Shadow

Haunt my steps forever

And I shall turn a blind eye

In the company of the forsaken

You shall never hear me cry

Touch the soles of my feet

With your ink stained fingers

And as the moon grows dim

Your warm breath lingers

My forever companion

The wraith upon my back

Your night-eyes alone see all

My void, my lack

I pin you to this paper

With ink and pen stained words

But I do still not dare name you

For then your voice will be heard

Black wings that rest upon me

Covering with midnight’s hue

Cold chill within my veins

Will I never escape you?

Never comes your raven reply

Never solace shall you find

Never will this maw close

Never the whisper leave your mind

The Faceless Child: Chapter 1

The Faceless Child

“Of all Mother-Monster’s children,

Only one did she despise

So much she could not even bare

To look into his eyes.

She reached out one massive claw,

And off his face she tore,

O Hear the Faceless Child’s Cries

In the night forevermore”

Maryanne Webber stepped inside the lobby, the large glass doors closing with a his of air behind her. Inside, the cold air conditioned air washed over her, shocking her senses after the ride in the hot car during the summer heatwave. The front desk bled out from behind a corner and wrapped around the front wall before disappearing behind another corner, like the body of some colossal gray snake. Sitting behind it was what appeared to be a woman. She was dressed in grey button up shirt that should have been ironed, while glasses that weren’t in style even back in 1974 when she first got them rested low on the bridge of her nose with a thin brushing of dark hairs beneath it quivered as she strained with the pencil being macerated between her teeth. This was the lone security guard on duty. Straining all her might to figure out D-42 across.

Maryanne gave a small smile, one she rarely showed but frequently felt. It was the warm glow of accomplishment, of success, that only came when she was in the presence of someone who had obviously screwed up their life. This woman looked like she had been working this same spot for the last twenty years, while Maryanne had been promoted twice in the last year alone. Not to mention the obvious lack of a wedding ring. Not that Maryanne was married, but she definitely still had plenty of time and the body to make it happen– if she wanted to of course.

“Excuse me....” she said clearing her throat as she replaced a stray blonde hair behind her ear.

“Yeah, I saw you hun, hold on one sec.” the woman behind the counter answered, still not looking up from the crossword, resting her whiskered chin in her large, manly hand.

“Excuse me, but I do not have time for this! I have an appointment and I’m only 5 minutes early!” She added the last part as another gentle reminder that she was the type of woman who would show up early, not like this tramp without an iota of punctuality.

“Well, hun.” The woman said, making eye contact with Maryanne, which drained a lot of Maryanne’s confidence from her, “You’ll just have to wait. Won’t you?”

“Sorry ‘hun’ but I don’t wait for anyone!” Maryanne said as she began walking past the woman, following the body of the grey coiling desk.

“Uh-uh-ah.” The woman intoned, swiveling around in her chair, holding up a large metallic box with a red switch prominently at the center. “Take one step over the yeller line and I drop the switch. Lock down. Boom. Then you’ll be more than five minutes late for that meeting.”

Maryanne looked at the yellow caution-tape like line that ran from the bend of the snake-desk across the floor. She turned and made eye contact with the woman. Her own off green eyes were reduced to slivers as she met the woman’s sharp blue ones. She folded her arms, tapping her foot.

“I want to talk to your supervisor.” Maryanne said tersely as she tapped her foot faster.

The woman just laughed, reached into the desk and pulled out a small black pouch. Maryanne rolled her eyes. Great this woman was going to eat her lunch before she did anything to help her. This was perfect. But at least now she would have an excuse if she was late. And just wait until she was back at the cafe with her friends. She could see the conversation now.

“Jocelyn, hold on!” she would yell as she saw her friend pull her card out first.

“No, Maryanne. You paid for drinks last night. I’m getting our coffee.” The older brunette would say.

“No, really Jocelyn, you’re just being rediculous.” Maryanne would add, pulling her own card out, making sure that the platinum, diamond edge would flash just enough to make Jocelyn realize Maryanne was doing very well after getting the raise.

“Please, just take my card.” Jocelyn would say, handing her card to the poor cashier, as Maryanne’s hand would push ahead of hers.

“No, take mine. She’s crazy she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I am paying.” Maryanne would say, half a tease but half the hammer blow to remind her friend just where the power dynamic lay.

But in the end, Maryanne would “let” Jocelyn pay. That was how it worked. She was there to console Jocelyn, to help her, to remind her what her life could have been like if she hadn’t married that two-bit accountant from Indonesia who promised he would make CFO someday. A constant reminder to Jocelyn that if she isn’t careful she’ll make more mistakes like that. She’ll be less and less like Maryanne. So Jocelyn will pay for the privelge and benefit of sitting with Maryanne at their table by the corner window.

From outside they’ll be able to see the old sign, “Cafe de Joure” overgrown with ivy all over the brick. The low wrought iron fence enclosing the outside seating will usually have a cardinal or raven sitting on it, a nice enough place during summer. But they almost always sit at their spot inside, where they can see all the other people in the cafe and comment on them.

“Oh my lord, will you look at that!” Jocelyn will say, looking towards a couple in the corner booth.

