The Cohens had just returned from the city. John was thirty-three and his face was tired. His face was tired from working more than he slept and being paid just over the cityâs minimum allowed wage. He was married to a woman who kept him aliveâ not as a chore it was more symbiotic. Abigail was 27- she had once been happy but now there was too much grime covering her to see her as a happy person. Between them was an empty pram that they were rolling along. They had had a child- it was only briefly their child. They came to the consensus their home was not a place to raise a child. They hadnât the money nor the skill set required of parents. Their own had been cruel and loveless.
Instead of allowing the child to suffer with them because of their own hurt they took the harder road and gave their child up. She had been a beautiful baby- her motherâs brown, curly hair and her fatherâs soft eyes. She was a peaceful child, a good sleeper. Abigail swears she never bit when she fed. They had named her Lily Anne Elizabeth Cohen.
The city they lived in was run down. The streets were littered with cigarette ends, horse droppings, and the handles of mugs. The streets were almost all in disrepair, the cobblestones were janky and looked like teeth in need of bracing.
Fifteen years ago the city was a gem in a the countryâs crown of industrial relevance. It was also the crown because the city was located in the northernmost region of the country. John had just started working then and it was then he met the Prime Minister of the country, Elliot Kearney. Elliot Kearney called him âa shining example of how people in the country should work and actâ. The Prime Minister was assassinated two years later in a coup. It was then that Johnâs wages were shredded to the smallest percentage of what had previously been a living wage.
Abigail was only twelve fifteen years ago. She was in primary school in a wealthy county called Beltworth. It was the same state where nearly all the coal mining was done and Abigailâs father owned the largest mine in the state. She lived comfortably and was passionate about her studies. She was the middle child in a family of seven. Her brothers all older and her sisters all younger. Dewitt, Declan, and Darwin were all proud of their family and didnât stray far from the place they were born until they joined the war effort. Declan became a decorated war hero. Dewitt and Darwin were both killed in the Battle of Cosa, the bloodiest battle of the civil war that followed shortly after the coup that killed Prime Minister Kearney. Abigailâs sisters were all promised to sons of other rich coal families. Abigail made it certain from the very beginning she would not be used as a bargaining chip in the rise and fall of wealthy families. Abigaillâs mother was wicked and cruel to her because of this.
It was raining and Abigailâs brown overcoat had become saturated with the wet and the cold. Brown was her favorite color- overall this is an unimportant detail but it is uniquely her. A small puddle began to form in the pram where there would normally be a child. John and Abigail walked in silence looking down at opposite parts of the sidewalk. Surely some wealthy, happy, older couple would come along and adopt beautiful Lily. Surely there could be a young and loving couple who would scoop Lily out of the orphanage and into a warm home. Surely, at the very least there would be someone who was more prepared than they were.
They were not bad people. They were just bad at planning ahead like so many of us. They returned to their block in the city. Everyone was out and no one said anything to the Cohens. John felt self-conscious and welcomed the silent treatment from the other people. Abigail was beside herself and full of doubt. She needed the reassuring words of one of the wiser, older women. When they arrived back at their run down flat, John attached a âFREEâ sign to the pram. It was waterlogged but it was still in perfectly good condition. Give it a good day in the sun and it would return to peak conditions.Â
Abigail watched from inside. Her mind was already worrying about who would adopt Lilyâs pram. She hoped it would be a family that would use it. She hoped it would be a family who was ready for a child and needed a pram. John lit his pipe and stood at the curb. He could not bear to look at his wife yet. He would not let his wife see him sob. From Abigailâs point of view John looked like a shaking dragon. Shake, exhale smoke. Shake, exhale smoke. She thought of how this would have made their daughter laugh at an older age. Then she never thought of her again.
Write a love letter to someone youâve never met.
Guess their name. Approximate their address.
Put it in a bottle and toss it into the nearest body of water.
Write about your first kiss. Write about their first heartbreak.
Donât stop loving.
