We lived in an old brick house underneath the comforting shade of the redwoods sprouting up from our front yard. Wrapping around the face of our newly purchased abode like a tattered prom dress someone received as a hand-me-down was a white patio, paint chipping from the columns that shot up into the ceiling. Despite the need to fix it up, the character that it added to the house was enough to finally coerce my wife into wanting it; little girl fantasies of a lovely home with a white fence and laughing children in the yard undoubtedly trickling into her mind. “Survived the Civil War” our realtor told us. Its age was evident in the fine mist of pink-red powder that constantly sprinkled down around the foundation, almost as if it was some mythical line drawn to ward off the spirits that still haunted the land. In the twilight of evening, frogs croaked and gulped in the bushes bordering the back fence. Cicadas would hum above them, only to be picked off one by one by a dead-eyed tongue flicking out from somewhere inside the shrubbery. When the throttling heat of day melted away to the coolness of night the house would creak and moan its sigh of relief at the decrease in temperature, so much so that an irrational fear of this antique collapsing in on itself would sometimes creep into the back of my mind. But that fear never lasted, I had Her, and just being in the same room as her could bring a tear to the eye of a tornado. The “for sale” sign in the front of the house was uprooted from the yard, leaving only a small square in the dirt to tell any other potential buyer that they were too late, that this house was ours. Surprisingly, the money from my first novel helped to buy half of the house on the spot, and the remainder of our life together would be more than enough time to pay the rest. For the first time in either of our lives we had a home to call our own, a plot of land that we could do whatever we wanted with. We had just washed up onto Plymouth Rock after years of oppression, kissing the sand as we jumped from the boat onto the land that we had spent years searching for. No more pesky landlords trudging down the hall to knock on the door of my cramped studio apartment, scowling at the fact that I was once again short on rent, their nubby fingers shaking in anger as they walked away. My wife’s parents no longer had any control over what she did, her things packed and locked into the back of a U-Haul, their roof harboring one less inhabitant, electric bill decreasing by thirty percent. Our storybook had turned a new chapter, the approaching blank pages were beginning to take shape in a blurred yet visible outline, and it was now up to us to decide what to do with the rest of the book. We were just starting to get settled in; boxes that once littered the main entry-way now cluttered the unused space in the attic. The stale smell of a house that had been long unoccupied began to fade away as we trudged from room to room, each day discovering some new corner we were unaware of, until finally every inch of the house was known, and every molecule of cold emptiness had given way to our scent. Only a few blocks away from Main street she’d found herself a job at the local coffee house, Sip N’ Sup. My days were spent writing, distracting myself from her absence with fictional characters and situations played out in my mind, all the while eagerly yearning for the little hand on the clock to strike seven. When the big hand ticked to two her keys would jiggle in the aged doorknob; my imagination telling me that it was the ghost of a downed Union soldier trying to run out and join the fight instead of my wife struggling with the handle as she made her way in. The latch gave way and there she was, beautifully flustered from a day’s work, a luscious blend of Ethiopian and French bean aromas seeping from her skin. She saw me peering around the door jamb from my office and smiled, golden bangs falling out the comforts of her ears as she turned to hide a blush.
“I love coming home to find you waiting for me like that.” Her keys clunked on the hall table, door scraping shut.
“I spend the entire day alone, how else do you expect me to react when you come home?”
“Oh stop being sucha kiss ass.” From behind me she laced her arms across my chest and planted three quick kisses up the length of my neck, ending playfully with a nibble at my earlobe. “Whatcha writin’?” She asked, looking down at the mess of paper and ink on the desk.
“I dunno. Ideas. Beginnings and endings of things, different thoughts that I might be able to use in the future.”
She reached for the page in front of me, ink still drying as she pulled it off the desk. It was a futuristic tale, if earth had somehow been partially destroyed and only half-men, half-lizards governed the remaining humans.
“May I?” She asked, already knowing the answer.
“Knock yourself out. I like the idea behind it, but I don’t know how I can turn it into an entire story.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure something out. You always do.” The warmth of her arms left my torso only to be replaced by the weight of her body on my lap.
I ran my hand up and down her back, feeling the bumps and curve of her spine with my finger as her eyes frantically crossed back and forth across the page.
“How was work? The yuppies didn’t give you too hard a time did they?”
She chuckled the high, ear-tickling laugh that I’d fallen in love with and rubbed my hair with her hands. “Not really. There was this one guy that came in though, he was a little annoying. He kept…lingering. I gave him his drink, coffee, black, and he hung around talking to me while I was working. He seemed to be quite taken by my looks” she said blushingly.
“Oh come on, do you have to tell me about stuff like that?” I could tell she had enjoyed the attention she received from the man while she was at work; the rosy fluster rising to her cheeks gave it away.
“What do you want me to say? I was flattered, yea, but do you really think I was at all interested?” She responded indignantly.
“Of course not, I just don’t like the idea of some random guy coming into your work and hitting on you. Sue me for being protective.”
“Well I can’t help it if people find me attractive” she scoffed. “Should I start going to work in clothes that only reveal my eyes and hands? Besides, the guy was a creep. It went from him being mildly interested in me to all of the sudden comparing me to his ex-wife. He was asking me what drink I recommended and then the next thing I know he’s telling me how his wife’s hair used to look like mine, how we both giggled the same way, that my fingers were short and stubby like hers. He didn’t even care that there was a whole line of people behind him, it was like he came into the shop for me and me only.”
“So you started layin’ down the law right?” I smirked at the idea of her getting obviously angry at someone and then letting them know, especially a complete stranger.
“I guess, if that’s what you wanna call it. Basically I just had to say, look, I’m not trying to be a bitch here but I gotta work. I made sure to flash him the finger too.” She held up her left hand. Glinting in the sunlight that sloped through the blinds a metallic ring choked her third finger. “As soon as he saw that he stopped talking, taking his drink with him to the table closest to the register. He just sat and glared in my direction until he was done drinking. And even then he stayed a little bit after, absentmindedly playing with his empty cup.”
I could feel my pulse quicken as she spoke, and I’m sure she felt it too. There was something threatening in the way she described him, even if it was only a retelling of her day’s work. I could see his eyes running up and down her body, thinking of things that only I could do, envisioning the honeymoon they would spend together if only I wasn’t around. The sick things he would do to himself when he got home. A part of me wants to believe that this is only the jealous husband speaking, that all the people in the world are normal and sane, just with a touch of a staring problem. But the sun set as fast as it does in the rainforest here, and at night it can be just as dangerous. The raving homeless, syphilis rotting their brain, were like the panthers of the city, slinking around darkened alleyways, waiting for a quivering baby gazelle to trot by, separated from the group, before making their move. Thugs ran around like mobs of fire ants, drug dealers slithered slowly, snakes that seductively hissed at the rats that were all too willing to become prey to their poison. Something told me that the stranger from the coffee shop knew the realities of nightfall better than I did, probably experienced it firsthand, and the fact that he had come in such close contact with my wife did not sit well. That was the one thing we’d discovered about the neighborhood after we moved in that I wish I would’ve known before the lease was signed. It was a nice quaint area during the day, but upon nightfall, you’d better watch out

