Forked road

I fell in love once.  I can pinpoint the moment I knew it was her I needed. The moment I saw her. That should’ve been the first sign. I am a blind man.’ Her and I’ quickly became ‘us’. Love never comes without it’s high. Something about that person tells you that they will tether you on to the cliff you’re bound to fall off. A quaint relaxation that a missing part of you returned to its original place.

Helen was a work of art. Watching her walk was entertainment. Not just for me. Everyone saw it. To be present, was an honor. It didn’t feel very honorable two years after we moved in with each other. The perfect image of the sturdy rope that you draw for yourself quickly dissolves with every bastardization of the reality you drew. It was cute that she snorted after laughing. I once wanted to strangle her during a comedy film.

I ended it two weeks ago. The fight was stupid. All of them were. Over the four years we were together, we came to understand how flawed our image of each other really was. I came back home one night, after spending a few hours at the bar with my friends, and I found her waiting for me on the chair in front of the door. Had it not been for her texting me a million times about when I’d be back home, I would have been shocked.

She asked me to give her my phone.

“Why?”

“I just want to see it, give it to me.”

I pulled out my phone, and gave it to her. I didn’t feel like going through the hassle of a fight, and there wasn’t really anything in it that needed hiding. She quickly tapped in my code and started going through my phone.

“I didn’t know you had my password.” I said.

“Yea, well, I do.” she quickly replied, without even glancing up for a moment.

I walked around her, and went to the bedroom where I changed into my pajamas. I brushed my teeth, and sat on my lavatorial throne. I reached into my pocket as I squeezed, only to remember where it was. I then realized I hadn’t had a quiet shit in more than three months. The only time one shits peacefully is at work.

She called for me from the living room just as I finished wiping. It happened so often, that at that moment I had a revelation that I might have been turned into a dog.

“Pavlov’s fucking dog.” I said to myself, as I pulled up my pants, looked in the mirror, smiled at my handsome self, and got out into the hallway.

“Nadel.” she moaned.

“I’m coming. I’m coming.” I said. “Can I have my phone back now? Are you happy?”

“No, I’m not happy. I know you’re keeping a secret from me.”

“What?”

“You’re hiding something, and I don’t fucking like it.” she said, pushing the phone into my hands.

I grabbed her by the arm as she turned away.

“Wait, just. Hold up.” I said, bringing her near to me. “I’m not hiding anything, I promise. Where the hell did that idea spring up from anyway?”

“It said it on my horoscope.”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. Mona Lisa was burning right in front of my eyes. I remembered the first time I made her laugh, and how perfect she was. How flawless. To me, she was God’s masterpiece in engineering. So how was it that I was being bombarded by a Lego wall built by a limbless toddler?

“I can’t take this shit.” I said, letting her arm go, and returning to the bedroom.

She stayed in the living room and watched television.”E! TV”. I laid in bed, and surfed the internet for a while. I heard Kim Kardashian sobbing from the living room, and something clicked in my brain. I searched for her porno, and I masturbated. I hadn’t jerked off in longer than three years. There was a certain sense of liberation and comfort after that, and I rode that pleasurable feeling into a blissful nap.

She woke me up at three o’clock in the morning.

“I’m sorry.” she said.

“It’s fine, we’ll talk tomorrow.” I yawned at her.

“I won’t be able to sleep if we don’t talk about this.”

I took a deep breathe and imagined a marine assaulted me out of no where and drenched me in cold water.

“Alright, I’m up.”

“I don’t know.” she said, “Those things are almost never wrong, and you know how I feel about them.”

“It’s fine. Can I go to bed now?”

“No, not yet.” she said, giving me a playful smile. “Remember when we first met?”

I nodded slowly, still smacking my eyelids together, trying to let them know they’ll be working for a while.

“I asked you what you think about fate. Do you remember what you said?”

“You make me feel like it’s not bullshit.” I said with a nostalgic smile.

“And you remember when you used to read the horoscopes with me and laugh about how you’d see them happening?”

I laughed, and realized that it’s only nostalgic if you lost it in the first place. The marine came back and gave me a good kicking, and drowned me in ice.

