Sorry, that's the second title I've borrowed (stolen) from Les Miserables. This one is, however, actually adapted from a dream I had when I was sleeping in front of the TV yesterday.
I Dreamed a Dream
by Jill C.
I don't know wheather to leave or not. He said it was all done, and I should just go home until tomorrow. Something keeps me there, though. He's tired of looking after me. He's left and gone into the office. No doubt to help another paying customer. Or to eat a doughnut. It's such a morbid business, though, that it doesn't matter. It fills him up either way. With flour and sugar or with cash.
He's left me in order to go back to work. That bothers me. Hers is not the only one in the frigid room. That bothers me too. It's so impersonal. He sees it so often that he won't or can't or maybe isn't capable of getting involved. It feels wrong. Who ever turned it into a line of work, anyway? Why can't we go back to the olden days when the famailies dug the graves themselves, behind the barns on their farmsteads? Who ever wanted to be a mortition? That's not what they call them anymore. It's not glamorous enough. Who ever wanted to be a funeral services director? A memorial councelor? A damned cold hearted idiot who can rattle off the names of every wood in the forest without the slightest inflection in his voice that would make me understand that he's talking about coffins rather than trees?
Hers looks like a treasure chest. I imagine grave robbers as pirates, hoisting her in the air with joyous yells and carrying her back to their ship. She probably would have liked that.
I lay my hand on the polished mahogony, fighting with myself inside. I want to see her. So badly. Just one more time. One more time, before... I don't want to see her like this. In that dress he chose from the rack of random, cheaply made garnments that were meant to look fancy. With her hair curled. Sprayed with so much rosy perfume to keep the smell of death away. Except it wasn't the smell of death, but the stench of chemicals. Anything to keep her "pretty" for one more day.
She is to be viewed tomorrow. So hers isn't locked. She isn't yet beyond reach. I can't help myself. I slowly raise her lid.
Pale, and small. Too pale. Too small. Her chubby face is gone, the skin retracting toward the bone. She looks like a sick child. Like she had progeria, or some other disfiguring disease. But she didn't. She was just a normal little girl. And now she's gone. And this... this is here in her place.
I can see the powder of hair spray on her dark ringlets. She looks more like a doll. I imagine one of the plastic babies she used to play with. The kind with eyes that opened and closed. I raise her shoulders up. Click. The eyes open. Back down. Click. They close.
Her mouth opens in a tiny gasp. Some broken sound, unintelligible to me, yet the most beautiful sound in the world comes from between her dry, pale lips. It floats to my ears as tears fal from my eyes. Then she is gone. Again.
I clutch myself around the middle, pinching into the baby weight that I still have not managed to lose after four years. I wish those final moments would fly away, leave me be. I want the happy memories, not those. Not of her leaving me.
I brush my fingers on her tender eyelids, then make the sign of the cross on her forehead. Then I close her up, and turn around. I leave. I don't want to be there any longer. Not with them. Not with her.
It's not her that's there. She's already blown away. Why am I expected to hang on to that sick doll? It's not her. It's all wrong.
My little Ana, who wore a ponytail, and read fairytales and books about pirates. Who prefered green cotton shorts, even in winter. That's what I want to hold on to. What I want to remember.
I want to remember the cherry popsicle all over the back seat of my car. The wall at home with badly disgiused crayon drawings. The dirty old football we'd played with in the neighbor's yard.
I want to remember that, not her last breaths leaving her lungs. Not the tears in her eyes as he, he who I dared ever call my husband, hit the life out of her. Not the cops dragging him off to jail. Or the EMT dragging her out in a body bag.
Those memories need to go, to fly away. But they need to go in the opposite direction of Ana's soul.
*******************************************************
I didn't realize how morbid that was until after I wrote it out. In my dream, it was more like a bad horror movie, but I thought it would make better use as a public service announcement about domestic violence and child abuse in New Mexico.
20 June, 2010
04 June, 2010
Leona
Based off of yesterday's Smuckers 100+ birthdays on the Today show, this one was just begging to be embellished.
Leona
by Jill C.
Leona sat with her legs crossed Indian style, enjoying the coolness of the grass through her cotton skirt. She ran her wizened hand through the dewy forest of turf in front of her, fervently wishing that the magic worked on ugly protruding veins as well as longevity. Pushing her glasses farther up her nose, Leona brought a quivering sprig on greenery up to her face. Sighing, she nestled it back into the mass of leaves before her. Three leaves, precisely like it should have.
Leona sighed again and dipped her hand into the pocket of her grey wool sweater. Her shaky fingers met with a spread of crackles as they came in contact with the dried remains of findings over the past year. Even old and dry, they were still lucky, like she was.
Taking a brief rest to look up at the sky, Leona reveled in the season. Glorious spring. Birds fluttered overhead, dancing and singing in their mating rituals. It reminded Leona of a musical. Everything rehearsed to be executed at exactly the right time, and then passed on and on through the generations, without regard to the time that passed.
