The literary underworld

I suppose it was due to a need for attention. At least that’s what my mother told them. It was a “cry for help”. But I didn’t feel that way when I picked up the rock. No part of me thought it would fix anything. In fact, my intentions were entirely destructive. Seems to me it was more of a random sadistic urge I had to fill.

The urge hit while I was standing on the corner of Blair and 5th. Picking at my fingernails, I stared longingly down the street waiting for my mom’s car to wind around the corner. A wet sheet of dead leaves ushed and gushed beneath my feet on the sidewalk. Muddy water seeped through the hole in the bottom of my right shoe. While I stared vacantly, the tune of uptown girl slowly poisoned my mind, forcing me to hum to myself. “Uptown giiiiiirl, hmm hm hm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm….” As I began to lose myself in the abyss that is Uptown girl, I managed to notice the cop car slowly rolling past. Something about the car evoked chaos within me. Maybe it was the shiny spotless paint job, or the straight white letters which resembled my uncle, or perhaps it was the silence of the siren that ticked me off. Who can say exactly what it was. All I know is that I wanted to put a dent in that perfect car.

With the speed and stealth of a boardwalk magician’s quarter infiltrating the innocent space behind a tourist’s ear, a rock appeared in my hand. There was only one thing to do. No time to think. (Really, I had plenty of other options and could’ve contemplated the decision at least long enough to realize it was a faulty plan. But life is meant for the livin’.) With a flaming overhand I sent the rock soaring towards its shiny blue target. I knew I could depend on my carbon companion to make a mark, at best a dent or broken window. Plummeting down onto the car like a meteor, the rock left a footlong scrape on the back left passenger door. It tore through the straight white letters “CE”. (Shae: 1, Hick uncles: 0 ).

A red-faced boar with high cholesterol, rolled angrily out of the car. I walked down the sidewalk and pretended to be a normal civilian, one who doesn’t throw rocks at cop cars. Despite my sauveness, the boar was on my trail; he already had my scent.

“Hey you! Kid! Come back here!” My pace increased, so did the ushing and gushing beneath my feet. I could hear the pig catching up with me. It roared, “stop right there!” My jog escalated into a sprint as I passed by New Day bakery. The image of a PC Mario popped into my head. How did a little Italian man manage to defeat a fire-breathing dragon-monster countless times? Although my predicament was similar, it was clear I would not be as fortunate as the savvy red-capped man.

Ush gush, ush gush. With about an inch of water in my shoe, it was getting harder to keep my balance while running. As I slid around the corner, my mother’s car drove straight past me. Through the passenger side window, our gaze met for a split second. I could see flames in her eyes flickering. If I had looked hard enough I probably would’ve seen myself burning in them for eternal damnation. Her mouth was moving but all I could her was the faint scream of a demon. I could only imagine how bad this looked. The cop was clearly not the one to be afraid of.

I have to find a way to get this pig off my trail…. As I neared redbarn my necessary plan of action became clear. The plan was: run in the front door of Redbarn, taunting the cop to follow, then run out and jump off the back deck, finally, escape down third street alley. It was fool proof. The cop would never know where I went. Time to execute it.

Sprinting up the stairs to the front door, the cop was only a few yards behind. I busted through the door and threw a bunch of bananas on the floor to trip him. “Hey, Kid! What the f*ck do you think you’re doing?! Get out of here ya damn rat!” The tweaker on the wrong side of the register shook his fist at me. I sprinted out the back and off the deck. Victory was mine! With both hands in the air, I jogged down the alley, celebrating my unbelievable success.

My eyes began watering with relief. I decided to sit and take a breather for a second. Across from me, a rat chewed on a used condom; disgusting. I tried to count the bricks in the wall and forget about the rat. 3,5,6,9,7,8,10…. Just as my breath came back I heard a car door slam around the corner out of the alley. Shit. I braced myself, rubbing my wrists while they were still free from cuffs. I could hear the footsteps about to turn the corner. But before I saw any feet, faces or handcuffs I was greeted with an all too familiar yell. “SHAELIN BRISA OLTON WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?! I swear I can’t leave you ANYWHERE!” Mom’s hands flapped, clapped and jabbered along with her words whenever she got angry. “Goddamn child what am I gonna have to do to get you to behave?! You better not be cryin’, you got yourself into this mess. Now get up, why are you just sitting in this nasty alley.” She grabbed my arm and dragged me into the car. I stared blankly out the window, wishing it was the cops that caught me. Sitting in the middle back seat, she buckled all three seat belts across me to ensure I wouldn’t jump out while the car was moving. “You’ve got a lot of thinking to do, Shaelin.” Thinking about what? Rocks? Running? Rats chewing on full loads? God, I wish the cops got me.

