I Need You : Nadynn Morrison

You walked away from me. I was powerless to stop you. Nothing would work, I knew it in my heart. I could beg, cry, get angry but you'd still walk away. I was always the person to leave. What a feeling it was to watch you go. I never expected that my heart could be ripped apart so easily. Silently, tears fell from my face as you left. The sound of the door closing, the final straw. Where did my emotional stability go? As I fell down, I lost everything. You had become a part of my life I couldn't do without. And yet, you left. Sometimes I wonder if the only thing that could've made you stay was if I told you I loved you. How could I? When I didn't even know myself. I never felt love so strong as the moment you gave me up. Even knowing as I do now, I don't think I could have said it. Even if it would have made you stay. I'm sleeping in sorrow now. Wishing everyday to see you and knowing I won't. I would never leave you. I see that now. Do you still love me? Once you promised you would always come back to me. Will you keep that promise or is it different now that you're no longer disillusioned by me. I'll keep holding onto that promise. Hoping for you to be here one day. Just like the days of the past. How did we even met? I wish I could say we had some monument moment. A beautiful memory that I could tell everyone when we get married and even to the children we would have if you came back. Sadly, nothing of the sort happened. I can't even remember the moment we met. Gradually, over time, you became a part of my life. I told you I would never date you. That I would never love you. Yet, somehow we became something. All the sweet memories of being together are not spoiled by our fights that only brought us closer. Do you remember the ultimatum you gave me? Together or apart? You should have known that when you asked me if I could ever love you that I already did even though I hadn't noticed. Instead you said if I couldn't that you were going to leave. No time to answer, I just watched you walk away. You said I made you strong. Are you strong now? Far away from me. Do you need me now? Or have you become strong on your own and no longer need me? I need you.

Love's Briar Patch : Krysta Walker

Falling in love for the first time. You don’t even know that you’re doing it. Imagine that you’re falling down a hill, but you feel like you’re floating, so you don’t even know that you’re falling. Not even when you hit the bottom, a pit of roses, do you realize that the roses have thorns. Those thorns are digging into your hips and snagging your hair, but all you feel are smooth kisses, soft touches, light breezes. All you see is a clear blue sky, but you don’t realize that you’re looking up, laying on your back in the mud. All you feel is the sweet summer air floating above your face and you don’t realize that you’re slipping deeper and deeper. You don’t realize until you've rolled all the way to the bottom of the pit and are crawling out. It’s then that you see that you’re covered in cuts and bruises, that you’re cold and bleeding. That the sun is still shining, but the wind is biting. So you’re standing on that hill, barely making it, still you’re standing. And you look back down there, into that pit, and even though you see all those sharp thorns and the mud all over you, even though all of the warmth is gone, you still remember. You still have goose bumps from the breeze. You can still smell the roses. And the worst part about love, the worst and best, the part that gets us all in the end, is that you know that you’d gladly fall down that hill, into the pit and the thorns and the mud, a thousand times more.

The Sword Of Damocles (Dread) :Nadynn Morrison

When you're reading and suddenly you feel that feeling. We all know it. The feeling of dread. You're reading and everything is fine. There's no sign something bad is going to happen. No this is not a Stephen king novel I'm talking about. There's no dread at every turned page, no wondering. Just a normal calm novel. The characters have had their ups and downs but nothing too serious. You've felt sympathy and excitement and love. But it's in that moment you never expected.
As I said everything is fine. Two people could be driving and chatting away happily like any other day and you're just happy and laughing with them. But then a thought crosses your mind. No reason, no purpose behind it but now you've felt the dread. Because everything was fine and if you stop and look back, everything still fine but you'll move forward and maybe everything will still be fine but maybe it won't be. You're dreading every word, waiting for the impossible to happen. And when it doesn't, you feel relieved and wondered why you ever worried. There was nothing there to make you worry. So why had you? Because not every time you will be relieved. There will be a time where you are dreading every word after your unwarranted thought and it happens.
The impossible.
Another car turning loses control on ice and the car crash happens. Lives are endangered. And you knew it would happen. You felt the dread but there was nothing you could do to stop it. There were no signs it would happen but you still felt the dread. It's in that moment your life changes. It's not only when reading stories but in our everyday life that we feel that overcoming dread.
But so often it is relieved that we forget there was a passing thought of dread.

