79 Words

He sang to her. Willingly if not lovingly. Or vice versa. She didn't cry though she could have. The tears standing at the ready. Eye muscles prepared to work from memory if not from need. If they loved each other they would stay that way forever. But forever wasn't their problem. Theirs was very much an issue of now. But neither would let the other exist there.

-RTB

75 Words

He sank into his chair like an oreo into hot pudding. He heard them laughing, crying out his name in between theirs gasps for breath. He sank lower. His eyes shut of their own unencouraged ambition and he pressed his teeth against each other as though to make diamonds. He held his breath without realizing it and then opened his eyes to the empty room. They had left, if they'd ever been there at all.

-RTB

The Mistress of Diamonds and Mystery

The bayonet in her hand reflected the moon upon her body like the mistress of mysterious misanthropy that she was. The blood in my bones ran as cold as the memories of my frozen December youth. My cigarette clung to my lips like a suicide jumper without cause. I twisted my head towards Devandara and looked at the bag of diamonds she held. “Where did you get those” I queried her, struggling to maintain my gaze on her gun and not the maid’s uniform her bosom was squeezed into. “These are the diamonds I stole from the corpse of my dead husband” she laughed, snarling at me every so slightly. I gently took Moses, my parrot, off my shoulder, fed him a piece of gum, and put him back in my breast pocket. I could tell, this would be no easy case. 

-RTB, My entry into the Bored to Death Worst Opening Paragraph Contest.

I'm Still Here

I gave her my memories, all of them. Every one I could have ever had the energy to make, I had made with her. But she took them all when she left. And stranded me with just... with just a pile of sand where our castle had been. And I found myself wanting. For the person she once made me be. But I could barely remember him. Because with my memories went my hope. And with my hope went my possibilities. She had it all. And with all of that she had me. Except she didn't want me, not anymore.

-RTB Entry into the Spike Jonze 100 Words or Less Contest

The Jewel and the Ocean

So he bought it. Others around him did not know that there was no “her”. And he was no longer buying it for “her” as he had once wanted. Now it was for him. Not the jewel itself, but the act.

When she had left, he had vowed that if he could not give it to her, no woman should have it. For as much as he now hated her, the jewel was conceptually hers. He had already mentally committed it to her life.

He had come close to being more in love with the jewel than her. So he bought it and fled the store with nary a word.

He was running now. Clasping the unwrapped box in his left hand as he pumped harder with his right, trying to get to that sound as fast as he could. The sound of the rushing river was punishing at near distance. It was the river that moved at a pace so brisk that the bottom was completely overturned a new every day. His jewel would be washed to sea to be discovered in another lifetime.

For while it not deserve to be destroyed, it also was not to be owned by anyone else, any other “her.” At least not in this lifetime.

-RTB

A Story

And just like that, the wind opened the pages of his book. Not just to any page, the wind is strange. Her page. Silly wind playing with his head, playing the raven to his mock Edgar Poe life. And so he read, he had to. He tempted not the mistresses of wind, fate, or scorn. They are best let to run their path. And he read, he read the page he'd read a thousand times before, from the book he'd vowed to dispose of 20 score more. He read it because he had to. It was an addiction, a habit... something just short of a tradition.

That word makes it sound too glorified... "tradition." It was equal parts joy and pain. The joy was just fleeting, reminiscing, used-to-bes. And the pain was wrapped up in it. Or maybe those memories were wrapped in pain. Liar man, they weren't happy, they were just... they just were. They were all he had. Had he something else, someone else, she'd be a twinkle in the Arizona sky. But she had; rather, he had built her a nest in his mind. And so that is where she lay, without really knowing he hated her for moving on, or not thinking about him.

He hated this damn book he couldn't throw out, this un-novel novel. He hated this redundant expeditious track to mental anguish. His whole train of thought, derailed by a simple, deliciously evil breeze. He reared back and twitched slightly, made as if to throw the book into the lake, but paused. And instead just closed the cover, tucked it under his arm, and walked away. He wasn't ready for that yet.

But he was getting close.

My Thoughts on Wine

I like to drink wine out of a water glass. Not a wine glass. Who do you think you are, wine, that you must be elevated so high above the table in your receptacle? Are you better than me? Are you better than your other beverage friends? Beer has no problem standing on the table. Liqour either. Well, MOST liquor anyway. (I'm looking at you Martini and Cosmo) Why must you be so elitist? Come down to the table and hang out with your friends. I promise we will have a good time. I like a grounded wine, or one that doesn't mind having its feet on the ground. I promise I wil like you.

-RTB

The Sweater

"It's cold" she said. He turned to look at her and his eyes drifted to her goosebumpy arms.

He looked her in the eye, "Do you want my sweater?"

She barely turned to him before deadpanning, "But you don't have a sweater."

He turned away to look back at the bridge. "Yea... I think I was using sweater as a metaphor for love in that scenario."

She shifted her weight before tucking her hands into her pockets, keeping her elbows close to her body. She turned back toward the bridge. "That might be nice."

He pocketed his hands in the same way. "Yea?" he asked the bridge.

There was a pause.

"Yea." And she leaned ever so slightly closer to him.

-RTB

The Boy on the Train

He just stood there with his forehead pressed up against the window. Shaking and bumping up against it with the motion of the train. His tiny feet planted on the seat. Watching the walls fly by. Chunks of darkness seasoned with patches of light. Seeing nothing, seeing everything. Maybe wondering what he was missing or maybe thinking he was seeing everything. It was incredibly rote for me, but for him, it was fantastic. Comforting enough so that he did it every time he got on the train. I wondered if he'd ever stop.