The Bunny, The Cat, and Babyâs First Lesson in Mortality
We had cornered the attacker in the rear of the Sheridan familyâs garden. It was crouching against the house, behind a bush. Any attempts to advance were met with a fierce hissing noise, like a punctured oxygen tank. It was myself, the Harrington children, and the youngest of the OâNeill clan. The cat held a small animal in their mouth. Shiny, wet insides hung out and the cat showed no remorse. Michael Harrington was a high schooler and was chosen to confront the attacker based on his superior size and intellect.
âIt doesnât look good.â Â Michael was freckled with red hair, sharp cheek bones and wild hair. He was said to have looked like his father. He cradled the small, bleeding life in a pouch he made by pulling the sides of his shirt up. I leaned closer to get my first glimpse of mortality. I only saw a tiny instrument squirming.
âWhat is that?â Â I asked the impromptu medic. My pointer finger only a hairâs width away from the organ in question was answered with a slap to my hand.
âDonât touch, little dude. Thatâs the heart. You could kill it instantly or later from infection.â he said, as if to reassure me that all things die eventually no matter what.
His younger sisters were horrified. Their skin looked much paler than usual. Shannon looked almost green. I wondered what would make a person look green. She then vomited and this immediately answered my question.
âShannon! Gross!â yelled Kerry, the younger Harrington. Michael was unamused. The OâNeills were as silent and unmoved as ever. I have never since met a more stoic family. The father worked at the fire house. The mother worked at the hospital. The children went to school and went home.
I felt intense anger at the cat for acting so callously against an innocent agent of nature and yet I also knew the natural order of things. The bunny shook, bleeding out in Michaelâs t-shirt. I chased the cat. If I couldnât save the small bunny I would avenge the animalâs cruel, yet natural, death. I darted in and out of streets, through back yards, over fences until I had chased the cat into the sand pit.
The sand pit was an interesting landmark for the fact that it was where neighborhood disputes would be settled for it was neutral land. It was unable to be developed into additional housing so it was untouched. It was the kind of place you might find dinosaurs when you are young and your imagination is most powerful.
The cat was finally cornered. The beast was just out of reach. Blood was still matted in the fur and whiskers of the monster. Breathing heavily, I lowered my body to the floor matching the catâs posture. He hissed and I hissed back. I lunged first and the cat gracefully moved out of the way of my attack. I slammed into the fence like a poorly trained sack of potatoes. I turned around to watch the cat slip away through two fence posts into the Ghirajmaâs backyard.
I sat in the sand defeated and seething. I was always a sweaty child, but this sweat was pure anger. I made my way back to the group without anything to claim success.
âDid you find the fucker?â asked Shannon. She had recovered from her nausea and was back to her usual self.
âShannon! You canât talk like that.â He said. Shannon was unfazed by her older brotherâs reprimand.
I hung my head and uttered a barely audible âNo.â
Micheal was unsurprised and was already moving toward my familyâs house. We three followed him. The OâNeill group had a short, silent meeting and sensing that the outcome would be less than favorable they gave us a non-verbal goodbye as they peeled off towards their own home.
We marched ever closer to my familyâs house. Down Kingâs Lane past houses that were clearly related but hadnât spoke in years. Ours was two stories tall and the color of camouflage green with a bright red door. I opened the door and we all paraded in. Michaelâs shirt was saturated with the creatureâs blood. Kerry was following us mopping up the dripping rabbitâs blood with her hoodie that was actually Michaelâs.
My mom turned around from her current activity to look at us and shrieked. She was a nurse who had seen the worst to ever ravage human lives yet a bit of wildlife disgusted her for some reason. I never understood this.
She shooed us out onto the back porch and returned with the torn corner of a blanket and an old shoe box. We demanded water and also carrots. She obliged. We set the bunny, who had stopped moving altogether, into their cradle. The shiny insides no longer shinning or squirming. The bunnyâs chest no longer moving. I realized it was a coffin.
We left the bunny in their coffin. I remember their eyes open. The permanent look of terror. The eyes open and unmoving. The offal looking more like movie make-up than real. My mother dragged me inside and shooed the neighbors away. I had soccer practice. I was loaded into the van with my other siblings and we were driven away.