Overpowering the slight scent of seeping gas, a chicken roasted in the oven; its microscopic particles wafting out the vents and cracks in between the door and the oven itself and whirled through the kitchen, weaving around the corner into the hallway and winding up wriggling into my nose hairs as I wrung my brain for ideas.
“Dinner!” she shouted from the kitchen, unaware that the aroma of the dead animal’s scorched skin had already lured me into the room. Van Morrison’s Moondance softly played from the stereo as she danced her way over to the kitchen table, setting down the still steaming tray of meat.
“I never understood the point of cute oven mitts like those.” I pointed to the cows that covered her hands.
“That’s exactly it. They’re cute and fashionable.” The mouth of the cow on her right hand opened and closed in unison with her voice.
“I get that but, I think I’d be more concerned with keeping my hands from being burnt to a crisp than the style in which I protected them.”
“That’s ‘cause you’re a guy. And guys don’t appreciate the beauty in anything.”
“Sexist.” I said sarcastically. “That’s not true at all. I write, I have to appreciate the beauty in everything, or else I’d be out of a job. And I married you didn’t I?”
“Yes. But everyone knows you’re just into me for my money and the fact that I’m a world renowned barista. You can’t even brew your own pot, how would you survive through the morning without me?” She tossed the mitts onto the counter and eased herself into the seat across the table. Picking up the knife that sat next to the tray I cut two big chunks from the chicken’s glistening breast, plopping them down onto each of our plates.
“Well this seems to be quite the fancy meal. It’s not our anniversary is it?” I jokingly asked.
“If it was and you asked that, you’d be making T.V. dinners and sleeping with late night talk show hosts. But if you must know, I got a promotion today at work.”
I could tell that she had been waiting all day to break the news, her smile shimmering at me from across the table, but there was something else she wasn’t telling me. Something in the way she kept her eyes honed in on me, glowing without the faintest explanation why.
“That quickly?! Way to go! And there’s a salary increase I’m assuming.” I said, hinting at the fact that writing wasn’t as prosperous as it sounded.
“Yep, I can now officially say I’m the breadwinner of this household.” She laughed. “I guess I’m just too much to handle down at the Sip N Sup. Makin’ everyone else look bad so they felt it was necessary to keep me locked away in the manager’s office. The only downside is that I gotta get up at 7 tomorrow morning to open up the place, all by my lonesome for a good hour.” She still had yet to pick up the fork and start eating, let alone look down at the food on her plate.
“I feel like there’s something you’re keeping from me.” Caution dripped from each word, terrified that I might spoil a perfectly good evening because of my over active imagination. “All this just for a promotion? The dancing giddiness in which you prepared this marvelous meal, the fact that this is your favorite thing to eat and we still only have it around Christmas time? Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”
“Oh cram it with your Shakespeare quotes; you know I can’t stand him.” It was as if she was trying to look past my eyes and read my thoughts, waiting for just the right time to say whatever it was that she really wanted to tell me. I let down my guard, deciding it would be better for her to tell me when she wanted to then for me to exercise it from her. A thin strip of bird was punctured by my fork, travelling to my mouth, incisors cutting it into more manageable sizes so my molars wouldn’t struggle with my over-zealous appetite.
The ground up meat was pushed back into my throat with the assistance of my tongue, and just as I was about to swallow, she finally said it.
“I’m pregnant.”
My throat pushed everything back up in reaction to those two little words, and had I not turned my head to the left the shotgun that had become my mouth would’ve sprayed the pellets of her favorite meal all over her face, the wall looking like a crime scene. She couldn’t control her laughter, hands instantly clapping around her mouth as she giggled without end, tears of joy streaming from her eyes.
Gaining control of my body I looked at her with a smile. “Are you trying to kill me?” Still laughing, she simply nodded her head, eyes squinting shut, finally breaking contact with me as she did everything she could to calm herself down. I couldn’t have cared less about the wasted bite, the mess on the wall or the fact that my wife’s preferred method of breaking news to me was to make me choke. There was no promotion she could’ve gotten, Pulitzer prize I could win or any house we could buy together that would ever measure up to the astronomically life changing news I had just received. We had both helped create a new life, and in a short 9 months that new life would be ours to bring into the world. For the first time we would be able to teach someone how to speak a language, tell them what air is, take them out to the ocean and watch as they stand in awe of the limitless sheet of choppy blue, retinas taking in a sight they had never taken in before. We would laugh when they told us a joke they heard in school, even if it wasn’t funny, and cry when they cried after being broken up with for the first time, letting them know that as hopeless as it may feel at the moment, things will get better. They always do. And they’ll know that no matter what happens or however far away we are from our little baby, grown up and living on their own or off on a school field trip, that we’ll always be in this house, sitting quietly underneath its brick walls, waiting patiently for them to step inside.
“So how long have you known?” I took her hand, our arms bridging the gap between us from across the table.
“I found out this morning.”
I cocked my head to the left as I looked at her, eyes squinting in confusion. “This morning? Why didn’t you say anything about it then?”
She looked down at her plate for the first time since we’d started eating, slowly letting out a sigh. “I-I don’t know. For some reason I was afraid it would mess things up. We’re just now starting to get into the groove of things, I mean Christ we’ve still got a few boxes left to unpack, half the mortgage to pay and now I’m pregnant? So much has happened for us in these last couple months it was a little overwhelming. I thought maybe if I never told you then it would be easier for me to just…” she paused momentarily, gulping the words back down her throat. “Oh I don’t even want to say it. I’m still ashamed that the thought even crossed my mind. But the more I thought about it, the longer I let the idea of us starting a family trickle down through my brain; I began to realize that this was nothing to worry about. That we’ll be fine no matter what because we’ll always have each other. Plus, we’re newlyweds and we just bought a house together, why not throw a baby in the mix?”
“It’s a sign.” I said. “Good things are coming. Maybe someone will stumble upon another one of my books lying in the waste basket of some hot shot publishing company and we’ll suddenly fall into gobs of money.” Friction began to build as my thumbs raced back and forth across the canyons between her knuckles, prickly heat working up my arms, spreading outwards into my chest. Any minute now I’d be a giant pool of static energy, and this energy was in dire need of being released.
Our food was left only slightly nibbled, stairs groaning and creaking a threat to collapse in response to the alarming speed we hurdled up them. The hinges of our bedroom door buckled as she threw the door open, almost ripping the screws from the frame. We added our clothes to the pre-existing pile on the floor, all smiles and tingly stomachs, sheets a mess of tangled legs and knots as we rolled together long into the hooting owl hours of night. It was one of those rare evenings that simply thinking of falling asleep was like pouring a bucket of ice onto my naked body. I knew we’d always be happy together, my heart only beats for her, but I wasn’t certain as to when there would be another night quite like this. She was carrying our child to life, waddling around for 9 grueling months, sacrificing herself while I could only offer a helping hand, never once taking on the full burden. I had to do everything in my power to let her know how much I truly appreciated her, how every need in my life was fulfilled in her presence and I would be stripped to nothing more than the hopeless shell of a man who once had it all were she to leave. She was warm against my body, panting into my ear, the headboard bumping two dents into the wall. Her skin was smooth like the rippling current of a river sliding through my outstretched fingers on a static summer day, her hair like the leaves of a perfect autumn, bold reds and rich yellows fluttering down past her shoulders. Fingers running the lengths of my bare chest, sliding around to feel hardened muscles raised underneath the skin of my back, slick with sweat. A playful tug at my hair, my earlobe gripped between two fingers before being released so those two fingers could blaze a trail across my cheek. She pulled my face down towards her collarbone with gentle intensity, keeping me prisoner there until I had planted my lips across every inch of her perfume infused neck. I almost thought to keep quiet, my mind racing back to a time when encounters like these needed to be at a dull murmur for fear of waking her slumbering parents. The realization, as little and obvious as it was, that this was not her parent’s house, that we were alone, pure and together, stirred within me a frenzy of desire. I felt as though the harder I pushed, the longer I went, salivated lips marking all the curves of her body, we would somehow shift in that one final thrust and warp together. Her hips rocked upwards in negative correlation to mine, shouting to the ceiling that witnessed every moment of intimacy we’d ever had, fingernails centimeters shy from drawing blood out of my back. The dents had become spidery splintered holes in the wall; the sheets had slipped off the bed, our musty scent soaking through the mattress. We’d been paddling out into this frenzied ocean ever since our food began to grow cold, and as the grunts and yells increased we both hit the same wave, arching upwards to meet that elusive crest. We savored that one moment together, sitting atop the frothy white water, pulling deep whiffs of each other into our lungs, exhaling in ragged breaths as we let the wave calmly take us back to shore where we could rest. I rolled onto my back, chest heaving a mirror to hers.
“You taste like strawberry jam.” She said, grudgingly pulling her lips away from mine. “Did you somehow manage to sneak a piece of toast in before we came up here?”
My mouth curved in a tender smile, arm snaking around her back in the concave space between her hip and ribcage. “Yea, I keep a hidden stash of toast under the bed just for these occasions.”
“God you’re so full of shit it’s ridiculous, I’m surprised I’ve managed to put up with your shenanigans for this long.” She giggled as she pulled her hair out of her eyes and behind her ears.
“I think you’ll manage.”
Pale white light had begun its slithering descent through our window and into the room as she looked at me, eyelashes seeming to beat in slow motion as she fought off sleep.
“Did we really stay up all night?” she yawned.
I turned my head to look over my shoulder towards the little black alarm clock on the bed-side table. Flaming red, the numbers blinked to 2:21.
“Yea, just about. What time are you working tomorrow? Well, this morning I should say.”
“Ah fuck. Work.” She let out a tiny chuckle. “Forgot about that one. 7 I think, and I can’t call in sick today either, seeing as how I’m the manager now.” A tiny drop of contempt rippled through her voice, not enough for her to actually resent the promotion, but just the right amount to express her anger at the institution for keeping her from sleep.
“Get some sleep baby, you’ve got a big day ahead of you, it’d be a shame if on your first day as top dog you got caught converting your office into your own personal rest area.”
“Mmm, I’d love to. 5 hours though? That’s almost not worth going to sleep for. I hate little teasers like that, it’s like right as deep sleep kicks in, BAM, the alarm’s ringing, I’ve got 5 minutes to get to work and my breath still smells like a spit filled graveyard.”
“Speak for yourself; I’ve got excellent morning breath.” I breathed heavy towards her smiling face, her eyes squinted, nose wrinkling in feigned disgust as the hot air from my diaphragm reached it.
“Cut it out!” she playfully shoved my shoulder, tumbling on top of me as she did so. A flurry of kisses covered my face, blanketing my skin in a multitude of wet, tiny spots. Barbs of blond hair threatened to poke out my eyes, white teeth coming dangerously close to tearing my lip away, a tiny nose trying to pummel mine into dust.
“Where’d this sudden burst of energy come from?” I asked in the few chances she gave me to breath.
“Who knows?” She whispered into my ear, “but let’s go with it.”

