"Falling? How?"
"Like in love." This is too facile. We both know it will only save me for a second.
She waits, giving me time. "Julia, how does this love feel?"
I wish the shadows in the room would cover my eyes. "Dangerous... a death trap." I am anxious. When I am anxious, I smile. "I let myself be trapped, didn't I?"
"Perhaps. Maybe you were trying to make the relationship work, to be helpful, to understand."
"That's what I do. Giving too much. Trying too hard. So much that I didn't attend to what was happening until I literally lost my balance and fell... or was pushed."
"It sounds like you're blaming yourself. It's typical of you to believe this-- "
"That everything is my fault? My failure?"
She nods. "But you're being harsh with yourself. In this case, no, I don't think the failure is your fault."
Relief. She must often remind me. My second voice, hers, the one I'm learning to hear along with my own.
"What about my history?" I ask, hoping she will erase all that has gone before.
"That was then. This is now. This is different. You did your best."
"Are you sure?" Doubt crawls under my superficial assurance.
Her smile is believable. "Yes, I'm sure."
"But what about the bat?" I ask.
"Tell me about it."
"The bat was pale gray."
"What did it remind you of?"
"It was the color of Diane's hair."
"So she was the bat escaping from your house?"
"She didn't leave until I opened the door, not until I wanted her to go."
"Before that she was content to stay?"
"Yes. She wanted to be with me."
"And then?"
"When I opened the door, she flew outside."
"And you followed her... followed her voice." She tucks one foot behind the other. "Julia, this reminds me of last week. You tried to end the relationship then, didn't you?"
I nod. "And the next day I gave her another chance." I look at the wall, which is as blank as my mind wants to be. "That's similar, isn't it? Asking her to leave and then following her." I thought about this. "I guess that as long as she was a good bird sitting calmly in the plants I would've let her stay inside. Once she transformed into a bat, I wanted her out of the house."
"Tell me about the good Diane... "
"She's very intelligent. The conversations and e-mails are so luxurious and fluid -- like we flow together on the same stream. She's engaging. Challenging."
"Quite a challenge given the distance and her frequent unavailability... all the times she was late for phone dates or re-scheduled them."
I nod. She's right.
"Diane's constant switches and changes must be very upsetting for you," she offers.
The empathy is a balm, one I am unable to apply myself.
"Going back to the dream... what does your house represent?" she asks.
"Safety."
"What else?"
"A private place." I pause. "My self?"
"So how did the bat get inside in the first place?"
"I don't remember. It was just there."
"She was there."
"Yes. Her voice and her words were in the house with me. Through the phone and e-mail."
"Coming in through small holes, like a bat does."
"I suppose so. She contacted me first, if you remember."
"She flew in, perhaps as a bird... "
"A beautiful bird."
"And then the beauty transformed into something you didn't want in your life, in your house." She pauses and studies me with kindness. "So, Julia, if she left your house, your self, why did you remain outside? Why did you walk toward the bat transformed into Diane?"
I sigh. "I wanted to help her, to understand. She seemed upset."
"Like in the conversations you've had with her?"
"A few of them, yes."
"What does this remind you of?"
"My usual role. Giving by listening." I am silent, observing her. She is waiting for me to say more. "And as usual I didn't listen to my own warnings... my own concern that this relationship isn't good for me. Then I fell -- or Diane pushed me -- and it was too late."
My chest is crowded with air. I swallow more of it. "When I was looking up at the sky, locked within the rock so I couldn't move, I knew I was going to die. That I would never get free. Somehow this felt fated."
"Like death by falling in love was your punishment, the end result you always expect?"
"The one that usually happens."
"I don't think you're even angry at Diane, are you?"
I shake my head. "No, I guess not. Her behavior was her behavior. And my history is my history... my equation that equals my death, my failure."
She is quiet, regarding me with my own sadness.
~
I listen to Diane's explanations and excuses. Tumbles of them. Hypocrisy nips at the edges of my consciousness, that is, her hypocrisy. Okay for her to cheat on her lover Paula by beginning a relationship with me; unconscionable that her lover should do the same to her, writing flirtatious e-mails to a woman and leaving them on the computer for Diane to find.
Long minutes pass in which I am silent, foregoing my usual responses, the questions I ask to extend the bridge between us. Diane doesn't seem to notice and segues to her daughter, who refuses to hear about her mother's lesbianism. Instead of dealing openly with the issue, Diane compartmentalizes her sexuality, her relationships with women, and no longer mentions them to her daughter, just as she probably compartmentalizes me and her daughter with Paula and compartmentalizes Paula and her daughter with me. Once again, I am trapped into a narrow crevice, a thin slice of Diane's time and life.
No, my dream was a warning, I think to myself as she continues to talk. Oh, but the loss. The loss. I am weary of subtraction, my counter to her additions, to all of her two plus two plus two plus two mathematics. Heed the dream's meaning.
When Diane finally realizes I'm not participating, she pauses. "Julia, is there something the matter?"
I hesitate, hating to lose what I never really possessed. "Diane, I can't do this anymore. I'm really sorry."
