Flicker, page 3
“Apple Chai? The barista said, holding out her drink.
“Thanks,” Lane said, glad to close steady fingers around her warm cup. It seemed that standing up to Marge had firmed her resolve.
Lane found a seat where she could gaze at the dandelion painting. Her mind wandered through memories, thinking of her first years as a published author, first years as a mother – how it had all flowed together then. Then the writing had taken over, slowly at first. Not that she had ever stopped loving Richard – she had just though she could love him later. And then her kids – just a few more minutes she had told them. Minutes had turned into hours, and half-days until finally Richard had left, taking the girls with him.
The door jangled as it opened, and Lane looked up to see a teen girl with clear skin and water-blue eyes.
“Sarah?” Lane asked, bewildered, and frightened. How long had it been?
“Mom,” the girl said, somberly, and then she took a seat across from Lane. “I need to tell you something.”
“Sarah, how long? I thought it was only a few months . . . how long has it been?
“Three years,” Sarah said bitterly. “Your agent blocked our calls, and you wouldn’t answer your door.”
“But . . . I, it can’t be,” Lane objected.
“It can, and it’s worse,” Sarah said. “Dad died a month ago, and we tried to contact you.”
Lane felt as if her stomach was dropping out of her, like she felt the pain of a thousand knives burning into her.
“He made me promise that if you ever called, that I would help you. There are treatment centers for . . . problems like yours.”
“Treatment centers?” Lane asked. She felt heavy with the pain inside of her. “He made you promise?” It was almost too much to bear.
“Yes, he did. But now, that I see you again, and you’re actually looking at me in the eyes, instead of looking at your screens, I’ll do it for you, and Kelly, and me, too. The first thing we need to do is disconnect your wires, and then . . . I’ll drive you to the best treatment center I know.”
“I’ve already switched off,” Lane said, gesturing toward her arm.
“Allow me,” Sarah said, and she reached over quickly, and plucked the wire away from Lane’s ear before she could object. Then she grabbed Lane’s arm, and with a quick yank, disconnected the wires that went from her elbows to her wrists.
Lane felt an immediate searing pain, and then nothing. The sensation in her fingertips was gone, the buzz in her ear, silent. Truly silent for the first time in . . . more years than she knew. A part of her wanted to complain, to protest her daughter’s treatment of her, but with one look at her daughter’s now teenage face, a face that she had last seen when Lane was only 13, she knew that this drastic measure had to be taken. She had an addiction, and it had to be stopped.
“I’m ready to go,” she said.
“And I’m ready to take you,” Sarah said, smiling for the first time.
It was the same smile that Lane remembered, that seemed to light up Sarah’s whole being from the inside. Tears welled up in Lane’s eyes, and she let them fall.
Sarah took her hand, and gently tugged her out the door of the coffee shop.
Lane stopped for a moment, and looked up, letting the rain wash her clean.
Memory is
fragile remembrances
when older generations
come to bury their dead.
small luncheon to cemetery
to speak haphazardly
bits and pieces of life.
Bright sunshine on green
grass around gravestones,
add hues to memories.
A Lonely Companion
Pain is a lonely
companion when everyone
runs out of comfort.
Lady
My old dog’s life is like a window shade
that’s drawn down to just a few inches.
The sparkle in her eyes is dimmed by film,
her tail drums the floor in slow rhythms
when I kneel by her side.
Gone are the days when she ran swift
- a hurricane of movement.
Gone are the days when her tail wagged
her whole body while she ran towards me,
beating against the walls in staccato.
Her walks last only a few minutes now.
Our walking neighbors who live
three miles down the road still ask about her.
Her joy in movement renowned,
and now she can barely stand.
As I run my hands through her short, soft fur,
along her darker ridge and the tips of her ears,
I am saying goodbye. Every day, I say goodbye,
and soon I know it will be the last time,
the shade will fully cover the light, and
her tail will stay still.
The Pen Cuts Deep
Struggling with each word,
my daughter writes her feelings
into a journal.
A Lost Art
Finger painting -
a lost art of wiggly fingers
tracing dreams.
Life is Good*
I glance over at her. “What?”
She smiles softly at me and then faces the road again, the tight grip of her hands relaying her inner tension.
I scowl and turn away to watch the rain pour over my passenger window, turning the world into some kind of blurry, Monet-like painting, the kind my dad loved.
“When someone dies, we have a choice in how we mourn them. We can grieve and let that grief consume us, or we can honor them with our lives, and life is good.”
