Hope (a dwarf)

Hope

Here is my greatest disease. Amidst all the evils Pandora unleashed in this world, the unparalleled is hope. This thing driving me forth, engaging me for a bit of attention, a feeling of commiseration, a sensation we agreed to call love: moments of redemption ephemeral, a funny trick of the eye. My thirst grows, my will tires, my mind continues. I am human, an absurd shape sculpted with solar winds, confined to these words my prison holds true. Yet, I’ll want more, always. And you’ll want something I can never be. So we’ll hope and be fools and be damned.

two short bits of poetry

(Author's Note: these aren't turning into anything more than they are [at least, i don't think they will.] so i'm just posting them together. these are prime examples of the seizure of the poetry demon.)

"there is no bridge to gamble on,
no fortune’s path to seek,
the only baby she’ll be having,
is the one above the sink."

"I make circles.
Drawing concentric pleasure,
Manipulate puckered flesh
Feels like jazz."

A Not Short Enough Exchange on Super Bowl Sunday

A Not Short Enough Exchange on Super Bowl Sunday

“Is the Super Bowl today?”

Against better judgment, I lift my head.

“Hmm, that look on your face tells me you don’t know.”

Or I’m trying to convey the “…” message.

“So I’ll take it you’re not a football fan?”

Is this really happening to me?

“I guess you’re probably thinking I’m in the wrong place.”

Uh-oh, I’ve captured the attention of a clever one.

“Are you deaf or mute or something?”

Hmm, I could play this to my advantage.

He chuckles at himself, charmed by his own wit and says, “Hell, it’s alright with me. Women should be seen and not heard, right?”

A jab with the sole purpose of inciting a reaction.

“So, you won’t talk no matter what I say, eh?”

Looks like he is a bit more astute than I gave him credit for.

“My name’s Greg.”

I hold back the sigh of exasperation threatening my throat.

“What’s that book you’re reading?”

Ah, yes. The world from which I’ve been ripped by this man’s banal attempt at conversation.

“Just a stuck up bitch, huh? Well excuse me for living.”

Now here’s something I can manage a reply to. “You’re excused.”

“Wanna join me for some bottles of Bud and some football?”

Nope, shouldn’t have said anything. That’ll teach me.

this is what it sounds like when my life passes by...

(author's disclaimer: i have absolutely no idea what this is. my sister offered, "seems like your muse is on crack." this is potentially the case, although i did not imbibe any crack rock nor any other controlled or illegal substance while writing this. [shocking, i know.] sometimes i write, and this is what is expressed. any thoughts, ideas, notions, complaints, questions [although there's a scarce chance i can actually answer said questions], confusions, feelings, or any thing else brought to mind by this "something" is greatly appreciated. most of all, any idea what the fuck this is?)

this is what it sounds like when my life passes by...

*333#%#$@^!^&@^$!(@)*#&#$^@&**#@|||@&@^ _

* sorry for the delay.
333 this is what prays on me.
#%# juxtaposed
$ capitalism
@ sensation contrived unending
^!^ yet more excites while less - no more! - sings sights before.
&@ creeping out the door, shaking up the concrete.
^$! yet another capitalist thrown in the stew to boil with radishes, cabbage, and art-it-CHOKES
(@) sensory data distributed
* sorry for the delay.
#&# circles and circles and circles and circles and circles and circles and circles and circles and circles and...
$^@ capitalism and another mighty scene
& this wasn't supposed to be here.
* sorry for the delay.
* it's frustrating for me too.
# nothing is ever enough.
@|||@ gaps hold truth unseen.
&@ to the only thing that never made anysense
^ and another thing
_ (which screams off-set)

A Connected Trio

Witch
by mjk

I stayed near the edge, not willing to join the gathering around the pyre. They lobbed stones and hurled insults at the bound body of Hortenzia. Each blow that struck reverberated in my body, yet never once did she flinch. The priest stood close, holding a torch to the kindling in one hand and a book in the other. The flames grew higher with each taunt from the mob, filling the air with the scent of burning fibers and smoking flesh. When my heart couldn't bare the silence of her cries, I ran off into the fields, wailing for her.


