Monthly Archives: April 2017

Short Story

This is another thing that got written for class. It’s already been revised. I’m happier with it than I was the original, though I’m waffling on the title. 😀  Please be sure to check the tags. Let me know if I have missed anything or if you feel I should add something.

Beloved Despised

Her name was Li Fen. Is Li Fen. It’s almost always Li Fen. The lucky whore usually gets to keep her name. Do you know how many Li Fens there are in the world at any given time? A lot.

Instead of ‘Fen,’ I call her ‘Feng’ because it pisses her off. For those who don’t know the translation, ‘feng’ means ‘crazy’ in Chinese. Feng calls me ‘Fèifèi.’ It means ‘baboon.’ I’m not exactly fond of it but it could be worse.

We met at some ball or party. I can’t remember what I was doing there or who I was with; it isn’t important anymore. What is important is that I met her. She was there with a visiting dignitary or ambassador. She was wearing a blue silk dress with little white flowers embroidered on it. Her wide-set eyes were as dark as the night and she had the tiniest feet. Our eyes met and I just knew. She was something different. I don’t know how I knew; just that I did.

She smiled at me from across the room and quietly excused herself. I knew that I might never meet another like me and I had so many questions. I craved answers and so I followed her.

Almost immediately I hated her and she hated me. She acted like meeting me was nothing special, but I could tell she felt the difference in me that I did her. My questions were an annoyance because she knew as little as I did. Finally, I grew angry and asked why her feet were unbound. Her answer was a subtle insult to my weight. I called her a dancing monkey. She called me a tofu seller. We were not going to be friends and I spent the next hundred years wishing I had never met her.

Yes, you read that correctly. Centuries apply. We’re immortal.

Before you ask, no, I am not a vampire nor am I an elf, and I have never had anyone come at me with a claymore shouting, “There can be only one!” so this isn’t a Highlander thing, either. That movie was terrible, anyway.

Over the long years, Feng has been the only person I have seen consistently. At first it was just the odd party or festival. We exchanged barely-civil greetings and then ignored each other. As our friends aged and we didn’t the parties were fewer and further between. When both of us were in attendance we found each other and debated heatedly until one of us left. However, doing so meant admitting defeat. Our discussions were filled with venom and spite. Ask anyone else and they would say we were arguing bitterly. But to Feng and I it was fantastic competitive entertainment.

The first time called on me at home was just before I left France for the first time. One of my servants showed her into my parlor. Feng took in the room’s hardwood furniture and the plush rug and sniffed derisively. She sat on my chaise lounge without an invitation and stared at me expectantly.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded. I didn’t bother to hide my disdain for her. We were not friends even if she was my favorite debate partner.

“It’s been a decade, Fèifèi,” she reminded me. Her face was a mocking sneer. “Last time we spoke, I won. I am gracious enough to give you a chance to even the score.”

I felt heat rise to my cheeks as anger swelled in my chest. The bitch thought she had bested me? I would show her. I daintily took my seat again and bared my teeth in a polite smile.

“How generous of you,” I simpered. “Where shall we begin?”

Feng stayed the night and left the next morning. By the time she left we had had two shouting matches and one very tense meal. My servants whispered about it for weeks.

Years passed and Feng continued to seek me out. Our fights grew less heated as the world around us changed. We began to teach other what we had learned between meetings. It was a game, a petty way to compare whose travels had been grander. We traded language for language and skill for skill; Chinese for French, Shen Yun for the Viennese waltz, Japanese for German, Cantonese for Italian, pipa for violin, wushu for fencing…

What? When you’re alive for hundreds of years, you get bored, okay? Being an immortal isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Nobody ever mentions how boring it can get.

Feng continues to seek me out to this day. I don’t know how she does it, but somehow she always manages to track me down. It doesn’t matter how many times I have relocated between visits, she eventually shows up at my door. It’s unnerving and annoying and comforting all at once. She stays for years, sometimes, living out her life just as I live out mine.

