plastic star ceiling

Fiction and Poetry

he took a picture of me in a flat brown house in alabama

wearing a black bandanna wrapped around my chest like a

white flag we didn’t know then that the spring always ruined

everything for us, sent me leaving bus tickets were

another way to say i can’t say sorry & i said i know

getting off the bus dragging my trash bags from the bottom of it

a girl & i smiled and she gave me a bag of honey chex mix

and trazodone i was listening to acid bath when i fell asleep

and that was his favorite band a year later i would be scraping

something soft and powder white from a jar not angel dust

but all of heaven in its pure form & he said kayla your bones

are starting to show in the back i said good & realized that

without trying i had made him into my father the real kind not the

one he was not the call me daddy kind of daddy but the one who

lifts you up on his shoulders when youre small so you can see

the whole world i was that girl once hair in my face his head below me

below bedsheets his mouth to my ground and i bled hard all over him

not my period but he felt like that like an ending they say a girl

compares every boy to her father and i do

i do

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Photo by David DeHetre (Creative Commons)

Summer Day

That Summer Day

Fiction and Poetry

I never wanted to wear my hair loose—and let my unruly curls free—and therefore I scraped my hair back and every morning I smeared half a jar of hair lotion on those curls. The lotion tried to tame those fine baby hairs that—regardless of my attempts—were not lying flat. Deep down I really wanted to look like that black singer from that girl group, of whom I now can’t remember the name. All I know is that I saw her for the first time in my favorite magazine and I finally saw myself reflected in the sea of white faces that watched me from the shiny, thin pages.

It was the last week of the summer holidays before we all went our different ways. It had been a lingering, warm, and rather boring summer. We agreed to go swimming and enjoy our carefree lives before we entered a new stage.

It was the year that you couldn’t escape Britney Spears—no matter how hard you tried—and the pumping bass of “Baby One More Time” hit you on the head time and time again. I could not wait until the inevitable moment came that I would be dancing in the auditorium of our high school. I already practiced for the moment that I was going to wear my first tube top—of course with the accompanying sweatpants, just like Britney—by holding my stomach in so that I would appear small and desirable.

On the long, dusty road to the beach I fell off my bike. It was actually way too hot to do anything. Of course, the crash was not my fault but it was entirely up to the bike. It was an old thing that used to belong to my sister and was withering in the back garden, but I had no other option. In my knee there was now a small scrape. It was crooked and bloody, but I found that it actually gave me some character.

It was a day I would never talk about, not even to my best friend. After all, the group had nothing to do with the events and would say it was doomed from the start.

He was the tallest and toughest of us all, a boy who had already seen the world. Courtesy of his older brothers and the dysfunctional family he came from. Everything about him was long: his fingers, arms, legs, eyelashes and that glossy, dark brown hair.

When it was just about the hottest part of the day, we decided to take a break and get something to drink. I do not remember our conversation word for word, but the impressions of that day are still engraved in my mind. The sound of the sea, the scorching heat that burned my skin. The pounding bass of the radio in my ears, the smell of salted french fries, and the bubbling carbon dioxide from the second glass of Coca-Cola that I was drinking and that tickled my nose.

I stared at the picnic table and saw my dark hands glistening with sweat and holding on to the glass of soda. Under the table I tried to smoothen my linen dress with my hands and slowly an imprint of my wet bathing suit appeared. I gave you a vague smile and leaned forward. I whispered in your ear, “I like you.” You gave me a knowing look and said “I like you too.”

We told each other what we would be in ten years. Our hopes, fears and dreams. You talked about adopting children and told a long—and rather boring—story about your electric guitar. You were attentive, listening and gave me your full attention. I felt safe, warm and wanted. The time trickled away and we all decided to go for a swim one last time.

In retrospect, I should have actually seen it coming. Your hands were loosely draped around her shoulders. Ogling her breasts that swayed with the rhythm of your synced steps. Occasionally you put your hand possessively on her neck. I could not look away and watched until you stepped behind the dark bushes.

I pulled my bathing suit off  behind a towel, got dressed, and walked back to my bike. Devastated, I cycled back home.

I left the sun, the sea and the memory of you behind.

My hair still wet and dripping from the salt water of the sea.

Those unruly curls were finally free.

Unreality House is on Tumblr, Twitter, and Facebook.

