#rob kaas

[robkaasisawriter]

Fuck You

This story takes place on the first warm morning of the year in a small town in the wastelands of the North American midwest. The door flew open with a satisfying clanging noise and Frank stepped out into the warm spring sunlight. He tilted his face toward that glorious yellow orb and, with a smile, soaked in as much sweet radiation as he could. With a sigh of contentment, he took his newspaper and his cup of coffee and he sat on his front porch with purpose. The sun was shining, he had the day off from work, and nothing was going to interrupt his- "Hey!" It was faint, but Frank distinctly heard someone say it. He looked around, but saw nothing. He returned to his cup of coffee and newspaper. After all, the sun was shining, he had the day off from work, and nothing was going to interrupt his- "Hey!" This time there was no doubt. Someone, somewhere, was trying to get his attention. Realizing that the voice sounded very far away, he stood and stepped off the porch. His bare feet sinking slightly into the muddy grass, he rose one hand to his brow to block the sun he had cherished only moments ago, and scanned the horizon. It was then that Frank spotted him. Over his fence, across the street, through the neighbor's yard, across the next street, over another fence, there was a man's face. The man was quite a distance away, but Frank could tell he was saying something else. "What?" Frank shouted through cupped hands. The man leaned over his fence and yelled something, muffled by the wind. "What?" Frank shouted again, putting a hand up to his ear in an attempt to hear the man's words more clearly. This time the words were unmistakable. "Fuck you!" Frank's jaw dropped open in disbelief. He had never seen this man before in his life, what could he possibly have done to deserve such profanities lodged at him from so far a distance? "What?" Frank called to the man again, a desperate grasp at the notion that he had somehow misheard him. "Fuck you!" the man bellowed in response. Frank was shaken, but decided that he wasn't going to let the ravings of a lunatic two blocks away ruin such a beautiful morning. He sighed and returned to the porch, he took a sip of his coffee and opened the newspaper. His anger was finally subsiding. Again, the sun was shining, he had the day off from work, and nothing was going to interrupt his- "Fuck you!" "God dammit." Frank muttered. He sprung from his porch, stomped through the muddy grass, threw open his front gate and stormed across the street. He ventured through his neighbor's yard, crossed the next street, and approached the man's fence. The man stared Frank in the eye. "What the hell is your fucking problem?" Frank shouted, "It's the first morning in six god damn months that the temperature is above zero. I have my fucking coffee, I have my fucking newspaper, I am in my god damn pajamas. I'm trying to enjoy my day off, trying to usher spring in the right way, and instead I get some crazy bastard from two blocks away, who doesn't even fucking know me, yelling obscenities at the top of his fucking lungs." The man opened his mouth to speak, but Frank cut him off. "No. No, you don't get to talk yet. I already know what you're going to say. But what I want to know, what I really want to know, is this: What is it that I could have possibly done to you, what traumatic event could possibly have occurred between us, that would result in your unrelenting aggression this morning? Keeping in mind that I've never even seen your fucking face until five god damn minutes ago, what abortion of justice have I served unto you to deserve having this beautiful spring morning so completely and utterly ruined? Huh? Answer me that." The man leaned his head over the fence, getting as close to Frank as he could. Frank, still boiling with rage, awaited his reason. Then the man spoke. "I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else."                                                           END

[robkaasisawriter]