As she emphasizes the last three words, I wince inside at every one of them. I know she means well, but I wish she would just shut up. But I can’t say that, and I don’t have the energy to find the right words, the ones she wants to hear that would get her to stop talking. So, I sit and wish that I could blur into something beautiful like the rain over the gray world and neon lights, and turn into some kind of mad rainbow.
I can hear her swallow. She’s getting ready to say something again.
“I’m okay, mom.” I pause. “I understand.” I bite my lip, turn to her, and put on the best smile I can. “I mean, I will be ok. Because you’re right. Life is good.” Then I shift my shoulders a little so that I she can’t see my face when I drop the smile.
“Good.” She starts humming.
I insert one ear bud under my hood, and gaze out at the colors beyond the glass. Maybe I will paint them when I get home, even if I will be painting for just me and the memory of my dad. Life goes on, even when it doesn’t feel good at all.
Ocean’s Promise*
With worldly cares heavy, he walked where sand and water meet until she sang him into her embrace. Her salty love freed him for eternity.
Rain Rhythms
spatter rain smacks the windshield
the wipers shuffle-step
until the staccato rhythm dances into one
Water-colors
rising evergreens meet
mists gauzed over the
snowy mountains seen
through slate rain
and a windshield –
the world melting together
in water-colors
Magic Swirled*
Magic swirled about Meg’s feet in a pool of rainbows, but she pretended it wasn’t there until she had the courage to make a difference.
Bested by Beauty, Brawn, & Brains*
Bested by beauty, brawn, and brains, Hal knew he had only one way left.
He flashed the princess his best smile, and offered diamonds.
She Laughs*
She laughs.
He follows to water’s edge. Stops -- but she pouts her lips.
He steps into her kiss and falls into a fading ripple.
Bargain*
He sold his flesh.
She sold her soul.
They met in the middle.
A bargain made for eternal night.
Candlewick*
the candlewick cools to pause
bent in comma shape
between flames
Flicker Stories
passion stories flicker in wall shadows
where light tangoes with darkness
burning bright
Barely Wrapped*
Barely wrapped in silk sheets, the starlet watched as he threw the curtains open to flashing cameras. She hid her broken heart and posed.
Red Carpet, Take 1*
Glittering bright, she floated into awards.
Hard as nails, she smiled at critics and laughed until she reached the safety of home.
Red Carpet, Take 2*
“Mommy look! Come see what I made you!”
“For me?” she asked, following the red glitter trail to sticky heart hugs.
“Always.”
True Treasure*
Against all odds, he brought her every treasure; sure that one would win her love.
She spurned them all, except his smile.
Birds of a Feather
She stood still on one leg, perched like a flamingo over her small pond waiting for her flock.
They didn’t come.
She stayed on one leg, peering over her feathers.
Were they really staying away because of the break up?
Perhaps, she could stand by his locker pond next.
When Okay is Enough*
Nisa hadn’t always felt this dissatisfied with life, but she felt overwhelmed by it now. Nothing had gone right today. Her boss didn’t have her paycheck ready. She’d locked herself out of her mom’s apartment, and then it started to rain. She didn’t have any money in her pockets to stop at one of the corner coffee stands, and they weren’t much for coffee shops anyway—just drive-thru shacks with awnings and plastic chairs at one end. She supposed she could walk towards the library.
Maybe she wouldn’t be soaked before she got there. And even if she was, she knew the librarians wouldn’t mind. One had even given her a cup of tea from their employee room once. It hadn’t been good tea, but it was a warm, kind gesture. She turned onto Waverly Street, though she’d avoided it for a year now. It was a back-street shortcut with older houses that sagged comfortably on their foundations like grandparents in armchairs.
As she walked over the lilting and cracked sidewalk, she looked across at the Stevens’ house. She slowed as she noticed James’ backpack on the porch. It wasn’t like James to leave his books out in the damp. A cracking noise and a yelp brought her attention to the side of the house where James, clinging to an old lattice, was plummeting to the ground, back first.
Nisa ran across the empty street and into the Stevens’ yard. She grabbed the lattice and attempted to pull it off James, but he was clinging to it with his eyes shut.
“Hey, let go. You’re down now. Are you all right?” Nisa said, all at once in a rush. She hadn’t talked to James since that night when she’d foolishly crossed the line of their friendship and asked him out on a date.
“Ow, ow, ow,” James said with closed eyes, his hands clenched together in fists.
