Like The Day Is Long.

If I could bottle my own motivations,
And drop that bottle into the open void,
If I could paint a scene of my own salvation,
And have it hand delivered by the one decoyed;

If I could wrap my severed hands in an icebox,
Mail them across the seas to my partner in crime,
If I could say blessings over freckles and dreadlocks,
If I could throw you a party with silent mimes;

If I could will myself to feel your presence now,
If my strength held up even halfway to your own,
If I I could let you lick my wounds somehow,
If I could warm my soul at your hearthstone;

If I could articulate the growing hole in my heart,
If I could lift the fog from the inky moors of my mind,
If I could capitulate to the the cold and dark,
If I could sift the bog for my lost days’ worth of time;

If I could bake you an edible birthday cake,
If I could share your laughter on the windswept shore,
If I could be enlightened by the time it’d take,
If I could swear not to care anymore;

If I could write down all the ways I adore you,
If I could stay on pitch and sing you a song,
If I could bite down on any hand that’s hurt you,
If I could, I would; like the day is long.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SAM
(The Bear Trainer)

https://amalijaamalie.wordpress.com/


❤ From your ever-faithful sidekick.

A Jewel Dealer.

The bellboy silently closed the heavy hotel door behind him as he left the cushy room. S swallowed hard and calmly shut her eyes. She let her head roll back against the wall and began to quietly count to herself in the dark closet. She heard J’s voice float to her in the darkness, boisterously speaking to the man who’s name was signed on the hotel paperwork scattered across the glass coffee table about 10 feet in front of the closet.

J was carrying on about pointless things, trifling topics that filled the empty space between herself and the jewel collector she was captivating with nonsense.

“75…76…77…”
S stealthily sat up on her haunches, readying herself to spring to her feet.
“85…86…87…”

“I hear it’s lovely there in the spring.”

She heard the sarcasm oozing from J’s low murmuring voice through the darkness.

“95…96…97…”

The footsteps were growing louder, getting nearer, the floor beneath S shook lightly as they approached the closet she was hidden it, lying in wait.

As the closet door opened, S registered the surprise in the face of the jewel dealer; he knew he had been gotten. The jacket he had intended to hang up in the closet was already wrapped tightly around his torso from behind, and J’s maniacal grin peeked at S through the darkness from over his left shoulder.

“Don’t make a sound.”

S was deftly binding his legs already and, rather gracefully, switching her position in the closet with the jewel dealer’s next to J. THUD. The man fell full on his weight like a sack of potatoes into a heap on the closet floor. Two wide eyes staring up at the calmly poised women from the floor of the closet.

“Give us the keys.” J thrust out her hand towards the panicked face in the inky darkness.

“I…I…”

The jewel dealers words stuttered pathetically through gasps and quiet sobs.

“You will be a ghost full of regrets if you don’t stop talking and hand me those keys.”

S was wearing her serious face as she said this. Nervous pocket shuffling in the closet; keys jingling, coins rattling, until finally a small ring with two tiny nondescript keys on it was tossed through the space between them. A groan of miserable defeat followed from the closet.

Crooked Finger.

I know you’ve made the effort,

to fish me out and throw me aloft,

you’ve been on belay for a decade,

awaiting the tension on my end to let off,

you typically would never bother with,

hand-holding of the incompetent,

you have no patience or tolerance,

with things that lean to your detriment,

yet somehow your open palmed hand,

remains out to me, wherever I am,

even if I don’t know where I stand,

the bear blazes trails to the lamb,

I probably disappoint your mind,

and let your spirit down all the time,

I probably don’t very well epitomize,

the things you stand for in my own eyes,

I guess I feel heavy against your soaring flight,

like a weight on your ankle without any right,

I want you to achieve the dreams in your life,

with both of your hands free to win the fight,

            you’ll need both hands to accept the trophies,

            to stab at the person breaking and entering,

            to sign checks, breaks necks with your badassery,

            keep your hands free from the mess known as me.

 

 

 

The Unsecret Dialogue of Gravediggers.

“You can’t just walk around using your hand as a testicle vice at will, S!”

J appeared drunk as she bobbed and wove in front of her friend’s face, sweat running down her forehead and into her eyes as she chucked another shovel-head of earth out and over her right shoulder.

“Are you even listening to me, S?”

S wasn’t listening; she was instead, absorbing the things that were coming out of J’s mouth.

“Fine, at least dig, then…it’s hot out here; the buzzards are coming.”

J pointed a pterodactyl-like finger past S’ head, aimed high on the horizon, whereupon a kettle of the grotesque, awkward carrion birds slowly descended through a clear, hot sky towards the spot where the girls dug. With her other hand, she handed S the shovel she’d been digging with and went to the trunk to get another one, so as to speed this undertaking along.

The Unsecret Dialogue of Testicle Injuries.

PART 1

 

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Fast forward about twenty(ish) years from the day on the wharf when J was labeled a “sexual deviant” for the simple and innocent act of trying to keep the inattentive and tom-boyishly uncouth S’ dress from blow up during a wind gust. In hindsight, the deep shade and electrocuted expression on the poor bastard’s face has become one of J’s most treasured memories; and the mere thought of that specific moment in time is the source of multiple stomach muscle injuries as a result of hardy laughter. But as all things are between S and J, the circumstance was rather damning and getting more difficult by the second for J to navigate a way for it to end peacefully (not that any chance of a peaceful resolution hadn’t been thrown out the window the instant S made the dude’s junk into a necktie, but hey – she had to try).

J pushed the milkshake back over to S and maneuvered the straw into her mouth, seeing as how she was rather “tied up” just then; S took a big drink and let out the proverbial “post-Kool-Aid Ahhhhhhh” but remained like a statue otherwise. The girls both fell to staring at the man next to S at the bar – the man who’s nuts she’d mistakenly manacled as Darth Trump’s;

“You know what, S?”

J suddenly shrieked over the bar;

“I totally see it…”

“Yeah…you do?”

S’ eyes shot like darts up at her friend’s endeared face as J examined the man’s visage with the intensity of scientist;

“You aren’t just saying that to make me feel better?”

J leaned closer to them;

“Tut Tut; I could’ve easily made the same mistake from behind, I mean look at that rodent carcass on his fat head!”

The man let out a short yelping sound as S and J broke out into maniacal laughter at the expression on his miserable face; and J gave him a exaggerated wink.

“What’s your poison, El Jeffe?”

She asked the question with a blatantly overdone Hispanic accent, juggling a few bottles in front of her cockily.

drank

African Tools of Death.

For Sam:

You are an enigma.

