S.S.N.

We had a lot of people come and go from our house when I was a kid. Gary, who was deaf, and let us use his Mustang to drive to Pittsburg, lived with us for a few months while he got back on his feet. Rocky, who was a talented handyman, and took care of most of the issues around the house as a way to pay rent, he was with us for about a year. The summer between my Sophomore and Junior year in high school Shantell Spring Nashatka came to live with us. Her parents needed to relocate due to their jobs and Shantell wanted to finish out her senior year at the same high school, and being a friend of my sister we invited her into our house. She was a year younger than my sister and took her room when she went to college.

Shantell was a forward, confident, and attractive girl. I hadn't really met anyone as aggressive with life as she was. The fact that she moved into a house with people that she barely knew and made herself part of our family without hesitation intrigued me. Shantell fell into our household routines and followed the rules and curfews without complaints. I appreciated her not making a fuss and having her there was a much calmer life than when my sister was at home. She was nice. She was easy to converse with, and she was pretty.

It didn't take long for us to sit up and talk into the midnight hours after my parents went to bed. We would talk about our ambitions (hers were greater than mine) and our lives (without giving any secrets away). We would sit on the floor just outside of my room leaning against the walls and talk, and flirt, and giggle, all the while trying to be as quiet as possible so we didn't wake my parents on the other side of the house.

I would talk about church and how I was saving myself for marriage because that was what God would want. And I didn’t want to get any diseases because I had witnessed the things my sister went through, not that I thought Shantell had any. She would indulge my thoughts and not make fun of some of the ridiculous claims I tried to get her to agree upon. The exact moment we leaned in to kiss is a blur of a memory. I can say that I was shirtless and wearing a pair of short cotton shorts, which is what I wore to sleep in for years. And she most likely had on a pair of silk or cotton shorts with a spaghetti strapped top that matched.

Our nights over that summer and throughout the following year consisted of us talking at night and our conversations always led to our mouths pressed against each other and our hands finding all the warm and hard places under our shorts. Shantell would always joke as her hand was up the leg of my shorts, stroking me, that she wouldn’t take it too far because I was “saving myself”. I always thought it was a funny thing to do but appreciated her understanding what my limits were.

It would have been a winter night or early spring, because she was wearing this ‘little house on the prairie’ flannel gown that went down to her ankles, that things went further than they had before. I was wearing my usual faded yellow tan cotton shorts, and only the shorts. I remember we were in the kitchen on the floor this night with my back against the refrigerator. As we kissed and her hand was between my legs and I was getting harder with each stroke she moved her mouth to my ear and down my neck. I tilted my head to feel her breath run down my neck. She traced the tendons of my neck down to my shoulder with the tip of her tongue and placed her hand on my chest. With the perfect amount of gentleness and pressure she pushed me away from the refrigerator to lay on the floor.

Her mouth created a trail of goosebumps over my chest as she moved closer to the elastic band of my shorts, her hand never loosing rhythm between my legs. I never objected to any of this despite so many of our conversations. She moved her hips so they were laying next to my chest and pulled down my shorts. Her hand raised me up to her mouth and the warmth that wrapped around me caused my hips to raise from the floor. She took my hand, opened her legs, and placed it where it had been many times before. I clumsily found my way inside of her and she pressed herself against me. 

Her hips matched the rhythm of her mouth, while my hips matched the rhythm of my hand. We were in tune and it felt better than anything I had experience before. I didn’t close my eyes. I watched every move of hers to ensure it was real. I kept my eyes on her because this was the first time it was happening with a girl. I kept my eyes open to ensure I was not imagining it to be a girl like I did when it was Vito.

We came together and I left my fingers inside of her while her hips slowed but didn’t stop. She kept me in her mouth until my erection subsided. She laid her head on my chest and we looked into each others eyes and smiled.

There was a flinch in my face and I sat up. I apologized. I said that should not have happened and I left her laying on the floor in the kitchen. I pulled the door to my room shut and locked the door. I was scared. I felt dirty, because I always felt dirty after that happened. I didn’t want to feel dirty and gross. I needed to wash it off. I took my shorts off and turned the shower to the hottest it would get. I climbed in and started scrubbing. I didn’t like how I felt and could not reconcile the conflict in my body of enjoyment and disgust.

