Stories from my undergraduate at UCR

[liliberniwrites]

In Her Eyes

There I was half carrying, half guiding a barely coherent Evelyn to her front door. I wondered what her new house looked like, and was instantly struck by the ranch style home architecture that screamed 1950s domesticity. The Evelyn I knew hated this cookie cutter suburbia shit. My apartment, the apartment we once had together, is in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen with a dank brick exterior, a gaudy but vintage wallpapered interior, and is illuminated nightly by neon signs of delis and Chinese restaurants. It’s perfectly bohemian in every way we love…or loved, I suppose.

This house, her new house, is a physical representation of corruption and greed that comes with the capitalistic American Dream; it’s everything I thought we hated about this country. Gazing upon its absurd magnitude, I almost wondered out loud how much money her husband Dale makes. I felt a sudden pang of resentment at no longer having Evelyn’s love, though I wondered if it was actually resentment for not having her half of the rent. I can’t afford that apartment anymore without her. And so here I am, on a miserable cross-country trip, which led me through Pennsylvania, which led me to the inevitable I’ll be in your neck of the woods we should catch up text message.

“Hey that’s my house,” Evelyn doled out the words in quick succession as she craned her neck up, but looked down her nose through half opened eyes.

“Yes it is your house. It’s a very big and impressive house, isn’t it?”

“Well…Gotta keep up with the Joneses, amiright?” Evelyn never got this drunk. I couldn’t help but feel satisfied that Dale, despite all he has given her, somehow was leading Evelyn to drink like this.

“Do you have the keys so we can go inside your big house?” We? My choice of word surprised me. Had I known all along that agreeing to catch up would lead to this moment? Evelyn inhaled hard, scrunched her lips out together, and grimaced. She’d cocked her head to the side a bit, likely in deep contemplation over my question. She rounded her mouth to blow out a sound of frustration; I had to look over my shoulder to face the opposite direction of stink she blew. I looked back after a few beats to see Evelyn had leaned her body forward, affixed her right cheek to the front door, and let her arms dangle lifelessly at her sides as she apparently found an appropriate place to sleep for the night.

“EVELYN! Wake! Up!” I simultaneously lifted and shook her by the shoulders, “Keys! Do you have them?”

“Jussa minute. They’re…they’re in my purse.” I watched as she squinted one eye shut with the tip of her tongue sticking out to one side of her mouth as she searched the contents of her purse. I wondered if Dale was enjoying the hot Orlando sun of his, was it fourth business trip this year? “You…you take good care of me, huh? You’re…you’re not like Dale. I…I shoulda married you, huh? ‘Member? ‘Member when we almost did that?”

She was looking up at me with those bold black eyes I knew from so long ago. They swam in a glistening pool of marbled white, reflecting the light of the porch lamp. The memory of their brilliance pierced me with such longing it took every part of me to not grab the nape of her neck in my palm and draw her up onto my mouth. I reiterated my question, this time with a firm conviction on my word choice.

“Evie? Do you have your keys so we can go inside?” I pinched her chin in between my finger and thumb to steady her eyes onto mine. My gaze did not falter, my words now implicit and could not be misinterpreted. I watched as she unsuccessfully jammed her newfound keys everywhere except into the keyhole, they fell from her grasp, and smacked against the floor with a jangling clatter. With this, Evelyn fell to her knees to scoop them back up, but stayed on the ground, cradling the keys to her chest. She began to sob.

“Evie? What’s the matter? Why are you crying?”

“I know what going inside means, okay! If we go inside, we’re going to have sex.”

I’d only recently realized this was what I wanted, but I hadn’t realized she knew this, too.

“That’s not true, Evie.” I said with an annoyed defiance in my voice, but it somehow made me smile. She always had a way of knowing what I wanted before I did. But I know her, too. She was at some kind of emotional impasse in her life, she’d made that evident at the bar. Her sudden breakdown indicated my presence was complicating that.

I made a conscious decision to do the right thing and put aside my selfish desires. I really would just put her to bed.

“Come on, give me those keys. Let’s get you to bed.” She allowed my prying hands to let loose the keys she was gripping against her chest. “Atta girl. Here, let me help you up.” I tried steadying her into the foyer, but had to carry her in after several failed attempts at walking.

Although dark, the light of the moon was pouring into the room, illuminating the pictures of Evelyn and Dale that were displayed on the narrow entryway table. I spun around to take in the unnecessary excess of their home. Those pictures, I kept rounding back on those damn pictures, an animosity in me now fully realized. What a fucking phony Evelyn turned out to be. The choice Evelyn made stung now in this house more than it did years ago when she first broke it off.

“Why’d you do it? Why’d you leave me?” She stirred at my question, a barely audible moan escaped her lips. I brought her to the stiff white couch ahead of us, its cushions pulled taut and throw pillows so meticulously laid out, I wondered if we were allowed to sit on it. I sat her upright on the corner seat and clicked on the lamp beside her. “Evie, listen to me. I need to know. I thought we were happy.” She teetered in her seat as she lifted her eyes up towards me. I gripped her shoulders, demanding attention, “EVELYN! Why?”

“You stupid…Don’t act like you don’t know why.” Her words lilted out of her mouth as she extended her neck and pointed her chin up at me. “It was for the money.”  I paused at this a moment, jolted upright, and pushed a hushed but violent puff of air passed my teeth as I paced the floor before her. “Hey. You’re in my house. Was I right? Are we going to have sex?” I pulled her up to kiss her hard on the mouth, our teeth crashing into each other. As our lips lobbed from side to side, I reeled my tongue back in to whisper into her mouth,

“I guess you’re right, Evelyn. You’re always right.”

[liliberniwrites]

The Ruined Man Who Became Rich Again

There once was a man who lived atop a mossy green hill in a castle made of onyx stone. Griffins and gargoyles adorned the corners of the castle, and along the perimeter of the castle shown brightly the jewels of his family, generations and generations before him. From afar, the castle was all at once a glinting shadow or a spectacle of engineering, dependent on the favor with which the sun chose to shine. Within, the man would be found in any of the lavishly built rooms engaged in his favorite past time: stacking his golden coins as high as they might before thundering over into a clattering mess upon the marbled tile floor. The man cared of little else besides his fortune, that is to say of course except for his son.

His son of only nine years old exuded the warmest disposition, and had in his short time on this earth exceeded his father in intellect and acuity. The father was of good nature, but simple in action and often acted on impulse. He was quick to deny any pleas for reason from subjects and servants who surrounded him. One would shout, But sir, your jewels are too valuable to rest outside. Please bring them in. The man would deject a hearty NO and continue stacking his golden coins as high as they might. Another would implore, Your mother used to keep them in the castle. Don’t you want your mother to be proud of your legacy? The man dismissed this plea with a heartier NO. And still another impetuously shouted, You fool! Those jewels hold your rights to these riches! Leave them outside and surely someone will take all that you have away from you. And before the man could dissolve him with the loudest no, his son took a hand to his shoulder in a calming embrace.

The son motioned for the subjects and servants to leave them, and they graciously allowed the pair their privacy. The man felt overcome by the berating he had just endured, but was lifted by the kindness his son had shown him. His son, beaming at him, encouraged the man to stack the coins that littered the ground before them. This being the man’s favorite thing to do, he did so without any coaxing. He stacked and stacked and stacked the coins the highest he had ever stacked them before. His son was veritably impressed by the height the coins had reached. Seeing his father in such good spirits, the son knew now was the chance he had to convince his father of the importance of bringing the jewels inside.

Father, please. We must speak of the jewels. The ecstasy the man had felt up to this point was torn from the visceral parts of him with an abrupt force. The world around him slowed to imperceptible time, the clock in the furthest corner of the room tick…tocking in a pace that deliberately passed in a reluctant, almost stagnant rhythm. The son had barely noticed his father’s reaction, but it was too late. The man bellowed a loud and abominable NO! The coins above came thundering down, down onto the delicate prepubescent frame of the son. Beneath their weight, no movement, no sound was made. The man elongated the curves of his lips into a rounded oval, pulling air from around him and straining his abdominal muscles to exude the most guttural and disgusting NO! that had ever escaped his lips, its intensity shattering the memory of any previous no he had ever said.

Startled by the clamor that was made, the subjects and servants ran into the room, only to find the dismal scene. Grief stricken and weeping, the subjects and servants banished the man from the castle. In no way knowing how to respond, and feeling wholly deserving of such treatment, the man left. With no where to go, the man stood before the castle gazing up at its enormity. He watched the subjects and servants plucking the jewels from the perimeter, and systematically dividing all the man’s riches into piles for each to have. A no began to form in the pocket beyond his tongue, reverberating slightly in between his teeth and cheeks, but he swallowed it and turned away, ruined and without any riches.

Overcome with exhaustion by what had transpired that day, the man could do little else but slump to the ground beneath him, close his eyes, and pray for sleep. It inevitably came, but it  was torturous with visions of falling gold and thin stiff bodies. In one of these dreams, an ethereal blue glow emerged in between the showers of gold, and presented itself as an animated cloud. It spoke, telling the man, “Thy fortune is on the hill across from yours in a castle of white.” The absurdity of the vision startled him awake, and with bleary eyed vision the man scanned the horizon in front of his former castle. To his surprise, in a small distance across from him was a mossy green hill with a castle of ivory stone built upon it.