A dream? (DeAndrea Farries)

It’s raining, and I am in the middle of it. My clothes are soaked, and my hair is sticking uncomfortably to my forehead. I stare down at my reflection in the pools of water, and the image makes me frown. I look like some sort of bum. My clothes are heavy with water, and they hang awkwardly off my frame. My baggy pants would fall down to my ankles, if I wasn’t holding them up. I should have put a belt on this morning. “Hey, hey! Boss!” I had dazed off and didn’t notice that someone was calling me until I bumped into a body. They hit the ground and I glanced down. “Oh, hey there Brice.” Brice is a scrawny little kid, who looks a lot younger than he already is. And as clumsy as he is naïve. I didn’t bump into him that hard, but he’s a featherweight. I’m surprised that a gust of wind didn’t blow him away. The boy is just as soaked as I am, though his smile counters my frown. “B-Boss-“ “Stop calling me that, kid. I have a name.” “Sorry…um, Elliot. I’ve been looking for you all day! The crew’s been wondering where you went off to last night.” He gets to his feet and tries to dust off his pants. I guess he forgot the fact that mud was wet. Instead he smears the mud making a much larger mess. He eventually gives up and I shake my head. “Go tell ‘em that I just wanted some alone time. I needed to breathe. I can’t be around you guys every fucking second of the day, kid.” Brice nodded, his hair getting in his face as he does so. “Yes ma’am... er, Elliot.” I sigh and begin to walk again, passing him. I wave back to him lazily. “Tell ‘em to stop sending you around like an errand boy. Communicators exists, they should use one.” … The rain finally calms down, and so does the hustle and bustle of the people. I make it to the other side of town, just as things began to clear up. As I walk I spot a small café and, deciding that it was best to find some shelter, headed inside. The place is small, and cramped. And it’s obvious that I wasn’t the only person who had this idea. I push past people, and awkwardly bump into furniture, until I find an empty table. Once seated my shoulders slump, I exhale audibly, and I relax. “This is better than nothing.” I close my eyes, for what seems like a second before I hear voices. They are close, and I realize that they are directed at me. “Is she asleep,” this person’s voice is soft and low. They’re probably whispering. “Looks like it,” this voice is different. Their tone has a husky edge to it, yet it sounds even. I open my eyes and sit up quickly. My vision is blurry at first, but it clears as I look up from the table. How long was I asleep? “Oh, we were too loud.” Two women stand before me. Though they aren’t much taller, It feels like they are looming over me. They are both peculiar looking people who seem out of place, while at the same time belonging. They are dressed in the same dull colors that populate the city, but the color looks as if it is more of an obligation. The tallest is thin and her limbs are a bit long and lanky, yet still athletic. I can only tell that she’s female from the soft features of her face. Her hair is styled short, and the color of sand. And her eyes are the gray of the clouds outside. Her clothing compliments her figure while at the same time disguises it. The other woman is small, yet is shapelier. She has more weight on her than her companion, but not much. Her hair is also short, and styled in a pixie cut. It is white, and I assume that it’s been dyed. She is dressed more feminine with a shirt that exposes her shoulders and has loose sleeves. The shirt is tucked into a skirt that hugs the curves of her thighs and stops above her knees- “Can we sit here?” How long had I’d been staring at them. How long have I been staring at them?

Fluorescent Adolescent

Fluorescent Adolescent

 Krysta Walker 

Down at the playground, there was this awful seven year old named Mavis. Mavis had this hobby, a dear past time of hers that entailed kicking me around the jungle gym. I remember this one time, Mavis kicked me so hard, it sent me right up the big kids slide and I couldn’t come down until Ms. Turner wobbled into the yard and got me down herself. Through all the tears and snot that seemed to be oozing from my face, I caught a glimpse of old Mavis slumped in a corner laughing till water squeezed from her squinty little eyes.

Anyway, it was around Christmas time and Mavis was in fine form. I had bruises all over my shins and things and my head was sore from where she had tried to yank one of my long red braids right off my scalp.

I was busy in my playroom at home, the snow was falling outside my window like dollops of sour cream. I was reenacting Mavis’ most recent act of terrorism with my Barbie dolls.

 Barbie marched right up to itty bitty Kelly and smacked Kelly’s lunch right out of her little doll hands. Kelly smiled blankly down at the spilled goods while Barbie scooted off to a corner to laugh and snort and live happily ever after. I opened the window and stuck Barbie in the snow, forcing her to deal with her issues.