Nisa moved the lattice to the grass beside her. It was awkward, but not that heavy. “What were you thinking, James?”
“Lost my keys. Thought I would climb up to my window. It wouldn’t open and the lattice broke.” He slowly opened his eyes and unclenched his hands. “I think I’m okay, but my back and ribs hurt.” He paused and looked at her with blue-as-sky eyes. “You’re talking to me.”
“Yes, James, I’m talking to you,” said Nisa, crossing her arms. “Why don’t we get out of the rain, unless you need me to call an ambulance?”
“Sure, I mean, no,” he said, and then slowly sat up, groaning. “Let’s get out of the rain.”
Nisa could have offered him a hand. A year ago, she would have. But things were different now between them.
*
James felt heat rush to his cheeks despite the cool rain. To cover it, he put a hand to his face and realized he was missing his glasses. That was why Nisa seemed a little blurry around the edges. “Nisa, do you see my glasses?”
“No, I … oh, here they are.” She knelt down close to him.
James went still, caught by her usual fresh minty smell—though she swore she never used scent. “Thanks,” he said, reaching out.
“They’re slightly broken.” She put them in his hand. Their fingers brushed and he felt as if an electric current jolted through him.
“Great! I mean, at least they aren’t lost.” James felt like an idiot as he brought his mangled glasses closer to his face. He straightened them and realized the problem was in one arm joint. With the right tools, he could fix it. Considering how tight money was this month, he would have to figure out a way. He put the glasses on, but they tilted precariously sideways.
Nisa laughed, her light, beautiful laugh that always seemed to indicate that everything was all right. “Oh, James. I’m sorry, but you look a little like a mad scientist. Your hair’s standing up and you even have a leaf in it.” She reached towards him as if to pluck the leaf from his hair.
James gazed at her deep brown eyes, and ran his hand over his head, pulling the leaf out himself. “Let’s get out of the rain.”
Nisa looked away. “Are you going to be all right? I was just going to the library.” Her voice had gotten quiet and tight again, like it had been for so many months now when he tried to talk to her.
“I’ll come with you,” he said, feeling the heat rise to his face again as soon as he said it.
“You won’t be able to read anything without your glasses.”
“Well, I’ll just get some books from the large print section, and in any case, I’ll be warmer there.”
“Okay,” she said quietly.
“Thanks.” James didn’t know how to say everything else that he hadn’t been able to say for the last year. At least she was talking to him again.
*
An almost content feeling washed over Nisa as she walked to the library with James. It was almost like old times. Not quite, but it was okay, and okay was enough.
Resolutions for Fall*
resolutions for every fall day –
stomp puddles,
skip, leap, soar
above leaf blown streets
Ghost Pepper*
ghost pepper salt bites tongues
haunts throats
devours taste
Doors Open for Dessert*
Thanksgiving-stuffed, the shoppers’ urges cannot be satiated with mere pie. They crave sales, the latest tech for low prices, and riots. Doors open for dessert.
Shame*
At the bank, she looks down, guilty for having money to deposit.
The way she earned it makes her feel as if everyone's staring.
Conversations Through Time*
“If I ran away, you’d come after me, right?”
“Yes.”
“Promise, Mommy?”
“I promise.”
Ten years later.
“Just leave me alone!”
“Just come home, please.”
Scars
“Scars have stories.
I find them . . . so . . . fascinating,” she says,
licking her cherry lips.
Reflexively, I cover my keloid, stifle the urge to run.
What is it with scars, anyway?
The Dangers of Coffee Shop Writing
Dixon ordered her regular coffee and sat down to write. She opened her journal and stalled. Conversations pressed swirled and pressed. Any thought of that story she had drifting through her mind was gone. Voices, young, old, middle-aged, bore into her skull. She started to write their words down.
“These things . . . a pretty big, long shot.”
“I’m going to see her . . .”
“She’s resigning now . . . but I didn’t have anything to do with it. I swear, some people just ____”
“She needs . . . and I don’t give a ___”
Dixon stopped writing. She couldn’t even sort the conversations into sense, or follow a single thought to the end. She pressed her hands against her head for a moment, and tried to tune out most of the sounds in the coffee shop.
“Write down the tracking number, and head to shipyards. I want that package.”
The menacing voice broke through all the other clutter in the coffee shop, and Dixon glanced over at two men sitting adjacent to her. The smaller one noticed her and widened his eyes. She looked back down at her journal and wrote.