I always let her in. She has become a constant in my life in spite of our mutual loathing. I have precious few constants and immortality is so lonely it aches. While I have had many lovers in my years none of them have ever been such a complete balm to my loneliness. Feng seeps into the cracks in my life like she was made for them, soothing the ache into silence. So even though I hate Feng more often than I don’t, I can never quite bring myself to chase her off for good.

The first time we fell into bed together was perhaps two-hundred years later. She had been gone for nearly fifty years. The loneliness had begun to eat at me ten years earlier. I worried that something had happened to her. What if she had been hurt? Or even killed? I would have no way of knowing. What if she simply decided to never come back? The thought was terrifying every time I considered it.

Late one night someone banged on the door, heavy-fisted and dreadfully loud. I flailed out of bed and hurtled down the stairs. It was Feng; it had to be Feng. I yanked open the door and sure enough, it was Feng. She was soaking wet from the rain. Her clothes clung wetly to her and her hair hung heavily across her back and shoulders.

I seized her wrist and hauled her into the house, slamming the door behind us. “Where the hell have you been?” I demanded. “It’s been almost fifty years!” I wanted to know where she had been and why she had stayed away so long.

In answer Feng fixed me with a glare. Lesser men have fled in terror when her face looks like that. It just made me angrier. “I go where I please,” she snarled. “Leave me alone. I’m exhausted and I have absolutely no patience for your neediness, right now.”

She took a step to my left to move around me. I didn’t want her to go, yet. I wanted to pull her close and strangle her all at once. My hand slammed into the wall to cut off her exit.

Feng’s eyes narrowed. She still didn’t answer. “Fèifèi,” she said instead. “Move.” Her voice was quiet. Dangerous. Her body was tense like a snake about to strike. Her lips pulled back from tightly-gritted teeth like some wild predator. I know she could kill me just as quickly as I could kill her but it doesn’t matter. All that mattered to me is the rage and loneliness roiling inside me.

We glared at each other for a solid minute. Feng didn’t offer any explanation and it only made me angrier. Before I knew it, I drew back my fist and punched her in the mouth. Feng stumbled back a step, hand covering her lips. Her eyes were wide with shock. Hell, I was shocked, myself. I had never struck Feng before, not like that.

We fought, tearing through the house and each other. Feng was faster but I was larger. I finally managed to pin her up against a wall. The room is a disaster; the table was overturned, two lamps were broken, my lovely blue tablecloth had been ripped all up one side. Out of the corner of my eye I could see one of the chairs had been upended.

The two of us weren’t in any better condition. We were both panting and bleeding. My hair was a tangled mess, one of my cheekbones was screaming in pain, and I’m pretty sure I bit my tongue. One of Feng’s eyes was swelling shut and her teeth were bloody. Her tongue flicked over her lips and I couldn’t look away. I don’t know who moved first but we were suddenly kissing. It was rough and violent, nothing like those silly romance stories describe. Neither Feng nor I are gentle creatures; we struggled and fought, teeth cracking together harshly. I didn’t know if I was tasting my blood or hers or both.

She shoved me away from her only to grab me again. I dragged her up to my bedroom and we somehow managed not to murder each other on the way. Afterwards, I had nail marks in my back that didn’t fade for weeks.

It was totally worth it.

We have never truly put a name to what we are. Neither of us feel a need to. All I know is that if I were to lose her entirely I would break. I worry that one of these times something will happen. She will not come back. There are times when I catch her looking at me and I can see the same fear in her eyes. I know, however, that if I try to keep her with me I will lose her just the same. Perhaps I could go with her but I have no true wish to leave until I must. I like my homes and my quiet days. I like having a place where Feng can find me. I think Feng likes having a place to look for me.

This time is no different from any other. I went to bed alone. I wake up with her wrapped around me like a handsy octopus, sleep-warm and familiar. Something inside me loosens in relief because she is there. There had been no alarms set off nor phone calls from the security company. How the hell did she get passed the system?

It was her damnable computer. The wench hacked my security. I refuse to let that stand. If I do, she’ll have one on me and I only just got our scores evened. Something must be done. But later. For now I am content to burrow into her and fall back asleep.

