“Where were you last night?”

If he’d gotten a dime every time he’d heard that phrase in his life, he would’ve been a wealthy man. It takes on a whole new meaning in for a man in his late forties. In his youth it was expected; an unruly boy with overcautious parents was bound to break the rules sooner rather than later. After years sneaking in after midnight, his parents gave in and simply played along. It became one of those things people said to fill the space between their lack of communication and their love for one another.

His father had always drank down two raw eggs down with a few ounces of Jack. The wife had never approved, and so his raw eggs were kicked down with milk; the Jack came later in the day, around noon. He wondered if there would come a day that his wife would give in and play along as well. Would she know of his despicable deeds that he felt no shame for? Would she smile, and pretend like everything was fine for the sake of their children? Would she ask him, “Where were you last night?” simply to be polite? Would she know that whatever answer he gave would be a lie: just something to say?

“Up all night at the office – big report due this weekend.”

“Friend from out of town stopped by, we got drinks.”

“Didn’t realize how late it was. Didn’t want to wake you.”

“Car broke down, stayed at a hotel.”

Excuses. Were they as transparent as he thought they were? Or was his wife simply dumber than he could’ve hoped?

No, she was a smart woman. She was just humoring him – if not now, she would have to one day. If it weren’t for duty, they might not be together at all. Would she ever ask? Would she want to know the details? Would she want to know about the angry, passionate sex? Would she want to know how glad he was not to have to look at her face in the heat of the moment? Would she want to know that she could never, ever be good enough?

He found himself chuckling as he ran cold water and held his glass underneath it. It was strangely delightful to be such a cruel man. Perhaps one day he would not humor her at all, but rather give the pitiless, blunt truth. She would creep timidly down the stairs like she had this morning, with bags under her eyes and her robe pulled tight around her shoulders for protection. She would look up at him, her eyes desperate for consolation, the need to know, “Where were you last night?”

Unabashed, he would turn to face her and smile, his eyes dark and cold, and give her the blow. “Fucking.” Beneath him she would crumble, as if stabbed, and the life would bleed out of her eyes in fast, unstoppable tears. He had that power over her. His wife needed him, and he held her without mercy in the palm of his hand. Like a king, he could do whatever he wanted. He could crush her, and it wouldn’t matter

The windows rattled in their frames once an hour in the middle of the night. Just across the street from her little apartment, the train sighed and coughed, sick and worn from the pounding rain. Its puffing and wheezing was muffled, but desperate, and it moaned as if calling for her help.

In her bed she watched the second hand as it ticked in unison to the chugging of the train, the face of the clock illuminated by slats of moonlight that seeped through the blinds. She held a pillow, but around her a man’s thick arms were wrapped. Though it was the only place she wanted to be, she found that she could never sleep while next to him. She lay awake, waiting, praying that it would last a little longer. To sleep would cheat her of the little time she had left.

The clacking of the train faded into the distance leaving a dim, empty silence. She listened to his breathing; it was thick like a machine, but strangely content. His heart thudded dully against her back as he slept on. Her eyes were beginning to droop, but she fought the sensation.

A shrill squeal of Presley’s “Heartbreak Hotel” split through the quiet air, yanking her eyelids back open. The phone vibrated against the oaken end table, shattering her remaining chance to savor the moment. This was it. Her heart thudded in her chest, and she prayed. Don’t hear it, please. She held her breath, watching him. The vibrations were almost louder than the ring tone, and the cell danced across the table. There was no way he could sleep through it.

He stirred, and a soft groan escaped his lips as his arms shattered the embrace and he stretched. Swiping blindly, he scooped the noisy contraption from the table and sighed as he opened the little beast and coughed into the receiver, “Kath?”

The bedroom could be a vast, empty field in moments like this. Her lying in bed, his form hunched at the edge of the bed like the Thinker, she felt the cold, rainy night permeate through the windows and fall over her like a blanket. There were echoes, though from what she couldn’t be sure. Time seemed to have stopped and at the same time stretched out before her into eternity, and she was cascading into the expanse of solitude that lay before her.

“I have to go.”

