Posted on by Lydia Ink

From Curious to Fodder

I wish my mother were here. Not that she’d do much good, but still I wish she were here.

You know sometimes I wonder if I want her here with me because, though I’m not much good, I feel, just a little, that she deserves this place more than me. I press the palms of my hands together and feel my bones just beneath my skin (more so now than ever) and think she should be here, not me.

Then the terror comes over me, and I just want her to hold me. Hold me, please mother, just once.

Just once.

When I was walking the streets of Chicago, I’d get as close to the lake as I could just to hear the lap of water. It was usually late, so the roar of the boats and the laughter of people did not interrupt me. In summer I might find late night lovers walking hand in hand. I thought them brave to walk and hold hands after dark in Chicago. I’d stay quiet and hide, not wanting them to think I was some thug or mugger.

See, yes, perhaps I’m not so bad. Perhaps somehow that will benefit me.

Also, if I die here, I’ll do it without a tattoo. My hair might be a blue one day and pink the next, but tattoos are too expensive and will look hideous after 50 years. I won’t live that long, I know.

It was the mist on the lake that attracted me. I’ve heard tourist wonder where all that water came from, they did not know Chicago sported a lake. What the hell people, do you think Chicago is in Kansas, (and not on the Missouri side, mind you)? Help me.

Yes, please help me.

Right, the mist on the lake. When I was younger, when my teachers tried, despite my mother, I would look out at this body of water and ache for it. Feel sorry for myself that I wasn’t on it, touching it, floating on it and freezing to numbness. It seemed so lonely, so forsaken, so beautiful, so cold, and I knew cold. We could only have our hats and gloves on while freezing on the playground, we couldn’t take them home and the bus ride home was so cold without them. The school would send home notes stating I needed a hat and some gloves, but the notes went unread and I grew older and more used to the freeze. So Lake Michigan drew me in during that frigid November day.

He was beautiful in the mist. He stood there, tall and lank and serene. How could I resist? At first I thought he wanted me for a night and though I never go to the Lake for that I shrugged and thought I would have him and revel in the thought I could find a secret place for secret self fulfilling desire. I guess I did. He keeps me here, in this bricked place, where I can’t see the lake. I hear it thunder in the wind, mostly I feel it within the walls of my prison. When I feel it, I feel the ache of cold and I know; I know he is here to feed upon the heat of my soul, and I’ll never see the lake in daylight again.

Posted on by Lydia Ink

Dead Today but not Tomorrow

So, I read today you are dead.

Are dead, and were dead, and was dead. Ah, the beauties of the English language. Each statement reflects for the audience who I am… well, to hell with them.

How long are we dead, Missy? A moment, a flash of time that encompasses exquisite pain and then–what? Do we remain in a paroxysm of memory or do we go blank after a sudden release?  And really, dear friend, what is worse?

Your obituary was brief; no viewing, no opportunity to submit to your favorite charity–the abortion clinic, the woman’s homeless shelter, or possibly the city’s club for user men. They put you in your grave and since weather permits a “brief” family ceremony at graveside, where the dirt hides their mess now. At last, my friend, your very own address.

And what is the funeral ceremony about? The children who don’t know you because you were unfit or broke or worse, deceived into believing you were too much of all the above?  What of your son, reared by your parents, the same parents who smiled at our girl scout uniforms and told us both we were communists? What would, will, shall, it be about?

And your “companions,” will they be there? Yeah, I know dear and so do you. If they slept with you, then they loved you, right? Tell me, did you ever get over that notion? You know, being able to brush your teeth, look in the mirror and say, ‘I am more than an easy lay’? Or did it ever occur to you sex, no matter how intense, is not love? Did they ever give you the time to figure out the mystery which was you?

Maybe. I don’t know.

Missy, I always thought you pretty; your smoke-blue eyes and blemish less ivory skin, even young as we were, I thought you pretty. It was always you who ran from the boys on the playground — they show you their crotch yelling, “sharpen my pencil, Missy, sharpen it for me.” On the playground, God help the early developed girl.

Later we watched the boys, who stood up straight for the blond prom queen’s father. While they fawned over future wives, they made sure you knew their intent; making you blush and me shudder. They snickered in their Christian youth groups and pondered about time with you. We fooled ourselves into thinking their gold crosses meant something to them. Raised right by proud fathers who knew best, the young beautiful sons made sure condoms were always ready in their pockets and roomy back seats. For justice’s sake, I wish them daughters with large breasts and low self-esteems.

Missy, I wait for the dead to tap on my windowpane, and for someone else to tell me their name. Today it was yours and in a swirl of a green girl scout uniform, hobo Halloween costumes and trampled prom dresses your blank, smoke-blue eyes, look back at me, no more questions, just perhaps surprise.