The man traversed the paths between the two castles, determined to reach his new fortune. If he could not have his son, he would have his golden coins. Finally arriving at the ivory castle, the man pounded his fists against its entrance, demanding access to the fortune he was promised. The proprietor of this castle answered, and looked at the man aghast. He stood stiff legged in a tan three piece suit that had been expertly pressed to be free of wrinkles. A small brooch of multi colored jewels embellished his lapel. His face was screwed tight, one eyebrow lifted, and his thin, well manicured mustache was bunched together at his finely pursed lips as he glared between squinted eyes down his thin crooked nose at the man before him. Yes? What do you want?

Please sir. I had a dream last night in which I was instructed to come here. A fortune awaits me in your home. The man in the ivory castle unscrewed his face, threw back his head, extended his neck to flaunt his perfectly rounded adam’s apple, and convulsed with a shrieking, howling laughter. He said to the man, Do you think I have not had these dreams myself? I have had visions of a blue cloud telling me my fortune is on a hill across from mine in a castle of black. How ludicrous would it be of me to pursue such nonsensical notions? The man of the ivory castle guffawed once more before slamming the door shut on the man. But the man, at once feeling revitalized by a tremendous surge of hope, knew the man of the ivory castle had described his home!

The man made his way back to the onyx castle, with expert stealth for fear of being seen by the subjects or servants. He ducked in between the bushes that lined the sides of the castle, and found himself in the center of the courtyard. He paced the grounds, ruminating on where the fortune could be found. It was then, however, he noticed the freshly turned dirt at his side that was heaped into a perfect mound. A gravestone at the head of the mound indicated that below it was his son. Slightly planted into the ground beside the mound was the shovel used to form it. With newfound clarity and a triumphant smile on his face, the man took the shovel, its handle warmed by the sun and splintered from use. He dug into the ground beside his son. Once satisfied, he tossed aside the shovel and looked down into the gorge he had created for himself. He stood as tall as a stack of coins at the brim of the depth below, stepped forward, and thundered his way to the bottom, snapping his neck upon impact.

[liliberniwrites]

Cautionary Tales for the Modern Boy and Girl

Basic Betty

Basic Betty did love to shop,

With credit cards, she never stopped.

Never without her favorite vice,

A Starbucks cup of pumpkin spice.

Shades were bigger than The Beatles,

The Uggs upon her feet were regal.

A tiny phone beeped in her purse,

“Totally! Wow!” Shown bright the verse.

She met with Kate at the tattoo parlor,

An infinity symbol for a dollar!

Then she swam in the ocean blue.

Her tat turned black and began to spew!

It was sepsis that had killed her,

And now she basic for forever.

Devin the Depraved

Devin the depraved played games all night.

Games of guns and blood and fights.

He’d kick and curse and throw big fits.

His sister got the brunt of it.

Outside he gathered small mosquitoes,

To rip their wings off and their toes.

The insects lived in fear of this demon,

And so they plotted to get even.

They got him sick with malaria.

Now he’s with fever and hysteria.

The insects sighed a heavy breath,

For now they’d rest post Devin’s death.

Theodora the Thin

Theodora did not eat food,

So she could look good in the nude.

She hated every bit of fat,

Her stomach rolls she wished were flat.

Every time a friend would offer,

“Just a morsel!” But why bother?

If ever food did make it in,

A finger forced it out again.

One day she said, “Oh doctor please!

Take out my fat with expertise!”

He drugged her up to operate,

But didn’t know he sealed her fate.

A pair of scissors were left inside,

And so her organs began to writhe.

The vomit rose at an alarming rate,

Theodora died of aspirate.

Peter Phone in Face

Peter owned the fanciest phone.

What could he do? It was unknown.

For Peter kept his face upon

The apps, the feeds, how it went on!

He walked along clicking refresh,

Waiting on one more friend request.

It was one day he went to school,

That Peter learned he was a fool.

Distracted by notifications,

He did not see the railway station.

He walked right on the silver track,

And tripped and fell right on his back.

He could not move and he was pinned.

A train came faster than the wind.

Peter had become no more,

His phone, however, was sold restored.

[liliberniwrites]

Goodbye Eric

Burnt dust from a recent vacuuming was suspended in the cool, still air. This parish had a depressingly stale smell compared to the one back home. Standing before the narthex and looking down the aisle at the surrounding nave was infuriating. The padded seats had been reduced by the passing congregations to a washed out, pale cranberry color. Eric deserved better than something this decrepit and broken-down. I stood with my father there, my hand held by just three of his seemingly lifeless and inattentive fingers as he carried on a whispered conversation with the robed man beside us.

The unknown man offered blessings and I was made to rest my hands one atop the other to form a sort of bowl, creating space for the man to insert his hand so I may draw it up towards my lips to kiss. As I did so in a trained and familiar way, I looked passed him and into the space that had been taunting me. The robed man then also excused himself to meet the others at Aunt Emily’s for the mercy dinner, leaving just me, my father, and my grandfather alone with Eric. A rush of outrage flooded me at the thought of Eric being alone. Where did all the pseudo family members go and where did they come from? How many of them actually knew Eric, and how many were just here for the free food? My catatonic fervor was embellished by a furrowed brow and a vacant stare at the space beyond the narthex. I was pulled back to reality by a literal pull from my father in.

Please, dad, I muttered. Don’t make me.

Not alone. Together.

The words landed with short, shattering blows. It was time. We travelled the aisle’s length, I kept a steady and methodical pace that my father graciously kept with me. I clung to his tawny button up shirt to steady myself each step, the slick of the satin making the grip difficult. I couldn’t look up, I instead darted my eyes upon the carpet before me, catching each oil stain likely created by past censer uses. Just before the chancel in the first row was my grandfather, head held low and obscured by his wide brimmed sable fedora.

Too young. Six is too young.

The coffin was unnervingly white. It exaggerated the faintest of blue tints to Eric’s skin. I looked up at my father, my eyes swimming with a plea for escape, but in his eyes that were focused on Eric was a destroyed devastation that winced with each trailing tear. I took Eric’s hand in mine, startled by the stinging coolness of it. A ragged breath in me took over, I heaved the words through a pinched red face now smothered in tears.

Bye, Eric. Bye. Bye. Goodbye. I love you. Bye.

[liliberniwrites]

Untitled

It was in the cool desert night of May I could not be a girl anymore. What I remember comes mostly in fragmented, distorted visions, often in the moments before sleep. I longed for it, and received it quicker than the damning words of consent could be said. After all, it was something he had been owed after all this time, or so he said. Too often I pulled his fingers out, zipped up my pants, and told him what we had done was too much. I suppose the boy was too important to lose, and losing him would mean having little else.

That is what I remember.

The Rocks is what we called it, in between the Mojave River and the locomotive line, and it is where they went without me. The images posted on the browser of my computer screen without reparation, seeming as though it was there to taunt and hurt me. I tried with weak conviction to click or scroll away, but I was entranced by the burnt sienna jagged formations impressed upon the cattle ranch backdrop of brittled creosote bushes and desiccant Joshua Trees. The beautiful people I’d grown to both admire and abhor had bunched together here, an unmitigated fervor of happiness pouring from their excited, smiling faces, now documented on the ethers of the internet forever. How I wished I was among them.

That night was the same night my father was laid off. It was the night I had been dreading. I sat cross legged on the couch, a bowl of a sweet corn flaked treat balanced in my lap, the flickering glow of primetime bouncing off my face. Then a remote, but deeply rooted fear rushed up my spine when the mechanical roar of the garage door opening started. The house shook in rapid succession, once when he kicked his boots off against the door, again when the garage door made its mechanical roar in the opposing direction, and once more when he slammed the front door shut behind him.

What is that shit you’re watching? And what is this shit you’re eating? He’d lifted a spoonful of the now soppy food from my bowl and pitched it with all his strength at the television. The clank of the spoon against the domed glass sent a small crack through the actor’s face. A sputtering whimper escaped my lips.

What? Sad you can’t watch your demonic cartoons anymore? He took the bowl from my hands and hurled it at the television with the same precision and force as the spoon, the glass now shattering into iridescent pebbles onto the ground, a faint hiss and steam escaping from the newly formed void.

That is what I remember.

It was on an October morning before third period, weeks after the lay off, that Lawrence first spoke to me.

Crista, right? I seen you looking at our pictures at The Rocks before. What do you see? When you look at them?

Ten years passed before I would remember him saying this to me, and it was only then that I realized the lure and temptation in his voice.

Everything. I said. I see everything in them.

I went with him, my arms linked with his, to The Rocks. I remember cuffing up the bottoms of my jeans as their entrails were frayed; I worried they would snag a rogue branch as we climbed to the meeting point. Up and down and through precarious trails we found the others underneath Rainbow bridge, the underside of it a massive shadow casting display of multi colored graffiti.

It was awesome, in the literal sense of the word, and I felt a kind of rebirth that I had never felt before. Hunter, Jessa, Vic, and Dave waved at us, at me, across from a stream they were skipping rocks into. That day was all that had mattered to me for as long as I could remember. The acceptance. The belonging. The love. Lawrence. We watched the sun set as he ran coarse, dirt encrusted nails up and down my spine, our legs dangling with a youthful freedom over the edge of one of the parked freight train’s cars.

That is what I remember.

Months came and went, Lawrence without the lure and temptation in his voice now, and replaced it instead with impatience and restlessness.

You should just do it already before someone else does. Jessa said this after taking a long drag on her cigarette, a cloud of smoke billowed out of her mouth, punctuating the words that escaped her lips. She looked pretty when she did it, almost ethereal. It would be easy for anyone to think she was pretty. I thought how Lawrence might think that, too.

