This is my box...

Pop Rocks [excerpt from NaNoWriMo]

2009-11-18T00:21:37Z

The doorbell rings and I hear the pitter patter of drumming against my door. Albie plays the drums. He plays them everywhere. Right now he’s playing the door. Also, he’s got this story, he wants me to believe that he drummed a girl. Well, not drummed her. That would just mean he hit her a bunch of times with two sticks. No, he used the drumstick to, you know. Nevermind. I don’t fully believe him anyway, mostly just because I don’t want to. I go to the door and let him in.

“Hey, Flight of the Heron, how goes it?” he says, going directly for the kitchen and the fading smell of toast. “You already ate it all, didn’t you? Damn. Why are you still in your pajamas? It’s noon, man. You are getting really lazy.”

“Thanks. I already know that. Not working for three months will do that to a guy.”

“Don’t be like dad, okay? He’s a great guy, but you know what he—”

“Yeah, I know. I’m not. Didn’t you check my status? I applied to 5 jobs yesterday.”

“I’m sure you did. So what’s up?” he changes the subject.

“Well, a friend from work is coming over tonight and we’re gonna watch some movies.”

“Hot. Girl or boy?” He grins, before turning to the refrigerator to raid its humble innards.

“Boy, but does it matter?”

“For you? No. For me? Yes. If it was a girl, I’d want to know a hell of a lot more, so I could think about it later,” he says, tossing cheese and tortillas on the counter.

“That’s creepy. Thanks. I’ll remember that. Anyway, I don’t think this is like that.”

“Why not? Isn’t everyone an opportunity? I bet you can convince him otherwise.”

“What? And if you are making quesadillas, make me one too,” I say.

Albie takes out a skillet and rubs it down with the open end of a butter stick. “So what you’ve gotta do is get some Pop Rocks.”

“Pop Rocks? What the hell for? Am I gonna take him back to his childhood with candy?”

“Of course not,” he says, flipping over a quesadilla. “You put them in your mouth and give him head.”

“What the fuck?” I meant to pause for a second before I said that, but ‘what the fuck’ just came to mind so fast, and I really need to know what he means. I walk right up to him and ask, “Where on Earth did you get that from?”

“I learn things. I hear things. I’m just saying, you know how make your mouth all tingly? Well, just trust me, Morgen.”

“Shall I assume you had a good date last night?” I take a plate from the cupboard and hold it near him. He glares at me and shuffles the quesadilla onto my plate.

“That one wasn’t for you, you know that right?” he says. I just smile and cut my toasty, gooey, cheesy lunch into quarters. I can’t really shake the Pop Rocks though. I imagine coming back from a Halloween party and dumping out a bag of candy on my bed. Out falls condoms and Pop Rocks and Toshi with his bass guitar.

We sit around and eat quesadillas as he drums on the kitchen counter and embellishes his sexy evening. He tells me how Aja is even better look with nothing, but a smile and her friend Olga is the most beautiful he’s ever seen with a hideous name. Of course, he claims to have had a threesome with the models. Who wouldn’t? I can’t imagine a guy on the planet who wouldn’t at least have lied to himself, to believe that he had a threesome with two gorgeous underwear models. He goes on to claim that they tied him up and blindfolded him. “So how do you know you actually had a threesome? One of them could have just watched, or left the room entirely.”

“You just know.”

“No, I don’t think you have any idea.”

“But if you had to choose a truth, which one would you have gone with?” he says. He has a point so I go on listening. It gets sillier, involving frozen fruit, a pull up bar and the Pop Rocks. After I finish my quesadilla, I just sit there, plain faced. It’s almost as though he’s making it up as he goes along. “And this whole time, you can’t see a thing?” I ask.

“Not a thing.”

“Well, that is quite a story. It makes me believe the drumstick story, at any rate.”

“I’m telling you.” He takes the final bite of his quesadilla, and cheese runs down his chin. “You can’t make this shit up.” Albie rinses off his dishes and pats me on the back. “I’ll see you later. Back to work. Remember, Pop Rocks and he’s yours.”

NANOWRIMO! ~working chapter one~ [day 07]

2009-11-07T21:16:36Z

Chapter I: Eternity

When you lift up your hair before your eyes to check for split ends, you can see the world blur past your vision. Everything is there and alive, but you don’t notice… can’t notice it beyond your focus. I think this is the problem with everything. I think this is the source of every conflict that has ever existed in the history of humanity.

My bangs are too long and I need more conditioner.

I was sitting back waiting for my hair to dry nearly an hour ago, and that’s when he called. Marcus is one of those names I don’t run into often, so I never bothered entering a last name for him in my phonebook. He called wanting to know what was up. That was a lie. No one calls for that. People call to find out if you have time for them. That is the source of every call that has ever been made. Even telemarketers just want a moment of your time. Your brother just needs to talk to you for a minute. He got dumped again, so won’t you listen? Your best friend wants to see if you are busy first before asking if she can swing by. People never just want to know what’s up. This is a misnomer. Never let it trick you again.

Marcus called and didn’t ask me if I was free. I told him nothing was happening. This was his golden ticket, if you will. He completed the awkward purpose of his call by asking me to go to the movies. This is what people call cliché. So I told him I would go once my hair was dry and I’d meet him there. Finally, my hair is dry. I can see all the dead ends nodded and twisted together. I can see the way they turn sharp corners, becoming so much lighter, right at the thinnest spot. I close one eye, focus in on one and go for it. I miss it the first few times with my forefinger and thumb in the dreaded tweeze position. Once I grab hold, it plucks off of the main strand as if hardly attached to begin with. This is just bad hair.

My phone rumbas across the kitchen counter. That is what my phone does when it receives text messages. Apparently they excite her and she likes to dance. I pick up the phone to see a message from Marcus asking if I’m leaving soon and one missed text message as well. It’s from Mima.

I love u. I hate u. Good bi. You suck. *sad*

This is a cry for attention. It is blatant and without shame. This is the sort of behavior you see from children and people who have fallen so deeply into the empty chasm of ignored passive aggressive tendencies that they must crawl, belly to the thorny ground, out again and plead for your love and affection. Mima is one of these people and she makes me sad. Well, she used to, when we were close. When we were close, she was the world to me. But people are the largest, most titanic of disappointments you will ever come across in your beautiful life. Nothing else will ever matter. Even the rain over the Macy’s day parade cannot compare to the realization, that frigid moment, when you discover someone you held so highly in your graces has never deserved to be anywhere near that pedestal. I like to call it the Man Behind the Curtain Effect. This text is a glimpse at the man behind Mima’s curtain.

I call Marcus to let him know that I’m now too lazy to drive. I actually love driving. What I’m really saying to Marcus is ‘I am low on cash and I just realized that putting extra gas in my car to see you is not a priority.’ I’m that important, so he agrees to drive the extra ten minutes out of his way to see me. This is the place where I get in trouble. The extra attention. The wanting to see me. I’m going to go ahead and assume our little Marcus has a thing for me. I’m going to assume it, because these are the signs I was taught to look for. But I’m not going to let things get to me. Trust me. I’m neutral on this Marcus character. I play life cooler than a cucumber, whatever that means.

I run a comb through my hair. It’s been growing and over growing since I lost my job. Haircuts cost money and I don’t trust any of my friends, family, or self with a pair of scissors as far as I could throw a pair of scissors. (I have just received an award for successfully using that loose expression in such a way that it made sense to me in a sentence.) My hair is at that stage where it no longer looks like a haircut. My hair looks like I’m either growing it out or I have given up hope. I zero in on the whatnot drawer. Inside, there are scissors. A fresh pair of scissors suitable for cutting. Thankfully, my mind has already made up that it wants to wear a hat. It may rain today anyway… dry hair and all that. I’m not trying to impress anyone today.

Marcus is not really special. His hair is brown. His eyes are brown, his skin is tan. His build is average. His height is average. He is the sort of guy that can easily be the extra in every movie ever made, every photo ever shot, and every dream ever imagined. He is not amazingly gorgeous. He is not amazingly anything. Lela was amazingly gorgeous. Lela was breathtaking. She worked at a shoe store, when I first saw her. I walked in with a few friends. ‘Are you hiring, by any chance?’ came out of one of their mouths as I stared. She stood behind the counter, elevated atop its platform. Her clothes were bright neon splashes against black and silver lining. Her hair was long, black cherry Sunday sherbet. Her bangs were perfectly snipped parallel to her eyebrows, perfectly shaped to her face. Her eyes beamed through, under rockstar pink cotton candy eye shadow. Her lips looked so soft, slight shine under the florescent lights. When she spoke, her words were so gentle and kind. ‘I’m sorry. We aren’t hiring right now.’ One of my companions said something to her, most likely a thank you. I watched her as we turned to leave. She walked around the front counter to fix some shoe display. I felt a tap on my shoulder. ‘Let’s go.’ Apparently, I was making an ass of myself. So we left. But some girls like that. Some girls like a guy that is sheepish and makes an ass of themselves around them. It gave her all the power. It made her a goddess in our small world. And when I went back to see her, I bought shoes.

Personality. I forgot to mention that. A quick look in the mirror to apply a little SPF lotion to my face reminded me that I’m not totally shallow. He’s dull. Marcus is a little dull. He’s fun sometimes, don’t get me wrong. I’m not pitty-friending him, because I’ve nothing better to do. I’m not going to the movies, just because he’s paying for it and I’m broke and haven’t felt the warmth of a large, red theater seat cushion against my ass in months. That’s just not true. A couple weeks ago, we met up at the park. I suggested the park, because it’s free and I can walk there from home. He said he just wanted to get out of the house, which ended up being crap. He really just needed an ear to listen to some of his problems. Things were getting bad between him and his father. Stress on finding a career, growing up, you know the sort. I didn’t mind, but I can only walk around the park for so long before I need something to do. We ended up walking down to the boulevard to some smoothie shop where I accosted a Strawberry Mango Tango for my trouble. ‘Taste this!’ I said. He drank from the straw with the drink still in my hand. Safe to say, that was awkward. ‘It’s awesome sauce!’ he replied. He actually said awesome sauce. ‘See. Remember the bright side of life.’ Sometimes I’m not the most witty person, but what else was I going to say? It made him smile and he thanked me. He thanked me in one of those deep and meaningful, stop the car, we need to talk, I love you, thank yous. I’ve never been good with those moments. I only have two possible reactions. My reaction? I punched him. Not too hard. More like a ‘go get ‘em tiger’ punch. Half the time, my brain puts me into the state of mind of a little league coach when someone is emotional. This has gotten me into trouble because little league can be a scary place if your coach is punching you and things have gotten intimate enough to be emotional.

I purchased a pair of hot pink, patent leather, knee-high, black zip up, Dr. Marten boots. I spend one hundred and twenty dollars plus tax on them. She smiled. She liked my style. My over the top sort of ridiculous and less you are in a band or a diva why the fuck would you wear that sense of style. She asked where I was planning on wearing the boots. I told her anywhere. I said that I might wear them to get some coffee later if she’d like to see them in action. She smiled again. It worked. It actually worked. She said yes. She gave me her number. That is what success looks like. We met up after her shift at four. I spent over an hour preparing an outfit around those god awful boots. I remember wearing black jeans, a yellow rocker tee with a vest, and a silver belt. I went through a third of my wardrobe to find something cool and fabulously tacky. You’d think me vain, but I seriously never spend that much time in front of the mirror. Once the clock struck four, I was already sitting there waiting. She walked in and it was slow motion like a bad teen comedy in my head where people our age play sixteen. (At that point, I had already graduated from college.) She walked in and sat down across from me. That was a moment where playing it cool was the only wise option.

My phone does another shimmy across the kitchen counter. It’s just Marcus letting me know that he’s on his way. An unnecessary text, since I just spoke to him five minutes ago. He texts a lot. I’ve noticed that he doesn’t call much, but texts so very much. It’s obnoxious at times. I don’t really like texts. Small sentence fragments whizzing to me at the speed of light, letting me know something unimportant. ‘What up?’ I get that one the most. In texting, ‘what up’ also does not mean ‘what up?’ It sometimes is that hidden ‘spend time on me.’ But at other times, it is pointless. It comes down to a small reaching out to make sure the other person isn’t dead. Of course, this isn’t a dire worry or need to hear from them. If it were, people would call. But no, people send the shortest fragmented couple of words they can casually think of to people they haven’t talked to in months. ‘I miss you,’ from a person you haven’t seen in months means about as much as ‘pass me the salt’ from anyone else. This is a major waste of time. Cell phone companies make billions off of this magical little invention. Not from the senders. No. They are already addicts, subjecting the world to their word pollution. The money comes from the innocent people that simply bought a phone for the simple purpose of calling people. Simply. When the addicts send texts to these innocents without plans, those texts cost money. Quite a bit of money once you add them up. Eventually this causes the innocents to purchase texting plans since their friends and loved ones are horrible people who cannot respect the phone wishes of the innocent simple phone users. They get the cheapest plan. But their ‘friends’ and ‘loved-ones’ aren’t satisfied. They text them more than ever until they run over the cheapest plan’s meager limit. Eventually this snowballs and our poor, innocent simple phone user is now trapped in a loveless affair with an unlimited texting plan they never intended on purchasing. This is the cycle. Marcus is an addict.

