Philomena
Oh! Hello there. You are coming home with me.
Kayla felt slight guilt as she knelt down and picked up the Philodendron piece from the floor of the home improvement store.
It's technically not stealing, right? I mean, scraps like this are just going to be swept up at closing time and tossed in the trash, right? What a waste. I'm actually rescuing it if you think about it. Yeah.
She carefully tucked the heart-shaped piece into her hoodie pocket.
On the drive home to her tiny apartment, she placed her passenger on the dashboard and excitedly brought her up to date on all things Kayla.
“…and I am soooo close to graduating. And when I do, I'm definitely gonna land a kick ass job somewhere — maybe even in one of these places,” She gestured upward toward the towering glass buildings as she drove through the medical center streets. “And you're coming with me, of course. You are going to have your very own spot on my desk!”
Kayla prattled on, feeling excited for the future and surprisingly, a lot less lonely all of a sudden. It felt good to speak her hopes and dreams out loud— even if only to a drooping leaf.
When they got home, Kayla placed her new roommate in a glass of water and set her on the kitchen window sill. She made a mental note to pick up some potting soil soon.
It will be so nice to have someone to talk to for a change. Now, she needs a name. Hmm…
Kayla smiled as it came to her.
“I hereby dub thee Philomena. For it is a strong name and a good name for a friend.”
A Tale of Two Little Leaves
Once upon a time, there lived two little leaves. The first leaf was perfect - beautiful, green, thriving. The second leaf was far from perfect - decrepit, spotted, struggling. Yet their feelings were seemingly antithetical. The first little leaf felt a strange, subtle, lingering sort of angst and disgust knowing that the tree to which it belonged was not nearly as perfect. So many other leaves, so much imperfection. Such ugliness. Such an unfortunate mess for the tree as a whole to not be so beautiful, green, and thriving. The second little leaf felt a similar feeling for a very long time, but then realized that there was no leaf, there was only the tree. And while that tree might be flawed and ugly in some ways, as a whole, overall, it was magnificent and consummate - and all its imperfections made it ironically more perfect. Time passed, and the first little leaf had a similar insight - and a lasting, full sense of bliss and content. This leaf noticed a spot on its otherwise perfect form - such a tragic blemish. But soon the leaf reminded itself that there indeed was just the tree, and many other leaves, many leaves with far more blemishes, many leaves with far fewer, but overall, all in all, the tree was the tree, and that meant the purest form of beauty and wholeness one could possibly imagine. The leaf was all the leaves - all the brilliant and dull ones, all the green and brown ones, all the whole and tattered ones - everything. How silly it is, thought both little leaves, to get caught-up in such little feelings of imperfection and lack when all that really existed was the utter opposite.
Smoke Signals
I once wrote: Home tastes like coffee creamer, and hell,
and the woman who read it over laughed and said: yes, that's it.
"Home for the holidays" strikes a cord, or a match,
and smells like cigarette smoke in the den.
Someone once told me they took the word "patio" off the SATs
because it catered to the wealthy.
I think of WASPs, and how that would outrage.
Poison the mood, something you should never do.
The "mood" of home is white,
everything covered in it and everything defined by it.
When you imagine me home for the holidays,
imagine a cigarette on one of those long holders
that I don't remember the name of
just the feeling
of being left in the dust of it, the smoke
swallowing me whole,
a baptism by fire all over again.
Entropy
"You're the universe to me."
"Don't say things like that," his whispered admonition is an exhale into the cleft where shoulder meets neck.
Hands on either side of his face, she forces him to lock eyes.
"Why are you afraid?"
Not answering, he leans in for a kiss that stops Earth's spin for a handful of mingled heartbeats.
Drunk with happiness, she breaks the embrace.
"I mean it. You’re my world."
Sadness pulls against the smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. His hand strokes her hair and his voice is barely audible.
"I can't be anyone's Atlas," he shrugs.
Whispers, Waves and Paying Attention
She's casting whispers
on waves again,
Lets the sound starve for air
and spread between the tides.
And I'm counting bubbles
within the mist.
And her echoes
wash up and
shape the shoreline
until I find myself.
Walking this tightrope
that only I'm aware of.
She's looking at a dreamboad.
I'm dodging steps
so I don't trample something
I never knew existed.
And the waves are nonsense
but feel truth.
So I'm tapdancing in moonlit blindspots
because I don't want to
stomp on dreams.
I will let the ocean
pool in my palm before
I carry it careful to a flame.
Boil it out and trace the clouds.
Just...looking for clues
I probably let pass by.
And I will miss something.
So I'll show scars and wrinkles
as proof I tried.
Hoping the textured leather
around my heart
tells a story she hasn't
Heard yet.
A lot of maybes
Die within hope.
Guess I'm praying
for chances now.
Such a Waste
In darkest night a single shot rang out,
a body lay upon the preacher's stage;
the pages of a Bible strewn about
were evidence of some unholy rage.
My job it was, to solve these heinous crimes—
the holy dead man here was not the first.
Though I possessed a sharp deductive mind,
it had become my blessing, and my curse.
These men were foolishly all targeted
by some poor fool, in superstitious zeal,
who used a silver bullet to strike dead
the werewolves they must have believed were real.
The true sadness was one they'd never know,
as in the moonlight, I felt my fangs grow.