Just as I stepped out of the shower there was a knock at my door and my mothers voice asking what I was doing. I opened the door wrapped in my towel, my hair still wet dripping on the carpet to see Shantell standing behind my mom.

She fucking went and woke up my mom to tell on me for taking a shower at one in the morning. She knew my mom would berate me with questions as to why I was showering so late, and ask me what was I doing. All in the vain of concern for my wellbeing. All because I walked away from our tender moment. But she didn’t know and I couldn’t tell her.

That was the last time we had our nightly conversations. The hurt on both sides I think ran too deep.

Salt on an open wound.

When I was fourteen my dad told me that salt is a coagulant, and if I ever have a cut that won’t stop bleeding if you put salt on it it will assist in stopping the blood flow. What he failed to mention was how the phrase “pouring salt on an open wound” came to be.

Kevin’s neighbor was out of town and it was his job to watch the house and gather the mail. There was also a vacant house across the street from him that was going on the market soon. So, naturally, we made a plan to sneak out at night and go into his neighbor’s house and look around, and to break into the house across the street. I had just returned from staying with my dad for the summer in South Carolina and always returned with a trunk load of fireworks because the types you could purchase there were superior to what was sold in Florida. And even with a big purchase of mortars and rockets I always returned with simple Blackcats, BottleRockets, and M-80’s.

I heard Kevin tap on my window, I had already removed the screen while I waited for him. I handed him my bag full of explosives and BB gun as I climbed out my window. He always met me at my house because his dog was a barker. We usually timed our adventures according to the lunar cycle, we liked it dark with a new moon so it was harder to see us in the shadows, but tonight the moon was full with a cloudless sky. It might as well have been dawn it was so bright. I slid my window shut.

We walked the fence line that cut down the center of the multiple half acre properties, hopping the occasional fence without a gate. We made it to the cut through back yard, the one with a treehouse platform in the back corner. We climbed onto the platform to discuss our strategy. But first, my quick draw, Kevin said. He laid on his back and I pulled my BB gun out of my bag and handed it to him. With both hands and arms outstretched he held the gun above his chest looking at the sky. He exhaled and turned his head to the right sighting the neighboring back porch light over the wooden privacy fence. His chest raised with another deep breath and with a slow exhale he dropped his right arm. As it hovered just above the decking he pulled the trigger. The pop of the air chamber sent a small copper ball whizzing through the chilled night air. Almost instantaneously the yellow porch light exploded with a dance of glass on the concrete patio. We cheered silently, climbed down and headed to his neighbors house.

Kevin dug into his pocket and pulled out the key to the garage door. The door brushed over the floor leaving an arc of dirt. The table next to the entrance to the house was piled high with mail, Kevin was told there was no need to go into the house while gathering the mail. We tried the door, it was locked. We tried the key, it didn’t work. We looked around the garage and Kevin found a rogue piece of wire and bent it into a hook. He slid it behind the door latch and while pulling on the handle he yanked the wire. The door flew open causing Kevin to stumble backwards. I caught him before we both crashed into the galvanized metal trash can.

We walked around careful not to move anything. We used the bathroom. We got bored. Locking the door we pulled it shut behind us and tossed the wire on the floor. We felt like ninjas as we darted from shadow to shadow crossing the street to the abandoned house. As luck was on our side that night, Kevin hit the porch light with one quick draw move, luck was on our side, the back sliding glass door was unlocked. We were in with no effort. We bounced around the rooms. Looking in all the closets for any other vagrant hooligans that may have stumbled upon the gold mine that was this vacant house. None were to be found.

Standing in the living room Kevin reached up and removed the glass bowl covering the light on the ceiling fan. He dug around in his pocket again and pulled out a lighter. Toss me a packet of Blackcats he said. I unshouldered my bag, pushed aside the thin wooden sticks that were the tales of the bottle rockets and tossed him two packs of tightly wound firecrackers. Kevin instructed me to stand over in the corner. He placed the firecrackers covered in thin red paper under the milky white glass bowl leaving only the fuse sticking out. Are you ready he asked? I nodded. He lit the fuse laying on his belly and rolled away leaving his back to the coming explosion.

