Disappear Here

“You and your spouse will be happy in life together.”

In bed.

Untitled #47

He signs the last letter without even the slightest of flourishes. The Writer has a thought that he should have signed his name larger, with the loop in the “G” ending his name standing out. It would have been dramatic, the Writer tells him. People would notice.

The Realist points out that people are going to notice, regardless of the loopy “G” and that the Writer has always been a fucking pretentious asshole with no real grip on things, which is why these letters are being written in the first place. This is why, the Realist says, everything that is about to happen is to happen. The Realist blames the Writer.

The Writer is quick to scoff and stabs a finger at the Dreamer. He says the Dreamer is to blame for this entire mess. If the Dreamer hadn’t spent so much time keeping everyone in the clouds, dancing with figurative rainbows and sunshine drops and all that Candy Land bullshit, none of them would be in this predicament. None of them would be having this particular conversation right now.

He takes the letter, folds it neatly, taking special care to make even, firm creases. He slips it into an envelope. On the front is written: “RYAN.”

The Dreamer almost missed the entirety of the Writer’s accusation. Almost. Despite the Dreamer having a tendency to float precariously above everything, the Dreamer wasn’t completely oblivious. The Dreamer points a finger back at the Realist. The Dreamer blames the Realist for all their troubles. If the Realist hadn’t been so ugly, if the Realist wasn’t so quick to pull everyone down with the harsh, so-called “Facts of Life”, then surely none of them would be in this situation. If the Realist hadn’t been around to piss vinegar all over the Dreamer’s and the Writer’s vision, these letters wouldn’t be folded so carefully and then, so tenderly wrapped in envelopes. 

He lines the various envelopes—each with a name or title of some sort printed neatly on their faces, the only time he can be accused of writing anything neatly—on his desk, positioned in no particular order, though some would theorize after the fact that their stations had some great significance. 

The Realist points out, though the musings fall on a deaf mind, that people in times of grief and despair often try and point to anything, no matter how remote or infinitesimal a relation it might actually have to the event that transpired, in order to make sense of it; to give said act a purpose or design on the greater scheme of things. It is foolish, the Realist thinks, the things others will say and do to maintain a semblance of control over their lives, even if they are aware, deep down (thanks to other Realists), that no such control over anything exists. Sometimes, the Realist says, shit just fucking happens.

The Writer takes this moment to point out that, in this case, there is a reason. The Writer says that, despite the lack of flourish in the signatures, everything was very well put. There should be no doubt, when the sun rises tomorrow, as to why what will happen, happened. The Writer congratulates the work and is pleased.

The Dreamer begins to cry. The Dreamer asks if the others are scared; shouldn’t they be as frightened by this as the Dreamer is? Do they not realize what all of this really means? The Realist is quick to snap that the understanding of this hasn’t been lost on any of them, especially the Realist. The Realist knew something like this was just a matter of time. The reality of it all, the Realist says, is that this is how it was going to work out from the beginning. This was all of their fault, not any singular entity. They all had to take responsibility for their hand in this mess.

The Writer doesn’t care. At this point, the Writer loves what is going to come next. To the Writer, this is all poetic, utterly tragic, real, and the things all great works of art is made of; this is the story that has been begging to be written since the beginning. 

He lies down on his bed, oblivious to the arguments being made in his name. The cogwheels of this design had been in motion for a long time; this he knew without a doubt. When the point comes and it is time to close his eyes for the final time, he hopes he won’t linger too long. He hopes that whatever happens, he isn’t present for when people find him. He thinks that he cannot bear to handle the weight of what might come should all this fail. No, he thinks, let go quietly and without fuss. Let me fade away. Let me go on to the next great adventure; the dreams and the life that lies beyond this coil.

The Realist nearly pukes at this thought. The Realist wants to know if it was the Dreamer or the Writer who made this garbage up. The other two remain uncharacteristically silent. The Realist snorts. There is no afterlife, or new life, or Heaven or Hell; there is only nothing. Total and utter nothingness. Forever.

