the holy.

(many thoughts have been circulating around many different things...til my next real blog...here is a "story" i got published in the school lit mag...)


The holy.


Two older gentlemen are sitting at a small table outside any other street café. One is wondering where his immunity system has gone.
“It slipped out the window last night, crossed the street, flopped into the sand, and got carried out to sea by way of the rising tide!”
“Oh my! That is not good.”
“No, not good indeed!”
They cough and something disappears from each other’s mouths. They don’t notice.
Meanwhile, a young writer who is sitting alone just tables away is distracted. An American girl; not blond, not blue-eyed, very tan, is jogging by. She looks to be the same age as the young writer he thinks; early twenty something. Her face is shielded by sunglasses and a lowered hat. Her hair is pulled back. Her stomach is exposed. Right above the waistline an outward curve has formed. It is slight and quietly moves to the rhythm of her steps as she jogs. It’s frightened. It’s trying to be destroyed. It quakes and shakes yet holds on. One more night like the two nights before and it can get its strength back it thinks.
The writer drops his pen frustratingly upon the paper he has been scribbling most recent tragedies upon. Emotionally he tries to write of emotion without using such exact and specific words like love, hate and feeling. He doesn’t believe in any of “it”. “It’s all an illusion created by the world” he says. “By literature” he says. “by poets and romantics” he says. He is going to “change things” he says. He is going to be the destroyer. “like Kali” he says. He pulls out a paper design and leaves it on the table.
He is gone, out past the group of people walking on the sidewalk and spilling out into the street. They seem angry and start as four or five, have become 10 or 12, and are gaining people by every block. They will be meeting up with hundreds more just like themselves. They’ve come to warm the city, to brighten it, keep the steel fingers rough to the touch. They are making the glow of the metro. They’re keeping the signal steady and visible from afar. All are holding bags of paper, plastic or of other material. Some carry two or three. All brows are tilted inward while all teeth remain clenched. The bags hold the words, the bindings, and the covers which feed the fire. Inside are words of worlds written once by MR., REV., PROF., DR., and others. They all spoke of rainbows, a golden path or a green city and other such places like Q. But Q has never been found, only talked about. Families broke like porcelain; lives have been taken by others hands like candy, in search of Q. The grass has been combed, the snow sifted, the sand replaced and the water filled. The word is finally seeping out. The word that causes the fire. Such texts are no longer printed. No one will carry them, no one will buy them. There is no market. Instead, the shelves of decaying bookstores, clothing stores and restaurants owned by mother and pop are being filled with the text of others who found dissatisfaction of the search early on. Their words are beginning to replace the sides of trains and subways, are being painted across billboards and brick walls, re-engraved upon statues and tombs. The crowds move silently closer and closer. The fire chants their words.
A young man trips on a crack in the sidewalk while watching the crowd move into the distance while on his way home. A neon glow flickers upon the clouds. A small dog pees on a trash can which a passed-out body lays nearby. Televisions are off. Shades are being pulled in curiosity. Human touch is becoming stagnant in its familiarity. A woman is crying in the back of an apartment complex, two stories high. She is alone. Her partner has left, bought in, believed the full-page ad on page 3 of the Times. He left her to the overly bright bulb formed upon her kitchen ceiling to constantly expose the rotten objects of reminders. It lies in the warm hum between the refrigerator and the wall, saccharin images of the past, smoke and glass. She stops her whimpering to the sound of voices outside her door. She rushes to it, places her wet cheek upon the four or five layers of mauve and is still. Her right hand firmly pressed against the door. Her eyes close. Footsteps.
“…my second step out of bed this morning I fell down….I slipped on the wet, bathroom floor…”
Sigh. Eyes are blurry then clear. Blurry, clear. Glasses. It’s a couple in the hall. One finds the key and stick in door number 122(123?) Their prize is another dark room like the rest. Their tongues are green from spirits. They sway with the floor and fall to the ground. Moments later their howls can be heard throughout. Moths fail to fly. Paint ages with the seconds. The smooth sidewalk and the cracked concrete resist a reaction. Everything is uninhibited. A slow, consistent oil spill begins to darken the sky. The clouds now look grey and the air is algid. Eyes and lips foretell of rain but it never comes. It remains that way stuck in transition with unsure footing…hesitant, or maybe just a tease.
“No…
Come on baby…”
“No, no…
Just once?”
No, no, no…
Please?”
“No”
A candle is lit, the electricity is cut. Windows are opened. A cigarette exhales.
An old lady is putting on makeup without the use of a mirror or unnatural light. The overwhelming blue and red hues of her eye shadow and lipstick are smearing across the deep ripples of her sagging skin. It’s beautiful. She is beautiful. She is more beautiful than any one else’s body, laugh or smile, ink or sound at that moment.
Startled she suddenly stops at the sound of teenagers yelling out profanities. The old lady looks out her window down and smiles. It falls out and splatters across the sidewalk seeping out into the street affecting anyone who nears the loose flesh smeared in makeup. The teens walk through it and it sticks to the soles of their shoes. They are leaving their names on road signs, bus stops and thin street shop glass in various mediums. Marker, paint or semen, their presence is undeniable and their strength is magnificent, even in its misdirection.
Bottles sit snug preparing to be emptied, while other related vices ready themselves for usage. Bugs that are uncomfortably still between thin, decaying walls will soon move with the sound of moans and screams exploding from mouths in moments of hate, anger, ecstasy, love and other things that don’t exist.
She calls him then hangs up. She quickly calls again. She wants to tell him that she misses him, but she is…. is…ready for this again? Does he feel? The same?
A loud folk song spits out her stereo. The sky shrinks and expands at the last sigh of daylight.
“Hello?”
“Hey”
A young man gets up from the seat by his window.