When I open my eyes again Feng is awake and watching me. Her head is propped up on her hand. “Finally,” she drawls. “I was starting to wonder if you would sleep the whole day.” I swat at her half-heartedly with one hand and rub my eyes with the other. I take in her appearance, noting that the bags under her eyes have grown a little larger like she hasn’t been sleeping well. She has developed faint lines around the corners of her mouth. Has she been frowning? There are two studs in the top shell of her ear that weren’t there before. Her hair…

“You cut off all your hair!” I exclaim. Feng’s hair has been very long for the past several decades. Now it sticks up everywhere with bedhead, but I can tell that it is some kind of asymmetrical bob. I reach up and shove my fingers into the strands, mussing it further. Feng allows this for a few seconds before she begins poking at my sides.

“Knock it off,” she orders. I huff and release her. I then stand and saunter to the bathroom so I can shower first.

After we have both bathed and dressed I make breakfast for us. I add one too many sugar cubes to her tea and turn her mug around the wrong way so that she has to adjust it before she can drink. Her eggs are over medium instead of over easy. Suck it, bitch.

Over breakfast I ask her where she has gone and what she has learned. She went to Taiwan and learned, among other things, how to make dumplings. I know, right? Dumplings. But apparently they will make me salivate. When she makes them that night and they are as delicious as she claims. She will teach me, of course. In return I will teach her how to make memes.

Don’t give me that look. Memes are fantastic.

After dinner we spar, testing each other after so long apart. She has learned new tricks, but so have I. We are pleasantly sore, afterwards. I run us a hot bath and we spend the night relearning each other.

She stays for six years. We argue over whether or not Keanu Reeves is one of us (he totally is). Feng never truly warms up to memes and I send them to her to make her glare. She leaves her clothes and shoes everywhere, even when there is a perfectly good closet three feet away. We cook and spar and fuck and fight. Feng chases away the loneliness, settling into the familiar grooves like she never left. The years are good; nearly perfect.

But Feng never stays in one place for long. She gets restless. It always begins with Feng watching out the window. She’s not watching anything in particular–just standing there with a faraway look in her eye. Next comes the fighting. We rip into each other’s soft spots and leave gaping wounds. Our screaming matches rattle the windows. The fights gradually get worse; shoving, punching, and outright brawling. My neighbors threaten to call the cops twice.

It always happens this way. Feng is trying to tear herself free. Pieces of her are catching on pieces of me. She takes them with her when she goes, and I keep bits of her, too. We’ll get them back when she finds me again, because I know she will.

I wake up one morning and the first thing I see is her bag by the bedroom door. She will leave after breakfast. For now, she is half on top of me, drooling on my sleep shirt. The wet spot is uncomfortable and, quite frankly, gross. I heave her off of me and she goes tumbling to the floor. I can hear her cursing in every language she knows as I get up and make my way to the bathroom.

When I get out of the shower I find Feng has made breakfast. A cup of coffee is sitting near my seat. I sip and it is perfect, just as it always is when Feng makes it. I don’t know what she does, but her coffee always tastes better than mine. The damn immortal bitch.

After breakfast, Feng takes her turn in the shower while I clean up. The television plays in the background because Feng is a heathen who can’t remember to turn it off. When I look up again I see a familiar face on the History channel. This one is even more annoying than Feng’s.

“Feng! Guess who resurfaced again?” I call when I hear the shower shut off.

There’s a snarl of outrage. “Fucking-!” Feng appears in the doorway to the bedroom, hair wrapped in a towel, face twisted in anger. “Dave?!”

“Fucking. Dave,” I confirm. Feng’s eyes narrow into slits as she takes in the television. With an animal snarl, she disappears back into the bedroom. I can hear her cursing faintly.

You know those conspiracy theories that revolve around lookalikes from the past? That’s what Dave does. He has sat for dozens of portraits and tapestries and murals throughout his life. Dave establishes himself as an important figure somewhere, hangs around for a few decades, and then disappears, leaving the art behind. Every fifty to a hundred years he’ll show up again and do the same thing. History is littered with his likeness.

