LastFriend

"John, stop it," Sarah cried. She stood in there in the doorway, casting a long shadow in the room. Lying on the ground was a violin, neglected through time. The bow, leaning against the far wall, seemed to be crying—separated for so long from its partner. Slowly, she walked to him, and placed the groceries on the ground. The air inside was warm, suffocating. So she opened a window, just slightly. Putting her arms around him, she softly said, "Why are you on the ground, John?" "Let me finish…finish, finish my song," he whispered. He was clutching his head with his two hands. Kneeling on the ground, he was hunched over scattered pa

It’s Bedtime, Anya* Dear Thoughts about a child gone.                                                                                                           In the evening… In her childhood, she used to jump over puddles. The rainwater would splash, and often, a smatter of mud would appear on the red galoshes she wore. When she jumped over those puddles, she flew, as one flies high in the sky, without any inhibition or fear; a feeling of vertigo that surpassed the eagles. What I wouldn't give for her salvation. How dearly I missed her hand in mine, when innocence had made me dear to her. With age, only tragedy interlocks ou

For a while now, she has been convinced that with a bottle in her hand, she could tackle the world. Like lightning, alcohol had taken control of her life. One night, in the chaos of a party, the vile liquid touched he lips, and she was in love. A few more nights and they eloped one Saturday morning. Day in and day out her spouse accompanied her secretly, hiding himself in a pocket or bag. Unfortunately, her husband did not come cheap. At first, he demanded money from her parents’ wallets. They were newlyweds—how could she fail to comply? This provided the couple a brief respite, but as the girl’s need for her lover grew, so d

I had a dream about us in the biggest bathtub; we were sailing in paper sailboats, dressed as sailors, from head to toe in paper. We wrote love letters to each other on our paper clothes. I built you a paper telescope so you could see beyond me in the water. You must have seen something more beautiful than me, because you jumped off our boat into depths of which your toes could never reach. I knew we would die, but I still swam after you.

As does the sea, a vignette of the bobbing heads of urban citizens maintains a fluid uniformity, one built on a collective lack of individuality; from the sky, one could see endless waves of black heads crashing in steps of mandatory unison, dressed similarly in minimalist fashion. It was 1992, a year too close to 1989 for the government to have forgiven the insurgency at Tiananmen Square and not far enough for the people to have forgotten. Even though the heat of the Cold War was over, the unspoken rule remained conformity. Even past the era of propaganda, the mantra of the government had not changed. Even without the Soviet Union, China

I have a sense of rightful failure about me. I seem to mess up more than I succeed; regardless, this exemplifies me. I have a sense of right and wrong skewered by the pictures and events thrown hastily onto canvas screens. I see actions in levels of dramatics. I see beautiful colors of people-- people who no doubt see the world shaded by camera lights and makeup. This overly romantic vision of the world keeps whispering to me what to do, what to say, what to feel, what to think... and I do it. And it feels right--scratch that--it is right to me. But I do slip up and yet, no matter what I do, I find myself wishing it were raining just so I cou

Today, I went to a funeral for a friend. I walked up to Aaron’s seat solemnly and gave him a hug and then said a prayer by the coffin. The plaque read Mr. Mark Timmons. I had never met the deceased, yet I cried buckets; in thirty minutes, I consumed a tissue box, was handed a bottle of water, and called Mr. Timmons by the staff. Braviak & Sons Funeral Home, privately owned. 49 Whippany Road. Whippany, New Jersey. I was expecting a Braviak, but instead, the Celebrant was Michael Connors. Their motto is “The Difference is in the Details.” Which was the unnecessary detail? I met her at the funeral. When I first walked in, heads t

last night, I had a dream about us in the biggest bathtub; we were sailing in paper sailboats, dressed as sailors, from head to toe in paper to pass time, we wrote love letters to each other on our bleached clothes I built a paper telescope so you could see beyond me in the water You must have seen something more beautiful than me, because you jumped off our boat into depths     of     which     your     toes     could     never     reach I knew we would die, but I swam after you.

He sat, eating pecan nuts calmly by the edge of the fire, oblivious to the hoopla around him. It is two a.m. and the forest is filled with rambunctious noise, all unnecessary. To her, standing behind him, he speaks nonchalantly, all the while munching on his bitter meal. He hands her a handheld with his swollen hand. It has just one bar of batteries left. She dials numbers, feverishly. He hears the numberpad’s familiar chimes whisper through the chaos of the dancers around him. Minutes ago he could smell the lingering scent of wet dew mixed with the charring wood, topped with the saccharine fumes of roasting marshmallows. Now, his nostri