martialwriterr

[martialwriterr]

The Child, The Dog, And The Spider That Didn't Know

She was a beautiful kid who lived in a big house with a closed big yard, the greenest grass, and a playhouse that she would hide in away from the sun. Her mother who was fully Peruvian, and her father fully white who's genes outmuscled the mother's genes. She had silky blonde hair, blue eyes, and white skin. The eyes, nose, and big face belonged to the mother. The rest belonged to the father. On a fall day where the sun shined, and the wind blew just right where only a sweater would suffice the little girl played in the back yard while the father kept an eye out on her from the glass panel door that led into the kitchen. She swung on her swing, hummed to herself, and was doing what little kids do. Living in her imagination. The little girl had a perfect life other than a jammed finger when closing her car door. The father slid open the glass window to let the dog out while he held a conversation on the phone. Something about groceries, tums, and oat milk instead of whole milk. The dog ran to the little girl. It was a beagle. It yapped at the little girl while she hugged the dog, and the little dog reciprocated by licking her face. "Winnie!", she cried out. "Winnie! Winnie! Winnie!" The father smiled as he looked from outside the glass door. She began to chase the dog, and the dog started running. Oh, what a happy dog she was. She ran in circles, jumped, ran from here to there with her butt up, and ultimately they both got tired. She sat on the grass with Winnie laying on her thigh. The little girl pet Winnie on the head, slowly, softly, then scratched Winnie under the mouth, then across her body, and she drifted to sleep. Just for a little while the dog thought.

The dog woke to the sound of commotion behind the playhouse. Immediately she rushed towards behind the play house to the sight of a squirrel scurrying around. She tried to lunge at it but the squirrel was far too agile, too quick, to instinctual. Then along came the little girl. This part of the playhouse was shaded by the tall oak tree. It was dark, moist, and dirty but something caught ahold of the little girls attention. "Ball." she said. There was a crevice and a little orange ball was hidden in there. It was Winnie's favorite ball. "I got it for you!" the little girl yelled. She crouched happily, but as she got closer something caught on her face. It was thin, sticky, and as the architectural build began to dismantle a black spider with a red mark on its belly appeared. The spider had a glossy shine to it, and its red mark had hypnotized the little girl. She began to reach for the spider, and Winnie barked stomping her paw. Bark, bark, bark, the hand got closer, and closer, until Winnie pushed her to the side destroying the spider's home and landing on the back of Winnie, setting his fangs, and scurrying off. Her father yelled out to her daughter, and she poked out from behind the playhouse. "Let's go, Winnie." she ordered. Winnie laid on the ground trying to scratch the bite, and followed. The little girl went inside for dinner while Winnie stayed outside. She laid out on the sun as it went back under the horizon all while feeling a throbbing pain on her back. She decided to sleep, and when she awoke she found that she could not move, and her vision was blurry. The little girl came out calling for her dog, "Winnieeeee!" Winnie could hear her owner, but she could not move her legs, and she felt a calm peaceful throb in her chest while her body ached, and burned. She heard her owners voice get closer and closer until finally she felt the small soft hands on her abdomen. "Winnie," the little girl said very worriedly, "What’s wrong?" Winnie sighed, lifted her head up, and licked the face of the little kid. The little girl felt something was wrong, very wrong. She called out for her father and mother. Winnie's face did not belong to her anymore. "This isn't Winnie." the little girl cried. Winnie licked her lips even more, and for a second she can see the silhouette of her owner's face. She felt comfortable, and somehow could move just a little to lay her head on the little girl's thigh. She breathed one big sigh and closed her eyes for the last time. The little girl sat there, crying, and she knew all of what death was.