5 hours of sleep had somehow turned into a 2 hour and 15 minute catnap. By the time she had reluctantly drifted out of the waking world, I had decided there was no point to even try and sleep until she had already gone to work. I stayed up to hear the chirping of birds in the fresh morning air, locking myself away in the study area I had set up for writing. With each cigarette I inhaled crumbling to ash, the words frantically flowed from my pen. I did my best to capture the essence and heart of our evening together, scribbling out the helix of the DNA of the night, eventually adding organs, muscles, bone and skin as the hours flew by. I wanted every emotion on paper, every word spoken and every presumable thought solidified in fishy black ink. Around 6 o’clock I noticed the strange quiet that had sprung up in absence of her snores, the pipes running throughout our house creaking a good morning to me as the water heater kicked to life. My eyes burned from exhaustion as I made my way to the kitchen, hoping that the harder I rubbed them the more energy I’d have. The smiling face of some important American chef called to me from his eternal throne on the bag of pancake mix. Toucan Sam squawked for my attention, a raisin-bearing woman poured on her charm plastered atop a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread. Seductive as she may have been, and as exotic as a jungle full of fruity puffs sounded, you can never go wrong with the expanding batter that would soon be sizzling in my skillet. The patter of her bare feet plodding down the stairs reached my ears, followed by the swinging of the kitchen door as she entered, still yawning.
“Oh thank god, my stomach feels like it’s devouring itself as we speak.” Her hand instinctively went to her belly at the sight of the fluffy dough bubbling on the stove.
“Pancakes will cure that for sure.” Wedging the spatula underneath the gooey circle in the pan, I flipped it with precarious ease to reveal the crisp brown skin of a pancake. “Expands in your stomach. It’s a proven fact.”
“How can someone prove that?” She asked, sitting patiently at the table. “Did someone volunteer to have their stomach opened up after eating one, just to see what would happen?”
“Don’t question it. It’s science, plain and simple.” I plopped a freshly made cake on her plate, setting the syrup and butter down next to it. “Mademoiselle, dig in.”
She attacked the pancake with ravenous ferocity, cutting it into tiny bits, tearing away at its structure until her plate held nothing more than a few crumbs and a puddle of syrup. “Goddamn you can make a mean breakfast.” She said, swallowing her last bite. Her eyes glanced up to the clock. “Is it really 6:40 already? I gotta get going, I’m gonna be late if I don’t hurry.”
“I’ll walk with you, it’s particularly nice outside.” I said, slipping my feet into the sandals sitting just outside the kitchen. We made our way to the front door, her hand in mine, and stepped out into the clear brightness of an early morning in March. There was a slight chill in the air, just enough to keep the warmth that would soon overrun the day at bay until the sun had a little more time to make its way up the sky. Leaves were scattered across the sidewalk, an epitaph to the winter that had just passed, waiting to be reborn in 8 months before its icy breath could once again blow over the land.
“Isn’t 8 a little late for a coffee shop to open?” I asked, squinting my eyes against the sun. “Business men are like junkies for their coffee, they go ape shit if they don’t get it before work, and unless I’m mistaken their days usually start around 9. Most places I’ve been to open up by 6 usually.”
“Yea, well Sip N Sup isn’t just any old coffee shop.” She responded haughtily. “It seems as if our town is immune to the Starbuck’s virus. For the time being at least,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes at the same time. “So Sip N Sup is something of a coffee monopoly around these parts, we make our rules the way we see fit I guess. If these corporate stiffs you speak of have a problem with that, they can take their complaints and shove it up their asses. Work at a snail’s pace till the dammed store is open, take a ten minute break to recharge then fly through the rest of the day. It’s really not that difficult.”
“Or better yet,” I interjected, “learn how to function without caffeine. It’s pathetic how dependent people are on the stuff, it’s like a legal form of heroin and it clouds your thoughts worse than pot does.”
She squeezed my hand as I spoke. “You would know wouldn’t you.”
I’ll admit, and she knows this as well, I was something of a stoner when we first started dating, and if I wasn’t forced to choose between drugs and the love of my life, I still would be. Although that choice didn’t require a second, hell, even a first thought for that matter. Drugs can only give you a false sense of security and love, infiltrating your mind, numbing it down into believing that you can’t live without that skunky little nug in your hand, one more hit and you’ll be happy, you need this. It was clear to me from the very beginning that, despite the dense fog that choked my brain, her affection was the only drug I’d ever need.
“So tell me, Miss Manager, what’s your plan of action for today?” A crack in the sidewalk caught my foot as we walked, nearly throwing me off balance into the street.
“First off,” She slowed her pace, allowing me time to regain my composure. “I’m going to find a husband that can walk and talk at the same time.”
“Those are hard to come by,” I responded, careful to keep an eye out for any other hidden cracks. “But let’s face it, even if you did, I’m way out of your league, I don’t think you could handle being with someone who doesn’t look as good as I do 24/7.” I felt a sharp pinch on my skin, looking down to see the fingers of her free hand quickly pull away from my arm.
“Second” Ignoring my last remark she continued to fill me in on her plans. “I’m gonna implement a strict moral and social code of conduct among the worker bees. No talking unless spoken to, no looking at members of the opposite sex unless I allow it. I gotta make sure to keep them in check, you know, belittle them with snide, over the top remarks about the quality of their work, nibbling away at their self-esteem until they’re reduced to pitiful, sniveling babies. Break ‘em down so their easier to control. Typical qualities of a good manager.”
“You sound like one delightful person to be under. All this talk of control and how you’re the queen bee, I gotta say it’s making me a little flustered.” My hand let go of hers, reaching around her back until it made its home on the side of her stomach. Her face warmed up to a rosy hue, almost on fire, kissing my cheek as she transferred some of that precious warmth to mine.
“Just wait till I get home, I’ll show you a thing or two about-Oh fuck!” Her eyes were locked on whatever was in front of us; tearing mine away from hers I followed suit.
Our journey had ended, the tiny shack that was the Sip N Sup sat directly in our path. Plastered onto the main window, setting it apart from the onslaught of business offices, pizza parlors and antique shops that surrounded it, was a gigantic cup of steaming, light brown coffee, complete with cloudy wisps of whipped cream tumbling out over the brim. Sets of empty chairs most likely found at a thrift store crowded around three empty tables. The lights were still off inside, doors still locked, not one person walked down the street.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, fearing the worst, my mind telling me her sudden outburst had something to do with the baby, or a rare breed of mutant insect that had found its way up her pant leg and delivered a fatal sting, or that she had suddenly come to the conclusion that she was better off without me.
And then I saw him, tucked away in an isolated section of chairs on the far right side of the shop, not even a table to keep him company. His face was leathery, aged as if he had spent 2 years atop a mountain without any shelter from the sun, sparse patches of wiry black hair dotted his chin. His hands were burrowed deep into the pockets of his coat like he was trying to fit his entire arm into a single pocket. The jacket seemed a little too heavy for the warmth of the morning, but for some reason he wore it anyways. Dark brown, tinted with strands of gray that stood out like a deaf in a singing contest, his hair was shaggy, thin, stopping just above his eyebrows.
“That the guy that came in yesterday?” All the lightheartedness that had toned my voice on the walk over had vanished, replaced with something stern and protective.
“Yea,” she answered feebly, sensing the shift in my attitude. “C’mon, help me open up. I’m sure he’s harmless, but he gives me the willies nonetheless.”
We crossed the street and I pulled her closer to me as we walked, gripping her tightly in the same way I would if we were out walking in a storm. The keys fumbled as her shaking hands carried them to the store’s entrance, and as she was beginning to unlock the door the cacophony of a chair’s metal legs scraping against concrete abruptly punctured the quiet stillness of the morning.
“Not open yet.” She said quickly, not even bothering to look up as the man began walking towards us. Before he could get any closer, she threw the door open, grabbed my shirt by the collar and yanked me inside. The man simply stood on the other side of the big glass window in front, his eyes tracking every movement my wife made.
“I’d say he’s not as harmless as you make him out to be, seeing as how he’s been waiting outside the store. What if he’s been there all night?” Walking over to the window, I placed myself directly in front of him. Every time he would try and angle his head to get a better look at her from over my shoulder, I’d mirror his movements, fighting the increasingly strong urge to blink as I made it evident how I felt about him with my eyes. Just as my neck felt like it was about to give out from the amount of use I had put into to preventing him from seeing into the store, he gave up, going back to his original position.
“Maybe you’re right, who knows. Maybe he just wants coffee. But all that stuff he was saying yesterday, the way he looked at me when he mentioned his wife, it really freaked me out. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.” She pulled milk from the fridge and looked over at me. “James, get away from the window, you’re just going to piss him off.”
I could barely hear her over the whir of espresso machines and slam of the refrigerator door falling to a close as she rushed to get the store open.
“Good.” I shouted, hoping he would hear me from the other side of the windowpane. “I don’t like this creep trying to make a peep show out of you working. We’re in standoff mode now, I can’t just leave.”
Everything about him sent a panicked shiver of rage and fear rippling through my body. The way he looked at her, frantically trying to savor every possible glimpse even when my face blocked his view. How it didn’t matter to him that I was there, even the fact that she had showed him her wedding ring the day before and that it did nothing to deter him from trying again. That he had been waiting for the shop to open, alone, without anything to keep himself occupied save for whatever was going on in his mind. What if I had decided to stay home and sleep instead of walking her to work? Would the sound of the door clicking shut be the last noise I’d ever hear her make? Would the space on the bed next to me, still warm from when she left, grow cold after three days of searching; police dogs, infrared, the works, still no luck? Our fridge would slowly be overrun with T.V. dinners, sandwich meat, and greasy fast food bags instead of chicken, lasagna, leftover casseroles. My gut would start to sag, teeth rotting from the copious amount I smoked, deep, purple circles under my bloodshot and tear ridden eyes as I scoured the city for any trace of her. Picking up every strand of blond hair I found, leaving a trail of animal oven mitts leading back home, sprinting towards the direction of some woman laughing in the distance only to find a happy couple enjoying themselves in the warmth of their den. Could I ever leave her alone again? I know she can take care of herself, but there was something I had seen in his eyes when he looked at her through the window. Some dark, unknown beast that slept in the black holes of his pupils, waiting to come out. And every time the glassy sheen that covered his eyeballs reflected her image the beast ravenously snapped its jaws, roaring and tearing at the chains the held it back, each tug weakening the constraints that had been in place all its life. A chain can only last for so long. All it takes is one late night at work, and then it could all be over, just as we were finally starting to get into the swing of things.
My eyes began to water, whether it was from not blinking or the thought of her safety being put at risk I couldn’t tell, but I’d had enough.
“Hey!” My fists slammed into the glass as my throat retched out my explosive cry. “What the fuck do you want? Why are you here?!”
He continued to stare, seemingly oblivious to the tantrum happening right in front of him. And then, in a slow, delicate motion, he finally pulled his hand out from his coat pocket. Calloused and wrinkled, his first finger extended out as he backed away, raising it up to the space just above my left shoulder. The beast was back. I turned around to see the shocked face of my wife, unmoving, pale, mouth held open, looking in my direction, the unwilling target of his aiming finger. I turned back and the man was gone.
He hadn’t blinked once.

