She didn't cry when she thought she would. Instead she bit down on her lower lip until it hurt. It wasn't her fault, but she knew they'd blame it on her. They always did. She felt the sudden urge to run, to hide, to find a space small enough to hold her tight and close, like the arms of a giant.
But she didn't run. She didn't hide. She would stand up for herself. Stand up for her brother. Stand up for them when no one else would. Her parents were out. Again. The neighbors would scoff at that. Dirty Danny would mime holding a bottle to his lips and tip his head back like he was drinking when they asked her where her parents were. They always did.
She looked down again at JJ, laying in the grass and wailing. She tuned out his wailing for a few seconds, thinking of the trouble she and Bobby were in right now. JJ would run and tell on them. He'd blame her, say she pushed him. He lips were fat and dripping blood. His wails were, unrealistically, getting louder. She noticed that he had a huge scrap on his left cheek. She used the end of her pink dress to wipe his blood. She'd put it in the wash before Mom saw anyway. Not like Mom did much laundry these days.
Bobby looked down at JJ with barely concealed disgust in his eyes. For a seven year old he was proud of being tough. Crying after a spill like JJ just took would be shameful. Most of that attitude came from Dad, but some from Mom too. Neither suffered a crybaby. "Shhh ..." she murmured to the crying boy, patting his brown hair back from his forehead in awkward conciliatory gestures.
JJ stopped crying and shot her a look full of venom. "Stop touching me, trash!" He yelled at her. He wiped the blood dripping down his chin with his forearm, sneering at her through his broken lips. "I'm telling my dad you pushed me. Again." He got up and grabbed his soccer ball where it had lain abandoned in the grass. "My dad said your dad was and alky. He says he's goin' call services on you and get you and Bob taken away so you won't plague up our neighborhood anymore." JJ looked very satisfied with himself when he said it, smiling a little.
White hot rage ran through her at his smug little smile. Some of her mom's driving words came to mind to say to him, but she bit her lip again, this time so hard that she was scared for a minute that she almost bit it hard enough to draw blood. "You better not, JJ!" She yelled at him. "Or I'll push you for real and give you more than a fat lip!"
Bobby chimed in with an unnecessary but heartfelt, "Yeah!"
JJ looked uncertain for a second. He was her age, nine, but smaller than her. Weirdly, nine year old girls tended to be just as big and sometimes bigger than boys the same age. She had a good four inches on him.
***to be continued***
Monday, August 29, 2011
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Shoes
She wore those shoes rarely. They were expensive, a designer brand of the pretentious sort. The shoes, they’d seen three weddings, one particularly fashionable funeral, one birthday soiree for a very important boss, two Christmas cocktail parties, and now on the eve of the New Year, they saw their owner’s untimely death.
It started, although the shoes were unaware of this, with a glance exchanged, dark eyes under thick brows mingling with the owner’s blue ones under perfectly tweezed brows. It continued with a tipped glass, and later a drink bought for the “beautiful lady." Those shoes, they danced, they walked, and finally, towards the end of the night they stumbled home with Mr. Dark Eyes.
Had the shoes been animated objects of the thinking sort, they would have become suspicious at the perfectly solicitous ways of Mr. Dark Eyes. They would have been suspicious at his gentle cajoling voice, athis flawless manners. But the shoes, being only inanimate, expensive leather stayed silent.The shoes were kicked off in passion to the corner in Mr. Dark Eyes’ living room. If they had ears, they would have heard shouting and screaming. They would have heard bumping and bruising.
The next morning, the shoes, still blissfully unaware of their owner’s demise, were left in the corner. If they had eyes they would have seen Mr. Dark Eyes walking by with a blanket wrapped bundle, and while hewas fumbling for the door, they would have seen their owner’s pretty manicured hand flop out of the blankets. And if those shoes could feel, they would have felt the drop of blood fall on the tip of the toe ofthe right shoe.
