"You are a boil on the butt of humanity and a cancer cell to this family!” Those were the last words she would ever say to him. For 22 years they had shared most everything, a bathroom, a house, parents, one older brother, several dogs, and for a brief period in time a high school. In 22 years they moved together with their family 4 times, buried 2 grandparents, and got in more fist fights than she cared to think about. He was her big brother, one of few links to her past and the only sibling close enough in age to fully understand the angst of what seemed like a never ending power struggle for parental affection. This is her confession. She didn't feel guilty after she uttered that last statement to him and to date she still doesn't. She knows that despite the tantrums, the anger, and the fights there was always something underneath it all. She knew that if she really needed him although he may take his sweet time, he would be there. He knew that if there was some obstacle he could not take on himself he could find some way of "ordering" her to help him. The only fight she got into in the 6th grade was because of him. Someone was picking on him and God knew that she could wail on him all she wanted but if anyone dared hurt him she would be out for blood. They didn't mess with him again after that. Although there was 22 months in-between them (he the older) she had always been the more mature. This is not a "girls mature faster than boys" thing either. He was ADD and ADHD with a touch of autism. He could function alone or with very few people in the room but if you threw anymore than that he would go nuts.
It was a cold day, she remembered that fairly well. Her boyfriend and her had been shopping for Christmas stockings and had been having a great time. When they got back to the car she saw that she had missed a phone call from her dad. "Hi dad, guess what I just got."
"Princess, something's happened." Immediately, something's wrong. He hadn't called her princess since she was about five years old.
"What's wrong dad?"
"John's gone." There was no need to ask where, she could tell by his tone.
"Daddy, no." she whimpered. After that the conversation goes blurry - something about his heart just stopped and there was nothing anyone could do.
The immediate pain she feels isn't hers; it belongs to the voice of the man on the other end of the phone. A man whom she had never seen flinch so much as cry whose voice had a deep somber pain behind it. It belonged to her mother a woman who had already buried one son and would now have to bury another. Her pain wasn't until later.
The nightmares started nightly. The brief hours during an insominiatic sleep had been over run with dreams of him dying over and over again. Within a month she was dreaming him alive only to relive the pain of reality every time she awoke.
It has been months now. She still drives every few days for hours at a time at night. She fights so hard not to lose the sound of his voice and his huge smile. She fights hard to keep a list of reasons for not killing herself fresh in her mind. After all, her mother shouldn't have to bury 3 children. She also can't bear to think of hurting her boyfriend like that. He less than her mother, still the only thing that keeps her from harming herself is the knowledge of the pain she would be causing others. The knowledge of the pain that her brother's death has caused her. She knows that one day she will be able to feel the sun and not tear up knowing that he can not. Until then she clings tight to the memory of the last thing she said to him. It sounds odd but she knows that the harsh criticism of him was who they were as siblings. Him introverted and afraid, her extroverted and fiercely independent. They were two sides of the same coin. They knew that the anger that flared up between them stemmed from a hidden jealousy of the other. He was jealous of her ability to start conversations with anyone, she jealous of his unconditional (if misguided) affection for those he cared for.
This has been my confession.
I miss him.
Showing posts with label confession. Show all posts
Showing posts with label confession. Show all posts
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Confession, Submission 3 by Ryan Wrenn
He stops a verse in, not hearing it right. Takes a step back and repositions his fingers on the strings of the ancient acoustic. The crowd is patient and quiet. He starts again from the beginning but the guitarist starts again from where they left off. Again they both stop. A small encouraging, laughing cheer rolls across the crowd. The guitarist moves closer to him now, face to face. They look down at each other’s hands watching for cues on when to start. They begin.
A song about a girl he knew for six months ten years ago. A song about a girl he thought mattered then but doesn’t in any way matter now, at least to him. To the people that recognize the opening chords and hum along, then sing along, it may mean more. But now he watches the hands, the long and skinny fingers of this man he’s known for seven albums and thirteen tours and how many years before that when the band didn’t have a name and was really nothing but noise coming from the basement of his mother’s house. Watches them strum out this tune that comes out mechanical to their ears now, so stale is it from repetition. And wonders what it felt like when it did matter. Yet when he begins to sing his face cringes out the words achingly. A twenty foot screen behind him magnifies the feigned anguished for those on the lawn to see.
Here’s the verse he penned on the side of the expressway when it came to him as he drove. He’d pulled over just to write it down. His eyes close as he tries to conjure the air that day in his nostrils. The guitarist slides gracefully into the chorus, still standing close. For a moment they sing together.
The crowd cheers its approval when the song picks up and his voice deepens to a bitter anger for just a moment before returning to the indifferent whine he has become famous for. He squints out through the spotlights. The audience is a shadow swaying along to the rhythm. Massive and empty, like standing on the beach and looking out over the ocean on a moonless night. He feels as if he could fall into them.