My brother, Scott, was standing out in the blizzard, stupidly trying to light a cigarette, and the noise from the window nearly made him drop the match.

“Christ, Brenda don’t go sticking your dolls in the snow when I’m out here! Cheese and crackers I thought you was momma.” He was shaking so bad that this time he actually did drop the match along with the cigarette in the snow.

“She needs to learn a lesson! Barbie needs to learn it’s not okay to drop Kelly’s lunch, or kick her shins, or poke her with pencils, or yank her pigtails.” I rubbed my head.

He looked up at me sympathetically. “Mavis giving you trouble at school again?” I nodded.

“Well listen, Bren. Mavis is a bad kid. And you know how Santa feels about bad kids, right? So just you wait ‘til Christmas day. You’ll be wakin’ up with all kinds of goodies and all ol’ Mavis’ll find in her lumpy stocking is a big brick of coal!” I smiled. Then I sneezed, and Scott bustled me back into my room since I was letting all the heat out.

The next few weeks, when I went to school and took my beatings from Mavis, I did it with a Kelly smile on my face, picturing Mavis’ piggy face all screwed up with tears when she finds out that all her gift is good for is smoking on the fire.

Mavis took no mind, and even came up with some of her greatest tricks that winter. I was smiling when I found my books frozen under the ice in the little pond behind the school. I chuckled a little when I saw a frog hopping and twitching in my sack lunch. I even managed a feeble “Oh, Mavis,” when her oversized feet landing on my little fingers had caused me to double over in pain.

I had that smile super glued to my face all the way until when they let us out for a week before Christmas. I had the time of my life that break, playing with Scott in the snow. Getting money in the mail from my grandparents. And on Christmas day, when I saw that shiny red Radio Flyer tricycle, all I could think of was the fact that, at that exact moment, Mavis was unwrapping her coal.

Imagine how heartbroken I was when, upon my return to class, I found Mavis sporting a brand new bright pink fleece coat and shiny red boots.

“Look what Santa brought me, everyone! Look what Santa brought me!”

I was betrayed. I had trusted Santa. This man whose mantra was “be good for goodness sake”!

For goodness sake.

With a peculiar animal cry that was quite muted on account of my scarf being wrapped tightly around my mouth, I launched myself onto Mavis and began raining on her head with punches and slaps. I freed my mouth and fastened it on her cheek.

It was quite a spectacle.

When the principle asked me why I punched and bit Mavis and what did she do to me, I growled through clenched teeth; Ask Santa.

And that was my first school suspension. 

Janette

Krysta Walker

               The sky was overcast and threatening rain. Most people hurried from place to place, avoiding the rain that hadn't come yet. One woman stood in place on the side walk. She checked her watch and glanced anxiously around her, pulling her coat tight. She shuffled in the cold, puffing out her cheeks. She bent to adjust the strap on her red heels.

            You stood on the opposite street. You looked at her, wondering what she was waiting for. You checked your own watch and realized how long you'd been outside the restaurant. Your cigarette had long ago burnt out, you having only smoked half of it. Everyone was probably wondering where you went. You looked through the window behind you at the people laughing and drinking wine. If you peered hard enough you could see your party towards the back. They were all smiling politely. They held onto their drinks awkwardly, not wanting to be the first to finish.

            You shoved your hands further into your pockets, touching the lint. Your attention went back to the woman across the street. She had gone into the convenience store and was buying something from the cashier. She walked back out to the sidewalk, hastily opening her purchase: a carton of cigarettes. She slid one into her mouth and shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat. She rummaged through her purse then seemed to deflate as she dropped the cigarette inside. You felt the lighter in your pocket. You pulled your hand out of your pocket and checked the time. You'd been outside for twenty minutes.

            Your hands were freezing. Your jacket was not heavy enough for the weather. An icy drop landed on your head followed by several more. The woman checked her watch one more time then held out her arm, hailing a taxi. As the yellow car pulled up to the curb, she wiped the rain from her face, or were they tears? She climbed into the car and drove away.

            You looked at the sky before walking back into the restaurant. As you sat at your seat, Sarah looked at you curiously. She touched your face with her napkin, asking about the rain. You muttered something. Her parents laughed. Her father punched you gently in your arm and wondered aloud at where you had gone.

            You looked outside at the rain and thought about the woman. You gave a vague answer. No more questions were asked. You had overcooked steak and two extra glasses of scotch and the rain continued to fall.  