Priest
by mjk

There’s a witch in every town I visit. She’s always easy to find, as all the locals beseech her for remedies. I accuse, flashing the word of the Almighty before their eyes, and they build the pyre. It’s a relatively painless task, convincing them their healer is in league with the devil, and I’m able to move on quickly with little to no dirt on my hands. I always start the fire and always leave before the screaming ends. Yet as Hortenzia burned, I lingered, for her eyes had caught mine and she uttered no cry from which to run.


Fire
by mjk

I knew when I first saw the priest walk into town that I was as good as dead. I had heard of these “men of God” who roamed the countryside, accusing women of demon orgies and condemning them to death by fire. I have never feared fire nor any element created by Mother Earth, yet my heart still cried upon receiving my death sentence. I look through this flickering furnace of my demise to see my neighbors concentrating their hate, the priest cowering behind his book, and my beloved running off into an empty blue sky. Mercy arrives soon after.

A Trilogy of Dwarves

***a dwarf is a form of flash fiction limited to 101 words, including title. they are excellent for plowing through writer's block. (and yes, i did manage to achieve the exact word count.)***

Dumb

It shocked us all the way she entered a room, so unapologetic for her practiced swagger, snapping hearts with just a wiggle of her hips. She wore the kind of clothes that shouldn’t even be called clothes; they clung to her curves like a vise, somehow displaying more than her nude form would. We could only gawk, stare and drool over her, watching as words fell out of her mouth and diamonds highlighted her eyes. Rivulets of thought spewed forth from her vocal chords, yet all meaning was lost in translation. She would have been prettier if she didn’t speak.

***

Fault

Destined for nowhere, these funny words you use. I guess I knew you wouldn’t come around again; I set it up that way. You see, the thing is, I try not to use words like “always” and “never.” Yet you kept asking for them. I am so weak about you. So I screwed up, again and again, using forbidden words I couldn’t make true, but I said them anyway. I warned you, I know I did, but you believed me anyway. I guess you’ll blame me and I’ll blame you and we won’t have to believe what we don’t want to.

***

Note

Hi. I wanted to apologize for the mess. If there was any other way, I wouldn’t have left it for you to clean up. I won’t kid you and me both, I never could clean up a mess, which is why I’m typing this out for you to read. I’ll leave it here, won’t even waste the paper. This way, you can delete it after you’ve read it. Maybe you’ll write something new in its place. I hope you write something new. I hope this doesn’t hurt you the way it hurts me. It’ll be over soon, I promise. Bye.

Insomnia

Insomnia
a rather short story by mj

The span of time is but a mere instant. So passes days which merge into nights; hours which divide into minutes; moments which break into seconds. Everywhere the ticking of clocks, a steady rhythm denoting each second that passes, marking them off as if on a list. And the checks don't add up to infinity. Time is running out.

This is what I tell myself. When the world outside is no longer shouting, when the silence grows so forceful it afflicts, when the roof above lets out its final groan, when the bedclothes refuse to offer comfort, when the eyes no longer sense a distinction between open and shut, when the body won’t cease its buzzing, nor will the brain stop its musing. This is what I tell myself.

Either everything means everything or nothing means anything.

Lying here, faced with myself and my box of potential, the world seems absurd. More time slips through my fingers and I watch it dissipate into glowing green lines, flickering what might be my last warning.

This is what I want to shape, yet the hands undo the other’s action. I find myself wanting for something that has no word by which to identify it, some silly concept, a misleading notion that leads me to no place, no time, no mind. I struggle with a paradox I cannot define while more seconds, more checks waste and go by.

It takes solitude to sustain me, giving solace that’s oddly empty. I only know of peace that’s uneasy, of sorrow that fills and sates a wearied soul. There is a passion to my madness that drips away at faltering intensity with each moment lost. I must make a move.

This is what I tell myself.

This is what has no shape.

This is another instant spent.

Time is running out.

Reprieve

Reprieve
a dwarf* by mj

I slip out for a smoke, a sip of poetry and much needed silence. My tree awaits faithful even after I've gone. I snuggle between the exposed roots, an embrace molded perfectly along my spine and hips. Ah, sanctuary at last. I let the pages fall open and jump in. The words I savor; the rhythm I pursue; the meaning I ponder. Lines beat into my brain; images wrought violently. The smoke smooth in my lungs, exhalations drift to mingle with the dying leaves. Smoke is done; poem is read; reprieve is over. I sigh, switch my brain to mute, and walk back inside.

*a little kitty kat inspired me to compose this "dwarf," a form of flash fiction limited to 101 words, including the title.
*i cheated. it's 105 words.

