One Night in a Cave

Posted: August 1st, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Fiction | No Comments »

Everyone knows the kind of girl in this story, the kind that parties way too hard, goes out most nights of the week meeting friends in lewd bars and drinking up a storm, sometimes ending up in very inconvenient places at very inconvenient hours with very convenient people. Well, this girl is of that sort, living alone in a big city without any relatives basically on her own except for her fair-weather friends; she is independent enough, making her own money and baking her own bread, so to speak. She has a tiny apartment tucked away in a downtown corner in close proximity to many clubs, pubs, bars, and discos. One fateful night outing however, did not go as smoothly as hoped; a frightening yet eye-opening event occurred, as life will almost always supply those who do not know when to call it quits.

Before we go to the scene here’s a little background. We are in some nameless country in some nameless city; the city has millions upon millions of inhabitants, about thirty-million in fact and is hectic, sparkly yet grimy. There are businesspeople, models, pseudo-entrepreneurs, lackeys, chefs, government officials, prostitutes, every possible employment one could imagine all co-existing in this metropolis. The star girl in our story is a photo editor for an international group located downtown near her nook of an apartment; her pay is mediocre but she is working her way up getting more experience and perfecting her expertise, as she always says to her semi-preposterous fair-weather friends. She is a good girl earning a decent living, and by good I mean she is honest, straight-forward, never injurious to others, not a thief and always the right kind of rebel. She is someone you would like to have around, if you should chance to meet her; she will defend you and hold your hand when you are down. She does not see what destiny has in store for her this very eve.

It is about nine PM and she is just getting off work, overtime again. She punches out with her timecard and gets into the elevator with a colleague. He is British and typical in many ways, as the British men seem to go in this city; he is well-mannered when sober but post-intoxicated beware. He has somewhat curly sandy-brown hair and is a little on the pudgy side. The girl and her British colleague are in the habit of smoking cigarettes so when they make it to the ground floor, exit the elevator and go out into the recess before the street, both light up, inhale the nicotine and thousands of other chemicals deeply and exhale with relief, a day at work complete and now on to the night. Where to go? How about a pub not too far from here? Yes, it is decided; a taxi is caught they are on their way. The pub’s name is Oasis, near the World Trade Center. They are now sitting outside glancing furtively at the menu. Our girl orders a double Bacardi 151, her usual, and a can of Coca Cola with a glass of ice. Her colleague orders a Stella. Down the first Bacardi goes as soon as it appears; he drinks his Stella leisurely and vows tonight will not be one of those nights. They are chain smoking and the next shot of Bacardi finds its way down her delicate throat; she shudders but claims it feels good. The ordering of another double and the smoking of more cigarettes follow.

The Brit, Andrew, is about thirty-four and has a local girlfriend of many years; they subsequently will marry some time later. His girlfriend is getting more than a little tired of his drunken antics, and who can blame her? His cohorts with this certain star girl of ours especially alarm her as our girl is sultry and big-bosomed, the envy of all the flat-chested locals. Andrew is not unattractive and our voluptuous star likes the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles and always seems so sincere when abstemious, an intelligent well-humored moderately knowledgeable mostly good guy with a strange obsession with soccer, or ‘football’ as he calls it. He won’t have a crazy night; the madness will all be left for our girl. In fact, after she takes two more shots and they smoke yet another fag he declares that he must be going, informing her that he has called another colleague, Aaron, an American who is married to a local with two children; he will shortly join them at the Oasis. So they wait; our girl disappointed that Andrew will depart, resents him having a girlfriend; our little photo editor needs company. Aaron, who is also not unattractive, will soon arrive, something to look forward to at least.

Finally arriving, Aaron persuades Andrew to have another beer on him, but really Aaron is just nervous to be alone with our girl…woman. So two more Stellas coming up! Our main character decides to slow it down. How many shots has she had so far? No one knows. Perhaps a cocktail this time…yes a gin and tonic with lime; she relishes squeezing the lime segments and licking her fingers. Aaron also smokes cigarettes. They talk, smoke and drink merrily getting more and more impassioned as their conversation progresses culminating with our star woman banging her fist in remonstration against the table asserting blazingly, “I am an American woman!” We never said she didn’t have spunk. Though Andrew finds this greatly side-splitting and wishes he could continue sitting here watching his she-colleague get sloshed his cue to leave has come in the form of three missed calls from his bride-to-be. He must go, but Aaron is here so the girl won’t be alone; at least he doesn’t need to worry about her. He stands closing his tab with the sexy waiter dressed up in beer gear ready and willing to serve any foreigners’ needs who is sexually objectifying both beer and herself. There is a melancholy goodbye and he is gone. It would be a dark night but for the city lights. This pub is no longer stimulating our present characters so they decide to leave; it is time for this party to relocate to an effervescent place with banging tempestuous music, dancing sweaty bodies included. Onward they go to a nearby club named the Luster Cave!

The Luster Cave is one of the seediest clubs in this city but our girl has only been here one or two times before and she has not yet learned the true nature of those who hang around these parts. The LC is situated in a very opportune place for prostitution and the selling of drugs; it is just under a footbridge that connects either side of a busy road. It is downtown, the seedy part of downtown where the African populace frequents. We cannot say African people are seedy as a general rule but we can say that these particular people who frequent this club and the surrounding area are seedy and mostly of African origin; that cannot be denied no matter which way you look at it. Our story is not a story of racism; this is a story of a girl we should all sympathize with. The eagles land in the LC; when they walk in the door they must go through a security clearance metal detector. All clear they continue walking down steps for this club is truly underground; down a hallway and through more double doors they go. Once in they can feel the pounding resounding of the disc jockey’s music in their chests, getting into their veins moving their blood in a new unnatural current both exhilarating and threatening.