Put in a box, and kept on a shelf, the shoes were in darkness for years. Some days after a body was discovered by an overeager dog on a camping trip, the shoes saw light for the first time in years. In that light, the shoes would have seen their owner’s justice. Mr. Dark Eyes, looking oh-so-handsome in a dark suit, sat on the defendant’s side in the courtroom. Oh, how confident he was, Mr. Dark Eyes, who had long been suspected in the disappearance of the shoe’s owner. He was finally caught, with a new search warrant, with the discovery of a woman’s pair of designer shoes. They were so fashionable that they were remembered by many of the owner’s friends. The owner would be proud of her expensive designer shoes now, to know that they were instrumental in the apprehension and successfulprosecution of her murderer.
The shoes now sit in a box marked, “evidence”. If the shoes could smile, they would do so.
It started, although the shoes were unaware of this, with a glance exchanged, dark eyes under thick brows mingling with the owner’s blue ones under perfectly tweezed brows. It continued with a tipped glass, and later a drink bought for the “beautiful lady." Those shoes, they danced, they walked, and finally, towards the end of the night they stumbled home with Mr. Dark Eyes.
Had the shoes been animated objects of the thinking sort, they would have become suspicious at the perfectly solicitous ways of Mr. Dark Eyes. They would have been suspicious at his gentle cajoling voice, athis flawless manners. But the shoes, being only inanimate, expensive leather stayed silent.The shoes were kicked off in passion to the corner in Mr. Dark Eyes’ living room. If they had ears, they would have heard shouting and screaming. They would have heard bumping and bruising.
The next morning, the shoes, still blissfully unaware of their owner’s demise, were left in the corner. If they had eyes they would have seen Mr. Dark Eyes walking by with a blanket wrapped bundle, and while hewas fumbling for the door, they would have seen their owner’s pretty manicured hand flop out of the blankets. And if those shoes could feel, they would have felt the drop of blood fall on the tip of the toe ofthe right shoe.
Put in a box, and kept on a shelf, the shoes were in darkness for years. Some days after a body was discovered by an overeager dog on a camping trip, the shoes saw light for the first time in years. In that light, the shoes would have seen their owner’s justice. Mr. Dark Eyes, looking oh-so-handsome in a dark suit, sat on the defendant’s side in the courtroom. Oh, how confident he was, Mr. Dark Eyes, who had long been suspected in the disappearance of the shoe’s owner. He was finally caught, with a new search warrant, with the discovery of a woman’s pair of designer shoes. They were so fashionable that they were remembered by many of the owner’s friends. The owner would be proud of her expensive designer shoes now, to know that they were instrumental in the apprehension and successfulprosecution of her murderer.
The shoes now sit in a box marked, “evidence”. If the shoes could smile, they would do so.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
The Clown on the Corner of Federal and Bruchez
Here is a story I wrote a few years ago. The link below the story is the painting my good friend Dave Boehmke did when he read my story.
I didn’t notice the clown standing on the corner right away because I was day dreaming as I was walking. The day was warm, as late spring days often are, and the sun was still high in the sky. I was looking at the ground, watching my steps. I was making sure that between each crack in the sidewalk I took exactly three steps, except on every fourth crack in the sidewalk in which I was allowed an extra step to catch up to ensure I didn’t step on the crack itself. This is a complicated maneuver, and there was no time left in this for looking around for clowns or other such creatures in the road ahead. Of course, had I seen the clown further back, I might’ve turned around and went another way home, the longer way in order to avoid the clown. If I turned around now, the clown would surely notice and it might think that I was turning around because of it, and that might hurt its feelings. As creepy as it was to see the clown standing on the suburban corner of Federal and Bruchez where there was nothing but houses on Bruchez and no sidewalks on the busy street of Federal, I still didn’t want to risk affronting the clown by turning down the street I’d came. Also, to be honest, I was feeling a little lazy. The walk home from Teri’s house was long enough without me having to turn around and go all the way back so I could sidestep the clown. I felt sure that the clown on the road ahead was harmless, and that I could get by him with no effort. Also, it was daylight, and nothing ever happens to anyone in broad daylight on the corner of a busy street.