Thing

Thing
a poem by mj

"You are
a funny, pretty thing."
he say
with eye that is dancing.
He touch
with hand that is needing.
He take
with sense lost in wanting.

"I am
not your snug cavity."
she say
with mouth that is moving.
She hide
with body that is curving.
She run
with cunt that is bleeding.

Coward

Coward
a poem by mj

Truth once going dull,
but the need to rip remains.
She's hmm-ing in a bluesy throat,
and he's coming back again.

For passion brushes weakly,
a map that's made in skin.
She's playing patterns happy,
and he's letting someone in.

Sky retains a darkness,
It presses, fills, and jades.
She's gnawing heated silence,
and he's sighing out their fate.

Always gasped in stolen air,
Some filthy, empty pleasure.
She's staying with her ending,
and he's not sure it's over.

Sick on Your Shoes

Sick on Your Shoes
a poem by mj

I got
Sick on you
"Oh god, sorry
I try not to puke on shoes."
Somehow
It lacks
And I find
Myself
Making up your skin
Your voice
Spitting out
Whatever it is
You wanted me
To swallow.

Scuffmarks

Scuffmarks

a story by mjk

I’m not that far gone. I judge this by my apparent ability to string together words into coherent thoughts. At times, I am startled to see my apartment as through the eyes of a stranger, awed at the pathetic squalor of it all. Other times, I sit and stare at the scuffmarks on the floor.

I don’t take comfort in them; rather, I find them a nuisance. Black, sooty stains pock marking the cheap plastic tile that infests the whole apartment. When we moved in, I had marveled at how easy it would be keep clean. Cleanliness used to matter to me. Now those scuffmarks just grow in number.

I know there’s a mop somewhere; I brought it with me from the last place, but it has yet to make an appearance since the move. I can’t remember how long ago that was. It happened while I was still writing in the notebook before this one, so it must have been somewhat recent. No matter where Jo and I move, there are always boxes left unpacked, so it’s useless to measure time that way. Jo doesn’t like calendars.

I suppose I don’t really care, although some part of me obviously does otherwise I wouldn’t be obsessing about it in my journal. Maybe it’s my sanity, trying to nail me down to a reassuring routine, a cycle of actions repeated in an orderly fashion. Sometimes I think Jo has brainwashed me, his thoughts and my thoughts jumble together until I don’t know if there’s such a definite distinction between our lives. I doubt he feels the same. It seems a romantic notion, to meld into another person in such a way, ‘Oh, I don’t know where he ends and I begin,’ but to me it’s warped and ominous. It sounds like a death sentence.

I try it out under my breath; no one will hear me. Hearing it aloud doesn’t lighten the threat. I look at him; he catches my eye and winks. I shudder. Winking men always evoke a feeling of dread. Can a wink be well intentioned? Or is it merely a distraction while they steal away your precious things?

His friends are here. I don’t know if I can remember a time when Jo’s friends weren’t here. They laze about the floor, doing whatever drug they could come up with that day and spacing out in front of the TV. If I’m at work, they blare the stereo too. Jo lets all this happen, encourages it even. He doesn’t wash the dishes; when they run out, they just eat with their fingers and drink from the containers.

Am I just left to play the martyr in this situation? Left to clean up after an unemployed boyfriend that more resembles an obnoxious child?

I disgust myself. How can I think such admonishments against this man I claim to love? Why don’t I get off my ass and find that fucking mop?

He hands me a joint, asks me to spark it. He thinks this passes as affection. I like it much better than kissing and groping since I won’t be stared at the same way while lighting a joint as I would be if Jo were pinching my nipples.

I hate his friends. I hate their shoes.

Indifference sets in, as it usually does, and I let Jo and his friends do whatever they want. Who am I to keep Jo from feeling like a big man in his own home? Whatever Jo thinks of me or whatever he claims of me, I have space to call my own: this journal, these words. I always have my words.

When I do speak up, Jo hears every time. His ears are keen for my mumble. This is also, at times, to my advantage. He’s getting me a glass of water as I write.

He requires payment for the amazing feat he has accomplished in quenching my thirst. Perhaps he fancies he has ensured my survival for another day by replenishing my fluids. If I said that sentence to him, he would think I was being naughty. As a token of my eternal gratitude I am to kiss him, with passion as well as prudence, and then smile pretty when he opens his eyes. Then he leaves me alone.