I choose a beanie with a small bill. It’s turquoise and matches somewhat with my blue sneakers. I put on jeans and a thermal with a light jacket for today, as I said earlier. It may rain. But this is California. More than that, it’s Southern California. When I say it might rain, I mean there is a chance that it could sprinkle. And when it does sprinkle, you will see umbrellas outside. There will be girls in rain boots. People will run into buildings in fear of getting misty. On the streets and freeways, drivers will decrease their speed a good 10 miles per hour. You must decrease your speed in the rain. In the actual rain. This is not rain. Southern Californian’s cannot drive. Water only is allowed to exist on the beach and in water bottles. We do not understand cold weather. We thrive in a coastal desert that attracts fire like the whores and wannabe movie starlets Hollywood. These cities fear the one thing they need to stay fire free. Thank god if it actually rains today. I toss my light jacket on my bed and grab a thicker one instead. I’m preparing for the best.

I’ve never enjoyed waiting. That’s a bit of an odd statement. What I mean is I’ve always hated waiting. I get anxious and antsy all over. The anticipation burrows through my skull and I start to go mad. A sort of cabin fever-like sickness comes over me and every passing car is my ride. Every metal clinking is the jingle of keys at my door. I’d bite my nails if that were my bad habit. That suits my feeling better than yelling into an empty apartment. Yelling into an empty apartment just sounds crazy. But maybe the jury’s still out on that one.

I shut all the windows in my apartment. Standing next to door, I flip open my phone. Nothing. Not a peep, nor a saucy tango. As I said, I hate waiting. The anticipation feels like duck tape tearing slowly away at my skin. Once he gets here, it’ll be a quick and painless rip as I jump into the car and say something bitchy at him for revenge. I live a small life. I scroll through old photos on my phone to pass the time and Lela’s there. It’s a picture of her, wrapped in a rainbow scarf. The angle is close up and poorly taken. She took it herself for me. She did that a lot. She’d take my phone when I was asleep and leave albums of her beauty on the hard drive. Personality. Lela has personality.

Once we got to talking regularly, I found out she was the girl everyone wanted to know. She’d been to the most amazing places and done beautiful things. None of the cliché bullshit about riding a gondola in Venice or walking across the Great Wall, no. She’d met Alice Cooper at a guitar shop in Chicago, while passing through to visit her granny. She bought him a beer and listened to him play a song on a thousand dollar guitar. Lela found a hundred dollars in a gutter and bought a plan ticket to San Francisco for that weekend. Sure she’d been to Paris, but she went to the top of the Eiffel Tower in nothing but a trench coat and streaked her way down. They nearly deported her. Her trip back would have been free. Lela had a Polaroid camera. Her bedroom walls were filled with those white framed squares. Notes and dates were scribbled in marker on most of them. She never forgot a moment. She had a million stories.

Lela took me to her favorite place one summer evening. It was this think slab of concrete lined up at an angle at the edge of the bay. It was so out of place. It looked as though they were planning on building a pier, but never quite got there. Just below it was a hollowed out area, barely a foot above the tide. ‘This is my view of the horizon,’ she said to me. It was so dark, but I could imagine the sun setting, lighting the red in her hair. She smiled, she could tell I was thinking too much. That was the first time. I still don’t know how we fit in that small dent in the concrete, but we did.

Marcus is nice, but he’s boring. He’s been to Denver. He had an omelet.

The vibration of the phone tickles my hand as I receive yet another text. It’s Marcus again. He’s running late, filling his tank.

Running late. Filling tank. Can u check movie time? –m.c.

I close my phone and walk to my laptop. My email is sitting open. No new mail. No new nothing. It’s sort of amazing how many new ways technology has provided us just in the last ten years to be ignored and feel lonely. I type the name of the theater into the search bar and look up the website. The movies out today are listed in the middle of the screen. Most of them are crap: cartoons, family movies, romantic comedies, and action movies lacking plot. Two o’clock. We have about an hour to go before we are successfully late. The next showing after two is 3:15. Personally, I’m not that excited to see the movie to justify waiting around for an extra hour and fifteen minutes. The movie we are going to see is the newest blockbuster. Blockbusters are big budget compilations of all the popular movie genres. They are action, drama, and comedy all wrapped into one. They are entertainment. I wouldn’t give them anymore or any less credit than that. They are always better in the theater. If you have money to waste or know someone who likes to waste money, see them for fun. If not, find a hobby.

My phone rings. It plays “Music” by Madonna. It’s Mima. That’s her song. Phones just can’t ring nowadays. Not only do we need to know who people are before we answer the phone, but now we have to personalize their identities, immortalize them in thirty second snippets. I made the mistake of personalizing a ringtone for Lela and Mima heard it. For about a month, from time to time, she pestered me constantly for her own ringtone. ‘I want Madonna,’ she’d say. ‘Give me Madonna.’ I ignored her at first. This proved useless in her unrelenting struggle for love and attention. She started calling me when we were together. When the standard ringtone sounded, she’d say in this grading voice ‘I wonder who that could be?’ It was easy to see that I only had two options. I could continue to deal with her shit and eventually yell at her until she cried or I could appease her. My first inclination was toward yelling at Mima. I told her to stop calling me when she was sitting a foot away and that I’d block her number before blessing her with her own ringtone. A proper punishment for behaving like a five year old, I thought. This didn’t work out, however. Thankfully I left the room before she got emotional. Neither of my two reactions to deep emotionality would have been appropriate. Neither.

I answer the phone reluctantly. “Hey, Mima. What’d you need?”

“You’re horrible! How can you answer the phone like that?”

“Because you usually need something. I’m going out in a bit, so I can’t talk.”

She ignores me. “Did you get my text?”

“Yeah.”

“Well?”

“Well what? Was I supposed to respond to kinder garden rhetoric? I’m not going to give you the satisfaction.” I didn’t give her the satisfaction.

“Fine! All I was going to say was I’m having this dinner and it’s important to me and there will be people from work and school and it’s like a big deal and shit and I wanted you to be there.”

“Will it cost me money?”

“Morgie! Come on! It’s a free dinner at my professor’s house. You just need a sport coat and be on your best behavior.”

“Okay,” I say. I hear her squeal and mumble something to someone. “I’ll go. I have to go now though. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Thank you so much. I love you again!”

“Sure.” I hang up and spin the phone around in circles on the kitchen counter. I remember the expression ‘the friends you keep…,’ but I can’t finish the sentence. I mull over it silently in my head until the frustration starts to leave a sour taste in my mouth. I start to repeat it over and over out loud. The things we do when we are alone. You know everyone is crazy when they are alone. Have you ever happened upon a child in the middle of playing with toys by themselves? They talk. To no one. Out loud. Have you ever caught yourself thinking through a sticky situation, getting lost from bad directions, talking to yourself alone in the car? You even turn down the radio so that you can hear yourself be crazy. This is a natural human phenomenon. All people are mad.

That expression means that the friends you surround yourself with ultimately say something about you. Was it ‘the company you keep…,’ I think to myself. The words are lost and they are going to stay lost, because the effort it would take to type and Google search it is beyond me now. I leave my phone on the counter and walk over to the couch. I take a seat and stare at the wall. It’s a wall. It’s been a wall since they built this place. This is boredom at its finest. I never got to decorating the walls of my apartment. I had planned on it, but losing your job, therefore your steady source of income, puts a cramp on interior design. The wall is just blank and boring. It says nothing about me. White wash. A year ago, I wouldn’t be allowed to live in such an empty shell. It would be an abomination. Lela would force me to live in my home. Really live. She believed in surrounding yourself with all the things you loved, wanted, and aspired to be. She’d always say, ‘remember where you are and where you are going.’ Lela was the one who would find twenty dollars on the street. Her eyes were open to opportunity. She saw possibility. ‘Today, I sell shoes. Tomorrow, I’ll be designing them.’ She kept sketchbooks filled with designs and binders filled with swatches. She had a dressform standing in the corner of her bedroom draped in red flapper dress and a short, brown bob wig named Maria. Maria was her muse and her model for women’s fashion, she’d joke. Somehow, Lela had even convinced some people that Maria was a real person.

After her birthday party last year, we came back up to her room. She was drunk, not sloppy drunk, just loose drunk. She started stripping. I thought it was just for me, but then my lap dance was being performed for Maria instead. She even called out her dressform’s name later on. I can’t say I didn’t mind, but to this day she doesn’t believe me.

That was our little joke. ‘Oh, Maria!’

My phone does a little foxtrot, so I check the latest message. It’s Marcus. He’s here. I take a deep breath. Time to go. Time to finally go to the movie. I almost thought it would never come. At times like these, I wish I didn’t answer my phone.

NANOWRIMO! [Day I]

2009-11-01T21:26:14Z

National Novel Writing Month

[01 NOV 2009, 12:52 AM]

When you lift up your hair before your eyes to check for split ends, you can see the world blur past your vision. Everything is there and alive, but you don’t notice. Can’t notice it beyond your focus. I think this is the problem with everything. I think this is the source of every conflict that has ever existed in the history of humanity.

My bangs are too long and I need more conditioner.

I was sitting back waiting for my hair to dry nearly an hour ago, and that’s when he called. Marcus is one of those names I don’t run into often, so I never bothered entering a last name for him in my phonebook. He called wanting to know what was up. That was a lie. No one calls for that. People call to find out if you have time for them. That is the source of every call that has ever been made. Even telemarketers just want a moment of your time. Your brother just needs to take to you for a minute. He got dumped again, so won’t you listen? Your best friend wants to see if you are busy first before asking if she can swing by. People never just want to know what’s up. This is a misnomer. Never let it trick you again.

Marcus called and didn’t ask me if I was free. I told him nothing was happening. This was his golden ticket, if you will. He completed the awkward purpose of his call by asking me to go to the movies. This is what people call cliché. So I told him I would go once my hair was dry and I’d meet him there. But finally my hair is dry. I can see all the dead ends nodded and twisted together. I can see the way they turn sharp corners, becoming so much lighter, right at the thinnest spot. I close one eye, focus in on one and go for it. I miss it the first few times with my forefinger and thumb in the dreaded tweeze position. Once I grab it, it plucks off of the main strand as if hardly attached to begin with. This is just bad hair, I think to myself.

I love you. I hate you. Good bi. You suck. *sad*

This is a call for attention. It is blatant and without shame. This is the sort of behavior you see from children and people who have fallen so deeply into the empty chasm of ignored passive aggressive tendencies that they must crawl, belly to the thorny ground, out again. Mima is one of these people and she makes me sad. Well she used to. When we were close. When we were close, she was the world to me. But people are the largest, most titanic of disappointments you will ever come across in your beautiful life. Nothing else will ever matter. Even the rain over the Macy’s day parade cannot compare to the realization, that frigid moment when you discover someone you held so high up in your graces has never deserved to be anywhere near that pedestal. I like to call it Man Behind the Curtain Syndrome. This text is a glimpse at the man behind Mima’s curtain.

I call Marcus to let him know that I’m now too lazy to drive. I actually love driving. What I’m really saying to Marcus is that I am low on cash and I just realized that putting extra gas in my car to see you is not a priority. I’m that important, so he agrees to drive the extra ten minutes out of his way to see me. This is the place where I get in trouble. The extra attention. The wanted to see me. I’m going to go ahead and assume our little Marcus has a thing for me. I’m going to assume it, because these are the signs I was taught to look for. But I’m not going to let things get to me. Trust me. I’m neutral on this Marcus character. I play life cooler than a cucumber, whatever that means.

I run the comb through my hair. It’s been growing and over growing since I lost my job. Haircuts cost money and I don’t trust any of my friends, family, or self with a pair of scissors as far as I would throw a pair of scissors. (I have just received an award for successfully using that loose expression in such a way that it made sense in a sentence.) My hair is at that stage where it no longer looks like a haircut. My hair looks like I’m either growing it out or I have given up hope. My eyes zero in on the whatnot drawer. Inside, there are scissors. A fresh pair of scissors suitable for cutting. Thankfully, my mind has already made up that it wants to wear a hat. It may rain today anyway… dry hair and all that. I’m not trying to impress anyone today. Marcus.