So I plodded on, foot after foot, my sidewalk step counting game forgotten. I continued on, watching the clown ahead of me, alert to any questionable movements the clown may make. My mind was on alert, but I wasn’t scared. I was more a little freaked out by the fact that there was a clown. I think it was the randomness of it all that scared me a little bit. It was like the time I dropped acid on July 4th and was walking home down this very same road. I was walking for what seemed like an eternity, the world seemed infinite and entertaining, the colors and the shades of dark outside were brilliant. I was walking alone, which at the time, didn’t seem fair. My mother wouldn’t let me stay at Teri’s because it was a weekday. As I parted with Teri, saddened that she was getting to stay out later and I had to go home, she handed me a firework and said, “I hope it’s pretty.” Walking down Bruchez, headed east towards Federal, I pondered the darkness of the night and wondered why the acid made me feel invincible in the darkness at 12 am, when normally I would be afraid. Through the darkness and the warm air I walked, watching the street. Random things have always frightened me, as they did that night. Two men on motorcycles came roaring down the residential street, and right when they passed me they flipped a u-turn. My mind froze with fright as I was caught (as the old saying goes) like a deer in the bike’s headlights. I let out a high pitched scream after hearing the bike on the right rev its engine. The bikes became riderless to me and I was transported to a state of primitive terror. A state where I didn’t think before I screamed and ran, a state where my mind thought purely of survival and the need to get away, away from the lights and the noise. Get away from the hurt.
As I continued, the clown ahead became a little clearer. He was wearing a pair of blank pants, what seemed to be nice dress pants. A foot closer and I notice that his face was white with smeared makeup, his wig orange and matted. The wig was something you could buy for five bucks at a Halloween specialty shop, a novelty. It didn’t look like something a professional clown would wear. A foot closer and I noticed he was wearing what appeared to be a suit jacket, splashed with different colors of paint. The paint was all primary colors, and the jacket beneath was black, like the pants. A foot closer, and I was so close now, so close, and I could see that he had one of those big red fake Ronald McDonald smiles painted on which was sinister and hopeful at the same time. A foot closer, and I was two steps away from passing him. Should I nod? Should I smile? Should I say good afternoon? I looked down as I passed him, hoping to just walk on by without having to observe any social niceties that are usually necessitated by one’s desire to appear normal. I wasn’t so lucky. The clown grunted something at me before I could pass, his arm stretched toward me. That was when I noticed the balloon wafting from his hand, blowing gently in the breeze. The balloon was a delicate pastel pink and had “It’s a girl!” printed on it in white letters. “I’m sorry, um, I didn’t quite hear what you—“ I began to say. The clown interrupted me, grunting something again, something that seemed to be “ta’ da boon, I baw id for you.” He took a lurching step towards me, and I frozen in fright, stayed in the spot I was at. He came up close, so I could see how the white make-up had settled in the age lines in his face. I could see how the whites of his eyes were pure red, and the actual color a washed out blue. He grabbed a strand of my hair and rubbed it between his fingers, grunting something again. A strong blast of liquor emitted from his chapped painted lips. I recoiled from the smell and the touch of his fingers in my hair.
A vague memory tried to surface brought on by that smell, a face flashed in my mind and flashed out again like the flickering of the projector at a movie. The smell reminded me of something but the memory was so far away that I couldn’t figure it out. It was there, yet it wasn’t there. Or maybe I didn’t want to remember?
But this was no time to ponder memories, this was time to run. Run away from the creepy clown currently fingering my hair and emitting its powerful liquor laced breath into my face. This was a time to kick him in his junk, run so fast that he couldn’t catch up and call the police to report it when I get home, so that he doesn’t hurt anyone. Anymore. But I couldn’t run, I couldn’t propel my foot up from the ground to assault his junk. I couldn’t speak. My body was frozen, frozen by that memory I had almost remembered.
He let go of my hair, and I saw that it looked like his bloodshot eyes were watering. Was he going to cry? What the hell for? What is going on? He struggled to enunciate his words, “Tayg dis ba-oon, I bawd id for you.” He reached his arm out again, holding the balloon out to me. I looked into his eyes, the faded blue and the bloodshot.
The same memory struggled for hold, this time the face coming into focus a little more. The smell was still there, and someone with short brown hair, and he was talking, he was speaking to me. No, I don’t want to remember.
