Space sickness

The man lifted the hem of his left pant leg a few inches up and scratched his ankle right above the bunched up top of his plain white sock. I was sitting so close I could see the goosebumps on the skin of his hairy ankle; I watched his nails leave the deep white tracks behind them; I observed that the color of the skin at the tips of his fingers flattened by the nails was pinkish-brown. I wished I were in space again: nothing could disturb me there so much. Sitting on the floor of this tiny windowless room, behind this man with stubby fingers and a meaty ankle, I wanted to cry out with my longing for space. "The ultimate cure for space disease," the doctor was saying into her microphone, "is relaxation. Finding as much space within one's own self as there is out there." She made a vague gesture towards the low hanging ceiling of the basement cubicle. I felt tears running down my cheeks. I did not want to be cured. I wanted to be in space again.

Keyhole

When Guy returned after work on Tuesday night to the apartment he had been sharing with his sister Elle and inserted his key into the hole of the deadbolt, the door cried out in pain. Remaining calm despite the alarming sound, Guy opened the door and found his sister wrapped up in green and orange shawl sitting on the floor of the hallway in front of him. "Quickly, lock the door," she demanded; and as soon as he complied, she motioned him to move away and leaned forward to place her left eye over the hole. "What are you staring at?" Guy inquired but received only an impatient shrug of the shoulders in lieu of an answer. "Can you just tell me what you're staring at?" he asked again. "Go away, go away, I can't talk right now," she said without moving her head an inch and waved him off with the back of her hand. Guy dropped off his briefcase in their shared office, and then went on to the kitchen to fix himself dinner. "Are you hungry?" he yelled into the hall with an effort of good humor but received no answer. The kitchen was in complete disarray. All the drawers were open, pots and pans piled up on the floor, silverware all over the counters and the sink. Elle's camera stood on the stove, on top of the front right burner, as if preparing for a ritual burning and at the same time observing the mess. Guy rescued it from the stove and, after a brief hesitation, proceeded to put away everything else, too. When he was done, he put together a peanut butter sandwich and went to check on Elle again. "Do you want dinner?" he asked again entering the dark hall. There was no answer, and in another moment he saw that she was gone. The crazy floral shawl she had been wearing was lying in front of the door, right were she had been sitting, but there was no body inside. "Elle, Elle!" he cried. But the house was empty. She was gone, as if had seeped through the keyhole.

Fish telephone

The fish swam up to the glass and then turned, sharply. Another endless ring in the loudspeaker of Eva's telephone hung despairingly in the air. The fish swam to the other end of her bowl, then came back, button eyes magnified by the optics of the glass and water. The phone rang again. The fish made a U-turn. Eva noticed that a reflection of the telephone lived in the fishbowl. As if the fish was swimming around the telephone, listening to the rings and expecting an answer. "Speaking. Who is this?" "This is Mrs. Fish. We haven't actually met, but a friend of mine is a great admirer.." "Do you know what time it is, Mrs. Fish?" "Time?" "It's half past 2 am! People are generally asleep at this hour." "Are they? Well, I'm sorry to disturb you. I just wanted to tell you that --" "You'll have to excuse me. Please call back another time, Mrs. Fish." "Call back? That would be extremely difficult." "Good night, Mrs. Fish." "Fine. Good night. Thanks for nothing. Anyway, I don't see what she finds in you. Toodooloo!" Fish bubbled away again. What an entirely ridiculous conversation. They didn't have anything to say to each other. Eva stared into her eyes in the bowl. "Toodooloo."

Silence

The middle of the night crept in quietly and settled on the couch beside me. I had some cheese and ham sandwiches, so I shared. We sat side by side chewing in silence and waited to see what happened.

The promise

There was no innocence in nature but such an open and aggressive seductiveness that I shied away with a blush and a giggle. The smooth sandy beech on the foreground radiated well-being, invited me to strip and to partake of the light it reflected so efficiently; the wet, dark forest of the background lured me to get lost -- to lose myself -- in its depths, to forget that I had ever existed elsewhere -- else where? There were berries and mushrooms, nuts and fruit; the lake was full of fish, and the beach complete with firewood. And there was I -- pink, naked, infatuated, on the threshold of -- no, I would never leave. Oh yes, I would never leave. Never leave.