And so I did, on that cool May night, in the passenger seat of his Honda Civic. It didn’t feel good like it was supposed to, but it didn’t hurt either. Still, when it was done and I was at home, I cried into the burrows of my hands cupped against my face.

To this day I don’t know how my father came to know what I had done. He played it cool, like a game, like he didn’t know. He calmly greeted my first boyfriend at our front door, my father’s boots still kicked to the side, having formed a thick layer of dust since the lay off. He excused himself a moment, Lawrence and I exchanging quizzical looks with bated breath, anticipating approval. My father returned, lunging his .22 at Lawrence’s chest. A dissipating No! and a sharp explosion are intertwined with sirens and  flashing red and blue lights. I see my father’s grimaced, unnerving stare from inside the police car and the limp, bloodied body of Lawrence on the cement.

The images are fleeting. But. What I’ll remember most vividly about that day is the smallest hint of a smile that tried to stretch my face as I realized the beginning of my sovereignty, and the end of my dependence.

[liliberniwrites]

The Hair Straightener

The route sixteen bus came and went, and the next was scheduled to come in eighteen minutes. The bus of course did not know I desperately wanted to go home, nor did it know Nolan broke up with me that morning, my boss put me on probation for being late again, or that someone decided to take my lunch for themselves from the break room refrigerator. No, of course the bus was incapable of knowing my current state of misery. I sat and waited, but quickly realized each agonizing minute felt like an eternity in this defeated state. I took to walking the winding concrete path that led up and around to the mall’s entrance. I had just left here after my shift, and the thought of interacting with people again made me sick. But staying outside in the direct sunlight on an empty stomach was likely to make me physically sick, so I opted for the ‘air conditioned mecca of distractions’ option.

I passed the same Armenian man who wore a tightly fitted button up shirt with hair so drowned in product it caught the light above him with each intense nod and friendly smile he gave to each passerby. He’d been waving around the hair straightener he held in one hand, reciting promises of silky locks and changed lives with the purchase of his product. I was used to ignoring his capitalistic advances, but was surprised that despite my surly and guarded downward gaze, he persisted with his rehearsed line that was now aimed at me.

“Beautiful lady. Please come. Let me change your life,” he said presenting the chair beside him for me to sit in. I looked at the face of my phone, in near disgust that it was still fourteen minutes before the next bus would arrive. The resignation in my face as I took a seat in his low plastic chair could not rob the elation in his face that seemed to say Yes! I finally got one!

I’d never let him get this far. I was always turned off by the intensity of his sales pitch that in some ways brought about unsolicited anxiety in having to cut off the pressured conversation while still trying to maintain speed passed his booth. The memory of this frustration, and of course the established tone of my day because of earlier events, almost motivated me up and out of his chair. Until the man spoke again. To my surprise, he dropped the apparently fake accent, his voice now low and genuine in a familiar way.

“Thanks for sitting down. My boss gets really mad if we don’t perform at least one demonstration. He’s pretty convinced sales are dependent on this kind of exhibition.” My surprise left me just slightly off guard, the sincereness of his situation was almost charming. He rubbed a serum in between his palms and gently gripped sections of my hair for it to be absorbed. He spread his fingers into a claw like shape to brush the rest of it into my hair, a sort of softness to his firm tug from my crown to the tips. He combed my hair into sections, the slight cool of his finger tips grazed the sides of my neck as he did so. I absent mindedly tickled circles onto the underside of my arm as my eyelids fell shut, eyes rolled up behind them. He readied each section for the methodical pull in and out of the straightener, each one cascading passed my shoulders. I must have dozed off because his announcement of completion jolted me upright in the chair. I quickly searched my phone for the time, realizing route sixteen had once again come and gone. But I wasn’t phased, no. In fact I smiled up at him with full and satisfied eyes, asking if he could ring me up.

[liliberniwrites]

Untitled

The bus hissed to a stop in front of the clinic. The doors before me split open, the cool artificial air gone, now replaced with the thick hot mug of the outdoors that penetrated my pores. The Tijuana sun was brutal in this July heat wave. I saw Mia standing below the clinic’s awning smoking a cigarette. I was instructed not to come to one of these things by myself, and Mia…well, she’s a sort of friend who was eager to earn the twenty bucks I’d offered as compensation for her time. Vamos, she stomped the butt out onto the dry pavement, leaving a small black trail as she dragged the butt a bit beneath her. We entered and I was struck by a jarring equality in heat inside as there was outside.

The poorly lit halls within revealed the bland cream colored walls that were aged by yellowing water marks in the corners. The ground below was of gray speckled tiles, several of which were cracking to a fine dust, the choice of tile evident as the gray specks camouflaged the innumerable scuff marks left behind over the years. A poster titled Directorio was tacked onto the wall to the left of me, its corner flipped forward slightly, threatening to come undone as it slightly obscured the last “o.” Mia took her cherry red fingernail and clacked it against the surface as she skimmed its contents, mouthing ginecología, ginecología, ginecología until Aha! Hokay, we go this way. I followed closely behind until apparently we’d reached our destination. Mia sat in a row of fold out chairs, grabbed the lone three month old copy of People en Español, and looking at me with impatience, pointed at the receptionist I was meant to see. Appointmento. Yo. Por favor. The woman behind the desk popped her gum in visible discontent at my poor communication. Her dark brown hair was fallen on either side of her, appearing crunchy, but wet as she looked in a drawer beneath her. She flipped her crunchy wet hair to one side and passed me a small stack of forms to fill out, the thirty golden bangles she wore smacking against each other as she performed this swift motion.  

I took the small stack with me and sat three chairs down from Mia, scanning the questions that faced me on the forms. A feeling of mortification began to manifest inside me, not just at the panic I felt for the task of managing these foreign forms, but for the actions that had led me here. I looked upon the forms in near agony, finally deciphering the first question to be Reason for your visit? I began to press the pen upon the empty line that followed the question, but felt an inability to pursue it. I paused several moments before the letters could bleed out of the pen to spell: Aborto. I looked upon the word with slow methodical thought, piecing together the decisions that had led me here. I examined the stack that was balanced on my thighs, recognizing it is a physical confirmation of my shame.

[liliberniwrites]

OCD

Lucille picked at the leather that was beginning to peel on the off brand purse she owned. Beneath was the rigid, hatched stitching of cloth holding the purse’s shape. She picked and picked, exposing its inner dynamics as she piled the shards of leather into a small pile adjacent her purse, situated just ahead the gin and tonic that was so far untouched. Just beyond the drink was the mild mannered Dave, otherwise a chore that needed to be crossed off her list. Groceries, refill prescription, go on date, finish quarterly spread sheet. The first two having been scratched out earlier that day sent fleeting waves of calm pulsing in and through her chest, sublimating a warmth and calm.

But the third was taking much longer than she’d anticipated, the feeling of incompletion rolling around in the folds of her skin like the larva of the fruit fly in a confined space begging for release. She bounced the inner corner of her foot against the tile beneath in a rapid succession. The clack clack clack of the tile against her plastic heel seemed to soothe her, but it was not unnoticed by the chore that sat across from her, who seemed to fidget in her periphery. What was it the doctor said? Give it a name and you can conquer it. But what was it that he said? Impulsive? Obsessive?

Just then, Dave pushed his chair out from behind him, disrupting the rhythm Lucille had achieved, and causing a shift in her gaze up at him for the first time in minutes. She saw that he was stowing his visa card back into his wallet and politely excusing himself. An emancipating and euphoric cloud of relief penetrated the depths of her lowest nerves. She floated away from chore number three, reaching into the purse for the scrap of paper and pen so she may scratch it off the list. She noted the time on the face of her watch. Oh good, an ample amount of time remained to complete chore number four.

[liliberniwrites]

Code Blue

The following is a script intended for the comic book format.

First panel indicates a young woman, mid twenties, at the bedside of a patient’s room in a hospital. An older, heavier set man, mid fifties, stands next to her. The patient in the bed has a tracheostomy and is on life support.

Freddie: Stay in there. Once you’ve advanced the catheter, you can stay in there up to twenty seconds. That’s textbook.

Sara: Okay. Oh! Shoot, now I’m getting all kinds of secretions out of him.

Freddie: Exactly. Don’t waste your time. If you’re gonna do something, do it right. Now can I finish my coffee?

Sara: I mean yeah, but you’re sticking around right? You’re supposed to be my preceptor.

A panel indicates they have left the patient’s room and are sitting at a charting station.

Freddie: There’s nothing I’m gonna teach you that you don’t already know.

Sara: Yeah but…you’ve been here twenty years, right? You definitely know loads more than I do.

Freddie: Ya can’t teach experience.

From the overhead speakers, code blue: twenty two sixteen. code blue: twenty two sixteen.

Sara: Oh my god. Sh…should I? Should I go to that?

Freddie: You work here, don't you? Go save a life. I’m gonna finish my coffee.

Sara: No no! Come with me! Please!

Freddie: Jesus Christ…Alright let’s go.

A panel indicates Sara and Freddie have arrived at the entrance of the patient’s room, where it appears chaos ensues within. There’s a large crash cart at the foot of the bed partially obstructing the scene. Passed it is the patient in the bed: he’s thin with little muscle definition, likely teenage. His head is intensely swollen, the size of it not correlating to the rest of his body. Both eyes are purple and swollen shut. The circumference of his head is bandaged, and there are drains coming out of the top of his head. His right sided upper extremities are bandaged, while his right lower extremity is in a fat cast. There are tubes extending from the latter side of his abdomen, one has come undone and sprays a small puddle of blood on the ground. One nurse at the right side is performing chest compressions, another is at the head of the bed attempting to ventilate him, and two others are on the left side attempting to administer medications from various lines, preparing a drill for osseous insertion if they must.