Firecrackers that go off in an enclosed space are loud. Firecrackers that go off in a dark space are extremely bright. The glass bowl exploded covering the carpet with shards of all sizes. Neither one of us could hear or see, but we were both laughing. Kevin rolled over to stand up. Mother Fucker! I heard him yell through the ringing in my ears. I just cut myself.

The moon was shining in through the glass patio door and I could see black pouring down Kevin’s arm. He touched the flap of skin and pushed it back up holding it tight as blood made its way through his fingers. Fuck. We both said in unison.

Grab your bag. I think I’m okay. Let’s run back over to my neighbors and find some bandaids. Kevin was always calm in any situation.

Not trying to hide we ran across the street. Kevin pulled the key from his pocket smearing blood across his jeans. We were in the garage. I found the piece of wire and after three tries managed to open the door to the house. Kevin made it to the bathroom and turned on the faucet, bright crimson drops fell on the floor. The water in the sink turned a dark pink as he ran his wrist under the stream of aerated water. I went and found some paper towels and then started digging under the sink looking for any kind of bandage.

Cleaning all the blood off his arms Kevin looked at me and for the first time ever in our friendship I saw fear in his eyes. It won’t stop bleeding, he said. His face was ghostly, whiter than usual against his red hair. I unrolled another handful of towels and handed them to him. I have an idea. I remember something my dad told me. I’ll be right back.

I ran to the kitchen and found the blue cylinder with the little girl in a yellow rain jacket carrying an umbrella that I was looking for. It was heavy in my hand as I ran back to the bathroom.

“That’s salt,” Kevin said. “Yeah, my dad told me it’s a coagulant,” I said. “Are you sure?” Kevin asked. “Yes. My dad told me if I’m ever bleeding and it won’t stop you can use salt to stop the bleeding. Why would my dad make that up?” I pushed back. “Okay, let’s do it then,” Kevin said as the sink edges continued to gather red splatters. “Rinse it off one more time and pull back the flap of skin to make sure it gets down into the cut,” I said.

Kevin ran his wrist under the water, grabbed some paper towels and dried the skin all around the gash. I held the cardboard tube of salt at the ready with the metal spout aimed just above the jagged flap of skin. Kevin took the pink edge with a chunk of flesh attached and raised it away from the crimson hole and blood started to flow immediately. I tilted the container and salt cascaded over the metal tip and a river of white crystals filled the gash and turned into a glob of goo. Kevin’s other hand slammed down onto the top of the vanity. I looked up to see every muscle in his neck straining, his face twisting with agony.

“It’s working! Holy shit are you okay,” I asked with a fear filled whisper.

“p a p e r t o w e l,” Kevin panted.

The flow of blood was down to a drip. The salt covered his arm and was a mound of solid red crystals covering the gash. Kevin took the paper towels and squeezed his wrist with the full strength of his grip. Kevin’s back hit the wall and he slid to the floor, tears streaming down his cheeks. That was the only time I ever saw Kevin cry.

We sat in silence for forever. Kevin whispered he’d return tomorrow night to clean up the mess. He wanted to go home.

The next day Kevin came over to my house wearing a long sleeve shirt even though it was ninety-five degrees outside. I could just see the hint of white bandages under the cuff of his sleeve. We sat in my room playing Risk.

“I couldn’t tell you last night but that hurt so bad I wanted to grab your face and push you through the wall head first,” Kevin said.

I laughed. Kevin did not.

“No seriously, it took all it had in me to not break every bone in your face. I’m glad it worked. Because you were about to die,” Kevin said with no expression.

Kevin wore a long sleeve shirt for the rest of the summer and into the first week of school always with the edges of a bandage just poking out of the cuff of his sleeve.

The one with the Ant Lions

I can smell the earth, even while holding my breath. Dank and musty the dry earth wafts into my nose and clings to the inside. My face inches from the dirt. Eyes focused on one of the many conical depressions made by what I am hunting. Staring at the gray dirt as fine as powdered sugar and marbled with black that looks like the pile of ashes in the green ashtray on the end table by our flowered couch. I purse my lips and gently blow along the side walls of the trap set by the predator I am hunting. I watch the small trail of grains fall to the center of the hole. I continue to blow. My arms are starting to quiver holding my head as still as possible. In my right hand I have a red small plastic shovel. My eyes are focused on the center of the inverted cone watching for any movement.