A young boy, no older than nineteen might be helping a girl who looks barely seventeen into the booth. His jeans are worn at the knees, his t-shirt has a superhero silk-screened on it, his baseball cap looks like it came from his high school team not too long ago. She has her hair back in a ponytail, wearing sweatpants and what must obviously be his hoody. She is also obviously pregnant.

“Hmmm, looks like Niles and Miranda.” Maryanne would say, hiding her satisfied smile in a sip of coffee.

“Oh! Maryanne! You are terrible!” Jocelyn would fein surprise that her friend would name names, laughing and smiling before replying, “Though you are probably right. I mean, Miranda was what? Sixteen at the most?”

“You mean the first or the second time?” Maryanne would reply, smiling coyly at the bit of gossip she so ‘accidentally dropped’.

“Second time? What?! No! You’re joking!” Jocelyn would say, eyes growing larger as she scooted closer, leaning in as if Maryanne should whisper it to her.

“Well, I mean it’s no secret the type of person Miranda is.” Maryanne would say, putting the cup down, “I mean, really, people like her, who don’t have a lick of self control. It’s disgusting.”

“But Miranda and Niles were only together for six months before–” and then Jocelyn’s eyes would grow even wider, “No! You mean... but then... does Niles know?”

“Not as much as he thinks.” Maryanne would say, “But then again, I always did say only an idiot like Niles would fall for someone like Miranda without knowing what they were getting themselves into.”

“It’s a shame.” Jocelyn would say, always trying to sound the saint, “They are both really nice.”

But Maryanne would not be outdone by her, “Oh yes, I love them both to pieces. They are really great. I just wish they hadn’t made such poor decisions. It’s their decisions that push people away” and by people she meant herself of course “Sometimes I wish I had kept more in touch. But I guess that’s just life.”

But then before Jocelyn would have a chance to say anything else, to possibly defend Niles and Miranda, the idiot and the tramp, Maryanne would quickly change the topic. This is why she was not actually as upset at the security guard as she was making herself out to be.

“Speaking of frustrating people though! The other day I went for the meeting at the corporate offices, and you would not believe the nerve of the security guard at the front desk!” Maryanne would say, acting as indignant as if it was happening to her all over again.

“What happened? Did he frisk you?” Jocelyn would say with a half giggle, sipping from her cup.

“No! It was a woman!” Maryanne would correct Jocelyn, not pleased that Jocelyn should be amused at her expense.

“A lesbian groped you?” Jocelyn was almost visibly salivating at the gossip she would be able to share with her yoga buddy or her running partners.

“Please. Control yourself. It was nothing graphic.” Maryanne would let only disgust and disdain drip as she said it, putting Jocelyn squarely back in her place, “But she would not let me in, even after I told her I was running late!”

“What?! The nerve!” Jocelyn would say, as if she could somehow understand what it felt like, as if her daughter’s nanny who frequently talked back to her was the same level of insolence at all.

“That’s what I said. And then when I tried to walk in anyway she threatened to lock me in the lobby and call the police!” Maryanne decided that it was okay for her to stretch the truth a little.

“What on earth possessed the woman?” Jocelyn would say shocked.

“Well, if you must know.” and here Maryanne would drop the clincher, proving to Jocelyn just how wonderful and interesting her life really was. “She reached down and pulled out her lunch!”

Instead of thinking of all the possible reactions that Jocelyn might have, Maryanne decided that she would instead focus on the contents of the black bag. At the very least, it would be amusing to tell Jocelyn of the contents. Probably not a single vitamin or nutrient in the lunchbox. The woman probably didn’t even know or understand free-radicals or omega-3. And what if she pulled out a salad? Well Jocelyn would never know. All she would hear about would be fried pig’s ears or doughnuts. Doughnuts, that dillectable and yet oh so trashy dessert that she and Jocelyn both craved yet could not– and would not– afford to eat or even mention except in passing. To think would cause calories to collect.

Maryanne had already decided that no matter what the security guard pulled out, she was going to say it was doughnuts either way, when her attention was pulled back by the woman.

“That was pathetic.” the woman said, her voice suddenly much higher pitched and less gravely. “Of all the shallow, miserable people I have had to eat, you are definitely the most inferior. It’s like watching neural synapsis kill themselves.”

“Wh-what?” Maryanne said, unnerved by the way the woman’s voice had changed but also by the way her black eyes were staring into Maryanne’s own. “Eat?”

For some reason none of it made sense to Maryanne. It was as if the world had suddenly slowed. Maryanne just could not make the woman’s words form meaning. Why did she say eat? She must have meant something else. But what could she have meant to say?

“No, Maryanne. I meant exactly what I said. I am going to eat you. And not enjoy a moment of it.” the security guard said, before pulling her hand from the black pouch, revealing a gleaming gun. “This isn’t the first time I’ve used a gun. It’s just difficult to keep things... clean.”

Maryanne could not come to terms with what was happening. This was her life! She wasn’t supposed to ever see a gun, much less have one pointed at her! She was supposed to always make it, even if she had to call her Daddy and have him make a few phone calls. She was the one who would never die. Now, she stood there, trembling as a cool barrel of the gun was forced against her temple. Her body began shaking, her fingers turning numb as adrenaline and cold fear coursed through her veins like cool fire.

“Who are you?” she said, her voice cracking.