Photo by simplyswim.com (Creative Commons)

Vulture King

The Vulture King

Fiction and Poetry

When my young tortoiseshell cat, Mitten, drowned in our neighbors’ well, I wanted to have him buried next to my grandmother, Helen, in the haunted cemetery down the county road. But my parents said that the cemetery was meant for people, not animals—so they took Mitten to the Vulture King who lives out in the woods. I’d only seen the Vulture King once, when I was very little and playing by myself down at the lake, skipping stones; the elderly man ambled along the water on the other side of the water, chewing on a rabbit’s foot. The man looked more like an owl than a vulture.

A week later, a raccoon got into our chicken coop and ate two hens and killed six more; feathers danced like snow through the air. My mother, Sharon, discovered the slaughter and cooked three for us and set the other three aside for the Vulture King.

“Why are we giving him our chickens, Mama?” I asked.

“So the Vulture King can eat, too,” she replied.

“Why?” I questioned.

“Because we don’t want him to go hungry,” she answered.

On Saturday, I caught my father, Walter, setting up rat poison and rat traps in our attic, even though we never had seen any rats in the attic before. When I pointed this out, my father said: “Just in case.” I knew then who they were for.

I barely visit my grandmother at the cemetery anymore. The memories are too painful: apple pies; sweet tea; card games; toothless grins; wet clothes scrubbed over washboards. I miss her dearly. But I’m also afraid. He walks the county road, scraping reeking groundhogs baking in the hot sun off gravel. Once, as I was picking wildflowers for grandmother in the nearby fields, he sauntered by and I could hear his bulging stomach growling—the sound was like summer thunder. When he spotted me in the tall grass, the Vulture King called out for me, but I ran home with overwhelming fear pushing me forward; the fear of being consumed, and fear of him knowing my name. Hershel.

The black bear became more courageous as winter progressed; its colossal paw prints fossilized in waves of ivory washed closer and closer to our community. Soon, mothers were worried over their children playing out in the snow by themselves. The fathers met in our basement on a cold night to discuss what must be done, and came to the conclusion that intricate traps must be set around the border to ensnare the beast. My brother, Alcide, was in charge along with several older boys to check them ever so often. Each time he came home, I would beg for the latest news and details.

“Nothing…” he would always grumble.

Occasionally, a lone wolf or a mangy bobcat would cross the wires and rows of metal teeth, but no bear set foot on the sets. Only in the snow beside them.

Just as panic was rising in the community, they caught something other than a canine or feline: the Vulture King. His leg was bleeding pretty badly when I disobeyed my parents and snuck out to see, but a smile was painted upon his face.

“Let me eat in peace!” the Vulture King insisted, and that’s when I noticed the half devoured martin, small and caked in runny blood, ribcage broken and opened like arms welcoming an embrace.

The fathers released him immediately, and the aging man hobbled like a penguin through the snow to the dark woods, leaving behind a trail of red that only attracted more predators. My father and brother empty nets and snares for a week.

The blizzard came after that whole debacle. Four days cooped up in the house drove me crazy. Breaking my promise, I decide to visit my grandmother despite my mother’s warning because I needed something to do. As I practically swam in white drifts, I discovered that I couldn’t find her grave or her headstone, or any of the others within the necropolis. Perhaps they thawed and vanish underneath the snow? Around midnight, when I got back, I told my mother this.

“Wait until spring,” she said. “They couldn’t have gone anywhere.”

I hoped they didn’t.

What did vanish in the spring, however, was my best friend, Patrick, along with four other boys in our community. Everyone blamed the bear. I blamed the Vulture King. How could a bear that tiptoed along our borders as if walking on eggshells take away five rowdy boys and leave no trace of evidence? But the Vulture King patrolled up and down our streets, alleys and backyards daily.

I was also beginning to think that he was the bear all along.

With the help of my brother, I devised a plan to catch him. Near the lake that was now frozen and glassy, I peppered rat poison inside of a deer head. That night, the Vulture King went into a deep sleep. I came out of hiding and, with shears, needle and thread, split the obese owl open and out dripped Patrick and the others. Underneath the goo, I found Helen, my grandmother, unearthed and swallowed whole by the monster.

The memories ignited to life as if they were dynamite.