A hush like a wind comes down the line, as if we're connected on either side of an endless tunnel.
"Our relationship is so wonderful at times and so painful at others." I tell the truth, thinking about the beautiful bird and the frightening bat.
"But I'm in the process of ending with Paula," she explains.
"In process can take a long time."
"You're right. It could."
There is her honesty. Shining, tempting me to continue with her.
"Do you understand why this is so hard for me?" I ask, desiring her understanding and also her forgiveness, to close my eyes and flow with all that is right between us.
In the background, her dog barks. I hear Diane clip a leash to his collar. As she descends the stairs, she apologizes for the interruption and explains how long the dog has waited for his walk. Outside, her cell phone signal weakens, and her voice acquires an uneven strength and an air of distraction. "I suppose I do," she replies, "I mean, understand."
The fact that her dog takes precedence over our conversation makes it easier for me. "I was very hopeful about us." I sit up and place my feet on the floor, as if I am preparing to walk away. "We were so close to perfect when we were so close to perfect."
Suddenly, she perceives the finality of the situation and stops walking. "I know. I feel the same way... and have from the first time we talked on the phone."
Diane is trying to prolong the conversation, to re-route the ending. She offers so much -- the dance that enchants, but only when she allows the music to play; a relationship always on her terms, on her time, limited and fragmented.
"Diane, I wish... " For a second, I freeze, stunned by a collapse of will. No. Open the door and usher the bat out. Close the door and stay inside, safe. "I wish fo
r what will never happen, at least not now. I'm sorry," I repeat. The words are so thin. "Goodbye."
I hang up the phone and lie back against the pillows, my arm under my head, staring out the window. The sea is deep blue, the sky lighter. In the distance, a small gray bird flies away.
Laury A. Egan has received awards/publications for both fiction and poetry as well as receiving a Pushcart Prize nomination. Her short stories have appeared in New York Stories, Paradigm (online and anthology), and Grasslimb; her poetry in The Ledge, Atlanta Review, Sea Stories, and The Centrifugal Eye. A full-length collection, "Snow, Shadows, a Stranger", is forthcoming from FootHills Publishing in 2009. In addition, Laury has written several suspense novels.
Poetry by Darryl Salach
A naked girl drinking ginger ale
teach me something important, mister!
bare your soul, say something worth a damn
turn your eyes away from my breasts for a minute,
they will only be your demise like the rest.
my tits are my money maker, that's all.
it's an illusion in here, a pipe dream
and dreams don't come true on this side of the tracks,
only misery and a bad habit do, know what I mean, mister?
the world tends to look away when they look at girls like me,
they don't see any beauty, they feel shame and a broken heart,
they see a pretty girl who made a mistake, the story of my life.
it's too bad I cry alone at night,
it's too bad my man beats me and takes my money
leaving me and his child alone and hungry,
it's too bad there is a demon that roams the streets of every city
so ugly that it crushes only the innocent in it's wake.
mister, don't look at me with those cynical eyes
I don't need your pity,
my life is not pretty or cute, there are no flowers on my coffee table,
no swag on the walls.
I know people who have it worse though, they got bigger problems
than I'll ever have but I just don't see a future, a way out of this endless game.
it hurts when I look at my kid and I tell him daddy's busy working when in
fact he's smoking crack in a rooming house not 3 blocks away.
I bet you're a stockbroker, a doctor or lawyer, married with a couple kids,
a cat, a dog, a big screen tv, a big house in the hills, a sexy wife, is she sexy, mister?
I'm sorry to lay all of this on you but I just needed to cough it up, fuck it in a way
and put it to sleep at least for tonight but it always comes back to haunt me.
I could sure use a smoke right now, mister (she smiles)
but they don't let us smoke in this joint no more since the 'no smoking bylaw'
got passed and it's too damn cold to go outside and smoke dressed like this (laughter)
and what's with global warming anyway, all this snow we've been having
I thought the ice caps were melting or something, guess the polar bears are happy.
hey, what are you looking at mister? my tits again?
alright, why don't we go upstairs and I'll dance on your lap and show you what I got
and if you're a good boy, I'll let you play with my tits a little but don't let the bouncer see you do it, I need this job mister, they don't like it here when the customers touch the girls
does that make me a bad girl, mister? (she winks)
just let me finish my ginger ale first.
Darryl Salach lives in Canada and has been writing poetry for many years. He's recently self-published a book of poetry through lulu press called "Stepping Out of Line". He's had a number of poems published in various literary mags and online zines such as Unquiet Desperation, The Starfish Journal, Gloom Cupboard, SkitzoLit.com, LitUpMagazine.com, Neonbeam Magazine and the upcoming issues of Rattlesnake Review, Target Audience Magazine and Heroin Love Songs. "Stepping Out of Line" can be purchased through Amazon or Barnes and Noble.
Tom Underhill
Revisions
The fact that you're reading this means that you're a) literate,
... What...
and b) dead. Congratulations, you've met both preconditions. Much is still to be determined, however.
... is going on?...
