Month / July 2019

by BiSKITs & Gravy

FE/26 – Part II

by S.L. Jordan

The last four months the terrors have increased in frequency and intensity, turning me into a night owl of sorts. I stayed at the studio longer, worked harder, and practiced more, anything that would keep me from thinking. From having feelings – the emotional ones anyway – my bruises distracted me from those. I wanted to be numb. I’m a light sleeper now, and have intimately acquainted with the sounds of my apartment building.  Sometimes, I can’t wait until this stage of my life is over and done, and other times I feel like it’s the only thing keeping us connected.

I waited until the morning rush died down before exiting my apartment, which meant I was running late, and in order to make it on time I would have to take the express bus. I preferred the express, even thought it was more money, but there were fewer stops, fewer stops meant there was less of a chance of running into someone I knew. Or someone that used to know the old me I should say, because no one knew me now.

Everything was grey. It was like the universe knew what today meant. Today wasn’t a day for sunshine and cloudless skies. At least not yet. Today was weighted, like a comfort blanket. The bus rolled to a stop, and I blindly stepped on and swiped my card.

“Good Morning …”

I felt the lingering question in that pause, ignoring it I replied with a clipped “Mornin’” I said and made my way to the back. Hood pulled low I situated myself so I wouldn’t make eye contact with the driver, he knew my route. He knew where I was going and why. Most people did, and while I knew they meant well I couldn’t take seeing the sympathy in their eyes. Not anymore.

The stainless steel seats held the chill from the air and seeped through my jeans to me, but that chill kept my mind in the present. I moved through every day like a fog. I craved consistent stimuli, diversions, and dustractions. For the first time in four years I was hoping to feel something. Relief. Joy. Justice. Hell, I’d even take raging resentment right now. I knew I needed to move on, purge that night. It played like a loop of unfortunate events that has been my life for the last 1,460 days. Lightning lit the sky up like Fourth of July off the river, followed by thunder that sliced through the silence like a snake whip, whistling before its sharp crack, causing more than a few riders to jump out of their own personal reverie. A set of siblings nervously giggled as they counted between the two.

“One-Mississippi, Two-Mississippi, Three-Mississippi …”

I was young when mama taught me about counting between the two, anything to stop me from wailing. She used to say, I was worse than the tornado alarm. I smirked in spite of myself. Looking up I could see I was about three stops away from my own personal storm. Each stop took me closer …

 “Four-Mississippi, Five-Mississippi”.

Have you ever wanted to be somewhere so bad, but couldn’t get there slow enough either? I know. It’s a conundrum. One I had been facing five days a week for the last three weeks straight.

“Wayne County Court – Division 1 next stop” said the pleasant automated voice over the loudspeaker. I rang the buzzer. With leaden feet I walked down that aisle, that route, that bus, for the late time.

More grey. Tall. Solid. Grey. The municipal building stood like a sentry, blocking any sun that could have shined upon those entering its doors. Neutral in its stance. I stood there, numb, for who knows how long. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I felt a warm, soft hand slowly pry my grip apart. Honey brown eyes, glistening with unshed tears brought me back. My godmother had been waiting for me outside the courthouse. Umbrella and bible in hand. It had started raining. She covered us both, while fumbling in her purse for a tissue.  That’s when I noticed the bloody half-moons I had dug into my palms. Four semi circles in each hand. Instantly, the smell of iron in the air yanked me back to June 6, 2015. My eyes were blurred with tears, as I recalled the worst day of my life.

To be continued …

by BiSKITs & Gravy

Blog Post 1

by Tony Williams

A few months ago I was invited to a book signing at Brazos a local independent bookstore that regularly features book authors both famous and up and coming from all genres. I vaguely knew who the author was but had not read anything from them. I was going primarily because people I know and like would be in attendance. At this stage in my life I’m all about relationships outside of my family. I want to know and interact with as many people as I can. Hopefully many if not all these people will one day be called friends. Not the loose terminology that we throw around for the word friend when we really mean acquaintance but friend as in my heart has an attachment to this person. 