In my peripheral vision I can see James’ low top Chuck Taylor shoes, faded blue, his only shoes worn all year at school. Today was the last day of third grade, and my mom wasn’t home from work yet, which gives us free reign of the house and yard, as long as we don’t bother by sister. This being her last day of fifth grade she is now, technically, in middle school and has assumed the actions of a vile sixth grader. James asks if I can see anything.

I focus while my breath pushes more dirt into the center. I am not glancing away. To catch a predator, you must be focused like a predator. I wiggle my left forefinger to signal to James there is no movement. On the third wag it happens. The depression in the center becomes a rising mound. I ready my shovel. I see two teeth emerge from the center. In my mind I was about to capture the Sarlacc rescuing Luke from Jabba the Hutt.

I jab my shovel just beneath the hole and slowly pour the contents into my hand sifting the gray dust between my fingers. Using a cluster of pine needles like a broom I brush aside the remaining dirt from the palm of my hand. I cackle with triumph rocking back on my heels. Raising my hand to James I show my catch. The beast I was tracking, caught in his own trap.

The Ant Lion sat in the smooth center of my palm its bulbous body searching for escape in my unforgiving skin. The mandibles of the beast opening and closing seeking for the prey my breath mimicked, the unsuspecting ant traveling along and falling into the conical trap sliding to its death.

James and I leap up with triumph and race to my sisters bedroom door.

Setting Fire to the Woods

We met at the park down the street. Well, we called it the park, but it was the empty lot where we played football, it backed up to the woods that separated the trailer park from our neighborhood. I rode right up to the fence and kicking my back tire out I skidded to a stop amongst the piles of pine straw.

“I got ‘em. The matches, let’s go!”

Leaning our bikes against the fence, James, Ted, and I hopped over the chain link with ease. We walked to the midpoint of the woods so we could just make out the sun reflecting on the metal roofs of the single wide trailers and we could still see our bikes through the underbrush.

Ted, being the oldest took the lead, “Make a small pile of straw, James. Warren, grab some pine cones.”

“Do you think anyone will see us,” I asked.
“No, Warren, everyone is at work. Relax,” Ted commanded.

James had a couple handfuls of straw stacked criss cross and I placed a two pine cones on top. We sat down around the pile and I passed the matchbox to Ted. He accepted the gift as a king would receive jewels from a triumphant knight. Ted nodded and holding the box with both hands he pushed with his left forefinger revealing an army of soldiers awaiting their command. Gingerly pinching one from the box he held it before us, waving it as a wizard with a wand. The match looked like a skinny man with a bright red face and a white yamaka sitting on the crown of his head. Ted slowly ran his face along the side of the box and he exploded to life. Without fear he held the match as the flame moved closer to his fingertips and nestled it within the stacked up straw.

We all sat waiting for something, anything to happen. Thick smoke began to billow around the pine cones. White smoke made a wall to where we couldn’t see each other. In an instant the smoke turned to flame and we all fell backwards. Laughing we sat up trying to hide our fear and act cool. We stared at the red and yellow flames without speaking and watched the pine cones burn. We felt like rebels, lighting a fire in the woods without our parents permission.

My Casio watch alarm started beeping.

“Give me the matches! I have to go! Shit! I’m supposed to be home doing homework, my sister is getting home soon. If I’m not home she’s gonna tell my mom. Put out the fire, I’ll come over to your house later.”

I tucked the matchbox into my back pocket, hopped the fence, and rode home as fast as I could.

“Your gross,” she said.
“What, booger breath? Why?”
“Your all sweaty.”
“So.”
“You better do the dishes before mom gets home.”
“I will. Chill out. You have to vacuum, so leave me alone.”
“Shut up, J A C K A double S!”
“I’m gonna tell mom.”

I filled both sides of the sink with as hot of water as I could handle and put soap on the left side and began washing the breakfast dishes. Dunk, scrub, dunk, rinse. Dunk, scrub, dunk, rinse. I grabbed all the silverware and shook it around in the rinse water and tucked them neatly into the drying rack.

“I’m done! My homework is done! I’m going over to James and Ted’s house.”

I closed the door as my sister was yelling some command at me and was on my bike and down the driveway before she could even open the door.

“What!? I can’t hear you,” I yelled as I rode down the street.