Dennis: Who’s running this code!?

A panel showing no response, silence.

Dr. Ethiel: Erm. I. I can. Uh. One amp epi!

Dennis: Epi in!

Freddie: Go stand behind Thomas. He’s got massive steroidal arms, but can’t do compressions for shit. You’re gonna relieve him at the next pulse check.

Dr. Ethiel: Pulse check!

Dennis: I got nothing.

Dr. Ethiel: Resume compressions!

Sara internalizes: Oh no. Oh god. Okay. It’s Ah ah ah ah staying alive staying alive. Holy shit, I just felt his sternum crack.

A series of successive panels indicate the passing of the code blue, each panel containing one of the following phrases: Someone page anesthesia! Is this guy a DNR? Who has the latest potassium? Crack open another cart!

Dennis: Epi number seven in!

Dr. Ethiel: Does anyone have any other ideas? Are there any objections to stopping? This panel should indicate the doctor observing how much time has passed.

A panel showing no response, silence.

Dr. Ethiel: Time of death, two forty-seven a.m.

A panel shows a crowd of hospital staff shuffling out of the patient’s room, flinging their used gloves into the trash.

Dennis: Damn. That kid was only nineteen. They still haven’t found his parents, either…

Freddie: Shit. My coffee got cold. This panel has returned Freddie and Sara to the charting station.

Sara: I… ‘scuse me.

A panel shows Sara in the secluded nutrition room adjacent to the charting station. Within this hall like room is on one side a tower of styrofoam cups, a drinking water dispenser, cabinets full of different canned brands of nutrition (nepro, pediasure, ensure), drawers full of crackers and broth mix. On the other side is nothing except the refrigerator at the end of the hall, full of sprites, ginger ales, and Bud Lights for the liver cirrhosis patients. Sara’s hands grip the counter sink. She’s looking up at the stucco ceiling, a tear trailing down the side of her face.

Sara: Don’t cry. Stop crying. Swallow it. Swallow it. Swallow it.

Sara: Water. Cold water. Push it down. Push. It. Down. Sara sips from a cup of water she poured for herself.

Sara: Oh fuck. This is the third panel of the nutrition room reactions. She’s lost control and is sobbing into a handful of paper napkins.

Sara: *GASP* Okay. It’s out. You got it out. Composure, Sara. One more swig of cold water. Gasp should be used in an action font in this panel.

A panel indicates Sara has rejoined Freddie

Freddie: Whatsa matter with you?

Sara: I think it’s allergies.

Freddie: Yeah, I used to have a case of the allergies back in the day.

Sara: Yeah.

Freddie: Come on, there’s a full arrest down stairs. Let’s go see if we can help.

[liliberniwrites]

A Typical Cliff Encounter

It was early afternoon when we’d docked, the mainland miles off the coast entirely out of view now. The salted air turned in and out of our nostrils with each breath, and the occasional waft of something fried found its place in there as well. The sky above was a cloudless blue, and the ocean below was dotted with an array of multi colored dinghies, catamarans, and yachts. The scene seemed to frame the red roofed casino on the horizon in a spectacular way, but it was the tightly packed overnight bag slumped against my back housing the sandwich bag of edibles that actually conjured images of what one might call beautiful.

We traversed the pebbled streets lined with bars and souvenir shops that catered to the leathered and mahogany toned patrons who teetered the line of geriatric, despite their platinum blonde dyed hair and exorbitant Hawaiian print tops. We paused a moment to marvel at the taffy machine at the end of the row, but quickly found our path up the precarious steps that led to Cliff’s home, which was perfectly situated away from the mecca of aging excursionists. A slight stick settled onto our skins and it was as if Cliff heard our parched voices growing louder up the steps because upon reaching his front door we were greeted with a toothy grin and three amber colored bottlenecks dripping with sweat.

“You guys made it!” he said, passing us each a beer and helping us with our bags.

“You’re a madman walking those steps every day, dude. No wonder you’re an adonis.” John said this and was mock flexing in a way not unlike Cliff was apt to do.

“We come baring gifts.” I said in a playful, yet covert voice as I referenced the special brownies in my back pack.

“Dope. Let’s do it to it.”

The dry and brittle chocolatey cube tasted as if whoever made it was smoking a cigarette and flicked their ashes into the pot as they cooked it. Still, we ran our fingers along the bottom of the bag, bunching the remnants for a last bite sized morsel, never daring to waste a crumb. Philosophical conversations ensued, ranging from the vilifying controversy surrounding the nerf gun in Australia, to the misunderstood aesthetics and highly nuanced differences between metal core, grind core, and death metal. The aforementioned of course being littered with the occasional obtrusive cackling and reeling over sideways in the kind of laughter that tries to escape but emits no sound.

But it was somewhere between deciding to leave and the restaurant did my trip suddenly become distressingly tenebrous. The salmagundi teeming in my gut seemed to flip and shift, and a literal wave at my waist enveloped my torso. My eyelids vibrated uncontrollably, their veracious and metaphorical weight a sudden war ensuing thought.

“Ya okay? Ya hungry?” John’s voice trailed out of his half opened mouth in an idle and serene sort of way.

In front of me was the bowl of white clam chowder I must have ordered, or maybe was ordered for me. I laboriously dipped a silver spoon into the bowl, the piercing act and disappearance of the glimmering silver into the mucked cream colored wet cement substance  begged for the notion of alarm. I focused on the content of the spoon as I drew it passed my lips for a methodical chewing, the russet potato heavy with starch and grit, the clam chunks tenacious with a persistent gumminess that plastered itself into my molars. The cream and now gray colored slosh I had to jerk from one cheek to the other, as if the action of swallowing had left my abilities, but the acute awareness that actually eating might quell this feeling of discontent entered my body. But how? I saw the artisanal communal bread and reached for a plain beige roll. Stripping the buttered top, I smashed it into the back pocket of my left cheek, praying it would absorb the slop. Again, I applied slow methodical chewing, but the act more than successfully absorbed the slop, my mouth now a barren and infecund land housing a bready clam chowder spotted boulder too large for the awning of my esophagus. I had never been more in fear for my life than eating this clam chowder and bread roll.

[liliberniwrites]

Untitled

I know what I did, okay? It’s not like anyone coulda blamed me. Everyone saw what was goin’ on, and I knew what they were thinking when they saw us together. Yeah, Jared’s a good guy. Everyone knows that. But they know he’s only got this part time gig that ain’t so solid, you know? They were all thinking it, even though none of them had the balls to say it: Why’s Jared even gonna try with this stuck up high maintenance bitch? The ones that ever did try were loaded. One of ‘em? This guy Gus? Man, he was a scoundrel. Pretty sure he was in the system. But ya shoulda seen how that shit head tore it up in the club, wearing those fucking yeezys and Gucci joggers. I didn’t even know Gucci made joggers. Those days were too much damn fun. No good for me, but fun. Things weren’t that kind of fun with Jared.

It was a lot of sleeping in, cups of insta noodles, and Simpsons reruns kind of fun. I could roll out of bed in the same pajamas I’d worn the last four days, traces of old make up lining the corners of my eyes and an out of control rat nest on my head. He’d wrap his arms around me telling me how I’m the prettiest car crash he’s ever seen, and show me the coupons he’d clipped for dinner. Then you gotta listen to this guy talk. So damn smart, made my head spin wondering why he even chose someone like me. A big part of me was happy. Like I’d made some grand final decision and it was Jared. Thing is, other parts of me didn’t like that decision so much.

Ya know, part of it was we were always yelling. I’d get so fucking mad over the dumbest shit. God, it was unreasonably angry, like I was a different person. I know it was me that was starting it all the time, too. I felt like I was addicted to rage. I’d see it happen, know how unreasonable I was being, and just get nastier. I saw how hard he tried to stay calm any time I started shit with him, but it was as if I was standing beside myself pushing this hate outta me like, “He’s not worth it and he’s never gonna be good enough.” I drilled him deep into the ground until he was the dirt beneath dirt. I’m not proud of that part. I know me and that shit ain’t me.

But it wasn’t always like that. Jared was a man’s man, kinda border lining the neanderthal, but somehow still insanely, ruggedly sexy. I’d say he was like the Brawny paper towel man, but that wouldn’t be fair because I’m pretty sure the Brawny guy’s got as much interesting stuff to say as the actual paper towels he’s shrink wrapped onto. See, Jared had that rustic woodsman look down pat with his wavy brown hair tucked into a messy bun and his massive arms wrapped in a tattered multi red colored flannel. I thought, okay I see you boy. But then that boy started spoutin’ out some serious knowledge about abstract expressionism and thoughtful critiques on the socioeconomic status of Bashar al-Assad. I was done. Hook, line, and sinker. I found me a lookie and a smartie.

Anyway, me and Jared start smashing almost immediately. We keep it up for a good three years before it’s not so good anymore, if it even happens anymore. And I’m talkin’ about the sex, but I know the whole relationship was getting real precarious. Then look who comes sliding into my dm’s? Yep. Gus. It seems innocent enough at first, but then he’s texting my number, liking all my Instagram posts, and then the shit head’s calling me. It was one of those nights Jared and me were yelling until we were hoarse, so yeah I took Gus’ phone call. He said I could come over to “blow off some steam.” He took me out to this real nice dinner, then we went to his place, and well…I know me and that shit ain’t me.