Chicken broth simmered with animosity atop the antiquated gas stove. Trying to escape its rusty cage, the broth began climbing over the edge of the pot. “Amber!” (bubble bubble). “Are you watching the soup? I’ll be down in a minute, can you start cutting the carrots?” Amber, who had very much so forgotten about the soup, the one her mother claimed to have “family bonding magic” within it, looked up from her latest edition of Girls and Corpses magazine to see the broth’s faulty attempt at liberation. She turned down the burner. Submissively, the broth reconvened in the pot.

Pretending they were the fingers of bullies at school, Amber began chopping carrots with the biggest knife in the kitchen. Her knife. She worked at a steel table that was marked up with scrapes and dents from many generations of carrot abuse. Grandma was not a delicate cook. As she hacked away at the carrots, limb after limb, she became distracted by the motion outside. Through the kitchen window she could see Xena chasing butterflies around the blackberry bushes. “Get ‘em, Xena! Get ‘e- shit!” Amber grabbed her throbbing finger only to find 2/3rds of it. Mixed in with the carrots, she saw the other third gorily laughing at her mistake as it bled on the cutting board. “Moooooom…. Do we have any bandaids?” The sound of no reply echoed back at her mockingly. Amber used her knife to cut a piece of fabric from her shirt. She wrapped the tip of her severed finger and tied the fabric tight so as to hinder the blood flow. Welp, Amber thought to herself, what can ya do. ( As far as medical professionals and other common people are concerned, there’s lots you can and probably should do to treat a severed finger, but Amber was raised to detest Western medicine and is definitely no common person.)

Despite her promise to “be down in a minute”, three hours had passed and Amber’s mom, Alice, was most likely still asleep upstairs. Amber had given up on the “family bonding magic” soup, considering it had un-bonded her and her finger and it would take much more than magic to bond this family.

The clock’s hands immitated a stripper’s pole, pointing straight up and down, signaling 6:00 o’clock. This was Amber’s que to begin her sunset walk, a tradition she and Xena shared for years. She pulled her father’s huge old hoodie out of the closet. The only trace of him left in the house. The hoodie was moth-eaten and neglected, similar to the empty hole in Amber’s psyche that only a father can fill. When she wore the hoodie the sleeves hung down six inches past her hands, wagging as she walked.

Xena lead Amber through the tall golden grass. Having grown accustomed to this walk, Xena knew the exact route. Through the grass, past the mill, to the creek and back again. While they walked, Amber examined the raw severed skin behind her homemade bandaid. Unsticking the fabric from her wound made her wince. The finger oozed thick vanilla custard through clots of half-dried cherry sauce. She gagged. Xena tried to get a taste. “No, Xena, stop it.” As they neared the wheat mill, Amber noticed a beautiful bird perched between the grinder’s blades. “Oh, sweet birdy, that’s not a safe spot to sit. I suppose you don’t know this thing is pressure censored.” She reached her hand out to guide the bird out of the grinder.  The bird, with no need for assistance, flew out with ease. As Amber began to remove her hand, she realized the sleeve of her hoody was stuck between the blade. Fuck. She tugged at the sleeve but it didn’t come loose. The tug did no good. In fact, it did harm. As if the tug was challenging its power, the grinder began roaring. Inch by inch Amber watched the sleeve get eaten between metal teeth. She screamed ferociously but Alice was still asleep. No one would hear her but Xena.

Inside of me

Is yet another.

Not a friend

And not a brother.

Someone’s there

Who’s not quite me,

Thinking things

I wouldn’t think.

When we go walking,

And smell the dew,

Where trees are foggy,

I speak to you.

Where lips clammer,

Just jaws clumping trash;

My lungs in the slammer;

We must leave in a dash.

Stuck alone in the dark,

All I have is you;

Criticism so sharp,

It cuts me right through.

Inside of me,

Is yet another.

Not a friend,

And not a brother.

Someone’s there

Who’s not quite me.

They have a name;

Anxiety.

We miss the sunshine

When the sky gives us some rain

Could be a lesson

What we took for granted then

Is always subject to change