The Reset Button

If you press it, the torment will stop. The voices in your head will quiet. You will no longer have to decode their morbid thoughts. You will no longer have to feel their sad songs. You will no longer have to argue with them. The voices will drift off to sleep. If you press the button, it will feel so smooth as you run your fingers across its red plastic surface. When you push down, you will feel elated for exactly one moment. Then it will hurt, but the voices will be gone and it will be over. Right after you press the button, it will be painful and it might also hurt your best friend or your lover or your parents but it will be over. Until next time.

Age

The slow white giant traverses rock and tears open earth, revealing ancient stories waiting in sedimentary layers. Snow melts and recedes. A new Age is born. Wildflowers bloom over soft hills meeting the shy trickle of a stream.

From his starry abode, The Moon looks down on his beloved Earth, her laugh lines deep and rich with history.

Recognition

Do I know this place? It has the familiar feel that all bedrooms decorated by women who like gaudy flower-printed drapes do. I’m sitting in the upholstered armchair in the corner under a handmade quilt and close my eyes. The sunlight pours over me and I feel a cat-like warmth. I stretch and knock a tube from my nose. Since when do I need an oxygen tank? I push the plastic cord to the floor. My hand is white and covered in spots, like an old man’s.

I look out the window. On the grass before me, children run through sprinklers. Their laughter stirs a cloud of fond memories. The small feet trampling over soft blades of grass are mine. I am a small boy, the cold drops of water running down my chest. I am laughing and the water sprays in so many directions, I don’t know where to run.

There is a knock at the door. “Hello-o!” sings a female voice. “Oh, your oxygen!” Oh great, the nurse. She’d better be a looker. I hear high heels click-clack across the hardwood floor and from behind, polished nails reach around to replace the oxygen tube against my nostrils. I snort. She comes around my chair and smiles. Black hair against creamy white skin: Cynthia.

God, she’s beautiful. Hasn’t changed since our wedding day. She was so young. Her big eyes and smooth skin so pure, I felt I was committing a crime.

She leans down to kiss me and I tilt my mouth to meet hers. I feel her lips touch my forehead.

“Hi Dad,” she says.

I peel back a smile and remain quiet. God, she’s beautiful.

Water Strider

The water strider glides across glass surfaces
Skeeting and sliding
In this direction and that
To and fro
Back and forth
Skeet, skeet, slide
Unable to decide
Skeet, skeet, slide
‘Til the heat subsides
Skeet, skeet, slide
Now he’s terrified
As I’ve caught him between forefinger and thumb.
Six hairy legs resigned
And limp…
I squeeze his waxy body
Until juice arrives
Dripping down
To form soft wet rings
Now he no longer has to choose.

Tourists

The twilight sky was blue-grey and the girls should have returned to their hotel hours ago. They continued up the narrow labyrinth of the medina around one corner and the next. And the next. The walls were so high that when Dee looked up, she had no idea in which direction the sun had set. Every so often, they passed an ancient wooden door small enough to have been built for a gnome. The Moroccan desert air could no longer hold its heat and was chilly now. They passed a man in a long robe who led a donkey carrying a red cooler of soda on its back. The girls turned to each other.

“Coca-cola truck!” they whispered in unison, giggling.

At last they came upon the souk, or marketplace, which was barren except for a handful of stalls. The Berber carpet weavers had rolled up their rugs and left for the day. The metal workers had carried their lamps home. There was no sign of the mystical snake charmer. The girls recognized the canvas stall where they’d sipped mint tea and purchased saffron but it was empty. At last, they spotted the vendor in the far corner and approached. He appeared to be packing up his goods and another man they hadn't seen before was helping.

“Ah, my beautiful American girls!” greeted the dark young man. Earlier in the day, the vendor had been wearing long colorful robes. Now, he and his friend wore old Levis and torn T-shirts. At first, neither girl said anything.

“Meet my friend, Ahmed,” said the vendor, grin wide and welcoming. Ahmed bowed his head. “We are going out to celebrate tonight. If you haven’t heard yet, the King has been born a son!”

“Really? You celebrate when the King had a baby?” Dee asked.

“Not a baby. A son. A new king,” Ahmed said.

“We’ve come back for the tea set,” Audrey said.

They settled on a price. Audrey was digging through her money belt, recovering American bills scrunched beneath Euros. The vendor had carefully wrapped each colored glass with its arabesque structured yet delicate pattern in newspaper before placing it carefully into a plastic bag.

“What are your plans for this evening?” he asked.