Then it was morning. It was a hot June morning, and all the clouds had already burned off to allow the piercing blue sky to pour in through his blinds. I was fifty pounds heavier with all the guilt that weighed me down. I felt so engorged by it that I barely spoke, fearing it would dribble down my chin like hot lime green sewage. Gus, unaware of my moral crisis, lay slumped in one corner of his bed, his breath lightly lifting and lowering him. Shit head still had his Nike high top socks on. You know what I did first? I googled, “Should I tell my boyfriend I cheated on him?” Yeah, look who’s the shit head now.

I told him. Man I couldn’t handle that guilt. I still don’t know if that was the right decision. It feels like a real selfish decision because guess who gets to feel a little better for getting that shit off her chest? Me. Guess who get’s to have their entire world ravaged into an iota of hatred, confusion, and despair? Jared. It was the worst kind of night. “Did you like fucking him? Do you still think about him?” were the questions coming at me every couple minutes. “No and no and I’m sorry.” was pretty much all I could say, mostly because the guilt kept spawning inside me and I feared the lime green sewage would spew out. Somehow though, in the entire mess of the night, I sufficiently apologized and pleaded my love for him. Then Jared miraculously found the courage to say, “I forgive you.” I was a damn mess. I was falling all over myself thanking him, swearing it would never happen again, and rubbing snot and tears into my sleeves.

That felt good for a second, but there was an unnerving thought that clouded our stiff bodies as we lay next to each other in bed that night praying for sleep: This will never leave us.

[liliberniwrites]

Apá

In the evening, at her sitter’s house, Mari got to eat her favorite brand name Kraft macaroni and cheese dinner, the kind in the shape of her favorite cartoon. Her mom packed a lunch for her, but the off brand peanut butter and jelly on dry crusted bread could not compare. She sat in the kitchen on the high stool wearing her sun bleached purple striped summer dress, swinging her legs back and forth absent-mindedly. She watched her sitter drown the pot once full of pasta into a sudsy pool in the sink. Behind her simple cream apron she wore a black blouse littered with tiny white flowers, jeans so distressed by age their blackness was vague in comparison to the blouse, the zipper of her jeans near extinction as they were held up by a small key ring, and her tiny ashy feet were housed by dark tan huaraches threatening to come undone.

A shiver crept up Mari’s spine when she heard the roar of the garage door start. Boots were kicked off against the door and keys jangled the lock open. Everyone in the house either addressed him by “Don Florencio” or “Apá,” one being an address of respect, the other one of adoration. She did not want to address him at all. She stayed perfectly still, if not for the trembling fork in her hand that hovered above her bowl of cheesy pasta. As he drew near, a large swollen and calloused hand smudged with black gripped her shoulder. The fork clanked into the bowl, its sound rang into the ceiling. Que estas comiendo, mija? The answer was on her lips, but she could not emit sound. Okay pues, he said dismissively. He lingered in the kitchen to greet his wife in the floral shirt. His massive stature seemed to encapsulate her as he bent over for a kiss. Mari darted her eyes away, furrowing there affection in disapproval.

When it was safe to look again, she watched Don Florencio hobble into the dining room directly across from her. He hunched over a steaming bowl of pozole. You couldn’t see his face underneath the brim of his black cotton baseball cap with the words Hecho en Mexico emblazoned on the front, but his broad shoulders stretching the seams of his black and blue flannel, which was neatly buttoned down his front, rolled up to the elbow for his meal exposing his intensely tanned and leathery forearms, was in perfect view. She scoffed at his deep blue jeans with a brown Kirkland tag on the back, being held up with a gaudy buckle of white and teal jewels. His faintly yellow socks traversed back and forth, kneading the rug below. He looked up and Mari quickly looked down to stab at her cheesy pasta.

The door bell rang, and Don Florencio scraped his chair against the floor as he pushed away from the table. He greeted Mari’s mom at the door. Her face shown brightly with sweat, her collared shirt was slightly askew and her knees were dusted with white. Le dimos la que ella le gusta para comer, he said to her. Ay que te dije no le das esa cochinada caro. Mari heard them chuckle tenderly as they embraced with familiarity. In that moment, Mari looked upon her cheesy pasta with an intent focus and sudden clarity, a simultaneous feeling of shame and appreciation filling her. Her mom called for her, jolting Mari into a flurry of commotion, stuffing her precious but tattered coloring books and disheveled naked barbie dolls into her backpack. Say bye bye Apá, her mom told her. Looking into his delicate gray eyes, as if for the first time, Mari said, Bye bye Apá.

Translations:

Que estas comiendo, mija? What are you eating, sweetie?

Okay pues. Okay then.

Le dimos la que ella le gusta para comer. We gave her the one she likes to eat.

Ay que te dije no le das esa cochinada caro. Ugh I told you not to give her that expensive crap.

[liliberniwrites]

The Fairy Tale at the Frat

Sher pushed aside the crumpled linen and sat atop the bare spring top mattress of the unmade bed, looking out the window and half expecting to find someone. She silently envisioned the apparition of a someone strong and heroic, of an anything reminiscent of a prince charming that could pull her away from this beast. She looked deeper still, but saw only the abyss of tree tops below and the blinking light of an aircraft dotting its path across the sky. She turned her gaze onto the red solo cup in her hand, swirled the mirky tan liquid, watering down the concoction as the ice melted. She patted the tawny skirt against her thighs and brushed aside the curly black fly aways against her temple. Rubbing her lips together and sensing the stiffness of their slide, she realized a reapplication of lipgloss was needed.

“You’re making him happy,” she assured herself out loud as she smeared more of the coral color on. “It’s not the way you thought tonight would go, but this is good. This is fine.”

Just then, the room before her shook, again, and again, loosening her grip on the lipgloss, sending it on a trajectory up the side of her cheek. It was the rumble of the beast’s approach. It came to a sudden halt, and his shadow became stagnant against the crack between the baseboard and the floor. A flip in her lower abdomen sent a pulsating feel of unease up through her chest and she swallowed the almost imminent sour taste of sick that tried to come out. She steadied herself against the backboard and strained to maintain her self and her nerves with a firm grip upon the night stand.

“Look at you gettin’ all comfortable in casa de William Wolf.” The beast spoke in an unnaturally cool and familiar way. At nearly seven feet tall, the beast bent at the waist and slightly at one side to enter his bedroom. Once erect again, Sher saw the absurd way he tugged at his purple and gold jersey, trying to hide the abundance of thick and greasy matted fur that emerged passed every part of him that was not clothed.  

“Yeah I like your room a lot, Billy. You have so many trophies.” Sher’s voice took on qualities not of her own. The inflection more sing-songy, and the pitch at least one octave higher than what is natural. She tried to wipe the excess lipgloss from her face.

“If you think I’m the shit now, I wish you’d known me in high school. It’s different now we’re in college. It’s like, everyone thinks they’re the shit, you know? But like, they have no idea how not shit they are, but they’re really just shit, you know what I mean?”

“Totally.” Sher wasn’t sure how else to follow up her illuminating response, so she just took another sip from her cup.

“That reminds me! Wanna see me shotgun this tall boy? Franky Fox taught me how earlier.” Hearing Billy say the name Franky lifted Sher with a new glow she’d not yet had while in this room. Her sudden revitalization came simply by being reminded he was downstairs, here in the same place she was. Just then, Billy took the PBR beer can that was dwarfed in his swollen paws, and drew it up to his hyper elongated lower canines that jutted out over his lips to the tip of his nose. Upon impact, a crack pierced the can, sending a rushing mess of foamy liquid in every direction, splashing the piss and yeast smell all over Sher’s navy blue sweater.

“Come on, Billy! I just got this!” Sher had been daydreaming of Franky and was sufficiently distracted before this unwelcome interruption. She wiped herself with a sock that was lying next to her on the bed, pat drying her bare chest. The wet trickled down and saturated her front, the sheer lace bra of crimson red she was wearing now slightly exposed. The beast had become transfixed by this sight, dropping the beer can which clanked across the hardwood floor. He inhaled deeply looking down over his snout at Sher, his breath now quick and staggered, his massive chest rising and falling. A snort escaped, and with a low gravelly voice he uttered, “Did you wear that for me?”

His focus unchanged and his breath faster still, the beast sauntered closer into Sher, positioning himself in between her legs. Sher looked up into the eyes of the beast, a dull unmitigated paralysis of a gaze, the yellow of them widened and their thin black slits unwavering. Sher tried to speak, her mouth slightly parted, waiting for anything to rise up through the caverns of her throat. Nothing. Not even a whimper that could have expressed some kind of hesitation to stop the inevitable from happening. The stillness was abruptly shattered by his pounce, the weight of the beast and the guttural roars escaping his foul hot lips overwhelmed her. He clawed her skirt down her waist, Sher’s now cool and exposed body trembling uncontrollably, but the heat of shame rising steadily in her cheeks. He shredded his pants off with one swift motion, the scent of piss and yeast reminiscent again to Sher.

“Calm down. Franky wants this,” Sher thought as she turned to rest her cheek against the slight scratch of the bunched-up comforter. A contradictory thought of this is not good and you do not need to do this crossed her mind as Billy forced himself inside her. But she pressed her eyes tighter shut, furrowing her brows as she envisioned Franky and the approval she would earn from him. A calming satisfaction eased her tension with this thought, and her eyes relaxed to slightly part open, allowing a single warm tear to trail down the side of her face. She focused her attention on the pale colored floral design embroidered into the mattress top as she was jolted forward and back in a rhythmic motion. A sharp but hushed puff of air escaped her lips as she had the absurd realization that she and Billy owned the same mattress.