----------------------
© 2023 dustygrein
People Standing Still
I pulled up to Rampart with my uncle’s mob buddies, their fat fingers and thin ties laughing behind the wheel. “You think this little gnat is funny to the boss? They ain’t, and we all know this will not end well.” I twist the ring on my Saturn finger and ask, “Whose bones are in the basement?“ Tommy gives me a sly wink as he shuts the trunk to the Lincoln. ”Real people are dying everyday, every damn day, but you keep letting that tongue wag.” I look at him and shrug. ”Don’t throw them in the lake just yet.”
Tommy takes a long glance at a strange liquid that begins to soak through the floorboard. “They have a losing hand, they just don’t know it yet.“ I grab the cuff of his jacket and wipe away a tiny piece of brain fragment. “Let’s go, It’s starting to stink.“
i have a resume in evolution. i can give you a list of all the words and terms i've used to introduce myself. i stopped collecting my references a while ago because my relationships became interviews, especially my relationship with myself.
"how do you qualify for this position?"
every day. over and over again. measuring my insides like a ritual.
i'm proud to have the capacity to love anyone. to be able to see each human as they are without any prerequisites is my most beautiful quality.
my resume has become outdated, it couldn't fit all the love i feel.
Charon
Loneliness had disfigured him. That was what he concluded, when he failed to recognise the skeletal face as his own. They had warned him that the night shift was deeply unhealthy, that the strange hours would meddle with his circadian rhythm. But that didn’t quite explain it. He wasn’t tired. If anything, he felt too alert. It was the world that had become catatonic.
When he first began, he could not recognise this. For months, he tried his best to rouse some life back into the world. But it would not be woken. At this time of night, people would not meet his eye, much less be coaxed into small talk. Now, the old world felt far away, a memory of a memory, and he no longer recalled how to return.
This deep into the evening, the ferry was empty except for the dregs of the night that had at last been turned out from the bars. The air hung heavy with cold and all was silent, aside from the creak of corrugated metal as the craft drifted toward the jetty.
There was no one there to moor the boat, and he had long ago given up. So, taking his motionlessness as cue, the passengers got up, crossed the threshold, and staggered off into the night.
Now came the wait. For forty-five minutes, he was compelled to sit until it was time for the next crossing. Rarely would even a single passenger alight. The wait made him uneasy. He feared that one day, the night would finally take the opportunity to swallow him completely. But, it was his job to ferry anyone needing to cross, and so he would wait in the dark.
It was as the engine began sputtering back to life, that a lone figure came over the hill. The ferryman watched the man pick his way down, the long grass rustling with each step.
“Are you still taking people across?”
“I am.”
Coins clinked as they exchanged hands, the propeller began to stir, and before a full minute had passed, the craft had pushed off from shore.
Despite the gentle rocking of the water, the ferryman kept his eyes fixed ahead. The river had a nasty habit of guiding the boat into the shallows and the jagged stones protruding from its bed.
“Do you like your work?” The question took a moment to register; he wasn’t accustomed to the passengers speaking.
“Sure.”
“Must be nice. Freeing. Out here in the night, just you and your boat,” the words came out in a sigh.
The ferryman glanced at the man: thinning hair, crumpled white shirt, a grave look on his pallid face. “Its got its perks... but sometimes a little too much freedom,” he added.
“Too much?”
“Nothing to keep me anchored.”
“Oh. That’s disappointing,” the man said with a pained sincerity. “I would have thought…”
“As did I. But now? Well, the nights drift by.” The remark hung heavy for a while and neither man made an effort to resurrect it.
“Y’know,” a squeak from the bench revealed the man had stood up, “I shouldn’t even be out this late. I’ve got work tomorrow, things to do. HR’s told me, if they don’t see an improvement, they’re going to let me go.”
“So, why are you?”
“I don’t know,” the man rubbed his eyes. “It makes me feel alive, I guess. I need something that feels different. Everything beyond this, it just doesn’t feel real anymore.”
At this, the ferryman looked away, and from the corner of his eye, watched his passenger approach the railing. He stood there gazing at the water, slackened neck-tie flailing in the wind, its tongue flapping against the sullen red marks that encircled his neck.
“It's this or go to sleep I guess,” the man confessed. Never married, I don’t have kids, it’s just me and the flat.”
The ferryman felt a pang of pity. “We all have to sleep eventually,” he offered.
The man looked back at him hard, the greys of his eyes shimmering in the scant moonlight. “And you?”
“What about me?”
“Family, kids, anyone waiting for you?”
The ferryman shook his head, ignoring the vague lapping feeling within, “None of that matters past a certain point.”
The already faint light of the shore had, by now, long ago receded into the distance. Without it, the chill became apparent. His passenger broke out into bouts of shivering. From deep within, the ferryman felt the lapping rise to a dull ache, yet he said nothing. There wasn’t much point at this rate.
Having shuttled thousands across, the ferryman knew where they were from instinct.
“We’re here.” A moment later, a small bump brought the boat to a standstill.
The darkness was so thick, neither man could make out the land that lay before them. Together, they waited, alone except for the ever stretching silence. The passenger’s teeth were no longer chattering.
He turned to the ferryman, “I don’t want to get off.”
The ferryman did not meet his eye. “I know,” he said, “but, this is the end of the line.”