Her eyes closed, her brow drew together, and her lips twitched inward to frown. “Stay.”

Here would be the struggle, the tears, the pleading, and in the end she would be alone in bed, a million years stretching between that moment and the next time she would see him again.

The hands of the clock turned into a frown as she watched them, and they ticked softly as if to say, “I told you so, I told you so.” The windows began to rattle again, and in the distance came the agonized howl of an oncoming train, just loud enough to harmonize with her cries into the night.

There is a whole list of courses for the dead to take to learn how to be exactly what they were. Andrew had been dead for a few years, and was just now completing his requirements. He explained his relationship to me as something along the lines of a “senior thesis.” As a final demonstration of what they’ve learned, the dead must help another to understand their own death.

( Unfortunately for Andrew, my case was not a simple one. )

Scientists say that from the moment we are born, we begin to die. I can’t deny that it’s true, although I’d modify the words a bit. When an infant is born into the world, he already has a handful of tasks to accomplish: learn to make demands through cries and whimpers, learn to crawl, learn to walk, learn to talk, learn to use the potty, learn how to manipulate mommy into giving attention just because. It’s daunting, and takes several years to learn those things. When a person dies an infant, they have the most difficult time transitioning into death because they have such a minute library to fall back on. From the moment we are born, we are preparing ourselves for death. This is where the opinion of the dead differs from that of earthly scientists. Death is much easier for the elderly, because they’ve had the longest time to prepare for the transition. Sure, some people waste their earthly time and don’t worry about it, but that is not always the case. I’ve been told that a man who lived to be a hundred in five died and did not need to take a single class on death. Or at least, that’s what they like to tell us freshmen to get our asses in gear. There’s really not a lot of time to waste once you’ve died.

( My pick up was a man named Andrew, and he was late.  )

Can you imagine a world without color? Can you imagine a place with no sound – not even an echo? Can you imagine what it would be like not to feel your feet touch the ground as you walk? Can you imagine how it would feel to be nothing at all – just a chasm of blankness where life used to be? That is what it is like to be dead.

( When I woke up I saw white. )

I can always find him and a guitar on the porch around six in the morning when we are on the mountain.  When the sky is just starting to glow, he strums chords and hums along.  We sit side by side, our shoulders touching, my eyes closed.  We never speak until the last day, when summer is beginning a slow bow in departure. 

The guitar is silent today.  He murmurs my name and I open my eyes.  “What do you think heaven is like?” 

I think for a long time, but the only answer I can come up with is a shrug, bumping my shoulder against his without intent. 

He thumps the guitar with his palm and I close my eyes again.  “This is nice,” he tells me.  Besides the guitar, the rest of our morning is without sound. 




I always thought it silly when people would kill for love. 

There was a period of about two weeks where I did not get out of bed.  I did not go to class.  I called out of work.  I could not keep food down.  I could not drink anything.  My housemates worried.  Mandy made me chicken soup and sometimes tea.  I wore a blanket everywhere; it was the kimono of my depression. 

I locked myself in his bathroom and climbed in his bathtub.  I could hear scraping noises on the outside, and looking over, the tips of his fingers trying to reach under the door.  He kept saying please.  Please, please, please.  I don’t remember what he was asking for, I just remember his fingertips reaching for me. 

I opened the door.  It was the first time I ever saw him cry.  With tears in his eyes, he wasn’t the solid man I used to think he was.

He carried me to his bed and held me in his arms.  He played with my hair until I could finally fall asleep.  When I woke up the next morning, I felt happy.  He would take me back.  He would love me again.  After what we’d shared the night before, how could he not? 

He still left me for her.  It still killed me inside.  But I still loved him.  

To me, he was perfect.




There are 643 miles between my house and his, and he is terrified of planes.  Knowing that he has to get into a flying tin can of death makes saying goodbye harder on both of us.  We hold on to each other and cry, both of us, in the middle of the airport.  It feels like we are saying goodbye forever.  It’s hard not to feel that way, not knowing when one will see the other again.

Time is running out.  I say goodbye and pull away, but seconds later find myself back in your arms.  My father is watching us, pretending like he doesn’t notice how hopelessly attached to each other we are.  We’re not even dating.