The reading. After walking around the bookstore and reminding myself that I didn’t need to purchase anything but the poets book; I made my purchase and found a seat. I started reading and even though there was quite a bit of talking going on behind me. I was entranced by the words on the page. There were lines that I read over and over. The authors words pulled from my own emotions and feelings and thought and memories and . . . 

A familiar voice came from behind me and I turned to let them know I was there and had a seat for them. There is a Japanese word or phrase that speaks of love at first site. I don’t believe in love at first site, but I do believe that you can meet a person and feel an instant connection to them. This person should be in your life. Perhaps it gets misinterpreted or biases hold it back. If listened to, that pull could open the door to possibilities.

The reading. The author, a tall handsome black man. Let me write that again. The author, a tall handsome black man. Can I fully describe what it does to me every time I see a black male doing great things outside of sports? This man, this author, this poet. Poet. OMG! My heart went pitter patter. I’d read a few of his poems while waiting. I was and am hungry for more of his words. His relaxed manner the way he took control of the room in an easy sociable way. All eyes were on Terence Hayes not just because of the words printed in a book but because the interpreter of those words stood before us and humorously explained how the night would go. He read from his work and then during the Q&A said something that will forever endear him to my mind. 

I can’t quote him though I wish I could have taped his responses. Were they profound, probably not, though they spoke to me. He writes every day. The poems in his latest collection that speak on but are not about 45’s first two hundred days were not edited. He spoke of practice. He spoke of making not just his writing but his art a practice. Did I mention he is also an artist? His use of the word practice stood out to me more than anything else he said. Perhaps it stood out so much because of the following quote which I’d read and written down earlier in the day from Erich Fromm.

Loving isn’t something natural. Rather it requires discipline, concentration, patience, faith, and the overcoming of narcissism. It isn’t a feeling, it is a practice.”

Tony W.

by BiSKITs & Gravy

Baby Blue Hearse

by IO

She pulled the baby blue hearse to the highway shoulder, pressing on the brake gradually so that the vehicle glided to a smooth halt. The engine had overheated again. Maybe this was the end for the twenty-year-old Lincoln.

Perth stepped out into the mid-afternoon heat in her black polyester blend suit, pulling on the jacket and cap, fanning her face with her hands. As hot as it was, appearance still meant more than comfort. If people were going to see her outside of her hearse, they had to see a put-together, professional, ferry captain for the dearly departed. For decorum. It was bad enough that she was mistaken for a scrawny teenage boy, with her short braids gathered beneath her cap and her flat-as-a-board build.

The A/C had died long ago, leaving her to sweat in her cheap synthetic blends. She had left that afternoon in a freshly pressed button-up. Now, she could feel the damp in her pits dripping down her sides, glueing the white shirt to her skin. There was no getting out of sweating, A/C or no, but this unplanned pit-stop was straining the absorptive quality of her professional ware. She had to get back on the road before she melted right along with her suit.

For a moment she considered using the water she was drinking from to cool the engine but figured it wasn’t worth it. The car was dead. No point rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic, as her mom would say.

The cap she wore was made of the same hot, itchy material as her suit, but it at least kept the late May sun off her head and out of her eyes so she kept it on. Looking west, the direction she’d been headed, she could see the late afternoon rays dip and rise around the cypress and tupelo trees. The canopy blocked out most of the blinding light, but the heat remained. It hung heavy over everything, like a damp towel that refused to dry out.

A few cars passed by, but no one stopped to offer help. So much for Southern hospitality. Maybe it was more about the car than her, though. Who really wants to stop and hang out with a corpse for however long it takes help to arrive. And with this heat, even the embalming chemicals weren’t going to hold off the decay for very long. A tow truck’s got to pass by eventually. As each car passed and the light faded over the hills, Perth worried the body would be late for its own memorial.

The car had cooled from scalding to warm by the time twilight came down. By now, someone preparing the service would wonder where the body was. They’d have called the parlour and learned Perth had headed out over an hour ago. Someone would drive by looking for them, Perth and the corpse.

