But he is here with me. He’s my boyfriend and our relationship is safe, comfortable, and easy.
Pearl Jam comes on next, and they sound fantastic. Eddie sounds incredibly sexy, and I wish I were closer so I could actually see him. The rain lets up and I want to dance, but I’m so cold. I’m shivering, my muscles are stiff and sore, and I don’t want to move. I’m miserable and I tell Danny that maybe when Pearl Jam is done playing we should go. He nods in compliance.
When their set is over, we sit and listen to Jesus and Mary Chain for a while, but I don’t really know them and I have to pee, so we make our way over to the string of Honey Buckets. I peel my saturated jeans down my legs and hover over the seat. At least with the cold weather there isn’t much of a stench rising from the liquid below me, despite the heavy use. I hurry anyway, just because I don’t like to linger in the porta potty. I can barely get my pants back up and the feeling of the cold, wet denim is not pleasant. Even my cotton panties are soggy. I turn the plastic lock, squirt sanitizer on my hands, and then kick the door open and pile out, the heavy plastic door slamming behind me. Danny isn’t standing where I thought he would be. I look up and down the corridor, but I don’t see him. I wait, assuming he’s gone somewhere to get high. Twenty minutes pass, and he doesn’t show.
I watch the crowd. The rain is falling hard again. A thick cloud of steam rises from the sweaty bodies in the cool air and looks like a smoldering fire. They’re having fun and they don’t care that it’s raining.
“Why are you standing here all by yourself?” A smooth, deep voice asks. I assume he’s talking to someone else. When I look over, a gorgeous pale-skinned guy with long, curly dark hair, a goatee, and perfect white teeth is smiling at me. His cheeks are flushed and his skin glistens with sweat and rain. There’s a smear of mud on his chin and forehead. He isn’t wearing a shirt except for the flannel tied around his waist. His frame is lean, but not thin. He has no hair on his chest and a tattoo of a black sun on his shoulder. My eyes are drawn to his pecks. My God! I want to touch them, but I avert my eyes. On the bottom he’s got thermals and baggy pants—cut off at the knee—wool socks, and boots that I assume are black, but are now covered in dense brown mud. He’s holding a huge half-full Evian bottle in one hand and a smoke in the other. I try to think of something interesting to say, but nothing comes.
“You been in the mosh pit yet?” He asks.
“No. Not yet.”
“You’ve gotta come. It’s fantastic! I’m Jack, by the way.” He says as he puts the cigarette in his mouth and extends his hand out.
I take his hand, which is surprisingly warm and feels like heaven. “Hi. I’m Kate.”
“Kate, why do you look so bummed? We’re at the best show of our time. Twenty years from now, they’ll look back on this like it’s Woodstock. This is the Woodstock of our generation.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Do you think any of those people thought they were going to the concert of the century? No. They were just goin’ to hear some music and maybe get stoned, drop a little acid. But look what it turned in to. What we’ve got here is the same thing.”
“I wish it wasn’t raining,” I reply. What a stupid thing to say.
“The rain makes it all the better. It’s about suffering. It’s about putting it all out there, right? Listen to Cornell. His larynx is fucked, but he still wails. His style of singing is fuckin’ hard, man. Rips up your vocal cords. But he doesn’t take it easy because he’s afraid of hurting himself.
I listen. Soundgarden has taken the stage. He’s right. There is something wrong with Chris Cornell’s voice. It’s strained. But he’s still giving it everything.
“That’s how I am when I sing and play. Me and my band; we rock hard.”
“You’re in a band?”
“Yeah. We’re called The Stain. We’re playing at RKCNDY on Saturday. It’s our first big gig. We’re opening for Supersuckers. You should come.”
I don’t know what to say. “Sure, I can probably make that.” I can’t, of course. I have to work at the restaurant Saturday night. I’d never get someone to switch with me. I’d love to go, though. I never go out anymore. I’m always doing the responsible thing, the adult thing.
“Okay, now you’re coming with me. You need to mosh.”
“I…I’m waiting for someone.”
“Oh. They’re in the shitter?”
“No. Well, I’m not sure where he went.”
“You can catch up with him later. If he left you here waiting all this time, he doesn’t deserve you, anyway. Let’s go.”
I’m not sure about moshing, or taking off with this guy, but my adrenaline starts to flow and for the first time in a long time I’m excited. “Okay. Hey, can I bum one of your smokes?”