Leona wished that she could disregard the time that passed. It didn't matter to her, so long as it continued to pass. But the little nurses in their pinstriped uniforms who seemed to be getting younger and younger and dumber and dumber constantly reminded Leona of her age and the complications that went along with it.
As they believed, one could not reach one hundred and nine years of age without having some sort of debilitation, like memory loss. The nurses constantly felt the need to remind Leona of the day's schedule, as if she could not remember it herself. In truth, Leona knew the schedule better than the nurses, as she often wrote it herself.
Leona returned to combing the patch of leaves and flowers in front of her. The clover blossoms, like miniature golf balls, tickled her fingers as she passed over their sweet-smelling heads. The flowers were sweet, but the real treasure lay beneath. Leona bent further, bringing her face even closer to the soft ground cover. Her fingers closed gently around a bunch of leaves, and she swiftly plucked them from the ground.
A smile spread across Leona's face when she saw the fruit of her search. Sitting in her palm was a little four-leaf clover. It was slightly lopsided, but it was still a lucky sign. Leona brought it to her lips and gave it a brief kiss, then slipped it into her pocket.
A few more months, at least. Then she would be back looking for more. The nurses felt the necessity to remind Leona that healthy eating and exercise lead to longevity, not luck. But Leona knew better. Or perhaps she just had more fun believing in a little magic.
************************************************************
Leona
by Jill C.
Leona sat with her legs crossed Indian style, enjoying the coolness of the grass through her cotton skirt. She ran her wizened hand through the dewy forest of turf in front of her, fervently wishing that the magic worked on ugly protruding veins as well as longevity. Pushing her glasses farther up her nose, Leona brought a quivering sprig on greenery up to her face. Sighing, she nestled it back into the mass of leaves before her. Three leaves, precisely like it should have.
Leona sighed again and dipped her hand into the pocket of her grey wool sweater. Her shaky fingers met with a spread of crackles as they came in contact with the dried remains of findings over the past year. Even old and dry, they were still lucky, like she was.
Taking a brief rest to look up at the sky, Leona reveled in the season. Glorious spring. Birds fluttered overhead, dancing and singing in their mating rituals. It reminded Leona of a musical. Everything rehearsed to be executed at exactly the right time, and then passed on and on through the generations, without regard to the time that passed.
Leona wished that she could disregard the time that passed. It didn't matter to her, so long as it continued to pass. But the little nurses in their pinstriped uniforms who seemed to be getting younger and younger and dumber and dumber constantly reminded Leona of her age and the complications that went along with it.
As they believed, one could not reach one hundred and nine years of age without having some sort of debilitation, like memory loss. The nurses constantly felt the need to remind Leona of the day's schedule, as if she could not remember it herself. In truth, Leona knew the schedule better than the nurses, as she often wrote it herself.
Leona returned to combing the patch of leaves and flowers in front of her. The clover blossoms, like miniature golf balls, tickled her fingers as she passed over their sweet-smelling heads. The flowers were sweet, but the real treasure lay beneath. Leona bent further, bringing her face even closer to the soft ground cover. Her fingers closed gently around a bunch of leaves, and she swiftly plucked them from the ground.
A smile spread across Leona's face when she saw the fruit of her search. Sitting in her palm was a little four-leaf clover. It was slightly lopsided, but it was still a lucky sign. Leona brought it to her lips and gave it a brief kiss, then slipped it into her pocket.
A few more months, at least. Then she would be back looking for more. The nurses felt the necessity to remind Leona that healthy eating and exercise lead to longevity, not luck. But Leona knew better. Or perhaps she just had more fun believing in a little magic.
************************************************************
17 May, 2010
Blue Demon Love Song
Read White Demon and Black Demon first if you haven't already!!
Blue Demon Love Song
by Jill C.
"Here," James says, shoving the greasy paper bag at me. "Mason, here."
I look up from the chafed ring around my wrist. "What?" I ask.
"Mason, take the bag." I take it, feeling the greasy steam of the fast food flowing through the pores of the bag.
"Your car's gonna smell like fries," I say.
"Uh, yeah," James replies distractedly. He hasn't shaved for days and his short black hair is standing on end. He doesn't usually look this messy. Maybe he doesn't want me?
Where are we going? We should have stopped and eaten at the restaurant rather than taking it to go. But then I remember that I didn't want to. I remember that I don't really want the hamburger and fries in the paper bag in my lap. I remember that I don't really want to go home. But I really don't want to go back.
James turns the battered honda onto a gravel road. I hate that road. It makes me sick. It has since we drove it with the grandfather in the old truck. But it means that we are going there.
James pulls up into the improvised parking on the shoulder of the road. "Ready to walk?" he asks. I nod and get out of the car. "Bring the food, damn it!" James says.
"But I don't want it."
"Mason, you've lost ten pounds in a week. You have to eat."
