leslie

It was when she turned up missing that all his problems began. Alive. There. In front of him. He could trust her. He did trust her. For 12 years. And she him. Now, everything would come out. All of it. Before, they would’ve covered for one another. Now, he had to make a choice – come clean, or build a story that would wash. He hadn’t much time. Minutes, probably. Within them, his phone would buzz. It would be Henna or the police or the reporters. Henna he could handle. She would believe what she wanted to believe and that was that they were ok, the two of them. The police ranged from being dumb to just being polite. And most of them wanted him to like them. He had that sort of cachet. The reporters? He thought for a minute. Them, too, he could handle. And why not? They reported what he said. He loosened his tie, sat back in his chair, nodded slowly, to himself. His phone vibrated; he checked the number. He didn’t recognize it, but this was the wrong time to be ignoring a call. “Hello?” “Dad,” Leslie said, “I’m using Nancy’s phone. Can I stay at her house for a while?” “Yes. Sure.” “Thanks, dad. Bye.” “Wait …” But she’d hung up, already. Gone. He wondered when he would see her again. Maybe never.

nooodles

The dog wandered across the street. It was lost, or at least losing itself, and innocently, in the heat of the sweltering afternoon. A man came up to it, tried to pet it, but the dog ignored him, almost politely, kept going, down the alley, toward the back of the thrift shop, stopping, but only for a moment, before moving on, toward the main street. Traffic was busy, there, hectic; it was Friday afternoon. The dog paused for a moment, then attempted to cross. Two cars stopped. Then another. And another. The fifth didn’t. It was an old model Toyota, driven by a 83-year-old woman, Mazie Wolcott. She never knew what she’d hit and, in fact, kept going, oblivious. Four blocks over, a nine-year-old girl borrowed her mother’s cell phone and sent out a text message to family and friends about her dog being missing. Nooodles – three o’s – was its name. It had never gone off, before. She hoped someone would find him. Her name was Alicia.

rat-a-tat-tat

Toni Zamboni had 19 tattoos
by the time she was almost sixteen,
an eagle, a heart, a harp and a fish,
a turtle, a tortoise, James Dean.

A walrus, a wizard, a Jesus, the sun,
An angel, a dove and a man with a shoe,
A skull with a noose, a mean Dr. Seuss
And 13 fat llamas and 1 skinny gnu.

Her father disowned her, her mother did, too,
her boyfriend, he just wondered why,
she had zebras and snakes and a dozen red hens
but no vow, “Earle’s my love ‘til I die.”

Then a funny thing happened one dark, cloudy day
As she sat in Liv’s “Ink-4-U Store,”
Awaiting the tat of a privatest part,
when she wondered if, yes! less was more.

So proud was she that she stood up and cheered
For herself in the midd’e of the place,
Fright’ning five artists and Liv, in mid-draw,
And she said, “I know I’ve got space …

“To put those three words on my back, thigh or butt,
or my cheek, or my jaw, neck or ear,
to finish the message, it will be complete,
those final three words must appear.”

And, so, they did ... with a heron, a horse and a grizzly bear
And a picture of Beiber with all of his hair,
A Chinese translation, a pack of french fries
And a skinny old cat and her skinny nine lives.

Of course.

after life

She saw it all, when they put her under. And she remembered it, perfectly, when she woke. The light. The calm. The sense of self, true self, real self. She knew who she was and, more importantly, why she was. But why her, she wondered, and the thought bothered her, taxed her, almost obsessed her in the succeeding days. So, she prayed, daily, and usually more, whenever the thought crossed her mind, which was so very often. I need to tell someone, she thought, someone who would understand. But everyone was too busy. And not in ways that seemed frivolous. There were kids to tend and relationships to mend and jobs – real life. So, she finally decided that she would tell no one, at least not for the time being. She would deal with the knowing as though it were her hardship, though ironically, she understood, and with a gentle smile. At times she almost wished she didn’t know. But she did. And maybe it was that the others just would be surprised. And that wasn’t so bad, either.

you can call it Al

“I can’t think of you, like that, anymore,” she said, and he said, “But you do,” and she answered, “I don’t,” and he said, “You do,” and she knew that he was right, because she did, and, worse, she tried to ignore it, or deny it. “It’s alright,” he said, but she looked away and said, “No, it isn’t,” and he said, “It’s not going away,” and she said … nothing, for she could think of nothing to say. “This is a dream,” he said to her, for it was, and she hoped that he was right, because it seemed all too real. “Please, leave me alone,” she said, and he said, “I have nothing to do with this, this is all you,” and she tried to wake herself up, because things always seemed better when she was awake and she would move and do things. He said, “I love …”, and, then, he was … gone. She woke, and sat. It was 6:17. Ayem. She felt herself, and she felt moist and warm. It was a nice feeling. But why? The dog barked. His name was Spencer. He’d named him. She’d wanted to call it Al.

what's in a name?

The dog looked up, with those dog eyes that seem to ask “Why?” but she didn’t have an answer, or at least one that she wanted to share, even with him, it. She stopped for a moment and collected her thoughts. She needed to cover her tracks: where she was; whom she’d seen; what she’d said. He was due in a few minutes. Home from work. She needed to slow down. Things were moving way too fast. Him. Then. There. Where? Jesus, Christ. She took a deep breath, then nodded her head, more slowly. She would be all right. She would be ok. She was a good person. She’d had no choice, she kept telling herself, and finally believing her own voice. “Hey, babe,” he said as he arrived. She smiled and kissed him lightly on the lips. Her name was Elise. His was Roger. The dead lover was Alex.

the beach

I’m going to pitch my tent on
the beach,
he thought,
and
watch the stars come out, while
the gulf
rushes into its highest tide,
and the rest
of
the world sleeps. He will sleep, too,
he understood, but only
to the sound
of the waves. He will think of her
as the darkness
falls, of the quiet and
the silence
and the stillness,
when they lay,
together. He will think of her, but she
will not
think of him,
for she no longer feels
the stillness, nor
the silence, nor
the solitude of
... them.