I didnât tell them what I saw that day, I think I had already forgotten. My brain had already buried the small bunny that died in fear and pain. My youngest brother probably wouldnât have cared as he was currently going through a phase of obsession with llamas and alpacas for a reason beyond any of us. My sister surely would have cried. She was always the the most caring of us. I think my other brother would have caught and crucified the cat always being the most interested in playing âthe copâ in cops and robbers.
Animal control came at some point and grabbed the bunny and took them away. Animal control left the shoe box and the blood stained blanket. A misguided attempt to teach my friends and I about mortality I assume. We all took the disappearance of the animal to mean that the bunny had healed up and rejoined their family. I sat with the box for a while. It was a quiet summer night and the tree line was full of animal noises. I was sure the bunny had made it.
I forgot about this entire incident until today. It has been around fifteen years and yet I still assume the bunny was Jesus Christ himself and saved all the bunny sinners by dying for them. Yet I know that to be a lie too.
I am writing about this to resurrect the small animal we lost that day. Iâm sure the cat is dead now too but; fuck that cat.
Screaming inside yourself; something mumbly.
Not knowing what would quell the noise you run
never one for exercise, but in love
with exodus. A study in fleeing
as a defensive mechanism. Or
staying in a constant state of motion
but never finding a home base state where
your roots grow out and you feel safe type state.
You are not welcome to feel the failure.
Let it pass. Let it leave. Watch as it wanes.
Stay flexible, stay feeling, keep stretching.
My sadness is not wet and passionate. It is long and dry. I do not think of suicide as a release but as a mess for someone else. I've started to mark events in my phone when I feel like dying. When it passes I can look back and remember all the 'almosts' and keep going. I am bad at talking but I can write. So I continue.
I tell the man who looks like me. He sits down. He looks like me but he is not me.
âA drink?â I ask him.
He smiles. We both know that question rarely is answered with no, or finished with just one.
We order and wait. We size each other up. It is like looking at a mirror but then looking past and through the mirror only to share a beer with your reflection.
âI hate working in public.â
He looks up from his beer. âPeople sitting in a room working, or at least pretending to. Wanting to be seen! Itâs absurd. And then every now and again someone will come over and look at your screen and then ask you what you're doing. And I tell them that I am working. Then they ask another question. It is infuriating.â He laughs. A curt, sharp laugh. Â A single âHAâ.
âI hate being in public.â
Now, I look up from my beer. âOkay, Iâll bite. Why do you hate being in public?â
He leans forward. âSo many nosey people asking âhow are you?â or âhowâs things?â and when I respond âtrying to get byâ, âdoing my bestâ, or âIâve been having a really hard time latelyâ they respond as if I had just told them âoh Iâm fineâ or âgreat thanks and you!?â Â so I fail to see the need to a) be honest and b) interact with people who donât care.â
I agree with the man on some parts but also cannot understand why he is so against common courtesy.
I get out of my seat. âLeaving already?â he asks me with a look of âon a first name basis with being abandonedâ plastered on his face. I turn around. âWhat? No. I gotta take a piss.â
Slowly, arduously I walk to the bathroom with my friend on my back. He is heavy. His weight fluctuates. As it fluctuates so does the amount that I struggle to function like a ânormalâ person. The light in the bathroom is bright enough only to see how dirty the place is. The mirror is scratched and covered in grime from the Carter administration. On the wall above the urinal there is your standard bathroom graffiti telling me to âfuck myselfâ and reminding me that âBush did 4-20â
I flush the urinal with my elbow. Trying to wash my hands is impossible. He is nonplussed. He watches- stoic, as I struggle to maintain my hygiene. Â I donât bother with the hand dryer. I am tired. I wipe my hands on my pants.
Once I sit back down and have a sip of my beer he returns to his seat. A friend comes over. The friend doesnât see the man as he has crawled under the table and hangs from my legs. Weighing me down. Keeping me stuck to the seat and in a conversation I donât care about. The friend is more of an acquaintance. They are nice enough. They are ânormalâ. They are who Iâd like to be. They leave and my old friend returns to his place.
âNosy bastardâ he hisses. He sounds spiteful, he probably is.