He can’t seem to get in line, and perhaps only because we can’t seem to let go of each other.  We hold hands, each taking long, deep breaths.  We know that this is it… that this is the end.  We have to say goodbye.  “Five steps,” I suggest, squeezing his hand tightly.  “And then we let go.” 

One: A Celtic knot work ring he bought for me at the Irish festival to symbolize eternity. 

    Two:  The only sapphires I have ever owned hanging around his neck on a cord.

        Three:  He faced his biggest fear to come visit me.

            Four:  I think I fell harder than I meant to.

                Five:  This is it.  Let go…

I look back and watch as he makes it through security.  We wave one last time as he gets on the metro, which will take him to our platform.  My father tries to cheer me up with silly stories about our dog.  I don’t say anything at all.

Previously, on Survivor: Asylum Island...

Of the twenty original survivors divided into four tribes, the remaining eighteen were merged into two tribes of nine each. Alaric is frustrated with his timid, non-active tribe mates, while the other tribe was frustrated with Reiley's flirtations. The two tribes came together to battle for immunity, but due to poor strategy, the Prozac tribe came out on top, receiving immunity and sending Anthony to Asylum Island, therefor protecting him from that night's Tribal Council. Back at camp, Lynne realized she was the swing vote, and in the end, sided with her former tribe mate Kael to make Reiley Rowan, the eighteen-year-old Histrionic Personality the third person voted out of the game.

( Episode 04 )
Sixteen are left. Who will be voted out next?

Previously, on Survivor: Asylum Island…

Twenty Cherry Hollow patients were divided into four tribes of five, stranded on separate islands in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. It is said that this was to be a behavioral experiment. Tensions were raising at the Diazepam and Xanax camps. At the reward/immunity challenge, Xanax debated which member to sit out. In the end, Thorazine completes a stunning victory, winning them two tarps and immunity. Diazepam and Prozac also received immunity, and while Xanax won a trip to tribal council, they also received the choice to banish Alaric to Asylum Island.

( Episode 03 )

Seventeen are left. Who will be voted out next?

Here is the result of my boredom and interest in two things together: Survivor (the TV show) and my RPG, amplified_rpg. Have fun with this... it's a parody, and in no way serious at all.

( Twenty Patients, Only One Will Survive )

She was just old enough to drink, but no one, any age, deserves to experience that kind of torture. The flashbulbs that go off immortalize the memory and she lives it over and over again. Coming to the end of the reel, it rewinds, and shows again. Forever she is trapped in the cinema of his malevolence.

The Supervisor had a mysterious appeal. There was nothing upstanding or special about her. She would not stick out of a crowd. Tourist season was approaching and management needed someone with a strong tolerance to stupidity to manage the summer help. New England only peaked its head into the sun for a few months of the year to bask in the good weather, and all of the coffee shops and bakeries that barely scraped by in the winter had a short amount of time to make enough revenue for the year. They asked the Supervisor, who at the time wasn’t a supervisor at all, if she could handle that kind of power. She took all of this in stride without so much as a smile, which is why They liked her to begin with. And so it was that the Supervisor came to power.

( The Cashier despised her, although the Supervisor could never figure out exactly why. )

The journey to becoming crazy is both long and very lonely.

Once or twice I've tried to explain it. I gathered all of my courage and threw my inhibitions away. To separate yourself from normalcy is a terrifying thing, it takes a lot of energy. What hurts the most is when the person you explain this to, that you trust enough to let into that horrible weak and insecure part of yourself, brushes you off. "You're not crazy," they say. Not that I want you to tell me I'm crazy. But I don't want you to tell me how unimportant this is when it's killing me from the inside out.

It's getting worse.

Everything I look at... every snapshot of every moment of every day. I can't get rid of them, and my head is getting too full. They settle and develop. The man eating pie at the diner. The way the cars go up and down the road. The drops of rain in the puddle next to your car. The way the leaves blow in the wind. It's all I think about.

I can't sleep. I think about them. I can't concentrate, I think about them. They're all I see and hear and think about. I can't concentrate in a room with sound because I hear all of the sounds and I can't separate them. Every single fucking sound.