This apathy bothers me, which is surely one of the most contradictory feelings I’ve ever had. I could have sworn I am the kind of person who takes care of her environment and asserts responsibility for herself. When did my idea of self stop coinciding with my actual self? I guess I’ll never know since there’s no fucking calendar anywhere. Maybe I can start measuring time by counting the scuffmarks.

A Lullaby

***this was turned into something much better (in the author's ever so humble opinion) and is posted as "Insomnia" on Jan. 12***

A Lullaby
a something by mj*

This is what I tell myself.

Staring at ceilings, my eyes glaze with thoughts of far away.

Either Everything means Everything, or Nothing means Anything.

These are just things to tell yourself at night, when you’re alone, when the world outside is no longer shouting, when the bedclothes refuse to offer comfort, when you can’t seem stop counting the ticks of the clock, every second marked off as if on a list. Your time is running out.

This is what I tell myself.

I don’t want to get me wrong. I want to give it shape, but the hands undo the other’s action.

This isn’t what it looks like, honest.

At times I find it rather funny. The ants that march in their place, that song that reminds me of the rain. The absurdity gathers in my mouth and I spit it out. It tastes bitter; it tastes sweet; it tastes like irony from a frantic dream. But my thoughts go back to nowhere.

This is what I tell myself.

If I remain true to this world, I shall be absolved. There is a problem though. I haven’t a thing to tell the world.

Either everything means everything or nothing means anything.

This isn’t a lullaby.

In fact, it isn’t very pretty. A false concept. This box of my potential. Wasted as I struggle with a paradox. Some misleading notion of redemption. More seconds, more checks.

This is what I tell myself.

This is what doesn’t work.

This is what has no shape.


*i'm not really sure what this is either. it was very late when i wrote this.

books for the new year

i had way too much fun xmas shopping for my fellow readers this year. i get so giddy walking through a bookstore with so much money in my back pocket. every shelf hides treasures, books i've loved or always meant to read. i'm such a dork, i write down the books that intrigue me that i can't afford to get yet, in the store of course, otherwise i will forget. i could stay in a bookstore from open to close, if only they would let me smoke and lie down, as i tend to get tired during the day, especially if i'm in public.

today was trying... very, very trying. sara and i were recognized by two employees in office depot, the younger siblings of girls with whom we both played softball. they came up one right after the other; it was quite alarming really. we exchanged pleasantries and practically ran out of the store. it doesn't look like running though; we both just have long legs. why do i not possess an invisibility cloak?

books to read in the next year:

lolita by vladimir nabokov
snow falling on cedars by david guterson
the good apprentice by iris murdoch
the wings of the dove by henry james
mansfield park by jane austen
cry to heaven by anne rice
the mars chronicles by ray bradbury
a tree grows in brooklyn by betty smith
lucky by alice sebold
neverwhere by neil gaiman (i swear i'm getting to it, damn you public library*)
house of leaves by mark daniel welski
jude the obscure by thomas hardy
the fountainhead by ayn rand
the first sex by elizabeth gould davis
the tao of physics by fritjof capra
the secret life of bees by sue monk kidd
me talk pretty one day by david sedaris
edible woman by margaret atwood
the prophet by kahlil gibran
narcissus and goldmund by herman hesse
the time-traveler's wife by audrey niffenegger
heart is a lonely hunter by carson mccullers
madame bovary's ovaries by david barash
life is a dream by pedro calderon de la garca
high fidelity by nick hornby
interpretor of maladies by jhumpa lahiri
middlesex by jeffrey eugenides
god's debris by scott adams
song of solomon by toni morrison
battle royale by koushun takami
the bean trees by barbara kingsolver
how to travel with a salmon by umberto eco
this side of paradise by f. scott fitzgerald
the importance of being earnest by oscar wilde

*i'm just kidding. i love you public library. i would be way more lost than i am now without you.

i have a lot of reading to do. it makes me glow inside, it really does. i hope if you were looking for something to read, you found some fun ideas. if you think of a book i might like, or you think i should read it just on the principle of the matter, feel free to suggest. okay, i'm begging you to suggest books, i can't get enough, i've got a problem. feed my addiction, i implore you. ;)

i'm on a roll, so i figure i might as well go with it... see what comes out...