“You bet.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a box of Camels and a brass Zippo. He flips the lid open and I pull one out and put it to my lips. He flips his lighter and offers the flame, cupping it with his hand to block the wind. I lean in and inhale deeply. The smoke fills my lungs deliciously. I detect the faintest taste of lighter fluid and I pull the cigarette from my mouth and release the air from my lungs slowly. The smoke blows away in the breeze. I enjoy the feeling of the cigarette between my index and middle fingers. Since I hadn’t smoked in while, when the nicotine hits my brain I get a little light-headed and tingly. I smile at Jack as he holds the water bottle out to me.
“Maybe you’d like some of this, too?”
“Water?”
“Vodka.”
“Sure.” I take the bottle, unscrew the cap and pour it into my mouth, not putting my lips to the edge. I swallow quickly and it burns all the way down into my belly.
“Why don’t you finish it. I’ve got this.” He reaches into his waistband and pulls out a silver flask and holds it up as if to toast something monumental.
We walk toward the stage and I take swigs and we navigate our way through the midway passing booths for Rock the Vote, abortion rights, souvenirs, and hamburgers.
I stop when we pass the Jim Rose Circus Sideshow. A guy is lifting a cinder block by his nipple piercings. That has to hurt.
“What do you think of that?” Jack asks me.
I look up at him with big eyes, “Would you ever try that?”
“Sure, why not? Have to get my nips pierced, though.” He touches one of those amazing pecks and winks at me. He puts his hand on the small of my back and leads me toward the stage. Assertive. I love that!
We come to the edge of the crowd near the front. Suddenly, I’m frightened. I don’t want to go in there. I could be trampled. Killed. He pulls me in and he doesn’t let go of me. I relax, grab his loose shirtsleeve and begin to mosh with the crowd. I’m flailing my arms and nodding my head to the beat and I’m twisting and bumping into sweaty wet bodies. I get shoved hard from the back and lurch toward the ground, but someone rights me before I hit.
I close my eyes. I am the music. I am the lyrics. It gives me the butterflies, Gives me away, Till I’m up on my feet again…Outshined, Outshined, Outshined, Outshined! I hardly even feel the blow to my mouth. I don’t know if it’s a noggin or an arm or a foot that hits me. I taste metal, but I keep dancing. I catch a glance of Jack out of my peripheral vision and see his eyes widen when he looks at me. He tugs me out of the crowd and plops me down onto the ground.
“What the hell happened to you?” He yells over the music.
“What?” I yell back. I’m not following. I’m breathing hard and sweating and my ears are ringing.
“Your mouth is bleeding.” I’m reading his lips.
I put my hand to my mouth and pull it away covered in blood. Shit. I look around for my backpack, and I remember that Danny was holding it when I went in to the porta potty. I have tissues in it. I even have a small first aid kit. But that won’t help me now.
Jack leans down and offers me his hand. I take it and he pulls me up. He points with a head tilt and I go with him. We walk until we find a taco cart that has a bunch of napkin dispensers. He takes the vodka bottle and pours the little bit that remains onto a napkin and cleans up my face. It stings.
“A little swelling of that beautiful lip, is all.” He says and then he brings his head down, level with mine, closes his eyes and plants the most astonishingly tender kiss onto my swollen bottom lip. I start to melt. A feeling washes over me like being swaddled in a cozy blanket. My head spins. Maybe it’s the vodka; maybe it’s the adrenalin. My lids get heavy and I begin to fall into a lustful trance. But then he smiles so big and bold that the edges of his eyes crinkle up.
He jerks away from me, exuberant. “C’mon!” He says. “I love this song!”
He pulls me through the crowd, saying, “Excuse us” and “pardon us” the whole way. Some people are pissed; others don’t care and just move. We must pass through sixty or seventy people until we are right there, practically center stage, in the thick of it. We’re crammed so tight that I can smell the deodorant of the girl next to me, and I’m glad she’s wearing it. Smells like Teen Spirit. The security staff is hosing us down. Water drips from my bangs and I don’t even care anymore. So much steam rises from the hot crowd I can’t even see the stage most of the time.
I’m bobbing up and down. I’m smiling and I can’t stop smiling. This is what it’s all about. This is how you’re supposed to experience a concert.
“Having fun?” Jack yells in my ear. His voice is so loud that it hurts, even though I can barely understand what he said.
“Yes!” I holler back.
“Wanna go surfing?” he asks. But his words don’t register and it isn’t until he has crowded in behind me and put his hands in my armpits that I realized what he means. He hoists me up over the crowd and I roll awkwardly—a hundred hands on my breasts, shoulders, stomach, and ankles—until I realize what is happening. I maneuver onto my back, outstretch my arms and throw my head back, exposing myself to whatever will come. Light as a feather, stiff as a board. I close my eyes and open my mouth and taste the rain. I’m not afraid of being dropped. I know these strangers have me. I’m flying. On stage, Cornell wails and we both give ourselves fully to the moment.