To the bar which is in the middle of a large room encased by four bars lined with both men and women on all sides waiting for drinks and shouting at the bartenders who are mere over-sexualized glorified waiters; our star and Aaron are getting drinks, Long Island Iced Teas. There are half-naked women dancing on each side of the bar. The female partiers are dressed like foxes, hooches or hussies and the men are dressed either in business attire or hustler garb. There aren’t too many local men; the men are almost uniformly foreign. There are plenty of local women looking for foreign men but also foreign women, consisting of models and working girls just looking to get loose. I suppose in the latter category we find our girl, looking to have a good time and shake off the day-to-day stress, escapism; she isn’t looking to get hurt but then again who ever is? The star girl and Aaron are having a good time, sitting at a table talking, laughing and drinking. They seem to be attracted to each other but it could just be the alcohol though it appears they want each other. That is when Aaron tells our star girl that if he didn’t have a wife and children he would love to be with her, but after just one Long Island Iced Tea he decides he needs to go home; he lives a little out of the city and needs to catch his bus by a certain time at a specific place so he tells our girl that he must go and fifteen minutes later he is gone. Of course he asked our star girl if she was all right before leaving, and of course she said yes.

Our star is beyond inebriation now and has been left by both of her fair-weather colleagues; she doesn’t want to go home so she orders another Long Island Iced Tea and decides to mingle in the crowds, dances on the dance floor which is not too far from the bar, and has the audacity or bravery, to climb up on the bar that faces the dance floor and jive with the half- naked ladies lifting up her dress and flashing her bra to the dancers on the floor! She has really done it this time. She is completely free of inhibitions, doesn’t care what anyone thinks and is now in a state of mind where she could almost do anything. Someone reaches up a hand to help her down from the bar; she thinks he is being flirtatious but really it is just time for her to get down. She realizes his slip because the guy doesn’t remain to hit on her but disappears promptly into a swarm of people. Our star knows there is a foosball table in a different area of the bar not too far from the restrooms and she makes her way there. Who doesn’t love a good foosball match when wasted? She is pretty good anyway so she wants to give it a go. Here is where things get a bit foggy for our girl, too many Long Island Iced Teas and she is meeting strangers and is more distant from the DJ so she is freer to talk. She is playing and her partner is a black man from some country in Africa; she doesn’t remember. He invites her to his place to smoke marijuana. She accepts; our little photo editor loves her smokables and after drinking so much, combined with her loneliness and general disappointment in the evening, accepts and they leave the club.

Her judgment is not clear; she is stupid-drunk and isn’t thinking about safety. She goes outside with her new African friend; they get in a taxi and he tells the driver where to go. They arrive at his apartment; it wasn’t too far of a drive. Our girl is in a stuporous vagary. They get out of the green taxi and make their way up thirteen flights of stairs. There is no elevator; she is not in a nice area of town but that doesn’t register. The African, for lack of a better denomination, lets her into his apartment and shuts the door behind her. She doesn’t notice but he locks the door from the inside and hides the key. It is a studio apartment, no kitchen just one elongated oblong room with two windows, one at the back and one to the right of the bed; the head of the bed is against the back wall. Besides the bed there is a dresser, wardrobe, and a few in-tables with clothes and clutter everywhere. They get down to business. A joint is rolled; she sits on the foot of the bed being that there aren’t any chairs. The joint is lit and they pass it back and forth intermittently chattering in a friendly manner. He gives her a beer and she is beginning to get high and come out of her drunken daze. She sits the beer on a table and takes a deep breath, cigarette time. They both smoke a fag after finishing the joint. She is thinking to herself that she should leave soon but right then he goes in for the kill, trying to kiss her. He succeeds in slobbering; she pushes him away saying she wants to go. This is when he says no and pushes her on the bed groping, fondling and grabbing at her body. She fights against him using her arms and legs but he is much taller, broader, and stronger than her, nevertheless our girl is a fighter and she’s not giving up. All her strength implemented, no energy left unturned, though he keeps up the battle, trying to force her legs open. They are in a mad flurry, like fluttering contemptible birds in loathsome flight. Her only thoughts are, “I won’t be raped, I won’t be raped…” in ceaseless cerebral utterance. He realizes that she is determined and he cannot take what he wants without causing much harm first so he stops. She immediately darts for the door tries to open it but realizes it is locked screaming, “Let me out now!” she looks at him with reproachful derision, her mind scattered beyond measure of articulation. He refuses and forces her to come back to the bed and sit down. Her arms and legs hurt from fighting him. She sits down her wits racing like an ensnared feral; he rolls another joint and pushes it in her face. Shaking her head no he says she cannot leave unless she smokes it, agreeing she smokes but does not inhale. The realization that she is being held captive is spreading over her in a wave of horror, bemused she contemplates methods of escape. She must be careful or she may never get out. The man has a gold cross around his neck; she decides to try another angle, persuasion. She asks him if he is a Christian; saying yes he looks at her with bleak indignation. She speaks gently at first telling him that Christians are good people and do not believe in hurting others. If he is a Christian why would he want to hurt her? Her passion rising she claims to be a good girl with family and friends who love her, claiming this she tries to look innocent and deserving of life.