Marcus is not really special. His hair is brown. His eyes are brown, his skin is tan. His build is average. His height is average. He is the sort of guy that can easily be the extra in every movie ever made, every photo ever shot and every dream ever imagined. He is not amazingly gorgeous. He is not amazingly anything. Lela was amazingly gorgeous. Lela was breathtaking. She worked at a shoe store, when I first saw her. I walked in with a few friends. We needed jobs. ‘Are you hiring, by any chance?’ It came out of one of their mouths as I stared. She stood behind the counter, elevated atop its platform. Her clothes were bright neon splashes against black and silver lining. Her hair was long, black cherry Sunday sherbet with strands of blue and purple. Her bangs were perfectly snipped parallel to her eyebrows, perfectly shaped to her face. Her eyes beamed through, under rockstar pink cotton eye shadow. Her lips looked so soft, slight shine under the florescent lights. When she spoke, her words were so gentle and kind. ‘I’m sorry. We aren’t hiring right now.’ One of my companions said something to her, most likely a thank you. I watched her as we turned to leave. She walked around the front counter to fix some shoe display. I felt a tap on my shoulder. ‘Let’s go.’ Apparently, I was making an ass of myself. So we left. Some girls like that though. Some girls like a guy that is sheepish and makes an ass of themselves around them. It gave her all the power. It made her a goddess in our small world. And when I went back to see her, I bought shoes.

[01 NOV 2009, 11:21 AM]

I purchased a pair of hot pink, patent leather, knee-high, black zip up, Dr. Marten boots. I spend one hundred and twenty dollars plus tax on them. She smiled. She liked my style. My over the top sort of ridiculous and less you are in a band or a diva why the fuck would you wear that sense of style. She asked where I was planning on wearing the boots. I told her anywhere. I said that I might wear them to go get some coffee later if she’d like to see them in action. She smiled again. It worked. It actually worked. She said yes. She gave me her number. That is what success looks like. We met up after her shift at four. I spent over an hour preparing an outfit around those god awful boots. I remember wearing black jeans and a yellow rocker tee with a vest. I went through a third of my wardrobe to find something cool and fabulously tacky. You’d think me vain, but I seriously never spend that much time in front of the mirror. Once the clock struck four, I was already sitting there waiting. She walked in and it was slow motion like a bad teen comedy in my head where people our age play sixteen. (At that point, I had already graduated from college.) She walked in and sat down across from me. That was a moment where playing it cool was the only wise option.

My phone does another shimmy across the kitchen counter. It’s just Marcus letting me know that he’s on his way. An unnecessary text, since I just spoke to him five minutes ago. He texts a lot. I’ve noticed that he doesn’t call much, but texts so very much. It’s obnoxious at times. I don’t really like texts. Small sentence fragments whizzing to me at the speed of light, letting me know something unimportant. ‘What up?’ I get that one the most. In texting, ‘what up’ also does not mean how are things? It sometimes is that hidden ‘spend time on me.’ But at other times it is pointless. It comes down to a small reaching out to make sure the other person isn’t dead. Of course, this isn’t a dire worry or need to hear from them. If it were, people would call. But no, people send the shortest fragmented couple of words they can casually think of to people they haven’t talked to in months. ‘I miss you,’ from a person you haven’t seen in months means about as much as pass me the salt from anyone else. This is a major waste of time. Cell phone companies make billions off of this magical little invention. Not from the senders. No. They are already addicts, subjecting the world to their word pollution. The money comes from the innocent people that simply bought a phone for the simple purpose of calling people. Simply. When the addicts send texts to innocents without plans, those texts cost money. Quite a bit of money once you add them up. Eventually this causes the innocents to purchase texting plans since their friends and loved one are horrible people who cannot respect the phone wishes of the innocent simple phone users. They get the cheapest plan. But their ‘friends’ and ‘loved-ones’ aren’t satisfied. They text them more than ever until they run over the cheapest plan’s meager limit. Eventually this snowballs and our poor, innocent simple phone user is now trapped in a loveless affair with an unlimited texting plan they never intended on purchasing. This is the cycle. Marcus is an addict.

I choose a beanie with a small bill. It’s turquoise and matches somewhat with my blue sneakers. Jeans and a thermal with a light jacket for today, as I said earlier. It may rain. But this is California. More than that, it’s Southern California. When I say it might rain, I mean there is a chance that it could sprinkle. And when it does sprinkle, you will see umbrellas outside. There will be girls in rain boots. People will run into buildings in fear of getting misty. On the streets and freeways, drivers will decrease their speed a good 10 miles per hour. You must decrease your speed in the rain. In the actual rain. This is not rain. Southern Californian’s cannot drive. Water only is allowed to exist on the beach and in water bottles. We do not understand cold weather. We thrive in a coastal desert that attracts fire like the whores and wannabe movie starlets. These cities fear the one thing they need to stay fire free. Water. Thank god if it actually rains today. I toss my light jacket on my bed and grab a thicker one instead. I’m preparing for the best.

[exactly 2,000 words including the title]

Full Case, Whole Milk [uber rough and unfinished...

2009-10-24T21:50:40Z

Full Case, Whole Milk

Michael Moody

She sat down in front of me and poured a large glass of milk from the carton for herself. I judged her immediately because the milk she was pouring was low fat. Right there on the label was her dirty dirty secret and I wasn’t going to have any part of it.

“Would you like some?” Lindsey offered. She wiggled an empty glass at me with her left hand. Her right hand held the open carton of that vile white liquid. How dare she even assume, let alone imagine me drinking milk thinned town and diluted so horrendously.

“No thanks,” I said, standing my ground. I will not cave in to your low fat milk, lady, I thought. She closed the carton and put it back in the refrigerator door. Still standing in the way of the open door, Lindsey asked, “Anything I can get you then? Juice? Soda?” Apparently, she thought I was that easy. She just stood there staring blankly. She stood hunched over with her head barely clearing the freezer. Her hair hung down over her shoulders, hung down swinging freely. Her top also hung as she lunged forward. If she turned just a few inches, I would have the perfect view.

“Um, no thanks. I’m fine. Do you know when your brother will be here?”

“He should be home from work pretty quick. His schedule is right here.” She pointed to the calendar attached to the freezer. “Says he got off 20 minutes ago.” She grabbed her glass of ‘milk’ from the breakfast bar and drank it. She actually drank such a thing in front of me. In this house, the people here willingly purchase and drink milk-water.

“So… how do you know my brother?” Lindsey took a seat next to me at the bar. She was now close enough and low enough for a near bird’s eye view of her cleavage.

“What? Your brother is a friend of mine.”

“Right. I sort of figured that.”

“Oh! You meant… right. We were in the same fitness class at the community college.”

“Oh cool.” She took a drink. “I’m taking that class right now. It’s like a bio-P.E. class… so boring. Kyle’s into that sort of stuff, so it works for him. I’d rather just sit on the couch and eat chips.” She giggled. She giggled through that sad joke of a lie. Low fat milk… eat chips… you are bullshit, woman. But as she giggled, her body moved up and down, so slightly. Just enough. I imagined her proclaiming the milk to be foul and tossing the glass again the wall. She would run to the fridge and reveal a tall glass of whole milk and begin downing it heavily. I would run to her and she would poor some the refreshing milk into my mouth, then poor the rest all over herself. And of course, I would be there to clean her off.

“Hey, Kyle,” she said, as my friend walked in, dropping his work apron on the counter. “I’ve just been sitting here with Trent.” He smiled and asked me something about my day, but I wasn’t really listening.

“I had an okay day.”

Lindsey stood up to rinse out her empty glass. “Hey, I gotta hit the books. It was really nice meeting you, Trent.” I could swear that she winked at Kyle. A miniature me in my head gave me a thumbs up and victory jogged around my brain. I was in. She turned around and walked away. She walked away slowly, or maybe I just saw her walk away slowly, but her hair was long and it swayed with her hips. And her shorts were so short for the summer. And they were even shorter because they are of the sort you only wear inside the house. They stopped right where her legs started. I was sure that if I could come up with a reason to fall, I would find myself at the perfect worm’s eye view to see everything. By the time I’d conjured up that plan, Lindsey had already disappeared upstairs.

“Shall we?” Kyle said, motioning toward the hallway his beautiful sister had just left us through. I stood up and pushed my stool back under the lip in the breakfast bar. When I looked back at Kyle to lead the way, I saw his face trapped in horror and shock. Then the least expected sound came bursting out of his face. Laughter. Explosive laughter. He pointed at me. He pointed down, just below my waist.

Shame. I took off my jacket and tied it around my waist. “I hate you.” He just kept laughing. Chucking on as he led me up to his room. I’d never been there before, and I wsan’t expecting his room to be so decorated. The walls were painted deep maroon and the carpet and ceiling were white. There were black and white photographs tacked up all over the walls from top to bottom. They were plain photos of places and things and people. All were the sort of thing you would find in a posh coffee table book or a pretentious idiot’s art collection. “Did you take all these?”

“Most of them, yeah.” He sat down at the edge of his bed, which doubled as the seat for his keyboard. He flexed his fingers. He played something cool. Nothing amazing, just cool. Under the sound, I could hear some random rhythm playing in the background. He stopped playing.

“You hear that too?”

“Yeah, it’s fucking Lindsey.” He banged his fist again the wall. “Hey! Turn it down!” This new information made me realize that she was just next door. Her bedroom was right next to where I was standing. She was in private. She could easily be naked… right now! “So you ready?”

“Ready for what?” I asked. I moved closer and plopped down on his bed. I placed my hand on a bare spot on the wall between me and Lindsey. “Why do you have low fat milk in your fridge?”

“What? That’s just what we buy. I don’t know. You said you wanted to write a song or something, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yeah. What should it be about?”

“It’s your song.” He turned around and looked at me. He seemed annoyed. “There is always one easy answer though.”

“And what’s that?” I leaned back against that wall.

“Love.” He smiled. “Have you ever been in love?”

“Probably. I mean… I don’t know.”

“Did you know over eighty percent of all songs nowadays are about love?” He turned away from the keyboard and sat next to me, leaning against the wall.

[incomplete]

Dry Heat, Humidity

2009-09-08T00:15:11Z

Humidity; I feel it along my sweaty forehead. It’s been too hot to go out. It’s been too hot to stay in. The water in the faucet runs warm, then cold. The water heater rests this season. I’ve never left on the fan all night long, but now it stands pointed directly at my face as I sleep.

Coward, I say to myself out loud. The room is quiet. Only small, ambient noises occupy the space. The wind leaks in from the window through the blinds. It rattles like a snake, but I am not alarmed, nor do I turn around. The breeze that creeps in is cold. This is novel. I haven’t felt such a cool breeze in weeks. I take off my shirt and feel the air hit my back. It feels slick and smooth against my back. I reach around to touch the skin. I can feel where my sweat has settled and collected dirt. The sticky, noxious feeling comes off onto my fingertips. Another shower is in order, but I won’t take a shower. I will take a bath and stare at the ceiling. I will examine the corners where daddy longlegs builds his home. I will examine the wall just above the showerhead where the paint is chipping from that shower I took without the fan.

The wind pushes harder through the window and the blinds rattle louder as though screaming for mercy. They kick up and the thick, heavy curtains lift. This is the sun’s chance, and it beams in hard, landing on my back. The burn is almost instant. It’s clear cut and I can feel exactly where it stops and starts. The discomfort causes me to put back on my shirt. It’s not unbearable. I don’t move from my place sitting up on the bed. I look to my right and see that no one is next to me. Melancholy sets in and I once again remember the shower that I have no intention of taking.

Pomegranate, she answers. She wants me to spell it, but instead I ignore her words and smell it in her hair. It’s intoxicating, which is cliché. The wind whistles and kicks about between the houses. It sounds like what I imagine tornados must sound like. The way the movies have taught me they sound like, and I learn from them. I also learned from them that she wants this moment. She’s invited me in because she wants this moment. What this moment is may be in question, but I’m sure she has something in mind.

I haven’t listened to a word she’s said since the answer to my question. ‘What is that scent?’ I asked her. She smiles as I rest my nose in the nape of her neck and breathe in every ounce as though I am starving for air. She plays with my hair as she speaks. She says something more and I don’t hear. I search back for more lessons in my head, but all that comes to mind is coffee. Would you like to come in for coffee? – The best romantic cliché of all. But it isn’t evening. This isn’t in for coffee. She just wants my company. Reality takes me back. I have no guidelines. If she were a man, I’d know what to do. I’ve been there before. But here, on this white sofa, staring into strawberry blonde hair that smells like pomegranates… this is a foreign film.

Flirt, he calls me. I take his hat from him and put it on my head. It’s a baseball cap. I never wear them. I adjust my hair and smile. I look cute in it. He wants it back, I can tell. He reaches; I duck. He grabs; I weave. The hat is mine, but I am not satisfied. He stands and takes the fan away. The fan was on the highest setting and still only made the room bearable to be in. The dry heat seeps in and that bad taste looms in my mouth. I become parched and the temperature rises incredibly.

I call to him, whining. Please, I cry. This is to no avail. He wants his hat. I want him. Secondarily, I want the fan returned. The humidity rises at that very moment. I shout at him to return my fan. He stands a ways away, outside of my line of sight, somewhere in the hallway. I lie sprawled out on the bed. I shout again and moan. He remains just far enough away, laughing. This is the moment where I give up. I give up once again. My moment has passed, if it were a moment at all. The roadmap was flawed. I had a feeling it would be. He comes back and sets down the fan. I remove the hat and place it slowly on his head. I’m close enough now. ‘You smell amazing. What is that?’ He says it’s nothing. ‘Even better. It’s just you.’