Three hours and a missing limb later
he realized he had not uttered a single sound,
a respirator jammed down his throat.
Silence spoken through a breathing tube.

Clicking a button taped to his hand
the nurses arrived and changed the linen,
soaking yellow puddles into sponges
soon discarded.
Silence spoken through their nervous eyes.

He remembered the flash,
the mind numbing concussive blast,
the wiz of bullets
and screams of fallen friends.
Silence spoken through their lifeless form.

His eyelids burned,
his legs cramped,
the space were his elbow once was
itched.
Silence spoken through nerve endings no longer there.

How long had he been here?
He had forgotten how it felt to be loved,
how it felt to live,
the touch of a breeze against his sun bathed cheek.
Would he ever leave?
Silence spoken through time that ceased to exist.

In a room rattling with dull murmurs, muted colors from cheap tuxedos and ice clinking against glass in watered down drinks she planned her entrance carefully. Her arrival was a few minutes late, igniting hopes of having every eye swivel in her direction when she made her way through the door. The vibrant fabric of her three toned dress screamed for their attention, but the room’s smoky haze choked the life from the light bulbs and not even a single nod of recognition went her way as she grudgingly trudged to the drink table. The social spark prevalent in the eyes of most people her age had long since diminished, fading and flickering into a smoldering rubble unworthy of being rekindled, save for the fact that it had lasted this long and refused to be extinguished entirely. Her hands would ball themselves into white knuckled fists as she spoke, uncurling with reluctance if the conversation progressed beyond a few abrupt and awkward sentences. It was as if there was a deep yearning within her for some sort of physical touch, desperately searching for an affirmation that she wasn’t just another face in the crowd, that she was deserving of a man’s affection. But her fingers only touched the breeze of a ceiling fan, the warm brush of someone’s breath against her fingertips, and that fleeting rush of excitement died almost as quickly as it arrived when the warm breath moved on and the fan’s chill forced the bony extensions of her hand back into the sweat of her palm. Dried blood caked the crevices around her fingernails, the skin bitten down in nervous anticipation at the chance of finally meeting “Mr. Right”. The skin never healed; the man of her dreams nothing more than a tragic phantom that kept her bed cold at night, kissing her in the sparse explosions of rain splattering onto her cheek from her cracked bedroom window, and there wasn’t enough fabric or dye in the world that could color her life with vivid perfection.

Waking naked for the first time
in the two months we’d been together,
you gasped in the morning’s growing light
and then remembered what had happened the night before.

“Nudity always surprises me” you chuckled,
kissing me into consciousness despite
the bitter staleness of dead bacteria on my breath
and mysterious goop crowding my eyes.

My memory of last night felt more
like an elusive dream than a reality,
and it wasn’t until I noted your lack of clothing
and the way your lips curved into a satisfied smile
when your eyes met mine that I was able to accept it.

You got up to wash your face
and crawled back into bed refreshed and spry,
muting the voices of a talking yellow sponge and
an idiotic pink starfish so that we could fill the room
with equally pointless but far more meaningful babble.