He puts on a video of Bob Marley in concert, glowing with emanating sound from his television screen. To this day our girl cannot listen to any reggae without being repulsed and agitated. He forces her to lie down under the covers and tells her that she must go to sleep otherwise he will not permit her leave. So she lays there her brain pulsating; after about thirty minutes he passes out but she still doesn’t know where the key is and is afraid if she stirs looking for it he will wake and become aggressive again. She thinks appeasing him might be her best approach towards eventual freedom so she continues to lay there still. After an hour and a half she begins to go in and out of her nightmare, a frightful haunted sleep in which she always remains alert to her surroundings. Maybe this rest will give her strength for what lies ahead. Some hours later he wakes and she immediately realizes and wakes too, sitting straight-up and asking him if she may please go now. He still says no. Tears come to her eyes; she breathes deeply and knows she must keep her cool if she is going to survive. She looks out the window to her left and considers screaming but is fearful of what he may do if she defies him. He rolls another joint and again forces her to smoke with him. He asks her to stand up, giving her a pair of jeans to try on. He demands she take off her stockings and put on the pants. He does this several times. Making her take off and put on, take off and put on different pairs of jeans again and again many times while he looks on, watching her, asking her now and again to turn round and round for him so that he may see how they fit her. Apparently he is an importer of garments in the city. Meanwhile, he decides to turn off Bob Marley and put on a DVD, a pornographic DVD. He stipulates that she must stand next to his television and continue taking off and putting on different jeans while he watches porn. An hour or two pass in this fashion; our girl is tiring and asks again to leave but he just hands her another pair of jeans saying, “Try these on or you cannot leave,” she doesn’t know if she will ever get out so she continues to appease him seeing that he remains calm when she follows his orders. Over by the window she can see the sun rising.

At last he switches off the porn and allows her to put her ripped stockings back on, ripped from their earlier terror tangle. Inner relief floods her; she can feel hope circulating through her veins but she dares not show her giddy anguish to him. He instructs her to sit back on the bed throwing a pair of jeans to her to put on, replacing her stockings under her dress; he begins to clean his tiny studio apartment, hanging up garments, clearing table surfaces of marijuana and beer bottles, organizing his clutter and throwing away rubbish. This takes another two or so hours while she sits there anxiously waiting. He begins to gather his things as if to leave and again her heart flutters with hope, “just a little longer, almost, almost, keep calm”. Keys are in his hand and he walks to the door; she follows close behind. He opens his door and lets her out turning to lock the door behind him. She wants to flee but realizes there is a locked gate in front of her barring her exit. He is going to open it saying, “after I open this you wait for me and we walk down together,” she says, “ok” but as soon as he gets the gate open she bolts passing him and down the first flight of stairs; going down, down running fast it seems the stairs will never end. She fears he will catch up with her and pull her back so she goes faster, faster fearing yet another locked door at the bottom. At last she reaches the ground floor and there is but a diminutive single door. Will it open? Her shaking but bold hand reaches for the door pulling it back; it opens and the light of day rushes in to the stairwell splashing her face with heat and newfound freedom; out she goes praying it isn’t too good to be true still half afraid he will chase her down. Running out to the street she immediately flags a taxi, gets in, sitting there as her heart nearly pounds out of her chest.

She makes it to her apartment not knowing where she has just come from, takes off the repugnant denim jeans the enslaving African man gave her and throws them down the garbage shoot, and jumps in the shower. She gets out, dresses still in disbelief of her freedom. She leaves her apartment, catches another taxi and makes it to work at eleven thirty. In front of her is just another day of work but her life will never be the same.


Memory Lane

Posted: May 28th, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Fiction | Tags: , , , | No Comments »

 

~~~

It is at Clearwater Beach, Florida, on a sunny afternoon in the year of 1986. I am about eight months old. I don’t have too much hair on my pretty little head, just an amount equivalent to that of an old man, but my hair is not gray nor white with age; my hair is blonde and soft, fair like a little pixy devil. My eyes are blue and round like beautifully placed saucers in my small white head. I am an adorable child, a beautiful child. I am the daughter of my mother, who is also beautiful with big blue saucer eyes that sparkle and allure everyone. My mother has more than beautiful eyes; she has a bodacious figure, five feet nine, slim and curvy all at the same time, and beautiful ivory skin.

Today she is wearing and iridescent bathing suit of light pink and purples, one piece, that goes up high on the sides to expose her bare hips. Her hair, naturally straight and light to dark brown, is dyed a bit and wavy from a past perm, cut to just above her shoulders, the feathered type fashion of the 80s in the US. Yes she is gorgeous; no one doubts her daughter will likewise grow up to be beautiful just like her, but there are pains that come with beauty just as there are pains that come with ugliness. We are at the beach; the sun is shining, a truly lovely day. The waves are just right, the water is appropriately cool and fresh, seagulls are making their rounds swooping down here and there in teams; their sound can be heard and it adds to the atmosphere of sun, sand, wave, and seagull, a truly perfect day at the beach. My mother, grandparents, aunt, uncle and I are all there, enjoying a holiday together. Some other relatives are joining later as well. It isn’t certain if this is my first trip to the sea or not, but certainly this is my first memory of the sea, really my first memory of anything.

The first memory of a life, what a treasure to behold. The gatherers are scattered about, either in the hotel rooms, or out walking around somewhere exploring the nearby roads of the city. Only my grandmother, and her two daughters, and I are on the beach out playing in the sand and sun. They want to take me swimming, expose my little creature-like body to the great expanse of sea, dip my delicious little legs into Triton’s vast deep blue. My young mother, only seventeen years old, picks me, her progeny, up and holds me in her arms, walks me over to the bisque cusp of the sea and slowly wades in with me on her hip.

People always wonder what babies are thinking, but only the baby knows for sure, yet this is but a memory and memories tend to be skewed. Here is what I am thinking in my tiny head, “don’t drop me don’t drop me don’t drop me!” I am absolutely terrified beyond belief. I don’t trust my mother; all I can see is water underneath getting higher and higher, grabbing at my mother seeking security I cannot find. Security I am longing for and desperately scrambling for, I can not feel safe, thinking, “don’t drop me don’t drop me!” I have nothing but fear and anxiety….

…and this is my first memory. A snapshot was taken on this day of my mother holding me before the sea; it can be found in my home somewhere in some box hardly noticed, perhaps my family isn’t even sure where the photo is located, but it resides somewhere, in the place I call home. In the photo can seen my beautiful mother with a proud-looking smile on her face, and me, scared on her hip clinging to my mother with a nervous anxious grimacing face.

 ~

No one could have predicted in just a matter of two weeks, this mother and daughter are in a horrible car accident. The mother breaks a leg, suffers severe eye damage for which she would later undergo many surgeries to correct, brain damage…in the part of the brain that is responsible for personality, and experience a coma. The daughter breaks both her legs and is put into an almost- a- body cast all the way up to her chest and down to her little toes.

                                                    