Neither Feng nor I have met Dave. We don’t even know his real name; we just call him Dave. The bastard has been trolling the entire world for centuries, probably driving historians mad. It upsets me because he could give us, immortals, away with his antics. It’s totally not because I didn’t think to do it myself, first.

Feng emerges from the bedroom dressed in loose, comfortable travel clothing. She has her sneakers in one hand. “One of these days,” she scoffs, “I am going to find Dave and I am going to punch out his stupid perfect teeth!” A cheshire cat grin lights up her face as she puts on her shoes. “We’ll see how he likes having his portrait painted then!”

“If you do it and don’t get a picture for me I will put ink in your tea for the rest of our lives,” I threaten. Feng just cackles, shoulders her bag, and leaves.

I return to my couch and the History Channel. I feel no deep sorrow at her departure. She will always leave and I will always let her go. I will move and she will find me. She will come back and I will be waiting.

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Hurricane Mother Revised

Hey, look! A revision! My teacher said that I should focus on showing the storm instead of using so many “I” statements. I’m not sure I like it… but that’s what revision is for! 😀

Feedback is welcomed and appreciated.

I am five.
Mother lies. I don’t know it.
Mother’s attention is my happiness.
There is no fear for she is the sun,
Beautiful and everything.
“You will be as pretty as me, one day.”
She speaks and I take her words as Truth.

I am thirteen.
Mother lies. I think it, but I do not believe.
There is a storm brewing,
unimportant.
Thunderstorms are not so scary, after all.
But I am haunted by a feeling.
Something is not right.
She asks questions.
A truth is offered, rejected.
She wants the truth but not the truth.
Hurricane Mother descends from nowhere.
Disobedient.
Windows rattle with the force of the wind.
Ungrateful.
Rain slaps against the roof.
Disrespectful.
Thunder claps, deafening in its intensity.
A lie. There is a right answer.
A truth. There is no right answer.
I knew better. She taught me better.
No, she did. I did know.
Desperation. I’m not crying.
Please. Nothing is wrong.
The winds cease their shrieking,
The rain eases leaving only tear streaks behind.
Mother forgives and offers the comfort
of her embrace once more.
“I wish you wouldn’t fight me,
I only want what is best for you.”
She speaks and I cling to her words as Truth.

I am twenty.
Mother lies. I know it.
She knows it, too.
Trade a favor for a screaming session,
A request for a snide comment,
A reminder for an insult.
Nothing is nothing.
Sharp hailstones litter the ground.
What’s a little blood between family?
Cut my fingers and my heart will bleed.
Reinforce the roof, walls,
windows, and doors of my self.
Any moment now.
The storm is smiling.
Winds sharp and cold,
Strong enough to make me dizzy.
Rain falls in torrents, soaking, blinding.
Her storm leaves me scrabbling at sanity,
Only to have it plucked from my wet fingers.
Confusion, blindness, second-guessing.
It happened, no, it didn’t.
Memory unreliable.Give in.
The flood waters beckon me closer.
The waves will cease if I abandon what I know.
I fight to close myself off,
to board up the windows and doors
against the destructive gales and rising waves.
To escape. It isn’t enough.
There is nowhere to go and nothing to take.
Everything I own is hers.
There is nothing to do but batten down the hatches
and wait, caught in a never-ending storm.
Trade half-realized truths for a respite.
Hurricane Mother quiets but it isn’t over, yet.
“You never used to be so difficult.
I’m sorry that you feel the need to be like this.”
She speaks and I lie to fit her Truth.

I am twenty-seven.
Mother lies. I am sick of it.
Enough.
Clouds gather sinisterly above my head,
and the hurricane surges forth.
Everything within me swells,
pulling away from the beach, into the surf,
Emerges a huge wave, a storm in its own right.
Howling and raging with years of neglect.
Every insult, every denial,
Every undeserved cruelty,
Crashing down upon the shore.
“Look at me! This is what you have made.
Look at what I have become to survive you.”
Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough!