it's the end of another year. have i truly learned anything? maybe the lesson that i do not know anything. that seems to keep popping back up. anytime i start to think i do... yeah. i guess i've just resolved to loosen up more, not take myself so seriously, and to truly delight in the absurd world around me. it is the little things. for now, it has to be.

i have a book list a mile long. that is something to look forward to. i have college courses to create. fields of thought to explore. perspectives to be shared. i have good conversation to look forward to. good people that make me think thoughts i might not have, and that is a good thing. i have more laughter inside me, waiting for the right moment to escape. i might even have some smiles to share.

and always i'll have more words. oh yes, those won't ever stop coming. not until i'm dead at least. but i suppose death would make them more popular, although when have i ever wanted what was popular? no, that's just the message the tv tries to send, the one i'm consciously avoiding now. my muse whispers "write," and so i do.

this is my effort to share my words with any who will read them. reading is going out of style with the popular crowd, so i appreciate just the fact that you got this far. that's absolutely wonderful of you and i thank you sincerely, even if i don't know who you are. i'd like to know, so leave me a comment, a criticism, a letter, a poem,... (you get the idea)... anything to show me that you're here, that you're real, that you're reading!

if you're completely unsatisfied, i'll leave you with a poem i did not write, but nevertheless, think is beautiful. perhaps your trip here can be salvaged among its lines:

l(a

le
af

fa
ll
s)

one
l
iness

e.e. cummings (1958)

i destroy with my poetry

i destroy with my poetry
a something by mj

i destroy with my poetry. i do not know the language. he destroys with bits of random. he does not know my rhythm. i tell myself tales to make the night less long. this isn’t only about me. why doesn’t this story shut off when i close the book? i see what is not seen, i look where the edges blur. this isn’t only about me. i wonder if he knows how deep his touch has reached, how far his penetration goes. i was the one who wanted to share. this isn’t only about me. i’ve collected the bites: his bright, shiny pieces represented by words, just so you know... short-term, marriage, meaning... this isn’t only about me. i want him happy; i want him at peace. i doubt he can find this with me. perhaps that is why he evades and i pine. this isn’t only about me. maybe this is all in my head, something i made up to make the night less long but it is something and it isn’t only about me.

Your Words. (gathered darkly)

Your Words. (gathered darkly)

for Sylvia Plath

a poem by mj

Colors, blue/red, bleed into print.
I see your images
In shades of grey
The convergence of black and white.
Your words. (meaning leaks from the molecules)

They serve up your death on an altar;
Capitalize on the stigma.
Your words given new meaning
To complement their agenda.
Your words. (dying is an art)

You captured sensations
In a net of language
Just to discover-
Emptiness, stillness, silence.
Your words. (stasis in darkness)

Falling awake out of your fig tree
Up-ended into a life pre-made.
Why did you surrender
Forbidden aspirations slated for fate?
Your words. (her blacks crackle and drag)

Immortality is yours to bemoan;
We crawl into your lines like worms.
I need meaning.
A reason to resist the vacuum.
Your words. (life is the bad dream)

Approaching near-perfection
Your body decays, your voice amplifies.
A photograph negative, comfortable
In the stark blackness.
Your words. (the most beautiful thing in the world must be shadow)

Like a moonflower, I thrive in your darkness.

Rudy's

Rudy's

a story by mj

The sun was preternaturally bright when I opened the door of the infested nest some arrogant prick named Rudy called a motel room. Despite the squalid conditions, I had managed to sleep for an exhausting fifteen hours, partially due to the thick, ostentatious drapery and also my own decision to buy a bottle of tequila and imbibe it within the course of a couple hours. The next couple of hours were spent in exultant purging and several stumbling/crawling scurries to the fetid bathroom. After my digestive system had its say, it was smooth sailing in dream land. Or rather, a turbulent and phantasmagorical sail through a few circles of Hell.

I had a sticky and overbearing taste in my mouth, a mixture of stomach acid, smoke and toothpaste. My eyes, the ever-eager purveyors of the world, had adjusted to the intensity of the Sun’s light at zenith and quickly focused on the sign across the rectangular parking lot that denoted the location of “Rudy’s Diner”. Well, there could be no mistake about it; the patrons of “Rudy’s Motel” could also consume all the fried starch and processed meat their little hearts could desire! Some people probably wouldn’t get worked up about a restaurant having the same name as the hotel to which it is attached, so I guess I can conclude I’m not like “some people”. It gets under my skin, makes my right eyelid want to convulse, and leaves me with an overall disposition of disdain. Nevertheless, I needed food. That was my digestive system having its say again. I lit a cigarette to take away some of the toothpaste taste and walked across the parking lot.

