Week 8

Thursday, May 10^th, 2012

                Wesley stood in front of the self-check-out at the library. “Out of order” was stamped onto a laminated page in large, bold, blue font.  He eyed the book tucked into his side, then eyed the librarian, an attractive young woman with whom Wesley had a class.
                Wesley started back for the shelves to return it, but hesitated. The self-check-out had been in need of maintenance for a week now. What was the chance it would be fixed before the end of the week? The essay deadline was coming up. He had no other option. He took the copy of Linda Williams’ Screening Sex and slammed it on the counter. The young woman scanned his card, scanned the book, and handed them back to him. “The book will be due back in three weeks,” she said.
                “Okay.”
                She would have turned to continue her work if she didn’t notice Wesley’s intense stare, his deeply red face, and the plank-like way he moved when he left the building. He burst into a sprint after passing the threshold.

Friday, May 11^th, 2012

                At the age of thirteen, Gerald still hadn’t grown any hair. Having been studying U.S. History, he wondered if he could make any profit off of an impersonation gig, movie, interactive museum, or anything that may require somebody to perform as J.D. Rockefeller. He began investing his time in copying everything he could find about the tycoon, from his suits to his horrendously unethical business practices.
                When at the age of seventeen, the hair began growing in, Gerald was so committed to the role that he began shaving his head. Even the look was as dishonest as the money.

Saturday, May 12^th, 2012

                It began with using your roommates’ body wash. Your reason for this was excusable. We all run out of our own hygienic products, so we borrow others. You didn’t expect to like the mixture of peach and lavender but you did.
                You used her deodorant because yours was terrible. It had a great smell but didn’t hold a candle to the downpour of sweat that sneaked on you, even at the slightest additional effort to hurry across a busy street. The smell wasn’t bad but it was nothing compared to the peach and lavender.
                God only knows why you started wearing her clothes. You were a guy who didn’t usually have a thing for cross-dressing, but her tiny brown suit would look pretty awesome on you. It did, despite the fact that it was a child’s size suit in comparison to your frame. You still figured you could pull off smaller clothes. Hell, the hipsters did it all the time. Why not jump on the bandwagon?
                Still, it’s such a shame that you walked all the way to class before you felt the shame of not being able to bend your legs to sit down, without risking the seams of the pants. You walked home in defeat, but that didn’t stop you from admiring yourself in the standing mirror as you entered your room, striking several poses before triumphantly muttering, “Hell yeah.”       

Sunday, May 13^th, 2012

                 There were some places that were even too haunted for Satan to visit. He told me the other day, standing guard at the casino ATM, how at the hedge maze on Frost Avenue stole your cell phone reception when the sun went down, the footsteps would slide quietly but audibly through the gravel even when you were alone, and how small pieces of the wall would remove themselves and alter the path. “It could trap you in there if it wanted to,” he said, tapping a man on his shoulder.
                The man withdrew another hundred and I pulled out my phone to Google Map it.
                “Don’t go! I’m telling you!” he said.
                “But you’re Satan,” I answered. “You should know that when you’re told not to do something, you’re going to do it anyway.”
                “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers,” he said, “especially if it’s dated by a thousand years, retranslated, and bound in leather and bordered gold sheen, you understand?”
                “No.”

Monday, May 14^th, 2012

                One day, an adventurer and a detective married.
                Nobody could understand what they saw in one another. The adventurer preferred the open air, the smell of the sea salt lashing up from the waves and crystalizing in the sun. The detective preferred the labyrinth of the city, the uncertainty found in the missing fingernail on a victim subjected to blunt force trauma. It was a long distance relationship for the most part, but even when they were together, holding each other close, the detective inspected the nape of the adventurer’s neck, running fingers, tongue, and mouth across the blemish. The adventurer held the detective and wished for once the detective would turn to admire the sublime beauty of the lonely seagull, the persistence of the tide, the wind growing cold over the water.
                Nothing about them was similar, yet they were drawn to one another, drawn to what could be rather than what was.

Tuesday, May 15^th, 2012


                The tablecloth caught fire on the catering company’s burner, and Raymond vowed to keep quiet about what happened.
                The truth was: nothing happened. Everything was normal. The flame suddenly spread. Raymond had only been thinking about it when it had happened, so he was going to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t want to be blamed. Not that he could be blamed, not in the long run, but he didn’t want to get in any trouble just for thinking about it, seeing the fire fueled by gas spreading its flame like two hot appendages across the length of the table, and welcoming the entire reception area into its warmth.

Wednesday, May 16^th, 2012

                Some people listen to Beethoven in the midst of a warzone. They hide underneath the stairs, or in the cellar, and sometimes below the bed while the seventh symphony thrusts its horns in the dusted air. They wait for the sound of mud-drenched boots, foreign chattering, and the feeling of the boards bending below them as the troops gather around. They close their eyes and focus on the music. Some people can listen for something beautiful through anything.