Enigmatic to my drab eye,

you spark against my darkened sky,

with you, comes the mental hum,

you loan me peace of mind,

no love letters or epic songs,

might ever rightfully define,

or accurately emphasize,

how you’re a stationary prize,

that hangs higher than all else,

higher than you likely realize,

I just can’t help myself,

from warming in your light,

resigning my heart, outright,

to the magic and the might,

you’ll never fully perceive,

the grip you maintain on me,

You are a beam of light.

Lightning bolts that strike,

cutting sharp as knives,

through life’s dark scenery,

You are full of surprises.

From the depths of such rebellion,

and what’s left of the little Hellion,

your character  arises,

to shine so singularly,

so winningly, impressively, eternally,

you’ve yet to fail the friend in me,

and so…respectfully and true,

thoughts especially of you,

that words might do

some kind of justice to.

Continental Story Books.

She wrote for me,
a book of recipes,
filled page upon page –
with the ingredients I’d need,
and, day after day –
it’s a book I still read;
detailing poisons –
in her own handwriting,
pressed in between –
old weathered binding,
soft leather skin,
full of soul, and divinity;
a handbook,
to guide through,
the dark days ahead –
written in a language,
spoken to and by the dead,
and it should be clear –
why I hold so dear,
the words that I have read;
she drew a picture-book,
and dedicated it me –
filled it with her paintings,
and photos of the beach,
chained it,
with a padlock,
beneath iron lock and key…
and the only person,
on this Earth,
who can open it –
is ME.

Home.

Things are happening; I have already started to pull out every box and crate stored in my garage; in order to sift through and keep only what’s truly necessary, I must touch each thing.

It’s almost comical…how all of the things I have nearly killed myself in order to hang on to for so long will soon be thrown out. These things turn out to mean nothing; and to serve no purpose at all…outside of painful reminders to me of a former identity that’s become a bitterly recalled ghost. Things are changing; big ideas are being rolled into balls and set into motion around me – and I have been called off the bench to get into the game. I intend to play like never before once I get on the field, believe me…

But Life is funny this way, isn’t it? At last, I have lost everything; I don’t mean that in a pitiful sense, either. I mean to emphasize how I have nothing to lose anymore – no child to set a good example for – nobody to financially support or look after – no career left – no social life or REAL friends nearby. I am finally unbound from the courts and the juvenile delinquent joke-of-a-system; I have no warrants out for my arrest, no news anchors left to stalk me from my front porch, no family (besides my brothers and theirs’, of course).

I have had no drive or motivation; I have been feeling essentially hopeless and as if my Life has been winding down to its final scenes, somehow. Things have been exceptionally dark and dreary here in my world – and any of my regular readers know how and why this has all come about; it’s almost just a natural result of the absolute deflation attached to Boo, and my former identity’s faith in her “recovery”. Either way, the word STAGNANT comes first to mind when I try to search for a fitting descriptive word…yes, I have been quite stagnant.

All that being said, I have recently become the (un)secret winner of the (un)secret lottery; and things are beginning to open up, for lack of a better term. I am now fully planning to make an enormous shift – like to a different continent and country – to a different time and equatorial zone – to a new beach and ocean with different animals and an unfamiliar salinity in the water…I am finally leaving this Gods-forsaken shit-hole of a “life” in my dust…and the actuality of the whole thing is beginning to sink in with me.

I have, at last, told some people that matter to me such as two of my brothers, my mother, and my former boss – a big step in the process. I have emotionally shut myself down to the negative reactions; and have perfected my responses to inevitable arguments; I guess the point is that it’s finally starting to move a teeny bit, all of it. And, for the first time in so fucking long, I have a curious level of hope…hope for my own days to come.

An unexpected and uncharted chance; at …something good and wholesome; something meaningful and fulfilling to the broken spirit I harbor…something like “home”.

 

 

 

 

The (Un)Secret Childhood Dialogue Chronicles -Tap Shoes.

I remember once when we were only about 5 years old, and minutes away from our debut on stage in our first (and last) dance recital; I was so nervous I couldn’t see straight, but S could’ve cared less about the people or the lights or the crowds of strange little girls to compare ourselves with.I recall so vividly too, as we sat backstage finishing the touches on our stupid little outfits (which were, by the way, exceptionally glitzy and covered in sequins and glitter, complete with a huge feather we each had to pin in our hair), S was fidgety as usual and muttering to herself.

“What? I can’t hear you…” I shouted to her ear as I pulled the hairbrush through her dark, wild hair before attempting for the final time to get the obnoxiously huge feather pinned in.

“I just still don’t know how good of an idea this whole “dance recital” thing is, you know?”

S had both hands up to make the bunny ears around the words dance and recital. The feather floated from my hands once again and glided in rocking motion to the dusty floor. We both sighed; I looked her over and saw that she was messing with her tap shoes, struggling to get them and tie the puffy ribbon laces.

“I know you hate this…but we’re almost up, S…get your shoes on!” I leaned down to help her with shoes as I hollered, “We’ve been over this – I know I owe you big time for coming to dance class with me…”

“-…and especially for making me dress like this!…my feet are killing me and we haven’t even been on stage yet!”

S’ helium voice rose to a staccato above the music and clapping of the audience. She pulled and heaved at her little feet in vain to finish getting her shoes on as I searched desperately for my left shoe. It only took me a second to see that S had it and was trying like Hell to make it fit on her right foot.

“Well, no wonder your feet hurt, that’s my shoe…”

Needless to include, our debut was hideous and we dropped out of dance class immediately following the police inquiry.

The “Whyer” (An Un-Secret Chronicle).

Toilet Seats and Vaseline.

 