“I don’t want it! I don’t fucking want it!” The paralysis was broken and I pushed his arm aside and began to run. As I reached the corner, I looked back at the clown. He looked at me, sad, tears running down his cheeks. He let go of the balloon. The wind grabbed a hold of it, the letters on the balloon seemed to mock me until I could no longer read them. It’s a girl! I gazed at the balloon until it was gone from my sight, and then turned my gaze back to the clown.
And that memory came back, flooded this time, those faded blue eyes, the voice speaking to me, the smell of alcohol. I could see the face clearly now, the eyes were such a faded blue, a little bloodshot even, and I don’t understand what the mouth is saying. Nonsense words, perhaps? And now waving and mouthing “bye bye.”
The clown was still there, his head down, his arms limp at his sides. He looked up, lifted his arms out to me. His eyes were pleading. The tears were still running down his checks, his mouth was working convulsively, probably trying to hold in his sobs. “Please.” His voice shook. I shook my head. “I can’t daddy, I can’t, you’ve been gone too long.”
http://dboehmke.blogspot.com/2008/03/thanks-for-nightmares-hannah.html
I didn’t notice the clown standing on the corner right away because I was day dreaming as I was walking. The day was warm, as late spring days often are, and the sun was still high in the sky. I was looking at the ground, watching my steps. I was making sure that between each crack in the sidewalk I took exactly three steps, except on every fourth crack in the sidewalk in which I was allowed an extra step to catch up to ensure I didn’t step on the crack itself. This is a complicated maneuver, and there was no time left in this for looking around for clowns or other such creatures in the road ahead. Of course, had I seen the clown further back, I might’ve turned around and went another way home, the longer way in order to avoid the clown. If I turned around now, the clown would surely notice and it might think that I was turning around because of it, and that might hurt its feelings. As creepy as it was to see the clown standing on the suburban corner of Federal and Bruchez where there was nothing but houses on Bruchez and no sidewalks on the busy street of Federal, I still didn’t want to risk affronting the clown by turning down the street I’d came. Also, to be honest, I was feeling a little lazy. The walk home from Teri’s house was long enough without me having to turn around and go all the way back so I could sidestep the clown. I felt sure that the clown on the road ahead was harmless, and that I could get by him with no effort. Also, it was daylight, and nothing ever happens to anyone in broad daylight on the corner of a busy street.
So I plodded on, foot after foot, my sidewalk step counting game forgotten. I continued on, watching the clown ahead of me, alert to any questionable movements the clown may make. My mind was on alert, but I wasn’t scared. I was more a little freaked out by the fact that there was a clown. I think it was the randomness of it all that scared me a little bit. It was like the time I dropped acid on July 4th and was walking home down this very same road. I was walking for what seemed like an eternity, the world seemed infinite and entertaining, the colors and the shades of dark outside were brilliant. I was walking alone, which at the time, didn’t seem fair. My mother wouldn’t let me stay at Teri’s because it was a weekday. As I parted with Teri, saddened that she was getting to stay out later and I had to go home, she handed me a firework and said, “I hope it’s pretty.” Walking down Bruchez, headed east towards Federal, I pondered the darkness of the night and wondered why the acid made me feel invincible in the darkness at 12 am, when normally I would be afraid. Through the darkness and the warm air I walked, watching the street. Random things have always frightened me, as they did that night. Two men on motorcycles came roaring down the residential street, and right when they passed me they flipped a u-turn. My mind froze with fright as I was caught (as the old saying goes) like a deer in the bike’s headlights. I let out a high pitched scream after hearing the bike on the right rev its engine. The bikes became riderless to me and I was transported to a state of primitive terror. A state where I didn’t think before I screamed and ran, a state where my mind thought purely of survival and the need to get away, away from the lights and the noise. Get away from the hurt.