Cooped up in his henhouse in your backyard
the rooster began to sound an alarm to your unaware parents
as they rustled about in their pre-work hubbub, brewing coffee,
voices dull murmurs rising up through the floor
of your apartment-style attic of a room.

The hefty plodding of your older brother’s feet coming up the stairs
reached our ears far too late. You frantically rushed to cover up
as he slid open the screen door, standing in the doorway,
pupils expanding in fury.
Spinning on his heel he dashed back downstairs without a single utterance,
signaling my time to leave by slamming the door
of the main house with enough force to wake anyone still sleeping.

A long kiss goodbye, fingers twirling your auburn hair,
my thumb delighted at the perfect smoothness of your cheek
as I pulled away from you with reluctance.
Trudging through the overgrown ivy in between
the side of your house and the neighbor’s fence
I prayed that my panicked escape would go
unnoticed.

Remember when it was just one pill?
When we only needed 7 bucks
for a teeth grinding night of
chemically induced happiness,
skin tingling, eyes rolling in an attempt to focus.

Remember when it was just two puffs?
My white bic breathing life into the
fluffy green nest that filled the bowl of the pipe,
our eyes a blood red giveaway
to the giggling fun we thought we were having.

Remember when it was just three snorts?
Long after the powdery white lines
left the face of the mirror to reveal ourselves,
at least we were still feeling it.

Remember when it was the family of four?
Whose live were cut short on the highway
by your one ton of steel and 1 liter of whiskey
and you walked away unscathed,
sobering up to the sight of blood on the concrete
and the sound of screaming children.

Remember when it was the five of us?
Spending all the money we had
just to get back to what it was that we considered normal,
tensions flaring as we divvied up the drugs,
squabbling over who paid how much
and who gets the first bump
and who would be driving
and what our cover story will be.

Remember when we were six years old
and our imagination was all we needed
to keep our wide-eyed innocence entertained?
When a journey to the park meant
swinging and laughing instead of
smoking and coughing.

Do you remember what it meant to have fun?

The sun set as fast as it does in the rainforest here, and at night it can be just as dangerous. The raving homeless, syphilis rotting their brain, were like the panthers of the city, slinking around darkened alleyways, waiting for a quivering baby gazelle to trot by, separated from the group, before making their move. Thugs ran around like mobs of fire ants, drug dealers slithered slowly, snakes that seductively hissed at the rats that were all too willing to become prey to their poison. That was the one thing I’d discovered about the neighborhood after moving in that I wish I would’ve known before the lease was signed. It was a nice quaint area during the day, but upon nightfall, you’d better watch out.
Now that’s not to say all street urchins are bad. Some of the crazies, the happily insane ones, seem to add a little flare and flavor to the neighborhood, which I can appreciate. Tony the Touring Tuba Tooter was my personal favorite of the mad-hatters. Whether his name was really Tony or not I’ll never know, but it seemed to fit for me. My life was brightened with his existence the second week after I’d moved in. It was just after the sun sank beyond the pointed house rooftops and barren plateaus that topped the projects, March’s evening chill coursing through the street, kicking up dirt and leaves. I sat outside on the front patio, creaking back and forth on a rocking chair my grandfather had left to me before he died. On nights like these, calm with just the right temperature, I would watch the stars chase the dying light out of the sky, waiting until their nightly crusade was won before I retired back to my home. Bringing my orange Bic up to the cigarette in my mouth I cradled the space past the tip of it with my free hand, dragging in the toxins that billowed out. As the stars finally ran out any remaining shred of light I began to notice a strange, metallic clicking from far down the street. I strained to tell what it was and soon realized that behind each click was a brassy note blaring out into the night, and that every click brought a change in that note’s pitch. From beneath the flickering light of the lamppost a few feet from me a figure emerged, then instantly became shrouded in shadow as it kept moving towards me. In the brief second that it passed under the light the culprit of the noise was revealed; a dull, dented tuba that, by the way no light bounced off it, had most likely been found in a dumpster somewhere. The notes continued at random, suggesting that the player had no real idea as to what he was doing, or even where he was for that matter. His path through the neighborhood became a trail of bedroom lights flicking on, window screens opening up and heads peering out to discern what kind of idiot could possibly be playing a tuba at this time of night. The idiot continued to stumble and mumble his way up the street as I continued to watch with ever growing curiosity, wondering what he would do when he passed me. Finally my curiosity was killed when he passed my house, not even stopping to give me the slightest nod of acknowledgment. As if he could sense my disappointment, Tony stopped dead in his tracks just as he was about to cross the line dividing my lawn with the neighbor’s, paused for a moment, then walked backwards until he was directly in front of me. Turning on his heel like a boot camp cadet, he spun and faced me, precariously wobbling as he tried to make his way up the steps onto the patio.
“Hold it. I didn’t say you could come up here.” I tried to be firm in my voice but not so much that I would scare him away. It was almost as if I were dealing with some kind of stray dog, I wanted to know more about him, but I didn’t know enough to trust him that close to me.
“Mmmmmmmya gotz any spare change sssssssssir?” he asked out the side of his mouth, lips still pressed against the grimy mouthpiece.
“Can’t say I do, even if I did I’m not just gonna give you my bus money. I’ve got a couple smokes though.”
“Tttttttttttthose’ll do. A song for a smoke.” His eyes glinted at the possibility of actually having an audience other than the one in his head to play for.
“Fair enough, what can you play?”
“Mmmmmmmmmmanything, name any song and I’ll play it for ya, I taught Beethoven how to play jazz and Miles Davis…well…don’t get me started on him.”
“How about” I pondered for a moment, thinking of all the songs I’d like to hear transposed onto tuba, “how about, Purple Haze. You know, by Hendrix.”
“Ah, excellent choice.” And then there was silence. His eyes dropped to the pavement.
“Well, you gonna play it or what?”
Two pinhole pupils snapped back up at me.
“Don’t know it.” he answered gruffly. “Refuse to play it even if I did, bastard stole that riff from be baaaaaaaaack in ’61.”
I laughed, “Ok, Smoke on the Water then. Everyone knows that.”
“You know they got the insssspiration for that song from when I burnt down the White House a couple years back? Noooooope, don’t know it. I’ll play Taps, and that’s all you’re getting. But first, how bout them smokes?” He pointed the tuba’s sound hole in my direction. I pulled two out from my pack and tossed them into the spit filled abyss.
“Much obliged.” And then he proceeded to play.
What burst forth from the dingy man’s lungs and out through the tuba was unlike anything I’d ever heard before, sounding more like the in-bred cousin of Taps’ uncle’s friend’s roommate than the song itself. Still, I found myself admiring his enthusiasm, I couldn’t help but respect the way his cheeks puffed out and eyes bulged to an alarming diameter with each breath. A few times there was just the sound of his saliva surging through the maze of metal instead of a note, and as the song began to drag on, more and more bedroom windows were illuminated, leading to curses and small rocks being hurled in our direction. At long last his lungs gave out and the abomination of a song ended without any indication that it was coming to a close. I leapt from my chair, giving the man the best standing ovation I’d ever given, whistling and cheering as he smiled up at me. A dirt covered hand reached blindly into the tuba, crawling around to try and find the cigarette that in his mind he had so righteously earned.
“That was awesome man. Here,” I reached into my pocket and grabbed the quarter empty pack of Camel Filters, tossing it in his direction, “take the whole damn thing. Bravo my good sir, bravo.”
In his haste to catch my pack he had forgotten all about the tuba in his other arm, dropping it onto the sidewalk with a deafening clang. “Oh damn it all to hell” he mumbled as he put a cancer-stick in between his lips.
“Whoops, sorry man. Lemme help you out.” I walked down from my throne and picked up the tuba, holding my lighter out for him to use. He lit the cigarette then grabbed the tuba, dropping the pack down into it.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got another show in 20 minutes and if I don’t hurry I’m going to miss my slot. Thank you Cleveland, I’ll be here all week.” With a slight bow, a tip of the tuba and a full-hearted wink, he spun on his heel once again and began to walk out into the darkness of whatever world waited for him. I only saw him a few more times after that, each time he seemed to have no recollection of who I was or how I knew that the only song he could play was Taps. And each time I made sure to give him the best reception he’d ever hope to have. Sometimes I would wait out a little bit longer at night, hoping to catch the next show, but it never came. I like to think that he’s out there, making a name for himself, leaving the garbage ridden alleyways and cardboard homes for a life of luxury and glamour, tooting his tuba to an audience of 100, maybe even 1000 people, winning the applause and admiration he’d always yearned for. And although it’s nothing more than a fool’s fantasy, it’s better than nothing at all.