The Dreamer and the Writer detect something in the Realist’s tone. There is something laced within the Realist’s words that neither the Writer nor the Dreamer have really been able to detect from the Realist before. In all their arguments, in all their workings together, in all their late-night chats about the Truth of Things, neither party had ever picked up on anything from the Realist other than total acceptance of what the other two regarded, usually, as a bleak view. The Realist had always been okay with the way things usually worked out, because that was what the Realist was. Only this time…

He takes in a breath, his last breath, and savors it for a moment. He wonders what it will feel like. He wonders if it will be as abrupt as the movies and books make it out to be.

The Realist, the Writer, and the Dreamer hold their last breaths too. They could have spent their final moments arguing further as to who was to blame for all this. They could have debated on the weight and significance their actions—or inaction—had in what was about to take place. Had they been failures? Had they done the best they could? Was there really anything they could have done to prevent this? Would they have done anything to prevent this?

He pulls the trigger.

excerpt from “The Lost Boys” (Part 1 -The Beginning: John)

 “You know, I don’t think I’ve seen so much money and power being thrown to a cause so lost in this country since The Reconstruction. I mean, really, this whole affair would be utterly laughable if it wasn’t so damn sad. We’re all sitting around here, throwing countless thousands at a guy who amounts to nothing more than an empty suit.”

He could feel his wife’s gaze burning a hole in his face. He didn’t have to look down at her to know that there would be words exchanged. What the fuck did he care?

“No offense, Paul,” John said, tipping his head in a mock show of politeness to the man he was toasting. “I have to hand it to you, I’ve never seen these guys flock to a charity case quite so quickly. Shit, New Orleans was almost blown off the map and they hardly blinked. But Paul Allenway’s running for that illustrious Illinois Senate seat and the next thing you know, bam!” He tapped an open palm on the head of the microphone, sending a loud burst of noise through the ballroom. “You must really have some charm there Pauley.”

A soft murmur rippled through the well-dressed crowd, though no one made a move to grab the microphone from him. Not yet.

“Tell me some Paul, what are you going to say when Ray Templeton’s team brings up that failed business venture of yours? Hmm?” He didn’t even bother waiting for a response. “Or the hookers. Or that abortion your wife had before half of these people even heard of you enough to prop you up?”

Paul watched John, his face drawn to a pallid, ashen tone. A man seated next to him leaned over, whispered something, but he didn’t hear. The only thing traveling through his head were the words coming out of John Fog’s mouth. Underneath the tablecloth, his fingers made tight knots of his napkin.

“What are you going to do when they point out the fact that you’ve never once served a goddamn day in any sort of public service role? That you never graduated college. Hell, we don’t even know if you graduated high school!” He chuckled and wobbled slightly. He felt his wife’s hand on his thigh. He ignored her.

“You realize what this is, right?” He paused, let his gaze linger on Allenway. Surely he had to. No. No, he didn’t. Not if Rufus was running the show. If those hands were pulling the strings and scripting the scenes, then the poor sap they were setting up to take the fall would never know. The bastard had no idea the public torture he was going to endure. Sorry Paul, better you than me then, eh?

“You’re a fucking sacrificial lamb Paul.” He scanned the room, letting the faces at the various tables bleed together. They were all empty suits, every one of them. Traitorous assholes who cared little for God and Country, unless He was of a certain shade of green and could easily be laundered through various off-shore tax shelters. He caught his mark.

“Oh, wait. I’m sorry, was I not supposed to say something like that Rufus?” He pulled his shoulders upward, his lips dipped into a sardonic frown. His former chief of staff stood by one of the columns, balding head shaking from side-to-side ever so slightly. “Is this not what you meant when you asked me to keep my head down and not make a scene?” A chuckle eased past his drunken defenses. “Is this low-key enough for you?”

Heads turned to Rufus Spicher as the once few murmurs started to evolve into a louder rumble. He couldn’t make out any of the words that were being spoken, because they were irrelevant at this point. It was all done for him. There was no coming back now. He had stepped over that precipice and had to face the new frontier that existed beyond any of this.

John brought his attention back to Paul, who had now pulled himself out of his chair and was standing, watching his handlers for a sign—any sign—of what he should do. Take that microphone from that fucking drunkard! Stop him! Stop him! Quiet the mad prophet! John laughed again, which only caused the chatter to increase. Around him things were happening.

Chairs were being pushed out. People were standing up. Some might have even been moving toward him. His wife remained seated but he could still feel her hot gaze cutting him open. She squeezed his leg. She might have even made a grab for his arm, but he had already dropped the microphone and was headed away.