When the crowd finally releases me, I’m on the other side of the stage, a million miles from Jack. I’ll never make my way back there. My heart is pounding. I feel more alive than I ever have. I feel like myself. I feel like I can do anything. I buy a pack of cigarettes. I blow smoke rings into the cold, gray sky, and I don’t care who sees.
I think about Jack. I wonder if I’ll bump into him again. As I wander around the perimeter, I scan the crowd for him every so often, but I can’t find him. I think about Saturday… what would I tell Danny? How would I get off work?
Fuck it! I’m going.
I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Hey, stranger.” My heart stops for a moment, but the voice is too familiar.
I turn and it’s Danny, looking a little bloodshot and boring.
“Where have you been?” he whines. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“I got lost,” I say. But in my mind I say, I got found.
The Riot Grrrl’s Guide to Kale (an excerpt)
I.
Sometimes I worry that I’m the Japanese racing bike of twee. I go from zero to ridiculous in 2.35 seconds. One minute I’ll be having a serious conversation about serious things – the national deficit, where to stay in Budapest, baseball – and the next I’ll be giggling and twirling my ponytail and squealing at a puppy. I have early-1960s-Peggy-Olsen hair. My glasses are large and navy blue. I teach Latin. One of my first grown-up-apartment purchases was polka-dot dresser knobs at Anthropologie. I collect vintage prints. I dream of owning an old Leica. I painted my kitchen table and chairs resolutely yellow. My best friend and I are working on a travel book in the style of “Choose Your Own Adventure” novels. I clap and jump up and down and go, “Yayayayay!” when I get excited. I wear pleats. I wear random t-shirts. I wear cardigans. So many cardigans. Basically what I’m saying is that I am completely absurd, and I know it. No wonder no one takes me seriously. You might as well just call me Suzuki.
II.
My first grocery-shopping trip in D.C. was to the overly-optimistic YES! Organic Market. (I have since reasoned that the glaring affirmative is defiant: YES! You ARE paying twice as much for that as you would at Whole Foods! YES! Our stores ARE impossible to navigate! YES! You WILL be coming back because you’re too snobby for the Giant!) Scanning my leafy greens, the nose-pierced, dreadlocked cashier stopped.
“Whoops, shit,” she muttered. “That’s RED chard, not rainbow … havta fix that.”
“I suppose you don’t wanna make the system mad, yeah,” I reasoned, assuming that every store in the universe Walmart-tracks everything nowadays.
“Yeah, I’d hate for you to get home and look at your receipt – ‘That dumb bitch! She scanned the wrong chard!’ – that’d be horrible,” she chuckled.
I leaned in conspiratorially. “I suppose this is totally against The Movement, but chard is chard is chard in my book.”
“Heh, yeah. Pretty much.”
The conspiracy created, she took her chance: “Don’t tell anyone in The Movement,” she stage-whispered, “but I hate kale. Hate it. I think it tastes like dirt.”
“Really?! Man, I love kale. I actually longed for it when I was living abroad,” I enthused. “Aside from the bangs and the glasses, that’s probably the most annoying whitegirl hipster thing about me: my deep and unerring love for kale.”
III.
Kale Pasta
Feeling: “I just need to feed us, okay?”
Serves: Ehhhhhh … 1-4?
from 'Eat All the Feelings!'
- Kale (1 large or 2 small bunches), washed, stemmed, and medium-roughly chopped
what kind of kale? I don’t care! It’s your day!
- Garlic (4-6 cloves), smashed and chopped
how many vampires/mosquitoes/ex-boyfriends do you need to ward off?
- Crushed Red Chili Flakes (1 tsp. - 1 tbsp.)
spicinesss is the real spice of life
- 1 lemon, zested and juiced
- Olive oil (as much as it takes to cover the bottom of your skillet)
- 1 tbsp.-ish butter, if you feel like it
- Salt & pepper (to taste)
- 1 box linguine
or whatever pasta you like
- Parmesan / pecorino Romano / nutritional yeast / whatever you put on noodles
Bring a big pot of pasta water to a boil. While it’s coming up to said boil, heat a healthy amount of olive oil in a skillet over medium-low-ish heat. Add the butter if you’re using it. Once the oil is sort of shimmery, add the garlic and sauté until lightly golden brown. Then add the chili flakes and the lemon zest, and stir it around. Once it’s lovely and fragrant — and before any of the aromatics have burnt! — chuck the kale in and stir/toss it around to coat it with the oil and mix it with the good-smelling stuff. Sauté the heck out of that kale, until it’s lovely and wilted. Add salt and pepper to taste.