-RTB

The Dress

It wasn't so much a dress as it was an idea, a suggestion. A pairing of tissue thin fabric and hope sustaining it upon her shoulders.

It probably wasn't fair to us for her to go around like that. But it also wouldn't have been fair to us if she hadn't.

-RTB

The Unwitting Narcissist

The Reluctant Narcissist

I’d be lying to you if I said that the porthole into my past wasn’t dirty and smudged from the thousand or so times I’d pressed my face up against it to relive where I’ve been and watch the person I used to be. I cling tightly to anything I once was. And everything I once understood. It is an activity I have spent far too much time at. Something I’ve become far too good at. Dare I say prolific?

Seeing how I was then, with the knowledge I have now, is torture.

Every moment can give as much as it wants unto itself, but alas here I am in the future, constantly trying to suck the juice from an otherwise dried fruit.

Once I knew nothing, now I know some things. Few, to be sure, but enough to always know how little I knew the moment before now. Once I didn’t know enough to care what people thought. Now I care far too much. Once I acted on instinct, and that instinct was true. Now, well, I am getting back to that. Remembering how to be who you really are can be a challenge. Once I was fearless, and playful, and god incarnate. But somewhere along the line jaded realism sat down and put its feet up in my mind. In theory he has been evicted, but it is all I can do now to keep him from coming over to borrow a cup of sugar.

As a child I wanted the world, the big world. On long summer days I would lie on my back in the park and look up at the sky. It was the first place I got the impression that the world was endless. I would lay there until that purple vastness pushed down on me with tickled beauty. God you are so big world. Wherever will I find you?

My parents love me for sure. And they paved a smooth road for me that ran time infinitum. Run they said. Run as far and as fast as you dare. Dad said have a plan, Mom knew I’d do something bigger than planning. It makes sense that my father writes in print, capital block letters with tremendous gravitas. My mother writes in script, cursive. Elegant turns that spin their ways around lines like a white gloved ice skater, tracing the music with her hands.

I was afraid to fail, afraid to be laughed at, afraid to be made fun of. But I was anyway, back when being called gay was the worst insult in the world. I worried I was too different to be anything. Repetitive chopping fells even the thickest of trees. What tree deserves a blade to its knee? Memories of that axe.

But so what. Any excuse I over used.

In order to be a success I knew I would have to find my path. I bought machetes and chopped a hugger mugger of bamboo from the woods of preconceived notions, and hazy options. I will find my way out of this. Chop, grow back, turn. Chop, grow back, turn. Chop, grow back, turn.

They say you can never go home. They say time heals all wounds. They say everything happens for a reason. True, false, undecided. I say my wounds will never really heal, and neither will yours. I say I took my home with me the day I left it, if indeed that makes any sense. I say I am the reason, and I am happening to everything. I am happening to you.

And I need not close my port hole to set my sights on the future, but I need not stand so close to it either.

Send Me to Antarctica

I recently submitted an entry to become a blogger for a trip to Antarctica. What follows is my application.

Send me! There are several reasons why you should.

First of all, I am an excellent story teller. This is important for Antarctica since I can’t imagine there are too many things that are happening there. While most people would write something like;

Day 3. Woke up. Walked out of tent. Screamed. Ran back in and went back to bed.

I would write something like;

Day 3. Woke up in a blissful refuge of confusion and silly delight as the southern corner of the earth provides wonderment at every moment. I engaged myself with my wintery garb prior to emerging from my temporary housing to a world screaming with the cool briskness of a land untouched.

See? That’s good right? And that was just about leaving the tent. Imagine if I actually met a polar bear or found some cool frozen thing to write about. Then you would have some stuff that would really make you smile.

I would also be really eco-friendly. I would not throw trash on the streets. I would not leave the lights on in my tent when I left it. If I have a toilet, I won’t flush it too many times. Heck, I might not even shower the whole time I’m there.

But my main goal is to attract enough attention so that Antarctica can host the 2022 Winter Olympics. I believe the 2022 Winter Olympics could bring some tremendous growth and industry to the region. Without the Olympics, Antarctica will survive sure. But I want it to thrive. And that will be my goal if you pick me.

So please. Send me to Antarctica. Let me wear a silly hat and face temperatures no human being should ever have to encounter. Send me, and you won’t regret it!

What I Remember

I remember falling off my bike the day before we left for Disney. I remember holding onto the handle bars while my knees scraped across the ground. I remember I didn’t cry. I remember that was a first.

I remember the night I hit my first and only grand slam. It was the same night O.J. took his Bronco out for a spin for the last time.

I remember how at one point in my life, all of my pants were too short.

I remember football on the front lawn. Burgers in the backyard, and herbs on the side of the

house. And I remember walking away for the last time.

I remember the car accident, and walking in the front door of my house to find out that my parents had planned a surprise party for that very same day.

I remember a million poor decisions. I remember a month of insomnia. I remember consistently getting in trouble around my birthday.

I remember every single word to every song from Aladdin.

I remember sneaking into the fridge to eat the swirl out of the promise margarine container.

I REALLY remember putting my finger on the iron, my finger in the socket, and my thumb on the scissor blade.

I remember my friend Danny. He’s still around, but by the time he found drugs in 7th grade… he was already gone.

I remember dancing around in the kitchen with an empty Tostitos bag on my head just to make my sister laugh. I remember she told my science teacher.

I remember that sunblock mom bought my sister and I that burned our skin when we put our faces in the water. I remember the worry on my mom’s face as she tried to make it stop.

I remember watching David Copperfield fly. I remember lying on my lawn for hours trying to make it happen.

I remember everything as a little better, a little brighter, a little funnier than it actually was.