“Maryanne, the question is not ‘who’,” the woman said, getting up and stepping up on the gray desk. “The question is what?”

Maryanne tried to look around. Tried to think of a place to run to. But not only did the woman have a gun. She had the lockdown button. There was a bathroom, but it was probably too far away. Unless. Unless Maryanne jumped over the desk, and ran behind the corner and then jumped for the bathroom.

“Ah, but that won’t work.” the security guard said, “I’d shoot you as you jumped over the desk.”

That was when Maryanne realized that the woman had been answering her thoughts. “W-what are you?”

A cool hand, much younger and much paler than had belonged to the old security guard rested on Maryanne’s cheek. In a state of shock, she followed the hand to the arm and then to the owner of the hand. The black irises, like oceans of ink and darkness, threatened to drown Maryanne. It was only when he said it that she realized what lay beneath the eye-line.

“I am the Faceless Child.”

The cameras do not show what happened to Silvia McCohe the security guard. The last time she was seen, she had left for home two weeks before. When the neighbors complained about the smell, the police had been called to investigate. What they found was so terrible, they never spoke of it afterwards. Silvia was found, sitting in her chair in front of a TV still turned to infomercials. On her lap was one of her cats. It was pulling strips of flesh from what used to be her arm. But what was most shocking was her head. Her entire face was gone. No marks, no bruises, no flesh, no bone. Just the empty darkness of an empty skull. The body was sealed in a bag, labeled with a standard white name tag, which was left blank except for a massive black F drawn over it. From there it was taken to an undisclosed location on the Cascade Mountain Range in the Pacific Northwest, to an old concrete building marked with the same letter F . Inside, a group of old and forgotten scientist were woken by the disturbance when the truck baring the body bag arrived. They placed the still sealed body on a slab and slid it into a freezer unit next to hundreds just like it. Then they wrote the number 292 on the tag, and left, turning the light off as they did.

Down

I write my morning down

Right there in my journal

Line by line I remind myself

I remind myself of the dreams I have dreamt

Of the places I’ve been, the friends I’ve made

I write the morning song

Of the bird outside my window

I write the sweetest taste

Of coffee flowing through my soul

I write my morning sunshine

Or promises long made

Or the self I want to be

I write myself, my story

Down

The day rises up to meet me

And I write my life as I go

Across the yellow sticky notes

Line by line the times and places

Reminders and long lost faces

Scrawled across my planner

Cross out, white out, redo

The plans that run together

Before they just run out

The thoughts that run in circles

The time that slowly runs round

As I run from here to there

Running, writing on the go,

My life writes right along

I forget the pen, the paper,

I forget the words, the phrases,

I forget that life writes right along

As the clocks go on winding

Down

As as the days draw darker

And the sun fades from the sky

I seek out my muse in the secret

And in the darkest soil find birth

Rich treasure delved from depths

Unspoken and unseen

This pen, it is my shovel

My muse my guide, my guardian

I who wakes me in the night

We fight and wrestle

Till morning’s hour

We break the yoke and fly

Till the touch lands on my shoulder

And the strength shrinks goodbye

Building sand into marble

Line by line the tower towers

While slowly slumber claims my soul

To take it lower lower deeper

Down

The Orphan Princess and the Firelord: Prologue

Prologue

Ever since the mists of the very first grey morning were lit by the silver sun, the Walker has walked between the columns of the arboreal cathedral in the land whose verdant vaults allowed only the faintest slivers of sunlight to drape across the slumbering silver pines, touched by the morning frost. With the frayed edged of the ancient white cowl gently brushing the dew off of the thick carpet of emerald clover, the Walker paced the old paths as he made his way to the very edge of his dominion. There where the trees grew small and the clearings large, and the sky loomed wide and daunting. There where the forest reached its limit to give way to the rolling green hills of heather and thyme, those verdant plains that washed down to the wide azure sea. His white eyes looked knowingly at each leaf and blade of grass with familiarity, as the small group of travelers walked along the snaking gravel path towards his forest.

“There he is! I told you!” he heard the whisper travel towards the forest.

“But how did he know we’d be here?” he let the smile creep across dark, leathery features as he heard the question.

“Shhh! He’ll hear you!” spoke the first voice.

“Hello there. And whose company do I have the pleasure to receive this morning?” he asked as he stepped towards them, careful to remain within the shadow of the forest which was his boundary.

From the group of pilgrims a woman stepped forth, drawing back the brown mantle to reveal the royal red and gold brocade of the Queens of the Islands of the Sunfire Flowers. But the normal slender frame showed the tell-tale signs of one heavy with child. Her hands both rested on her round middle, as she closed the sacred space between her party and the Walker at the Woods.

“Draw no closer, Calendula Sempra Floranium.” he spoke, a commanding note to his voice. “I know why you seek me, but I cannot offer you sanctuary here. Not when you bare within your womb one such as this.”

“Please, milord. I am ill–” she began, taking another step. “I will do anything for the child.”

“I know.” he said, softening his tone, “Shhh. I know. But if you step within the bounds of the forest, it shall claim you and the child as well. And if the child is born within its bounds, she shall not be human. Not anymore.”

“She?” the queen said as tears came to her eyes, “I will bare a daughter?”