Whenever the water is boiling, salt the daylights out of it. Someone in Italy once told me that pasta water should be as salty as the Mediterranean Sea, so throw a good handful of it in there. Boil the pasta until al dente, and then drain.
Dump the drained pasta back into the pot you cooked it in, and then throw the kale in on top of it. Add the lemon juice. If it still seems a bit dry, you can add more olive oil and/or butter, as you see fit.
Serve with as much cheese as you want.
IV.
Anna’s asking me something. She’s also bouncing, so I’d better get energetic.
“Eh?” People don’t realize that I go everywhere with noise-cancelling headphones and loud music nowadays. It distracts the hamster.
“The new episodes?! Have you seen them?!?”
Ah, okay. 'Doctor Who.'
“Um, no. Just that first one … ‘The Bells of St. John,’ I guess. I saw that one.”
“Did you like it?!” I love that she’s interested in what I think, that we’ve got this thing that we share. I really do. But today I just want to be alone with the hamster. We’ve got some serious spinning to do.
“Eh, it was okay. I wasn’t wild about it. I was pretty into Matt Smith’s bowtie, though.”
“Aaaaaah,” she sighs. We have already established that Matt Smith is adorable (even if he doesn’t have Tennant’s hair, which we both fantasize about running our fingers through) and that man + bowtie = sex god. I should not have conversations like this with my students. I should also not swear around them or smoke cigarettes with them. But this is Anna, and with Anna it’s different.
“Anyway,” she doggedly continues, not picking up on the fallacy of my excitement, “I have not been impressed. I think Matt’s a great actor, and a good Doctor…but I’m worried about Jenna. I mean, she’s pretty and all…but I wish she’d just die for real. This ‘companion dying all the time’ bit of Moffattiness is just too Moffatty. And the episodes are boring! I actually skipped through most of ‘[Insert episode title here; I wasn’t listening, but rather bemusedly reflecting on the fact that she’s using the word I made up for her].’ It was awful! I’m so disappointed. Anyway, watch them – I really want to know what you think!” And then she bounded away, leaving me to call the elevator back and head upstairs, late for class, hamster gnawing at the corners of its cage, mad from neglect.
Anna is fully capable, now, of carrying on a conversation by herself. I don’t know if she picked up this little habit from me, or if she just watches too much teevee. Or maybe it’s just a habit of only children from fucked-up families. Spending a year helping her work on her senior thesis has certainly improved her English, this much is true. In addition to sounding less Czech, she speaks much faster now, and I’m pretty sure that’s my motor-mouthed fault. She’s going to have trouble in university next year, I think: she’s going to speak circles around her classmates and, undoubtedly, her professors. Hopefully she’ll have time to take English courses in with all that biochemistry or whatever it is she wants to do.
I never, ever thought that I’d teach high school English. Even less that I’d enjoy it so much. My father always told me that teaching English was a sign that you’d failed in life. (He used to do it; my mother still does.) No, I do not love all of my students equally; they’re not all Anna. Some of them have been studying English for eight, ten years and cannot put together a simple sentence. Speaking with them is about as pleasant as a trip to the dentist’s. But there are a few who make it worth it, make it fun, make it the reason I get up in the morning (because spending time with my husband is not the reason anymore).
Walking down the hallway to my office, the hamster starts running on his wheel again. “What am I doing?” I think. “Maybe this is just something else that I hate for a while. I hated my job for a few weeks this winter; maybe hating my marriage is just another fleeting emotion. But I hated my job for a few weeks, and I’ve been miserable with this relationship’s life for a few months now, and not for the first time…it’s been years… ” And he’s off. He’ll keep spinning like this until the bell rings, and then, irritated, I’ll yell at my students for not turning in their abstracts and start threatening them with Fs.
I know I don’t have a huge amount of “authority,” as the Czechs say, with some of my classes. I’m no good at being stern and serious all the time. I giggle too much and am too blonde. Some students simply will not respect this. And the ways to get these Czech kids to respect you are so odious: oral pop quizzes, yelling, failing kids, a general air of disdain. My colleagues mostly make it clear that our students are not people: they are air-wasting lumps of unformed clay glopped into seats. They need the serious molding that only the memorizing of exhaustive lists of names and dates can provide. Their ideas and opinions are irrelevant:
“What do you think of this book, Honza?”
“I think it’s great. I think it’s about the triumph of the human spirit against soul-crushing totalitarianism.”
“No, that’s wrong. F.”