And there's colors. And lights. The things I see when I hear music.

I wasn't always like this. It's been getting worse, especially recently.

I don't socialize anymore. I get agitated and anxious. I'd rather shut myself away in my room. I hate everyone that I don't already know, I'm not open to change. Because I would rather sit in my room and let them develop. On top of that I've become paranoid. That all of you are talking about me and criticizing me because you know that I'm crazy or creepy or whatever it is that you think I am.

And one day I'm afraid that I'll be lost to them completely. I'll sit and just be listening to them, letting them develop in my head. They're taking over my mind. Only the really pushy ones ever escape.

I try so hard. I try to write them down but I can't. I want to let them out, set them free. But I'm not good enough. I try, but I'm not good enough. You say, 'no one is,' but that's not an option. I am just an interpreter, but I'm not good enough. They need me to tell the world and I can't do it. No one will ever see them like I do because I'm not good enough.

I want to be normal. I don't want this life anymore. I want it to stop. I don't want to hear them or see them or experience them. I don't want the colors or the lights or the stories or the depression. I want to be normal. I want to be good at math or science. I want to be able to have potential in my future. I want to know that there's a job out there that I can have. But there isn't.

I asked if all writers are crazy, because maybe it's being crazy that makes you a writer. Because they come and find you. THey want you to interpret for them. They want to get out of the air and out of their jails and into the world. They want you to interpret, so they find you and they become your parasites. And then you become a writer, because you're the crazy person who heard them.

I don't want this life anymore. I wish I could give it up, but they're winning. I'm weak and fatigued and I'm going crazy because they're winning. I don't think I can do it anymore. The anxiety and the depression and the paranoia. It's ruling my life. I'm scared.

Someone help me.

I wanted to be a writer, that's all. I wanted to write about it all. Everything that happens in a moment. The way the flowers looked when you carried them in your arms. This towel, how it smells, how it feels, this thread. All our feelings, yours and mine. The history of it, who we once were. Everything in the world. Everything all mixed up, like it's all mixed up now. And I failed. I failed. No matter what you start with it ends up being so much less. Sheer fucking pride and stupidity.

The Supervisor had a mysterious appeal. There was nothing or upstanding or special about her. She would not stick out of a crowd.

She was nothing at all like the Cashier, who fancied herself a charcoal sketch on a very pale canvas. The Cashier was talented with eyeliner, a skill she had perfected in three hours on a rainy weeknight, and she adored the way it gave her eyes a dark, seductive, smoky emergence. The Cashier liked to think she had molded her personality into a type of fashion. She loved thin, clingy-cotton shirts that made loud statements and pants with legs so wide they could be considered skirts: the more zippers, straps, pockets, and chains the better. A most recent purchase was her favorite: a pair of dangling black earrings with shiny ebony beads at the bottoms of black chains that clinked and jingled when she shook her long, dyed locks. She was certain that she was unique, dark, and poetic.

( Not that They would let her wear anything like that at work. )

Dear Friend,

I am quite sorry I have not written in quite some time. I have missed you terribly. My life here is quite boring, and therefore gives me little inspiration to write anything at all. Every day here is the same. I wake up, I eat, I lounge around, I eat, and then I go back to sleep. Sometimes I try to write. Most of the time Other times I simply cannot come up with anything relevant. They say that exile is the perfect place to plan revenge come up with ideas that you will probably never follow through with. I find that most of my ideas never rarely reach paper.

I finally had a chance to meet my muse. It is a female, which surprised me at first, and the delay in our meeting was due to the fact that she recently gave birth to a son called Frustration. However, I suppose she really is not so bad. She asks a lot of questions about why I made certain choices in my life. Why is it even any of her business? For instance, she wanted to know why I chose to go to a school in Rochester. I was not sure how to answer... Is not the fact that I liked the school good enough? Should there be some better answer? Does that actually mean something significant? What is wrong with that? I do not really understand why she asked such pointless questions and I really, really hate the fact that I do not understand it, but I suppose it is not worth wondering about.