In spite of the obvious answer to such wonderment, the young S was always genuinely shocked by the amount of time that she and her best friend spent in the dreary realm of “consequence” that one must visit upon being caught and deemed guilty of a thing; and her honest queries regarding this topic had J in regular meditation surrounding the (now, un-secret) adventures of she and her playmate.
S was a “why-er”; she was never satisfied with the answers that adults gave her on any subject, having been born deeply embedded with the distrust of the world’s top Conspiracy Theorists.
While daydreaming in after-school-detention (an almost daily trifle in their juvenile lives, Monday through Friday), S had the tendency to ponder she and J’s being there on the deepest of levels, following up the thinking spell by writing a four-page summary of her opinions on the scenario, crumpling the two sheets of paper into a hopelessly ink-smeared ball; and then, proceeding to chuck it at a professional baseball pitcher’s speed from across the room to J.
Once, upon being given an unsatisfactory answer (about the original scout of Mount Rainier) from an adult at a holiday party thrown by J’s somewhat uppity grandmother, S took a poll among the rest of the guests present, and had calculated and announced its results (which were, I should add, NOT in the favor of the original adult answer-giver, after all) before the party’s conclusion. S didn’t gloat, however.
It was times such as these that J wondered to herself in earnest:
How old will S and I be when we land ourselves in the slammer?
So it went, that through the childhood years of these two uniquely blended souls, and without fail, each and every time that the two of the youngsters found themselves in trouble, and subsequently paying the consequences or making amends for said trouble, J would find herself under a barrage of verbal bullets in the form of inquiries surrounding the miserable circumstances. It isn’t as if the S’ huge arsenal of ever-replenished appendages to the bottom line question of “why” bothered J; in fact, without the company of her best friend during her younger years of Life, J most certainly would have grown up to be much different in character and disposition, as S’ perpetually running interrogations undoubtedly molded J into the opinionated and exacting person she is, ever stimulated by the tickling in her young brain by S in this way.
It worked both ways, too; as S spent her time feeling an innate sense of alarm and impending danger at all times, as a direct result of the friendship shared between them. Hyper-vigilante S was always a little over-protective of dreamy J, and continues to be to this day; but during the days of their youth, the one always harbored a compelling notion of security towards the other. From the outside looking in on the girls’ connection, it certainly appeared a strange combination of traits that held the two girls so closely bound to one another, being as night and day different as they were.
For instance, S has the personality of a chucker, and resorted almost instantly to fist fighting (or worse) on the playground when she was faced with opposition of any kind (withstanding that of her beloved J); plotted hideously diabolical schemes, and launched the most elaborate of hoaxes and pranks against their natural childhood enemies when called to action. J, on the other hand, was much more apt to being soft and tended to shy away from confrontation, preferring to logically figure out the root cause of any differences that arose between her and others. There had been many times that after walking away from a situation that J was certain she had successfully hashed-out with a peer on the playground, only to be informed that the very same student had come by some horrible “accident” in the aftermath. A tell-tale sign of S’ inevitable involvement was the fact that during these particular instances, not a single “why?” was muttered to J in the whispered conversations that came in their wake.
The result of such variances in personality and behavior between the girls became the rough outline of the solid bond that can be observed today. Where many young children who foster un-becoming friendships during the years in Life when one is still uncertain of one’s own preferences, tend to grow out of such a role by high school, J and S honestly seemed to not notice the blaring contrast between them. The years passed by with only the pains and struggles of the Outside World touching the girls; and the cushion between the two of them, an element that allowed them to just “be” with each other, never softened or faded or burned out. If anything, the enchanted web woven throughout the days lived by them only served to strengthen and protect them from the Outside World and its never-ending stream of hardships.
In summary, the terrifyingly alert and disturbingly cool S that currently walks around scaring the Hell of people and totally lacking any verbal or mental filter, whatever, actually has a much more calm and nurturing side than most might suspect. J smiles to herself even now; to think of the handfuls of times that little S looked up at her so curiously and asked,

Why?”

Propinquity.

It is all born
of a unique fact
the long-gone act
of the way we tie
closely together
through space and time;
the closeness defined
stronger than steel
your back against mine;
knowledge of Life
given to us by;
the archaically blessed
and most ancient of divine;
passed along down
a dried-out bloodline;
the circumstance
concocted like potion
of happenstance;
that tickling, vague notion
rolling and bending
like the tides in the ocean;
but never broken
beneath such crushing mass
a written word –
not anything spoken;
the act of
being based upon;
a kindred spiritual root
that grows deep and ever-long;
they tried to bury
something so incredibly strong
a truth they’ve kept in secrecy
and in the midst
of their stupidity,
the feebleness makes them forget
a scary variant
the element
of our propinquity.

Pinky Fingers in a Champagne Tub.

They took my finger,
it was the right-hand runt;
they chopped it clean off
and cauterized the stump;
I couldn’t believe it,
even as I sweat and bled;
while they closed my wound
I  brooded on my pinky, instead;
And when the shock wore off,
and they dumped me down the block;
I came with my remaining four,
pounding on your secret door;
Where did they take your finger?”
you demanded to find out;
hell-bent on reconnoitering,
racked your rounds and bombed out;
You returned with twenty seven;
pinky fingers in a champagne tub,
you held it out in front of you;
an offering of my murderous Coconut;
I crushed through pink ice cubes and fingers,
but not one of them was mine;
I stared at my heavily bandaged hand,
and you said, “We’ll get it next time…

Half-Bred Beast.

Through the vastness,
of Human eternity,
scatter all roads,
ever taken by me,
the archaic line,
of woven patches,
sewn intricately,
into man-made time,
indefinitely;
Never in so long,
did I ever meet,
another earthly creature,
one part: Woman,
and, one part: Beast,
muscular-skeletal control,
over walking legs,
that naturally,
upright stand,
very deeply,
mindful,
steeped by,
self-control:
this creature…
‘Sam I am’;
Try traveling again,
without,
the face,
of this friend,
try carrying on,
as if it’s:
all just fine again,
nothing between,
the hearts,
of just me,
and, specifically –
this companion,
has ever been,
happy at the end;
Indemnified,
for she and I,
there’s no limit,
to the blue,
that ever-paints the sky,
no limit to the shading,
of green streaks,
spreading far and wide,
my friend, it’s true:
shooting stars,
are just the glue,
that keeps the twinkle,
alive to our eyes.

Honnør.

An assault rifled salute to past days of bright rays…
to the ice-cream truck and sweetened pink lemonade…
to the clouds spooned into the skies like mayonnaise…

to the people we’d naively hoped to grow into someday;
– Honnør.

A headstone held up by string and a busted spade…
from a ceremony held back in the good ol’ days…
when a priestess poured blessings inside the grave…

to the bridges we’ve buried here over the years, along the way;
– Honnør.

 

A wooden box that our four hands built from trees…
the treasures placed inside by both you and by me…
it was the fate of that box that haunts me now, you see?…

the darkness we anchored to it by burying it so deeply;
– Honnør.

 

A marksman’s dot on both of our foreheads again…
one must offer the other a last shot at another salvation…
but in spite of everything, there’s not a second’s hesitation…

the thought of “better me it be than my spirit’s dearest friend”;
– Honnør.

Q and A.

Q: If you could be any character in the cast of ‘One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest’ who would it be? Why?
A: Oh c’mon now…this is a no-brainer – as I would surely be the Chief (Bromden), hands down; I suppose my reason for choosing the Chief would be simply based on his vision and perception in regard to the world and how he believes it to operate (the Combine)…his character is uniquely insane, his tactics are admirable, and indeed, my own genetic Heinz is even similar to his.