“Where are you going with this, Helen?”

“Do I still make you feel that way?” she said. “Do I still make you feel like fate and everything beautiful in the world isn’t complete bullshit?”

“No,” I blurted out. “not a single bit.”

I kept cold and wore a marine’s poker face. She started sobbing.

“I could feel it you know.” she sobbed through her palms.

“I don’t know what to say. It’s just not there anymore. The world is as dull as it always was, and your glitter faded. Everything I loved about you never existed. I was sold a bad product, and so were you. It’s my fault. It really is. I don’t regret any of it, but we should have known.”

She cried louder, and nodded her head.

“You’re a fucking fool, you know that?!” she yelled at me. “You think you’ve got it all figured out. ‘Mister nothing makes sense’. You and your stupid fucking ways. You just can’t follow anything, can you? There’s no fucking way to make you even think that any of that was possible. You’re so stuck up your own ass, you can’t see what’s right in front of you. You don’t take anyone’s bullshit, I’ll give you that. But it’s only because you’re so in love with your own.”

“Tell me, then. What’s in front of me?” said the marine.

“Love, you son of a bitch. True love. We have something special, and you’re throwing it out the window.”

“Love?” I said, “Love is a lie Hollywood made up so we can populate more and create more consumers. Love is a satire taken serious. What we had was special. Nothing in the world can ever recreate it. It ran its course. I don’t want a part of it anymore. I want out, Helen.”

She sobbed again. Louder, and then louder. I sat and I watched.

“You’re breaking up with me?”

“Yes.”

She sobbed harder, and I got up to wear my clothes.

“Where are you going?” she asked “Let’s talk about this.”

“We just did. I’m going to sleep at Jerry’s tonight.”

She went to the living room, and I could hear her cry. I could hear her cry all the way until the end of our stoop. I looked back at the life I built over the past four years. If fate intended this, then it’s nothing but a bad joke. I took out a cigarette, looked at the side walk that split in two opposite directions, and wondered where I should go. There was no way Jerry is awake. I felt like being alone anyway.

Left or right. Fortuna depended on it. There must be a correct path, I thought to myself. There must be the perfect path. I stood there for a while. I smoked three cigarettes by the time I realized what I had to do. I went in between both paths in front of my chain linked fence. I closed my eyes, and I spun. I don’t know how many times. I made it a goal to not count.

It’s not a mistake if I didn’t decide it. When I stopped turning, I saw that I had spun right back to where I started. Facing the street. I stepped off the sidewalk, and went to the other side, and my feet declared the direction on their own. I had no idea where I was going, and I didn’t care. Nothing I did was right. Nothing I did was wrong. My feet started walking faster. Before I knew it, I was running.

 

 

 

The dead owe us nothing

The sound of snow crunched under his little boot covered feet, and the wind gently slid on the sides of his face, leaving his nose a little redder with each waft. On passing, he saw an old man sitting on a bench, alone, throwing dry chunks of bread to no one in particular. He went around the cemetery once and realized there weren’t any birds. On his return, the old man still sat hunched forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, throwing small chunks from a dried piece of toast with his thick fingers.

“There’s no birds around.” said the boy.
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Holy smokes

He nestled his head into the rims of his coat and walked into the dark streets lit by nothing but lamps. His cigarette laid comfortably on his lower lip, unlit, and soggy from the rain that was pouring heavily. His dark black hair dripped water into the insides of his shirt, and his walk swayed sideways. Had it not been for the distinct smell of the first winter’s rain, he would’ve been assaulted by his own odor, a mixture of whiskey and sweat.

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He who sat quietly

In solitude, you hear God’s voice. His silence fills the largest rooms with a deafening echo. To hear no one speak, is to be blessed with God’s music. None knew that better than the old man, sitting on a mountain top that he declared his long before anyone had stepped on its rigid rocks.

The five hundred and thirty year old man, with eyes that squinted in a constant smile, and wrinkles on his face that were dug by time, was the only one that spoke the Lord’s language. His dark hair lightened with the light of the sun, and shone with the moon’s luminescence, and his lips never parted more than thrice to interrupt his only friend’s conversation that spanned over the millennia.