“It’s all in the game Paul,” John said, though his words were lost in the growing clamor. 

Under the Folding Branches (Excerpt #3)

“Tell me about your first time.”

“My first time?”

He smiled as his fingers once more began tracing zigzag patterns through my chest hair.

“Yes, your first time. What was it like? Who was it with?” His hand ceased moving and lay flat, palm against my skin. We held each other’s gaze for a moment.

“Why? Isn’t that a little heavy a conversation for two guys who just met to have?” I wasn’t sure if this was exactly true, but it felt like something I should say, or at least something that was expected. There was a flutter in my stomach at the thought he even cared to know how it all happened.

He just smiled and said, “We had sex last night. You swallowed my cum. I think talking about your first time won’t do any irreparable harm.”

Perhaps he did have a point, though I still couldn’t remember exactly how the events of last night had unfolded. The images I conjured could have been false; snapshots of an imagination gone wild. The ache was proof, I thought, that it had actually happened.

“Why do you want to know?” I could have bit my tongue then. I wasn’t sure why I responded so defensively when I was truly willing to share the story.

“Just tell me.”

“You’re so demanding,” I told him and rolled onto my back so that I was facing the ceiling. I watched the fan spin. On its lowest setting the turn of the blades was almost hypnotic.

“You didn’t mind it so much last night,” he said. He shifted next to me. One of his legs crossed over mine. I shivered. He brought himself up against my side, his arm casually draped over my chest as if it belonged there. It felt like it did, and the thought almost brought me to a panic because I had barely met this guy and there was something about him that was all so familiar and safe. I didn’t even remember his name!

“I don’t think that’s fair,” I said. “I don’t completely remember all of last night. For all I know, I totally bitched you out for being a demanding prig.”

At that he chuckled. The sound sent prickles of gooseflesh all over my body.

The Contents

Part One - In The Beginning

John (The Man Who Could Have)

Karen (The Women Who Did)

Kyle (The Child Who Will)

Part Two - I AM THE WALRUS

The House

Bird

The Morning After

Stairwell

The Bedroom

Clippings

Karen II (AN INTERLUDE)

Part Three - The House Always…

Caleb

Heartbeats

The Architect

White Noise

“I Killed My Wife”

East Lansing

Birds

Knock-Knock

Part Four - The Lost Boys

East Lansing (Revisited Outside of Time)

Karen III (THE LAST INTERLUDE)

Never, Never Land

“When I Grow Up”

Boys

he held her shoulders. with the wind teasing their hair and sound of a car horn blaring far below the balcony on which they stood, john looked at his wife.

“it could have been us,” he said. 

she said nothing, but did not disagree. she knew that if things had moved just a hair to the right, then yes, his statement would have been fact. the two of them would have ruled the world.

sometimes though, one is dealt a lackluster hand. a bad shuffle, a clumsy draw; that’s just the way things worked. for all the control people try to exert over their lives, everyone is merely a pawn, a helpless playing piece subject to the harsh reality of chaos. the universe rolls loaded dice.

“i could have been-.”

she placed one of her hands on his cheek. “don’t,” she started. “don’t say it john. it’ll only make it worse than it already is.”

Due: January 18th

My first draft is supposed to be done in two weeks and I haven’t even been able to write the first chapter. Or what will actually be the first chapter. I’ve written something that could pass as a first chapter, but it’s not the proper introduction this book needs.

I can’t get past the first sentence. “On the outside it was just a house.” I know the opening line isn’t exactly Dickensesque or anything, but I get a feeling in my gut when I type it, or write it that it is the exact way this story needs to be opened.

Ever since the new year I’ve had a rough go of it. My writing has come in random spurts—never long enough to make feel accomplished—and the slop that comes wouldn’t even pass for pig chow.

I really don’t want to disappoint myself. I don’t want to drop the ball on this; fail to follow through and end up discouraged.

from “Under The Folding Branches” (excerpt #2)

When I returned from the bathroom he was waiting for me. I paused for a moment with the door half-shut behind me. I hadn’t gotten a really good look at him since the previous night and that was still a bit of a blur. He smiled at me with his easy, cocksure grin. I thought I saw something in his eyes, a glimmer of a feeling I was familiar with, but incapable of pinning down in my current state. He pulled back the blankets from my side of the bed, inviting me once more to lie beside him.

