Somebody please tell me to shut up

~ Christi ~ 21 Comments

There are some things about me that I can’t tell you.

I’m talking about speech, not secrets.

There are some things about me that I’m not capable of telling you because words ruin them.

I resisted my name for years. Until I was about five, I refused to say my name that is really my middle name, my second name, my mom’s afterthought. It’s only one of many names I’ve had, but knowing it leads you into a maze of incorrect assumptions. Did I know that at age three? Maybe. If I had been named like my preschool friend, Summer, maybe I wouldn’t have been so silent when the other kids asked my name.

I’m the shy kid swinging alone on the playground while the other kids play on the monkey bars.

At twelve, I must have misspoken to my best friend’s rabbi. “Are you Jewish?” he asked me as I sat by her at Hebrew school.

“Yes,” I said.

“What’s your name?” he asked, kind, hopeful.

His face fell when I told him. Confusion furrowed his brow, shock glimmered in his eye. “Don’t you know what that means?” he asked.

Yes, I did. Of course I do.

I’m a Jewish girl who can never say her name in a synagogue.

On my honeymoon, thrilled to be in Paris, I tried out my conversational skills at our first dinner. The waiter turned my question into a little joke, I’m pretty sure a pun at my expense. After that I stopped speaking except in emergencies, preferring to remain still and silent as much as possible. Silent, the waiters were much more polite.

I’m French, but only when I’m absolutely silent.

There have been more times when speech has betrayed me. It definitely did in grad school. There was a night long ago in a crummy motel room. Every time I’m driven to yell at my kids, speech stabs me in the gut.

Yes, it’s true, we’ll know each other better if I don’t speak. Silence never contradicts itself.

Apparition

~ Christi ~ 10 Comments
Copyright Adam Ickes
Copyright Adam Ickes

Mike stood and watched them play from the boardwalk, the hot, rough wooden slats making his wound ache. He peered at them, admiring them despite the sun in his eyes.

Mike darted up the hot sand and scooped his baby daughter into his arms. He dashed into the soapy tide just far enough to wet his feet and soak her small body. His deep laughter drowned out her squeals.

Mike stood aching on the boardwalk and watched the scene before him, the young father dipping his laughing baby into the sea, and he wished he could wash away the years.

100 words for this week’s Friday Fictioneer’s challege. Why don’t you go ahead and give it a try?

friday-fictioneers

One cure for insomnia

~ Christi ~ 6 Comments

I started with a jute rope, a treadmill, and an asshole named Depression. If you inspired me, thank you!

It was still pitch dark when Drew opened his eyes. No light escaped the edges of the dark drapes on the window, no sounds came from outside. Drew closed his eyes again and tried not to think. He did not think about sleep or about trying to heave himself out of bed. He did not think about yesterday and he did not think about today. He tried but failed to not think about her.

Drew lay in bed with his eyes closed and tried to stop thinking about her. He opened one eye and eyed the clock. Damn, 3:47. He tried to think only happy things about her like back at the beginning. He thought about her face, her smile. He did not think about her voice. He did not think about her voice for four minutes, until he opened the other eye and peeked at the time. 3:51.

Her voice pinned him to the bed. Her sweet voice kept him immobile. Her voice, sharp as a Taser, made him weak, submissive. He thought about moving, about trying to move, and he found that he could only move his eyelid. The florescent red numbers did not lie. 3:55. He stopped trying not to think and gave in.

Drew, she called. Drew, open your eyes, Drew. Get up and look in the mirror, Drew. You are so hot, she murmured. Drew knew better. She was lying. Drew knew he was not hot, he was too damn heavy and too damn nothing to be hot. Her voice, melodic, paralyzed him. Only his eye could move to let that red light in. 3:59. He hated her.

At 4:00, Drew lept from the bed and yanked open the nightstand drawer. He pulled out the rope he had already tied just the way she told him to, and he found the jute knot comfortingly sturdy. He took out her rope and he hung it from the hook before he slipped on his sneakers and stepped onto his treadmill in the corner. He set the 30 percent grade just how she liked and stepped on. He slipped his head through her rope and he imagined her hands tightening it. He began walking.

By 4:03, the glaring red light from the clock snuffed out and Drew felt himself floating in complete blackness. She stood before him. Everything about her was perfect: her pale skin, her light hair, her smile. “Asshole,” Drew growled at her. She only smiled. Drew felt the corners of his mouth turn up as he reached for her.

Note to my sister

~ Christi ~ 4 Comments

I love you, I wrote.

I didn’t say I’m glad you’re alive, but I am.

I did not write about how I always thought this day would come.

I didn’t mention all the nights I’ve laid awake worrying about you.

I definitely didn’t bring up how much you scare me, or how angry you’ve made me over the years. I would never admit how, without even trying, you stole the fun out of my life. I didn’t mention the word trust but I also didn’t call you a thief.