~~~~

It is night time and my mother wants to go to a bar but my grandparents won’t babysit me, so I have to join; only my mom can’t take me in so I have to wait in the car. I am under five years old, of course, as I am in almost every story that involves my real mother that I can remember. I am in a parked car; I think it is winter because I remember I am wearing some kind of coat and blue jeans, little girl blue jeans that snap instead of buttoning at the top. It is either a car or a truck; I am not sure, but I just stay in the front either way, in the driver’s seat. It is getting late; my mother is taking a really long time; I am all alone and it is dark outside. I am crying, not a soft gentle cry but a loud painfully devastating kind of cry. If others were looking on from outside they would have been so alarmed by this sight of a little girl locked in a parked car balling her eyes out all alone. “Where is her mother”, they would ask and they would look at me thinking “oh my god that poor dear!” and surely call the police. I am not sure if anyone sees me or not, but I ball my eyes out just the same. My mother is taking so long that I need to urinate. Maybe that is why I am crying. I have to urinate but I cannot get out of the car. I know it is wrong to pee anywhere besides a toilet so I am in distress; I don’t know what to do. Finally it becomes too much for my little bladder to bear, and, still crying, I pee all over myself in the car. To bring back this memory is still heart- breaking to this day; I feel great pain in recalling it. It makes me want to cry, but I think, she was so young, merely a child herself. How can I expect her to have acted differently? She was who she was, wild, troubled no doubt, free-spirited, and rebellious; at least this is how I imagine her to have been. I am sure if she had lived and I brought this peeing-in-a-parked-car incident up to her, she would have felt only the kind of remorse a mother can feel, when she has not raised her child the best that she possibly could have.


They met when she was 13.

Posted: January 17th, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Fiction | No Comments »

They met when she was 13. He was different from the other young people around her. He was in her world but he was different from all the others. He made being different cool, before him, the only way to be cool was by being like everyone else. She was crazy, sure, but…with him that was okay, even valued. So she would talk to him late at night, while she got drunk at a very young age, feeling the flawlessness of youth, as if this very thing had never happened before, as if it would never happen again. She had phone sex with him. He said at first he was faking it, then got into it later. Didn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. Yes and she wanted to die, she always wanted to die.
It doesn’t matter.
She doesn’t know who she is anymore but when she listens to old music, she remembers who she used to be…and still feels that self somewhere, deep down inside her, and wonders why doesn’t anyone recognize her….when she moves to a foreign country?
But she was a little girl once, a pretty pretty girl.
So she knew this guy in middle school…then later in high school. Under completely different pretenses. Sunflowers and friends abound. Love and wet flowers, blades of grass sticking to your thigh. Eggs and coffee, more lost feelings, didn’t matter…the next escape happened.
Then again, why on earth must everything be repeating? This last time though, damn. Joined at the hips and seemingly at the minds in some zone. No matter the feelings, things always go away. She wants to say, thanks to you….she told me to let you know. You son of a gun, she told me to let you know.
You told her that you love her, then you gave her some of your qi. You expelled it. You defiled her with your insincere blasphemous ejaculate.
But you aren’t guilty, not any more than anyone else is…probably even less, but it still isn’t good.
It is faulty and unremarkable. It is what every…typical of…someone who is so dying to live, is expected to be. Pure mirrored coolness. Nothing but cold water dripping
And what you really wanted to find in the bathtub.
Heaven knows…it doesn’t matter.


husband and wife

Posted: September 10th, 2010 | Author: | Filed under: Fiction | No Comments »