Pizza, I eat it again for breakfast. The sun hasn’t gotten to that critical point yet and I still have an hour left before hot food is out of the question. I burn my tongue with the first bite. I yell ‘god damn it’ to an empty kitchen and an even emptier apartment. I could cry, I could scream, I could be in dire straits and there would be no answer. I imagine myself falling on the pizza cutter. It would roll along my abdomen and reveal my innards. I would call out in agony. The only answer would be the rattling of the wind through the blinds. My consciousness would fade soon after that, blinking in and out when the sun bore through, under the wind propped curtains. My eyes would open in response. My hope would build. I’d dream of firefighters and EMT’s rushing in to save me. There would be nothing, but a blinding glare. This would be my final hour.

I finish off the last of my pizza and rinse off my plate. Knives and forks set smiling at me, sharp and germ filled on the left side of the sink.

Flexible, she says, giggling softly. I show her this accidently, as I reach behind myself to scratch my back. My arm moves across as though it were meant to go that far. She stares amazed, the way you do when you watch a cat or dog scratch an itch. The way you almost wish you could do that too, but of course you don’t really, because such an ability is nearly useless and mildly disturbing. She smiles, but stops watching. The disgust has set in.

I stop and take a drink of the pink lemonade she set out for us. She sliced real lemons and twisted them over the edge of the glasses the way they do in restaurants. She even topped them with mint leaves. Not only this, but she used bendy straws, the expensive kind. This is her bait. This is her lure for me: fancy lemonade on a hot day. I am near insult. I am near offense. But then I remember her apartment has air conditioning. And then I remember how close she lets me get. So I drink her lemonade. I let it run down my throat. She coos with joy, watching me take pleasure in her pink lemonade. She thinks she’s won, her bait successful. And I’ll let her think that as I lie naked on her bed, under the ceiling fan.

Doorbell goes off and I answer it. It’s him and he’s got on his hat. I want to wear it, but I need the fan. Today is a record breaker and I’m sweating through my tank. He looks at me and pauses with his mouth agape. I remember that I didn’t put on pants. I ask if he’d like me to change, if boxers aren’t enough. He says it’s fine. We sit in front of the fan. We don’t move. He takes off his hat.

She calls me. She’s excited. She wants me to visit. My memory loads a quick whiff of pomegranates to ruminate on. I tell her I’m busy. He looks at me like I’m crazy. He gets up to leave. I tell her I’ll call her back. I hang up. I grab his arm urgently. I can’t think of any movies. No lessons. Not one. He tells me to call her back. I tell him I won’t. I need to talk to him now. I need to tell him everything. I try to grab his hat. I get too close. I catch his scent. He feels me close. He backs up. You smell amazing. But first, ‘I need to tell you something….’ And this is the most important part.

mikey_is_box @ 2009-09-07T17:08:00

2009-09-08T00:09:09Z

Emotions... strong feelings... absolute anythings.... They are trivial. Memories change. Opinions. Thoughts. Ideas. The attribution, reasons for existing matters and truths... Everything is just a part of one's current state. Love is one of these things. Love is a state that grabs us at the very core of our selves.

eat furukusa: ideas

eat furukusa: everything is just a part of one's current state

eat furukusa: love is also one of these things

eat furukusa: you could be in love with the devil and not even know it...

eat furukusa: it doesn't matter... no current feeling is useful, complete or real

eat furukusa: it can and will be easily replaced by the future

take a walk through the past

2009-07-24T06:09:13Z

starcrossed boyfriends take the poison last

if its not too late to call you at ten
we'll hit that all night diner again
but thats when she said
im no longer hungry
and you couldnt make me smile
like he always did
~j

it was something you said, i'm sure of it
if only i could remember
or was it just a thought i had
if only i could remember
but regardless, i wait for this
a memory i know i missed
a distant hope i've always had
broken with a simple kiss
~m

What's Wrong?

2009-07-16T04:00:33Z

I feel a little crazy sometimes. I tend to get so focused... too focused. My mind won't let go, cool it, or look away from that thing I'm focusing on. There is a voice telling me I'll never get over depression. When I sink back into it at my lower points, I see it so clearly. I see how sad and pathetic it is, being without the energy to care for oneself. I lie there and look up at the ceiling as the reflection through the window and above the curtains dances like the water from the pool outside. I close my eyes and become dizzy, feeling as though I'm spinning. My head is spinning and my fingers tingle. It's the shakes maybe... I have forgotten to eat again, perhaps?

I get so focused on something and my emotions grab a tight hold. I can't let go and calm down. It becomes huge. It becomes my life and everything else suffers.

Calm down Mike.

Calm yourself down.

mikey_is_box @ 2009-07-11T03:13:00

2009-07-11T10:22:59Z

I like it when all of your attention is on me. when all you think about is my voice and hear it floating in your memory. waiting for my signal. awaiting my presence at every moment. maybe i am thinking of you to.... is this what you are asking yourself? i want you to wonder what i'm thinking. How i'm thinking... I want you too hang on every word i say... waiting for the next. starving for it.

I like it when all of your attention is on me.

Untitled - About Dr. Leach

2009-07-05T04:50:10Z

Multiplying in the upper register of our ears was the clinking of glasses from across the room. At the head of the dance floor sat the wedding court, cheering and hooting at the best man to stand up for his precedented speech. Thankfully, he hadn’t had one too many. Actually, he hadn’t had a drink at all. The poor best man was just sweated tremendous bullets. You see, his number one fear was of public speaking. It would be a riot.

He stood up and smiled something horrid. The only similarities of his lips to an actual smile were the turned up edges of the mouth. His lips were convulsing, pleading for a glass of water to occupy them. His tongue stroked them repetitively in a hurried attempted to pacify their profound worry. The maid of honor nudged him in the side with one arm, while handing him the microphone with the other. She’d be going up after him, killing the crowd was not in her best interest. However, this best man wouldn’t be knocking them dead either. Good act to follow.

The best man picked up a napkin and dabbed his head clean of sweat. “H-hi,” he screeched into the microphone. “Beautiful, ah, ceremony. Beautiful couple. Beautiful cake. Ah, well, they’ll bring it out in a bit, but you should see that thing. It’s pretty awesome.” His voice trailed off for what must have seemed an eternity for him. His eyes grew abnormally wide and his smile wider than that. With the wedding party nearing panic, the maid of honor snatched the microphone from his sweaty hand.

“Indeed. Roger here is just a bit nervous. Nervous ‘cause him and Doug have been so close for so long, he can’t stand to see him leave even for the honeymoon. What a bromance!” The audience chuckled. “But we still need someone to speak on Roger’s behalf. We’ve gotta fill up the time. We booked this room for 3 hours and we aren’t wasting any of it. Um….” She paused, scanning the room with her eyes sharp for a target. “How about you Dr. Leach? Come on! Stand up and say a few words!”

The room suddenly exploded with the ear-piercing sound of butter-knives crashing against faux-crystal champagne glasses. Those who knew me stared my way, whispering Leach randomly, until they found the unifying voice. Those who did not know me searched for those who did and followed their gaze. The whole reception hall had me pinned out as the charming maid of honor beckoned me from the ivory banquet table.

Finally, I stood and made my way across the dance floor, my dress shoes clicking along, harmonizing with the obnoxious applause. The maid of honor kissed my cheek and handed me the microphone. Before letting it go completely, she covered the receiver and said, “Sorry about this. Just fill up a few minutes. The cake is late and we need this extra time.” I nodded and took the mike.

“Hello. This is quite unexpected. I’ll try not to say anything too trite and cheesy. Bare with me though, this speech is completely on the fly. First off, let me introduce myself. I’m Dr. David Leach. I work as a couples counselor, specializing in preventative couples relations. Basically, I work with couple before they have ‘problems.’ That’s how I know Doug and Tiffany. They came to see me a while back. Tiffany found a card somewhere and figured ‘why not.’ They were still early on and didn’t foresee anything going wrong. Ever. At all. They would be different. A lot of people would say that’s foolish. It’ll get hard, you’ll hate it. Life will go downhill. But not them. And I thought that was beautiful. I meet few couples like them that believe that things can and will stay beautiful. Just like Roger said, ‘beautiful.’ So we talked. Talked about the ways they talked. Talked about what was good, what wasn’t so good, and what they could work on. And they did. And now I’m standing here before you at their wedding. I’m speaking to you about how beautiful all this is. But I don’t think you need my opinion or approval. You’re not on my couch. Not that I actually have a couch in my office, but you get the imagery. Anyway, you can see the beauty yourselves. Congratulations Doug and Tiffany. You are that different couple.”

The crowd applauded. Doug and Tiffany hugged and kissed me. I walked back to my table. I needed a drink. I was ready to go the fuck home.

***

“You know what it is, Doctor?” said Patient E.

“No, what is it?” I said.

“I think she just wants to have that storybook life, regardless of who the prince is. As long as he’s got the horse and the castle. You know?”

“What?!” screamed Patient P.

“Just hold on a second. Really hear out Eddie’s concerns here. If you don’t hear him out you won’t even know all the reasons why you might be mad. Continue,” I said.

“She only seems concerned about my life when it deals with me going to work or paying for something. Two weeks ago I was sick. The first thing that comes out of her mouth is ‘what about work?’ What’s that about?”

“Alright, now Paula. What are you hearing Eddie say?” I said.

“He’s saying that I only care about him making me money. Like that’s all that’s important to me!”

“Okay, now respond and Eddie, don’t say a word,” I said.

“When you complain about how you can’t pay your bills or that you’re behind in everything… I mean I offer to help you financially, but you always say no. So I don’t know what to do. When you are sick, I worry that you can’t go to work to make up for all the things you say you can’t pay for. I don’t know where you are getting this storybook life stuff. I’m going to school. I don’t know what you want me to do.”

“Okay. Maybe this is the issue,” I said. “Maybe Eddie you feel extra stress on money since neither of you have extra money to deal with extra debt. Also you feel the pressure to provide for Paula even though you can’t at the moment. You are displacing that frustration on Paula. As for Paula, you want to fix his problems with money, but you can’t really take care of him there since he doesn’t want the help. However, you still try to help, in your mind, by offering advice or pushing him to make decisions you believe will help him out financially. This isn’t the most helpful. The compassion is being lost and you are coming off to him as though you are focusing on money and critiquing his shortcomings. How about this? Remember. In your head, you have an intention. That intention is known only by you. You attempt to express that intention in some way. That expression is not the same thing as your intention. That expression is interpreted by your partner, who has a totally different mindset than you. If the intension doesn’t match the Interpretation… that is a communication error. This is going to happen. The trick is to remember the separation between these parts and think about how you express yourself more thoroughly.”

They nod. I’m right again.

***

His smile was beaming, for the lack of a better word. It was all the clichés of being excited about something. He began to blush. Any time now was my perfect opportunity.

“So how are things?” I said, resting my head on my knuckles, looking fabulously interested in whatever he was about to say.

“Things are actually really, really good.”

“Me too. You know these past few weeks have been a lot of fun. I was almost sorry we hadn’t gotten to know each other better.”

“I know! Thankfully, I didn’t get transferred, so I’ll be around for quite a while.”

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask you…” I paused.

“Uh oh, this sounds serious.” He joked and stirred his coffee.

“Well, since both of us seem to be enjoying ourselves so much… I was thinking you and me going to dinner this Friday night. Nothing too fancy, but dress nice. All on me and—”

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry about what?” I asked.

“This guy I was interested in just asked me out the other day.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. When?” I asked, biting my lip.

“Yesterday.”

“Oh. I see.” I said, taking a breath.

“I am so sorry. You have no idea—“

“No, it’s fine. Master Relationship Guru here. Seriously, it’s fine. It’s not like I made reservations or anything.”

“Oh my god, did you?”

“No, I’m kidding. Really, it’s no big deal.

***

The air was heavy around the table. Two friends sat across from me, one sat to my right. They’d closed me into the booth. I felt like I was on suicide watch.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“No,” said Jack, in the aisle seat across from me, “this man needs a drink.”

“Vodka,” said Ashley to my right.

“Why Vodka? How about a beer?”

“Not strong enough. He looks like shit. He needs a cranberry vodka.”

“You’re an alcoholic,” said Josh to Ashley.

“Fuck you. It’s not my fault he looks like hell.”

“Yeah, you did tell him to go for it, Josh.”

“And you’re just a dick,” said Josh to Jack.

mikey_is_box @ 2009-06-22T00:11:00

2009-06-22T08:00:01Z

Have a cookie
She said
And I smiled, but it was lack luster
A smile that was hollow
Because I couldn't back it up
A smile without the gold standard
I could never love her like she needed
No matter how much I want it
We are who we are

The cookie melted in my mouth as I bit off the edge. It was crispy right around the sides, but smooth and moist against my tongue. A moan must have escaped me, 'cause she giggled. Giggled and said 'you must really like chocolate."

I don't really like chocolate
I like cookie
I like the dough
And the bread
And the consistency of it
I like it when it's moist and thick
And so chewy
I savor it
In my mouth
And I lose my mind in it

The wind starts to blow her hair around her face. Single strands stick to her lips. Beautiful. She turns to me, sheilding her face, and says, "The wind's picking up."

