Thursday, May 6, 2010
More from The Project
Those that have been watching me for a while know that I post little 'shorts,' things that can't even be called flash fiction because they're not even a page long. I have a collection of these that I've written over time for what I call The Project. I doubt anything will ever come of it. I feel the need to say again, these are not ME. These are characters. I hope you enjoy.
The dishwasher sings its song of labor and the cadence isn’t in rhythm to the notes that escape my speakers. Yet, somehow it is a lullaby in the background to the angry sound of someone else’s pain, and together they bring me comfort. Or at least as much comfort as anything can anymore. The gods know my bed brings me none.
I’ve walked to the freezer at least three score today, but walk back to my desk empty-handed. I randomly stick my head in there and rest it against the cold surface, hoping that there will be jolt to my brain that will end this fog that muddles me. So far, it’s a no go.
The cardboard lined contents within are less satisfying than the cigarette that hangs from my mouth, and I can’t get myself to sacrifice one for the other.
Besides, the smoldering stick has fewer calories and zero trans fat and I’m
watching my girlish figure these days, even though watching it doesn’t make it shrink. With any luck, cancer will consume my folds of cellulite and I’ll be a lighter carry to the grave. I wouldn’t want anyone to strain themselves on my account, after all. Especially since my pallbearers will be strangers and my grave not as shallow as I’d prefer.
My leg shakes in the nervous fidget that pissed my mom off when I was a kid, but even after all these years, I can’t abandon the need to keep the leg moving. It’s a representation of my racing thoughts and my body’s desire to get started on one of the zillion projects that stampede through my frenzied mind in a blink. Doctors try to call it Attention Deficit Disorder, but that’s because they’re two-dimensional in thought and depth. They don’t understand that I just see so much more than they do, and my poor human brain can’t keep up.
Just another limitation of this flesh. Something I’ve grown accustomed to, but still resent.
Who is God? He is who I blame when everything goes wrong, that entity that conspires against me and makes this world a dark and terrible place just so I have a harder day. Sometimes, I worry that I’m too self-involved. God is the one that is never there for me when I need him. God punishes me whether I am good or bad. God is who I beg to make the pain stop.
Oh, wait. That’s you. Are you my God?
Funny. I thought you’d be taller.
But your inability to apologize is no surprise. With each word you throw at me like a dagger, you pin me to the wall in my mind. Careful now, it’s crumbling around the edges of the holes your words leave behind when they are yanked back out with a kindness that drips with falsity. Could have, would have, should have, can’t.
This is what I think when I hear you say you love me.
Time stops when the page is empty
and sounds are mere echoes in my eyes
faces and places, all long forgotten
and happily so, until that song plays
Yellow bunnies and pink chickens
poisonous plants used for decoration
orange squash savaged and set alight
each a holiday memory long buried
And even now I hear cheerful tunes
ones that make me want to rip off my ears
times best held at a distance in my mind
lest I stab the next perky chum in the head
Or maybe just that bitch at the office
I’ve been wanting an excuse, after all.