The diner had two walls entirely devoted to booths. Each booth got its own window, and each window got its own set of mini-blinds. Most of the blinds were up completely. Apparently people liked sun with their fat saturated meals. I had no corner into which I could sneak. I decided to sit at the counter, facing away from the windows, my back to the door and the roomful of loquacious and jolly lunch patrons. The experience was deteriorating by the minute. I resolved to consume my food as quickly as possible and retreat back to my abhorrent yet private bear’s den of a room. What happened after that was not in my capability to pontificate on; I was reduced to the needs of my organs.

“Do you have fresh coffee?” I asked a petite, womanly figure that scuttled by without acknowledging me.

Humbled, I stared down at my hands until I heard a flat and monotonous voice say something about the lunch rush and then the thud of a coffee mug on the Formica countertop.

“Is it fresh?” I asked, glancing it over with a dubious eye.

No answer came and I looked up, correction, looked down to meet the eyes of the voice. A cold and steely look greeted me. A small specimen of human, the waitress eyed me with a no-bullshit attitude that let me know exactly how well she thought I was wasting her time.

“Did you want anything to eat?” She asked. She wasn’t that old, surely couldn’t be over thirty but she carried that dog-eared and weary exterior that resulted in a tough and stringent manner. She was the precisely the kind of person that detested the kind of people like me, the kind that could make a joke of life, as if it wasn’t life and death on the table.

“Yes. May I see a menu?” I mumbled and blew at the top of my mug. I wavered back and forth about the dangers of gulping it down before letting it cool and threw caution to the wind. It burned, but it was a good burn, completely different than the chemical burning of stomach acid.

She brought back a menu, and the pot of coffee.

“Could I have ice water as well?”

She didn’t answer. She filled my mug, plopped the menu down and turned for the pitcher of water.

It’s only a silly habit of mine to ask for the menu at restaurants since I always order the same thing. The waitress jots down my order of pancakes, two over easy eggs and a toasted English muffin so quickly I’m anxious she hasn’t notated the preference of my eggs, or my request that the English muffin be only slightly toasted, only enough to melt the butter. I knew I had been defeated, but I also knew I would eat whatever she put in front of me. I had no choice in the matter. It was between my digestive system and her.

It was at that point that I started to wonder if it really was life and death on the table. If this shattered woman might know more than yours truly. If spending a night drinking alone in a squalid highway motel wasn’t the best course to take in life.

I smoked two more cigarettes and drank three cups of coffee before my food came. The first refill she made me work for, not relenting her attention until I managed to utter up a humble and cracked, and yet entirely sincere request for more coffee. I used the word, “please.” The second was more easily won, so I took full advantage and drank it in three gulps. The third came swiftly after.

My nervous system buzzed chaos with the rush of chemicals, and a new sort of calm overtook me even as my nerve endings crackled, fizzed and popped. Food was on the way.

When she plopped it down in front of me, her eyes met mine. Still the same harsh glare, but was that a sparkle of amusement in her eye? She knew she had won. She knew I had conceded. I offered her my dejected, half smile, my white flag of surrender. She didn’t smile back, just whisked off into the lobby, taking the pot of coffee with her.

I looked into my mug and there was a fourth refill. I didn’t even have to ask.

Ten minutes later my plate was empty and I was working on my fifth refill, calculating my bill. I put down ten dollars, twice the cost of my breakfast and gloated in the notion of my philanthropy. A cigarette was the perfect reward.

When I stood up, she said, “You have a good day, now,” putting a fist on her hip as if demanding it of me.

“Thanks, you too.” I said, astonished by the sentiment leaving my mouth. I was on a roll, getting the hang of interacting with another human through banter.

“The food was good, quite a shock really considering the abominable conditions of this place. Is the guy who owns this place out to lunch, or what?”

“I’m Rudy, you little shit.” She said, her demeanor and glare changing not in the slightest. She had seen me coming long before I had even driven past the motel on my personal journey to nowhere. She had my kind all mapped out, diagramed and labeled, having seen it so many times before.

I didn’t say anything and walked out the door. The sun pierced my eyes with the daggers of its light. I should never say anything at all.