The first time was when a bird with a broken wing landed itself in front of his rock. It sat and chirped in pain.

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El Matador

Señor Delgado was a wonderful dancer. When he wasn’t dodging bulls with a magnificent twirl and spin, he was breaking hearts somewhere on a dance floor. His charm rarely left him. Even when he took down vicious beasts attacking him, there was an elegance to his moves. His sword was golden, and his muleta was green. He rarely wore the tight shiny clothes, disregarding them for a salsa dancer’s suit.

For a matador, he was quite bulky. He had more muscles than subtlety. The kind of man that left you wondering how he could obviously try so hard, but make it look so simple.

My fondest memory of him was when I first saw him on television. He was pitted against a bull, ‘El Empalador’, three times the size of the largest bull I’d seen. A large bastard that impaled and dislocated limbs, yet never saw the chopping block. When the town decided it was his turn to die, Señor Delgado stood and told the congregation that he will take care of him, and so, it was his final dance.

The sun shone hard that day. We could see it through the cameras, and the sweat on everyone’s foreheads. Everyone but Delgado’s. He simply stood, like a magnificent structure, immovable by fear or heat. No blazing star could shine harder than he.

When the bull was released, the crowd cheered, and the Señor bowed for him. As if there were an unspoken respect between the two, the bull lowered his head, bowed, and let out a gust of air that set out the dust from under him, and started digging his hooves into the ground.

Señor Delgado unsheathed his sword, and it shone. It shone so hard the camera could show nothing anymore. I clenched my hands onto the couch seat in excitement. I could taste the crowd’s fear in our living room.

He took out his green muleta and yelled.

“Come beast. One of us will no longer dance tomorrow.”

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Fifty shades of Gandalf the Grey

CH I:

By all means, I was just a normal girl. The farthest extent of individuality I ever reached was the little journal I wrote in, the one you are reading right now, which in a sense, is you peering into my soul. My dirty, tainted, molested soul. If you’d turn the page backwards, you’d only find the ramblings of an innocent girl that plunged into the world after graduating University. At the top of her class no less. Thing is about the life of academia, is it could ready you for the trials and tribulations of business, or how to translate a sentence in Shakespeare’s works a hundred different ways, but what you will read later on, no university could have prepared me for. This entry began around the time I found my first apartment, where I shared a room with my friend Cindy. Now, I call her a friend because I found myself dumped into a job where I knew no one, spending the bulk of my day tending to an obese boss’s every need as his secretary, and a new city filled with hustle and bustle that I myself was impartial to. You see, I’m just a normal girl as I stated earlier. I’m not very active in the social lives of others, nor am I completely secluded and hidden away. I was used to having friends in school, a little group I would stick with, then the same in University, but after being dumped from the institutionalized world, I found myself completely lacking any human contact. I still speak to them on Facebook every now and then, but it’s not really the same. Our relationships were built on more shallow things. Gossiping, sharing events that happened around the day, and talking of the amazing parties we were going to.

Cindy however, was a well rounded individual when it came to everything. She had everything in order, at least, that’s the way I saw it. She was a journalist, working for a financial magazine, a beautiful woman that dated all sorts of men, that I some now and then got to see naked as they passed by my room, sometimes to get refreshments, other times tissues, and once, I believe a spatula. The walls were thick in our house, but not nearly thick enough to muffle Cindy’s screams. AT times it was the men that were screaming. I asked her what would happen on those nights, and she told me:

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A hopeful debauchery

Part I:

The streets were hectic with Christmas shoppers. Christmas eve has that effect. Wallace, however, was stuck in his office, waiting for word about his Christmas bonus, a well needed financial buffer. He looked at the clock. It was long after six. He was supposed to be on his way by now.

Even though everyone in his department didn’t get their checks, Wallace decided to stay. He wanted to be sure. He believed in his heart that a miracle could happen on a day like that. Why wouldn’t it? People feel great on Christmas.