I dropped my bike in their front yard and knocked on the front door.

“Can James and Ted play,” I asked as soon as the door cracked open enough for me to see their mom.

“James, Warren is here,” she yelled to the back of the house, “He’ll be right out. Do you want a cookie?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Thank you.”

I stood outside with eight butter cookies, poking my fingers through the holes in the center and slowly biting them off the edges one at a time. James and Ted came out and grabbed their bikes and I shoved the last three cookies in my mouth as I sat on my bike seat.

“Did you guys put out the fire?”
“Yea, but lets go back the pine cones looked cool, all white and ashy,” James said.

Pulling up to the empty lot we could see a haze from within the woods. The sunlight was cutting through it like daggers slicing between the trees.

“What the hell? What is that?! You said you put it out!”
“We did!,” they both yelled in unison.

Throwing our bikes down we leapt over the fence barely touching it with our feet. Where our small, two handfuls of straw fire was grew a dark black circle as big as half a basketball court.

“What do we do?!”
“Shit!”
“Oh, man, we are, like, gonna get our asses whooped for sure!”

We could see a low flame traveling all the way around the circle.

“Quick, start stepping on it!” I said.

We ran around stomping and kicking pine straw into the black burnt hole. We jumped, kicked, stomped. Jumped, kicked, stomped. Jumped, kicked, stomped. We each went around the circle three times. Peering down for any red light, confusing a setting sun casting a red glow, and stomping some more.

Sweaty we looked down at our black, ashy shoes and thought surely we would be caught. Surely someone saw the smoke. We walked around the circle one last time and hoped we stomped out all the embers.

“I have to go home,” I said, “my mom said I had to take a bath tonight and we are eating Shake n’ Bake pork chops tonight. I don’t want to miss that.”

We climbed the fence and each picked up our bikes looking back into the woods with hope we wouldn’t get caught.

We never got caught.

A Dream Deferred - response

This is my response to Langston Hughes' "A Dream Deferred"

I think we all have dreams

Tied on to our hearts with kite strings.

Waiting to be reeled in

While the battle of our daily lives win.

They are all within reach.

But as one string burns as you pull and tug,

To bring it to arms length with a shoulders shrug,

That line cuts another.

Sending a beautifully crafted kite to flutter.

Not all dreams can come true

When you reel one in, it usually cuts a few.

Here is his poem:

http://www.cswnet.com/~menamc/langston.htm

Oil Stain - 2

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"I'm the other end," he said in a whisper to himself as the batter stepped back into the box. "Hey, you gonna miss this one too?" he asked the batter with 'Becker' and the number fourteen stenciled on his back. Jonathan rose onto the balls of his feet and adjusted his mask that had slipped down from the river of sweat coming off his forehead. Becker looked down at him, and with that Jonathan knew he had gotten into his head. He flashed a two with his right hand between his legs signalling to the pitcher, Kevin, to throw another fast ball. Kevin gave one shake, left to right, of his head letting Jonathan know that is not the pitch he wanted to throw. "It's three two, Becker, are you feeling lucky?" He flashed a three, the knuckleball, Kevin's chin went up then down. "Here comes another one of his fastballs, Becker, don't miss." He took his elbow off of his knee and placed his left hand in front of his chest. Kevin gave a quick glance to first base. Jonathan could hear the umpire lower himself with a grunt to see the strike zone more clearly, getting ready for the pitch. "Hey Becker, I'm the other end." There was a slight twitch of Becker's head, he almost looked at him, Jonathan was in and he knew it. His coach always told him the pitcher was usually the star but the catcher is "the other end" of that pitch and without a prepared other end there could never be a game won. Kevin kicked his right knee up high and locked eyes with Jonathan, the ball flew fast, dropped and with a sting stopped dead in Jonathan's glove. 

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Between her feet the grass was illuminated by a beam of sunshine, he felt that he could count each blade of grass and name a different shade of green for each one. His heart beat. The bench, white, glowed as his pupils dilated with his excitement. He slowly took her hand and entwined their fingers, he was acutely aware of how sweaty his one hand had become. He forced his eyes from their hands to her face and felt the audible swallow as he said her name. "Mary."

"Yes."