Posted on by Lydia Ink

Her Hunt His Folly

The best part of her day is when everyone she works with sets off for home or some other dubious spot that lends a sparkle to their otherwise lack-luster eyes. She enjoys her coworkers; feels no animosity towards them but enjoys the quiet promoted by their absence and the residue of relief, even joy they leave, calling it a day. 

There is no shuffling, no one-sided phone conversations, no opening and shutting of doors, no murmur of business as usual, just a silent desertion that most, her being the exception, would consider an eerie peace.

She goes about the small office, closing window blinds, locking necessary doors and making notes to help start her next working morning. These menial tasks comfort her in a rushed and bustling world. Her evening tasks give credence to the fact that she has survived another day.

She has kept to the job for five consecutive years. 

She is proud of that fact, and she is also proud of the fact that she has maintained her resolve not to hunt any longer, though pondering the drive, which lingers within her mind and tingles along her arms and legs keeps her up at night.

The last successful hunt wasn’t her fault, and that fiasco strengthened her resolve to retire from all the complications and angst a hunt can cause. She was tired, exhausted really, and there he was, ready to rescue her; they all wanted to rescue her. That was the crucible of her hunt; empowering a man to come to her rescue, which invoked her power. Her prowess.

Philadelphia went smoothly, the hunt lasted three years and basically she tired of it and finished it and moved to Atlanta. The heat in Atlanta was excruciating. She felt so mercenary in Atlanta. In each city she had fulfilled a hunt and that complicated things for the next hunt. Her success in Philly gave her too much confidence, she did not research Atlanta at all. The only fact she focused upon was that Atlanta seemed happening sharp, and she was in the mood to fit in. The heat hit her like a ton of bricks and she got messy, greedy. 

Minneapolis was just what the doctor ordered. But Minneapolis proved too fertile a place after Atlanta’s heat. She knew change was impossible. Philosophy of the ancients were for chumps and religion too. Trying to rise above the time bending reality of who we are today because of evolution, is contrary to the basic construction and purpose of the world. Humans are humans; some to hunt, some to be prey.

Her hunt began in the primordial ooze, and the creation of an alphabet and a pulpit are props of defense for the weak. In each city there were those who seemed to sense that she wasn’t right. Men who either couldn’t find their socks in the morning or needed that deep mental and heartfelt connection avoided her. 

Conversations on Plato or meditation exercises she despised. Prey who talked fables and fairytales as if there was a basis other than deception about it sickened her. No, those were not her type. What brought about her hunt were men, prey, who insisted that she needed rescuing.

Sex was spontaneous to these types of men and well calculated to her. As any huntress, she had her role to play; the desperate moves, the weak knees, her weeping and his inevitable vitality expanding in his chest and the moving of heaven and earth to keep her safe.

She lasted in New York (before Philadelphia) for almost two entire years but woke up one morning, felt that driving urge to make him beg for mercy, and slipped the tiny needle in while he finished his last supplication for mercy.

She was grateful that in Atlanta there was no beneficiary money–not coming so quickly from Philadelphia. That would have definitely sent up some red flags to the densest of people. Philadelphia set her up for life–as wild a ride as that was. She even wondered if she couldn’t become capable of actual love, but she needed to feel him drain, fade away, dissipate. Now, five years later, not really needing to work but needing a place to belong, she had avoided the rescuing type. 

She tried hard not to involve herself at all with coworkers. There were too many knights in shining armor or bored husbands to go around. She kept to the company of women in the workplace. Her hunt did not include them. She knew what to avoid; the more expensive restaurants and upscale bars were the happy hunting grounds. No clubs. 

The fact of the matter was, however, she wasn’t getting any younger. She still liked to keep that perfect distance in age, but the rescuing type were not frequenting restaurants and bars as much. Perhaps she was finally seeing them go extinct. Though there was the hard working delivery man who expanded his chest when she signed for deliveries. Smelling his mind amused her.

Attempting to keep to herself, she let him know she was not from the area. She could almost hear his mind contemplate her history. Obviously hurt by some bastard, or perhaps the love of her life perished in some fiery crash flittered through his open mind. They would chit-chat about the weather and he would try to make eye contact with her… perhaps on Monday she could manage a little sorrow.

Posted on by Lydia Ink

She Wanted Me To Have It

I didn’t believe her.  I told her I did, but I didn’t.  She smiled at me in a half-hearted or perhaps a whimsical way and said, ‘thank you.’  She whispered the two words to me and looked away.  Her soft hair, straw colored and wavy, veiled the side of her face in a cascading shade of brilliance as she looked down at her hands.