Woman: I have been home all day taking care of our child. I haven’t spoken to a single adult all day. I miss being able to talk to people, seeing people, being responsible for only myself, I miss playing a different role in this society other than being the mother of mankind. I have been doing this for two years and though I love our child dearly and appreciate my time with her, I long for the company of others, people I can have intelligent conversations with, people who understand me, whom I can share my feelings with and who can share theirs with me. You get to be out in the world all day mixing and mingling with your peers, learning new things and taking in the condition of the world, surrounded by people like you, who have full lives. A family is important but surely it is not all that an individual person needs. I, and my adult mind, need more from the world and from myself than this.
Man: So our family, our child, and my love is not enough for you? We don’t make your life fulfilled? You have a roof over your head and people who love and support you. Why isn’t that enough? You get to stay home everyday and do as you please and you get to spend so much time with our daughter. Do you know how much I want that, how much I wish I didn’t have to wake up early everyday and slave away at my company, do you know how much it takes out of me? By the time I get home I am so tired I hardly have enough energy for you and Maggie. You are so lucky, you don’t have to work, you get everything you need and you don’t have to do anything at all. All you have to do is play with our child all day, how hard is that? And after all, I would think you would enjoy it and feel thankful that I work everyday to provide you with this life. Do you k now how many women would trade places with you in a heartbeat? I don’t mean to hurt your feelings but don’t you think you are being a bit ungrateful to me? You should thank me that you don’t have to give your time everyday just to live. Here you are sitting in this nice house complaining to your husband who works so hard just to make you happy. Unbelievable.
Woman: Why do you have to make me feel so bad that I want more out of my life than taking care of another person day in day out? You wouldn’t understand what that is like. You are hardly ever here, you haven’t spent two days alone with Maggie since she was born, not even three hours with her by yourself, you don’t know all she required, how much it wears on you to care for her. You think it’s all just happy days, playing, laughing, and having fun. I’m basically her private nanny. I hardly feel like myself anymore; I feel like a servant just here to take care of you two, there is more to being a person than caretaking. Yes I appreciate having so much time with Maggie but I need to do something else, why can’t you understand that? Instead it is you who are ungrateful for what I am doing for you and us. I am sacrificing my mind and body to take care of our child and keep you and her clothed, feed, and happy. You don’t ever have to lift a finger around here. I cook all your meals, wash all your clothes, and keep this place in order. Sure you are sacrificing your time but you get money, respect, and a dignified position in this society in exchange. What do I get, spit up on my dress, dirty dishes, on the off chance I do get to go out, someone asks me what I do and then I have to see that expression of superiority and dismissal on their face, oh, I am just a housewife, how archaic. Your job ends when you leave you office, my job is constant, twenty-four hours a day seven days a week. There is no off time or vacation or sick leave when it comes to being a mother and I don’t even get paid and if you bring up you financially supporting me again I swear to god I am going to scream, as if you are paying me to be your wife and mother your child, then I really am a servant, actually a slave, I am just here to rear your offspring. You have no idea what it is like to be dependent on another person for everything. If I need anything at all I have to come to you and ask for money. I don’t have my own money. It’s like you have two children living in your house, yes I said your house, I certainly don’t feel like it’s mine, you picked everything out, bought everything, and I am merely a guest, a slave, here to take care of your inheritor. I am just the means or the bridge between you and the ability to carry on your genes. I don’t even feel like my own person anymore and if you can’t find one ounce of compassion or sympathy I don’t know what I will do.
Man: Are you seriously saying you feel like a slave? That is absurd. I understand that taking care of a child and a home can be hard work but are you actually trying to say that what you do is more difficult than what I do? As if dealing with a two year old could compare to having a full time job? How hard is cooking and cleaning and how mentally draining could it be to play with a two year old? My job is way more mentally exhausting than yours and you know it. And what am I so ungrateful for? I am simply trying to say that you should appreciate what I do for you more. This is your life; this was your decision, no one said you had to be a stay at home mom. We both agreed it is what is best for Maggie, and shouldn’t that be the most important thing to you, being her mother and all? I am doing my job for this family and you should do yours without complaint. You take care of Maggie and this house and I provide you with the money to do so. If anything I am working for you, it is I who is a slave to this family and if this is anyone’s house it is yours, like you said I am hardly here. If you feel like a stranger in this house than that makes two of us. I never know where any of my stuff is because you are always moving it around everywhere. When I get off work I feel like I am going home the place I keep for my wife to take care of our child. I don’t feel like I have any other part here besides providing the money to make it run. You and Maggie have a private bond of which I am no part of, though she has my genes and my name she is ultimately your child and I am the one supporting this, you have never gone hungry and have everything you need to raise Maggie. I cannot understand you. I do know what it requires to take care of Maggie because I foot the bill for it everyday and I come home to this? Awesome, what am I working so hard for then if what I do is not even appreciated.
Woman: There is no point in trying to reason with you. You aren’t even trying to understand how I feel. You think just because you pay for everything here that I have to be silent and respect your pocket? When you take care of Maggie on your own for a week then you can talk to me about whether or not it is mentally exhausting. And I would appreciate what you do for this family more if you had the slightest appreciation for what I am giving up for you and Maggie. My whole life revolves around this family; you have a separate world that we are not a part of. I want that, I need that or I think I will die. And if is how you see this home, as a place you keep to raise your child, then I am right, I am a slave and I need to take my child and get the hell out of here. We can’t both be slaves so if you cannot even try to understand and work with me here then I cannot continue to live this way and that is all there is to it.


The Dragonfly–unfinished

Posted: April 14th, 2010 | Author: | Filed under: Fiction | 2 Comments »

I’d love to hang around,and I Know the love is planted in my blood and bone.Inherited.
I was going farther and farther now. Everything was getting more and more familiar,the air,the smell,and the color. A middle aged woman was sitting beside a mill.She was now smiling at me. I heard her breath.
My mama. She was smiling,with an exausted smile . I laughed back,innocently. You know, now I was about 3 years old. I laughted,happily and uncertainly.
Yes, I was wandering,in a dream,wearing the image of my childhood.
I know I am different. My mama went too fast to notice someting vital. I won’t, I would rather be idle because there are so little for me too miss.
I heard from my papa in the morning. He called me Yingying,which means someting like sweetie.


unfinished, of course

Posted: March 31st, 2010 | Author: | Filed under: Fiction | No Comments »