I can’t do that. A student asked me a week ago if I really cared what they thought about things. When I said that I did, I had a classroom of blank stares. Jaws dropped, I shit you not. Kids at my school learn a lot of math. Math is the answer! Euclid be praised! They do not, however, learn to think. They are the least imaginative teenagers I’ve ever seen. They groan whenever I make them do something creative. Except the few, and I’m on those kids like white on rice. I smother them with encouragement. I give them periodic un-asked-for life advice. I probably drive them crazy sometimes, but teachers drove me crazy sometimes; it’s the circle of life.
On the other hand, I suppose not caring is a lot easier, and eats up less of your free time. On the other other hand, though, my free time is pretty messed up right now, so I’m glad for the distraction.
As predicted, my students did not finish their abstracts. Also as predicted, I said I was going to starting giving F’s. Some of them looked actually hurt. Good. Maybe they’ll stop being so disappointing.
The dog and pony show about food takes up an amusing hour. We talk about how the Czechs don’t eat fruit; they drink it. They laugh at my joke about confusing the words for “trout” (pstruh) and “ostrich” (pštros) for as long as I did. They marvel at the fact that I know the words for “beetroot” (řepa) and “radish” (ředkev), and that I can almost pronounce them correctly. I don’t mind them knowing that I speak food in Czech; I would hate for them to know that I understand the shitty comments they make sotto voce. Except for that girl who called me “ty píčo” four years ago. Nobody’s done that in my presence again; I can be sufficiently scary – full of “authority” – when I have to be.
The bell rings and I go back to my office. Please, just let there be some distraction; let the hamster stay asleep. No dice. And the next class is so boring and bad at English that he won’t stop running, because I don’t need to think to deal with those kids. In fact, it’s better if I don’t. I’ll just get pissed off.
Silent Riddle
Neighborhood kids always avoid that tree. “It’s bumpy and ugly and leaks maroon sap. All the bumps are on one side so it looks like it’ll fall over on top of us,” they chorused in fear.
But the tree was perfectly fine – just hungry and wanting to grow in its girth. Usually, it was all right with rainfall and the nutrients of the earth and sometimes, even a little fertilizer. But occasionally, it was absolutely starved and that’s when the mayhem started.
It was a tall tree with long crooked branches capable of reaching across the street where the children played. However, the gnarled tree was quite willing to wait until just one child walked by alone, lost in his own world. Snatching the unsuspecting child, the limbs would carry him back to his big knothole in the trunk which would open wide and swallow the child with a sucking sound that resonated in the air.
“What is that slurping sound?” the neighbors asked each other. Somehow, they never connected the noise to the missing children. It was a mystery which neither they nor the police were able to solve. “It must be a sexual predator snatching the children,” they surmised, as they all peeked out their windows to try to catch the perpetrator.
The mystery was never solved until one day the tree caught a bad cold. “Achoo,” it sneezed, expelling little bodies all over the sidewalk.
If only the townspeople could have read the tree’s silent riddle before it was too late!
Fragments of a Girl
I am not your slut.
With Pepto Bismol-pink blood and hair made of sunshine.
I am not tantric.
I don't flex and bend and mold to your contours as if I were made to fill your empty spaces.
I will not pump you full of assurances while I slowly deflate.
I am not your princess.
This tiara is my Band-Aid and the light bounces off it's little man-made diamonds, deflecting your consumption of my soft Bambi heart.
I am not Daddy's Little Angel,
Just because some of the glitter on my skin has rubbed off on your puffed up chest.
I don't vamp for you.
Not even when my lip gloss is ripe strawberry red and smeared across my summer-brown cheeks with your watered down saliva on my bruised clavicle.
When you kiss my earlobe, I feel you sucking at my sense of self.
Drawing my autonomy out of me only to spit it on the pavement with your vodka gorged lips.
I was not made to drip little bits of myself into your veins like morphine.
Your power comes from possession.
You infect, and then thrive off the fever it gives me.
You press your cheek to my burning breast.
You rest your head against my sternum and tell me how soft I am.
You say that I smell good.
Your nails make cat scratches on my chubby tummy.
I am not yours.
I don't put mascara on so that you can watch my eyes get wet and drip black stains down my slackened jaw.
Release my immobile body.
Stop paralyzing the girl who used to nearly cry out with unrestrained happiness.
You steal my joy.
You suffocate my hope.
You drown my self-esteem in your creamy syrup.
Your love potion.
You absorb my will.
You run your sweaty fingertips over the scars on my thigh and you romanticize my vulnerability without ever asking why the scars are there.
You would bury my see-through body in a barbie pink casket after you sucked me dry.
You would put cornflower blue ribbons in my hair.
You would tell everyone what a very pretty girl I was.
Here lies my slut
She smelled of English roses
She could never say no to me
She was such a good girl
Rest in pieces.