***

Earlier that morning, Sher awoke in her own bedroom, looking through bleary sleep crusted eyes at the pale floral design atop her own mattress. The day began with such promise and excitement; tonight would be Sher’s first real college party, one that Franky Fox would also attend. A list of beauty accoutrements was pinned to her whiteboard, and upon completing her morning rituals, Sher made haste to the mall with a spinach and pineapple breakfast smoothie in hand.

Foundation for her ivory and blemish free skin was the first purchase she’d intended, but not without an expected obtrusion from the mall’s indwelling pot head, Cadence Caterpillar. She thought she’d dodged his advances, but his plump and swollen elongated frame slinked around a corner as if he’d been waiting for her. Emerging from the dark that framed the otherwise brightly lit make up store, he seemed to manifest through billowing gray smoke. He had a rounded electric blue face adorned with forest green puss filled pimples, pulsating with each heavy breath he took. Atop the sides of his forehead were unnervingly long tentacles that curled at their ends, wafting slightly with each brisk step he took towards her.

“Whyyyy are yooooou here?” Cadence’s prolonged you pushed a cloud of smoke into and around her face.

“Not now, Cadence. Please.” Sher waved the smoke away and tried to push passed him, knowing too well she was at his mercy with the four simple words that dripped out of his mouth next: You want some weed? She did. The thought of going to the party that night not only filled her with hope, but also with impending doom. Sher’s only motive for going to the party was for a chance encounter with Franky, but feared her own proclivities would turn the night into something worse. However, the last time she got high, it was as if she was a different person, a person who was capable of saying a cool and casual Hey to a guy like Franky without hesitation. That’s the person she needed to be tonight.

There was an obligatory smoke out in the back of Cadence’s Hyundai Accent. It was a power dynamic Sher had grown accustomed to succumbing to. Cadence passed the expertly rolled joint to Sher after burning its end into a charred glowing cherry.

“Don’t smoke that blunt to the head. I know how stupid yooooou get.” It was an unfortunate understatement as Sher believed herself the epitome of cool whenever she was high, but others would say she was exhausting and insufferable. The belief that she was somehow a better version of herself when she was like this stemmed from an interaction she recently had with Franky. Her memory being that it was charm and wit that had entertained him, but reality being that Franky couldn’t stop laughing at how much food she kept eating.

“Whatever. I can handle my shit.” She sucked hard at the joint, a slight spattering of crackles from the paper as it burned. She let the smoke inside her swell for a beat. Two beats. Three. Then—Kaff! Kaff! The smoke rushed out of her pinched and mottled face.

“Gahd dahm, Sher. Yooooou actually are crazy,” Cadence said with bemusement. After about another half hour of forced laughs and exhaustive deterring of Cadence’s arms and legs up her arm and thigh (and it truly was an exhausting effort, she never could tell just how many arms and legs that guy had), Sher finally made her way back to the mall, this time with a sandwich baggy of sour diesel in tow.

She meandered through the dimly lit halls of the parking structure, her head now swollen with the feeling of weed penetrating her vessels. It seemed to lift her up, but she saw as she passed a reflection of herself that her eyelids hung low, and the unobscured parts of her eyes had been dipped in the devil’s favorite color. The need she earlier had for beauty products was replaced with finding whatever fried food was wafting in the air at that moment. Was it a churro? Or mozzarella sticks? Or a batch of frozen french fries emerging from a bubbling oil bath with shimmering, crispy golden skin?

Success for Sher as her meandering led her upon the food court, and was now in possession of a basket of fried…well, she wasn’t quite sure which of the aforementioned phallic finger foods she ended up with. She dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin, pushing the now empty basket away from her, and noticed in her periphery a flickering orange glow from the televisions mounted on the walls. The speakers blared the muffled noise of the broadcast, an assuring string of phrases that elicited immediate reactions from the on screen crowds surrounding the nation’s newest incumbent. Phrases like We’re going to make a lot of, and We’re going to take care of, and The incredible men and women of, and the most damning of all, Believe me.

“This guy is a fucking Cheeto turd, right? A sexual predator. Our president. Awesome.” The words escaped her in a low drawn out way, and they were intended for no one as she stared vacantly with unflinching eyes at the screens above her. She shifted her gaze, her sunken eyelids rising with each passing look to the left, and to the right. She would have liked her words to have been received by someone, but her brown leather purse was the only thing occupying space on the empty tables surrounding her. The closest person in view was a mother distracted by her fussing child, no where near earshot to receive Sher’s poignant criticisms, but would have likely ignored them had she heard them. She had a sudden biting realization. She was alone. A short wave of paranoia pulsed through her. She gathered up her trash, flung her purse over her shoulder, and left the food court to find the beauty products she originally came here for.

She found the ivory cream foundation and a tube of coral tinted lipgloss, and proceeded for the check out line. She felt rolls of the high linger still, a sudden rush of chills traversing from the small of her back and up the length of her spine as she approached the counter. A smile stretched her cheeks as she imagined the compliments she might earn from Franky after seeing her done up with the new make-up. The clerk before her was of green warted skin, shining slightly from the slime that was seeping from his pores. He had a wide face with bulging tan eyes on either side, the eyes split by a thick black pupil that was protected by a thin layer of mucosal membrane. Adorning the ends of his pressed black button up dress shirt were silver lily pad cufflinks, exaggerating his delicate, thinly webbed three fingered hands. The polished oval name tag pinned neatly upon his chest read, Finn Frog.

He looked down his distinct rounded snout, indignantly croaked a rehearsed greeting, but once he actually looked at Sher, the smallest hint of irritation lit up his eyes.

“Oh, it’s you. Woman, weren’t you just in here last week?” He had a prude and stiff demeanor with each flick of the product against the scanner, possibly even a hint of an eye roll as he examined the coral colored gloss she picked out.

“Hey…how’s it going Finn? You know how it is. Gotta keep up shop! The shop…being…my body. Heh heh.” The chills that had traveled up and through her were violently sucked in when she noticed Finn’s pursed lips and inquisitively cocked eyebrow.

“Mmm girl the way you spend it’s like you trying to keep up a whole damn palace.” A

sudden, miserable sense of insecurity defined Sher’s now sunken and clammy state of existence, her palms now moist and her throat now dry. “I mean betch please. You still not fienin’ over that Franky Fox guy, right? Is he cute? Yeah. I’d hit it. But that boy is playin’ you.”

“What? Franky? No he’s sweet. You don’t know him like I do.” Sher’s response ended without conviction and trailed off almost inaudibly.

“Oh! So he’s the one fuckboy god created and said, ‘Nah! I’mma give this one a heart of gold.’ Girl please!” Finn waved his wrist with a violent shake and snapped his webbed fingers in the air, then flatly announced Sher’s total. This prompted her to rummage the contents of her purse, which distracted her from adequately defending Franky, but the need for absolution was brewing inside of her. She handed the cash to Finn, prompting a new bothered question from him. Too distracted by the panic of what the question might be, and too frenzied to acknowledge the question in her head Are you paranoid because you’re high?, Sher began her wild plea for exoneration.

“I know it’s stupid to some people. I know! I spend a lot of money to feel good in front of boys. Yeah, maybe I need to feel better about myself in front of Franky. So what! It helps me, man. Everyone knows they’re inadequate or incompetent in some kind of way, right? It’s like everyone’s got that thought they can’t shake. ‘You’ve done too many things wrong, kid. So either knock it off, or make it work!’”

“Everyone’s got an outlet for that kind of insecurity! I know I’m not the only one. Some drink. Some collect beanie babies. Some gotta drown kittens. At least my release is in the form of a plastic tube full of multi colored goops that mostly don’t offend the people around me. So shit man! Don’t try to put me into your neat little box of stereotypes!” The pinks of her nail beds became a yellowish white as she gripped harder onto the sales counter to steady her shaking fervor.

“Cuz let me tell you this, I at least know this much: I suck just as much as everyone else does! I’m just trying to feel like I suck less, just like everyone else is! I know we’re all just hanging on to the things that make us feel right. And this! This little tube of goop gets the god damn job done!”  

Sher drew a sharp breath in through her nose and released forcibly through her mouth with a sort of finality and accomplishment that made her feel proud.

“Girl hush. You know I just gotta ask if you want to apply for the store credit card, but I’mma guess it’s a no again, or…?”

“Oh. Yeah no. Not today thanks.” Sher felt immediate regret for her dramatic outburst, but was quick to assign blame to the weed. What had transpired only slightly destroyed her confidence, and the crushing realization that she isn’t as cool as she thought she was when she smoked led her to the conclusion, Maybe I shouldn’t get high at the party. After a slow, methodical drive home, and a long sobering nap, she awoke with a new energy for the night she’d envisioned as one for her and her Franky.

***

She arrived at the party exactly two hours passed its intended start time, knowing this to be proper etiquette if she wanted to appear cool. The three story house was of bright golden white, impressively emanating an ethereal glow even at this dark hour. Its facade was endowed with massive thick pillars of the same golden white, and situated against the brick exterior was the typical vestige of greek letters denoting the fraternity that dwelled within: Iota Omicron Iota. She looked up at the acronym, laughing at how such a decadent house can be tainted by the emblazoned sign which appeared to read: LOL. Still staring up and around as she moved forward, Sher crossed the threshold into her first college party.