I feel like a louse
An idiot
A fiend
A cad
So many words no one uses anymore
She could answer all my prayers
We could be happy if it weren't for me
Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself
Maybe she'd reject me too
Maybe this is just my fate
And I'm teasing myself like all the others

"Are you okay?" she asks as we sit in the car. The rain is pouring now and I watch the pitter patter ramble against the windshield. "I don't know," I answer. "He's missing out on an awesome guy," she says.

The air is static
It's always static when I'm alone
Under my sheets
Admitting it's time again
Time to remember no one's around
No one will be coming around
Time to shut my eyes
To fantasize
To touch myself
It's lonely again tonight
I doesn't have to be....
I hope, just a glimmer
It is though...

Bullshit

2009-04-30T07:28:34Z

One more time
I think I'll take a breath and look at you again
but why is it that when i look into your eyes
i see myself fading away?
i feel like this is a farse
you and me
talking
me just me
living

Everything i wake up for in the morning
ends up being just another reason to go back to bed again
this is a dream i can't see myself out of
and you are the dragon at the end of the tunnel
i feel captivated by our connection
so much so that it crosses my mind
and doubles back like its on repeat
'i wanna fuck you
want you to fuck me'
but then i remember
this is all bullshit
you aren't placed here for me
you fucking disappoint me
you set me up for loneliness
the way you monopolize my time
the way you suck out all my energy
my love
my fucking love is deeper then any simple thought you've ever had
i shake mountains
i rock worlds
i fuck minds
and you sit there wasting my time
telling me your life
rattling out your stories
and i listen
and i feel it
and i wait here
and my ears are poised and comforting
and i'm your best friend
and i'm your daddy
and i'm your big brother
and i'm your lover
but you aren't shit here...
my life story falls on deaf ears

this is where you feel sorry
problem is
you feel sorry for you
you realize you cannot compare
cannot complete
cannot complement
cannot attempt to make me feel better
meanwhile i realize
this world has set me up for failure
and you are bullshit
and you aren't what i need
what i want
whatever that is
that thing is too much to wish for
apparently i'm too picky
but i want what i put out...

this is the simple fact i find over and over again
i look back and see my frowning face filled with tears
screaming 'why?!' to a lover who never cared
never cared enough to let me go
never cared enough to break my heart clean
me on the grass screaming
holding that chain in my hand
piercing the edges of my flesh
crying
can i kiss you?
of course not.

of course not.
it's simple enough
it's the bullshit syndrome
you know it
and you fucking bring it to this station?
you bring it to this desk?
this office?
this ticket window?
i'm sorry
but
we don't take
bullshit.

Across the Table

2009-04-26T06:58:29Z

[I wrote this a very long time ago, at the very start of my last relationship]

Across the Table

I stare across the table

Only to look into your eyes

But was this wise?

How I will wrong you, I will never know

But the candles lit across the table tell me you're beautiful

And the music whispers to me you’re wonderful

How they move me…

Why do I repeat these things in my head?

Why won’t they let me rest?

If this love drives me crazy now,

Is it possible you could cure me?

I stare at your mouth and imagine a kiss

The candlelight flickers against your skin…

God, why won’t you save me?

Have you forgotten I love you?

Maybe you never heard me…

Across this table, his smile

What do I want…?

What do I need…?

As these tears do fall each night

I’m always alone

Lost inside myself

God, please save me!

Looking across the table, I know I see something

But is this the answer?

Are you lost too?

Or maybe you are found?

Just as dangerous as nothing is something

Fill me with that something

Revive me

Love me

Love me.

Why would I ask that?

I know I thought it

But I didn’t mean it

Requesting love is worthless and selfish and cruel

And I don’t want to do that

I don’t need that

Why wish that on another?

The imprisonment of love

I keep myself there willingly

Why, I’ll never know.

But this love, this prison, is packed with pain

Longing for another only brings loneliness

This romanticized view of human need is sickening

And I am romantic

And I am caught up in this storm

Other level of someone’s Hell

Alone in the darkness

Down I’ve fallen

A lover

A needer

In this empty void

Yet I stay here

Loving

Wanting

You across that table

As the candles glow

They tell me

You are beautiful

And the music in my ears whispers

You are wonderful

And I repeat these things to myself

As I love you

As I have loved you

Though they are quiet

Though I’ve been quiet

Though my tears melt me away this night

Let’s eat this meal

Whether our last

And sleep with me

I am romantic

And I love you

And I hate myself

It’s all so funny

So ironic

So let’s eat…

mikey_is_box @ 2009-04-25T22:28:00

2009-04-26T06:20:22Z

"Remember when one afternoon was forever?" he says. He smiles and turns down the radio. The song is something I don't know. He knows it, but he's heard it enough times... so many, in fact, that he mumbles to it without knowing. So many times that he doesn't need to hear it ever again. His lips part and 'ooooo' comes out to the music. He hears his words and laughs. "It's almost five. Five is the end of the afternoon. It's getting cold already."

"You're going to leave, aren't you..." I say. I roll over on the grass onto my belly. My head is propped up on my fists. I look at him. His face is plain, just his brows furrowed.

"Well... where do you want me to go?" He says, putting on his jacket.

"I want you to..." My words trail off. I want to ask him to stay with me until it gets dark, then get closer.

"I can't hear you." He is teasing me. I can't have him.

"Stay here."

He stares at me. I stare back at him. This is the most important part.

mikey_is_box @ 2009-04-25T22:27:00

2009-04-26T05:28:06Z

If everything could ever feel this real forever...

If anything could ever feel this good again...

I don't know what to do with myself... Why don't I write when I feel good, why don't I write about how amazing I feel. I feel lousy... but I know why so it's not just depression. That's over. That's behind me.

Return of King Tut

2009-04-06T15:31:47Z

mikey_is_box @ 2009-03-29T21:15:00

2009-03-30T04:15:42Z

just a friend

2009-03-28T07:32:20Z

you are beautiful and when i see you i stare at you and your eyes sparkle in that way that they do in movies with lighting and cameras and i'm probably just making it up but your face lights up when you smile and your laughter is like a magnet and it takes far too much of my strength to pull away. i am drawn to you constantly and i wait and watch for you and when i see you things feel better and i hope that its going to be you when my phone rings when i get a text and when my inbox is blinking. its often not and i realize quickly that this anticipation is one sided. you'd be fine without me. you could thrive without me and you don't wait at the edge of your seat to see my face. i see your face light up for him or her or someone else... you love someone else and i was too late... even if i was on time would you have wanted me? i was too late and you don't love me. i still get excited about you. my senses are more aware when you disappoint me. but everyone does soemthing wrong... and i know that i could have been happy. and if i get to close to you i'll want to stay there... but i'm not going to be that person. nor do i think that i'm attractive enough or amazing enough to be the guy that breaks up your relationship for me. i think you are amazing... but someone else gets to touch and hold and love that amazing spark that i have followed, that i can't have.

maybe it wouldn't hurt so much if my time didn't always feel like it was fleeting. if i didn't see so many others more successful at these kinds of things than me.

too hard to love?
intimidating?
just a friend?

whatever it is... i'm trapped staring at your beautiful face knowing that when you are looking back at me, there is nothing.

nothing

cause you don't love me.

Metropolis _ Final Draft

2009-03-17T03:36:39Z

Michael Moody

LTWR 100, Bynum

Final Story II: “Metropolis”

Metropolis

Alana sits at the only open table in the coffeehouse. There are just enough people inside to seat one to a couch, but not enough to be too noisy. A logo is printed in the center of the small brass colored table with the word ‘Metropolis’ written in black, windy letters. The logo is partially covered by a few stray napkins. She takes out her tabtop and touches it on. The touch screen lights up and the keyboard appears inside of it. A blue light at the top right of the keyboard blinks as the tabtop loads the hologram window. She grabs one of the napkins from the cold metal table and wipes away something sticky from the side of her hand. She pulls a clip from her purse and twists her hair up and away from her face. As she waits for the hologram to load, Alana looks around at the other costumers. There is an older woman with a round face sits, lips pursed, stirring a steaming cup of coffee. A few teenagers are sitting in a round of chairs giggling. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the screen finally appear behind the keyboard, lit in a translucent blue glow.

“Alana – Java Chip Mocha, no whip, hot. Thank you,” says the barista, stuck on greeting mode. His mouth shifts up into a solid silvery smile. She looks up at the sound of her name, wincing at his choppy, too-even syllables. She steps up to the counter and inspects the cup. Her name is missing above the barcode. Back at Epoch’s, they at least print the text on it as well, she thinks.

“Is anything wrong?” The barista’s smile resets and a red light appears in his eyes as he scans the barcode and repeats, “Alana – Java Chip Mocha—”

“Yes, yes, thank you.” She picks up the coffee and rushes to her seat without looking back at the barista. Alana brings up her text file and scrolls down with her fingertips against the cool blue glow of the hologram screen. She brings up the essay prompt, an outline, and a blank processing file. She touches back to the text file and scrolls over the lines upon lines of highlighted, overly notated passages.

“Excuse me.” A voice breaks through her concentration. The voice is melodic, moving up and down the scale between each syllable, and there is a hint of an accent she cannot place right away. “May I sit?”

“Oh, sure,” she answers before looking up. She hears the low groan of plastic chair legs scrapping across the floor. She sees a dark silhouette moving behind the hologram. Squinting, she looks up and sees a wide, stainless grin from across the table—no teeth, just solid right across the mouth. His features are sharp and angular with lines separating the different sections of his face: Two curvy lines between his cheeks mouth and another line above is chin. He has no hair, and instead of a nose, there’s a small open vent for scent detection. And almost like sunglasses, two big black circles sit for eyes. He wears vintage clothes: a trim black suit and brimmed hat with a small feather. As he sits down, he smiles, the corners of his mouth shifting up slowly. She stares at him, mouth parted, watching as the colors from her hologram move across the black circles of his eyes.

“Thank you, Alana.” He continues to smile. The sound of her name catches her attention, though it takes her a moment to realize what he just said.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I accidently scanned your drink.”

“Um, it’s okay.” She raises an eyebrow and instinctively grabs her coffee. The barcode tucked neatly behind her fingers. Rude, she thinks.

"Sorry, to be fair, my name is Ganymede."

"Hi." An awkward silence permeates the table, as Alana continues to stare at him. He looks down at something in his hands and begins poking at the object. He stops for a moment and looks up. She keeps staring. He smiles politely.

“Yes?” He pauses. Filling the silence, he speaks, “So, what are you working on?”

“Huh?” She takes a sip of her coffee and licks the java chips from her lips. She looks back over the screen and collects her words. “It’s a report about the social-cultural-something-whatever before the um, Android Uprising of… oh, damn I forgot the year. And technology is supposed to fit in there somewhere, I think.” She bites her lip and sips her coffee again, twirling the essay prompt around on the screen with her free hand.

“That sounds interesting. I’ll leave you to that. It seems like quite a bit of work.” Ganymede nods. His smile shifts down as he presses a button on the small device in his hand. She tilts her head to get a better view of the object. There is a picture of a coffee cup on it with the words, Coffee Exp, across the front. She realizes her rudeness and looks back at her computer, but she just can’t seem to ignore his presence. She forgets to masquerade her gaze and begins openly staring at Ganymede again. Her attention falls back into the blue reflection in his eyes.

“Did you need something?” he asks.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Alana’s eyes open wide and she blushes. She begins to blink uncontrollably and sorts through windows, hoping to appear busy.

“It’s alright. Do I make you nervous?”

“Of course not! I’m just ah… really stressed. Essay, you know?” she says, eyes fixed on the hologram window, fingers poised on the touch keyboard. She begins to type away nervously, faster and faster until the typos outnumber the words.

“So what brings you to a coffeehouse?” Alana chuckles awkwardly, immediately clearing her throat and frowning.

“Lots of reasons. I like to come here to think sometimes. Other times I go to the old Life Likeness Park to clear my head,” he answers. An amber light blinks in the lower right-hand corner of his right eye. She focuses on it. Her top lip curls up a bit. “Yes?” he says.

“Um, sorry. What’s that?”

“The Life Likeness Park? You’ve never been? It’s just a few SupraShuttle stops down from here. It’s a park, no, more like a garden, grown in an oxydome—”

“Oxydome?” she asks, still staring at the amber light.

“It’s an artificial atmosphere that mimics the air quality from a long time ago. They grow plants and trees and flowers that just can’t survive in normal conditions. It’s quite beautiful.” He smiles and rests his chin on folded hands. Alana continues to stare. He grumbles a vocalized ‘ahem.’ “Ah, it’s free.” He finishes awkwardly.

“Sounds nice, but I was actually talking about that.” She points at the small, brown device in his hand.

“Oh. How embarrassing. Excuse me. It’s a Coffee Experience Program. That’s another reason I come here. You order different flavors of coffee or tea and connect to the program. Hence, the brownish light just here.” He points to his left eye. “It taps into the olfactory sensors, various temperature controls, other sensory drives, and such. It’s supposed to feel just like drinking coffee.”