"Um." His heart raced. "Um, I was, well." He bit his lower lip and took a breath through his nose expanding his chest, his eyes widening causing everything to brighten. Her flowered dress turned almost neon with its purples and greens. They had held hands on this bench all summer watching the frisbees, dogs, and picnicers, but today the last day before they went into seventh grade he wanted to kiss her. He took another deep breath and asked, "Can I kiss you?"

"Of course silly!" she said smiling.

She waited for him to lean in and closed her eyes. Jonathan kept his eyes open to make sure he didn't bump noses and as his lips touched hers he shivered from head to toe.

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"Son." The voice was deep. "Son." The shadow was dark. "Jonathan." He squinted, his eyes open.

"There you are son," said a man in a plaid shirt and baseball cap. On the cap was the letter 'N' with a 'Y' interlaced on top of it. 

"Dad?" Jonathan questioned, "You look old. Where am I?"

"You're in a recovery center, a hospital of sorts, I'm just glad you recognized me."

"Mr. Murrell," this voice seemed to pour from the walls, "do not strain him, at this time his circuitry is extremely fragile."

"Son, to see your blue eyes see me," his father paused and wiped his nose, "do you recognize this hat? They said they were bringing those memories today."

"Mr. Murrell, it is time to go," the faceless voice stated.

"But...he's...finally becoming my son!" his father turned to shout at the mirror hanging in his room.

"Dad, I'm tired, can you come back later?" Jonathan said, his voice turning to a whisper as he closed his eyes.

"Did you just shut him down!" he heard his father scream as the blackness took over him again.

Oil Stain - 1

Jonathan opened his eyes on the first day of spring in 2092 as a seventeen year old to bright lights and dark blurry figures. He searched out the tubes in his arms. His eyes barely able to focus on the blinking lights off to the side of the bed. 

"Wow, he looks so good. When will we be able to take him home?" he heard a foreign voice say as the blackness took over him.
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The suns fingers crept up the floor grabbing each speck of dust in its beams as if to show each photons activity. The must of the living room was intensified by the dark wood paneled walls and the rusty orange colored sofa. Looking up into his mothers face he saw the eyes of a geisha framed by the pixie cut of a girl right out of the twenties. He felt a tickle behind his ear and by his mothers magic a wooden Mutual of Omaha nickel appeared. Her fingers traced his tiny palm as she placed the wooden piece in his hand. He turned it over and over in amazement wondering how something so large was behind his ear and he never felt it.

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A bellow escaped his throat and buried within the deep wail was one syllable, "Mom!". His vision blurred, he licked his lips and tasted the salt in his tears. He looked down and his knuckles went from pink to white. Stuck, he whispered, "mom, help".

There was no answer, no slamming of the back door followed by running feet and the voice of his hero screaming, "I'm coming son!".

Hugging the tree his tears carved age into his cheeks. Time slowed and turned infinite, minutes rose and set with the sun. He lowered his foot on the branch toward the abyss below him. White turned back to pink as his feet touched the crunchy leaves scattered at the base of the tree.

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The sun shone bright in his eyes as he focused on the pitcher, crouching at home plate all he saw was a silhouette winding up. The white ball with the red stitching stretched across the brilliant white sky and he lost it. His eyes were drawn to the sun as it glinted from behind the brim of the pitchers hat. He shifted his weight from his left to his right foot and tucked the sun back behind the pitchers head and with the instant shadow he saw the ball fill his vision. 

He awoke to his coach patting him on his cheek saying, "Oh, Jesus, his mother is going to kill me. Son, hey son, wake up, you're alright son. No harm done. How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Ta...Ta...Two," Jonathan said.

"Alright! Hop on up and let's work on catching that curve ball some more," the coach bellowed.
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Jonathan opened his eyes to the voices in his head. His eyes flooded with light as his pupils adjusted to the flourescent glow from over his bed. 

"Jonathan, dear, it's your mother. Over here," she said with a wave. He looked but did not recognize the face. "Do you know me yet?" she asked.

Another voice said, "Ma'am, we are still loading. We're at age seven. For a proper recovery we must strictly adhere to the timeline." 

"Well, how much longer until he is fully functional?" the mother asked.

"Just two more weeks ma'am." the other voice responded. It sounded like it was emitting from every wall, every direction.

He closed his eyes and the sounds faded to a dull static and he was asleep again.