Instead, let’s talk about how I’ve trained for this day, working out, strengthening my body and mind. I’m ready for you. I’m here for you. I love you.

Stayin alive

~ Christi ~ 27 Comments

Thanks so much for the love, Speakeasy readers and editors. I really appreciate the win!

I shoved the door way open to fit baby girl’s stroller through and damn it was hot. Hot like you just want to rip all your clothes off and squeeze into the ice cooler at Benny’s. Baby girl was only in a diaper but she started wailing right off with the sun in her eyes and all that heat cooking her.

The heat was nothing to me, not compared to the itching inside and that deep, deep ache knowing what I was about to do. Oh yeah, I knew it, I did. I kind of appreciated the sun and heat, you know? It got my mind off the itching.

We walked real slow to Benny’s, me pushing baby girl’s little stroller without a damn sun shade and her just wailing, crying so much you gotta think she knows where she’s headed. Babies know things, my grandmama used to say.

She was crying so much and sweating too, so she was wet all over like she just had a bath only I knew the truth. When we got to Benny’s, first thing I bought her a juice and stuck a straw inside even though she makes a mess with straws. She grabbed it and started slurping away like she used to do when she was on my tit way back before I got itchy again.

All the time I’m buying her damn juice and sticking that straw in so she can drink it, you know, I’m thinking about Quenty outside, with his bags of junk. I want some so bad, so bad damn it, right here before I go any farther with baby girl. I want it so bad my hands are shaking as I throw down the quarters on the counter for baby girl’s juice. No, I want to rip my fucking shirt off and scratch away the itching. I want to dig my fingernails into my skin until I’m bleeding and everyone is staring at me, even baby girl.

It’s okay. Soon it’ll be better.

Baby girl don’t look up from her juice as I slip Quenty my second to last $20. He slips me the junk and smiles at baby girl. “Hi there, beautiful,” he says all nice to her.

“Shut up, don’t you talk to her,” I swat him off her. It’s a good thing this is the last time.

I start walking again, the stuff in my pocket. Every so often I slip my hand in and run my fingers over it. Knowing it’s there makes it easier. If only I already had it, if only, I think again and again. It would be so easy if I weren’t so damn itchy. It would be so easy if I were already there.

Baby girl finishes her juice and quiets down. She looks real sleepy in her stroller, her eyes half closed against the sun, and so pretty. She’s real pretty, you know? She’s gonna find a new family real easy. They gonna love her better than me.

I see the station coming up ahead and don’t you know those firefighters got a party goin on? They got the hydrants on and water pouring out of the hoses full blast. They got some disco music blaring, talking about stayin alive. Kids everywhere. Being near it makes me want to tear my shirt off again. I want to scratch so bad. I stick my fingers in my pocket instead.

I push baby girl’s stroller right up to the water so she can get some of the spray on her.

“I love you, baby girl,” I kiss her little head. She’s asleep so she don’t have to see me go.

Her new people gonna get her a sun shade.

 

Meditation on your garden

~ Christi ~ 2 Comments

The cool spring air smudged with warmth reminds me of your sprawling garden, raised beds knit with shoots and hustles of herbs in a new rush to grow. Yes, I can see it now, the shocking green and soft purples, the simple complications, the unashamed hope of it all.

You know how I’d pick handfuls of parsley and shove them into the crook of my arm. I’d slip inside and rinse my finds with cool water in your kitchen, then I’d separate the delicate leaves from their bold stems. I’d fill the stone mortar waiting expectantly on your counter and I’d lift the heavy pestle with a small smile. I’d begin to grind as you came, filling the doorway and returning my smile. I’d crush the leaves with a sprinkle of salt and a dash of garlic releasing the overpowering scent that accompanies the death of new life.

With you watching, a thought would come to me. Without really knowing why, I’d abandon my destruction. Pestle in hand, I’d come to you thoughtfully. I’d pull you to the ground with one hand and with one hand I’d rip your panties from you, smiling all the time. I’d look from you to the glistening green of the pestle and back again. When I pulled your legs apart, you’d know why; you’d meet my gaze with a flash of recognition.

Yes, you’d gasp when I brought the cold hard pestle down between your legs, gently at first but grinding. Yet your hips would lift slightly when I turned the pestle against your clit – once, twice, more. There would be surprise there too, but no more than at the shock of seeing the new garden outside. You’d like the abuse. You’d want more, plead with your eyes, beg me to destroy you. Harder and harder and harder I’d turn the stone against my new mortar until you completely dissolved, grinning at me as you came.

Afterwards you’d go to dress as I’d finish grinding my herbs, mixing in your flavors. We’d eat by the window, smearing the herbs onto new bread, eyeing the garden and laughing.

My algebra teacher was a prophet

~ Christi

A long time ago, when I was a kid, I used like being sick. I got sick a lot. I caught colds all the time, I had at least a sinus infection a month. My mom drove herself crazy dragging me to the doctor; I even had sinus surgery.