The pain from your final injury will subside shortly, and you'll notice whatever incidental wounds you may have incurred are already beginning to close over.
... That car... came so fast...
Most importantly, if you're starting to panic, wondering where, what, and who you are, don't: your mentor is on the way, answers in hand.
... These words... and nothing beyond them...
But first things first, jump number one. Don't worry, it'll be quick, and more or less painless.
... Why can't I see anything else... ripping... I'm ripping... twisting... fading...
Enjoy.
Hundreds of people danced and cheered atop a massive staircase stretching at least a football field in length. Swarms of laughing, yelling, rejoicing, strangers... He squeezed his eyes shut against the visual overload, clapped his hands to his ears to muffle the deluge of sound.
Gradually, he reopened his senses, this time registering the fact that his clothes were the same as the hordes around him. Words became distinguishable, yet were still incomprehensible; Eastern European was as close as he could come. Russian, maybe, but--
A slap on his back preceded the appearance of a mustached, middle-aged man's face in front of his own. Furry lips emitted something rapid and enthusiastic. He nodded numbly and looked away, down at his feet, and noticed with a start that they seemed larger than before. The boots were clumsy, oversized. And yet... they felt bigger. He felt bigger. Kneeling suddenly, he began to free his right foot to disprove this madness. He was a size ten, should still be a--
Shouts of a different tone cleaved the air. Authoritative. Commanding. The masses turned as one, and a loud cracking noise rang out, ricocheting off the stepped acoustics until the whole air was riddled with it. Smoke followed, brought with it more thunder, and the masses turned back and ran.
1905 A.D.: Odessa, Ukraine.
Pushing, stumbling, scrambling men and women of all shapes and sizes streamed down around him. He left his laces untied and stood, the date and place that had just scrolled through his head bewildering him long enough to be knocked hard to the next level, his scalp splitting on impact. Rough hands yanked him to his feet, and the mustached man bellowed something harsh into his ear.
"...What..."
"...fool! Potempkin... Czar... attacking Odessa! Run!"
"...the Hell is happening?"
"Are you deaf, Comrade? Run, dammit! Run!"
The mustache swung away and took three steps in a stride, then four. Then collapsed head first in an explosion of red mist.
Czarist forces react to a series of strikes and demonstrations across Russia.
Ignoring the words hanging in front of his eyes, he swiveled towards the now rolling gunfire as the mustached man's feet slid from view, parting his lips to yell. To scream his confusion at the callous soldiers above, voice his--
Hot, searing pain preempted him. He fell, his head landing only a pace from where it had smashed seconds earlier.
The massacre on the Odessa steps and the subsequent looting in the city's streets cost the lives of over 6,000.
Darkness returned.
Log (of what you've done and why), first entry:
I'm... alive? Dead?... What you've done and why?... These clothes... The same as on the steps... And this stain... It's so red... Still hurts... Those words... Did I just dream that, or was that meant to be the Odessa Steps? But the massacre took place at night... Is this a dream? Why can't I see anything... except myself? My hand before my eyes?and nothing beyond it-
The stain is gone. So is the pain. A light. A figure...
~
A thin, decaying voice trills something unintelligible.
"What?" He squints at the coalescing form, one hand still gripping his chest.
"...name, Sonny... Concentrate... any language..."
The figure flashes into focus, becoming an old man who returns the incredulous appraisal with a faint smile and a knowing twinkle. A billowing, snowy beard strikes a sharp contrast with the void all around him, an incongruity outdone only by the accompanying neon-blue tuxedo.
"...Blake."
"And I'm Galen. Well done, and have a seat. You'll need it."
Blake whirls wildly as he feels a rounded edge pressing against the back of his thigh. He nearly trips over the wooden stool waiting amidst the nothing, recovers his balance, and regards the seat for several moments before sitting cautiously. Twisting back, he finds the old man stretched out full length in a reclining, deep leather easy-chair, lifting a glass from a nearby end-table.
"Bourbon? I find something stiff helps one sort out a bit of order from the chaos."
Blake stares, and eventually shakes his head, dropping his hand from his chest as he does so.
Shrugging, Galen downs the cup himself with a grimace. "Hmmm, but memory's never quite as good as the real thing, now is it? But humor me by answering a question, Sonny, and then I'll start dealing with yours. I know it's not particularly fair, but I'm quite literally dying of curiosity."
His brow wrinkling, Blake looks back mutely as his hands start to return to his head and chest to reaffirm their wholeness.
"Mmmm, my apologies for the poor choice of words. Rather inconsiderate that." Galen makes a clucking noise as he pours himself another glass. "But you can put your hands down, Sonny. You're as good as new, mint condition, maybe better. Now, as you were about to agree to?"
Blake's gaze wandered around the blackness, hands eventually falling back after several moments of reassurance. "Where... what is the place?"
Rolling his eyes, Galen snaps his fingers and the empty glass and bottle wink out of sight. "All in good time, Blake. All in good time. Speaking of which, we really don't have much left. Things happen pretty quick at the beginning. Which means you really need to get a hold of yourself and start the ball rolling."
The Battered Suitcase September 2008 Page 2