Q: What is the definition of a ‘Lightning fast’ reply?
A: OMFG! You are such a bitch for this question, because, you know as well as I do how I want to respond to this!!! I DID actually find the screenshot you sent me early last year that was an excellent summary the answer to this particular query…hmmmmmmm…I plead the 5th.

Q: Name three Pirate Weapons suitable for wall art?
A: Are we talking generalized Pirate Weapons or “African Tools of Death”? Because in that arena, you have a fine selection displayed in your living room…as for my own wall art (if we’re talking about the Scurvy Ridden Sailor Pirates), I’d go with
a) the good ol’ Cutlass blade for its unfailing aesthetic pleasure
b) the twin pair of wheel-lock pistols
c) that long wood (and sometimes iron-tipped) stake that was used on deck whatever it was called, I don’t know but they look cool

Q: If you could choose only one Dan Simmons quote to put on a sticker to be made in bulk to stick on the windscreens on the cars of whoever you chose, which would it be?
A: Uuuuggghh! This is so not fair of you! How can I choose just one? Okay, either:
“Better to die on your feet than your knees.” – Ilium
OR
“Stupidity has a price; and it always gets paid.” – Hyperion

Q: What part of pop culture do you wish would just go away?
A: Ummm…can I say all of it, and it would count as an answer?

Q: If you could name a racehorse, what would you name it?
A: Chongo Machismo; or something.

Q: If you could have a drink with someone from history who would it be?
A: Abe Lincoln; Cutty Sark.

Q: If you HAD to sing karaoke, what song would you sing?
A: No Sleep til Brooklyn.

Q: If you were allowed to have Serge for two whole days, what would you do?
A: Omg, the possibilities…hmmmm…definitely take him somewhere local on the Light Rail because he obviously has a fondness for trains – he might enjoy a baseball game or the beach…we could go to the zoo but not go inside and he could take selfies in front of the sign or whatever…I wonder if he swims….

serge the llama
Q; I set you up on a blind date. 10 minutes in you decide the bloke is totally not floating your boat. How do you escape?
A: First of all, you would NEVER set me up on a blind date with anyone dude, c’mon geez… and, I guess you’d have my escape route all mapped out for me already if you ever did.

Q: Weapon of choice for ‘interviewing’?
A: Does my tongue count?

Q: You could inhabit the body of another human being – still living – for 3 hours. For any reason, and you could do anything you wanted. What would you do?
A: I’m thinking I’d become a teller at the bank for a few hours; and you know damned well what I’d do. 😉

Q: Where does your love of words come from?
A: My Dad’s father, my Papa Joe; he was a wordsmith from the old school.

Q: What meal do you make best?
A: Lasagna from scratch; or my French Toast is pretty good, too.

Q: If you could master any skill / trade – what would it be?
A: Taxidermy

Q; What was the last thing you laughed at?
A: This questionnaire. My fucking sides hurt now…

Q: Have you ever shoplifted, and if you have what did you lift?
A: Yes. Once when I was super young I was in Mervyn’s with my Dad and I popped open the plastic covering on a bath set in a basket in order to take a single bath oil bead, because the curiosity was eating me alive and I had to know what it felt like.

Fill in the blanks: (In bold-italic)
You won’t believe! She said “fuck“ and then I said ”oh fuck” and then the whole place just exploded because he had tried to be a fucking Magician. It was crazy. Did you see my eyebrows? Because, seriously, they’re like…gone, dude.
Q: Miss me yet?
A: Always.

A Bear(Trainer’s) Birthday.

“ALLIANCE, n.
In international politics, the union of two thieves who have their hands so deeply inserted in each other’s pockets that they cannot separately plunder a third.

HAPPINESS, n.
An agreeable sensation arising from contemplating the misery of others.”
– Ambrose Bierce

kick it

Today is a special day; it is the day that celebrates the birth of my best friend.
There is no way to gain through the words of any language known to humankind, the ultimate and profound finality that represents the birth of this individual into the world. On the birthday of such a human being, I find myself in deep recollection about the birth of all things before and after her own – of all things cosmic and worldly; minute and massive; near and far.
In a selfish way, today is kind of a birthday of my own to celebrate – it marks the birth of an individual whose influences over the years between my own birth and death are inarguably strong and incomparable. It marks the day that, despite having been a while ago, was the day that a God smiled upon me for whatever reason, and sent me Sam. Today is the anniversary that some of the most lasting and meaningful words ever written coming to life in the tiny brain of an angry infant somewhere in South Africa; one who would grow wiser and stronger than the Gods could have foreseen; one who defies the odds.
Sam is the Meri to my Pippin; the Drax to my Rocket, she is the Florizel to my Geraldine. I have truly come to refuse any real thought of life without her; she is the John Keats to my Joseph Servern – and I would follow her to the most gruesome of deaths, if she asked such of me.
Most importantly about Sam’s birthday though, in my opinion, is the fact that whether she likes to wear the jacket or not – SHE IS A SURVIVOR – who has made it to see another year; she is yet, another year older than certain weasels from her past might have liked to see her become. She continues to defy, spitting in faces as she passes by. I wouldn’t trade her for anything.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SAM – THE BEAR TRAINER.

The Unsecret (Childhood) Dialogue of S and J (3).

“I had no idea the child was epileptic…”

Ms. Melody’s hands trembled in her lap as she answered the string of questions put forth by Mr. Brown, the principal. As J sat across the small space in the waiting niche from the two adults, she couldn’t help but to sense a bit of irony circling overhead, even at age 5. She casually let her eyes wander over to the nurse’s station, where her best friend in the world lay “unconscious” after all of the commotion.

“Pssssst. Psssst.”

S skillfully turned her head slightly to the right and peeled open one eye with careful attention, winked the eye quickly at her friend to reassure her that she was, after all, just fine, and then rolled and began to groan loudly.

“She’s waking up!”

cried J as she popped up from her chair and rushed over to S’ side, kneeling down closely to make sure that they would have the few seconds of private dialogue they needed to get out of the day’s cluster-fuck, unscathed.

“Here, here S – quick! Take this, hurry, give me your hand!”

Without a second’s hesitation, S shot her right hand out secretly, keeping it hidden between their tiny forms as she did. J slapped a key into her S’ palm, being careful to curl S’ small fingers up around the rough edges until S’ hand was closed tightly around it. The two savored a short moment of “the know” (the childhood title they used for their’ extraordinary ability to communicate almost telepathically), in which they shared a mental image of the overall escape plan.

“Hit the lights on your way out, would ya?”

S gave J’s request a quick nod of agreement as she began to sit herself up and ready for her mark.