Only I was faking. For several years while I was in my early teens, it felt safer somehow to hide out at home, so I exaggerated my pain. I liked being sick, and I didn’t mind that I wreaked havoc on my life. I flunked math, and to this day I can’t do much beyond addition and subtraction. Complex equations elude me.

Around the time that I had that surgery, I had a really cool algebra teacher. I remember him with crystal clarity despite missing most of my time in his class. Mr. Cross was older, cute, male, and funny, and he liked me; in other words, he was perfect. He showed concern about my lack of mathematical ability, but much more compellingly, he showed an interest in me. Nothing out of place, just genuine concern for a girl who he could tell was stumbling.

He wrote me a message in my yearbook, and I’m telling you, I still think about it on a regular basis. He wrote, “Good luck, Christi. You’ll do great if you just stop being sick.” I liked Mr. Cross. I admired him, and I wanted his approval. So I did it. I stopped being sick.

You know, I still caught the occasional cold. I had not seen my last sinus infection. I just stopped using my colds as excuses to hide out at home. It wasn’t easy.

Years passed, and all the typical things happened: college, marriage, more college, work. And a few years into adulthood, I found myself in the gastroenterologist’s office with a bout of acid reflux. I followed the doctor’s instructions and traded spaghetti, wine, and chocolate for a daily pill that took the pain away. Just because I didn’t call myself sick doesn’t mean that I wasn’t.

At 28, I hesitated before I got pregnant with Anna. My medicine was off-limits for pregnancy. In blind faith I went cold-turkey, and I thought of Mr. Cross. I’d like to say that I willed his yearbook message to be a prophecy, but it was more like desperate hope than anything.

Blind faith paid off and I’m not sick anymore. But Mr. Cross was no prophet, only an algebra teacher smart enough to know that when you find the flow in life, things work themselves out. Thanks for the equation, Mr. Cross.

Nightmare

~ Christi ~ 12 Comments
Copyright Daniel Bowman
Copyright Daniel Bowman

Every night Daniel had the same futile dream. He’d wander bare, scorched earth to the base of the steep, sheer cliff face and begin to climb. He’d climb till his limbs ached and his fingertips bled, begging footholds and handgrips, gradually filling with anticipation at the promise of the top, only to reach it and find the dull flat expanse of empty miles ahead of him once more. In the faraway distance, the stacked cliff loomed again. Nearly hopeless, he’d lift himself and start over, his steps heavy.

Daniel always woke before he reached the mountain a second time.

 

friday-fictioneers

Strange inspiration

~ Christi ~ 13 Comments

A reprise of Shawn and Jenny for this week’s Speakeasy. I’m warning you, this one might be a little disturbing. I hope you’re into being disturbed.

Life had once been defined by linears and absolutes. Shawn hadn’t always felt comfortable with a whip in his hand. Rulers and T-squares were long his tools of choice and he still longed for the familiar weight of a freshly sharpened pencil in his hand even as he stood before his naked wife, his hand filled with the whip’s heavy leather handle.

“Jenny, dear,” Shawn raised the whip above his head, “I’m thinking of making a soup for supper.” He brought the whip down with a satisfying crack.

Of course Jenny couldn’t answer with the gag in her mouth, but Shawn chatted pleasantly nevertheless, as usual. Jenny’s body tightened with the impact.

“I could make that butternut squash recipe you like so much,” Shawn continued. “And I think I’ll pop over to the bakery for some bread later,” he raised the whip again, feeling excited over his prospects for the rest of the day. His designs for the new building were nearly complete, and Jenny seemed nearly ready for him to have his way with her. And there was the soup, too. A perfect day, he thought.

Whip in midflight for the third time, Shawn had a flash of realization. He let the whip complete its circular path, then dropped it on the floor beside Jenny. “Just a moment, Jenny, you’ve given me an inspiration,” he murmured as he reached for the pencil and pad on the nightstand. Jenny eyed him desperately from the bed. “Sorry, dear,” he said as he put the finishing touches on his design: the curved metal lashings that would pin the transparent elevators to the building’s exterior. It was chancy, he knew. Hopefully his engineers wouldn’t complain.

Jenny thrashed on the bed as Shawn finished up his plans. There was something so alluring to him about multitasking. Finally, he dropped the pencil and returned to the bed, removing her gag at long last. “Only three lashings?” Jenny pouted as she reached for him. “I’ll do better next time, darling,” Shawn laughed.

Afterwards, Shawn rinsed his hands with cool water from the blue faucet in the master bathroom. Jenny had picked it to match the old drawing of the water pump he’d done back in the days when his pencil never left his hand. He’d been such an absolutist then, he thought sadly, only drawing what he could see with the same tools, never trying anything more. Jenny must have sensed what he was capable of, though, he thought as she wandered through to the shower, smiling. He admired his new artwork through the glass of the shower door while he dried his hands, then dressed and left for the bakery.

well