Hurriedly, I lugged heavy stones and chunks of ice from the banks, stuffed them inside of him and sewed him back up. Just as I finished, he awoke and hobbled after me.

“I’m going to eat you!” he growled. “Every. Last. One. Of. You!”

Trapped, we all had no choice but to cross the frozen lake. We carefully skated across the surface under the ghoulish moonlight while The Vulture
King barreled for our flesh, cracking the ice with each stomp. I wheeled around when I heard a yelp.

“Keep running!” Patrick urged me as I slowed to a halt.

The Vulture King was half-submerged, clawing for safety as the stones dragged him under. I timidly circled the hole, watching down below. He sank to the bottom and drowned.

Unreality House is on Tumblr, Twitter, and Facebook.

Photo by lostpetresearch (Creative Commons)

Paper Clips 2


Fiction and Poetry

Joe said he had a black Monte Carlo Super Sport. None of us had seen it and his father drove him to work. Joe said he had a home that he bought out of foreclosure. He said the home was being worked on and that was why he lived with his parents. Joe had been saying this for five years now.

Joe said he was going to marry Elise who worked the paint aisle, and that he would take her to Italy. Italy was the homeland of his ancestors and he had family there who would welcome them. But Elise had reported him to management for harassment and asked to be moved to the other end of the store.

Joe said he had been strangled by the boss at his last job, by a Mexican named Augie, and that very soon he was to receive a large settlement. Despite the litigation he was calling daily to get his old job back in the meat department. Any day now he would have it. Augie and he could work things out. “But what we need ‘round this place here is a union,” Joe said. “So that management will give us some respect.” Respect was worth paying a union, he argued. And Hoffa was a great man.

Joe was short and round and his bald head was smooth and polished. Joe’s hands were soft and white and stayed that way because he did not like to work. Through the night you heard Joe cackling in the paint aisle and doing his broken English impersonations of the Mexican Augie.

Steve liked to get on Joe in the break room. Joe would be telling Victor about how this or that was going to happen for him and Steve, not even looking up from reading the paper, would grunt, “No it’s not, Joe. No. That’ll never happen.”

Joe had these sties growing on his eyelids and they seemed to get larger and redder every day. He had them for months. Joe was always talking about what the doctor was proscribing and Steve says, “Hey Joe, maybe if you washed your hands after you go to the bathroom you wouldn’t have that shit growing on your eyes.”

They finally fired him for getting into it with Phil from the flooring department. Joe called the store manager every few days trying to get his job back. This went on for a few months until Joe realized it wasn’t going to happen. He called the police and tried to have assault charges brought on Phil for flicking a paper clip at him. Joe filed a lawsuit against Phil for assault with a paper clip. That put Phil out of work too, which was too bad. Phil was a good guy.

Unreality House is on Tumblr, Twitter, and Facebook.

Photo by alternatePhotography (Creative Commons)


Bloodletting Season

Fiction and Poetry

In order to survive adolescence, you must force yourself to sell-out. Bite down on your tongue, harden your jaw, clench your teeth, and learn to join the league of the invisible minority. Trick your white classmates; they must not realize that you’ve infiltrated their tight-knit ranks. Learn to take history as gospel, never look beyond the pages. Act as the sole representation of your race. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. You are like the cockroach in Audra Lorde’s poem; you may be detested and despised, but you cannot be killed.

* * *

You’re not like other black people.
You sound white.
Are you a mulatto?
Is your hair real? Can I touch it?
You’re black; you must know how to dance!
Where are you from? No, really, where are you from?
I want to have mulatto babies!
But you didn’t grow up in a ghetto, so you’re not really black.
But he didn’t MEAN to be racist….
I wish black people would stop talking about racism.
What are you?
You’re ugly.

The fact that these sentiments flowed from the mouths of both friends and foes alike makes you feel very, very small and useless and naïve and you wish that you had clung to your dignity with the ironclad determination of a captain about to sink with his beloved ship.