The earth had moved the sun’s beams further west, the rays peeking between the drooping branches. Even the foliage couldn’t dim the bright light that changed direction with peek-a-boo motions of leaves in the breeze. 

Perth leaned over the side of the bridge, lighting a cigarette. She tapped her ash into the still waters below. Every now and again there was a sound like a pebble or large bug hitting the water. The smoke helped keep away the mosquitos which were buzzing with the ferocity of a monster playing with prey that’s wandered into its lair. She let the smoke drift into her face, around her neck, taking a puff every once in a while to keep the end burning.

Something heavier entered the water with the sound of a small splash, then a subtle whooshing of a body swimming in otherwise placid water. She looked down from the bridge to see the back of an alligator just breaching the surface, passing beneath the bridge. Once it was out of sight, she dropped her cigarette butt in the fading ripples.

Perth moved to stand against the car, staring at the woods on the other side of the highway, sipping the last of her water. On the other side of the barrier, going east, a tow truck roared by.

by BiSKITs & Gravy

Terra Spirit – Part 1

by K. Osorio-Teamer

Olivia had only been to one wake before today; she was six and she threw up when she saw her abuela’s face in the casket. She felt a little more prepared this time, having avoided food all morning. Still, she tugged on her cardigan sleeves nervously as she walked into St. Mary’s Funeral Home. There was a sign-in book near the entrance, but there weren’t as many signatures as Olivia expected. Next to the book, there was a large white poster with the smiling face of Arabela Dario, a smile Olivia was so used to seeing. Ms. Dario was a regular patient at the oncology clinic where Olivia worked as a nursing assistant. A breast cancer survivor, Ms. Dario came in monthly for lab work and injections to help with the damage chemo had done to her now withering bones. You’d never know she was in pain just by looking at her, though. That smile was as much a part of her ensemble as the signature scarves she tied around her neck. Olivia stared at the glossy face of her 74 year old friend. I wish I could see her entire outfit, she thought. Every monthly visit included a fashion show and history lesson, where Ms. Dario would show off her original pieces describing each one in length and then they’d discuss Olivia’s outfit for the day. 

  Once she signed her name, Olivia walked into the chapel to her right. Every step was somewhat uncomfortable in this room. People seated on either side of the walkway were either crying in silence or solemnly looking down. The pain in the room was palpable. Up front, there were people lined up to see Ms. Dario one last time. The line grew shorter and soon Olivia was face to face with her friend, this time the smile wasn’t there, but her favorite scarf was. It was a bright green with yellow and red flowers all over. Olivia felt her body betraying her. She forced her eyes to stay open, knowing one blink would unleash an avalanche of tears. She didn’t know what to say now that she was here. She walked away on shaky legs and made her way to bathroom. Once inside, she let out a scream, not the tears she was expecting. A man in a bear head stood in the bathroom – Olivia thought she was hallucinating. 

“Don’t freak out! I’m just in Terran cosplay!” The man’s muffled voice had a hint of panic under the black bear head. He turned in all directions, as if he was looking for the source of the scream.

“Obviously.” Olivia recognized his garments immediately. They were the garb of the Terrans from the science fiction movie Terra Spirit. “Either way, I can tell you’re not a real bear.”

“Oh.” He turned to face the stalls this time.  “You know about Terra Spirit?”

“Why are you quizzing me right now? You’re in the women’s bathroom. You need to get out!” 

“First of all, I didn’t know this was the women’s bathroom. Second of all, my bear head is stuck. Can you help me?” He said to the sinks on Olivia’s right. 

“Are you serious?” 

“Look at me. I’m just a guy in a bear head begging for help. Why would I lie?”

“Many reasons. You could be a murderer and this could be a trap.” Olivia was a devoted Law & Order: SVU fan and thought she knew every trick in the book.

“Even if I wanted to murder you, I couldn’t. I can’t even see, the eye holes aren’t lined up right. Can you just help me, please? I promise all these weapons are just props.” He had an array of knives and bear claw shaped weapons on his belt.