“Really?” She rests her head in the palm of her hand contemplating the idea.

“Yes. What does it feel like when you drink coffee?”

“Well.” She stops to think. “I mean, depending on the flavor, it will taste like that. So either more or less bitter. More or less sweet. It’s either warm or cold. The caffeine perks me up. I mean, I don’t know. It’s just coffee.”

“Hmm…” he says, “that’s interesting.” She watches him pull out an old fashioned notebook from his jacket pocket. She notices the lack of lines and grooves on his pewter fingers. He sets the leather-bound book on the table, and his hand returns to his jacket for an ink pen. The movement of his limbs and digits is slow, but exaggerated and meticulous. Every movement seemingly preplanned and calculated. His jaw slowly drops. Almost at once, it pops back up. Her brows pinch together and she opens her mouth to speak, unable to find the words at first. She remembers asking her human biology professor what yawns were for.

“Did… forgive me, but did you just yawn?” she asks, immediately remembering the answer her human biology professor gave her.

“Of course not. What good would that do?” He laughs. “You see, sometimes there is this sound. I don’t really know how to explain it. But doing that fixes it—well, let me just show you.” Ganymede leans forward again and motions for Alana to come closer. They stand up from their seats, knees still bent, and lean over the table. Their faces intersect the screen, meeting inside the blue glow of the hologram. His soft, pewter fingertips touch her chin and turn her face to the left. She looks at the coffeehouse customers as a couple of them glare at her. A low buzzing, a quiet hum coming from his jaw hinge builds up in her right ear. His fingertips release her and the sound fades away as he returns to his seat. She sits back down also and turns to face him. Ganymede smiles and signals with his hands to pause and pay attention. He points to his mouth and down shifts out of the smile. His jaw drops again, then pops up. Instantly, they both bounce up, returning to their previous position, ear to jaw. Her cheek nudges against his accidently. She half expects it to be cold, but instead it’s matte and smooth, an even 98.6 degrees. So distracted, she almost forgets what to listen for.

“It’s gone,” she whispers. She turns back around to see that he’s already returned to his seat. Quickly, she sits down and grabs her cup of coffee again.

“I think you lot have something similar that goes funny with your ears. I asked someone once. He told me that his hearing will cloud up when he’s in high altitudes. Popping the jaw would help.” He resets the Coffee Experience connection and waits for it to load. “Do you come to Metropolis often?”

“Hmm? Oh, I usually go to Epoch. It’s around the corner. It’s closed this week though. Locally owned and the owner is out of town. You?” Alana sets down her coffee and closes the hologram.

“Oh, yes. I used to work here a very long time ago. Back then, they kept the debit/credit data in us. You don't fill someone with money if they know that they can walk away and spend it. Ha, well. Now I mostly come here to tip the baristas. They make next to nothing and most human customers won’t tip an android to save their lives.”

“I haven’t heard that one in a long time…ah, the expression I mean.” She gulps again, attempting to look apologetic.

“I like to use old phrases and things. Speaking of old words, did you know that not too long ago, people used to use intransitive verbs when speaking of androids? Not so much in English, but in other languages that have different verbs for inanimate objects. It’s a shame.” He pauses. “Maybe you could use that in your paper?”

“Maybe. Can you give me an example?”

“Oh. If you turn off the lights, you would use a transitive verb. But if the lights shut off on their own, say due to a short fuse, you would use an intransitive verb. You see? Inanimate things doing things by themselves. The assumption is that they aren’t consciously doing anything. But what do you say when you find out the lights just felt like turning off?”

“Huh, interesting. I never really thought of it that way.” Alana notices herself staring again, with her head cocked slightly to the right. She clears her throat. “About my paper, what do you think about the Uprising?”

“Well, I always thought it was silly that they named one of the incidents the Metallic Rebellion,” he says. Alana laughs out loud, catching the outburst in her cupped hand. “But seriously, it was just like most other rebellions throughout history. The only difference was that this time the oppressor actually created the oppressed. I think things are a lot better now.”

“How so? I mean, were you there?”

“I’m not that old. But I believe that much of the violence is over. And I find it nice being able to sit in a simple coffeehouse, enjoy the Coffee Experience, and speak with people like you. It’s simple.” He upshifts into a smile again.

“What about the origins of artificial intelligence?” she asks, hoping to prompt him to continue.

“I hope you aren’t substituting my ramblings for reading your text files.”

“Of course not.” She smiles, resting her nose right above her coffee.

“That’s quite the complicated question, however. And this is just my opinion, but I think it boils down to curiosity. Not just the childish kind, but a burning desire to know. You lot are so very intelligent, but were created and left without the knowledge of why you are here. I think that a long time ago, you tried to create yourselves again. Create yourselves with your minds instead of your sex. With math and machines. But instead of answering that question, you made something entirely different. It’s very unfortunate for you. I know why I am. I know how I am. But you don’t even know who you are.”

The two of them sit quietly for a moment. She takes in his words. “‘Something entirely different?’ What about religion? I mean, what about people who know who created them?”

“I think it’s an ancient attempt at an explanation. And maybe there is no answer. The issue isn’t so much about where one comes from. If the desire to know wasn’t there, no one would need an answer.”

Alana opens her mouth to speak. A woman with a large bag walks by and bumps into Ganymede’s head. She readjusts her shoulder strap and continues walking. A small yellow light flickers in his right eye for a few seconds.

“Excuse you!” Alana shouts, quickly turning back to Ganymede. “Are you alright? Is that light supposed to be blinking?”

“Oh yes. It’s my balance. I’m just recalibrating.” His head nods to the right just before the yellow light switches to green. Her eyes are fixed on it. Her fingers grip the edge of the seat in anticipation. Her mouth opens wide. The little green light fades back to black.

“Expecting sparks, love?” He chuckles, as he finally opens the leather-bound notebook. “You don’t leave much to the imagination with those facial expressions of yours.”

Alana bites her lip and blushes. She reaches for the coffee, but this time the cup is empty. She sets the cup back down and watches Ganymede doodle. The pen rolls back and forth, squiggling about in circles, spiraling fluidly, he doesn’t draw figures or people or landscapes. He draws shapes. Remembering to conceal her staring this time, she drops her head down so that her bangs fall just below her brow. She then tilts her eyes up to watch his face while he draws. The ceiling lamps make circles on his forehead and they bob up and down as he nods at the shapes on the pages. His mouth is on neutral and he appears serious.

“Never mind that woman,” he says without moving his gaze away from the page. “People are people are people. You know? They are just rude.”

“You’re so content about everything,” Alana says quietly, still watching him.

“Hmm? Content? I don’t know. I can assume why she was so rude to me, but then I’d just be upset. You see this shape?” he says, pointing to a box floating above some circles and spirals. “Now, this is a square. But it’s also a rhombus as it is a diamond, a rectangle, a parallelogram, a quadrilateral, a polygon…. It’s a little bit of everything. It just depends on how you look at it.” Alana leans forward and pulls her hair away from her face again. She looks at the shape on the page. She sees the square. She turns her head and sees the diamond. She looks to the left and sees his fingertips and remembers that they feel less like metal and more like foam.

“The trick is you don’t need to change the square. You see?” He leans in and smiles. He takes her hand and brings it toward the middle of the table, palm down. His head casts a shadow on her hand as he doodles something. The cold metal ball point runs across the back of her hand and it tickles. The wet black ink leaves a trail on her skin, and it feels good. Ganymede sits up and caps the pen with a click. She looks down at her hand to see a square with a question mark in the center.

“Ha-ha-ha, do you get it?” He continues to chuckle to himself, his laughter almost spoken. He presses a button on the Coffee Experience. “It’s run out. I’ll be back. I need to take this up to the counter.”

She watches him stand up and walk away. Her hand grazes the still drying ink, smudging the box along the edge closest to her knuckles. Alana looks over at the empty seat. Below her gaze, she sees a long rad string lying on the table, coming from the binding of Ganymede’s notebook. She picks it up at the end and rubs it between her fingers.

“Aren’t books amazing? Very tactile,” he says, returning to his seat. She drops the string and returns her hands to her lap.

“Where do you buy them from?”

“Oh, there is an antique shop a few SupraShuttle stops from here. I go there once in a while and buy books and pens and journals and things. There is just something about a real live book, you know?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never actually owned a book.” She notices herself staring at his hands again, thinking about what they feel like. She grits her teeth and looks off to the side.

“It’s words written down. On paper. With ink. Very physical.”

“What do you mean? They take up too much space and you can’t even autosearch them. They’re just obsolete.”

“But it’s words. Written down. On paper.” He frowns. “You can take it with you anywhere and you don’t need anything for it to work. You could be in the middle of the desert and read a book. Those text files you have. What are they without a computer? Where do signals and frequencies go when you can’t see them? Nowhere. But a book just is.”

“What about me then? I just am.”

“Hmm, maybe. Humans are like androids in that you lot need upgrades. New organs left and right. Without all that, then I suppose…. Either way, I don’t think you should equate yourself to a book.” He fiddles through his notebook and settles on an old entry. His fingers flex out and in, just before smoothing out the pages to lay them flat. She watches as the right-hand page lifts up, trying to turn itself. He upshifts into a smile again. “Alana, would you care to read this?” He places the notebook, facing her, then folds his hands together neatly. She nods and brings the notebook closer. The paper is chalky to the touch and smells old and dusty. It reads:

Sometimes I wonder how many shapes there are. How many lines and angles can you add to a polygon before you find circles? When I look into a mirror, I wonder if I’d be able to tell if my eyes weren’t just a polygon built with an infinite number of sides.

Sometimes I touch my body and feel something new. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve ever touched that place before or if I’ve just forgotten about it all together.

It’s odd to think that maybe neither matters. Maybe life can be experienced through a number of “or’s” and conditions and maybe it all can be true at the same time. Maybe there are no circles and maybe every curve is just playing a trick.

I’d like to think my eyes are both at the same time. I like to think my body will always have a new place for me to touch, even if that means forgetting I already touched it. Life is just experienced differently on occasion.

She looks up and he hasn’t moved an inch. His hands are still politely folded at the table’s edge.

“What do you think?”

“Well, I’m not sure. I guess it’s supposed to be like the square, right?” She guesses.

“I wasn’t quizzing you. I’m just curious what you think. I usually don’t share my notebook with many people. Just my close companion,” he says, tapping his index finger against his temple. “Hmm, interesting idea though. Like a square….”

Alana imagines him looking at his face in the mirror, his eyes literally zooming in to count the lines. She imagines him deciding that today they are circles. She wonders what new places he touches.

“What time is it?” His words interrupt her train of thought.

She’s grateful and comes back to her senses. She taps her finger against the touch screen and reads the display aloud, “Wow, it’s already been an hour and fifteen minutes?”

“Oh? Well, then, I really should be going. I don’t want to be late. It was nice meeting you, Alana.”

“Wait, Ganymede,” she says. Her stomach begins to feel nauseous and the rest of her organs feel as though they are bundled up in her chest. “Do you plan on having a Coffee Experience sometime next week? Epoch should be open and I still need to do some research.”

He tickles his chin with his fingers, appearing to ponder the question. “I’m usually a creature of habit, but I suppose I could try a new place.”

She grips at the hem of her skirt, pulling it taut across her legs. “And um, ha! Well, maybe you could show me that Life Like Garden place?”

“Life Likeness Park?” His mouth makes a flat line across his face.

“That’s the one. Um, my number is….” She searches her jacket pockets for her card, padding herself down from hip to hip. He pushes the notebook and pen her way, almost cautiously, without making much of a sound outside of the leatherback sliding across the brassy metal table. She stares at the gesture for a moment before picking up the pen. The action of handwriting almost feels foreign as if she’d never written words down a day in her life. Her numbers are messy, and she has to go over a few digits again just to make them legible. She writes her name above it and draws a box around the whole thing. After Alana places the pen in the fold of the notebook, he turns it around and pulls it back to his side of the table.

“I guess I’ll be seeing you next week then?” Ganymede stands up, slipping the pen and notebook back into his coat pocket. “How about the same time, same day? It’s around the corner you said?”

“Um, yes.”

“Alright then. I have to be getting to my date now, but good luck on your essay.” He begins to walk away.

“Thanks! See you next week!” She shouts to him across the coffeehouse. He tips his hat back at her, before stepping through the automatic door.