Into The Ravine

Krysta Walker

They held hands, fingers overlapping, pulling strength from each other. They looked over the rocks, past their feet; saw the rushing water and debris like an evil tempest, a quick escape.

 She looked at him, he looked at her. Her hand was lifted and brought to his mouth.

"I love you," spilled his love.

"And I love you," poured hers, down her face, dripping from her quivering chin. Not quivering with fear. Not weeping in sadness, but in excitement; readiness.

He took a final squeeze. She took a final breath.

They closed their eyes.

And they jumped.

The Green Vase

The Green Vase.

Krysta Walker

Amelia held the vase in her trembling hands.

Freshly green. Forest green.

Four years ago she had received this vase. A wedding gift. For four years, that vase had held a multitude of occasions.

Valentines Days.

Birthdays.

Funerals.

Several times it was home to dead leaves and wrinkled stems.

Two years ago she had aimed and flung vase, water, and dead plant at Harold. She missed and later glued green pieces together. She did a horrible job. Several pieces weren’t recovered.

She had stared at the reflective surface, not seeing herself. She'd wondered why she wasn't enough.

A fresh bunch of flowers were placed in the broken vase when Harold returned. It sat in the foyer of their apartment, the only witness to a sinking marriage.

Sick green. Pale green.

The vase was knocked from its perch in the heat of an argument. The carpet saved its fall but took a bit from the top. The vase was launched at a wall when Patricia accidentally called Harold's house instead of his office.

Jealous green. Mealy green.

One year after she flung it, Amelia and the vase watched as Harold grabbed his suitcases from the foyer and the vibration from the door gently shook the house.

Amelia sat in a dark room holding a broken vase.

The broken vase that sat in a broken home for four years.

She saw all the effort she had put into her marriage in that vase. Chipped glue. Peeling paint. Dead stems.

Dead love.

Dead green.

Broken promises. Broken home. Broken woman.

Broken vase. 

The Mailman's Funeral

The Mailman’s Funeral

By Krysta Walker

On the day of the mailman's funeral, mamma spat on his grave. I suppose that was when I knew. Or maybe I knew long before. Maybe I’ve always known. How’d he'd wink at me and shoot me a quarter every time he delivered our packages. One year, on my birthday, he gave a card with five one hundred dollar bills inside. Grandma said, one night as she sat in our kitchen helping my mother make dinner, that our old mailman, Mr. Gabriel, had never winked at anyone and that he sho' nuff never gave nobody a card filled with hundred dollar bills on their birthday. Maybe that's when I knew.

               Anyway, I was sad to see him go, sad to see mamma so sad. I guess that was when daddy knew too. I don’t think he wanted to know, but grandma used to say that you can’t stop knowledge once it starts flowing into your brain.

               Sitting there at the funeral, I saw realization change the color of daddy's face. I saw years of lies redden his forehead and force his eyes over to my face. I watched as his eyes settled over all the features that never quite resembled him but did resemble someone else; the mailman.

               I wondered if he would spit, just like mamma had, but for different reasons I guess. He looked like he would, his mouth all puckered and the red on his face deepening. I wondered if he would hit me. He never had before, but if he would, this would be the time. It was never too late to start as Grandma always said. He didn’t spit though and he didn’t hit me. He always had a pretty tight handle on himself.

               I think later on that night he hit mamma though. I'm sure he did. Just as I am sure she hit him back. But at the mailman's funeral they both just stood there next to each other.

               It was 97 degrees that day. Mamma had forced me into a sweaty purple velvet dress with long black sleeves. I could feel a heat rash developing on my lower back where the velvet was the itchiest. I didn’t scratch it, though it itched like the dickens. It didn’t help that I was thirsty. My throat felt like it was splitting in two.

               I would peek over at my mother ever so often, wondering whether or not to ask for a drink from the bottle of water she kept in her purse. I decided against it every time. At that point, she seemed to forget that I was there. She'd mutter to herself ever five minutes or so. Things I didn’t quite understand.

"Idiot...you promised...stupid...promised."

I remember thinking that her words reminded me of something. A hot Saturday that I was forced to stay inside. The mailman dropped off the mail and an extra letter for my mother. I read it over her shoulder and could only catch a few words.

"Elise...soon...promise....swear...leave....promise."