And with that, the room became an explosion of activity all at once: papers flying everywhere, voices hollering, doors opening and slamming closed behind small, blurry blobs of pure motion. The fire alarm began to sound then, just as S made her way safely through the side exit and brushed her hand downward across the light switch. The building went dark; the fire-bell klaxon blaring with a Doppler affect overhead, the girls met up outside the office and slipped easily out through the rotten and retired drainage pipe that had eroded away enough to leave a child-sized passage. J being well-aware of S’ tendency to escalate situations without necessarily meaning to, she forced S to carry on ahead while she waited at the mouth of the passage exit to be certain that nobody had followed them through somehow.

It was another half hour before J made it to her house, where S had already made apple and peanut butter snacks for them.

“Your Dad says I can keep your house-key and he will just make you a new one…”

S said matter-of-factly as she crunched a piece of green apple.

              “He’s home?”

J suddenly sat up and wiped her face with her filthy hand, shocked and beginning to worry.

              “Does he know? You told him!?”

              S rolled her eyes, an expression that J endeared deeply in her best friend.

              “Um…I had to tell him, he drove past me at the crosswalk and pulled over to pick me up…I didn’t want him to take me back to school because he didn’t know better!!!…sorry, he’s not mad…”

J burned S with a look of sheer dubiousness.

              “He said we shoulda called him as soon as Ms. Melody gave me a seizure again, so that we coulda avoided all that time in the principal’s office…he thinks we spend too much time in there, anyway…”

The two girls crunched loudly on the snacks and caught their breath, collectively.

 

 

The Un-Secret (Childhood) Dialogue of S and J.

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The paper airplane landed gracefully into a patch of bare skin just above the collarbone of the whiny redhead named Tasha, who sat one desk to the left of J, who sat dead center – in the very back row of the classroom; she jumped and started to cry immediately, rubbing her skin and looking around like a hunted animal. J stifled a laugh best she could and shot a look at S, sitting in the far right hand desk about a meter away from the teacher’s desk. S was turned completely around in her seat, staring at J with those searing green eyes, intensely willing something.

Typically, the two young trouble-makers could communicate almost totally through expression and mannerisms, but J was at a loss as to what S was trying to tell her this time. The teacher, Ms. Melody (whose name only cruelly misled any student going into her kindergarten class), spun on her cane in front of the chalkboard, accidentally flinging the stick of chalk that she had been using across the room and hitting the aid in the rear who silently graded papers. The aid wore his earphones and paid little attention to the classroom happenings while he was there, so he was caught completely off guard by the sudden smack of a stick of chalk against his brow, and nearly started enough to flip his chair over backwards – papers flying up over his head and landing like snowflakes on his lap and around his surprised form as they settled. The class exploded in laughter then, a cacophony of high-pitched voices, snickering in glee at the impromptu spectacle; Ms. Melody washed over with that reddened look of shocked outrage that was so familiar o the children, S and J especially, and barked an order that was snuffed out by the collective noise.

 

Pick up the airplane!!!

The thought finally struck J as if a mallet had from behind, and she scrambled to grab the small folded note that S had (poorly) thrown only nano-seconds before the aid was shot by the teacher with a piece of rogue chalk.

“Nice pitch…”

J mumbled to herself as she swiped up the note with an extended lean over her desk, almost flipping headfirst onto the carpet, herself, in the process.

In a single motion that both S and J had come to interpret as Doom, Ms. Melody snapped her left handed fingers and pointed at S in the front of the classroom, all while locking eyes with J in the very back at the same time, and for a very long and drawn out moment.

“Give me the note right now, J.”

the teacher said calmly.

“May I read it first?”

asked J, sincerely.

The click of Ms. Melody’s tongue gave J her answer, and she stood, looked down at the piece of paper in her hand, looked over to S (who sat with a condemned look of guilt on her puckered face), and nonchalantly put the paper in her mouth, chewing it briefly before swallowing. The class exploded again with unruly hysterics that only 5 year old children can produce; and J noticed the aid nearby drop his jaw open and let it hang. S began to clap loudly from the front row, and soon enough the rest of the class joined in the applause. Spittle flew from Ms. Melody’s mouth as she seemed to combust verbally in an outburst of all things Teacher; she was pissed.

gurls

Sense.

For My Best Friend

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I hear frustrated sighs,

see the roll of her eyes,

as she finds me this way,

for the third time today…

I have fallen down again,

anchored by my resignation,

she leans close to emphasize,

the need for me to open my eyes…

she whispers things cool and soft,

as she props me up and dusts me off,

a shame, she says – my self-loathing,

she always comes to slap sense into me…

somehow, when no one can tell me a thing,

her words slip through and truthfully ring,

she has carried me, half-dead, through the fire,

she single-handedly smoldered my burning fuse-wire…

she gives me courage and strength to trudge through,

the days on this Earth that I have left to pursue,

she is a pillar that I all too often use to stand up,

I’ve been trained by a Bear not to dare to give up.

 

Adrift (For the Bear Trainer).

This is a piece written for my VERY BEST FRIEND ON THE PLANET (and beyond), The Bear Trainer.

…S, you are the entire village that it takes to raise the child – and I honor and cherish you more than you know. ❤

Letting-go21

It’s the incessant babbling,
Of a perpetually invisible stream,
This I do most certainly know,
There is no halting or stopping its flow;
Even when I can’t touch its noise,
It isn’t like I have any choice,
I feel its presence trickling,
I feel its coolness prickling;
A sense of a long, lost something,
A dense and heavy whispering,
I can count the nights and days easily,
To try to measure what I’m so missing;
I can carve notches like lines into trees,
But there’s no accounting your importance to me,
Have you any idea of the weight you carry?
an influence that trumps all, subconsciously?
Near or far – here you are…
to awaken these things that sleep,
I need your heart attached to mine,
if I’m to somehow believe;
the Heavens are darkened by the distance between,
the truth is the anchor that’s unwavering,
the tides wash off the filth of humanity,
when all’s said and done, I have only this one thing;
the notion that resides in the depths of my being,
the unspoken truths attached to our destinies,
when the Universe again – fails to reassure me,
yours is the comfort that mine will find eventually.

How I got Oprah to Admit That Her Hairstyle Doesn’t Fit Her Facial Structure.

For S: in response to I LOVE YOU MORE, DAMMIT!

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“I have heard this stupid “joke” from like twenty people since this morning, and it’s not funny, I don’t get what is so funny about it…”

S is frustrated and it’s apparent.

“Tell it to me….?”

J can’t stand to see her best friend in a state of unnecessary frustration. S retells the joke from behind gnashed teeth, accompanied by heavy sighs and rolling eyeballs. Before she finishes the punchline, J finishes it for her with a hearty laugh and a nod of her head, in obvious appreciation of the joke.