Shopping

How do girls pick out their clothes? she wondered. She had a pair of jeans that she would wear for weeks on end, washing them once in a while, but even so eventually they sprung holes here and there, which she patched faithfully for a while until they weren't jeans anymore, and then once she fell down on the street and tore a huge gap at the knee, and when she tried to repair it -- well, the pants became shorts and then she had to go out and look for the new something to wear on the foggy days. She had to go out and look -- but the weather took a turn for the better, it was sunny and warm most of the time, and she was really getting used to feeling the breeze around her ankles. So the trip to the store got postponed and delayed and the more she thought about it the less urgent it seemed. She did ask one girl for advice -- a clerk at a doctor's office -- and the girl was friendly and everything but she herself was wearing a skirt, and wasn't a skirt such a good idea? Not to be melodramatic, but that's the way it went. She talked to a couple of random people, did a lot of shop-window gazing, and then picked up a new pair "on the street" -- whatever that means. Hopefully, it means a garage sale, but knowing her it might just as well be a pair of pants left behind by some homeless dude. Those brown baggy corduroy pants definitely look like they've been around the block any number of times, that's for sure.

Meta hunger

The snow started on schedule, at 5 pm. The interstate police set out to ticket everybody who had even thought of driving this evening. In one of the cars they forced off the road . . .

I do want to continue this story--the beginning is intriguing!--but I'm tired and very hungry. If I don't go to bed now, I'm going to wrap a banana in cheese and swallow a horse. And then tomorrow I'm gonna be angry and even hungrier. Nah. Better go to bed now. I'll chew my pillow in the night and wake up in time for a healthy lunch. Maybe then I'll consume my cheese-wrapped banana -- that actually sounds quite good, you know. Half a minute in the microwave, a sprinkle of almond slivers. Yes. Then we can talk about who ate who and the aliens are among us.

My library

Even the upholstery is just the way I imagined it: light blue cushions set inside the dark blue frame, adorned with thin red seams. I run across the room and jump on top of it. Not a sound! It accepts me in its folds as if I were a volleyball. I lean back on the left arm, stretch my legs across the cushions and cover them with the flowery cotton quilt that had been carefully folded over the right arm. My next project is to imagine the placement of the bookshelves. I swiftly picture a two-storied gallery all around the perimeter of the room. The spiral staircase to the second story is buried within one of the bookcases. The balustrade is laden with flower boxes; there's a flourish of greenery all along the gallery. Then, of course, I require a desk. And a journal table! A chandelier? Or simply a few well placed torchiers and a desk lamp? I am leaning towards a combination; no amount of light is ever sufficient for me when I'm reading or writing. Okay, the gallery--done; desk--let's place it in the middle of the room for the moment being--done; chandelier and a desk lamp--done. What else? Books--a few of them are already there, I'll imagine the rest some other time. Paper, pens--I carry those in my backpack, no need to bother. A computer, a printer? But do I really want these in my library, occupying a large portion of my desk? I should probably imagine a dedicated space for them, somewhere in the corner. I probably need to expand the walls of the room to make sure everything fits comfortably. Imagining things is a tricky endeavor! In fact, I am growing more and more weary with every new leap of fancy. I need a nap. Good thing I have this pretty blue and red couch right here. Ah, that's much better. To be continued.

The break up

Get this: so at night I have this ridiculous dream that my parents disown me because I refuse to tell them the name of my boyfriend. And then in the morning my boyfriend breaks up with me because, apparently, I said "Mommy" and "Daddy" in my sleep a couple of times too many for his taste; he finds it weird. "I am not looking for anything complicated right now," he tells me, "I've got enough problems of my own." What an asshole! The funny part is that I don't think I would've been at all upset about this break up, if I didn't just spend half the night fighting with my parents. And I had used his trustworthiness as an argument in my favor!

Twenty-six

During the breaks, we played hopscotch with modified rules: the pebble could only be picked up by the person who standing on one foot could recite a non-repeating Shakespeare sonnet. "Mine eyes have drawn thy shape," etc. etc. At night, we practiced. To this day, I cannot fall asleep until I have gone through the lines of numbers 27 and 151 in my mind. I also have a special fondness for numbering my writings.

