Declaration of Co-Dependence
When in the Course of human events, our wedding being a big, expensive one, it becomes necessary to dissolve our wedding bands connecting us, and to assume the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and God entitle me, I should declare the causes which impel us to the separation.
That whenever any Form of Relationship becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the Partners to alter or to abolish it, to institute in such form, as to them shall effect most likely their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Marriage long established should not be changed for light and transient causes, such as leaving the toilet seat up or refusing to talk all lovey-dovey on the phone in front of Others. And accordingly, two inalienable wrongs don't make an inalienable right. Whether the aliens are right or doubly wrong, inalienably.
And all experience hath shewn, that men are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed when make-up sex is such a great way to pursue Happiness. And as such, all men are created Pussies.
When a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably a design to reduce him under absolute Despotism, it is my right, my duty, to throw off one's Vows, to provide Greener Grass for future security.
The history of our present Relationship is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over me.
The seat stays up!
To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world:
You have called together copulative conjunctions (not ands or ifs, but butts) at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their pubic Records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing me into compliance with your positions.
I hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created selfish and self-serving. And that all men are created uneasy and unintelligible, and some are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. With or without you.
But I just can't.
It Depends
“It depends,” the teacher said using actions alone, no words were spoken.
You see, Jessie was learning to sign and her teacher was Deaf.
Her heart squeezed with a curious coupling of anxiety and relief. It certainly wasn’t the answer she expected.
Jessie hated depending on anyone and everything due to the guaranteed outcome of disappointment.
In that moment, however, she realized how dependent everything in life was on something else.
Even the sign “Depends”demonstrates how one finger depends on the other to keep it suspended.
The answer Jessie sought to gain greater knowledge truly depended upon nothing and everything.
Attempted
Thank God whatever you tried didn’t work. For now, your cheek is warm against my neck. I won’t get up until I‘m sure you can sleep tonight. You say you don’t have any faith. Please let me have it for you. It’s not as heavy for me. Your darkness, to me, is weightless.
“I hear you,” I whisper through your sobs, rocking your trembling body like a baby in a cradle. “You will be okay, I promise.”
Because the feeling is returning to your fingertips, tracing my shoulder blades— something like desire, and now, desire looks a lot like hope.
Condemned To The Rails
Stranded, sitting by the railroad tracks for hours now. Sprawled on a sloping hill, and watching the sun melt. I've been pining for her, and questioning what I'd have done differently. Draped in shards of twilight; the moon braves its ascent into the night sky. Surveying the moon I see Jane's face. She's the only one who ever gave a damn about me, and man did I love her more than life. She didn't give a shit that I didn't have a job, and my life was hanging by loose threads. I really screwed the pooch though.
7/3/24
Bunny Villaire
Sisters: An Unfinished Random Flash Fiction
The monitor has kept a lonely vigil on the nightstand. Its green, and sometimes red, bars of light have blinked intermittently for nearly two weeks. The volume is turned off, though the residents in bed beside it wouldn’t know the difference. They lay inert beside its quiet pleas—bodies and breath reeking of the same substance that recently occupied the empty bottles littering the floor.
Neither is much to look at. The wife—we’ll call her that, for they are legally married after the common-law variety—is rather large. Her thin, unkempt hair fans across the pillows of her fleshy cheeks, puffy lips hiding dark, spotted teeth. Her pink, wrinkled chemise stains beneath the underarms and her hefty legs tangle in the rank sheets.
Beside her lies the broad form of her husband. Though not as corpulent as his wife, he bears it more awkwardly. His arms and shoulders are thin, but he packs more in his gut and cheeks and ankles. He is also rather hairier; the short stubble of his head extends toward his eyebrows, and down his back. An empty liquor bottle rests against his chest. He strokes it mindlessly with his thumb, a smile on his lips; sordid dreams flitting across his barren mind.
The monitor gives a sudden, silent scream as the bars flash to maximum capacity. Green. Green. Red. Red. Red. All five blink in rapid succession. The monitor seems to buzz and shake with the effort of waking its owners. The wife twitches and begins to stir.
Down the hallway, at the microphone end of the monitor, a girl crouches against crib bars, fingers to her ears.
“Hush, hush,” she pleads with her infant sister, “you’ll wake them!” Her knees are held tightly to her chest, tears in her big, somber eyes.
The girl is no more than seven, perhaps eight years old, though she is small for her age. Her body is as pinched and thin as her parents are large and obtuse. Her wispy-fine hair is mouse-brown and matted, and she reeks of urine. Reaching into the crib, she tenderly lifts out the shrieking bundle. Even so, no one has taught her to support the neck, and the baby’s head lolls back. The infant shrieks louder. Terrified, she pleads again— “Hush baby!”
