My Love My Life

I started visiting Madame Maureen about two weeks ago; I liked the company and I think she did too. In that sense we were a lot alike, both lonely and in desperate need of some comfort. She was alone with her sooth sayings as I am alone with my thoughts; both detrimental to ones health. When we talked, occasionally, we talked about this: Thinking and Divining. I really enjoyed our encounters, but I never got the chance to tell her that. I guess I'm too bitter and introverted to express my feelings. She never knew this about me, because she made me feel contrary to my true colors. Madame Maureen died, I guess she read her last palm--mine. She had been complaining about her breathing for three days and I had noticed the problem for longer. My initial diagnosis was Lower Respiratory Tract Infection, but she said other wise. I laughed at the humor, a soothsayer arguing with an ex-doctor, two people you generally don't argue with. We agreed to disagree. But to strengthen my argument, I proposed an idea for her to read my palm and we see if my fate is true. She initially refused, telling me that it would hurt her, and that fate is a dangerous thing, but I soon convinced her. The next day she was dead. I came by to visit but the police were there instead. They told me she was in the hospital. My heart raced, and my capillaries in my eye increased blood flow. I ran to Beatrice's Suit Store and grabbed the most handsome suit, flowers, shoes, and cologne I could find. I was left empty, not myself, just an unoccupied body with too much cologne, useless flowers, and a dark suit. Maureen just lied there motionless, dead, gone. She told me it would hurt her, I didn't listen, I persisted. That night I lied in my cardboard bed and thought. Her voice echoed in my ears, "Ah your life line is short, I guess your thoughts and sadness are going to get the best of you Ronald." She won the argument, for my fate was fulfilled. I finally thought the last thought and blew out the last candle. See you soon Madame. See you soon. 

Fanny Mae

It was the first time I had been attracted since before the war. She reminded me of Helen. The way she flung her beautiful and springy curls over her shoulder. The way she smiled, exposing her bright and flawlessly aligned teeth. I became a victim of infatuation very quickly. She looked wounded, both internally and externally. The skin on her wrist was a dark purple and her cheeks were blood red. Scars ran up the front of her legs, varying in size, form, and color. Eyes and head focused down on her feet. Tears began to form in the corner of her eye, flowing and eventually dropping on to the floor beneath. She looked up at me in desperation, she looked up at me in agony, she looked up and smiled. I can't remember the last time someone smiled at me. Her plush lips cracked, uncovering her rejuvenating smile. I smiled back, hoping that I would get a chance to taste those wet lips. A chance to tussle tongues with this immaculate being. As I thought this, she approached me, hand extended and said, "Hi, ma name is Fanny Mae, who are you?" All I could muster was an ugly broken and suppressed smile and the word, "Ronald," in a severely cracked voice. 

She comforted me by saying, don't worry about your voice being cracked, it beats the hell out of a cracked life." She vocalized my thought. Did she know what I was thinking? With her eyes alone she could move the stone in front of the tomb. Those eyes remained in my mind until I finally went to sleep feeling satisfied, with a huge grin on my face.

Walk, Talk, and One Smoking Barrel

A sweat bead trickled down my forehead and into my eye. I still couldn't blink. My eyes were wide open staring at the chrome Browning Hi Power which was aimed directly at my face. Each breath felt like it lasted for hours. His last words rang and my ear: "You goddamn dirty sewer mongrel. How dare you harm Impala." I abhorred the way he referred to his car by its model, such southern ignorance irked me. His index finger straightened then curled to fit the trigger snugly. My sweat beads multiplied exponentially. I shut my eyes as tight as I could, but the silver snout of the pistol had a lasting impression in my brain. Another sweat bead crawled down my cheek; or another tear rather. I shut my eyes so tight I thought my ocular bones would break. I let loose another tear and just wished someone would take the gun from him. My thoughts were then interrupted by the gun shot. "The asshole actually pulled the trigger," I thought. Opening my eyes I saw Walt Komanski lying on his back clutching his bloody hand. Well I say hand, but their was more blood to clutch than there was hand. Even his pistol's freshly polished chrome was tainted a burgundy red. Keeping my dumbfounded expression, I fled the scene, trying to rid myself of flashbacks from Vietnam. The blood stayed in my thoughts from morning, noon, night, to insomnia. Ahhh, when will my sleepless cycle end? But more importantly how do these coincidences keep on happening?