Woman: I have been home all day taking care of our child. I haven’t spoken to a single adult all day. I miss being able to talk to people, seeing people, being responsible for only myself, I miss playing a different role in this society other than being the mother of mankind. I have been doing this for two years and though I love our child dearly and appreciate my time with her, I long for the company of others, people I can have intelligent conversations with, people who understand me, whom I can share my feelings with and who can share theirs with me. You get to be out in the world all day mixing and mingling with your peers, learning new things and taking in the condition of the world, surrounded by people like you, who have full lives. A family is important but surely it is not all that an individual person needs. I, and my adult mind, need more from the world and from myself than this.
Man: So our family, our child, and my love is not enough for you? We don’t make your life fulfilled? You have a roof over your head and people who love and support you. Why isn’t that enough? You get to stay home everyday and do as you please and you get to spend so much time with our daughter. Do you know how much I want that, how much I wish I didn’t have to wake up early everyday and slave away at my company, do you know how much it takes out of me? By the time I get home I am so tired I hardly have enough energy for you and Maggie. You are so lucky, you


the little lady

Posted: February 8th, 2010 | Author: | Filed under: Fiction | No Comments »

There once was a little girl named Sara who was aged ten; she lived with her mother and father in a little cottage right outside of town. It was a meager existence cept for the love of her mother. Her father worked in a factory and would get home late every night after her mother had already tucked her in, kissing her head sweetly. She would often be woken up by her mother and father fighting; she could never make out what was being said so she would just put her blanket over her head and try to go back to sleep. Sometimes though, she would hear the sound of breaking glass and when she woke the next morning for breakfast she would notice they had one less bowl or one less cup in the cabinet. Her father didn’t talk much so she wondered what her mother and father could possibly have to say to each other that would break glass so. Everyday Sara would go to school and return home sharply at four o’clock and her mother would be there waiting for her with bread and gravy, sometimes a little piece of hard candy or two.
“Sara, welcome back, how was your day? I am so happy to see you.”
“It was good mommy, just like any other day.”
Sara didn’t know why her mother was always so happy to see her. It was like her mother only really lived when she was there and relished in her return.
One day Sara came home from school and her mother was not at the door to greet her. She went inside and found her mother lying in bed with a cold sweat, hardly breathing. Sara was terribly worried and brought her mother water and stayed by her until her father came home. The next day while Sara was at school she could hardly focus on her studies. When the school bell rang she ran home and found no one there, not even her mother in bed. When her father returned home he told Sara her mother had died and would never return. That was all he said and he left shortly after. Sara was in bed asleep having a fitful dream when her father returned. Her mother had come to her saying, “Leave, leave, leave my child.” She woke to hearing her father knock over a table in the main room. She ran out to see what the matter was and found her father lying on the ground, smelling like alcohol, musing to himself, saying again and again, “Now I can do it, now I can do it!” She went back to her bed and laid there waiting for morning to come. She woke up, and without eating breakfast went to school. When she returned home it was her father that was there at the door waiting for her with candies and cakes and a fake loving smile. He said that the next day Sara was to go live with a family in town where she would have a proper education and plenty of food to eat. She would be a real lady with fancy dresses and never have to come back to this cottage again. Sara was happy to be leaving her father; she never really talked much to him. He felt more like a stranger than her own father though she sensed that he loved her. The next day a very handsome, if not snooty man came to pick Sara up and take her to her new home. It was a beautiful estate with a large gate. Inside there were more flowers than Sara had ever seen in her life. The smell was so sweet and she was happy for this unexpected change in her life, though she missed her mother so. She was ushered in, given a hot bath, proper attire and feed food she had only ever dreamed about in the past. After dinner she was led into the library where an older gentleman was there waiting for her. He said she would be brought up with the best home schooling, taught to play the piano, and would never want for anything she couldn’t have. This thrilled little Sara to the core. She was then taken to her new room, where she undressed and got into the big comfy luxurious bed. She was fast to sleep only slightly thinking of her mother. At about midnight the same gentleman from the library came into her room, threw the covers off of her and had his way. He let her scream, even seemed to like it. After a few minutes though his large soft hand pressed down on her face using her for leverage, pumping violently with his own perverse screams. With one final thrust he collapsed onto Sara’s trembling tiny body, almost crushing her under his weight. After, he got up, dressed and left the room silently.
Her virginity and life had been sold by her father to a well-to-do man living in town. She was to live there for life receiving a proper education and being taught to be a lady.

TRUTH:

Child prostitution flourished under the Victorians, and the trade in virgins was especially profitable. In 1885, the age of consent for a girl was 13 years and there were brothels in London that openly catered for men who liked very young girls. Neither those who bought nor those who sold saw anything wrong with taking the virginity of a child – indeed, in the days before antibiotics, having sex with virgins was one way of avoiding sexually transmitted infections. Virgin trade follows the controversial campaign of reformer William Stead to stop rich men from preying on impoverished young girls.

A lucrative trade
Bought or abducted from her parents, a young virgin could be worth a high price. Rebecca Jarrett, the reformed prostitute who helped Stead expose the trade in children, said of one client whom she had provided with a young virgin: ‘A gentleman paid me ?13 for the first of her.’ That would be the equivalent of more than ?900 in today’s money. Such sums gave the men who could afford to pay them total power over the girls. In response to his critics, the Conservative MP Cavendish Bentinck said, cynically: ‘It is nonsense to say it is rape, it is merely the delivery as per contract of the asset virginity in return for cash down.’

The campaigning editor
But the privilege of powerful men like Bentinck was being undemined. The increasingly influential middle classes were beginning to rebel against the idea of child prostitution. Reformers such as the Salvation Army were lobbying for the Criminal Law Amendment, which would raise the age of consent to 16.

One such campaigner was William Stead, editor of the Pall Mall Gazette. He took his crusade into the heart of the Victorian underworld. He talked to prostitutes and said: ‘The deep and strong impression which I have brought back is one of respect and admiration for the extraordinary good behaviour of the English girls who pursue this dreadful career.’

Investigating the underworld
Stead then concocted a daring plan. Helped by reformed prostitute and procuress Rebecca Jarrett, he arranged to buy a 13-year-old girl, Eliza Armstrong, from her mother. He and Jarrett maintained that the mother knew she was selling her daughter into prostitution.