As I continued, the clown ahead became a little clearer. He was wearing a pair of blank pants, what seemed to be nice dress pants. A foot closer and I notice that his face was white with smeared makeup, his wig orange and matted. The wig was something you could buy for five bucks at a Halloween specialty shop, a novelty. It didn’t look like something a professional clown would wear. A foot closer and I noticed he was wearing what appeared to be a suit jacket, splashed with different colors of paint. The paint was all primary colors, and the jacket beneath was black, like the pants. A foot closer, and I was so close now, so close, and I could see that he had one of those big red fake Ronald McDonald smiles painted on which was sinister and hopeful at the same time. A foot closer, and I was two steps away from passing him. Should I nod? Should I smile? Should I say good afternoon? I looked down as I passed him, hoping to just walk on by without having to observe any social niceties that are usually necessitated by one’s desire to appear normal. I wasn’t so lucky. The clown grunted something at me before I could pass, his arm stretched toward me. That was when I noticed the balloon wafting from his hand, blowing gently in the breeze. The balloon was a delicate pastel pink and had “It’s a girl!” printed on it in white letters. “I’m sorry, um, I didn’t quite hear what you—“ I began to say. The clown interrupted me, grunting something again, something that seemed to be “ta’ da boon, I baw id for you.” He took a lurching step towards me, and I frozen in fright, stayed in the spot I was at. He came up close, so I could see how the white make-up had settled in the age lines in his face. I could see how the whites of his eyes were pure red, and the actual color a washed out blue. He grabbed a strand of my hair and rubbed it between his fingers, grunting something again. A strong blast of liquor emitted from his chapped painted lips. I recoiled from the smell and the touch of his fingers in my hair.
A vague memory tried to surface brought on by that smell, a face flashed in my mind and flashed out again like the flickering of the projector at a movie. The smell reminded me of something but the memory was so far away that I couldn’t figure it out. It was there, yet it wasn’t there. Or maybe I didn’t want to remember?
But this was no time to ponder memories, this was time to run. Run away from the creepy clown currently fingering my hair and emitting its powerful liquor laced breath into my face. This was a time to kick him in his junk, run so fast that he couldn’t catch up and call the police to report it when I get home, so that he doesn’t hurt anyone. Anymore. But I couldn’t run, I couldn’t propel my foot up from the ground to assault his junk. I couldn’t speak. My body was frozen, frozen by that memory I had almost remembered.
He let go of my hair, and I saw that it looked like his bloodshot eyes were watering. Was he going to cry? What the hell for? What is going on? He struggled to enunciate his words, “Tayg dis ba-oon, I bawd id for you.” He reached his arm out again, holding the balloon out to me. I looked into his eyes, the faded blue and the bloodshot.
The same memory struggled for hold, this time the face coming into focus a little more. The smell was still there, and someone with short brown hair, and he was talking, he was speaking to me. No, I don’t want to remember.
“I don’t want it! I don’t fucking want it!” The paralysis was broken and I pushed his arm aside and began to run. As I reached the corner, I looked back at the clown. He looked at me, sad, tears running down his cheeks. He let go of the balloon. The wind grabbed a hold of it, the letters on the balloon seemed to mock me until I could no longer read them. It’s a girl! I gazed at the balloon until it was gone from my sight, and then turned my gaze back to the clown.
And that memory came back, flooded this time, those faded blue eyes, the voice speaking to me, the smell of alcohol. I could see the face clearly now, the eyes were such a faded blue, a little bloodshot even, and I don’t understand what the mouth is saying. Nonsense words, perhaps? And now waving and mouthing “bye bye.”
The clown was still there, his head down, his arms limp at his sides. He looked up, lifted his arms out to me. His eyes were pleading. The tears were still running down his checks, his mouth was working convulsively, probably trying to hold in his sobs. “Please.” His voice shook. I shook my head. “I can’t daddy, I can’t, you’ve been gone too long.”
http://dboehmke.blogspot.com/2008/03/thanks-for-nightmares-hannah.html
Friday, March 21, 2008
Firsts
I already have a blog. In fact, my blog is titled the exact same thing as this one, just hosted on another site. Since I doubt anyone will read this (and if they do it will be entirely by accident) I won't attempt to amuse you, only myself. What amuses me likely will not amuse you, so I suggest you stop reading as soon as your find yourself bored or otherwise unentertained.
I'm sure I'll post more eventually, but for now, this little blurb is all I have to say.
Oh, except: why is it that the older I get the more I look forward to sleep?
I'm sure I'll post more eventually, but for now, this little blurb is all I have to say.
Oh, except: why is it that the older I get the more I look forward to sleep?
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