Your identity was never fully yours. They claimed it and twisted it and warped it and defaced it like the crypt robbers who ransacked the Egyptian tombs. You refused to accept the realities of double-speak, of coded-language, of words that harbored mild apathy to condescending disdain. They tried to make you crazy, to convince you that you were shadowboxing. At first, it was much easier to submit, to slip into your token role, to open your mouth, take on water and drown. Your mother moved through life like an eel, maneuvering through society with the flash of white teeth and a slickness only known to outsiders who have served so long as a punching bag that they are numb to the onslaught of brass-knuckled blows. On the other hand, your father was not afraid to tell you what it meant to be black in this version of America, this vision constructed from the indulgence of privilege, what it meant to be a member of a race of people whose skin color came with baggage, a history that was simultaneously American and “Other.”

Railing against your rationale, you carved these banners of ignorance between the inner cracks and crevices of your subconscious, absorbed the toxins like ink into your skin, tried to acquire the same kind of blindness that they professed as moral hymns. At times, living in a staggering display of whiteness heightened your depression. The authenticity of your identity was dependent upon an adherence to stereotypes. When you were twelve, you composed a life plan which would begin when and not if you escaped to New York City. You now realize that you were confused all those years because you were looking to fit into a crowd that would rather hoard and eat your culture and spit you back out until you were nothing but bones picked-clean.

You were not searching for tolerance, but unequivocal equality.

You are so tired of being the token minority, the stand-in for the exotic and strange. You are tired of trying to educate and explain to deaf ears. You are tired of expecting compassion and receiving indifference. You are tired of being a pillar of indomitable strength for people who do not have strength of their own.

You are tired of the world’s definitions.

* * *

Bloodletting is an ancient medical procedure that was commonly practiced in order to cleanse the afflicted body of the illness—or rather the evil spirit that had attacked the patient. According to PBS, “bloodletting [has a] 3,000 year history [and] began with the Egyptians of the River Nile one thousand years B.C., and the tradition spread to the Greeks and Romans.”

Some people will keep friends, no matter how broken the relationship, no matter how tired the loyalties, because they need to be lost in a crowd to feel secure. Some people will keep friends that are toxic because they afraid to be alone. They are convinced that being alone is synonymous with loneliness.

Some people will honor the ghost of childhood friendships past because alliances cemented in early adolescence carry a weight that mimics the intensity of a life debt. These people have stuck by you through your growing pains, through the awkward fumbling towards adulthood. But does such allegiance matter when these friends view you as a non-threatening exception to their stereotypes? Does it matter when your friendship is an excuse to assuage white guilt? To consent to the powerless role of the model minority?

In order to cure the soul, you must let the bloodletting begin.

Unreality House is on Tumblr, Twitter, and Facebook.

Photo by Anika (Creative Commons)

Wintertime 2


Fiction and Poetry

Pretty Girl With Too Much Makeup®
(but she’s pretty anyway)
is tweeting about massages from her penthouse in New York
that no one normal could afford.
                    I just wanted to get away.
I got my wish; Christmas came early
                    (you’re somewhere in LA)
but mostly I wish I was guzzling whiskey
with you hitting me in the face                                               (accidentallyofcourse!!)
and I’m rolling down to the ground, spilling your beer,
screaming with laughter on the floor
about how I just can’t take any more
and you’re just cool as cool can be
                    (you’re practically ice; 7-11 Slurpee).
Glacial from toes to hairline,
solid blonde Aryan fact.
This is why we’re friends;                    YOU HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO TACT
and you change the subject from me to you
complaining about the price of benzoates
as I lie vaguely bored and blue
and I tell myself the same thing every time;

Unreality House is on Tumblr, Twitter, and Facebook.

Photo by Johnia (Creative Commons)

Pregnancy Test 2

All the People I’ve Never Had Sex With

Fiction and Poetry

Took 50mg of Ambien alone in my room. I texted some guy I had been seeing for about ~three weeks. He texted back fast. I asked him to meet me outside even though it was February and minus 30 degrees out. He agreed. I put on a tank top and took my hair out of a ponytail and grabbed my poetry anthology textbook, for some reason.

I don’t remember walking around campus with him but I remember sitting on a ledge and smoking a cigarette and reading him “Her Kind” by Anne Sexton. He said, “That’s sad,” and then he said, “I’ll read something to you now.” I don’t remember what he read to me. We sat there for ~10 minutes before I said his name and he said “Yeah” and I told him it’s okay if he kissed me now. He said he was waiting to do it later which made me feel ashamed of myself, for some reason, for letting him think that there would be a “later.” He kissed me. His mouth was very wet and he grabbed the back of my head while we kissed which I didn’t like. His bottom lip curled into mine which felt forced and awkward. He asked me if I wanted to spend the night at his place. I said yes.