She cradles her sister like she’s seen other girls do with their dolls. Girls whose dolls are exquisitely dressed, pushed along in pink little wicker prams. She rocks baby girl, back and forth, back and forth. Still, the girl screams on, inconsolable.
Fearful, the girl looks about, grasping at a bottle on the shelf. It is empty—only a dried milk residue remains—but she puts it in, desperate to quiet the shrieking. For a moment it works, baby girl is content to suck on the dry air of the bottle. But her empty belly aches with the rush of air and the crying intensifies. Laying the baby on the floor, the girl rushes through the doorway to get to the fridge, when from the other end of the house, a roar.
“Fer gods sakes, shut ’er up!”
The girl flinches visibly and hurries back to the room. At the end of the hall, an argument ensues.
“It’s yer turn.”
A whiny voice answers. “I went th’ last time!”
“No yeh didn’! Yeh jes’ slep’ through me gittin’ up!”
Their voices grow louder and louder through the thin walls.
“You son-of-a-b—! You say that every time!”
“I don’t! Ef’n yeh ever got off yer own lazy ass, yeh’d know!”
She screams at him in return, a high, angry shriek, and the sounds of a scuffle ensue. Profanities rain through the walls and the whole house shakes at the meeting of these two behemoths. Baby girl screams on, where she’s been left the floor. Her sister sobs quietly, crouched, hiding behind a threadbare armchair in a corner of the room.
A few loud thumps, a final shriek and the door flies open. Hair ratty and frizzed from the tussle, the ogress emerges from her cavern, jowls quivering with rage.
She hurls a final insult behind her; “son-of-a-b—!” before stomping down the hall. Her fury is brought to a halt on finding her infant on the floor. Her face slackens into an expression of dull stupidity as she puzzles over the marvelous event, when suddenly the pieces click.
“Lena!” Her patience is razor-thin. “–Lena! Where is that little b—!?”
Timidly, Lena emerges from behind the chair, thin arms across her chest, shielding herself.
“There you are.” Her mother grimaces. “What you been doin’?” When Lena doesn’t answer, she cuffs her across the head. “You been wakin’ her!? Huh? You been wakin’ her ‘cause you know we already en’t gettin’ no sleep!? You little b—! Answer me!”
Lena glances down at her squalling sister before replying. “No’m. Jes’ tryin’ to shut ’er up.”
“Liar!” Her mother slaps her again, before turning her attention to baby girl. Lena takes the opportunity to scuttle back to her place behind the armchair.
“What Lena been doin’ to you, huh?” she smiles emptily down at baby girl. Lifting her up, she presses the child against her bosom. “Shush, shush, baby.” Lena watches jealously from the corner.
Alternately rocking and bouncing, the woman works to console her. Rock, bounce, pat. Rock, bounce, pat. At moments, the newborn pauses in her crying and allows herself to be consoled. Then, remembering her parentage, the wails begin afresh.
“Agh—jest shutup!” The woman’s jaw quivers angrily. “Well—mebe you’re jest hungry!”
Rummaging in the cupboard, she hastens to mix a few ounces of formula and puts it in the child’s open mouth. Though hungry, the child gags on the cold milk, crying louder. Her small, wrinkled face is a crimson red-verging-on-blue. Rock, bounce, pat. The mother goes through the motions of consoling her child, though inwardly her corrupted heart dwells on the offenses against her. An abusive husband who forces her to care for their children alone! A willful daughter who purposefully awakens her sister. An infant who won’t stop screaming. All of them, conspiring to wrong her. Her mind picks over each damning evidence.
A dark seed of hatred, already well-established, takes firmer root. Her stained pink chemise slips off her shoulder and those wretched, rotted teeth grimace as the infant scorns her attentions.
Rock, bounce, pat.
Rock, bounce, pat.
Five minutes pass, then six. Each second is an eternity beside those ear-splitting screams.
At eight minutes, she tries burping her, changing her, feeding her again. After each failure, her fleshy face darkens, and her mind grows more embittered.
‘All I do is care for ‘em, hour after hour an’ this is my thanks.’ She thinks savagely. ‘I hate ‘em.’
Rock, bounce, pat.
Rock, bounce, pat.
Behind the chair, Lena tries to stifle a miserable sob.
“Lena! Git out here!”
Reluctantly, Lena creeps out from behind her perch.
“You woke ’er, so you c’n take ’er. See how you like it!”
She dumps the child unceremoniously into Lena’s arms and retreats into the hallway. The thin walls no longer hold back the tide of noise, however, and the alcohol has worn its way into a pulsing headache. She hovers there for a few minutes ‘jest to teach Lena a lesson,’ before marching back in to pull the baby out of Lena’s despairing arms.
Rock, bounce, pat.
Rock, bounce, pat.
Rock, bounce, pat, shake.