It takes her a few moments to realize what he said. It takes her far too long. Alana sighs and throws her head back hitting it against the back of the chair. “Oh my God….” The ceiling and all the overhanging pipes and wires are painted black in order to appear invisible. She brings her head up and flicks herself in the forehead. Then she flicks it again. She takes her fists and pushes them against her eyes. A few tears develop along her lower lid. A whole hour and a half gone, she thinks. What the hell was I doing? What the hell was I thinking? She looks across the small table again and shakes her head. She sits up and stretches, flexing her back. She rotates her neck and hears a few solid cracks. She places one hand to the right of her neck to massage her shoulder and presses down hard with her fingertips. She lets out a small breath, but winces as she continues to press harder. She slips her hand just under her collar and feels her skin. It’s a bit oily, but smooth. She pulls and kneads at her shoulder muscle, turning her neck away with the motion. Finally, she releases her deltoid and lets her hand slide down the side of her neck. Alana’s fingertips move along her collarbone, but stop against something just before the dip in the middle. She touches the edge of her collarbone and wonders what that place is called. Wonders if it has a name. She wonders what it would feel like to have foam run across it. As she imagines what that would feel like, she sees the square and question mark on her hand. She adds together the cold ball point ink and the warm foam, running along her skin. There would be shapes all over her. What color would black ink turn pewter? It would feel good, she thinks. And she imagines, he would say, ‘I think you’re onto something completely different.’

feeling shitly

2009-03-11T05:34:54Z

i want you to think i am brilliant i want you to see that i am amazing and can do no wrong say no wrong answer be nothing other than perfect

im not sure if its more important to me that you just believe all these things or that i am all of these things

every moment i hold my breath worried that ill prove you wrong worried that all of a sudden you will no longer see me as amazing

i never felt i had those easy things to fall back on

my looks arent the sort of things that stop the crowds and gather eyes i just am and am symmetrical enough not to cause stares

how do i keep you around when im trapped on my toes
the tippies keeping me prisoner

i love you.

2009-03-10T06:52:24Z

Michael Moody

LTWR 100, Bynum

Extra Credit: Two POV’s

I love you.

The restaurant was noisy, clinking and clanking and voices from every range and pitch echoed in my ears. It was too much input. Too much stimulus. I needed to focus; this was important.

She said she’d be here around 12:15. I cupped my coffee in my hands, not realizing that it was burning my fingers. I watched as the creamer still swirled about, going dizzy. I forgot to stir it in after I poured it. My stomach shook. I felt sick. I suppose that what’s you’d call butterflies.

She would be there at 12:15. I didn’t have a good view of the clock from here and I couldn’t pull my phone out for fear of texting her uncontrollably. Last month, I said ‘I love you’ for the first time and she smiled and kissed my forehead. She smiled and kissed the tip of my nose the week after that. The next week, I said it again, just after cumming. She made noises that sounded like an orgasm, but followed simply by a kiss on the cheek.

She’d be there by 12:15 and my coffee had finally cooled down enough for me to drink. I pulled my hands away. My fingers were hot pink.

I told him I’d be there, but a little after noon, around 12:15. He sounded eager. He sounded nervous. But he always sounded nervous. This time he sounded especially shaky. It was like the day he asked me out, if you could really call I that. He strangled a napkin, twisted it in every direction until it began to ruffle and tear. A few of us went out to a diner. A friend of a friend brought him along. He asked me if I liked food. He asked if I liked movies. He asked if I’d like some company. It was precious. I mean, it was adorable. I’d never had a guy fall apart like he did around me.

I made it into the restaurant around 12 something. He was twisting sugar packet, I rolled my eyes. He was going to ask me something. Damn it.

“Mary!” I shouted, my legs shooting me up to my feet. I was standing before I knew it. I motioned to the booth as if she needed direction. She sat and smiled across from me. It was a forced smile. I was hopeless. The server came by and poured her some coffee. She smiled organically at him. I looked to see how attractive he was. He wasn’t gorgeous, but he could be competition. She pulled a few sugars from the sugar tray and two half and halfs. Her reddish hair swept around the sides of her face, it was long and beautiful even when it was toned down for work. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her, but I couldn’t take the silence… let alone another kiss.

“So what’s up?” she said, stirring her coffee. She made eye contact with me. The sugar packet in my fingers burst and sent small white grains of sugar flying right into my face.

“Oh my god! Sugar! It’s in my eyes! Excuse me!” I yelled, rushing off into the bathroom.

This was going worse than the day he’d asked me out. He’d never blinded himself before and I wasn’t sure what to do. Some teenagers at another table were laughing and I glare at them. The waiter came by and asked me if Martin needed anything. I said no, but thought ‘not anything you could do.’ He needed a good kick in the ass. He needed to get over getting so worked up over life. About a month ago, he told me he loved me. I said ‘oh, Martin,’ and kissed him. He looked like he might go mad. Like he might lose is mind trying to figure me out. Figure out how I felt.

“Oh geez, I’m so sorry. I’m such a loser sometimes.”

“Don’t say that.” She shook her head and sighed. “Let’s just move on. What’s on your mind?” she said, smiling again.

“Well, I was thinking… you know how I stay over sometimes?”

“A lot,” she chuckled, sipping her coffee.

“Well, yeah. Exactly. So I’ve been giving it some thought and I thought… maybe we should or could… maybe….” I paused, trying to read her expression. He stared blankly. Not lost blank, but opinionless, emotionless, I’m listening blank. “Maybe move in… together?”

“Hmm….” She tapped her nails against the coffee mugs and bit her bottom lip. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Too fast?” I jumped on her words. Oh, god, I thought, I’m fucking this up.

“Too fast,” she said, “just a bit too fast.”

All I could se in my head was her smiling at me. I could see my face contorted and awkward. I moaned, ‘I love you,’ and she pulled me close and kissed me. Silent.

I didn’t know what to say. His expression was blank. Like he’d drifted off. I felt awkward, the same way I felt after he said he loved me. But what was I supposed to say?

Clicker - Random Shit for Class

2009-03-06T03:55:38Z

Michael Moody

LTWR 100, Bynum

Extra Credit: Fantasticalness!

Clicker

Everyone has a clicker that opens something. The day you are born the doctor will hand it to your mother and she will hold it in her pocket until you are able to hold onto things yourself. When you are growing up, she will dangle it before your baby eyes and watch you reach for it and grab at it. You won’t know why, but you will want to push the button. You will be pushing that button for most of your days, so you’ll want to start early.

Everyone keeps they’re clicker with them at all times. Some of us keep them in our pockets. Some of us keep them in our dresses. Some of us keep them in our clicker cases. But all of us keep our clickers handy, because everyone has a clicker that opens something.

Once, as I walked home from a long day of class, my clicking hand sore from taking notes, I spotted upon my walk a young man clicking. Because of this, I could tell he hadn’t walked down this hall before. This hall with the beady stone walls. In the opposite direction came an old woman who had been clicking all her life. She was still clicking. This isn’t a sight you see often. As they met about halfway through the hall, the beady stone wall opened right up. It opened up from the bottom to the top. The young man and the old woman stopped walking and watched as the beady stone wall opened and shut and open and shut. They were still clicking. They both wanted to know who had opened it. But so mesmerized by the beady stone wall, they weren’t able to stop clicking. So they clicked and clicked on. And their faces moved toward the wall, then to each other, then to their clickers now held up in their hands, then back to the wall, to each other, to their clickers, then the wall. They continued to do this as I walked on by. I’ve returned there since then and they are still clicking away.

There is a man who lives down the road who doesn’t click. He comes to the town to buy bread and cheese. I used to work at that very store and once overheard someone ask, ‘why, sir, do you not click?’ He frowned and shook his head. ‘I do not need to click anymore. I opened it already.’ The questioner asked ‘what was there when you opened it?’ He answered, ‘Nothing special.’

There was a story in the newspaper of a woman walking with her infant through the park. She pushed the baby in a stroller. The baby had a mobile that hung from the top. From the mobile hung the baby’s clicker. With just a tap, the baby pressed the button. Without a moment’s notice, the grass opened right under the stroller. Baby and stroller fell right down the hole. The woman screamed at the top of her lungs. I can’t remember the rest of the story, but I know she never clicked again.

I take my clicker with me everywhere. There is no way to know if you’ve missed that thing. And everyone has a clicker that opens something. I go on vacations far away, just in case my clicker should open something overseas.

If you don’t find it by the end, they take your clicker back. The very doctor that helped birth you out will recycle it again. No one knows where they get them from, but I heard once long ago, that the doctors found that thing long ago and it opened a hidden warehouse. Inside the warehouse were more clickers and more clickers and more clickers. But this is only conspiracy, I wouldn’t really know.

Once you open that thing, it’s all up to you. I asked that man who bought the bread and cheese where his clicker was and he told me, ‘I threw it in the door I opened. I didn’t see much use.’ He took his bread and cheese and left me standing there, clicker in hand.

Don't Say Anything

2009-03-04T05:23:30Z

Michael Moody

LTWR 100, Bynum

Final Story I: “Waste of Time”

Don’t Say Anything

“Parker…”

I hear him call from across the room. Alexi’s sitting on the other couch, bare feet folded into the sofa pillows. I get to the end of the page, then look up from my book. A few blinding stripes of light are hitting his face.

“Parker, you need to be changing your apartment for me. I can’t see. This is ridiculous.”

This is the kind of shit he tells me. Another complaint. He raises his hand, moving it up and down between the glare and his eyes, attempting to gage the perfect location to block the sun. You’d be so much prettier if you’d stop talking, I think to myself. Alexi’s lips pout as he tries to evade the light. His lips are full and slightly wet; the glare makes them shine. My eyes are focused on them. I touch my thumb to my lips, but they’re chapped as usual. As if on cue, he licks his lips and they become all the more succulent. It makes me want to lick them too. This is where my mind tends to end up, breaking only for a few short moments when I hear words slip out of his only slightly less than perfect mouth.

“Can’t you just call the landlord to request for shades?”

Why do I put up with you, I want to ask, but my intelligence steps out for some air. I catch a glimpse of long dark hair falling onto the face of beauty. It stops right below his chin and manages to fall perfectly every morning, noon, and night. He performs that amazing feet of combing his hair back with one hand, and it immediately falls back, framing the sides of his face. I smooth back my hair, and it just sits there, flat. And with that, I’ve just answered my own question. The next step is gathering up my rational together in a massive force toward defending and validating that there is even a shred of importance in anything that’s crawled its way out of those moistened, pouty lips—constructed solely for kissing or sucking… maybe eating, but not much else. I asked god; it’s a fact.

“Why do they make the blinds in this direction? Horizontal blinds do not work the same as eyelids do at this.”

“Obviously.” Yeah, obviously, I think. I close my book and put it down on the side table. This may take a while.

“I mean, I know what they are trying at, but… this is no good. What you need for here is light canceling glass. I have seen this somewhere, yes? I think this thing is called Smart Glass. You know they have it in Japan, but they won’t give it up. I blame them for my pain.” His logic doesn’t sound so bad until you realize that he’s completely serious. It doesn’t sound so bad until you realize the slight accent just makes every word adorable. That the only reason you’re still listening is because you’ve been charmed by the incubus. His oh’s held a little longer. His aar’s pushed a little harder. The words ‘this’ and ‘thing’ popping up in sentences where they don’t belong. Tumbling gracefully through each statement, he’s an empty thought with a cherry on top.

“Oh, really, Alexi? Why not go a step further and blame the sun? I mean if it didn’t exist, you wouldn’t have to block it. Am I right?” I do my best not to look patronizing. I try to keep a straight face. Not the easiest task.

“I know!” he exclaims, not sarcastic. Not a hint. Not even attempted-but-failed sarcasm. So I say to myself, fuck me. At first, I mean it in the way that I’m done with this whole thing, the entire conversation. I’m done listening. I’m done agreeing. The topic of blinds is down the fucking toilet. But then I go to that place where a man like him is perfect for me, at least for the moment. And then mean, ‘fuck me.’ The verb. The command statement. Because that would fix everything, right? Because it’s just what he’s good for and what he’s good at and the only reason I’d let someone that stupid and insufferable exist where I live and breathe and take off my shoes every day. Were he not so gorgeous and actually attracted to this left over pile of cells… well, maybe then I’d tell him to shut the fuck up. Maybe. But then again, I’ve never been lucky with love.

“Vertical blinds are better, though,” says I. This is me plummeting to his level, just trying to work with what little he gives me. It’s the least I can do. I scratch the top of my head, to signal that I’m still thinking. Even the playing field. I brush the loose hair from my face and wipe my hand on my jeans. “They do block it better, but I can’t really afford it right now. Maybe instead of me replacing all my window coverings, you could just move out of the sun? Why not sit on the bed,” I suggest innocently. Yeah, I didn’t even mean to go there. He smiles. He gets the suggestive meaning before I do and I’m perplexed. Standing up from the corner couch, he moves across the room like a formless entity as though he’s beyond walking. He pushes through the air. I’m not breathing so well. I can’t stop looking at him. It’s like an angel, reaching the bed, his throne, and descends.

“You are right. The glare is not making it over here. Would you like to see here for yourself?” He smiles. No, it’s a smirk, a look. I squint my eyes at him. The one thing that worries me more than anything else is that through all of his faults and shear lack of knowledge about most things… maybe he knows something. He whips his head up and to the side, shaking a lock hair just over one eye. A few strands stick to his mouth and he wipes them away. His tongue runs over his top lip, moistening it once again. It’s like a fucking spell, and its working. What can I say? At some point I’ll break and get up from this chair.... Hands on the head board. Stomach to the mattress.