Perfect

Let me paint you a picture. Outside, it's nighttime, but here in this unusually large apartment, things are lit up like midday. The music is too loud and the lights are too bright, both in the best ways possible. There's a balding man standing in the corner of the room clapping his hands in front of his own face as fast as he can, sweat dripping from his brow, labored breathing. You're probably trying to figure out what that symbolizes, but I'm sad to say all it symbolizes is a lot of very good drugs. The room splits off in three small but separate ways. Over there is a hallway, down which you'll find a bathroom, a study, and at it's end, a master bedroom which is, coincidentally, much larger than the living room you and I and all of these other people are currently standing in. That way is the dining room. More of a dining area, really, but people in apartments like to assign the wrong words to things to make them feel better about life in general. Speaking of wrong words, just beyond that doorway there is the kitchenette. Funny how that works, isn't it? You add an E-Double T-E to anything and it makes it sound small and cute, when really it's just cramped and awful. Your drink is almost empty, so I offer to refill it for you. You ask for my name a second time and I give it, unsure as to whether you genuinely forgot it or are playing some sort of game with my head. Or maybe it's the scotch that's playing games. I refill your drink, same as mine, and you call it a forgotten tradition. Scotch is a relic from an era that is fading from memory all too quickly, a time when men were gentlemen and women had class. I tell you that's bullshit, that the time you're thinking of was a horrible time to be alive and we only romanticize it because of the nice clothes and cool cars. This makes you laugh, though I'm being serious. The music gets to be too loud, and not in a good way, so we decide to venture off through the hallway. We pass the clapping man, who pays us no mind, and we start by opening the door to the bathroom. Or we try, anyway. It's occupied and the door is locked and from behind it we hear heavy breathing and lips smacking. I laugh, you roll your eyes. We move on to the study, where we look at the various books placed on display by our gracious host. You mock his taste, I'm ashamed to admit that I've read and enjoyed more than half of the collection. We both agree that most of the books have probably never been opened. You grow bored of that room, so we continue down the hall. The master bedroom, suspiciously void of anyone but us, is just as large as I described before. More room than is necessary for a bedroom, but I get the impression it isn't used much for sleeping. That's when it hits me, the night is pressing on, the music and laughter of the party is only down the hall but it all seems so distant, we seem so displaced from it. The scotch has gone to our heads, but how much of it and how far? Are you expecting something from me? Am I expecting something from you? You sit on the bed and empty your glass. You set it on the floor in front of you and brush the hair from your face, pulling it behind your head. I stand frozen, blinking slowly, breathing fast. You smile and in this light you are the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. I sit next to you, I close my eyes for a moment longer than is necessary, and I set my empty glass on the floor next to yours. When did I empty it? How much have I had? Is it hot in here? I don't remember it being this hot in the hallway or the study. You look me in the eye and tell me that you've been avoiding social situations for weeks now, that you only came to this party because a friend wanted you to be their plus one. You then tell me about being fired from your job for no good reason and that you're thinking of taking some online courses anyway. You tell me about your brother who is a modern day nomad, traveling from city to city, leaching off what ever friends he finds there. You tell me about your mother and father and how they always wanted the best for you, how they don't understand where they went wrong with your brother and how they hope that you don't follow that same path now that you're unemployed. You tell me about your ex-boyfriends, then immediately question why you did and apologize more times than is necessary, even though no apologies are necessary at all. You tell me how your life has been one thing after another and lately it all seems to be piling up, but you're glad your friend dragged you to this party and you're glad you met me. It's not one sided, this conversation. You ask me questions, and I answer. I tell you about the novel I'm writing and how it never seems to go the way I plan. I tell you about how terrified I was to tell my parents, both lawyers, that I planned to be a writer, and that afterward my other writer friends threw me a "coming out" celebration that included a lot of alcohol and a lot of bad movies on DVD. I tell you about the puppy I had when I was four and how much her death scarred me when I was fifteen. I tell you about my long history of failed relationships and then offer to strike your mention of past loves from the record if you extend to me the same courtesy. I tell you that although I only came to this party because I'm friends with the host, that I could have very easily gone to a bar or stayed home to read instead, I was very glad that I had the chance to meet you. The door is suddenly thrown open and the host peers in at us. He tilts his head and Jesus Christ what are the two of you still doing here, he shouts. The party has ended, the music died and we never noticed, the people filed out, all the women and girls, boys and men, and the balding man who clapped his hands in front of his own face. All of them are gone, have been for hours, and look at that, the sun is up and the birds are chirping and if the host had known we were still around, he'd have made us help him clean up. He kicks us out so he can finally sleep, laughing at the fact that we're fully clothed. I walk you downstairs, you hail a cab and offer to share it with me, but I live only just around the block. You say it was nice meeting me, I say the same, all blind formalities. You ask me for my number, which I happily give, and we also exchange Twitter handles because it's 2013 and it feels like the right thing to do. You smile that smile at me, the same one from the perfectly lit bedroom, and I realize that it wasn't the lighting that made you beautiful. It was all you. The walk home takes longer than usual for me, because I'm too busy thinking about you. I make the climb up the four flights of stairs, turn left at the flickering hallway light bulb, and open the door to my apartment. Much smaller than the party central where we just spent that magical evening. So quiet, so intimate, yet no removal of clothing or carnal exchanges were made. It was perfect, but all I can think of is when I might see you again. Then the phone rings and I know it's you before I answer it.

[robkaasisawriter]

UNTITLED #1

A bird calls out into the blinding sunlight as it cuts a path through the air on its wings, soaring like magic, flying like dreams. It is hope and freedom and every poorly conceived notion of ideology that has ever existed or indeed will ever exist, be it in the hearts of the young or the memories of the old.  Other birds respond in kind, giving their warrior cry, announcing their existence to the universe, and together they flutter and and flitter and they form a cloud of black and gold that floats in no discernible pattern across the afternoon sky. From below, we watch them, we wonder what it feels like to have the wind at our backs and the sun so close to our faces, what it must be like to taste such glorious absence of fear and doubt. Oh, but fear and doubt are with us, as they always have been, as they always will be. They loom in the distance like a coming plague, but they linger in our bones as does regret and longing, and they are handed down from parent to child in this dark, dark world.