There was a mysterious charm in the way he twirled his mustache between his forefinger and thumb, matting the hairs together with the grime collected on his hands from years at sea. As usual, I was flying high above him, running circles in the sky, fueled by the obscenities he was shouting in my direction.
“You’ll never catch me Pan!” He yelled, the tip of his sword taunting me as it swung wildly from the deck.
“Not if I have anything to say about it.” I mumbled to myself, a laugh escaping my throat as I made my way back home. This aerial exercise had become my daily routine, relishing his feeble attempts to spurn my advances as I mocked him from the clouds. Who was he kidding, he probably wanted it as bad as I did, he just had a better way of concealing it, a mask of masculinity and true sea-bearing grit hiding how he really felt. His tightly clasped belt did little to fend me off, if anything the glint of sunlight sparkling against the buckle only made me want to see that satin tie of purple tossed on the floor along with everything else. One day, he’ll be mine, the scurvy swashbuckler no longer my enemy as we join together to form a wonderfully forbidden mess.
As one can expect, Tink always looks like she’s about to vomit with envy; her face flushes green at the amount of time I spend ogling him from the balcony, my cheeks warming up to a rosy hue at the intensity in which he orders his men about the boat. Despite what I may have felt for Hook, I would spend as much time with her as I could, every night making a wish that she was my size, keeping her warm in the little bed we had built together ages ago, trying my best not to be bothered by the unruly resilience of a fairy’s wings. Try as she might, I just wasn’t as into it as she was, my thrusts lacking any effort or emotional force behind them, our kisses more like stiff pecks done purely for the sake of making it seem real than anything else. She knew how I felt, and it was killing her inside.
“Why do you like him so much?” She asked one morning, eyeing me from the enveloping folds of her pillow in a way that made me hate myself for not being attracted to her.
“It’s hard to pinpoint an exact reason. Maybe it’s his ruggedness, the filth in which he lives, his marvelous beard laughing at the fact that I can never grow one. He’s exactly the opposite of me, I guess you could say he’s the closest thing to a soul mate I have.”
Her lower lip quaked, eyelashes beating furiously to fight against the onslaught of tears. “What about me? Have you spent so much time in Neverland pretending you’re a carefree little kid that you think girls are icky again?”
“Who knows, I can’t control the way I feel. I’m sorry that it’s hurting you Tink, that’s the last thing I want to do.”
Maybe that was it, the explanation I had been searching for all these years. I had stopped caring about these strange feelings and accepted it as time went on, my heart never changing as I frantically searched for a way out. It seemed to me as if there was no way to escape it, we could fight all we wanted, but no amount of extra loud clocks crashing through his bedroom window or clever traps I may have set could find a way to fill the vacuous hole that had become my life without him. And a life without Hook wasn’t something I would even have the strength to try. So that was it, my decision had been made, no more fights. The dagger I once used to try and cause him harm now serves as a paper-weight, collecting dust on my bedside table, dried blood from his body still clinging to the blade. Yesterday morning I woke to find that the dust was now thick enough to prevent the sun from touching steel, a nagging reminder to the lack of effort I had been putting into this relationship. To be stuck on this island, no way to die or experience new things, caged by this false ideal that life was only worth the time it took to play, it’s a terrible way to live. If Hook wanted nothing to do with me, if his interests were solely business related, then by god I’ll throw myself into the jaws of the very croc that robbed him of his hand. At least then I would know how he felt, finally contented as I sink into the soothing blackness of death. Today I set out to change the course of my life, whatever that change might be. With a smidge of dusty gold luck blown from the palm of Tink’s hand and a devil-may-care look plastered across my face, I took my first step towards freedom, surrounded by the warmth of a perfect spring day in Neverland.
“Good luck.” she murmured, not even turning to look back as the door clicked to a close behind me. Hopping out into the sunlight I paused for a moment, drawing in one last breath, keeping my gaze locked for as long as I could on the place I had called home since I made the choice to stay here. With an exhale of air and a flick of my ankle I spat dirt and rocks from underneath my heel, rocketing upwards towards a never-ending canvass of blue. The sharp zing of a cannon ball whizzing past me indicated I was drawing closer; a flash of light somewhere along the coast, a cautious plume of smoke slowly rising from the source of light followed by another cannon ball. I swooped in before the crew had enough time to re-adjust their position and fire a decent shot. With my knife in hand I cut into the sails like butter, slowing my fall until I could safely drop to the deck. I spun about, fighting off the mindless soldiers, all the while searching for that elusive face. Suddenly the fighting stopped and I heard the clunk of his boots come clunking in my direction. A vehement snarl contorted his face, grease ridden curls of black hair bouncing madly on his shoulders as he sauntered over to where I was.
“I suppose you’ll be reimbursing me for that sail, eh boy?” His eyes glinted like hidden treasure, never once breaking their hold with mine.
“Indeed I will, if you give me the chance.” This response obviously surprised him, the glint was lost for a moment, in a flash replaced by something timid, something that didn’t want to fight, that realized this was going nowhere. But as soon as I had seen the change in his eyes it was already gone, his front once again set up.
“If I give you the chance? I do declare old chap, the only chance you have with me is through the sword. Why the sudden peacefulness? And where’s your dagger?”
“It’s back home. I’m tired of fighting Hook, look at how long we’ve been here, and what have we got to show for it? We’re in exactly the same position we were when we met. There’s no point anymore.”
“So you’re just going to give up then? For what?”
“I’m not giving up, just giving in. For years I’ve wrestled with this feeling, and now I’m finally going to confront it. The more we fought the more I realized it wasn’t you I was fighting, it was myself. My insecurities were dealt with best if I threw them onto you, if you became the villain in my eyes. But I can’t fight it anymore. I won’t. I love you Hook, I need to be with you. It’s as simple as that. And I know how crazy that sounds, but just think about it for a second. Give it a shot, what’ve you got to lose?”
He looked at me as If I were some strange, unearthly beast he had never seen before in his life, taking a step back, forefinger and thumb travelling up to his mustache out of habit.
“You want to be with me? You? Peter Pan, arch rival and sole deterrent to Captain Hook’s success, now wants to be my bitch?! Never in a million years would I have seen this coming!” He could barely contain his childlike glee, laughing and prancing hysterically around the deck, each explosive burst from his diaphragm only driving me deeper into despair.
“Is that so hard to believe?” I shouted over the commotion, trying to contain my anger.
“Peter listen,” he clapped a hand on my shoulder, temporarily calming down. “That is wrong on so many levels. For starters, I don’t swing that way, I’m playing for the other team, why would I want what I already have? If you catch my drift. Secondly, you look like a 14 year old boy, and while inside you may be as old as I am, I think I’d have quite the difficult time getting past that. And finally, I already got myself a lady friend, so I couldn’t do anything even if I wanted to. I’m a man of principle, I may be a pirate but I don’t cheat. I hate to burst your bubble Pan Man, but I think I’m gonna have to pass on this one.”
Something inside me snapped, the tightly wound ball that had been growing in my stomach since the day we met finally exploded, and I could do nothing to stop the tears.
“Who is she?” I sobbed, collapsing onto the ground, beating my fists to a pulp against the wood.
“You know, I almost feel bad being the one to tell you this, and if I didn’t get such enjoyment out of seeing you in this state I’d have half a mind to not say anything. But it’s Tink, we’ve been going at it for some time now, thing’s are gettin’ pretty serious and maaaaan is she somethin’ else! I don’t know how in the hell you could’ve passed that up Pan, seriously that was a major mistake on your part. She may be a tiny little fairy, but that girl is a stone cold fox in my book.”
I hadn’t expected that one. And for some reason I found myself resenting Hook for being with her, despite the endless amount of time I had spent rejecting the possibility of something substantial happening between us. The thought of him, the one I wanted but couldn’t have, wanting to be with the one who had helped to guide me through the dangers of this place and had been by my side since day one made my heart feel as if it were about to violently rip through my chest, that at any moment blood would start to seep from my eyes and I would lose all control of my body. I picked myself up from the ground, wiping away salty streams of sadness and looking him dead in the face. His snarl had turned to a shit eating grin, he knew that he had finally won.
“So why don’t you go run along home now little boy. If you even have a home to go to anymore, Tickle me Tink was talking about me moving in sometime in the near future, I can see how that might be a problem for you. Oh, and this is completely off topic, well I suppose if we’re on the topic of Tink it might relate, but you wouldn’t happen to know anything about STD’s would you? I got this nasty rash that just popped up outta the blue, and it’s freakin’ me out, I’m terrified that I might’ve passed it onto to Tink.”
I spat in his face, flying away from the laughing multitude of pirates without giving him the satisfaction of a response. In a single sentence, just three short words, my entire world had been rocked, and as tempting as the thought of suicide was, I knew that in the end Hook wasn’t worth the trouble. There were plenty of other people out there, I had just spent so much time focusing on him I had forgotten all about the rest of the world. Maybe I’ll go see what the natives are doing, throw myself into their culture and finally be accepted, paint my face and give myself a new name, forgetting all about this fiasco. But whatever I do, I know I need to move on. I need to find my happily ever after. And I’ll be damned if I don’t.**
**Sadly, this is the last glimmer of happiness Pan would ever see in his life. The hopefulness in which he concludes his last journal entry was ripped from his mind, presumably within a month or two of his disappearance from the public eye. The pirates on Hook’s boat were the last to see Pan as a healthy young man, and the only other person to see him since that day was Tink, who went searching for him when she learned of the promiscuous nature of Captain Hook and how she was not the only woman he called his own. This occurred almost a year after he stormed away from the boat, and the state in which she found him in was far from pleasant. That “nasty rash” that Hook had offhandedly commented on turned out to be something much worse than that, a mutant strand of syphilis he apparently picked up from one of the mermaids tempting the men of Neverland. He passed this disease onto Tink, who in turn gave it to Peter. Now, being a pirate and having an STD are almost always one in the same, so the insanity that came with it could do nothing more than work to his advantage, making the men fear him even more than they already did and keeping every day fresh and exciting. Tinkerbelle may have had a few unpleasant outbreaks here and there, but nothing that really had the power to do much damage against the bodily defenses of a fairy. Peter, on the other hand, only had the immune system of an adolescent boy, so he suffered the worst of it. By the time Tink had discovered the mossy grotto that he had made his home, it was already too late. He was completely blind and almost deaf, unsightly lesions and ulcers covered his skin and his bones threatened to break at the slightest amount of pressure. Amazingly, he knew Tinkerbelle had found him the moment she stepped into his presence, calling out her name before she had even gotten a chance to let him know she was there. Whether this was intuition or just the mindless ravings of dying man one can only speculate at. Nevertheless, she ran to his aid, trying to offer him what little comfort she could, all the while knowing there was nothing she could do. As she held his rotting body in her arms, his left hand gave a weak twitch towards the diary at his side. She picked it up, reading softly into his ear the events of his life that were long gone in both time and his memory. She reached the end of the diary, the last few sentences scribbled almost illegibly in anger. He looked up in the direction he thought she was in, quietly shaking and wheezing for a few moments before muttering “Remember me” into her neck. With one final rasp for air, the life faded from his eyes and he was gone, now nothing more than the empty promises of a childhood fantasy. Tink returned to Hook shortly after, having lost all respect for herself after seeing what her own selfish desires had done to her beloved Peter; and while some may say they lived happily ever after, a disease infested pirate and a pathetically hopeless fairy coupled together may suggest otherwise.**