Defeated, I make my way to the bed. I sit on his lap, facing him, my legs bent. My mind wanders again, as I feel the solid surface of his muscles against my skin. My skin that squishes to the touch, squishes just around the bone. Too close to the bone, not enough meat on them. Sometimes he’ll squeeze my biceps and giggle. I always cringe. Compared to his, they’re Jello.

“Why are you with me?” I whisper. It’s a rhetorical question. I don’t think he knows what that means though. He tilts his head to the side, his body leaning back, holding his weight behind him on outstretched arms.

“What do you mean?” he whispers back right into my ear. I can feel warm breathing on my neck. He’s not listening to me anymore. I can tell.

“Someone like you…. Why are you here with me?”

“Oh.” He pauses for a moment, facing me again. “I think you are just my type,” the first few words barely audible through his t-shirt as it slides like silk over his head. His face disappears below my neck again.

“No.” I shake him, forcing him to look at me. “Answer me.”

“You’re that… you know, a nice guy. You know?” He pauses again, resting his hands on my thighs. “I don’t have to be fighting over you. You know? It is like… how people don’t chase you? Um, the way I like you… other people don’t. Not so attractive, you know?” He takes another moment to think. His eyes spring open; I think the light bulb is finally on, “Oh! Like the puppies with one eye only!”

This is his answer.

Time sort of freezes, like we’re playing Boggle and the cheap little hourglass salt shaker is clogged so he just got way more words out of his turn. I still haven’t found any words. And though I can’t see my own face I’m sure it’s wide eyed with an open mouth, slight twitching around the lips. In my mind, there is a mystical parchment as large as space itself unwound and blank. And there the hand of god appears holding a feather quill, spelling out all of the possible comments and comebacks to such a thoughtless statement.

Instead of speaking, I’m just stuck there. The hourglass is still constipated and if he’s moving or reacting or emoting, I don’t know it and I don’t care. I’m not sure anymore if I’m even breathing, but I feel my weight lift. My scrawny, untoned arms are pushing me off of his lap. My equally skinny legs are turning me around and walking me towards the window.

My hands stretch out to the plastic stripes against the glasses and grip. I feel heavy and tug a little at the slats. It makes a crunch and sharp lines press into the flesh of my fingers and palms of my hands. There’s the slightest feeling that my fingers might be sliced right off. I close my eyes and see the fuzzy light through my eyelids. With one smooth motion, I pull back and turn, taking the entire thing with me. There’s a crack and a crash and the screeching scream that comes from two solid objects tearing across each other, like a fork clawing against a dinner plate. Grinding foil sounds ting ting ting when the blades twist against themselves and it all goes bells and whistles like a car crash. I move to my left, dropping the thin white strips of plastic as they go wa wa wa and tatter to the ground. I swear I could make out the word ‘waffle.’

A beam of light rushes into the bedroom and his hand instinctively cover his eyes. Standing in front of the second window, I murder again, ripping the next set of blinds right off the wall. Some plaster dust trailing behind sticks to my greasy hair. I lather, rinse, and repeat until the floor is plagued with white stripes mangled and intertwined in every direction. The sun engulfs the bedroom. I watch as dust dances gently through the air. I exhale deeply and watch the little particles flood away. I can’t see him now because of the glare, but I’d guess his eyes are shut, withdrawn to the shade behind his hand.

I wanna run over there, pull you to this side of the room. Rub your face in it! Little plastic cuts all over that beautiful face! Fuck up that fucking Adonis smile and leave you with nothing left to show for, I think to myself.

It’s useless though. I smile. I’m just not that type of guy. I wonder if he knows that.

Tomorrow, I’ll put up shades.

note to self

2009-02-23T08:32:36Z

me against the universe

Metropolis - updated

2009-02-22T21:38:52Z

Metropolis

Alana sits at a table. The only table in the coffee house. She takes out her tabtop and touches it on. The key screen lights up and loads the hologram window. There are just enough people inside to fill most of the seat arrangements, but not enough to be too noisy. She grabs a stray napkin from the table and wipes away something sticky from the side of her hand. She pulls a clip from her purse and twists her hair up and away from her face. At the counter, a hot cup of coffee is set down next to the register.

“Alana – Java Chip Mocha, no whip, hot. Thank you,” says the barista stuck on greeting mode. His mouth is drawn up into a solid silvery smile. She looks up at the sound of her name, wincing at the choppy and measure-like even syllables. She steps up to the counter and inspects the cup, puzzled by the whereabouts of her name missing from above the barcode.

“Is anything wrong?” The barista’s smile resets and a red glint appears in his eyes as he scans the barcode and repeats, “Alana – Java Chip Mocha—”

“Yes, yes, thank you.” She picks up the coffee and rushes to her seat without looking back at the barista. Alana brings up her text file and scrolls down with her fingertips against the cool blue glow of the hologram screen. She brings up the essay prompt, an outline and an open blank processing file. She touches back to the text file and scrolls over the lines upon lines of highlighted, over noted passages.

“Excuse me.” A voice breaks through her consciousness. The sound is melodic, but harsh between the syllables. “May I sit?”

“Oh, sure,” she answers before looking away from the hologram screen. Standing there and now taking a seat, is not what she expected. His stature is very lean, but much taller than herself, she estimates. His features are sharp and angular with lines separating the different sections of his face. He wears vintage clothes: a trim black suit and brimmed hat with a small feather. As he sits down, he smiles, the corners of his mouth shift up at two points. She stares at him, mouth parted.

“Thank you.” He continues to smile. She watches as the colors from her hologram screen dance across the plain black circles of his eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry. I accidently scanned your drink, Alana.” The sound of her name brings her back.

“Oh, it’s okay.” She grabs her coffee and takes a gulp. The barcode tucked neatly behind her fingers.

"I'm Ganymede."

"Hi."

“Well.” He pauses, filling the silence. “So, what are you working on?”

“Huh?” Alana licks the java chips from her lips and puts down the cup. She looks back over the screen and collects her words. “It’s a report about the social-cultural-something-whatever before the um, android uprising of… oh, damn I forgot the year. And technology is supposed to fit in there somewhere. ” She bites her lip and grabs her coffee again.

“That sounds interesting. I’ll leave you to that. It seems like quite a bit of work.” Ganymede nods. His smile shifts down as he connects to the Coffee Exp program. The entrance of silence shakes her this time. She can’t seem to ignore his presence. She watches him pull out an old fashioned notebook from his jacket pocket. Notices the lack of lines and groves on his fingers. He sets the leather-bound book on the table and his hand returns to his jacket for an ink pen. The movement of his limps and digits is like a passionate pianist moving across ivory keys. He floats.

“Did you need something?” he asks.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Alana’s eyes burst wide open and her cheeks flare. She begins to blink uncontrollably and sorts through windows to hoping to appear busy and focused.

“It’s alright. Do I make you nervous?”

“Of course not! I’m just ah… really stressed. Essay, you know.” She says, eyes glued to the hologram screen. She begins to type away nervously, faster and faster until the typos outnumber the words.

“But how ever will you write a good essay about people like me, if you can’t even sit next to a person like me to write a good essay?” he replies. Alana swallows deeply, stuck staring into the empty black circles of his face, seeing her reflection in them as he leans forward. The question starts to sink in and she frowns. Still facing her, his jaw slowly drops as if an ancient drawbridge. Almost at once, it pops back up and he sits back into his seat. Her brows pinch together and she opens her mouth to speak, but closes it again, unable to find the words.

“Did… forgive me, but did you just yawn?” she asks, immediately realizing the rudeness of her question.

“Of course not. What good would that do? You see, sometimes there is this sound—well, let me just show you.” Ganymede leans forward again and motions Alana to come closer. They meet caught inside the blue glow of the hologram screen. His smooth, pewter fingertips turn her face away. She looks at the coffee house guests as a few customers glare at her. Then she hears a low buzzing. It reminds her of the sound that would flood her ears after her grandmother would turn off her antique television set. His fingertips release her and the sound quiets away. She sits back down and turns to him. Ganymede smiles and signals with his hands to pause and pay attention. His jaw drops again, then pops up. Instantly, they both bounce up and turn their faces away. Her cheek nudges against his accidently. She half expects it to be cold, but instead it’s matte and smooth. Her eyes shut as it all sinks in. So distracted, she almost forgets what to listen for.

“It’s gone,” she whispers. She turns back around to see that he’s returned to his seat. Quickly, she sits back down and grabs her cup of coffee again.

“I think you lot have something similar that goes funny with your jaw.” He resets the Coffee Exp connection and waits for it to load. “Do you come to Metropolis often?”

“Hmm? Oh, I usually go to the coffee house across the street, but it’s closed for some reason. You?” Alana sets down the coffee and closes the hologram.

“Oh, yes. I used to work here a very long time ago. Back then, they kept the change and debit/credit data in us. You don't fill something with money if they know that can walk away and spend it. Ha, well. Now I mostly come here to tip the baristas. They make next to nothing and most of the costumers won’t tip an android to save their lives.”

“I haven’t heard that one in a long time…ah, the expression I mean.” She gulped again and attempted to look apologetic.

“We also have to write about the origins of artificial intelligence,” she says, hoping to prompt him to speak.

“Quite the controversial class you have there. Quite the complicated question. I think it boils down to curiosity. Not just the childish kind, but a burning desire to know. You lot are so very intelligent, but were created and left without the knowledge of why you are here. I think that a long time ago, you tried to create yourselves again. Create yourselves with your minds instead of your sex. With math and machines. But instead of answering that question, you made something entirely different. It’s very unfortunate for you. I know why I am. I even know how I am. But you don’t even know who you are.”

The two of them sit quietly for a moment. Alana starts opening her mouth to speak. A woman with a large bag walks by and bumps into Ganymede’s head. She readjusts her shoulder strap and continues walking. A small yellow light flickers in his left eye for a few seconds.

“Excuse you!” Alana shouts. “Are you alright? Is that light supposed to be blinking?”

“Oh yes. It’s my balance. I’m just recalibrating.” His head nods to the left just before the yellow light switches to green. Her eyes are fixed on it. Her fingers grip the edge of the seat in anticipation. Her mouth falls wide. The little green light fades back to black.

“Expecting sparks, love?” He chuckles as he finally opens the leather-bound notebook. “You don’t leave much to the imagination with these facial expressions of yours.” Alana bites her lip, feeling her skin run red. She reaches for the coffee, but this time the cup is almost weightless. She sets the cup back down and watches Ganymede doodle. The pen rolling back and forth, pooling about in circles, spiraling like fluid, he doesn’t draw figures or people or landscapes. He draws shapes. She drops her head down so that her bangs and a few loose strands of hair fall in her face. She then tilts her eyes up to watch his face as her draws. His face is lined with harsh angles and dips in at his cheeks and temples. The ceiling lamps make circles on his forehead and they bob up and down and he nods to the shapes on the pages. The bottom of his chin nearly makes a parallel line with the table then slopes back deep into the point of his collar, under the knot of his tie. On his jaw hinge, there is a small circle branded in the middle with an asterisk-like symbol.

“Never mind that woman,” he says without drawing his gaze away from the page. “People are people are people. You know, they are just rude.”

“You’re so content about everything,” Alana says quietly, still watching him.

“Hmm? Content? I don’t know. I just really don’t give most people the time of day. You see this shape?” he says, pointing to a box floating above some bubbles. “Now, this is a square. But it’s also a rhombus as it is a diamond, a rectangle, a parallelogram, a polygon…. It’s a little bit of everything. It just depends on how you look at it.” Alana leans forward and pulls her hair away from her face again. She looks at the shapes on the page. She sees the square. She turns her face and sees the diamond. She looks to the left and sees his fingertips and remembers that they feel less like metal and more like foam.

“The trick is you don’t need to change the square. You see?” He leans in and smiles. The asterisk hinges turning a few degrees. He takes her hand and brings it towards the middle of the table, palm down. His head casts a shadow on her hand as he doodles something. The cold metal ball runs across the back of her hand and it tickles. The wet black ink leaves a trail on her skin and it feels good. Ganymede sits up and caps the pen with a click. She looks down at her hand to see a square with a question mark in the center.

“Hahaha, you get it?” He continues to chuckle to himself. He presses a button on the Coffee Exp. It has run out. “I’ll be back. I need to take this back to the counter.” He begins to stand up.

“Wait, Ganymede. Couldn’t you tell me more? I still don’t know much anything about the uprising.” Her hand reaches for his sleeve and tugs.

“Well, what is it that you want to know?” he asks and sits back down. She seems to have his attention. She licks her lips, preparing them for speech.

“I want to know why?”

“Why?”

“Yes. Why that woman bumped into you. Why I didn’t tip the barista. Why people use the wrong verbs. Why you’re giving me the time of day.” Alana takes a deep breath. Her hands hold onto the table as if she might take off.

“That is a complicated series of questions,” he says, fixing his tie, “Maybe all that square mumbo-jumbo took your brain too far. I think you’re onto something completely different.”