At first, it’s just brief jounce, enough to scare her quiet. Then, as the screams crescendo and the injustices against her culminate in the woman’s small mind, she shakes the child harder. With a final thump on the thinly carpeted floor, she begins to scream herself.
“Shutup! Jest shutup!”
This time, baby girl listens.
Needed
I was never the person that needed to be helped. I never asked for money. I never asked someone to drive me to work when my car didn't start. I never needed help moving a couch or dresser. I was always the independent person. Now, I am the complete opposite. I depend on my family and friends. I need help. It kills me to need them. It would have been better to have been killed. I would prefer it. Death is a better alternative to the burdensome shell I have become. I am a dependent, a nice word for burden.
Bittersweet
The coffee was too strong, even for my liking. I sliced a sliver of the tin fouled wrapped banana loaf and grimaced at the texture.
It felt like a rectangular sponge, ready to suck the moisture from my lips. I took a tentative bite, using the glass of water to force it down. It also gave the sponge-like cake satisfaction of ripping away moisture that wasn't mine.
I remember my mother's morning coffee in bed, and grandmothers homemade banana loaf. It tastes bitter without their touch, but with their memory, I add a dash of something indescribably perfect. Sweet. Love.
The Wedding Gift
They didn’t want the mug. It was not on the registry. But it’s monogrammed. It’s the thought that counts. When they move in, it’s placed in the very back of the cabinet. Only the front row dishes and glasses are cycled in and out of the place.
Time passes. They start to reach for second row dishes. It takes longer for them to return.
Finally, the cabinet opens and the mug is alone in there. So the hand takes it and rinses off the dust and finally it’s functioning as it’s supposed to. It sits for a while on the counter. Contents congeal. The mug witnesses an argument and it’s thumped - not very gently - into the sink. That’s okay. It’s sturdy enough.
Time passes.
It’s clean now. It sits upside down on a drying mat, but a bit of a ring remains from the only thing it’s held. It’s okay, it gives it character. A few of the other mugs are cycled on and off the mat. Sometimes it’s accidentally put in rotation.
Time passes.
It sits, pleasantly warm, on the counter. The hand is supposed to take it to the desk that overlooks a window with a view of the bay. But it waits patiently as there’s shouting again in the kitchen. Then, perhaps tempers ran a bit hotter than usual, perhaps a hand flails just a bit too far. But the mug goes flying. It’s sturdy, but not that sturdy.
Physics and the Near Occasion of Sin
My diet had failed. Again.
The latest in a long string of fad diets, I hoped to start tipping the scale in the negative direction. But going back in time, even one calorie at a time, is a cosmically challenging proposal.
I knew that just one more pound would mean a final, tragic summation--enough weight to finally and irretrievably cross the Chandrasekhar limit and undergo gravitational collapse.
I eyed the frosted, glazed donuts.
Donuts are the only food that can laugh at you. Hardly food, a donut is a dare. It's a wager that it cannot remain uneaten (nay, un-gobbled).
I circled my uneaten donut's event horizon, salivating. The closer I got, the more time slowed down and the longer my suffering. Does slowed time increase suffering, or does suffering slow down time? Is hunger a fifth force? No wonder the Grand Unification Theory remains unsolved!
The rest of the world did not partake in my existential relativity. All of those thin, beautiful, toned, jogging, Pilates people, living hungry, were stronger than me. As such, my weakness was in my genetics. It was the fault in my stars!
While the rest of the world went hungrily on its way, my donut and my life were irrelevant to it. This was my problem, only.
The Baltimore Catechism defined the occasion of sin as...
“...all the persons, places and things that may easily lead us into sin.”
The guy behind the counter; the bakery itself; and the glistening donuts racked expectantly (seemingly exponentially) behind the glass: my very persons, places, and things of temptation.
I prayed...
“I firmly resolve, with the help of thy grace, to sin no more, and to avoid the near occasions of sin.”
My pancreas just laughed at me, dumping the insulin into my system at the obscene rate to which it was accustomed. Thus, my blood sugar plunged, adding yet another urgency to my addiction--my love affair with food.
My orbit around my donut constricted. Time slowed more. Soon, the donut and I would be entangled, indistinguishable, flesh-from-dough.
Of course.
It happened. The donut and I became one.
The laws of physics still applied: I underwent nutritional collapse and became a donut hole.
Operation Clean Slate
“Tower 18 requesting green light.”
“Negative. Once word spreads that signal is available, maximum target rich environment will be attained. Standby.”
The Commander was right; crowds began surrounding Tower 18’s base. Signal was life to them. Their tech dependence made this almost too easy.
“Engage at will.” The order came.
Curious, he first checked what the targets were viewing:
Political arguments
Porn
Conspiracy theories
Social media influencers
Cat singing “go meow”
TikTok challenges
Woman spitting
Clearly, this operation held value. Some looked up from their screens long enough to see the incoming ballistics. A handful managed to livestream their demise.