“Hmmmm, okay, well let me explain it so that you aren’t pissed off anymore…”

S has a killer sense of humor, don’t get me wrong; and the instant the joke was told in a way that tickled that sense, she laughed just as loudly as I had at it – because it IS funny.

photo_13525_20070624TEN REASONS I LOVE S MORE THAN SHE LOVES ME:
1) She does things with her face that speak more loudly to me than her words ever could.
2) When she doesn’t “get” a joke, she gets mad.
3) She is afraid of the ocean.
4) She thinks mathematically.
5) She is the most divinely magical person I have ever met.
6) She protects me from bad things and bad people.
7) She trusts me.
8) She is a hardcore survivor.
9) She gives me hope when there would otherwise be none.
10) She thinks she actually loves me more than I love her.

Ancient Proverbs: 23 – Friendship.

Friendship is something that each and every one of us takes for granted; it is a fickle element in Life that we each find ourselves loathing and loving at some point and another…

Friendship is, in actuality, one of the most precious commodities in the world, when it’s real and true.

Today, I awoke feeling full of gratitude for my real and true friend in the world, so today’s proverbs are with Sam in mind.

“Friendship doubles our joy and divides our grief.”

~ Swedish Proverb

“You may forget with whom you laughed, but you will never forget with whom you wept.”

~ Saudi Proverb

“We are friends; we must assist each other to bear our burdens.”

~ Osage Proverb (Native American)

“A friend’s eye is a good mirror.”

~ English Proverb

“With true friends . . . even water drunk together is sweet enough.”

~ Chinese Proverb

Waltz of the polar lights

Wet Shore.

547f28c8a2dd2d87511187be3807f916-d5z6h2yI dreamed of it before…
it was a while ago, though;
I sat in whipping winds,
wrapped tightly within,
a blanket on a beach;
and I’m doused in gasoline…
I sit there almost alone,
but not quite by myself…
I sat on the sidelines next to somebody else,
as the sincerity in her mossy green,
eyes, capsized and captivated me,
as she played me music telepathically…
I began to realize something;
here, on the shores of a tumbling sea,
she hasn’t come to this place,
put out any fires I’d,
planned on lighting,
nor has she been sitting,
opposite of me – listening,
to the endlessly,
venomous spattering,
that define all of me…
no, she’s not here,
to clean up my mess tonight,
only to simply “be”;
on the shores of a tumbling,
promising ocean shimmering,
colors of me-her, blue-green;
as she plays me music,
and streams it directly into me,
reflexively,
unexpectedly,
the muscles all over my body,
begin to sag with ease,
exhaustion reigns supreme…
and I lean into,
the mental melody;
as the moment passes,
I recall the book of matches,
clutched in the hand of me,
as I think to strike one –
begins a new verse to her song,
the realization forcefully dawns,
upon my matches and gasoline…
she knows she won’t talk me down,
try,
try again,
in the end, nobody will win…
so in place,
of rearranging my face,
to rope me safely in,
she provided the gas,
clever kick in my ass,
but to her own detriment;
she hates the ocean,
hates the lack of control…
she knew my fire wouldn’t burn,
very long on the seashore.

Continental Story Books.

She wrote for me,
a book of recipes,
filled page upon page –
with the ingredients I’d need,
and, day after day –
it’s a book that I still read;
it’s detailed poison –
in her own handwriting,
blood-lettered in –
old weathered binding,
soft leather skin,
full of soul, and divinity;
a handbook,
to guide through,
the darkness ahead –
written in a language,
deciphered by dead,
and it’s clear –
why I hold so dear,
the words that I have read;
she drew a picture-book,
and dedicated it me –
filled it with her paintings,
and photos of the beach,
chained it,
with a padlock,
beneath iron lock and key…
and the only person,
in the world,
that the book opens for –
is ME.

Half-Bred Beast.

Through the vastness,
of Human eternity,
scatter all roads,
ever taken by me,
the archaic line,
of woven patches,
sewn intricately,
into man-made time,
indefinitely;
Never in so long,
did I ever meet,
another earthly creature,
one part: Woman,
and, one part: Beast,
muscular-skeletal control,
over walking legs,
that naturally,
upright stand,
very deeply,
mindful,
steeped by,
self-control:
this creature…
‘Sam I am’;
Try traveling again,
without,
the face,
of this friend,
try carrying on,
as if it’s:
all just fine again,
nothing between,
the hearts,
of just me,
and, specifically –
this companion,
has ever been,
happy at the end;
Indemnified,
for she and I,
there’s no limit,
to the blue,
that ever-paints the sky,
no limit to the shading,
of green streaks,
spreading far and wide,
my friend, it’s true:
shooting stars,
are just the glue,
that keeps the twinkle,
alive to our eyes.

Delivered.

I had been complaining about how long it has taken her package to arrive via snail mail just the other day; it had been just about one month…she made the comment that it was okay, that I’d see…the mail would arrive at just the right time – when we were each more in need of the said packages than we knew. As usual, she is right.
Today is Mother’s Day in the U.S.
I have a rough day on Mother’s Day every year because…well, for obvious reasons…
I opened her mail this morning amidst the sadness that I typically wake up to on Mother’s Day…and it made me smile and reminded me of important things that aren’t always so easy to recall during the rough patches in my life: to breathe…inhale and exhale…and everything else falls in line somewhere.
Throughout my lifetime thus far, I have seen many movies and read endless storybooks detailing friendships that seem to be able to surpass the confines of space and time; even life and death through the invisible bonds associated; I never fully comprehended such subject matter until now, more recently in my own life.
There are, indeed, some friendships – bonds – ties – sutures – webs, which are so intricately wound throughout the human elements of the Universe, that even those bound inside the weave do not fully appreciate the depths and heights made available through such cosmic humanity. Those of us who are woven into this fabric know the power and strength to which I refer; those who do not know, can only believe.

We Went to Unsecret, Different Schools Together.

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NOTE: Even at a post-wedding-ceremony party, S is snapped crying while J just wants to get down and cut a rug

Beginning as far back into life as either of us can remember, we have somehow genuinely been: thick as thieves. At one time, she had longer hair and seemed much taller than me, even donned dress flats to make her Mama happy once in a while…although it was I that sucked my thumb until I was five, she cried often and was sensitive – surprise, surprise. Her skin thickened later on in life, but during childhood, she was kind of a sissy.

Bruce Springsteen – CHECK.

Handcuffed together inside of a high security paddy wagon – CHECK.

1980’s eye crystal blue eye shadow and feather bangs – CHECK.