               A lot of the words were hard to read, he had very small handwriting, and before I could get any further, my mother snatched it away and sent me to clean the basement.

That’s what I thought of when she muttered at the funeral. I couldn't understand her, but felt that I wasn’t supposed to. So I pretended not to hear.

               Daddy didn’t though. Every time she muttered, he'd get more and more frustrated until he finally popped and hissed at her:

"What in Sam Hill are you murmurin' about, Elise!?"

One of the ladies in the front row shushed him and he simply went back to stewing in his fury.

               Lord I was so thirsty. But I knew if I left the pew, I’d get in trouble. Mamma might rise out of her stupor just in time to see me slip away and switch me across the back of my legs with her purse strap. I couldn’t risk it. So I stayed in the seat getting dryer and dryer, mamma cried harder and harder, daddy got madder and madder and the mailman, my father, got deader and deader. 

Rebekah Wheeler- Visit

Visit

You’ll have to find new 
things to worry about.
What to do with all this
space, for instance; halves
of rooms strain with pert
emptiness, as if clamoring 
to draw in your wasp-eyes.

Build a nest with the dead
husks of overused cardboard
boxes. Climb inside, sleep forever

Portrait of a Man and His Daughter

Portrait of a Man and His Daughter

Krysta Walker

In this photograph, we are sitting on the porch swing that sat on the patio in our backyard. You are smiling, that tired smile you get after you've worked a long day but still wanted to spend time with us. I have my small arms wrapped around your wide middle. My face is buried in your chest; a smile missing two front teeth is stretching my face. Your arms were around my shoulders. I was 12 years younger and had no knowledge of endings. There is no inclination of how fleeting life can be, no shadow of grief darkening my features, no death lurking in every corner of our house. There is only you and I, sitting on a broken porch swing with our arms wrapped around each other.

Here, you are alive. Here, I am young, innocent, smiling.

Happy.

In this photograph, I don’t miss you because you have never left. I don’t think about how life could’ve been because there is no other way life could be.

In this photograph, you are smiling. You are wide at the middle, full of wonderful evenings at the dinner table with your family. Not thin in a hospital bed. Here, your face is clear, glowing with life. Your smile is not obstructed by tubes. Your arms are strongly wrapped around me, shielding me from inevitable heart ache. Not limp on top of hospital sheets.

This is how I’ll remember you, in this photograph.

Kevin Hodge- Scatter Brain Thoughts

Okay yo girl gotta girlfriend
That's cool
But when she start spending more time with her
Than with you
How you feel?
The egotistical to play the fool
Attraction plus subtraction
Equals threesome minus two
Now you solo
Hans
Pun intended
Stories from the belly of the beast
I'm within it
Something special bout the ghetto
And these streets
I'm defensive
Like the bulls
See the forest for the trees despite the wool-
Scatterbrain thoughts (3)

Please Comment Responsibly!

To any one taking a trip to this blog, feel free to comment on any of the works! Say what you like and what maybe didn't work as well. Was something confusing? Was there a particular line that blew you away? just wanna say hi? DO IT! Comment away!!

Krysta!

Rebekah Wheeler

Clueless Clatter

Crisp clicks between your teeth
quickly spit hissing sentences – 
judicial judgments
harboring halitosis
as sickly sour
as your bitter, biting,
sentimental man sweat.

I Stand Corrected

I Stand Corrected

Krysta Walker

I'm staring at my reflection in the rearview mirror, wondering why I am back here. Why do I always come back. How many times have I told myself that this was it. I'd never come back here. But why do I always return? Why do I always run back?

It certainly isn’t because I love him. I don’t. How could I. he's rude, condescending and absurdly full of himself. He always speaks down to me. Always looks down on me. I have no reason to love him. And I have absolutely no reason to be back, parked in front of his house.

Why is he my weakness. Why do I care what he thinks of me. I shouldn’t. I don’t love him. I’d like to kill the guy. But why am I back here? I don’t even remember getting in my car and driving over here. Why would I do that?

Yesterday I had flung my clothes into a suitcase and stormed out his house. Looking in the back seat, I see that I haven’t even taken the stupid thing out the car. Like some part of me knew that I’d be back after I thought it over. I hate myself for this addiction.

Maybe Dr. Reed was right. Am I a masochist? But isn’t that what love is? Masochism? Doesn’t it sting repeatedly and yet everyone always come crying back. Why am I even bringing this up. I don’t love him.