I felt a surge of male adrenaline.  Here was a woman who just a year ago was one of the up and comings of our group, a bright and shining star.  One trip to Rome and she came back a recluse. Now she sat before me, a damsel in distress or that Victorian lady, even the mad Ophelia.  I once pictured myself (me and several men of our mutual acquaintance), falling in love with her.  She published in the New Yorker before she graduated from college; she contemplated a job at The Washington Post and she just a year ago, all blogs, rags, newspapers and magazines were ready to publish her journalism.  She was a like a dog with a bone when pursuing ‘the truth’ and everybody wanted her.

That was a year ago.  Now this up-and-coming journalist was soliciting help from me in a busy bistro in New York.   From me!  And looking like a girl from a 1940s golden Hollywood film, telling me stories about the supernatural.  Things I used to laugh about in catechism class at age 8.  This is the 21st century.  My Baby-Boomer father would have succumbed to her soft strength, I did not.  I pocketed my anxiety about her, along with my surge of Freudian awareness, paid the bill and walked away.

She was a third generation fallen away Methodist, for Pete’s sake. What was she doing holding onto a crucifix and asking me questions for?  When we were sophomores in college, we were lovers for a brief time and afterward we would laugh at the moralist who would shake their finger at us.  No moralist shook their finger at us, but still it was something to laugh about.

So, I left her there, at the cafe.  I paid the bill and asked if she needed any money.  She shook her head and wouldn’t look at me.  “Thank you, Michael,” she said again.  A bum found her the next day, cold and dead.  The police questioned me and determined that I was the last to see her alive–outside of her murderer.

I did not kill her.

I did not.

I was at a party that night, celebrating my best friend’s engagement to a wonderful woman; strong, long legged, and well put together.  She an attorney and he an up-and-coming doctor.  Neither of them beyond child-bearing years, despite the time it took for them to fall in love between their accomplishments. Does that sound cynical?

I can still see her, living, breathing and frightened, sitting across from my incredulous self.  “Michael, nothing is certain.  Have some faith in me.  I’ve seen hell, please help me.  You’re the only one I know who was religious.  Help me!  What I saw was real. He snapped her like a twig and rose several stories.  He looked right at me while he killed her and smiled.  I know he is here.  I left Rome right away, but he is in New York.”

“I want to help you,” I said, reaching forward squeezing her delicate hands.  I was sincere.  Her hands, warm to my touch but only because they had held the warm paper coffee cup.  She looked frail, suffering.  I told her to stop, to leave it alone, but would she listen to me?  No, she had to know the truth.  What truth?  That such things existed, that the boogeyman was walking about New York, jet setting to Rome and picking his victims at his leisure around the world?  And since when did she worry about crime stories, the money and fame were in social issues, everyone knew that.

She was broke when she died.  It shocked me; I mean, she had money.  Her parents found old stuff in her apartment; rosaries, history books that looked handwritten, stuff that should have been in a museum.   Her parents couldn’t understand why she would have such superstitious things around her.

Don’t think me a total brute, please.  I would have taken her with me the night of the engagement party, fed her, introduced her back into the fold of our mutual friends, even though she looked a walking scarecrow, but she said no.

Anyway, so I’ll talk to this priest who called me and let it all go, get back to my life.  He said he got my number from her.  I will not wreck my life running after things that drive a sane person mad and raving about guys who levitate and break necks.  Demons left the world with leprechauns and the fairy queen, right?  I’ll get this Roman Catholic priest off my back and walk away.  I’ve had it with thinking about it.

Yeah, she made me take the rosary she was carrying.  She said she worried about me being seen with her.  I took it; she wanted me to have it. 

I felt a surge of male adrenaline.  Here was a woman who just a year ago was one of the up and comings of our group, a bright and shining star.  One trip to Rome and she came back a recluse. Now she sat before me, a damsel in distress or that Victorian lady, even the mad Ophelia.  I once pictured myself (me and several men of our mutual acquaintance), falling in love with her.  She published in the New Yorker before she graduated from college; she contemplated a job at The Washington Post and she just a year ago, all blogs, rags, newspapers and magazines were ready to publish her journalism.  She was a like a dog with a bone when pursuing ‘the truth’ and everybody wanted her.

That was a year ago.  Now this up-and-coming journalist was soliciting help from me in a busy bistro in New York.   From me!  And looking like a girl from a 1940s golden Hollywood film, telling me stories about the supernatural.  Things I used to laugh about in catechism class at age 8.  This is the 21st century.  My Baby-Boomer father would have succumbed to her soft strength, I did not.  I pocketed my anxiety about her, along with my surge of Freudian awareness, paid the bill and walked away.