Jarrett took Eliza to a local midwife to have her examined and certified as a virgin, then delivered her to a London brothel. Posing as a rich libertine, Stead went to the brothel and had the girl drugged and brought to him, supposedly so he could rape her.

Hero or martyr?
Stead published the story in a series of articles, entitled ‘Maiden Tribute of Modern Babylon’, in the Pall Mall Gazette. There was immediate uproar. The presses rolled day and night as people clamoured for copies of the paper, paying up to 10 times their face value. Thousands of people joined the moral reform movement. A petition was sent to the House of Commons and there were rallies all over the country.

For a while, Stead was the hero of the hour, the champion of England’s young girlhood. But he had powerful enemies, including Cavendish Bentinck. Soon the tide turned. Stead and Jarrett were arrested on a charge of abduction and indecent assault, and sent to prison. But the Criminal Law Amendment Bill was passed.

http://www.channel4.com/history/microsites/V/victorians/1_virgins.html


Before School

Posted: February 7th, 2010 | Author: | Filed under: Fiction | No Comments »

The alarm in her phone is going off. She hits snooze immediately when she hears it then falls fast back into her dream. She stabs someone, really feeling it, thinking, it is too late, I have already stabbed him, she sees the slit, deep and unable to heal…yes it is too late. The alarm is back on and she is cleaving into reality. Snooze again…and again. Finally she gets up, begrudgingly. Mornings are the worst time for her…and sometimes the long walks home alone, or the moments when a commercial comes on but yet her eyes remain fixed on the television screen unfocused, feeling so blank and discontent. She pulls the covers off of her, waits a moment and with a deep sigh one foot is brought to the floor, cold, then the other. Standing on ankles that are still swollen with not enough rest, she walks to her pack of Shuangxi cigarettes on the desk, double happiness in English, briefly searches for a lighter, which isn’t hard to find since she has about a million laying around in various places about her apartment. She opens the pack, puts one in her dry morning breath mouth, flicks on the lighter, inhales deeply as the nicotine hits her lungs and bloodstream. The day has begun; she moves about her apartment wonderingly looking at the condition she lives in, the all too hard messy bed, the cheap little girl desk with oval mirror attached, the two closets, one with shelves for papers and the other for clothes, light yellow artificial wood in the bedroom, cherry brown coffee table in the living room, television on top of more cheap yellow wood, arm chairs colored dirty turquoise, clothes strewn about ever where, garbage from food eaten, random spills, yes this is her living space in China. She puts her cigarette out, takes a sip from yesterday’s bottle of tea to quench her thirst and get the disgusting taste of hell out of her mouth. She is now awake and semi-ready to face taking off her clothes turning on the hot water and waiting to see steam before she gets in. Her worst moments are behind her now: the time between waking to the alarm and turning on the hot water. Now she gets into the shower. Looking down, there are two black foot prints; her feet are always dirtier than she thinks. The hot water runs over her chestnut shoulder length hair, elongated with wetness, relieving momentarily her exhausted and sleep deprived body; all that exists for a moment is that moment. First the shampoo, what a fragrance, like washing away adulthood, going back home to her bath with bubbles and mermaid Barbie, conditioner for softness, then a pink bar of soap is applied, which reminds her of Zhuhai and her TEFL course, getting drunk but still excelling, tiredly, next Clean and Clear face wash, which is different than the American version in texture and smell. This variety is pink and kind of creamy yet grainy at the same time. Nonetheless, she is refreshed. She turns the water off, opens the door, grabs a bright yellow towel, dries off while she still stands on her bathroom floor, which is her shower floor, that is connected directly to her toilet floor; her toilet is a hole in the ground squatter. She steps out onto the 70s looking floor mat, dries her back and wraps her hair into the towel giving it a quick twist to keep it in place. Now time to get dressed, this can sometimes be fun and sometimes dreadful. Clothes on, bedroom door locked, keys in hand, cigarettes in bag, hair and teeth brushed deodorant on, a bit professionally dressed, she walks into her hallway, double locks both her doors, waits for and goes down the elevator and she is off.


meaningless

Posted: December 26th, 2008 | Author: | Filed under: Fiction | 1 Comment »

here’s another story i wrote a really long time ago. enjoy-

He was my first (not ever, but meaningless) and I wondered, but somehow knew he wouldn’t be my last. I remembered a lot about it. How we talked for an hour without touching about nothing but our favorite band before he got the nerve to touch me. How he asked before he did anything. The way he carried me into his bed. How thin his lips were. How his kiss was strangely erotic. How his hairy chest felt so nice rubbing against my bare breasts. How he asked me if I “wanted him inside of me”. How I had to pull him into me. How our love making was so quiet. How our bodies moved together so eloquently like we had had years of practice together. How the loudest sound was a quiet push of air from his chest when he came. How he got up to turn the heater off when I said I was hot. How he looked so disappointed when I said I had to go and walked out before he could say anything. These things are very clear in my memory now, but I know they will fade.

The next day he told me he was going home over winter break but he wanted to get back as soon as possible. I spent the whole vacation wondering what could become between the two of us. Students slowly came back home after Christmas. His roommates returned without him. When I asked, they said he had gotten back with his ex. The news was not that surprising but made my skin and my mind go numb. I was nothing but a wake up call to what he didn’t want in his life. When he finally arrived back home the day before school started back, I acted casual to ward off any awkwardness. He still pursues me when he’s drunk, but now he apologizes when he’s sober.


flowers

Posted: June 1st, 2008 | Author: | Filed under: Fiction | 2 Comments »

this is really old, like fresh out of high school old. i haven’t written anything is a long time unfortunately so go easy.