I don’t.

Still, I find myself walking the path to his door. I see my fist gently pounding the wood. He’s opening the door and I'm staring into his face, seeing his red rimmed eyes. He’s been crying? How could I possibly love a man who cries every time I leave him.

"Hey," he says. His voice is thick and husky.

"Hey," I say. My voice is the same.

He pulls me to his chest. I can smell his soap. Who could love this smell? Who could love this wrinkled t-shirt wearing, Irish Spring smelling man? Who?

"I love you, Candace."

"I love you too, Mitch."

Me, that's who.

Kevin Hodge

One Night Stand

Thank you so much for yesterday
It's so sad tomorrow isn't promised
But I promise
I'm really thankful for yesterday
Borrowing borrowed time to be honest
There was something special bout yesterday
graduate from the college of carnal knowledge-

Kevin Hodge- poem

Kevin Albert Hodge

 I'll take the blame
It's consistently the same thing
first they accept me for myself
then try to change me
I always drink what they be selling
 then get brain freeze
then I wonder where the pain I feel
 originated
built upon a faulty foundation
 then disintegrated
 We just met but you still let me penetrate it
 Hypocritically I give you me
 but I'm the one who's denigrated
 LOL
I'm the villain who plays the victim
 like Severus Snape
With love i'm severing hate
With hate I'm severing love
 I thought I'd never relate
 like an orphanage
of course it gets
unfortunate
a fortune is
 the main thing on my mind
 such a shame because my brain seems
 to be changing all the time
Like the weather in the chi
Is it better when I die
Before you read a bit too deeply
not upset that I'm alive
I know you hate me on the surface
 but respect me deep inside
Spittin rhymes
this exactly what my destiny provides
 And if you spittin like im spittin
 then it's best that we collide
 Like Rocky Apollo Creed Possibly hollow deeds
 Trump substance
But I refuse to talk soft like Teddy
Rupskin-
Scattered thoughts...

Shaina King

Shaina King

Lifted or The Story is in the Soil, Keep Your Ear to the Ground

There had been a beautiful wedding. She had marched down the aisle with her eyes curtained and her smile wide and her body cloaked in white lace. When she looked into his eyes, when she said “I do”, when he reached in to kiss her softly there was nothing more than love swelling in her chest. There were smiles and cheers and congratulations. Her father couldn't stop saying how proud he was.

There had been six months of bliss. Of flowers and candies, of sweet-nothings whispered in her ear, firm arms around her at night. There was sex. There was love making. There had been a lack of arguments, of petty pickings but plenty of “I’ll love you forever”s, of tender words when her eyes first opened in the morning.

There had been five months of pain. Of constant arguing, of nagging, of shoes thrown across the floor, of dishes in the wrong spot, of wet clothes in the bedroom. There were eyes looking at other women, there were long days at work, there were lipstick stains on the collars and shoulders of white work shirts. There were strange text messages, there were nights spent alone and cold, in a king sized bed. Weeks spent with no talking, no “I love you”s, and no “I’m sorry”s.

There had been a month of mourning. Of separation. Officials calling, paperwork dropped off, time spent with “what went wrong”s and “I guess it was bound to happen.” There had been an empty apartment, a phone ringing off the hook, messages sent with best wishes. There had been a phone call, and loud knock at her door. A ride to the hospital, a white room, a beeping monitor and a doctor saying “there’s nothing we can do.”

There had been a colorless funeral, that day.

When everyone had left, when her parents had stopped bothering her about staying with them, when her friends stopped hugging her and patting her on the back, she sat on the ground. She touched the tombstone. She sighed. There wasn't an “I love you”, there wasn't a “I’m sorry” or “what went wrong.” She put her face near the ground, near the fresh shoveled dirt and asked, “what happened to forever?”

Kelly's Mother

Kelly’s Mother

By Krysta Walker

            Two summers ago, the summer of my junior year, was the summer I dated Kelly. That was also the first summer in ten years that the Lincoln Township Bobcats went to regionals for golf. I was a caddie that summer. That’s how I first met Kelly. Her team was out on the green. She was in a pleated mini skirt with long argyle socks stretching up to her knees. She looked like something straight out of the Lacoste catalogue. She had excellent form, almost always hitting the ball directly in the hole, no matter the distance.  A regular 17 year old Arnold Palmer.