Teddy Ruxpin (and cassette tapes) – CHECK.

Piercings in unspeakable places – CHECK.

Ever-Revolving door of chaotic Life-Phases ranging in severity – CHECK.

Direct Tissue/Organ Donation – CHECK. CHECK.

Secret Matching Tattoos – CHECK.

Disturbing and vague shared recollections involving a drunken exotic bird and many, many bottles of Tequila – CHECK.

(CIRCA 19–)
Here, you can easily see the perfect demonstration of our days together in childhood.
(We are at either end: I am the blonde piglet and she is the snickering shithead)
Directly after this was snapped, I was nearly beaten to death by my playmates (S included) for “eating on the clock”.

(CIRCA 19–)    S had a traumatic jellyfish experience at the beach early in life, rendering her perpetually in malcontent on any shoreline, anywhere. This photo was taken only a matter of hours prior to her attack, and clearly captured my evil fatmouth full of lies and false assurances to her of her safety.

Our days as friends had no beginning, and will never end.

We've been solid since back when your "bikini" left tan lines that made no sense at all.

We’ve been solid since back when your “bikini” left tan lines that made no sense at all.

(CIRCA 19–) One time, the two of us agreed that we’d made a trivial mistake…soon afterward however – we realized we’d been wrong.

When we became bored with finger painting in preschool, we whisked ourselves away to religiously shrouded monasteries of truth and light, barely visible off the Eastern coast of…some place that was very far away;

we learned to write in Latin… to shoot like the archers from times long dead to history books and chainmaille legends…we gladly taught them to eat with their hands like savages – a few steps back towards their pastel colored roots.

We always eventually overstayed our welcome, wherever we went – and were either escorted beyond the perimeter or politely asked to be on our way.

Drunken Sailorettes – CHECK.

Military AirSupport Dropouts – CHECK.

Shitty Low-Budget Horror Movie Extras – CHECK.

I could go on, but need to save something for future volumes of the Unsecret Chrons…

More of the fictitious story of “us” to come…maybe.

(CIRCA 19–) NOTE: We are seated on the far left end of bench (I am holding a net wtf?) Immediately after this one was snapped, we made history by leaping up from the bench and affecting a medieval style catapult, launching the three remaining girls as well as the creepy, freeze-dried cat well over the internationally recorded current best of 59.05 m into the air.

Honnør.

An assault rifled salute to past days of bright rays…
to the ice-cream truck and sweetened pink lemonade…
to the clouds spooned into the skies like mayonnaise…

to the people we’d naively hoped to grow into someday;
– honnør.

A headstone held up by string and a busted spade…
from a ceremony held back in the good ol’ days…
when a priestess poured blessings inside the grave…

to the pieces we’ve buried here over the years, along the way;
– honnør.

A wooden box that our four hands built from trees…
the treasures placed inside by both you and by me…
it was what happened to that box that haunts me now, you see…

the depths and darkness we anchored to it by burying it so selfishly;
– honnør.

A marksman’s dot on our foreheads again…
one of us must offer the other a last shot at salvation…
whatever it may turn out to be, there’s never any hesitation…

long-ago accepted by us both: a thought of “better me than my dearest friend”;
– honnør.

The Unsecret Dialogue Chronicles – The Hospital Files.

“Remind me to never let you follow through with any of those ‘Motivational Speaking’ plans that you may have when this is all over…”
S’ voice trailed off slightly with a faked giggle under her breath – she was nervous and edgy as Hell – but also knew that her best friend meant well.
“I meant that out of nothing but love, S…you know that I don’t think of you as a Tumor…”
J was shaking her head and lightly wrapping an arm around her trench mate as they slowly made their way into the hospital entrance.
“I know, I know…but your wording is like a sideshow freak sometimes…I knew what you meant.”
The two walked along in silence for a few moments before they turned to one another in synchronized time, and began to laugh loudly in the sullen corridor – so hard that they each doubled over in side-busting glory. The laughter became snorting and short gasps for breath that fell in between words muttered in vain, and soon enough, several orderly nurses popped heads around doorways with stern faces.
“Sorry, sorry…”
J managed to snort out as she peeled S off of the tiled floor and back into a standing position to continue the walk to the surgery department;
“We were just…oh, get fucked, we aren’t bothering anyone.”
The two figures strolled into the blazing sodium lights ahead, still trying to compose themselves from a minute ago.
“Did you actually just tell me to ‘Be The Tumor’, J?”
S hardly managed to get the sentence finished before her lips peeled upwards once more and she bore her big, white teeth as a means of a laughter warning.
“Aye…I did, Kid…and I meant it, too.”

Beckoning Support for the Bear Trainer.

She didn’t tell anyone, because she’s just like that…(she only shares her burdens when she feels like there is no other way), but the Bear Trainer is in major surgery today.

I shouldn’t be airing her laundry like this either – but I feel like EVERY last person who sends her positive energy will make a difference for her outcome. I won’t get too personal with this, other to say that her condition is very serious and life threatening at present; and I ask any of my readers to keep the Bear Trainer in every possible thought towards the upswing until I hear from her.

https://amalijaamalie.wordpress.com

Please keep her in your strongest of thoughts today. Thanks, everyone.

Things of Importance.

There are things of importance in this world;
things that only come to us one time, at all –
things that we don’t see for what they are,
while we hold them in our sweaty palms,
we look past the beauty at the spaces beyond;
we don’t send them trinkets in the mail,
as we really, really should,
we don’t send them letters describing to them:
a worth that can’t be mirrored or matched,
it’s too easy to get caught in the nets of –
“tomorrow’s tasks” and “today’s necessities”,
we take for granted: what these things mean to us,
what these things are for us – the work that has been,
back-breakingly and unfailingly – out of loyalty;
A loyalty that doesn’t bend or give with pressure,
doesn’t burn under the heat of a torch’s flame,
these things of importance, take heed of them –
they are a gift from a God or Goddess to you,
sent to our lives for specific purposes and reasons,
we too often, become easily aware of their presence;
yet, we come to fool our human minds of the permanence,
of those who stand most staunchly at our sides in battle,
those who bleed with us in the trenches, who deliver us salvation,
we abuse them and deny them of their precious worth –
a worth measured thousands of times higher than the purest gold,
a resource more necessary than water to drink or food to eat,
these things of importance go unseen beneath our feet;
There is one thing of importance, that I have recently seen –
a bear and its trainer have thoroughly shown this to me,
the wondrous ties that bind, and connect some of us,
to a much bigger, much broader and profound destiny,
things of importance that were long ago, handed to me,
things that I’ve lived this long unable to see.