“Yes.” he answered, closing his eyes, “I will reveal no more. But you must return here. On the eve of your daughters birth.”

“And my daughter?” the Queen asked hopefully.

“You must leave her behind. She cannot yet set foot in this enchanted forest.” he said, feeling the pain of the Queen’s breaking heart tangibly fill the air.

“As you command, milord.” she said, bowing before she returned to her company.

“Is that it?” asked one of the pilgrims. “A fat lot of help he was!”

“Shhh! Daisy he’ll hear you!” said the other one.

“Well, I don’t care if he does!” she said, revealing her tangled mop of bright red curly hair. “Who does he think he is, talking to our lady like that!”

“He is the Walker in the Woods!” said the other, revealing large round spectacles on his face, “You should be grateful you have been given the honor of even seeing him!”

“Well you may be easily impressed by a white cape and an old face, Edwynn, but if you ask me–” she began again but was cut off when the Queen walked between them.

“Come along. We must make haste and see to all the preparations. The astrologers have foretold that I have until the new moon at most. Everything must be prepared for my daughter.”

************************

And so it was, that on the night of the second waning spring moon, Queen Calendula Sempra Floranium gave birth to her third daughter. And all could see that the child was indeed touched by the Sacred Flame. For unlike her sisters, or all the other children of the Islands of the Sunfire Flower, she was not born tow-headed but with locks as dark as the sands of the fire islands she was destined to rule someday.

But that night, the Queen, still weak from having given birth, leaned over her sleeping daughter, and gave her one last kiss on her beautiful face as she whispered, “Good night, my darling daughter. Someday, we will see each other again. But for now, I cannot linger. The night is already old. Be strong, my daughter. My precious. My sweet Melanie.”

“Your Majesty.” came the voice from the doorway.

“Daisy, watch over her. Make sure she knows that I loved her.” she said turning to the small, red headed figure.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Edwynn, ready the swiftship.” she said, turning to the other. “We must away on the Speeding Tide.”

The morning sun was barely breathing the soft hues of violet and periwinkle into the obsidian sky, when the swiftship landed on the verdant shore. The queen walked up the gravel path once more, leaning heavily upon her companion. As they neared the forest edge, they saw the figure in white standing between the two massive trees that formed the gateway of the arboreal realm.

“Come, Calendula. You have journeyed long in the circles of the seas. Your journey has now reached it’s end. Here in my forest you shall finally know peace. For both your ill body and your burdened mind.” he said holding our his hands to the staggering queen.

“Edwynn. There is one final preparation you must see to.” the Queen said as she grabbed hold of both his hands with her shaking form, “My daughter. You must guard her heart. Find a suitable husband for her. Protect her from those who will seek advancement.”

“I will, of course, milady. But surely now is not–” he began to say as the Queen silenced him with a loud, painful groan.

“Please! Just promise me this! Please.” the Queen said, looking into his concern filled eyes. “Promise me you will keep her heart safe from the wolves.”

“I promise your Majesty.” he said, as the queen closed her eyes and gave a sigh of relief.

“Thank you.”

Then she turned and staggered towards the forest, falling into the arms of the Walker. And as she did, it was as if instantly strength filled her body. She stood aright again, her grace and poise returned. But a strange green light shone in her once dark eyes as a strange smile spread across her lips.

“Milady! Is there anything else you would have me tell your daughter?” Edwynn called to her as she turned to walk away.

She turned, smiling in a strange, mad grin and spoke in a haunting, echoing voice, “What daughter?” before she disappeared into the dark folds of the greenwood.

“The forest has claimed her now.” spoke the Walker, “She will not recall her old life. It is dead. Better that this new princess know nothing of this. Better that she grow up thinking that her mother died. In childbirth. See to it.”

“Yes. My lord.” he said bowing, and when he looked up, he was all alone at the edge of the forest.

Chicken and Rice

I did not even need to use my finger anymore. That is what I would have told anyone if they ever found out. If I could tell them what I really did when I disappeared for almost a full hour at work. Deep down I craved someone to talk to about it. Someone in whom I could confide. But that someone never came. Instead, I slowly sunk deeper into the morass of my own self loathing, and disappeared more and more often.

My knees came down harder on the tile of the bathroom floor than I had intended. Bracing my arms against the seat of the porcelein bowl, I caught sight of my reflection in the rippling water. And looked away. I did not want to see myself. Normally it would not matter. Normally I would not be kneeling in front of the toilet. But tonight, with most of the employees gone for the long Memorial Day weekend, I thought it would be safe enough for me to let the inward shame express itself with this outward submission. Here I am, bowing down to you O mighty porcelein lord.

When I say I did not even need to use my finger anymore I should be more clear, I have never been able to use my finger. When I had first gone through the teenage period where I woke up every morning and hated being me, I had tried to induce with my finger so many times that I lost my voice from all the strain I placed on my throat. But all I ever got was gagging and choking and coughing. And then I would be sick to my stomach. But then I had found that just by straining, tightening my stomach muscles and constricting my throat, I could force up whatever I had eaten, bit by bit, like waves on the ocean. One after another.