“Fine! Sit down so I can get a good grip.” He leaned down and searched for the floor with his hands. Olivia was still unsure if she could trust this man. She grabbed her pepper spray from her purse and put it in her back pocket, just in case. 

“Are you still there?” The bear head turned in both directions, searching for the sound of her presence. 

“Yeah, I’m coming.” She checked under each stall to make sure he didn’t have any accomplices hiding. Once she was sure they were alone, Olivia approached the bear head. 

“I’m Arturo, by the way. And you are…” He turned the head again looking for her. 

“Olivia and slightly annoyed.” 

“Nice to meet you, Slightly Annoyed,” he chuckled and Olivia’s eyes rolled as back as they could. 

“Ok, I’m done. Good luck, bear man.” She turned to walk away, she was not mentally prepared for this nonsense. 

“No no, please,” Arturo raised his hands and laughed in defeat. “I’ll stop. Just trying to lighten the mood.” 

“Well don’t.” She faced the head again. “Ok, I’m pulling it off. Ready?”

“Ready.” Olivia placed a hand on either side of the head and pulled up hard, but it felt like it was glued on. It wouldn’t budge. 

“Is your jaw relaxed?” 

“As relaxed as it can be.” The head didn’t move an inch no matter how hard she pulled. Olivia decided to try another approach. She bent down and wrapped her entire arm around the head, in a choke hold position. She pulled up hard. The sound of Arturo screams made her stop.

“Wait! My nose!”

“Oh my god, I’m sorry.” She took a few steps back, unsure of what to do next. 

“It’s fine, but can you try to pull slower?” Olivia did as he asked, but started to feel hot – she could feel the sweat falling down her forehead and back. She was getting that nasty feeling like she had forgotten something, a gaping hole in her back.

“It’s not coming off, Arturo. Maybe we should call 911.”

“Ok wait,” he raised his hands up, as if this would calm Olivia down, “that’s kind of an overreaction.”

“What if we can’t get it off?” Olivia’s mind was running at full speed with bad scenario after worse scenario. “What if you suffocate? We may need the jaws of life.”

“Let’s try something else. Maybe some soap and water? Or some lotion.” The calm in his voice alarmed Olivia, but did give her an idea.
“I have coconut oil in the car!” She was already headed towards the bathroom door. 

“That’s a little odd,” he remarked with a tone in curiosity. 

“I use it as a moisturizer. And you are the last person that should be calling anything odd right now.”

“True. Coconut oil should work, though. And if you’re gonna call someone, call my mom.” As Olivia walked out, Arturo added, “Actually, don’t.”

“Oh no? But she’d be so proud to hear her son has his head stuck in a bear head.” Olivia laughed on her way out of the bathroom and was greeted by the disappointed and mourning faces in the funeral home lobby. She had nearly forgotten where she was. She rushed out the door to her car. The coconut oil was in liquid form thanks to the warm weather. 

When she entered the bathroom, Arturo was in the same spot she had left him. If he wasn’t in a ridiculous bear head, Olivia would have thought he was meditating.

“I’m back.” 

“Cool. Someone came in while you were gone. She screamed and ran out.” He chuckled under the bear head. 

“You think she’s calling animal control? Here.” She handed him the open jar, and he started to look for nooks where he could fit his fingers to spread the oil. “What went wrong with the bear head? Did you have it custom made?”

“No, I ordered one online. It just doesn’t fit right.”

“But surely when you ordered it, you measured your head to make sure that it would fit.” Olivia crossed her arms in clear judgement. 

“I surely didn’t.”
“So you blindly ordered a bear head and it didn’t fit, but you still decided to wear it today?”

“No, I blindly ordered a bear head, came here, and then found out it didn’t fit,” he corrected. He was now slathering his neck in oil. 

“That’s even worse! You didn’t try it on before you got here?”

“I didn’t really think about it.”

“Wow, that is horrifying.” 

“It’s not too bad. At least I got to meet you.”