The Unsecret Dialogue Chronicles: Grand Theft Auto: Part Two.

READ PART ONE HERE:

J sighed as she watched the pinkish-red brake lights come to life through the motion amidst the busy parking lot; she eased out onto the road slowly, following every traffic rule she could think of at the moment, including the use of her blinker as she slowed again and pulled off to the shoulder to wait for S to snail-crawl the ancient Mini from its inconspicuous spot towards the rear of the lot.

Inconspicuous to everyone besides S…

J thought to herself, chuckling.
After several anxious moments of an unintentional, however – record-breakingly uncanny – imitation of a bobble head in the driver’s seat on the side of road waiting for her fairy-like partner in crime, the Mini at last appeared in the lineup of cars waiting its turn to pull out onto the highway. Before long, the two friends were in tight caravan formation and heading home, or so J thought.
The fog was sinking down onto the road with the setting sun, and J wasn’t sure but she thought she saw the Mini driving itself during several stretches of straight two-lane highway. Additionally, J mentally noted at least five separate cigarette butts flying out the driver’s side window in the deepening darkness of night: something she had to make certain to give S a good chastising for when they got home. Just then her phone rang from the passenger side door panel, where she has stashed it prior to indulging in her earlier catnap; the vibration rattled it down deeper in the door’s built in pocket as J imagined herself as Gumby or Inspector Gadget and tried in vain to lean far enough over to reach it.
Another red cherry butt of a cigarette exploded against the windshield.

Fuck this!

J thought to herself, and tore to the right with her grip on the steering wheel with a few quick flashes of her high beams at the Mini in front of her. Oddly, her best friend is pulled over and out the Mini before J can even put the vehicle she is driving in NEUTRAL.
S: What’s the problem? Let’s just pull off up there at the next exit if your toes are cramped up, eh?
J: My toes are not cramped up, S…did you just try to call me right now?
S: Oh, ye…I did…I was going to suggest that we stop over at Red’s and let him take a look at it, see what he thinks, you know?
J: Now? Seriously? It’s white-hot, S…I think we need to cover it with canvas for a while in the junk pile out back or something; not flaunt it all over to our friends in a pissing contest…
S: So you’ll follow me over there, to Red’s?
J lets out the frustrated sigh that S has come to know and love the way a child associates a special blanket to comfort;
J: Yeah…S…yeah but let’s go! And stay off your phone no smoking while you drive!
S: Okay! Follow me!
S hops back to the archaic Mini and starts the engine with a fierce and victorious howl from her doll-sized lungs before pulling out into the traffic. J pulls out right behind her and matches her speed as they make their way to see Red the Undead – the best mechanic around.

shmokay

Pinky Fingers in a Champagne Tub.

They took my finger,
it was the right-hand runt;
they chopped it clean off
and even cauterized the stump;
I couldn’t believe it,
even as I, myself – bled;
they seared closed the wound
I was fixed on my pinky, instead;
And when the shock wore off,
and they dumped me down the block;
I came pounding with a bloody paw,
on your secret passage door;
“Where did they take your finger?”
you demanded to find out;
hell-bent on reconnoitering,
racked your rounds and bombed out;
You returned with twenty seven;
pinky fingers in a champagne tub,
you held it out in front of you;
an offering made by a murderous Coconut;
I crushed through pink ice cubes and fingers,
but not one of them was mine;
I stared at my heavily bandaged hand,
and said, “We’ll get it next time…”

Mushy.

I’ve sat down so many times –

to write to you, to your heart –

to get through,

to tourniquet the bloody parts…

A curse of mine that you’ve come to

so well-define – in the dark,

a partner in crime

painted in timeless hue

fucked-from-the-start

in every lifetime…

But, I’m still blessed –

through a curse, every time

by my bond to you;

So when I try

to sit down and describe –

with any words

or piece of alter-ego art,

exactly what it is,

that’s happening inside of the wound

from which I pulled your dart…

The words do not come

in accordance to

any drawing or poem

or hardcore theme song –

and I’m always brought back

to the sentimental fact,

that you couldn’t have known,

but you’ve always known

everything, all along.

The “Unsecret” Dialogue Chronicles _ Series II _ Part 1

Part 1:

YANK

The tune to Another One Bites the Dust by Queen begins playing loudly as J’s personal ringtone on S’ phone.

 

S:       J, it’s 3:22am…you’d better be in need a blood transfusion or something…

The line is silent on the other end, eerily silent. Then muffled groans and agonizing noises gradually start to become louder in S’ ear.

S:       J….? Oi! J….? Hello? Hello, hello?….

J:        Esthhh…Esthh…ugghhhh….

S:       What the fuck is wrong with you? You off the wagon eh?

J:        Esthhh, I need you to come offfver, rught mow, pleathhz…

S:       J?! Are you alright? What’s happened why can’t you speak?

S is suddenly very alarmed by the fact that her friend is unable to speak without sounding like the Godfather (Brando) and a mouth full of cotton balls; she sits up and starts looking for her shoes and bag…

S:       I’m on the way, J…

J:        Uggghhhhhhh!!!!

S swipes off the phone and is out the door in a flash.

 

KNOCK. KNOCK-KNOCK. KNOCK.

 

S:       J, you have thirty seconds to open the door before it gets fire-axed…

J’s front door flies open with stale, smoky breeze.

J:        Ugggghhhhh!!!

J grabs S by the shirt and pulls her into the doorway, slamming it behind them as they both stumbled into the darkness of J’s hot-boxed apartment; J is still clinging fiercely to S’ shirt and basically hanging on her right side, limply.

J:        Thuuuude….thoo you haff any of thothe pilths leff from your thurgery, Esthh…?

S noticed a whining in J’s voice that she had never heard before; she lit a cigarette in the dark, allowing herself a look at her friend’s face at last.

S:       Awwwww, J….you look like you’ve been hit by a truck!!!

J:        Do you haff pilths?…in a fuckton of fuccckkking pain ober here Esthh…

S:       Let me see it…c’mon now, open your mouth…

After a momentary, but comically pathetic (on J’s part) struggle, S finally convinced J to open her mouth and show off the culprit.

S:       Nasty fucker. Sucks for you, I have no pills…I ate them all after my last tooth saga – remember how fucked up I was? Sigh

J:        Aye…I rumumba…hey…?

S:       Ye?

J:        How bout your pwiers? Got ‘em on you?

S:       My pliers?…Yes, always…but….seriously?…you’re in THAT much pain, J?

J:        Uh-huh…uggghhhhh!….fuck yeth…fuck yeth…get it the fucckk outh! Pleath, Esthh, pleath!!!

READ THE NEXT EPISODE HERE!