So there I was, straining in front of the toilet, trying not to think of all the hairy behinds that had sat on this seat I was now leaning on (but which I had wiped down of course). Somehow, it took away from the nobility of the act. Not that there was much to begin with. First I had to get past the plug. The plug was the hardest part. Clear, sticky mucous, I liked to think that it acted as a plug to keep my stomach acid in. Once it came out, the rest would be a piece of cake. But the last thing I wanted was to think about cake. As I leaned over the water, straining, fighting against my body which was fighting back, my mind began to wander.

I was back in my childhood home, black brick with jasmine climbing up to the flat tin roof that had been made into a garden where red and orange nasturtiums fell down in between showers of their circular green leaves. When it rained on that tin roof, the musical pitter patter could put even me to sleep. As apposed to the other sleepless nights when I would lie wide awake in my bed, listening to the chorus of crickets outside my window, the smell of the jasmine creeping in with the night breeze.

On nights like those, I would let my eyes run across the walls of my room. My mother had painted them with heroes and fairytale creatures. On one wall, Humpty-Dumpty swayed precariously on his wall. On another, a life size Hercules stood grinning defiantly against any comers, while a magic carriage made of a pumpkin took off behind him to sail across the night sky painted on the roof, where a lone cow was mid-leap over the moon. As my eyes scanned all the pictures, they were drawn back to the same placed on the wall. On Hercule’s calve, three small lines could be seen where my fingers had smeared through the paint. Next to Humpty Dumpty, where the Fork and Spoon were running away from the Cat with the Fiddle, a blotch of green paint was the only evidence of when I had grabbed the paintbrush while my mother’s back was turned, and added my own touch. And then always there was the floor, that always drew my attention back to it. The black spot.

The memory of that is what finally threw me over the edge, my mouth gaping open as the plug finally came up and plopped down into the bowl of the toilet, while viscous threads of glasslike fluid hung from the corners of my mouth. The system would now be put in motion and rhythmic pulses would begin in waves. But that first wave, the plug and its viscosity, the memory came back sharp and clear.

When I would lie awake and look about the room, I would not just see marks and paint splatters. I saw shame and guilt. Unthinkable that these are the thoughts that keep a six-year old awake at night, but they were. The finger lines for the paint; I had been yelled at for them. The splatter next to Humpty Dumpty; my hand had been swatted till it was red. The glitter glue smeared on the chair by the toy chest when I had nowhere else to wipe my hands, and which was yet to be discovered. All of them weighed on me with guilt. And all that guilt ran and pooled together on that one large, black stain on the carpet, where I had squeezed the whole tube of paint out. I had been spanked for that one. It had had the same viscosity, the same plopping sound. The same shame.

As the first few waves died down, I leaned away from the toilet and wiped the corner of my mouth with the toilet paper. Glancing down, I was thankful that Indian food retains its color so well. Saffron yellow whether in or out. It was a nice change from the usual off pink, off brown, or off green. The few stray peas and chips of carrots lent it aesthetically pleasing contrast. I grinned dryly as I realized I was treating vomit like art. Then I felt the tightening in my chest as the next wave began.

But this was not like any other. It hurt as it came up, a stabbing at the base of my esophagus that climbed with protruding elbows and knees that pushed against the walls of my windpipe. My face began to turn red as I strained against the porcelein. I let go of the toilet and wrapped my arms around my stomach, pushing hard to lend force to the muscles that strained and pushed. With one final grunt it plopped down in the bowl. A small piece of chicken, that had cause so much pain.

Looking down at my hands on my stomach I was reminded about another day back at that childhood house. I spent the hot days swimming in the pool, always trying to launch myself out of the water like a dolphin. As I fell back into the blue tinted water, droplets showering around me, I heard my voice called. Looking up I saw my grandmother walking towards me. I sank until my only half my head was sticking up in the water as I slowly moved towards her and the stranger who was with her. Before he said it I knew the words that were gonna come out of his mouth.

“Hey there, you must be the boy. You’re grandma has told me so much about you.” he smiled until I could see the one silver and one gold filling in the back of his mouth.

“This is your new grandpa. Come out of the water and say hello to him.” My grandmother spoke with the authority that left no room for arguement.

I walked out of the water, forcing a smile as I recalled the words my mother had spoken to me so many times before. I should not get attached. He will be gone soon enough. Don’t get my hopes up. But don’t be rude either.

“Hello sir,” I said as I shook his hand.

“Well now, your grandma tells me you can sing.” he said as if all the singing competitions I had won by the age of seven were less glamorous and more of a sickness.

“Yes,” she answered for me, “He has won many awards. And is very popular with the ladies.”

The last bit was added as if it somehow made it okay for me to sing. He looked at me and seemed to show a sign of mixed pitty and relief spreading over his features. From his Stetson to his boots, he did not seem like the type who would last long. That was just my opinion anyway. But either way, I’d have to smile as I received all kinds of unwanted gifts from new grandpa, go to the obligatory movie with him, and stand there and take his annoying comments. But what he said next was something I was not ready for.

“Hehehe, well, he better watch out, because no matter how good his singing is, if his little belly gets any rounder he’s not gonna have a single girlfriend.” he said, slapping me softly on my tummy, before adding, “And whats wrong with his back?”

Later I went into the bathroom and locked the door. Standing on my tip toes I could just barely get my waist over the edge of the counter. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. And I realized, he was right. My belly was really round. Was it too round? And my back was arching out really far. I guess I had never noticed this before. Was there something wrong with me?