“Hurry up,” he said. “You’re letting the cold air shrink my balls.”

I shook my head and closed the door the rest of the way. 

“I don’t think you could get any smaller,” I replied as I slid into the already cooled space next to him. 

“You certainly weren’t calling me small last night.”

I turned on my side so that I was facing him. I grabbed one of his cheeks and pinched. “Always with the last night. For all I know you-.”

He grabbed my hand suddenly and brought it down between his legs. What I felt there cut my breath short. I swallowed and felt my cheeks burn red. He took the moment to lean forward. He pressed his lips against mine. My eyes fluttered closed and I felt myself melt into him. His tongue pushed past and mingled with my own. 

“You brushed your teeth,” he said as he pulled apart, his tongue gliding over his lower lip. 

My cheeks were hot. “Of course I did. I wasn’t going to let you smell my rank morning breath.”

“So now mine must be awful?”

I kissed him. A move that I normally wouldn’t have made, but something about him, something about the openness that had, through the course of our conversation, come between us emboldened me. I squeezed him between his legs, gently but with a promise that there was more to come.

“It is pretty awful,” I said when I ended the kiss,”but I guess I can handle it.”

He growled low and then he was on top of me, his eyes searching mine as another one of his easy, mischievous grins arched across his face. 

“You guess you can handle it?” His hands gripped my hips, pulled them upwards against his crotch. I felt his hands as they slid my boxers downward. “You guess you can handle this too, huh?”

Is this okay?
Just like that.
You sure? I can stop.
Don’t. Don’t stop.
Corey.
Say it again.
Corey.
I’m going to-

Afterward, when he deposited himself beside me, he leaned up to my cheek. His fingers traced the thin outline of facial hair. His lips tickled my ear. The warm ache between my legs was almost more than I could handle.

“That’s not my name,” he whispered.

My eyes fluttered open. “What are you walking about?” I tried to remember guessing at his name. I was coming up blank. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You called me by his name,” he said as he rolled onto his back, the two of us staring up at the ceiling. “You called me-“

“I’m sorry,” I said, stopping him from letting that name roll of his tongue. I closed my eyes and silently berated myself. I had never before called out that name since the two of us had been together. The last time it had left my lips in the manner in which it just had moments before was the last time we had ever…

“Oh, it’s no problem.” He meant it, that much I knew. It might have bothered anyone else, but not him. That in itself, I found, bothered me. 

“I’m embarrassed.”

“Don’t be.”

“I should be. I called you by another man’s name!”

“Really Corey, it’s okay.”

“I can’t even remember your name! Tell me your name.”

“You already know my name.” 

from “Under The Folding Branches”

“The thing I remember most about him was how he smelled.”

He watched me and said nothing, though I thought perhaps his lips had moved ever so slightly, like they had words built up behind them waiting to spill out. So I thought to answer his question and save him the stigma of being rude for interrupting a story in progress.

“It wasn’t necessarily a badsmell,” I said as I tried then to conjure the scent of the man who had, so many years ago, taken from me that which so many people hold to be the most personal thing a human-being can give to another. I couldn’t smell it in the room, so I had to describe it as best I could without having any idea exactly what it was. “The smell aged him. I mean, it wasn’t like he smelled like an old man or anything. He just didn’t smell young. I knew he was older than I was. Come to think of it, I’m not sure how old he was exactly. If I were to close my eyes and try to picture him, I see his scarred face, mustache and beard, brown skin, short fingers… He just looked aged. He was probably in his twenties.”

I chuckled. “You know how when you’re a kid and you see an adult and no matter how old they are you always sort of viewed them as being so much older? Every adult was just looked ‘old.’ I feel like it’s kind of like that. I’m looking at Isaiah in my mind and seeing an older man, though he was only in his twenties. Was Freud onto something, you think? I wanted to sleep with my father?”

My lips had curled into a half-smile and I could feel the twinkle of jest in my eyes. My heart rapped against my chest.

“Your mother,” he told me. “Freud was all about boys wanting to sleep with their mothers.”

Easily Given, Hardest To Receive

Oh, I could love you
if only you’d let me try
we could be happy