Time would stand still.
The minute hand on the clock
ticking
to
a
s
t
o
p
whenever she craned her neck,
whipping her hair about her shoulders
just to see me.
I lived at the mercy of her eyes.
blinking closed, my throat swells up.
Fluttering open I can breathe again,
my heart pounding out the rhythm
to her quirky time signature.
She took command of the room simply with her looks,
and she knew it.
Setting the tone of the mood for the remainder of the evening
by letting out a bored sigh
or
giggling behind her hand
or
playfully winking at some stranger across the room,
hearts skipping the same beat.
Never underestimate the destructive capabilities of a
pretty face.
It’ll turn you into a sneering beast
salivating and foaming from the mouth
at the thought of that
pretty face
pressed to one that isn’t your own.
And when you think you’ve scratched it from your mind
it’ll creep back in a dream
or a song you heard,
taking you back to a time when that
pretty face
was yours
and the slender cheekbones that
carved her face to perfection,
naturally beautiful without the aid of makeup,
soft
puffy
lips that you once bit,
dark eyelashes that seemed to curve out into infinity
now brushing the dust from someone else’s cheek.

For the first time in your life
you know real pain.

“When shall we three meet again?” David glanced up from the gun in his hand, carefully cocking the slide back and removing 9mm of metal, gunpowder and explosive demise from the chamber as his eyes scanned the room. Blood caked the wall in front of him, a dried fountain spouting from the shattered face of what was once a relatively handsome young man. Placing the bullet in his pocket, he began to dismantle the weapon and with a toss sent each separate piece down the mouth of the garbage bag on the floor. The room was still silent, save for the ragged breathing of the men standing next to him and the snap of latex as he pulled gloves onto his hands.
“What did I say about speaking when you’re spoken to? Don’t make me reiterate my point about silence. When will we meet again?”
“T-two days from now.” answered the man to his left, bloody bits of bone and brain clinging to his blonde hair, dirt riddled fingernails frantically trying to tear them out.
“Very good-” David held his mouth open mid-sentence, pointing his finger towards the trembling man in hopes that it would trigger a name.
“Tom.”
“Toooom, right. Excellent Tommy boy, I’m glad to see you’ve still got your wits about you. Now, as for your friend over here” his eyes shifted to the other man huddled in the corner, hugging himself in a neatly knit sweater concealing the arms that concealed his face. “I want him to tell me what you guys were up to tonight, what you would tell the heat should they come knockin’.” As the words were leaving his mouth David began to make his way over to the corpse propped against the wall.
“James” Tom mumbled. “What were we doing tonight?”
An exasperated grunt from the opposite side of the room brought James’ head out from the folds of his clothes. David had begun to undress the slightly twitching body, starting with his shoes and working his way up to his jeans, breathing heavily as he fought against the cold stiffness of death.
“This is all kinds a fucked up man” James bit his lip, choking back tears. “We shouldn’t even be here. I was just trying to get a fix; this guy always had the best shit. The gun went off all on its own, I swear, I didn’t even have a finger on the trigger, he asked to see it; it’s his fucking fault man I-”
“That’s not what I asked” David interrupted curtly. “It’s your fault for bringing the damn gun out, didn’t you ever learn that these things aren’t toys? You called me, 3 am on a Saturday night, made me leave the comforts of my bed and the warmth of my wife for this shit and now all you’re gonna do is sit there and cry? If you want my help you better answer the question. And answer is fast ‘cause I’m running out of patience.”
“We were at a party, which we actually were earlier. Michelle’s party, lives over on 42nd and Irvine, real sweet setup, two stories, Jacuzzi, fully loaded bar, the works. As one can assume would happen when a buckling bar weighed down with alcohol is thrown into the mix, I had a little too much to drink and made a mess of the living room with my previously eaten pizza. Tom offered to let me crash at his place since he hadn’t been drinking and I was too messed up to stay coherent enough to get off at the right bus stop. I woke up the next morning, bought Tom some breakfast and went home.”
“Sounds like a solid story, once we get ridda this lug here I think we’ll be in the clear.” With pair of heavy duty scissors David cut through the front of the dealer’s shirt. In the struggle to get the blood spattered shirt off of his body a few remaining chunks of brain fell from the back of his skull. “Sorry” David said with a cringe.
The color drained from Tom’s face, Adam’s apple racing hysterically up and down his throat as a relentless stream of vomit burst from his lips and splashed onto the cement floor.
“Dammit, I’m gonna have to clean that up now too.” David discarded the clothes into the garbage bag.
“It could be worse.” Tom said as he wiped his mouth.
David looked down at the naked body, “It is worse. Judging by how you just reacted to that, I’d say you guys have done all you can tonight. Go home, get some sleep, forget this ever happened because it didn’t happen. I’ll call you in a few days to let you know if there’s an investigation happening over the tragic disappearance of the neighborhood dealer.”
The two men began to make their way to the door. Before Tom could get his hand around the doorknob, David whistled to them from behind.
“James, be a pal and hand me that axe that’s been sittin’ in the corner, will ya?”
James reached out and grabbed the wooden handle, eyeing David with trepidation underneath the flickering light. “What’re you going to do with it?” He asked, cautiously handing David the axe.
He looked down at the body once more, a twisted smile contorting his lips as he looked back at the men, axe in hand.
“What do you think?”