After that I started to noticed all my friends. They were leaner. Straighter. Flatter. Here I was with my bowing back and round tummy. I started sucking it in, hoping no one would notice. I tried slouching to get my back to be straight too. Even later when I learned that people’s bodies were just shaped differently, and told myself that I accepted it. Even when I would declare that I only cared about being healthy, not what I looked like. Still I would walk into that bathroom and look into that mirror and I would see the stomach, the back, the thighs, the hands, the feet, the face, the person. The person I wished I hadn’t been.

As I strained to get the next wave out, my hands gripping my shirt, I felt the coiling muscles underneath. No more. The fruit of days and years of sit ups and push ups had all worked to slowly change the shape I abhored so much. It wasn’t even the puking that did it. That came afterward. That came from something else. Readying for the next, I looked at the yellow curry and thought to myself.

“Idiot.”

“Shut up. I know what I’m doing.”

“Thats money being flushed down the drain. You could have eaten that tomorrow.”

“Whats your point.”

“You should have stopped.”

“I should have.”

“Yeah, but its never enough.”

“Shut up. That’s not even it.”

“Why do you feel like you have to do this?”

“I don’t have to.”

“Then why don’t you stop?”

“I just wasn’t thinking.”

“Yes you were.”

“Yes I was.”

“Idiot.”

“I couldn’t stop... because I am not allowed to.”

“Who told you that?”

“Who told me that?”

Who had told me that? The thoughts and voices fell away to the memories washing over me, taking me back to the house with the black bricks, the creeping jasmine, the falling nasturtiums. There is a table. It is cut like a hexagon. My mother’s design. My father’s execution. Around it sit six chairs, each ready for a diner, each empty. Except for one.

I sit in the seat and look down at the plate. After reading a Saturday morning comic with a Viking who ate large hunks of chicken and lamb legs, I had decided to get a chicken leg from the bowl of KFC. Now I had to pay. Looking down at the plate, I saw half a mound of eaten mashed potatoes. Next to it was some scattered corn. A pile of slimy coleslaw slowly seeped its sickly sweet sauce into the mashed potatoes and the skin of the half eaten chicken leg.

“I said, eat it!” he yelled as he slammed the table.

I started, looked up at him with tears forming at the corners of my eyes. I did not want to eat it. I did not want to. I was full. But he was not going to take that as an answer. I had already learned that when his face turned red like that, when his nostrels flared like that, that if I wasn’t careful, if I didn’t make him happy, I was sure to get a spanking for one thing or another.

I picked up the chicken bone, where the middle section of meat had been eaten as I heard him say, “Now finish it!”

I placed it in my mouth and began to eat away all the parts on the bone, nibbling at the remnants of the food as he said, “The tops too!”

I looked at the top, the collection of fat, cartilage, and ligament, and swallowed before turning to him and saying, “But I don’t want–”

“I said you better eat that food or I’ll spank you till you bleed little boy!” he roared as my eyes began to tear again.

I placed the food in my mouth and forced myself to begin chewing on the top of the chicken bone. It was crunchy and slimy and chewy. I began to gag on it when the hand descended on the table again.

“If you throw up. So help me. I’ll kill you!” he said beginning to take his belt off.

I forced myself to swallow the food. I forced myself not to throw up. I tried my best not to cry. I did not want him to give me “a reason to cry about”. As I sat there, swallowing the last bite, he leaned back, crossed his arms, and smirked, saying, “Thats a good boy. Now, finish it. Eat it all.”

“But what if I am full?” I asked, wiping my face with the back of my sleeve.

“You. Will. Not. Stop. Eating. Until I say. You can stop!” he yelled, raising his hand.

“I will not stop eating” I said to myself in the abandoned bathroom.

“You could stop.” answered my logic, my mind.

“I can’t. I can’t eat half way. I have to finish.” I said before leaning over and retching more vomit into the bowl.

As I thought the wave was finished, I suddenly felt a sharp jab in the back of my throat. It was a kernel of rice. This happened sometimes. It was trying to go back down the wrong tube. The single kernel of rice was trying to smother me. To kill me.

I forced myself to stay calm. I would not let the icy fingers of panic reaching up my spine affect my mind. I made a gagging, coughing sound, as I tried to dislodge it. I began to hum, hoping the vibration would let it get out of dangerous place. Finally, as I hummed and tried to clear my throat, I coughed and it flew out, sticking to the wall of the bathroom. Three grains of rice. That was all it took.

As I stood, wiping my nose, my mouth, my eyes– I heard the echoing, ethereal voice ask, “Hey, are you okay man?”

Someone was in the bathroom!

I began to panic. Quickly glancing to the side, I checked his shoes. Too nice. He wasn’t from our floor. Upper bathroom must have been closed for cleaning forcing his kind to descend to our level. But that was good. It meant he would not know me.

“Oh, er, yeah. Asthma was just acting up and I dropped my stupid inhaler.” I said, thinking quick on my feet.

“You really should eat something. I heard that can help.” he gave his unsolicited advice.

“I’ll just do that.” I answered sourly.