After a few more drinks I am unable to determine which side of the table I am sitting at. We decide to have one last beer. We drink it in silence as the bar is emptyâ only the barkeep and us.
âFunny.â he says, spinning his glass watching the condensation fall to the table. I look at him, âWhat? Whatâs funny?â
âI donât know,â he smiles to himself âI expected us not to get along.â I think about the last seven odd years. I think about how Iâve known him. I try to remember where we met; try to remember who or what introduced us. I cannot remember. Suddenly I need to know.
âSay, old friend, how did we meet those years ago?â His mouth emits that same loud, curt laugh again. HA!
âYou know. You were there.â I rack my brain for this indexed information. Maybe I archived it or maybe I deleted it? âIâm sorry, man. I donât know.â
âYou do Jay! You were there! You were fucking there!â The man sitting across from me, who looks like me but is not me, is yelling, shaking. Clenched fists on the table still rattling from him slamming it. The barkeep does not notice the disruption. Â âOk if I know then you can give me a hint because you were there too.â Â
âNo! You were there! No fucking hints! You were there. You have to think!â his voice cracks in anger.
I look down at my beer taking shelter from his vicious gaze. I cannot hear his forced, heavy nostril breathingâ meaning to intimidate. I cannot hear the music. The tiny clock on the wall behind the bar ticks off the seconds. It is all I can hear. I go back through the memories in my brain like instant reply. The picture gives out and is replaced by static. I keep rewinding, the static grows louder. I cannot think. The clock is drowned out. I cannot think. I cannot remember. I am growing frustrated.
Why wonât he tell me? Why canât I piss alone? Fuck this guy. I look up. He is gone. No sign of him, just a ring of condensation where his beer was. I pay my tabâ $18.00 with tip. God bless the South.
Walking home I feel light. A bit drunk, but light. The air is frigid and the wind throws it in my face. I enter my apartment and find my dog asleep. He opens one eye and wags his tail. He is a good dog and my best friend. I take my pants and sweater off and get in bed. I turn the light out and call his name. He jumps up into bed and makes his way under the covers. He turns around three times and curls up in the space between my calves and my hamstrings. He is warm. I quickly fall asleep.
I do not dream.
I wake up later than I had intended to. My old friend has placed a sheet of plywood on top of me and is standing on it. He is heavier than he was last night. I try to get out of bed and he gets heavier still. I reach for the remote and turn the tv on. Any movie will do, I ignore my phone for a few hours. I am exhausted.
Weird Things About Being a âGrown-Upâ at Your Parentâs House When Theyâre Away:
Youâre no longer wonder:Â How do I have a great party, become popular, AND smooch the babe/dude without any consequences? Â
Instead you wonder:Â How naked can I be all the time? Should I wear pants while I make breakfast? Exactly how much sleeping can I get done? How do I get out of plans I made with friends for drinks?
You realize that âhomemade or comfort foodsâ donât taste the same when you make them yourself For me, I think I forget to make the dang food with love.
You tell a telemarketer from a Solar Energy company that they should âBomb the shit out of the house with pamphlets and  educational brochures.â
You realize that you will never be able to provide for a child the way your parents did for you and your siblings.
I spent forty hours without sleep.
A half pint of Evan and a sixer.
A bag of jerky, some pretzels for supper.
At an airport alone,
but I wasnât the loneliest one.
I spent forty hours without sleep.
Slowly making my way west,
on every lift off holding my breath.
When we got into bed, I could have wept-
all desire to sleep was gone I wanted to reconnect.
- wolf-dad
I want to thank you for making me
the man I am today. Also for literally
making me.Â
You taught me to love
and you taught by example.
You raised four kids and thatâs one
hell of a feat.Â
I apologize for anytime
I have disappointed you and for
my large head and broad shoulders
which I canât imagine was fun to push out.
Please know in everything I do
I try my hardest and itâs all for you.Â
I hope I make you proud even when
I donât, please know Iâm trying my best
and I hope you forgive the rest.
Today is for you, but really,
everyday since I was zero has been.
Enjoy your day and I hope Dad
bought you some nice things because
your broke, artist of a son forgot to mail
you a card so he wrote you this instead.
janainaart
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