We went to his place. His room was clean, cleaner than mine. “My bed,” he said, “is much bigger than yours.” We started kissing on his bed. I was sitting down and he was standing up. I briefly touched his crotch. I looked down and there was a big wet spot where his penis was and also I could tell that he had an erection. He took off his pants and I took off my shirt and then he took off his underwear. I gave him three blow jobs in a row. I was half-naked and he was fully naked, I was crouching on his bed and he was laying down. When he finished we both lay down together. I asked him if he loved me. He said, “It’s too early for that.” He asked me if I liked his cock. I didn’t respond. It was three AM and he turned off the lights because he had a midterm the next morning. There was cum all over his bedsheets. He told me he wanted me on top of him while we slept but I told him that I was tired and I’d be more comfortable this way, facing the wall, away from him where he couldn’t see me. The next morning I dressed in a place where he couldn’t see me dressing and I told him I didn’t love him and left. When I got back to my place I saw a girl who lived on my floor and she said I didn’t look so good and asked me if I were okay. I said yes and smiled. I got back to my room and texted him and asked him if we had sex. All he said was, “No.” I took a pregnancy test just in case. It came out negative. There was nothing inside of me.

* * *

My best friend’s brother was in the city visiting for the weekend which also happened to be the weekend of my 19th birthday. We went to a bar in Quebec and I ordered him a tequila shot and I drank too much vodka. When we got home, at two AM, my best friend and another friend of ours went to her room to smoke weed. I was drunk and tired and I went to my room and her brother followed me in and we started kissing on my bed. He was a very good kisser and he put his hand in between my legs while he kissed me. His lips felt good against mine but I kept thinking of someone else. He asked me if I wanted to have sex and I asked him if it was okay if we just cuddled. He started kissing me even more and then said that he’d have sex with me right now if I wanted to. I didn’t say anything and he kissed me again and I wasn’t thinking of him. Finally I sat up and told him that he was my best friend’s brother and that I didn’t feel like I could do this right now and that it would be a good idea if he left. He said fine and I told him that I could keep a secret if he could. He didn’t say anything. He slammed the door on his way out. I made my bed even though I had already made it that morning. I had a lot of trouble sleeping and I was still thinking of someone else.

* * *

I had drank three PBRs in a park with him earlier and now we were sitting on a patio drinking beer—I forget what kind—and he ordered wings. I watched him eat them and I stole a carrot from his plate. I was also smoking a cigarette. He looked hesitant and he said, “The way you—wait, no, I shouldn’t say it,” and because that bothered me I said, “No, say it,” and he said, “The way you smoke your cigarette is very sexy.” He also said I was desirable and very pretty. I said I didn’t think I was pretty and he said, “Don’t be stupid.” He said he really wanted to have sex with me and it was ruining his life because he had a girlfriend. When I said I didn’t think I was sexy or desirable he said that I was incredibly desirable and that he always wondered what it would be like to have his bare chest against mine. He asked me if I really did like him and I said yes. He said, “So then kiss me” and I said there was too much table in between us but he didn’t hear me. So I got up from the table and kissed him, and then kissed him again. He asked me what I wanted to do and I said, “We can go to a park and just kiss or something.” He said he was thinking the same thing and I got up to pee and he drank the rest of my beer and paid the bill.

We held hands as we walked to the park and we sat down in the grass even though it was muddy. I took off my glasses. He sat down with his feet underneath his ass. He told me I had to come closer and I did. He started kissing me. His eyes were closed but mine were open. I felt empty but I tried not to feel it and I cupped his crotch and he said, “oh God” a couple of times and then just started moaning. I licked his neck and he said, “Don’t give me a hickey, don’t make my life difficult” so I stopped. He then started licking my neck and then said, “I think I might have given you a slight hickey.” We lay down on the grass and he asked me if it would be okay if he put his head in between my legs. I said yes. He touched me and then started kissing my chest and my neck and again my face. When the hour was up he said he was going to write me something and he took out a notebook and pen and I lay down in the grass while he played me music. It was a Radiohead song that he had covered. The sun was setting in between the leaves of the trees that were above me and I thought about shamefulness.