A tray of lime green jell-o shots nearly floated passed her, and she managed to grab and suck down two before the man parading the tray over his head got lost in the crowd.

“Good start,” she thought to herself, “gelatinous courage should help.”

She shuffled passed a game of beer pong, and shimmied through a tight hallway in which seventeen different conversations were taking place. She looked beyond the length of the hallway to an opening that had cleared into the kitchen. The kitchen counters held a sea of amber and clear liquor bottles, and a tower of red solo cups were buoyed among the sea in the furthest corner. The cups were stacked in precarious form against a cabinet. She stood tippy toed to grab the cup at the top, but in doing so, toppled the remaining cups to the ground. A couple snickered as they watched the scene unfold. Sher was unsuccessfully trying to stack the cups back into their previous form. Despite a heat growing in her cheeks and a sheen of sweat transpiring on her neck, she kept a level of composure, ultimately deciding to kick aside the last few cups she could not add to the stack.

It was while she was pouring herself a drink she noticed Franky on the opposite side of the kitchen. She immediately zig zagged a path to him, keeping her sights locked as to not lose him. She laughed to herself feeling as though she were on the prowl, and it reminded her of the first time she met Franky. Sher was walking home after the last class had ended when Franky snuck up on her. His sudden appearance prompted her to shout, What the hell! Are you some kind of stalker? To which he had responded, Well if I’m stalking you, I guess that makes you my prey? She remembered making some kind of sexual predator joke after he’d called her his prey, but Franky deterred the joke with a sly cunning that all at once had Sher completely entranced.

The inauspicious night of Sher’s first sexual encounter became congruous with Sher’s first love. She was immediately obsessed, and was determined to recreate the ecstasy she felt that night. With a greater determination after reflecting on one of her favorite memories, she “accidentally” bumped into Franky.

“Aw I’m such a klutz! Jeez, look at me, Ya ever had a beer before?” She mock said this pantomiming a developmental delay, quickly regretting the strategy she had chosen.

“What the shit? …Oh! Sher, hey. Ya ever learned to walk before?” He’d mock pantomimed Sher’s pantomime, and the connection elated her.

“That’s funny! It’s funny because it’s like what I said, but with walking instead of drinking, and it’s like obviously I should know how to walk. So that implies I should obviously know how to drink, right?” She looked up at Franky, his attention to her distracted by the berating stimuli all around them, but he’d managed an affirmative Uh huh at whatever she just said.

As he continued to look up and around, Sher kept her focus up at him. He wore his mustard colored beanie pushed back, two slits created to expose his rusted copper orange and black trimmed ears, his slender pointed snout keeping his Rivers Cuomo spectacles aloft against his small snidely eyes, and bushing out beside his tightly fitted jeans was his vulpine brushy tail. Sher squinted her eyes a moment, a fleeting thought of Franky’s orange appearance reminded her of the orange flickering on the screens in the food court from earlier that day. She literally shook her head to dismiss the disgusting comparison, and instead reminisced on just two months ago. It was the last time she’d been alone with Franky, and the last time she gained his affection in the back seat of his car. The intoxication of what it was to bring him pleasure curled her lips, and she longed for the moment it would be them together again.

She pushed her hair up and chest out as she tried to turn on a sexy persona, but the lustful playfulness was short lived by a sudden and overwhelming feeling of shame. It was always in this way, this juxtaposition of yearning and humiliation when it came to Franky. The favors, that he so indifferently called them, that she was always apt to do if not for a sliver of cognizance from this person she’d grown so addicted to pleasing.

“Listen, can you do me a favor?” He inevitably asked after a few silent sips from their drinks.

And there it was. Of course she’d say yes. She was happy to stand by his side and sip silently from her red solo cup, but she’d agreed to his favor if only to not disappoint him, and obediently found herself among the trophied enclosure of the third floor. In the moments before her inevitable favor for the night, Sher paced the bedroom floor, filled with the same moral conflict she battled with before every favor. She thought intently of how Franky would respond if she said she didn’t want to do it, not this time. She grappled with visions of the best and worst case scenarios. Either Franky would go weak at the knees, unable to contain himself before the sight of such brilliance and confidence, and would whisk Sher away into the sunset for their happily ever after. Or, Franky would immediately reject her with disgust, physically remove her from the party, and order an effective disowning of anyone who ever dared befriend her again.

Sher steeled her nerves as she made her way down stairs to talk to Franky. She knew he couldn’t respond like either of her imagined extremes, and decided to hope for the best. She’d found him and was nearly able to tell him her decision, but stopped suddenly when she heard mention of her name in a conversation he was having with Billy. She hid herself behind a potted plant, anxious to overhear what they were saying.

“Dude. Sher is ridiculous. She sucked me off like a thousand years ago, and the bonkers thing about it is she’d do anything to do it again.”

“Holy shit Franky. Sounds like you hit jack pot.”

“No way man, hit it and quit it. I don’t need that kind of crazy. But what I’m trying to tell ya is she does anything I ask her to do for me. Anything. Are ya picking up what I’m putting down, Billy?”

The realization of what Franky was selling dawned on Billy’s face, and their uproarious high fives ensued shortly after Franky explained the cost is but a trifle for the guaranteed good time.

Sher realized she’d listened to their entire exchange without taking a breath, and felt a  dizzying relief when she finally drew in a deep breath that shuddered as she exhaled it. She excuse me excuse me’d her way through the crowd and back up stairs as quickly as she could, closing Billy’s door behind her. She took out her phone, opening the notes app to a blank page. The cursor on the empty page blinked…blinked…blinked. A few moments passed as the names of all the favors, the favors for Franky, trickled with hesitation back into her memory. Charlie, Doug, Manny, Keith…she stopped, a short pang of humiliation rising inside her. She started again. Nick, Brandon, Gus, Devin. She looked upon the list that begun to form on the brightly lit screen before her. A feeling of sick began to writhe in the walls of Sher’s stomach as she looked upon the physical manifestation of shame she’d created. Was there some kind of masochistic relief she felt by compartmentalizing these favors? Why was she doing this to herself? And as if she felt an instinctual pull to answer her own question, the literal words Franky Fox escaped her lips.

She set her phone on the night stand as she took a seat upon Billy’s unmade bed. She looked out the window as she swirled the mirky tan liquid in her red solo cup, looking deep into the abyss of trees to find a semblance of something strong and heroic, of an anything like a prince charming that could pull her away from these beasts.

[liliberniwrites]

Unnecessary.

He shuddered for breath, sputtering a red tinged water from his lips. He clung to the edges of the bathtub. Silence was emanating from the walls, that is to say but the drip that echoed from the spigot. He felt fucked. The cause of which lay naked on his bed in the adjacent room. Her ratted hair was sprawled among pillows. Her mouth was pursed, letting air gently pass in and out. He lay himself into the lukewarm and murky water; he peered at her above the porcelain rim and watched her slumped body rise and fall. 

He tempestuously lifted himself and the act made his watery mess violently rush around him. The sounds struck the sleeping girl and she turned supine. He approached her and flicked his hand in front of her mouth to feel the heat of her breath. He dressed and made glances at her, to see if she was awake yet. He wondered if it was too hot, so he pulled the chain of the fan above him. It was fast and the rattle and sway of it disrupted the rhythm the spigot had achieved. 

"Hey. Hey you. Get up," he spoke firmly, but quietly. He flung his collar up and wrapped his black tie around his neck. The girl managed a few moans that sounded like "leave me alone." He grew irritable, turned for the mirror and frowned in it. He paused, then darted his eyes back and forth, looking...looking for something. He quickly began in one direction, but came back to the mirror to finish the task of his tie. He turned to scan the entirety of his apartment floor. It was a pale cranberry color, dark among the drawn shades. He snatched the curtains and drew them open, letting the 9 a.m. sunshine flood in.

"Fuck you. Let me lay here some, huh?" She threw a pillow over her face. With his newly lit apartment, he now could see where he'd stowed his gun. He lifted from the dresser, examined the revolver and cocked. 

"Hey, what the fuck are you-" ...her voice trailed into the dissipating explosion that filled the bedroom. The blood absorbed by the sheets around her slowly grew in circumference and trickled to the floor beneath. Stupid bitch had it coming, he thought. He brought her here, he loved her here, but he slowly began to hate her here for the stupid shit she would do. All he could think is how dirty she made him feel and how utterly disgusted he'd become by her. He remembered scrubbing, scrubbing and scrubbing his flesh till it turned raw and pink. The layers of filth fell from his skin, but beneath her dirt lingered still. 

It was, however, an unnerving euphoric feeling, albeit surpassingly such cause for hate. Not unlike a soft velvet, cool and soothing in one way, but rows of sharpened needles in the other. He let his eyelids fall and eyes roll up as he remembered the taste and sweet perfume that would send him spiraling into a world of calm.

He almost felt regret pulling out of the driveway, but then he remembered he had too many other things to feel.

[liliberniwrites]

The Wine.

There was a man once who had a daughter with his wife. Before this happened, the man loved his wife. In fact, he loved life. He indulged in the simplest of pleasures. He wasn't an eccentric person, he was actually very much the same person you would expect to run into while ordering a coffee or picking up groceries. You'd never think of him as anything else except a piece of flesh acting as the filling to the life around you. But this man truly did appreciate the squishy texture beneath his feet in the grocery store, he truly did appreciate the busy souls bustling around him in the coffee shop.

