I decided to post a short story I wrote on here at the prompt of a friend. So here ya go:
Pears are expensive. I shouldn’t waste them. Yet I just spent almost 20 minuets playing with my breakfast pear. Slowly pushing the insides around with the skin still intact.
It dripped on me.
This pear is organic too, so even more pricey. Paying more for less, who would have thought? Seems kind of shiesty to me. But this pear was already brown in many places. The stupid cashier slammed it around.
That’s a lie.
I probably slammed on my breaks too hard and sent the sweet bastard flying around the little blue horror that is my car.
I stab the pear.
I don’t know what to feel anymore. The anxiety from earlier turned to relief, turned to confusion.
Life is confusing.
I fall in love with every poor sod I meet.
It isn’t lust, I don’t want for their bodies per se. I guess I lust after their qualities, the minds, the thoughts, the voices, and the jokes.
I lust for beards.
I lust for hair to tousle. I lust for warm smooth skin to rub. I lust for a phone call from someone I want to speak with. I lust for a human safe in which to store my secrets. I lust for understanding.
I lust for a warm body in a cold bed and a person in my life who’s more than just a face with a voice. I lust for a stabilizer. I lust for a compadre, for someone to be on my team always.
I lust for lust most of all. And all this lust equals love. I find love, or the hope for it around every turn. Call me pathetic, call me estranged, I call this life.
I stab the pear a few more times but then I look up and see that it is almost nine. Nine a.m., the bane of my existence. Foundation drawing, and if I miss it again… well then it’s lights out for my art degree.
Does it matter? Probably not. I mean, it’s an art degree. I’m probably going to end up as a janitor in a McDonalds. I’m probably going to end up knocked up in a trailer with six screaming… bundles of JOY.
The sound of barking dogs makes me uncomfortable. I’m in a hurry but I just can’t see driving to school today. Its one of the last nice days we’ll probably get before the treacherous months of cold and ice set in. So I’m walking. But those damn dogs, they get me every time. To some a bark is just a noise, but to me a bark is a warning call. It’s saying “hey look out, I’m here and if you come to close I’ll get you.”
They say the bark is worse then the bite. They have never been bitten before. Once when I was 6 my neighbor’s dog bit my leg. I still have scars. That dog is dead now, they put it down. It was just a poodle, but man that thing had a set of teeth on it. My mom and dad were both at work and my brother was “watching” me. That pretty much entailed locking me outside while him and his girlfriend “watched a movie” in the basement. To be fair, sometimes the movies were only a few minutes long and the she would leave pretty pissed off…
Anyway, my mom came home and I was in the bathtub in a bubble bath of blood. We had to get rid of the tub. The brown remnants of blood could not be removed, not even by the strongest cleaning chemicals. Shame too, it was a beautiful round basin claw foot things. Beautiful.
9:05. I’m late, but not late enough that I can’t slip in unnoticed. Mr. Hawthorne probably hasn’t even gotten here yet. He usually waltzes in at about 9:15. Even when he’s on time, he’s not really ever there. Personally, I just think he’s stoned most of the time. I mean come on. He’s an art teacher. He’s always decked out in tie-dye. You do the math.
He’s nowhere in sight as I walk into the studio. Everyone is just sitting on their drawing horses talking. I sit down in my little tapped off still life spot next to Bennett and get comfortable. Bennett is pretty much a tool, but as far as this class goes he keeps me sane. I’ve never known his first name, and I don’t care too either. If asked to describe him in 10 words or less, I would take the liberty of using more words and say he is a rich neo-skate boarder type who can be positively identified by his super Italian features, his iPod that constantly blares shitty radio rap, and his bright colored expensive skateboarding apparel. Upon further dissection, he can generally be found spitting out his sarcastic and almost always rude witticisms that are more then likely directed at me, and or my drawings.
“Nice slippers grandma.” He chirps out as soon as I sit down.
“Nice Nike’s asshole.” I retort
“Nike’s are nice.”
“Yeah if you have an extra hundred buck laying around to throw towards child labor.”
Lucky for him, my triumph is ruined by Mr. Hawthorne bursting in through the big wooden double doors of the studio.
“Good morning everyone. You know what you’ve got to do so get to it. I’ll be around to look at all of your drawings in a few minuets.”