“You sure you’re gonna be okay?” he asked, genuinely concerned.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

Those words were forced out, like a small lump of chicken, a grain of rice, that was trying so hard to get out. Sometimes there are things which may not look that big, but just try to bring them up, force them out in the open, and you’ll realize they aren’t so small after all.

For Service of Customers

For Service of the Customers

It was only the second time a customer had thrown something at me, but this was definitely the more memorable of the two. The first time I had been working as a barista at a oil changing place that looked like a rich Italian villa had been sliced out of the hills of Capua and squeezed into the middle of a mechanic’s shop in the small town of Tigard, Oregon. Whether it was a stroke of genius or pure insanity, I am still not sure, but some inventive businessman had decided that people would like nothing less than to enjoy an Italian soda or a latte while watching dirty, greasy men change their oil.

Normally days in the Portland Metro Area do not start with the sun shining or the birds singing, so that should have been my first hint that something was up. But being the eternal optimist I was, I walked up the doors basking in the sunlight and embraced this new day.

The second hint that this was no day like any before it came when I saw my manager was not reclining in his usual spot by the door. The New York Times which he used to hide the Maxim’s he was perpetually reading lay undisturbed next to the USA Today and the Oregonian. He was in the back. Working. Yet still I failed to see the bright neon sign the Universe was painting over the villa-garage with its palm fronds and grease stains.

Starting the espresso machine up, the smokey scent of scorched coffee releasing all its aroma into the air invaded my nose and cut paths like electricity in my brain. No matter how hard the morning, there was nothing like the smell of coffee (week old as it may have been) to reinvigorate the mind. That coupled with the sunshine made me smile contently as I thought that there was nothing that could ruin my day today.

Like I said, this was back when I was an optimist.

Then she arrived. There was no ominous vibe to herald her approaching footsteps on the greasy imported tile outside. There was no organ music in the background or flash of lightning as she threw open the glass door. It seems the Universe was done trying to help me see what was coming. Though to this day I swear that as the door closed behind her, I could not see her reflection.

But by then it was too late.

“Hi there, ma’am, how are you today?” I asked in my customer service voice.

“Don’t you ma’am me boy!” she replied grimacing at me, “Ya think I look old or somethin’?”

Honestly, she looked like she was not only due for a casket but had decided to rise from one after years of slow decomposition. Her skin was a faded corpse gray, with pock mark where the worms must have been nibbling. Her eyes were hooded, baggy, and fell into shadows not unlike those of a naked human skull. And crowning that face, framed by faded, yellow-grey broom-bristle hair, was a large black mole on her left cheek.

“Oh, no, not at all!” I stammered trying to recover my composure, “Its just our standard greeting, for, um, well, women who are of... never mind, um, would you like some coffee today while you wait?”

“Can’t drink coffee. Keeps me up all day. And. It makes yer teeth go bad quicker.” she said in a whispered voice while revealing a row of vomit inducing disfigured black-pock-marked that looked like a fence after a tornado had hit, “What else you got?”

Her loud demand snapped me out of the nausea induced shock I had from the teeth, “Um, well, we also have Italian Sodas and tea smoothies.”

“Whats a tea smoothy?” she basically yelled.

“Um, well...” I sought the words to describe it, “Its a smoothy. Made with tea?”

“Damn it! I mean what goes in one.” she said, pounding the countertop.

“Well, just a fruit juice concentrate and some ice. Then some half and half. And the tea slurry.” I stammered as the ingredients seemed to have fled my mind to get away from those teeth.

“Well, aright. What flavors yew got?” she said sniffing and wiping her nose with the back of her hand, which turned her nose up in a pig like manner, improving her face if it weren’t for the yellow mucus that clung like a string to the back of her hand before being deposited with a clean swipe against her faded blue jeans.

After choosing her flavor I rang her up while the drink was being pulsed in the blender. She handed me the card, a piece of the yellow residue still on her fingers. I gingerly took the card and tried not to puke, not to think about what I was touching. After a quick swipe I almost threw it back to her.

She took her drink and walked out. I stood watching her walk down the steps of the store and onto the sidewalk out front, before she turned and yelled something unintelligable. I like to think that she yelled “Thank you, have a nice day” or “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted”. However, her words will forever be a mystery. Her actions, though, were pretty clear. She threw the container back at the glass door that did not show her reflection, and bright red raspberry tea smoothy exploded horizontally on the door and the front steps.

It took a while to clean, and all I could think about was the potential customers passing by. I turned to watch the cars slow down as they approached and then quickly speed up. I could only guess at the conversations inside.

“Oh, look Deloris, there’s an oil changing shop that only charged $20 for an oil change! What a bargain!”

“I know Algernon, and look, what a quint little coffee shop–– dear God! What is that!”

“It looks like someone was shot right there, in front of the door!”

“That’s probably the killer trying to clean up the evidence!”

“Oh no! He’s looking at us! Drive! Quickly! He has a mop!”

Even though that one looked more dramatic, for some reason I felt safe behind the comforting glass. The explosion of tea smoothy was difficult and embaressing to clean up, but this was not nearly as traumatic as the second time a customer threw something at me.

I was working at an all night restaurant, and it was late at night. Gone was my foolish optimism. I knew what late, dark, stormy nights brought. Trouble. But even though tonight was actually nice and warm and balmy, it still stank with the rank smell of trouble brewing.