She was a third generation fallen away Methodist, for Pete’s sake. What was she doing holding onto a crucifix and asking me questions for?  When we were sophomores in college, we were lovers for a brief time and afterward we would laugh at the moralist who would shake their finger at us.  No moralist shook their finger at us, but still it was something to laugh about.

So, I left her there, at the cafe.  I paid the bill and asked if she needed any money.  She shook her head and wouldn’t look at me.  “Thank you, Michael,” she said again.  A bum found her the next day, cold and dead.  The police questioned me and determined that I was the last to see her alive–outside of her murderer.

I did not kill her.

I did not.

I was at a party that night, celebrating my best friend’s engagement to a wonderful woman; strong, long legged, and well put together.  She an attorney and he an up-and-coming doctor.  Neither of them beyond child-bearing years, despite the time it took for them to fall in love between their accomplishments. Does that sound cynical?

I can still see her, living, breathing and frightened, sitting across from my incredulous self.  “Michael, nothing is certain.  Have some faith in me.  I’ve seen hell, please help me.  You’re the only one I know who was religious.  Help me!  What I saw was real. He snapped her like a twig and rose several stories.  He looked right at me while he killed her and smiled.  I know he is here.  I left Rome right away, but he is in New York.”

“I want to help you,” I said, reaching forward squeezing her delicate hands.  I was sincere.  Her hands, warm to my touch but only because they had held the warm paper coffee cup.  She looked frail, suffering.  I told her to stop, to leave it alone, but would she listen to me?  No, she had to know the truth.  What truth?  That such things existed, that the boogeyman was walking about New York, jet setting to Rome and picking his victims at his leisure around the world?  And since when did she worry about crime stories, the money and fame were in social issues, everyone knew that.

She was broke when she died.  It shocked me; I mean, she had money.  Her parents found old stuff in her apartment; rosaries, history books that looked handwritten, stuff that should have been in a museum.   Her parents couldn’t understand why she would have such superstitious things around her.

Don’t think me a total brute, please.  I would have taken her with me the night of the engagement party, fed her, introduced her back into the fold of our mutual friends, even though she looked a walking scarecrow, but she said no.

Anyway, so I’ll talk to this priest who called me and let it all go, get back to my life.  He said he got my number from her.  I will not wreck my life running after things that drive a sane person mad and raving about guys who levitate and break necks.  Demons left the world with leprechauns and the fairy queen, right?  I’ll get this Roman Catholic priest off my back and walk away.  I’ve had it with thinking about it.

Yeah, she made me take the rosary she was carrying.  She said she worried about me being seen with her.  I took it; she wanted me to have it. 

Posted on by Lydia Ink

Into the Asylum

There are days I wish it were over.  I don’t want to know who I am and I don’t want to face another night.  It’s different when the sun goes down.  I know and they know and the world just goes on, ignorant.

When I was a kid, I would read every fantasy novel I could get my hands on.  I was the skinny kid saving his pennies for the dictionaries on Middle Earth and I was the kid alone on the playground acting out the last epic battle of good versus evil.

Teachers would pull my mother aside and tell her I made other children uncomfortable.  They told her the reason other kids picked on me and ridiculed me was because she allowed me to stay in my fantasy world.  I’ll give my mother this; as overworked as she was, she stood up for me.

Occasionally she would pick me up early from school, sign me out, and we would have ice cream in the full light of day.  I know that she felt it was us against them, but I didn’t know how many battles fronts she was fighting.

She didn’t come home one night.  They found her remains three months later, down by Navy Pier.  She didn’t die there.  The police still call it an open case.  The cops that investigated her murder even came around to check on me in foster care. I know she didn’t die easy; it wasn’t quick.

I was thirteen when she died, and foster care was one of the worst things that could have happened.  When they tapped on my window and I cried for help, my foster parents didn’t believe me.  At one point they institutionalized me for schizophrenic behavior.   That was worse because then the bastards could walk right in–the loons invited them in all the time.  Nobody questions why a homeless schizoid dies alone–they pack them off to cold storage with a shrug and a “too bad.”

Strange, though, the loons never turned.  Never.

I would have won if a weary old priest hadn’t heard my screams one night.  He didn’t believe they could crawl along the ceiling and hide in shadows, but he gave me a golden crucifix that has never left me. That stops them, scoffers be damned.

You don’t know how desperate and crazy you can sound when a white clad orderly is standing in the doorway with a straight jacket for you and one of the cursed ones is smiling at you from the ceiling; they would crawl around like flies.   I think many of the inmates went crazy after they arrived.

I sleep in the church’s basement now.  I do odd jobs, so they let me.  I sleep well there, despite the unbelief of the old priest who saved me.

I miss my mother.

I work hard to avenge her.  That’s what she did, worked hard.  Maybe it will all end with me.  Or end me.