Yet still we look up, we gander above us and we marvel at the tiny creatures taking flight. We stare into the night sky, at the canvas of darkness, and we try to count the stars, and though we fail, we continue to try, because that is in our nature as much as the cold shadows of fear and doubt. Inside us all are these things called hatred and anger, but so exists hope. So exists wonder and amazement and so exists the capacity to love and to be loved, and that is what allows us to move forward in this world. Not to be pushed, or to be lifted up, but rather we are pulled by these things, these fragile and delicate concepts, out of the darkness and into the light. The warm, forgiving light.

But darkness does exist for a purpose and to ignore it, to say to oneself or others that the darkness is without merit or should be paid no mind, is an absurd attempt to fool oneself, to blind oneself to the reality of life. It need not consume you, the coldness of fear, it need not trouble you more than is necessary, for you are not alone in the battle to survive in this chaotic plane of existence.

Life is indeed a miracle, not one of divinity, but of the hard work and struggle of billions of years of evolution and just a little bit of blind cosmic luck. We are brought into this world of fresh horrors and wonders, and we do so screaming. We are raised with the beliefs of our mother and father, beliefs to be tested later in life at which time we determine if we will cast these beliefs aside as lies or grip them tighter and sing their gospel until our dying breath. We travel through the world and see as many things as our eyes can see, hear as many sounds as our ears can hear, and love as many people as our hearts can carry and then we love a few more beyond that. That is what life is, it is learning, it is loving, it is feeling the sting of uncertainty and the dull ache of solitude, it is hearing your favorite song for the first time or seeing the smile of the one person you love more than anything else in this big, big world.

Let no one tell you that he or she is more evolved than you, that they have come farther than you, for we are all equals in this mad race through the void. We are all together. We are one. None of us need face the darkness alone, for we are not alone, and none of us need worry or fret about US vs THEM any longer, for the two are now joined together in a singularity of love and light.

Sit back and ponder your place in the universe, for it is vast and we are tiny, but our hearts and minds are so very large and wonderful. May whoever is reading this know love and peace on a level so deep that they never go without either again.

[robkaasisawriter]

The Depth of Life

He stood atop the hill of sand and stared at the ocean, allowing his eyes to get lost in the waves. He never felt so small than when he stood near the sea, but he never felt so at home or at peace. The world behind him faded away and it was only him and the water, he wriggled his toes into the sand below him, as though he were making an absentminded attempt to grip the earth below him and thwart anyone from dragging him away. She knew him better than anyone else ever did and gave credence to the old saying "knows me better than I know myself", which he often told anyone who would listen. She climbed the hill slowly, hoping to find him there, hoping to see his hair dancing in the wind. She reached the top and was blinded by the sunlight mirrored off the water. His silhouette was clear and he stood exactly how she thought he would be, shoes off and next to his feet, coat folded neatly and resting atop his shoes, his head facing up to allow the breeze coming in off the sea to pass directly into his nostrils. "I've been looking for you." She said. He didn't move. "You scared me, disappearing like that." "I needed to get away." He said, breaking his silence. "From me?" She asked. He turned and smiled sadly at her. "Never from you." "From what, then?" She asked. "Everything else." He said. He once again faced the ocean, he sat down with his legs crossed. He patted a patch of sand next to him. "You could have talked to me." She said, taking a seat next to him. He sat silently, eyes closed and breathing deeply. "You could talk to me now, too." "I love you." He said. "I love you, too." She said, "But that's not a reas-" "I used to come here when I was a kid." He interrupted, "I used to come here when my mother was still alive and I would look out over the water, trying to see what was on the other side. After she died, I stopped coming here for years." "You never told me that." She said, "We came here for our third date." "That's because I knew I wanted to marry you after our second date." He said, "That night that we spent on this beach, right here on this hill, was the most important night of my life." She took his hand and they stared out at the water in silence for a few moments. "What made you come back today?" She asked. "Honestly? I don't know." He said, "Maybe because I was thinking of my mother, maybe because I knew you'd think to find me here." "What happened?" She asked. "I just- I lost it, you know?" He said, "I hate my job, I miss my mother, I'm overweight and balding. The world is in such disarray and I feel so lost sometimes." "Everyone does." She said, "Life doesn't make sense to anyone, it's all in how you cope." "How do you cope?" He asked. "Wine, mostly." She said. He laughed and took off his glasses. He rubbed his eyes. "Are you okay?" "Yes." He said, "I'm sorry I didn't come to you." "Actually, I understand." She said, "Sometimes things get so overwhelming that you're afraid to let anyone in, for fear of dragging them down with you. I've been there. I think we all have. But just promise me one thing." "What's that?" He asked. "Next time you need to come here, next time you need to get away, please tell me." She said, "I will give you as much time as you need, as much space, but you've got to let me know what's happening." "I love you." He said. "I love you, too." She said, "And you're not that overweight." "Jesus." He said. She scooted closer and rested her head on his shoulder and together they sat, eyes closed while the sounds and smells of the beach washed over them, well into the night. END

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