He absorbed everything metaphorically, physically, literally and spiritually. The sense of him was overwhelming. You could know in an instant that he was happy. He adored his wife. He adored her humor, her humility and her depth. He was stimulated by her in every sense of the word and longed for her presence every time they were away. Life, it would seem was a wonder. They carried on their way and fulfilled themselves with what they wanted.

The wife was beautiful and timid, often speaking volumes in her notebooks, though most would never have the privilege. She worked a retail job, often mundane she would remember and scribble about in her notebooks, but she was humble and merely did what she was intended to do. She brought home a paycheck and smiled. Though their home creaked and the faucets leaked, it was theirs. They had one small television and couch in the living room, one small oven and fridge in the kitchen, one small bed and clock radio in the bedroom and one small Chevy in their garage. It was enough and they loved it because of this amazing fact: it was theirs.

The wife’s paycheck covered just enough of their expenses, and for this the man worked almost as a sport, playing bartender two nights of the week. This was their play money, the kind of things like movies or dinners got paid for. The rest of the week, the man did many things that he only thought most men should. He was very creative and very smart, so he spent his time sharing with the world. He played his songs, he painted his pictures, he wrote his words, he spoke with strangers, he spoke with friends, he bettered himself- in the classes he took, in the runs he'd run, in the conversations he'd have and in the sermons he listened to.

Then, it struck them like lightning. Their evening of passionate love for each other had a desperate consequence...the woman became impregnated. It was too soon, but they decided that was not their decision and embraced the consequence and took on their new responsibilities. Oh and how easily they adapted to this new life. Nothing mattered but their love for one another and their love for all the things around them. Naturally, the man did more than just bartend two nights a week and the woman picked up several more shifts at work, but this was just what had become.

One day, the man's father came to visit. He was very much the father of the man with a kick in his step and a sparkle in each eye. Because the woman was so close to giving birth, he wanted to give his celebratory gift. Oh and what a gift it was. It was not just one bottle of Rothschild red wine circa 1890, but two. The man was a connoisseur of course and was deeply humbled by such a precious gift. His father, however, asked he save it for the most important day of his child's life. This was no question and no discussion followed, for it made such perfect sense to the man and the wife to hold it for such a momentous occasion.

Time passed and they had their beautiful daughter. They bought her several videos for the small television, kept the fridge well stocked, put a small bed in the spare bedroom and traded in their Chevy for a Volvo. They adored her so. Everything they ever were told about children or about the wonders of having them were so very true. They lived comfortably the three of them for so long, until about the time she turned sixteen.

The daughter, was not really like the man or the woman. She was a brat desensitized by the world around her, bitter and full of angst. She despised people. She did not seek improvement or fulfillment in any way and rarely smiled. In fact, the only way she was similar at all to either the man or the woman was because she liked to write-but she wrote trite and awful poetry, often regarding trite and awful topics. The man and the woman encouraged her in her endeavors, always offering bright solace for their troubled daughter, but their attempts were ill guided and futile.

It wasn't long that the bright and charming man and woman became pale and withered from exhaustion and defeat. But what were they to do? They loved her so. They gave and gave and gave, it literally was as if they gave their heart and soul because the expressions on their face and the demeanor they carried had no such characteristic. Then one day she did the one thing the man and woman hoped she would not.

She took her life. Selfishly, after a trite and awful fight she had with her trite and awful boyfriend, she drove out onto the wrong side of a busy highway. It wasn't until the man and woman saw it on a local news report that they found out; they just assumed she was out late again without calling to check in. They were devastated. They sobbed uncontrollably and the woman locked herself away from the man for hours. In his frustration and rage, the man searched for comfort in the liquor cabinet, and came upon the red wine. He took the bottle, uncorked it and drank nearly its entirety in one swig.

He wiped his lip clean and called out to the woman and heard no response. In a sort of stupor, he unplugged the television from his living room and threw it atop a chest in his bedroom. He closed the blinds, crawled into bed and the glow of daytime soaps, game shows and court shows illuminated the bedroom. Shortly, the woman stumbled in with the second bottle nearly empty in hand, wiping mascara away with her other hand. She crawled into bed next to him and lay still beneath the covers. They sipped their wine. That's where they stayed.

[liliberniwrites]

That Time We.

So, fuck. There is this intense euphoria gripping me by the throat, screaming incoherent bullshit. Its words drip like sewage waste from its steaming hot mouth. I can only emulate a sense of it, nothing past its tight pus filled boils and stubbly chin. The rest, very much a deep fog glowing a faint green, blue and orange. And still, I stare at it, scanning its black slit eyes, and I make a conscious decision: fear it or embrace it. The answer seems clear as my stomach knots and my palms sweat. Tears swell in my eyes and I begin to speak, but I stop. He smiles, pulls me near and overwhelms me with the truth…

His eyes are black saucers outlined by amber yellow and his wavy hair he tucked behind each ear. I feel a calm ensue as his lips curve into a slight smile,

“It’s more than what we thought, but I’m ninety percent sure I know what’s happening. We need to seriously consider getting the fuck out of here. Drink this.”

I sip on the gallon container of Refreshe water and with unprecedented urgency start to gather our things. Its tingle I feel first in my fingertips, then just below my brow and in between the gaps of all twenty-eight teeth. The tingle grows thick and the throb in my temple pulses harder. Then the surge of tiny needles begin in my neon painted toes, pursuing my thighs, spine and shoulder blades.

I feel engulfed? I feel conquered? I feel frightened? No…I feel…gross. I start a shower I so sorely desired and begin to undress. As I wait for the water to heat up, I grip the sides of the sink and stare into the mirror. My eyes are saucers as well, but with a brown outline. As I examine the blue bags beneath my eyes, the mirror turns convex. I blink, and it turns concave. I try to steady my vision, but the mirror and my reflection begin to rumble.

Is it hot, yet? The water slips like grease in between my pale fingers. It seems fine. Upon closure of the bathroom door, confinement instills a breathy panic. The water is sputtering, and still far too cold. I hate it and stand aside, waiting for warmth. In my patience, I fix my eyes to the shower floor. The bat bat bat of each drop is like a hundred Hiroshimas, spreading their vengeance all across the bathroom floor- the same floor in which I stood.

It’s too much, my breath is quick and short, but I need to clean myself. I brace for impact, the god damn bat bat bat. I take a dime sized amount of shampoo and a bar of soap. I still stand in the furthest, driest corner lathering myself. I stall rinsing for minutes, running the bar along my belly and armpits. But the truth becomes clear: I’m far too soapy.

It’s too much; I furiously wipe the suds away, returning consistently to the dry corner. In a courageous act, I stand directly beneath the stream, scratching the shampoo out. It’s too much; I’ve flooded my face and am gasping for a breath. Blinking through one eye, I turn the dial clockwise and end the brutal siege.

I throw my towel on and flee with great conviction, trying to find him. He’s pacing the living room and dining room floor. Mitch is on the other end of the phone; he had him pressed against his ear. His understanding at such an early hour is shot, but he gives him what he needs: someone to be on the other end of the phone. I hear them echo among the high ceilings as I stand in the empty room, dripping a cold puddle beneath my feet.

The puddle was sucking me in slowly, but I placed my eyes on the dancing colors that lit up the blinds in the room across from mine, almost as an attempt at leverage. I let focus shift from one moving blob to the next, the cracks in the blinds made them so, sucking them in and spitting them out. Moving, like my chest with each breath in and out. Then, I see from the corner of my eye, a black marble fall silently from the kitchen’s faucet. I lose it, but become engaged by the rave like light emanating from the lime green party cup on the table and cleo the gold fish swims in it. I lose that, but play Tetris with the geometrical design of the tissue box just right next to it. Then I lose that, but again am entranced by more blobs getting sucked in and spit out.

My eyes flutter wildly like that for a few minutes and he finds me deep in my puddle. He wonders if I’ll get dressed.

Days later, after the initial shock had ebbed, i think, "If that was an accident, what's one hit?"

[liliberniwrites]

I Just Want It.

Brows furrowed, head throbbed and words and breaths formed short. The wonder of what was, is and could be become entangled in a thought bubble that floats above a tussled mess of vanity. The stillness is overwhelming and walls around and around her go up and up. It’s too much of something sending thoughts spiraling into a deep. Senselessly making sense of things that ought to have been thought of on several different accounts, but all in question delve deeper still. Among it there were warm and inviting sensations, but no single one had been able to distinguish any other entity from any sort of anything else. It was an endless mess of ideas toppling over one another that drove her into this deep, clinging to the indentations of stone all around, but slipping and losing fingernails as they rose further up. Driving deeper still, it seemed pointless. It’s inexplicable, and yet even more so is the acceptance of such a belonging. For even in every moment of exacerbation, the ensuing grief was tirelessly pursued. Around and around and up and up, searching and hoping for the release. A sort of relief was in itself an entity, not a feeling or an idea, but something sought after…something to believe in. It made sense, but it was the only thing. Its sheer existence proved a worth-while and purpose. Therein was her meaning. It had to be the only thing worth understanding and thusly the only thing worth pursuing. And even still, mottled with rage, she would let the deep take her in. It was only so often, the thought of what was drove her. Clarity begat energy and understanding, but it was never enough before she sat even lower than before in the deep, sprawled in dirt and disgusted by her failure. Relentlessly still, after seeping in the defeat, it was understood what would come next only because it was the only thing left to understand. She climbed and climbed and kept climbing, seeking her something to believe in.