After I read the letter I tried to kiss him again but he backed away. He said something about loyalty and that we could only kiss with our mouths closed. I kissed him with my mouth closed and then we decided to walk back to the bus stop. On the bus I touched his chest but he picked up my hand and put it down on my lap and said, “Don’t get used to it,” which made me sad but also embarrassed because the bus was pretty full. Before we got on the subway he told me not to tell anyone and to keep it a secret and I thought about shame and about lies and how many lies I’ve probably told in my entire life. He hugged me and I got on the subway. I thought about PBR and felt empty. I tried to feel full by leaning my head against the window and closing my eyes. I started to cry a little bit which bothered me for obvious reasons. When I got off the subway I touched my mouth with my index finger and wondered if his saliva was still there. That night I took a two-hour-long shower but I didn’t know if I wanted to get rid of him or myself. I felt full so I tried to feel empty.

Unreality House is on Tumblr, Twitter, and Facebook.

Photo by Konstantin Lazorkin (Creative Commons).


The Shrinking Lover

Fiction and Poetry

My lover is shrinking more and more each day.

On the sixth day he was only three feet tall. You could barely make him out in a crowd. I had to adjust the chairs at the kitchen table so he could climb up on them. He is, often, very self-conscious of his size. He knows that within a few days he will be no more than a speck of dust left on the floor of our apartment. I put away the mops and the dusters, just in case.

* * *

The first time we met was at a strip mall where I worked. He was buying new shoes. I asked him his size. He said, “Nine.” My shrinking lover is now a mere size four, drastically different from the first time we met. I tell him I’ll always remember the number nine both as the first time we met and the person he was. He tells me not to think of who we were as what we are.

Nowadays we go to that same strip mall and sit on the benches, not buying a thing, but listening to strangers speak.

* * *

On the 13th day he wakes me up in the middle of the night. He says he needs a glass of water. I get it for him. He can’t reach the refrigerator anymore. I know that, in the morning, he will be shrunk down at least a few inches. I stretch my body to touch my feet to his underneath the sheets, to remind myself that skin can still wrap around itself.

* * *

The first time we made love my body prickled and pulsed under the weight of his. He was still bigger than me, broader. I was underneath covers because I was afraid of him seeing all of me. He pulled back the blanket and looked at my naked body underneath the light of a lamp.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

“No, I’m not,” I said.

* * *

Nowadays I wonder if anybody appreciates the blood leaking out of their own orifices, reminding themselves that their lovers could hurt them in such physical ways, bound by their own desire, pleading with themselves to stop the pain just long enough to release their own relief.

* * *

We speak of amusement parks. He is too small to ride a roller coaster. On the twelfth day he is just bigger than my arm. I am reminded of the times we would sit, cross-legged, on the cold floor of our bathroom, tracing the grime between the tiles, and we would think about losing.

“Losing something is just gaining something else,” he said.

“But why would you want to lose someone you know to gain something you don’t know?”

Nowadays I memorize the ways people leave, so that one day I can do the same.

* * *

On the fifteenth day, my shrinking lover is just smaller than a newborn baby. I can no longer feel the weight of him lying on the bed next to me. In the early morning he asks me to take him to the front porch so I can hold him while he watches the sun rise with tiny eyes. Soon he will be too small to hold. Soon no one could touch him lest he would break.

I understood the part about breaking.

* * *

Twenty-one days later my shrinking lover has shrunk down to his smallest size. I know it’s his smallest size because it is the smallest he can go without not being seen completely. I put him in a Corningware dish and watch his tiny body float around.  I can no longer see his sad smile. He looks up at me and says, with a slight laugh, “Have you grown?” He is merely a speck of dust now, and because it scares me, I throw out all the dusters and mops.

* * *

When he has disappeared completely I put away the Corningware dish and think about grime between bathroom tiles and strip malls with so little people in them. I think about size nine feet and making love in between soaking wet sheets, lovers with too much space in between them.

Unreality House is on Tumblr, Twitter, and Facebook.