Anger surges a little. I expect him to tell me to hit, to hurt. But he is gone. I have no feeling. I don't know what to do. My actions have never been my own.
I turn from James and dash down the hill toward the lighthouse. Its whiteness makes it look like an extension of the clouds against the massive blue sea and sky.
"Mason! Hey!" I hear James yelling after me. He is swishing down the reedy hill behind me. I am ahead, though. Racing through the air, through life, through time.
Two little copper skinned boys running into the ocean, the grandmother setting up a picnic blanket on the shore behind them. They splash into the frothy waves. I splash. I fall on my face. The grandmother's voice sounds.
"Careful!" she calls with a laugh. The boys push eachother and splash. A wave crashes down on their heads, and they come up spluttering and laughing. My head surfaces, my too-long hair dripping.
I reach down and come up with a handful of sand. I rub it over the welt on my wrist. Dry skin flakes away. The salt and sand sting, but it is the sting of healing. The hospital bracelet is gone. Now all of its traces will leave too.
"God, Mason," James gasps, coming up beside me, "One day you're going to end up dead doing that." He wrenches my sand filled hand off of my wrist and begins to pull me back up the shore.
I sit wrapped in blanket in the passenger seat of James's car, eating the now tempid fries from the greasy bag. James stops the car in the driveway of the tiny house that the grandmother left behind. He turns to me and sighs.
"You're home," he says.
"I didn't mean to," I reply.
"You didn't mean to what?"
"Get...all wet."
I didn't know how to say it. But I needed James to know that he was gone. I needed James to know that I wanted to do what I wanted. But that I didn't know how. So the past burst out of me. In the early, disconected memories of when I did act for myself. I needed James to know that I was ready to return to that.
"I want it to be like that," I say, "I'm ready."
"You know, Mason," James replies, "You might be starting to make sense again. But get out of my car before it starts to smell like seawater."
****************************************************************
Blue Demon Love Song
by Jill C.
"Here," James says, shoving the greasy paper bag at me. "Mason, here."
I look up from the chafed ring around my wrist. "What?" I ask.
"Mason, take the bag." I take it, feeling the greasy steam of the fast food flowing through the pores of the bag.
"Your car's gonna smell like fries," I say.
"Uh, yeah," James replies distractedly. He hasn't shaved for days and his short black hair is standing on end. He doesn't usually look this messy. Maybe he doesn't want me?
Where are we going? We should have stopped and eaten at the restaurant rather than taking it to go. But then I remember that I didn't want to. I remember that I don't really want the hamburger and fries in the paper bag in my lap. I remember that I don't really want to go home. But I really don't want to go back.
James turns the battered honda onto a gravel road. I hate that road. It makes me sick. It has since we drove it with the grandfather in the old truck. But it means that we are going there.
James pulls up into the improvised parking on the shoulder of the road. "Ready to walk?" he asks. I nod and get out of the car. "Bring the food, damn it!" James says.
"But I don't want it."
"Mason, you've lost ten pounds in a week. You have to eat."
Anger surges a little. I expect him to tell me to hit, to hurt. But he is gone. I have no feeling. I don't know what to do. My actions have never been my own.
I turn from James and dash down the hill toward the lighthouse. Its whiteness makes it look like an extension of the clouds against the massive blue sea and sky.
"Mason! Hey!" I hear James yelling after me. He is swishing down the reedy hill behind me. I am ahead, though. Racing through the air, through life, through time.
Two little copper skinned boys running into the ocean, the grandmother setting up a picnic blanket on the shore behind them. They splash into the frothy waves. I splash. I fall on my face. The grandmother's voice sounds.
"Careful!" she calls with a laugh. The boys push eachother and splash. A wave crashes down on their heads, and they come up spluttering and laughing. My head surfaces, my too-long hair dripping.
I reach down and come up with a handful of sand. I rub it over the welt on my wrist. Dry skin flakes away. The salt and sand sting, but it is the sting of healing. The hospital bracelet is gone. Now all of its traces will leave too.
"God, Mason," James gasps, coming up beside me, "One day you're going to end up dead doing that." He wrenches my sand filled hand off of my wrist and begins to pull me back up the shore.
I sit wrapped in blanket in the passenger seat of James's car, eating the now tempid fries from the greasy bag. James stops the car in the driveway of the tiny house that the grandmother left behind. He turns to me and sighs.
"You're home," he says.
"I didn't mean to," I reply.
"You didn't mean to what?"
"Get...all wet."
I didn't know how to say it. But I needed James to know that he was gone. I needed James to know that I wanted to do what I wanted. But that I didn't know how. So the past burst out of me. In the early, disconected memories of when I did act for myself. I needed James to know that I was ready to return to that.
"I want it to be like that," I say, "I'm ready."
"You know, Mason," James replies, "You might be starting to make sense again. But get out of my car before it starts to smell like seawater."
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