What I think is a contradiction

A word, a look -- she nourishes without even trying. She doesn't bake cakes, she uses no candles, she weaves not comforters out of words; but with a single smile she ignites the most powerful desire in the deepest of souls -- go figure, find a way how to extinguish it! --But you said, she nourishes! --Yes, and what is nourishment if not eternal striving? --Oh, who elected you a philosopher?! Shame on you. --And yet you know it, her look, her touch, her laughter, and you're doomed to the life of poetry. --Her? Do you mean, his? --Dude, this is pure theory talking. Let's not got personal. --Well then, I have no idea what the hell we're talking about. --Neither do I. --So why are we still talking? --Are we? We, who? --Please, at least don't go all metafictional on me now. --Forget about it. Let's go eat some cake. --Let's go drink some beer. --Wine. --Vodka. --Wine. --Fine.

Fighting gravity

She has perfect posture. Vertebrae sits on vertebrae and she needs no muscle strength to fight the force of gravity. From one look at her you'd think she was raised to be a musician or a horse rider. In fact, she was both. A pianist, a jockey, and, moreover, a yogi. She started practicing yoga when she retired from the racing track. By day, she practices yoga, and by night, she plays jingles and pop songs at the local piano bar. "I always wanted to explore the space within my body," she says about it when queried. People are always fascinated with her.

Combination lock

It was a simple, 4-digit combination she had been using regularly, two, three times a day. In fact, just a few hours earlier that same morning she wound the stupid doll in under a minute, proud of herself that she could do it without Feyg noticing anything. "Mommy, Mommy, what's wrong with Julie? Is she going to die?" Feyg was wailing now, picking up a powerless arm of her robotic sibling and letting it drop back down onto Lidia's knee. "Mommy, Mommy," sobbed Feyg staring at the face that just a minute ago had that dear silly, confused look, and now was completely unrecognizable, skin pulled tightly around the rigid plastic bone structure underneath, without a single wrinkle of expression; a face of a lifeless doll that Julie was. Lidia herself did not have the stamina to look at that face and kept her eyes firmly planted on the girl's belly button, right hand typing and retyping the numbers into the back of the body, left arm reaching out to Feyg. "Look at me, dear, look at me," she begged her eldest daughter, and catching the glance of the tearful pale blue eyes, promised: "Everything is going to be alright. Julie has a little fainting spell, that's all. She'll be alright in a moment, you'll see!" But what is the damned combination? What is it? Another minute of this, and Feyg is going to know that something is dreadfully wrong, she will take Julie for dead, and will look at her with endless suspicion if she suddenly comes to life just like that. She will know that something is off, different, and will then inevitably discover the control pad on her sister's back, her true doll nature. What am I going to do? "Feyg, do you remember when we celebrated your sister's birthday? Do you remember when it was? What date?" Lidia made a desperate attempt. "Aaaa!" cried the girl. She didn't even hear the question. The sobs were violently shaking her shoulders. Her head fell on her chest. With only one arm unoccupied by Julie, Lidia barely managed to catch her eldest daughter when she fainted.

Dramatic performance

My neighbor was snoring. You never expect this of the young and the beautiful, but there it was: horrific croaking coming from the nasal cavity of a blonde with the profile fit for a Grecian urn. I tried to keep my eyes on the musicians and my ears attuned to the performance, but eventually I developed a strong suspicion that the first violinist was eying my neighbor with eyes green of anger and only extreme professionalism kept her from dashing across the proscenium and stuffing her bow through the mouth of the second row predator. The music went BRAMS and BA-BACH but my neighbor, with her head lying almost perpendicular to her body on the back of her chair, was oblivious to all. HRUH-HRUCHH. HRUH-HRARCH. Her luscious hay-colored hair spilled all over the velvet seat cushion. In the dimmed light of the Symphony Hall, her skin looked like it was carved out of marble, and the open mouth revealed a set of picture-perfect incisors and canines. She would've been a great bite model for the new orthodontic treatment commercial I had been envisioning. HRUH-HRAH-ARGHH. I exchanged glances with the first violinist. Mute, she was begging me to do something. I turned to my neighbor again with the view of gently tapping her on the shoulder, and suddenly noticed that she was staring at me. Her pupils were partially visible through the narrow slits of her eyelids, yet her head remained strangely contorted. Her upper lip moved. SHEEEH. I screamed.

Grief

The cafe owner's crime was that a member of the bereaved fathers group that met there on Sundays at 6 pm suddenly became violent and physically assaulted several of the other grieving parents as well as idle coffee drinkers. Three noses were broken, two reputations irreparably damaged, and one precious laptop flooded with scalding liquid.