I hope all is well with you. I am happy pleased to hear about your new job as a waiter, but I wish you would come back to me. I am quite sure you are good at serving snobby rich people! that! Nonetheless, I would enjoy appreciate a visit from you, now and again. In fact, I am willing to pay you money to come back. I cannot do this without you. Everyone here seems to be over-involved in his or her own creative writing life. No one talks to me and it is quite lonely boring.

Keep in touch. Or better yet, rescue me from this deserted island. And quit your waiting job and come back to working for me. I need you. I will be thinking of you. A lot.

Love,
Sincerely yours,
Andrea
(The uncreative writer)

P.S. – I am quite sorry for all of the inkblots. It is rather difficult to come across a good pen here on this deserted island.

Most nights he stays in his room to study. On the rare occasion, when he goes out, it is to purchase groceries or other ordinary snack food that can keep him company as he clacks his fingers over the keys and into the night. He writes her letters and emails, but never sends them. He picks up the phone and puts it down. This is his routine and daily ritual. He thinks of her often.

She likes to party. Finally apart from her ‘perfect’ childhood, she feels that she is finally free. She’ll try anything once and everything twice. In the few times that she relaxes in her room, usually during Intro to Philosophy, she examines the few pictures she has taped to the wall. She doesn’t think of him often, but when she does, she smiles.

( Many of the campus study-friends get together on weekends to unwind, and his first party is a quiet one. )

More ideas...


Nalayka- A love story. She had a wonderful Jamaican boyfriend... he loved her so much and was very handsome. Then when she came to America, she got pregnant with someone else's baby. She wanted to go back to Jamaica, to her Jamaican boyfriend... he loved her, he even bought her presents for the baby. For a while she toyed with the idea of staying with him. But it was not his baby, and she could not force him to be the father of the baby. So she went back to America and got married to the father. But she's still in love with her Jamaican boyfriend.


Emo kid- A depressing story. She works and all throughout the day she imagines her own death... for instance, slipping on ice and smashing her face against the corner of the counter... or slitting her wrists with the bagel knife.

Cigarette - She keeps a pack of cigarettes for just such an occassion, although she doesn't smoke. He asks if he can bum one, but he doesn't smoke either.

Rape victim- Every customer that comes in looks like the man who took it from her.

Old People- Mary Anne - she comes in five or six times a day. When you're that old, what else is there to do? The 96-year-old with a debit card and an inside out shirt. Regulars in the morning.

Different kinds of drinks:
-Hot Coffee
-Iced Coffee
-Latte/Cappaccino
-Iced Latte
-Mocha/Macchiato/Mochaccino
-Iced Tea
-Specialty Drinks "Milky Way" "Funky Monkey" "Peaches n Cream"

A love story
A work story
A single mother story
A depressing story
A happy story (old people)
More loves stories (love and loss, unrequited love, fantasy love, imagined love, real love)

Some more ideas I wrote down at work...

-When people talk to you on drive through, you really only hear "mmmmmmcoffeemmmmm" and you have to fill in the rest. You ask them a question and they say yes, but they actually mean no, even though they say yes when you repeat it back to them.
-Your spoken English deteriorates over time "What have you today?"
-What would Mr. Rodgers get? Jesus?
-Large orders through drive through
-YELLING
-Mean old lady and her milk/cream coffee
-The many kinds of "REGULAR"
-State stereotypes
-Drive by the GIANT SIGN
-What happens when you run out of donuts?

Ideas:

-Nalayka
-Kay-Lee
-Police Officer Stereotype
-Ignorance (Why not?)
-Coffee Names
-Love stories
-Cigarette break
-Rape Victim

More to come...

She'd always had the scent of lavender, and the warm summer's breeze carried it over to me as I smiled at her from the back porch. One foot braced against the wooden railing, I pushed my chair up on its back legs, rocking gently. The sky was a warm, pinkish orange; the sort of creamy color of rainbow sherbet. It was our first summer as adults, and each of us had plans to go our separate ways come autumn. I would be sad to leave her, along with several of our other friends, but for now the only thing that mattered was our remaining summer days.

( Her feet were bare, and she ran her toes through the green grass as she leaned back on the porch. )