That was when he walked in. We knew very few of the regulars by name, so we had devised an elaborate naming system that would have been difficult for even the most experienced secret agent to crack.

There was Tall-and-bald-with-the-ugly-handle-bar-mustache as apposed to tall-and-bald-with-the-good-looking-handle-bar-mustache. There was Speaks-with-a-Texan-accent-but-comes-from-Belgium and Doesn’t-own-soap. Some where named after deeper than skin characteristics. There was Short-term-memory-loss and Always-a-bit-too-friendly-bordering-on-creepy. There was Crazy-head-lady-who-always-asks-for-things-we-do-not-serve-on-the-menu and Weirdo-who-always-manages-to-touch-our-hands-when-taking-the-plates.

His name was This-isn’t-how-the-other-chef-makes-it. I was not aware that there existed so many versions of a grilled cheese sandwich at a company which prided in teaching all its cooks how to make their sandwiches exactly the same. But apparently none of my meals were ever on par with these other chefs. Which was halarious because there was only one other one and I even had him secretly make it in the back one night and still got the same complaint.

On this night This-isn’t-how-the-other-chef-makes-it had decided that he wanted a salad instead. He kept moving his hand over his shiny bald exposed scalp, which was covered by a few pointless attempts at a comb-over. He wore a black leather jacket which is so small he couldn’t zip it up if he wanted to, and which exposes a good solid four inches of arm above his bare, hairy wrists. Underneath he wore a large, stretched faded shirt with a comic hero moving in action like This-isn’t-how-the-other-chef-makes-it never would be able to. The small jacket with the large, stained shirt made it look like he was wearing a dress with a vest, like the 90s gone horribly horribly wrong.

We had been directed that we would no longer be making salads to order at night but would instead be selling gran n go salads for customers. I kindly explained to him that the salads were located in the refrigerator at the cashier. He shook as he spat his words at me,

“But those aren’t the salads I want! Are you stupid! I want a spinach salad with salmon and blue cheese!”

At that second several thoughts came to mind. The first was that I wished that I had a full length mirror I could pull out to just show him who looked the bigger idiot in this moment. The second was a story I had heard about a local Italian restaurant where a couple had sent the food back several times complaining that there was not enough white sauce. When the food finally returned a third time it was swimming in sauce and three months later both were diagnoses with genital herpes in their mouths. But I had neither full length mirror nor sexually transmitted diseases with which to take revenge. Besides, I worked in customer service. I was better than that.

So I meekly bowed and went to search for some washed spinach and a piece of cooked salmon. But of course, we wouldn’t have either because the weekend crew was not supposed to sell spinach salmon salads. So while I threw a salmon fillet on the grill, I quickly cleaned and rinsed some spinach. It took a while to find crutons, but when I did I decided to be better than good and grab the fresh ones. The salmon almost done, I had a moment and so I chopped up a few baby tomatoes, which This-isn’t-how-the-other-chef-makes-it had proclaimed to be perticularlly fond of once while ranting about my inability to properly deep fry french fries. I would take revenge by preparing the best salad I ever had. I would prove him wrong!

I drizzled the blue cheese sauce over the salad and added a crumbling of real blue cheese on top for presentation and taste. I proudly placed the plate before This-isn’t-how-the-other-chef-makes-it and smiled smugly as I said, “Here you go sir, your salad. Bon Appatit.”

He looked at the plate, and his entire face dropped into a dark frown before he yelled, “Great! That’s just great!”

“Um, is there a problem sir?” I asked, wondering what on earth could be wrong now.

“This was supposed to be to go! Didn’t you see the container I brought!” he said, eyes popping, waving the plastic back and forth. “God! How stupid can you be!”

“I’m sorry, sir.” I replied, my cheeks turning red from embaressment but also outrage, “If you want, I can just transfer the salad into the container for you.”

“No! It’s too late now. I’ve never seen such horrible customer service! Didn’t you even think of the customer once!” he spat before throwing the empty container at my face.

Which it missed. Mostly.

Afterwards, Touches-my-hand-creepily-when-ever-he-takes-his-plate came up and smiled before saying, “Man, that guy has some issues.”

“He must just he under a lot of stress.” I said, reverting to my customer service self which was not allowed to say anything bad about people such as This-isn’t-how-the-other-chef-makes-it.

“Well, I’ll take that salad, if he doesn’t want it.” he said, still smiling.

“Thanks.” I said, handing him the plate.

His hand rested on mine, and while it still carried it’s usual creepiness with it, at the same time it also carried a sense of the familiar. That he was one of the usuals, the ones who were not all as bad as This-isn’t-how-the-other-chef-makes-it. In that creepy lingering touch was the promise of humanity, that while we are some good and some bad and some down right creepy, we are all people. But I had been jaded by the world, and drew my hand away, not allowing the optimist to resurface in me. I served customers and I would always be their servant and they my customers. In that professional setting was a buffer which meant that they would never see the real me, touch the real me, know the real me. It meant that This-isn’t-how-the-other-chef-makes-it could say what he wanted, I would shake it off. But in that linger touch was an attempt to cross the buffer. I would never again serve food for him. I could not expose myself like that.