He was waiting for his manager’s answer to his question.

“Mr.Labelle.” A big man, with a stomach that only seemed to be expanding, and big tree trunk legs that somehow held the weight of it all.  “Sir. I was just wondering if I’m going to get a bonus this year. I was kind of counting on it.”

“Wallace. Listen.” said Mr.Labelle. “The company suffered too many losses this year. We didn’t hit any quotas, and we’re barely afloat. We can’t afford your bonuses this year.”

“But, sir.”

“We just can’t afford it. If you want you can take it up with top management. I’m getting snuffed on my part, too. Orders from way up.”

Not much could be argued with a command from upstairs. Those were the orders you accepted like a soldier in the war of financing.

Now, it was too late for him to argue back. Wishing got him nowhere. No gifts for him, his wife, or his son, Goya.

In his car, Wallace kept looking at all the people, wave after wave entering the shops. Some left the stores with big shopping bags, others, wrapped boxes of sealed love, ready to be distributed.

While he etched his way through the scores of vehicles, his wife, Samara was cleaning Goya’s room. She started with the clothes and made her way to Goya’s bed.

She took up a pillow, and fluffed it, slapping it on both sides, shaping it into a fine dough. Under the pillow sheets, she felt a paper. She reached in, and took it out.

Her eyes had just read the first sentences. “DEAR SANTA,” it said. The handwriting was full of childish joy, naivety, and a hint of intense belief.

The door slams downstairs, and Goya yells “daddy!”.

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Binary Smiles

 

I:

I’m winning an award tomorrow. I always wanted to win something. At least be good enough at something for people to acknowledge me. In an odd way, life took its twists and turns and landed me somewhere in between the realms of possible, and the continuation of what seems to be a horrible joke. I would say most of my life is a joke.

I think when my lights shut off, all I’ll hear is a loud budum-tis, and life kind of wither away towards its own whims.

Now that I think about it, this had been a twist of fate that I should have expected.

It all started with her.

I met her when I was fifteen. Those were dark times for me. A little more than most, but not much more than many others.

When I say ‘we met’, what I really mean, is we found each other on Random-Chat. It was a new idea back then. Now, it’s just a place for old men to jerk off. The sad part is. There aren’t any real girls, not any more at least. There’s a few porn videos out there showing that women go on there and get naked, but I figure that’s just propaganda to keep men going there.

Before all that. It was just a basic website, that linked you to other people looking for a random person to talk to. Even in the simplest of times, horny men always found a way to talk to women. We developed a system, to filter out all the other men, and stick around when what seems to be a female was present.

We’re efficient like that.

Classy. Women with class drive me insane.

I used to call them girls. But a short while ago I had this epiphany that I was no longer attracted to “girls”. It’s an odd distinction. It’s not about age, it’s not even about looks. There’s just some certain characteristic that can turn even a kindergarten student into a lady. It’s an odd thing.

Back to how I got here in the first place.

It was the lord’s year, 2015.

The lord. What an ass hole.

At the time I was a chubby kid. I had dropped out of high school, and everything else I went into. Three times I was kicked out. The other two I just quit.

You: asl?

Stranger: 20/f

That was the first thing we said to each other.

I hypothesize, that a simple “f” will become sufficient to turn on men in the future. Purely because of chatting.

The odd thing about that night, was that we just spoke. I had someone to listen to me. It felt amazing. She was older than I was. She had no need to stick around, unless she was interested in a fifteen year old boy. That’s common on websites like that now. Women, and men, looking for teenagers to have online sex with. There’s a big market for it on the internet too.

But she wasn’t like that. We spoke. We were both weird. She knew more about it than I did.

II:

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Prestigious 314

Bressarian and the rest of the three-fourteen platoon were straight out of training, “a set of nervous barely trained mutts good for nothing but extinction” as Sargent Backnely made it clear to them at arrival.

“You are here to do nothing but survive. You gon’ see a whole lot of dead comrades. Make sure you spit on them for failing their duty.”

Bressarian looked at Private Jennings, they’d trained together and heard about Sargent Backnely’s penchant for the overboard.