Dee mumbled something about catching a train in the morning. Audrey was fumbling with her bags, the weight of the tea set leaving her feeling unbalanced.

“Come celebrate with us! Just for a little while. Then we will walk you to your hotel.” The vendor approached more closely now. Dee could see the dirt under his fingernails and his breath smelled foul, like something rotting. She stepped away and Audrey followed. The four of them stood in the empty stall, smiling uncomfortably. Ahmed took a step back.

“They are too good for you, Yousef. Leave them be,” he said flatly.

Yousef’s face changed. The smile twisted high on his sunken cheeks vanished. His eyes went from bright to dark and concentrated. His left hand twitched against his side.

Stacy

I sat on a metal folding chair, denim legs bouncing the plastic portfolio on my lap. On each wrist, I wore a series of bracelets like thick shackles. Pulling out a compact mirror, I took one last look and, with my thumb, smudged the black kohl lining my left eye. I looked up.

“Stacy?” A man in a grey suit opened the door. “Come on in.”

He looked too neat, too sterile. But I got up and followed.

The office was clean and messy. Like someone had vacuumed and dusted but then tossed papers all over the desk. I took a seat.

“My name is Roger and I’ll be conducting your interview,” he said. He opened a fresh manila file and smiled. “Your mother says you’re very talented.”

“Well, she hasn’t seen much of my work but I put a lot of energy into it. Art school has always been my dream,” I said. I tried to sit up straight, look serious.

“Why don’t you tell me about your work?” he said.

“Well I do charcoal and acrylics mostly,” I said. “Would you like to see?”

“Sure,” he said.

I untwisted the tie on the portfolio and pulled out a charcoal drawing of a flower I’d sketched. The petals fit together like a Venus flytrap or closed eyelid, able to contain. I’d imagined it growing out of the pages and reaching beneath sheets to pluck me out of bed. I’d hid the drawing beneath a stack of old textbooks hoping it would stay there through the night.

Roger peered through thin metal frames and I began to feel nervous. He didn’t say anything so I pulled out a painting in reds and greys. Swirling loops met sharp angles and lines fled the page through one corner.

“Tell me about this one,” he said.

“Well,” I began. I didn’t know how to explain this painting because I didn’t understand it myself. Looking at it now, I felt scared. I shuttered.

“It’s one of my more abstract pieces,” I said. I was terrified he’d think I was a fraud.

“Aha. You know Stacy,” Roger said, “many artists use substances to enhance their creative abilities. You ever try anything like that?”

“Of course!” I said. I knew all real artists used. “I went through a meth phase a couple years back and starting snorting heroin. Now I shoot it.” I eagerly pushed my bracelets down over my wrist and showed Roger my forearms. I felt like I belonged. A residual wave of the opiate flowed down my neck and spine. For a second, I closed my eyes.

Roger leaned in. “Stacy, you know your mother cares about you a lot, don’t you?”

I opened my eyes and felt the doom of an impending sense of sobriety. I looked at the file in Roger’s hand. My name was handwritten next to the typed words, “PATIENT NAME.” The wall behind his head came into focus and I read the words “doctorate,” “psychiatry,” and “adolescent medicine.” I glanced over my shoulder at a bookcase and immediately saw the title, “Addiction.”

My heart began to palpitate and the sweat from my palm was softening the sketch paper in my hand. It slipped onto the floor and I stared down at it. The flower had its petals open now and was ready to take me in.

Tall View

On Saturdays, white sails dance swiftly across the shifting grey bay. Imagine the clean commands. Square the sail! Hold the line! Quick feet across each deck and coordinated movements allow the boat to glide through crisp waters in perfect balance. Around calm little islands. Disappearing beyond the faint Bay Bridge. The sun falls and it is time for the sail to float off to port. The water is darker now. And lonely. Starboard, her city waits. The fog moves in and crouches, revealing only the tips of great skyscrapers.

The Princess and the Newt

Once there was a princess who had a lucrative career in finance but the time had come to find her prince. So she set out into the forest in Ferragamo heels, careful not to trip over toadstools. She kissed prince after prince but they all turned into frogs. Some even turned into salamanders and newts. The princess resorted to dating a newt who sang a sweet song at first but soon the song began sound sour. Eventually, it hurt her ears. Long after she left the newt, the song remained, tormenting her. It became apparent that she must kill the newt to be free. So she consulted a fairy and bought poison from a toad. Day and night, she searched for the newt aching to deliver her revenge. But the newt had relocated to another forest. Finally, gown heavy with mud, the princess drank the bitter poison and laid down to rest.