The original recording was much too short to be a single so the producers had them stretch and pad out the song with him singing (in various strained tones) the girl in question’s name over and over while the guitarist belted out the hook in sync with the repetition. It sounded better that way, he admitted then and still thinks now. Even if the name seemed to lose weight with each utterance. The critics then pointed out how the song was the culmination of the album’s intensity, it being the last track on a ten-track LP they released in 1994 that eventually went triple platinum. The conclusion, this girl’s name indifferently whined to infinity, the strongest testament to the band’s new sound. Nay, not just the band’s new sound…a new sound in general. Critics today cite the song regularly when the Next Big Thing releases their annual album, and it’s always been a fan favorite at these sold out pavilion concerts.
In his periphery he sees the drummer and bassist come back out on stage for the fiery conclusion. The crowd cheers so loud it drowns out the sound of his own guitar. Lights on stage ignite in a dark rainbow of blues and reds and yellows. Lighters flick to life among the blackness in front of him. He releases his grip from his guitar as the band kicks in. He grabs the mic with both hands and slowly, deliberately, effortlessly, painfully, indifferently whines out a forgotten girl’s name.
An Unplanned Admission, Submission 3 by Jay Johnson
"What's with all these brochures?"
"They're from adoption agencies. I'm thinking about adopting a child."
"You're serious? YOU are going to try and adopt a kid?"
"Yeah, but I'm going about it a little differently."
"Oh yeah? How so? Why are you even trying this anyway? You know you don't stand a chance at passing the 'parental' tests and crap they do to see if you're fit."
"I think I am fit and prepared, and I think they will see that. Perception is reality, my friend. Besides, the babies I am interested aren't in high demand. They'll practically be giving them away."
"How's that? What kind of baby are you trying to adopt?"
"An A.I.D.S. baby."
"An A.I.D.S. baby?"
"Yes, an A.I.D.S. baby. You know – like those babies that are born addicted to cocaine, because the mother was addicted? Like that, but…"
"Yes, Yes! I know what an A.I.D.S. baby is! Why in the hell are you even thinking about this?"
"I want to adopt a tragedy."
"You want… WHAT? That is some of the lamest, post-modern, 'I'm trying to be shocking – thus deep – thus substantial' bullshit I've ever heard. I am seriously questioning our friendship, right now."
"Chill out man. The kid gets a loving home environment and I can see if I like being a parent. And, if I don't, well, the kid does have A.I.D.S. so it's not, you know…"
"Oh my God."
"…a permanent situation."
"I don't know if I can go on with this narrative. This is, maybe too fucked, even if it is just a short fiction story."
"Stop it. No breaking the fourth wall."
"Third wall."
"Is it? Maybe you're right. Yes, third wall, or whatever. Either way, knock it off. Besides, think about all the trim I will score with this! Girls will go apeshit when they hear I've adopted an A.I.D.S. baby. They'll see how sweet and sensitive and tragic it is."
"Fuck you, man. That's what this is all about, isn't it? Women. And, not even just trying to get laid. Admit it; this is some sick manifestation of your fucking intimacy issues."
"You're ruining this. You're ruining the dark, humorous punch line that I was building up to."
"Fuck that and fuck you. You're so terrified of building intimacy and it failing again and getting hurt that you're just going to go ahead and manufacture an intimate relationship of an already known quantity, which has a predetermined point of failure. Like a motor part in a car – built to fail at a certain mileage."
"What are you talking about?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about. And, by the way, you stole the whole 'wall-breaking' thing from that one guy's first book. Fucking plagiarizer."
"Plagiarize is such an ugly word. I prefer to think of it as a tribute. And, you've totally ruined the path this story was going to take originally."
"Good. You need to face this shit. You know what the biggest bitch of this whole situation is? It's that you know your mindset in this is fucked up, but you still maintain it, because you've completely lost your way. A.I.D.S. babies are not a proper metaphor for women. Intimacy isn't destined to always fail, like those kids are. And you know that, so quit being a self-fulfilling prophecy. You're smarter than that. Fix you're fucking life and learn to love yourself again."
"God, expository prose is so trite."
"Whatever, you're the one who got yourself in this situation. Don't be such a fucking cliché."
Selling the Drama, Submission 3 by Trish Pooladi
Treat me like a confession---
Hide me angry deep and hard
Beneath desires dreams obsessions
Prayer hate struggles and love.
When you see me run,
Then hide from me,
Break my chains
Then tie me.
Close your eyes and struggle blindly.
Suffer long and then in irony
Release me to make agony
And torture others mercilessly.
Now revel in their misery.
O vampire of pity,
I have a dark secret.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Prepubescent Passion, Submission 3 by Charlie Arnold
Dark 3mo 93
Did She Suspect, Submission 3 by Brian Zook
Their marriage was in shatters, but rekindling an old flame was not what he had in mind. He thought there would be no harm in looking up a college girlfriend and catching up over a drink. He just needed to sort through some things with somebody who understood him. His recollection of his former flame was that she was a good listener, unlike his wife, who came across as increasingly aloof.
He looked up her number and called her.
How long had it been? Eight years?
“Yeah, let’s get together.”
He was honest with his wife. Told her he was seeing an “old girlfriend” for a drink, and she didn’t ask any questions.