“Are you,” Olivia paused, her brows furrowed at Arturo, “flirting with me? At a funeral?”

“Technically, this is a wake.”

Part 2 coming soon!!

by BiSKITs & Gravy

FE/26 – Part I

by S.L. Jordan

I woke up with the fresh stench of blood lingering in my nostrils, so real I could taste it. Tangy and metallic. I barely made it to the wastebasket before vomit violently projected itself from my body. The spins forced me back to the bed, I closed my eyes to steady myself when the air – sour with the scent of vomit- caused another roll of waves to turn my stomach. I barely made it to my early morning date with Earl at the Porcelain Throne.  Strawn out on the cool, discolored, chipped tile floor I stared at the stucco ceiling while becoming painfully aware of my body. What I willingly let happen to it the night before, and every night before that. Bruising, the result of blood vessels bursting and pooling just below the skin, spotted my body like some sleek exotic cat.

Wedged between the throne, the shower and sink base I was cat-a-corner to my bed. With a clear view of my living quarters, last night’s scene laid out before me, I began to piece it together. I could see my gym bag left at the door, keys still in the deadbolt, the trail of blood and sweat stained clothing littered the floor, and finally, the culprit for the morning’s merry-go-round, a fifth of Johnnie Walker – red label of course, empty on its side speckled with bits of vomit. As my vision began to clear up, I could see last night was a repeat of the every night this week. Three glass bottles, plastic nooses around their necks, hung from the knob on the front door.

I crawled my way back to the bed as my legs weren’t stable enough to carry me there. The sheets were soaked with sweat, my pillow a mixture of sweat, tears and spit. This was the fourth night in a row this week I was awaken by memories I couldn’t escape. Four last week. Four the week before. On my nightstand stood the rarely touched bottle of sleeping pills my doctor first prescribed years ago. Experience taught me that when the trial was this close, nothing could stop the night terrors from coming. The strongest street drugs and pharmaceuticals were no match for the body’s natural chemistry. The faded needle marks on my arm a living testament to that fact. I had tried everything. Now, I just let them have their way with me. Torment my nights and shadow my days. Ignoring the constant vibrating of my phone I watched as it fell off the nightstand and danced across the floor. Stripping my bed of linen, I tossed them in the corner. Joining the other sweat stained sets, at this rate I would run out of sheets before the days of the week.

Leaving a trail of soggy pajamas I made my way across the small rectangular studio – in fact my efficiency was nothing but rectangles varying in width and length jutting out in awkward seemingly unplanned angles- illuminated by the first blush of the morning sun fighting its way through a heavyweight cloud before sliding in the northeast window. I could hear the day slowing awakening. Early morning commuters shuffling their way to and from work, side hustles, secret rendezvouses. From my small corner apartment perched in the window I could see Mr. Daniels coming outside for a cigarette. He and Mrs. Daniels just had a baby a few months prior, and he was regulated to the outdoors for his nicotine fix. Directly beneath my window the familiar sounds of the METRO could be heard as it came to a stop, my neighbor was returning from the third shift at the Casino, one of the few places for under-educated, unskilled millennials to work. He walked over to Mr. Daniels and they shared a cig, a few puffs billowing in the chilly dawn air before his wife knocked at the kitchen window.

I stopped by my own kitchen to start a fresh pot of coffee. I don’t particularly like coffee, but I needed something to sober up. Pushing aside unpacked boxes, I searched through the mass of unwashed dishes that had accumulated over the last week until I found a cup that would suffice with a quick rinse of hot water. Maybe I could find some time this weekend to clean up around here.

In the bathroom I stood listening to the whirl and drip of the machine, I appraised the deep dark purple bruises that sprouted up overnight. 1, 2, 3 … three more than last week. Reaching into the makeshift medicine cabinet I caught my reflection in the mirror, my face was noticeably swollen on the right side. Working the muscles of my jaw I felt the hinge lock and unlock. That butterfly kick to the face last night left more of a lasting impact than I thought.

To be continued …