She was a modern day Medusa, one look was all it took to set my legs to stone, the rest of my body quickly following, trapped, hers forever. The venom in her smile was enough to kill me three times over and still I couldn’t get enough of it, I was a junkie for her sting. Behind her hazel eyes were flashes of malice that I foolishly chose to ignore, blinded by a false sense of security that she passed through saliva and hormones the first time we kissed, travelling deep down my throat, making its way to the spinal cord and finally settling in the brain stem, reducing me to nothing more than a mindless soldier.
I was bewildered at how someone so beautiful could be so kind, and the cause for my bewilderment was right. In the same way a soothing red sunset rolls behind a raging sea and makes way for the uncharted dangers of night she lulled me into a catatonic state, awakening me from my blissful slumber with pointed teeth and blood stained claws ripping down my back, exposing tendon and bone. This was not the person I thought I knew, she was done pretending, done playing games and now the horns were beginning to break the skin of her forehead. The curves of her body were as treacherous as a winding mountain road on a dark night, headlights slowly getting fainter with each mile and the closest place to stop was 3 hours ago.
It’s a shame, I thought we had a good thing going, I don’t want to let go of your memory, I still cling to your scent but I need to sever the head of this two-faced beast. Be rid of it forever, see the lure and magic in her eyes fade away into a cold blank stare and crack the rocks that were my legs. Stepping out of the statue of myself with the cursed head in hand I’ll mount it on a wall, a warning to unwary men.
Stay Away.
She’s not the worth the trouble and anguish, the heart splintering grief or eye-watering rage. Even the good times you may have had. All the sun-kissed picnic lunches in the world aren’t worth this, no amount of white knuckled hands clenched together or bare naked nights unmaking a previously made bed, endless ticket stubs and hours in front of a movie screen or gas guzzled going to green fields will ever outweigh the high price you pay to fall for this woman. Invest yourself in other things, find other people, live for the future without dwelling on the past, for beneath her smooth skin and perfect breasts, hidden under coils of taught leg muscles, past the rows of sparkling white teeth and ear tickling tone of her laugh there lies a monster plotting its next move, waiting for just the right time to strike. And as strong as you think you may be, this creature’s stronger. So when the spell is spun on you and your throat swells up, gargling for help in a darkened room, and when the last thing you see are two reptilian hands sharpening a knife and the last thing you feel is a scaly tail toying with your hair as it wraps around your neck and the last thing you hear before everything goes black is her demonic cackle…
I hate to say I told you so.

He woke with the rising sun. Calling the family to consciousness, he surveyed the house and its surroundings, checking for intruders.
None. Good.
His morning could now begin. Breakfast was soon, the same thing everyday. The old man served the family, then served him, the way it'd always been. He was different from them. He felt their love, though they never expressed it, but he lived a solitary, lonely life. He noticed their sense of unity, watched it from afar in his brown hut of servitude. Trapped in a cold wire cage more often than not, the callous steel walls had bled his feet dry.
His love had left him ages ago, their children followed in rapid succession. Throughout this, the old man provided for him. Provided him with the women he hoped would fill the bleeding black hole in his heart, always ending in the same result. Nothing.
He was grateful nonetheless.
The old man had taken him in when he was young, learned to deal with his haughty arrogance and loved him just the same. He gave him three solid meals a day; gave him a place to stay and a sense of responsibility. Things couldn't get any better.
So naturally, they got worse.
Something was different today. The stale tension clung to the air, still and quiet as death. The laughter of the old man's children had escaped and deserted the yard. Sunlight eluded him from behind the trees and everything he had once called friend had left him. Resting, he was covered in shadow. The old man slowly waltzed into the yard.
His faded blue overalls mirrored the wrinkled ripples and ridges of his skin, both tarnished with age and experience. His mouth was melting away from him, his eyes were sad, droopy, tired. He looked exhausted. The hat that covered his balding head was brimming with wild patches of sparse white hair. His bare calloused feet stepped tenderly on the wet grass, minding the rocks that had punctured him more times than he cared to remember.
Something in his hand glittered, sparkled, danced with rapture under the falling rays of sun, blinding him. The old man drudged into the barn. He wanted to follow him, hankered to be with him, but something stopped him. There was something sinister in the thing the old man had in his hand; something sinister in the way it called to him, beckoning him, almost as if it was dying to make his acquaintance.
Greet Me
It spoke in the resonating slice of steel against stone.
I'm getting ready to meet you
It terrified him. The long wait for the speaking to cease felt like an eternity. His bones trembled, seemed to drown out all other noise his shaking bones, he wished he had never come her. He wanted his mother, whoever and wherever she was. He thought about his earliest memories of being separated from her, not understanding why the men took him away. She looked on as if it was nothing new. He hadn't thought about her since, but that thing in the barn stripped him of any confidence he had, reverted him to his former self. Scared, overwrought, trapped in the back of a steel frame with 50 others just like him.
A door slammed.
His heart stopped but the speaking continued, taunting. The man's wife brought him lunch. Lunch was particularly nice today. All his favorite foods in one tray. His stomach deserted him as he ate, the steaming flow of vomit burst from him.
The barn was silent.
He noticed the old man standing near the amputated remnants of a tree stump.
Come Here
He didn't want to go. The anxiety filled him, expanded in his stomach like rising dough, thick and heavy. He slowly slunk back, away from the old man and the headless stump and out of the shade from an overhanging tree. The sunlight filled him, took him in and absorbed him. He was comforted for a few fleeting seconds; he was almost able to go to him. Still, he waited, resisting the urge. Suddenly strong hands and a strong will grabbed him. He fought them helplessly, scratched and clawed in a feeble attempt to get away. The hands were too strong; they gripped his neck like a vice. He yelled and screamed for help, pleading the eight merciless fingers and two unforgiving thumbs to let him go. No one came to save him. No one seemed to care.
It's coming
Another attacker held his feet and legs together. He squirmed like a worm, his vision was leaving him, the hands around his neck were too tight. Choking and gagging for air he rasped a plea, save me. Desperation sunk in, his frantic eyes scanned the yard. Everyone was watching, their eyes were filled with sympathy, but they knew it had to be done.
The old man tried to soothe him. It's ok, he said, everything will be fine soon. You're helping us all out, I'm sorry but this couldn't be avoided.
He hated him. He felt betrayed, a gash slowly forming in his heart.
They forced his head down onto the stump, the others continued to restrain him, trying to calm him as his strength forsook him. They were too much, he could do nothing.
The freezing bite of steel touched to his neck. Eyes bulging, he looked up at the old man who held that Thing in his hand. He knew there was nothing he could do to change their minds. The old man brought the creature slowly to his neck again, checking, making sure this would only happen once.
He raised it. It seemed to hang weightless in the air, trembling, waiting to fall.
You're time has come
The blood lust over took it, the hands released him and the old man brought it down in a swift, driving arc. A dull thump, the miniscule snapping of bone and vein followed as the steel buried itself into the stump underneath him. It was painless.
The air was filled with dazzling streams of red and blue, engulfed in daring flashes of sunlight. He ran mindlessly.
Why are my legs still moving? Oh no. Oh god this can't be it, not like this. Oh, is this it?
Yes, I'm afraid it is
This
Is
The