Photo by Nemo’s Great Uncle (Creative Commons)

Frying Pan Pillow

The Frying Pan Pillow

Fiction and Poetry

Ivy is writing a poem about me so I can stop feeling sad. Something is wrong with her but we don’t know what it is. She looks up at me and then down again. Sometimes she lets her cigarettes burn out before she finishes smoking them. I don’t say anything, but of course, she’s the one who is dying. We don’t talk about that, though. The dying, I mean. Nobody knows what it is, not even Ivy. She still gets crushes on boys and girls sometimes. I tell her what’s the point and she gestures to the insides of her thighs, laughing. I laugh too. I leave her apartment to see if breathing gets easier. It doesn’t.

* * *

Her stairs are creaky. People are always dropping in. She doesn’t like to socialize that much but when she does it’s something to see. She makes Thai soup and wontons and sings along to every song that comes on the radio, even if she’s never heard it before. Sometimes she taps her foot to the beat but her landlord told her not to do that anymore because the people downstairs were getting annoyed. She doesn’t weigh much but she occupies.

* * *

Ivy is writing a poem about me so I can start feeling hopeful. I lay my head on her shoulder while she writes and it feels like laying your head on the coldness of a car window on a long, long trip. Bumpy and dizzy, but Ivy’s shoulder is softer, and I wonder if I put my lips to her ear would she do the same? If I doze off and wake up, I see that Ivy has wrapped me up in a blanket and gently placed my head somewhere other than her shoulder, like on the edge of the couch, or a textbook, and one time on a frying pan. I woke up and thought she was making breakfast but she wasn’t. There was a little bit of grease on my nose and she rubbed it off before I could notice.

* * *

Ivy is energetic despite her sickness. I sit on the couch and I tell her that there is something inside of me that kills everything that proves there is something inside of me, like electricity, or like death. “Your problem,” she says, “is that you are so afraid of feeling that you don’t feel anything at all.” She cries when her mother calls her, although it doesn’t happen very often. Her joy is louder than the laugh tracks on television. She paints her toenails red and rests her feet on the coffee table even though they’re dirty. She sings aloud to a song she claims is her favorite while I wake up in the frying pan pillow three hours after I’ve fallen asleep, comforted by the soft blanket of the light coming in through Ivy’s window and her incessant humming that goes on and on, forever, seemingly endless.

“I know it’s a frying pan, but I don’t have any extra pillows. I would give you mine, but ever since the diagnosis I’ve been paranoid that people are going to catch what I have. I know it’s silly. The kitchen was right here, too.”

Ivy is writing a poem about me so I can feel alive again. She sings and taps her foot and I want to tell her I would do anything to have what she has but I lay my head on the frying pan and fall asleep.

Unreality House is on Tumblr, Twitter, and Facebook.

Photo by Lotus Carroll (Creative Commons)

Radiator 3

The Trapeze Swinger

Fiction and Poetry

There is too much dust.

The dust comprises everything.

I touch the radiator and it’s there and I leave a streak,

a mark on my finger and on the metal.
During dinner I tell the boy I like his pasta.

After, we move into his bedroom where he unzips

my pants like a magic trick.

A disappearing act.

Your body was born a circus, didn’t you know.

He tells me I should watch porn.
He tells me I don’t know




His bedroom is messy. I can feel

coins underneath couch cushions,

but his panting is so loud

I can’t hear the opening act.

Maybe he’s had too many girls.

Maybe the world’s not dead for him,

yet. I don’t feel a thing.

There are dirty dishes stacked

up in his sink. Marvel at my

ability to ignore love-making

to want to grab

a sponge

and wipe up his counters.

Oh, but this is—

what? This is, well,

love. This is what they

called love. Panting moaning

screaming You should watch porn

and I tell him I don’t, I haven’t

and I never will, wouldn’t.

I think licking out assholes is a dirty

thing to do. He is the kind of boy who wants

to fuck and



He is the kind of boy

that, when you leave,

turns the couch cushions

over so when his girlfriend

gets home she won’t

see the mess he made. Oh,

but this is love, cut

to intermission.

We are almost

at the closing act. When she gets home

their bodies fit

together like two puzzle pieces.

A trapeze swinger and his stuntman,

a magician and his top hat.

I want to wipe

his counters. I want to clean

the dust off. I want to tell

him I’m not his stand-in

during this circus show but he

rips my shirt off

and I



Unreality House is on Tumblr, Twitter, and Facebook.

Photo by Night Owl City (Creative Commons)