I look down and notice the scab on my knuckle from where I cut myself with a can last week has opened up. It’s gushing blood. A few drops get on the floor.
“Mr. Hawthorne… I need a band-aid.”
“Ooooh Lily.” He says in a voice that sounds like amused annoyance to me.
I get the band-aid and by the time I’m settled down and cleaned up, it’s break time. As I walk out towards the door I decide that’s enough drawing for one day. Mr. Hawthorne doesn’t notice anyway, he never has.
On the way home I see Sqintz, the homeless dude standing by the gas station on the lake. I give him $20 and he goes in and comes out with a 12 pack of Yuengling. I cram all of those sweet cans of fermented joy into my backpack next to the art supplies that weren’t even worth carrying today and I’m off to The Hill.
The Hill is not really a place that should have a name. What I mean is no one knows about it except me. I mean, other people go past it every day, but they don’t care about it. They don’t seek it out. I on the other hand love it. It’s a little bit of a hike on foot because it is literally at the top of a giant, hillside, curvy road but when you get to the top… bam right in your face! One of the most brilliant views you’ve ever seen of the valley and the lake. Today all the leaves are different shades of red and orange and in contrast to the stark yet playful light and darks of the clouds it is almost more than I can handle.
And then I drink.
And I cry some more.
It seems really queer to me to be sitting underneath such a vast and wide sky that takes no mind of me, crying. It seems really queer.
After awhile, I’m pretty drunk. I mean, I’ve downed 5 of these cans in the last two hours.
And now all I can think about is how I ended up here. How I ended up being an artist. That night I stole those awful $0.73 bottles of acrylic from Wal-Mart and the first thing I ever painted. How a few months later, my best friends mom bought her an expensive oil paint set and she started painting and was better than me. How she got into a better school. How she stole my boyfriend and broke both of our hearts before she left and never talked to us again. She didn’t care.
It’s getting dark.
The sun is falling behind the trees. Screw this; I can’t sit up here in the dark. I’ll pass on being eaten on a bear tonight. I pack my bag back up and I’m off. It’s pitch black by the time I get home.
I forgot to leave a fucking light on. Now I have to walk vulnerably into the never-ending darkness of the apartment while someone could be standing there “Silence of the Lambs” style with night vision goggles waiting, JUST WAITING to blow my brains out.
I can’t go in. I just can’t make myself do it.
Out in my car, I light up a smoke.
And another smoke.
I fish the flashlight out of my glove compartment, wading through the unpaid parking tickets, the bottle of blue nail polish that hides the scratches on my car, and the empty cigarette packs. I don’t even know how it got in there, the flashlight. What good is a flashlight in a car? Well, I guess if you’re trapped on the side of the road at night and need to pee maybe you’d be glad you had it.
I ready my pocketknife.
Opening the door of the apartment, I edge towards the lamp in the corner. No. Sudden. Movements. And… BOOM. Lights on. Quickly surveying the rest of the apartment, I find no one. No smelly mass murdering, girls skin wearing man hiding in a corner waiting to capture me.
Now I feel crazy. Who does that!?
I open the fridge and move aside the SILK milk, the strawberries, and the half empty bottle of pino noir to make room for the beer.
By the time I get the 5th beer in there, its pretty cramped. The 6th beer proves to be too much and the bottle of wine topples out onto my floor.
God damn it, what kind of asshole land lord gives anyone a fridge this small?! IT’S TOO SMALL!
No it isn’t. It’s pretty big. Certainly way bigger than the mini fridges they get in the dorms.
Probably I should just clean it out more often. I’m pretty sure the ball of fuzz hiding in the back used to be a half watermelon. The lid on the Tupperware container on the bottom shelf is almost bursting from what I only can assume is similar fuzz.
There is wine everywhere, but at this point I don’t even care. I just leave the wine and go into my room and crawl into bed. In the morning, I’ll be pissed that I did that. In the morning I’ll have to scrub the floor. Right now though, I just want to be in my blue room, surrounded by my clippings and my paintings and my collages and my sculptures. I just want to sleep and dream in Technicolor of other beautiful and heartfelt things to create. Tomorrow, I’m going to make something that somebody will care about. I’ll find someone who will care.