Sometimes Flowers Aren’t Enough

From the first time I saw Emma I knew I had to have her. No matter how cliché and over used it sounds it was perfectly true with her. I first saw her sitting on a bench in the mall reading a book after the mall had closed. I was closing up the store I worked for and stopped with the keys in my hand and just stared. Before I could break myself from this allure she had over me another girl stepped out of the mall book store and Emma looking up hearing the other girl approaching, stood, and together they walked away from me through the mall’s main entrance. When the doors shut behind her I felt like I had been hit in the chest and I was unable to breathe for a moment. The next day I went to the book store to look for the girl Emma had left with. She introduced herself as Alice and I asked her if she’d like to hang out sometime. I could tell by the way she answered that she assumed all I wanted was to fuck, but she gave me her number anyway. That night I called and asked if we could hang out at her place, hoping that Emma would be there. I told her that I was having troubles at my place and it was pretty high in drama. She said it was cool, so I got directions and set a time.

Sean was very attractive. But it was Alice who he wanted, I thought. I had made a promise to myself that I would NEVER go after someone that wanted one of my friends first because if they ever came to me that would mean they were settling for me and I am not going to just be some settling component. So I was nice to him, but that was it. When he came over I would say hi casually but I would never get entwined in conversation with him because honestly I just found him too attractive and I did not want to break my promise to myself. Besides, from what Alice would tell me after he left, he was “totally up her butt” and “always asked to come over because he wanted her all to himself and didn’t even want anyone else to see her because he was afraid someone might take her away from him.” And I believed her, she seemed pretty sure of herself. He was really polite to me. He always seemed really excited when I walked into the room to get something but I assumed that was just to impress Alice that he could get along with her friends, because I tried to do that when I liked a guy. Then one day he just kind of moved in. He slept in the living room though, not in Alice’s room. That was odd to me, and when I asked about it, Alice just said, “He’s weird about sharing a bed.” When I thought about it, I had never seen them kiss or do anything physical and he’d been hanging around for about a month. Then one night I heard them having an argument in the living room. I didn’t want to listen but she was being so loud I was pretty much forced to. “Why don’t you want to fuck me? What’s wrong with you!?” I couldn’t hear what he said, but I guess it wasn’t what she wanted because she left slamming the door screaming, “Well I can find someone who wants to!” Two hours later, I woke up with his fingers inside me.

I rubbed her a little, then when I saw her start to wake, I quickly moved inside. I wanted to feel her insides; I needed them to be on my fingertips. It was dark but there was a little light coming in from the street light outside her window, enough to make at least my outline visible so she could see who I was. “Sean, what are you doing?” She said quickly moving up, my fingers slipping out of her. She had been sleeping naked and now her whole body was in the spread of the light . I whispered something about how beautiful she was and she replied by telling me how I was just trying to get back at Alice because we had had a fight. “No,” I said, “It’s you I want Emma, I haven’t touched Alice.” She called me a liar and stood to get away from me. I grabbed her leg and pulled her back down and sat on her waist. “Emma, listen. I need you.” She struggled, so I started to choke her. I choked her hard to the point of her gasping for air. I eased up when I thought she was about to pass out but still held her neck so she wouldn’t try to fight. I slowly pulled a knife out of my pocket and put the cold metal to the side. I knew that wasn’t necessary because Emma wasn’t a fighter. She was a pleaser, but I wanted the dramatic affect of danger. “Lick me,” I said as I moved onto her chest and took off my shirt and pants. She took me into her mouth and moved her head back and forth. “Use your hands too,” I told her, “and if you try to bite me I’ll cut out your fucking…” I paused. I couldn’t think of anything to say and I was about to come so I just let the sentence trail off. I didn’t want to come already, so I moved back off of her. “Turn over on all fours and spread you legs. And say ‘Sean, eat my ass’.” She was trembling and on the verge of crying, I could tell she really didn’t want to break down, she wanted to prove to herself and me she could be strong. “Emma you are not playing very nicely, if you do not tell me what you want I’m going to assume you want it.” I grabbed her back and began to lick her from back to front. She was still dry, I thought I would be able to make her break down and like it by now but she was still god damn dry. “Say ‘fuck my ass Sean’, say it Emma.” Now this was her breaking point. This was something she did not want to happen. She began to sob. “Say it or I’ll just do it.,” I said calmly. “Please don’t,” she begged, “please please.” She now turned around and grabbed my shoulders and looked me in the face with my knife against her stomach. “Please please,” she pleaded over and over, “I will do anything you want and I’ll like it, I’ll try anything anything…please no please.” She put her arms around me and stuck her wet face to my chest. I smiled and took her face in my hands and made her look at me again. “Anything? And like it?” I asked. “Yes yes just not that, please not that.” God she was so fucking beautiful in that completely desperate moment. I simply said “okay” and it was as if a magic switch had been turned on. She stopped crying and starting kissing me deeply as if I was a long lost lover she had just been reunited with. She pushed me down onto the floor and climbed on top and began to ride me. It was the best sex I had ever had and it went on all night, until finally with our bodies so sore and tired, we both collapsed into a dream void sleep. When I woke up the next morning I quickly picked her up and sat her on me. I sat up so we were both sitting up facing each other. “Emma, I’m in love with you, do you understand that?” She just looked at me her eyes drowsy but alert. “I knew that would make you understand, I had to do that to make you understand, because I knew if you could just feel the way I felt the first moment I saw you, you would feel the same way. This is the most perfect moment ever and I want it to last forever. Do you understand that? Don’t you feel that too?” She looked at me for a moment, then laid her head on my chest, her breath still taken away from the night before.