“God Damn it, boy!”

Before he had time to turn, Bressarian felt the cold tip of a 1911 .45 calibre aimed at the side of his brain.

The side he used to live. His favourite side.

“What’s your name, private?”

“Bressarian, sir.”, he murmurred.

“Now you see, here, this is what we call a failure to adapt.” Said Backnely. “Private Bressarian’s incapability of following the simple steps of survival this great institution instilled in him tells me one thing.”

Backnely takes the gun back, and holsters it. Bressarian reluctantly returns back into position.

The sargent turns back, and continues.

“The way to survive, has no rules. Only regulations. Every burst of a .50 cal is the enemy’s enforcer of those regulations. Do y-”

“Sir, you said you learned something, could you tell us what it was?” Yelled an indistinct voice.

“Who in the name of the virgin Mary’s period interrupted me?” Yelled Backnely. “Which no good, cock sucking, cow maneur smelling inbred, uneducated, illiterate fuck just interrupted me?”

The men stood silently and watched as Backnely breathed in and out his fill of the desert air like a bull ready to impale all in its sight.

Quickly he calmed down, and adapted a calm tone, still loud and demanding.

“I guess it’ll be like that then. I do respect the comradarie. I won’t give you any of that nonsense where I let you have a chance to come out. No.” He said, looking each man in the eye for no longer than two seconds.

Bressarian tried to shield his eyes by batting them many times, but only came out as flirtatious, making Backnely cringe every time he looked at him.

“But, the truth is, the one thing I know, is that private Bressarian is a leech, a parasite, a rotten cell blocking the arteries of success. Now I’m not saying the rest of you are anything more than the dried up piss on a retard’s diaper, but, Bressarian here takes the cake.”

“All of you. Tonight. You sleep in the field, except for Bressarian. You get to dine in our quarters, and sleep in your platoon’s barracks.”

Backnely looked at the men again, waiting for a sign of disagreement, a breath out of place, a look, anything.

Another morning, another mistake

I woke up in a stranger’s bed today. Again.

She’s not much of a stranger. I’ve seen her in one of my classes once or twice. It’s a bit less concerning.

There’s a condom on the floor. It’s empty.

Probably passed out in the middle of the damn thing.

She’s still naked.

So am I.

I look for my pants.

I reach for them, trying not to fall.

Fuck.

She jumps up, her tits follow.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

She giggles.

I get up, and she looks at me still.

She lays down on her side, and her hips are barely covered by the blankets, and her tits are smiling at me.

My dick and I admire her.

We both smile.

We didn’t talk.

I like talking while fucking.  She doesn’t. Or maybe doesn’t know how. Doesn’t matter now. I go to the bathroom and throw my seed into the bowl.

Kings. Geniuses. Writers. Mathematicians. Physicists. Poets. Lovers. Genetic faults. Parasites on my pocket. Meaning to my life. Flushed.

I puke. Not much food. Just phlegm and what tastes like Tequila and Whiskey being shoveled out of my throat.

I wash my face and leave. I forgot to flush. I’m not going back there.

She tells me to lay in bed. I tell her I can’t. I need to get moving.

I put on my pants. Underwear is gone somewhere. I check my phone. Barely any battery left, and three messages from the phone company. No one else.

The messages are saying I can’t afford sending any SMS’s.

I tend to send myself messages some times. Things I’d like to remember.

This message has thirteen repetitions of “Help”.

Looks like it’s been dealt with.

I check my jacket. My drink’s still there. Well, one fourth of it.

I drink it. It burns. Good. Fuel.

I get out of the front door and light my cigarette. It burns even more. My throat is dry like a desert, and burning like one too.

I take a final whiff of her off my jacket. Parts of the night return to me.

Her laying on the bed. The covers drooping off her hips onto her thighs. A little bit of pubic hair hiding geometrical perfection. Mona Lisa’s smile between her thighs.

I spoke of life. I spoke of pain. I spoke many truths and more lies.

An awkward morning may be better than a lonely night, but shitting where you eat will only get you both.