So there he was, sitting at the designated bar waiting for his former girlfriend to walk in. She peeked in, as if she wasn’t sure if this was the meeting place. She saw him and smiled. She was just as he remembered her. Brunette. Spunky. Fun. Just a few additional wrinkles around her eyes.
They quickly ran through their “How’ve you been’s” and “Remember when’s” and got down to more serious catching up. He found out she was recently divorced. She kept talking about her adjustment to being a divorcée and inability to cope alone. He felt obligated to help, but knew his boundaries. After a couple of drinks they parted and he promised to keep in touch. It was an overall pleasant encounter between old friends, and it felt good to unload, but he didn’t like seeing her so sad.
A chance encounter with her the following month lead to another friendly chat and another invitation to meet more formally. This time they decided to get together at a restaurant that he suggested, and she told him to invite his wife. He made some excuse about his wife hardly ever being around and told her it would just be him.
So they met again.
Again, over dinner, the divorce came up. He expressed his concern. She thanked him. He felt strangely attracted to her, but remained professionally platonic.
Is this being unfaithful? No, nothing had happened. He had even told his wife that he was meeting her again, this time for dinner.
“So who is she, just out of curiosity?” asked his wife.
Other than an intrigued look on her face when he mentioned her name and who she was married to, she was cool with it. Cool?
Did she suspect?
Did she know?
Did she even care?
Another encounter was arranged between the old friends. This time she chose the restaurant and it was more cozy. At one point during dinner, during a particularly vulnerable remark that he was making, she reached out and briefly placed her hand on his. He let her. She quickly withdrew her hand and visibly blushed. He gave an awkward smile, but he was just trying to be polite. Then he reached for her hand, and they held hands across the table. His heart was beating audibly, and his mind was just a blur. What were they, teenagers again?
Slippery slope. Point of no return?
Oh, but the thrill!
Nip this in the bud, he thought. Later that night after he got home and after much mental turmoil, he called her and told her he couldn’t see her again. She understood. The tryst was over.
Next, he decided to confess his wandering heart to his wife. He assured her that nothing had happened. Not even a kiss. Just friends catching up.
His wife listened at first, then smiled and finally burst out laughing. She couldn’t contain herself. The irony was unbearable. She finally leaned over and told him uncharacteristically bluntly:
“Honey, why do you think she’s divorced? I’m having an affair with her husband!”
Confession, Submission 3 by Lee Martin
“I’ll be home soon, honey. I had an impromptu astromeeting,” said David.
“Ok. Would you like me to generate FishStics® for tonight’s eating interval?” asked David’s wife Helen.
“Nah, I was thinking cosmoburgers.”
“Sure! I’ll see you when you come home!”
David winked at the screen in his autotran, and the connection was closed. He kicked back and looked through the clear glass bubble above his head. His sunglasses shone with the reflection of a clear blue sky while a stock price ticker passed at the bottom of the right lens. “Life is good,” said David, and so did the sticker on the back of his autotran pod as it zoomed over the courseway on his trip back home.
He knew somewhere above him, or perhaps below him, Helen’s autotran was flying back home, too.
“Yuck, FishStics®. So gross.”
Their pods arrived at their home dock at almost the same time. Helen stepped out wearing a streamlined black and silver dress, large globular silver earrings, and tall chrome boots with glowing colored lights that brought her just under David’s height. David stood at the front door, silver jacket over his shoulder, two days worth of a beard, black-and-orange striped tie loosened over a silver shirt. Helen smiled at him as she walked toward the door.
“I wonder if the kids are home yet,” said Helen.
Their HomeTM was a recent model with tall windows framed in a durable concrete mixture. From the 132nd floor they had a wonderful view of the opposing 132nd floor of the adjacent units.
David turned to smile at his wife as he held his wrist to the doorplate, and after a soft click and a little tune played from a small speaker, the door swung open. The sunlight poured over their modern furniture and plants. Little screens on the walls told important bits of information; temperature, pressure, percent of breakfast cereal consumed per person per day…all the metrics to lead a modern life.
“It feels a little cool in here…” said Helen. “ALICE! What temperature is set as the default for Friday afternoon?” she asked. “Hello, Helen. Our unit is configured to offer an average Friday afternoon temperature of 68°. Would you like a cappuccino?” replied a squeaky voice from a recessed speaker in the ceiling. Helen set her astrobag down on the mech-couch. “Well it feels much colder than that! And the digiLamp is missing! And where is my compuCoffeepot?” Small shiny pieces of metal, screws, and wires were sprinkled on the floor.
“Honey! In here!” exclaimed David.
Helen ran into the kitchen, only to find a large hole in the wall. They gazed out at the autotran pods flying by on the countless courseways.
“Billy? Jane?” called David. “I think our house has been iBurglarized!”
“Are you serious?” cried Helen.
“Helen, I am e-serious.”
“Honey, look…” whispered Helen.
On the table sat a note, hastily written in crayon.
“Dear mom and dad,
I turned Jane into a cyborg. I’m sorry!
-Billy.
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