 I couldn't take my eyes off her knees. Pale, knobby; I was strangely obsessed with those knees; touching them, kissing them, pinching them. I guess you could say that those knees were the real reason I dated her in the first place.

 I waited until she came to the range for the fourth time before making my move, smoothly complimenting her back-swing as I handed her a new club. She smiled warmly thanking me. She had cool blue eyes; cool like the swimming pool in her back yard that we spent most of our time in that summer. Those eyes looked over my face, seeing if I was worth her time. She told me her name; I asked her out to lunch.

She wore her argyle socks to our date.  She giggled as she nibbled at French fries and sipped delicately at her milkshake. We discussed our favorite things: golf, swimming, little Richie. She slipped out of her tennis shoes and touched my leg. She blushed. I touched her wrist and we were boyfriend and girlfriend.

In the second week of our relationship, she took me to meet her parents. Her father shook my hand genuinely. I subconsciously noted how sweaty my palms were. He slapped me on the back and welcomed me to his home. Her mother smiled at me and said my name, trying to remember it. It sounded strange on her tongue. Kelly took me to her room. Her walls were void of posters and other girly paraphernalia, similar to Kelly herself. She sat me down on her white duvet. While she kissed me, I stared at the calendar behind her bed. She had a test on Monday and a tournament on Wednesday. She kissed me and I touched her knees.

At dinner, her parents asked about my plans after college. I made up a respectable answer. In reality I had no idea what I wanted out of life. Kelly beamed from beside me and nudged my foot with her argyle socks. Her father cracked corny jokes and guffawed. Her mother stared at me with a small smile on her mouth. She asked me how I liked the mashed potatoes. I liked them very much and told her so. She said good. I wondered what she meant.

For the next few weeks my time was either spent working at the range or out with Kelly. We went dancing, skating, walking. We did everything together. However, a lot of our time was spent at her house. We lounged in the pool. We listened to records. We kissed on the porch. Her father was usually at work. Her mother would pop in at random times and comment on how attractive we were together. Whenever she said this, Kelly would blush and look away. Her mother would always look directly at me.

One evening, I went to Kelly’s house but forgot to call. Her mother answered the door and told me that Kelly was at a friend’s house for the night. I apologized. She invited me inside and made me lemonade. She asked me how it was. I liked it very much and told her so. She said good. I knew what she meant. She touched my leg. I wondered aloud at where her husband was. She told me he was gone for the evening. She kissed my cheek. I kissed her mouth. She took me to her room and sat me down on her bed. I told her I thought she was beautiful. She laughed and told me she knew.

I spent every day at Kelly’s house. In the afternoons I would touch Kelly’s knees. In the evenings, her mother would kiss my cheek. Her father continued to crack corny jokes.

One night, Kelly came home early. She called for her mother as she ran up the stairs. She stood in the doorway, holding her trophy. Her team had won their tournament. Shock dripped down her face and onto her shirt. She ran out the room. I ran after her. She screamed at me, raged contorted her face. Her blue eyes were ice. I tried to calm her down. I tried to hold her. I tried to kiss her face. I tried to kiss her lips with her mother’s lipstick still on my mouth. She pushed me away. She threw her trophy at me. I left.

I looked at Kelly's house from the lawn. I saw her mother standing in her bedroom window, looking at me. She smiled.

Neither Kelly nor her mother ever spoke to me again. As far as I know she never came back to the driving range. I was fired about a week after Kelly threw her trophy at me. I began work at a convenience store and starting dating a girl named Lena who always kept her knees covered. When Lena took me to meet her parents, her mother served mashed potatoes. She asked me how I liked them.

I told her I was allergic.

Rebekah Wheeler

Rationalism

Rebekah Wheeler

My

lack

of tact

lives at the

junction between your

breath and the exclusivity

of God’s Grace, leaving

damnation

for trash

like

me.

Ignore this!

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Testing Testing....

Hi!
Welcome.
 This is the first post for Please Write Responsibly (as you know). This is a writing blog where you people can send in their works for critiques and reads from others. I will also be posting some of my own works up here. If you would like to send something in, please email it to me at krittalevitt@gmail.com  and I will post it to the site! I do ask that you send your posts in PDF form so that they cannot be edited and that you sign your works so that people can't swipe your stuff! Also you should edit things before sending them seeing as PDF prohibits me from making any changes! All forms of writing are accepted be it short story, play, poem, chapter etc.
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TTFN!