She is forty-eight.
She does not speak.
She finally listens. She finally sees.
The rain softens. The hail ceases.
The wind stills and falls silent.
The hurricane subsides.
The clouds clear and everything can be seen.
“I am sorry.”
We speak and there is finally Our Truth.

Revision

My writing teacher has asked that we revise all the pieces we wrote during the semester. “Hurricane Mother” is one of the poems I wrote for class and thus it will be subject to revision. Depending on how that goes I may post it here.

HOWEVER! Right now the revision isn’t going so well. The poem is heavily narrative; I tell a story. Also, she would like me to add insight. The piece she had me go back to look at is called “Lesson” by Ellen Bryant Voigt. I am honestly not sure what she wants me to do with it or what she wants me to pull from it to adjust my own poem.

I feel like I am attempting to bash through a wall with my head. Which one will crack first? I have no idea, but revision is happening… sort of. Dammit, I will break this thing! It will bow before me because I am a person and it is not. GAH!

Exercising Part II

I don’t like going out into public. I especially don’t like going out into public to exercise. As such I have begun to exercise in the comfort of my home in the dark basement where nobody can see me. This has proved much more convenient than my previous forays into exercising. I don’t have to put on clothing that is acceptable by public standards nor do I have to worry about my boobs flopping about every which way. It’s great! There is, however, one problem:

My cat.

The cat’s name is Wade. He is fat, too. He really likes dangly toys. (My cardio routine is grabbing a ribbon and dragging it around the basement until neither of us can breathe, anymore). My hair reaches the middle of my back. Guess what the cat likes to do?

If you guessed “try to maul my hair,” you win.

Exercising, FML

I am not the healthiest person by any stretch of the imagination. I drink a ton of pop, eat a lot of pizza, eat very few vegetables (blech!) and I don’t exercise. However, I realize that this is not good and I am attempting to change at least one of these things. Since I love pop and pizza too much to give them up, and I hate vegetables too much to consider eating them, I’m trying to force myself to start working out.

Fuck. My. Life.

First, I tried work-out classes. Fuck classes. Even with a sports bra made out of concrete and steel cable I bounce like I’m on a damn trampoline. I am also incredibly self-conscious about it. Should I be? Probably not; nobody at those classes looks that much better than I do. However, it doesn’t seem to matter how many times I tell myself that. My anxiety insists that everybody is staring at me and my bouncing, fleshy body. They are all staring and they are all judging. It isn’t a pleasant feeling and almost always has me fleeing for the exit the second class is over.

Yoga! I tried that, too. However, my body does not bend that way. I am not made of silly putty and pipe cleaners. I am fat and out of shape and I sweat quite a bit. Sweating means that you slide. Specifically, you slide off the yoga mat. How do I keep from sliding off the yoga mat? The easy response is, “stop sweating.” But to stop sweating I have to stop yoga-ing. This is not conducive to being a healthier person.

Socks on the hands? Nope, those just slide, too. Rubber gloves? They keep you from sliding but then the sweat is in the goddamn glove and it is so incredibly disgusting. Apparently, there are special mats you can buy or special towels you can use. I’m a broke college student, though. Splurging for a $30 yoga mat is not practical. Just… no.

Also, yoga classes? No. Just no. Maybe it’s just the one I went to but it was so crowded. We were packed in so closely that the mats almost overlapped and if I spread my arms out too far I hit somebody. I sweated a crap ton and ended up slipping and sliding off my mat. Also, I do not bend that way. So now, not only am I trying to bend in ways that I do not bend and face-planting into my mat (and bouncing), but everybody can see it. There’s that anxiety again telling me that everybody is staring and judging and aaaaaaaaaagh!

The instructor came over at one point and asked, “How you doing?” My verbal response was, “Not great.” My internal response was, “I feel like I am being punished and if I promise to be a better person someone will show up with a milkshake and a handkerchief for my disgusting, sweaty hands and feet.”

Washing the mat supposedly helps. Maybe I’ll give that a shot and try again. I think what I’ll end up doing is concocting my own workout and then flailing in the basement where nobody can see me.