[martialwriterr]

God

There will come a time for man

When it will ache to wake in the morning

In these times

Man

Will be forced to believe in God

I urge man

To test everything and anything

And face the dormant monsters

And as man uncovers love, perhaps a child,

Or great success, and good money

There will be a time where the sparks of life

Will stop igniting fire

There will be a time

Where you will need God

Tonight I will pray

Please God

I have been a good man

Forgive me

[martialwriterr]

Where The Trains Go

I looked at myself in the mirror. Fixed my hair. It was short. Close to the scalp, and I let my side burns grow. I got closer to the mirror. Showed my teeth. Licked my teeth. Pulled my right cheek down with four of my fingers to see how white my eyeballs were. I'm not sure why I'm doing this. When do we ever see ourselves this close.

I stepped out from the bathroom holding on to one of the protruding cylinder rails that stick out from the walls of trains. The train rocks back and forth simultaneously violent and calm. I sit down, put my hood up, and stake my foot in the chair in front of me. I lay my head on the window watching the long messy lines of light and smeared faces.

Trains. They are somehow the most isolating, yet most public places. In fact I would say that all of public transportation gives off an isolating feeling. I believe the cause is because we are collectively, mutually, headed towards a destination yet we are all menacingly kept to ourselves. I see passengers  placing their bags on empty seats just to avoid contact from another human being. Are we all hunting for some solidarity?

LAST STOP. NEW YORK. ALL PASSENGERS OFF.

I let most of the passengers get off before me preferring to be one of the last ones. A couple of young adults that stunk of weed and alcohol walked passed. A pair of black men with sagging pants that also stunk of marijuana and a sweet vanilla scent. A homeless old man crawling on his feet. He smelled very bad. A bald man dressed very nicely. He smelled exquisite, fancy, and serious. A bunch more uninteresting passengers lead out. I dug my hands in my pockets. Kept my shoulders shrugged and walked out. The air outside was a comfortable kind of cold. Cigarettes butts, condom wrappers, torn pieces of newspaper.

I walked up the steps with my head down. Hands in my pocket. I am reminded of all the times we made trips to the city. And for a moment I smiled and lift my head up. But, she is not here. She is somewhere where we wonder of. Some call it heaven. Some call it the afterlife. Some call it total oblivion. I decide to keep my head up. That what she would've wanted. Fix your posture, she said, it makes you more handsome.

I remember holding hands with her coming out of the Penn station. I told her that when I was younger I was enamored by the city because the movies made it seem like this was the only place dreams come true. All the handsome men and beautiful women were here. They made movies out of this place, I told her, there is a spectacle on every corner of this city. Look over there, there's music being played, and over there is delicious food, and look at all these lights, I told her. She said you can make dreams come true anywhere.

Chinatown and it's soup dumplings. That’s where we liked to go. I get on the subway. A homeless man asked me for a dollar and I gave him five instead. I hoped that the five dollars would get him somewhere tonight. Maybe a bagel, or one of those gyros made by those nice middle eastern men. But most likely will get himself whatever kind of alcohol or a cozy cigarette anything to numb himself from this cold. I find myself on the train again but this certain demographic at this time of the hour is different. It's just people of New York, and you can tell that they're from New York by the way their faces looks. Anybody who's been in New York knows what I am talking about.

I step outside the train out into Manhattan. The cold hits my face a bit harder this time. Small coffee, please, I ask. I use this cup of coffee mainly to warm my hands. Time was moving too fast for me. Just an hour ago I was at my parent's house in New Jersey. I decide to sit down with my cup of coffee next to a black man playing the trump. Don’t you wish you were comfy in bed? There is soul in the way he plays his trumpet. His face contorted to the sound of his music. Good stuff, I think, I too once played an instrument. I throw a dollar in his trumpet case and he nods in appreciation. I close my eyes for a little while with the cups warmth radiates in my palms. I listen to the steps of hundreds and hundreds of human beings. I'm reverting back to old habits. The one where I stay and maintain in solitude. Like the cricket you hear on a summer night. But I fear this solitude is morphing into a sort of isolation. I said thank you to the black man playing the trumpet.

I spotted a young girl with a t shirt and fishnets. An asian man adding to the eerie vapor of Chinatown with his cigarette.  He had a thin jacket on and one of those restaurant hats that look dorky but are to be taken serious. I saw that young woman cross the street again with her fishnets and flimsy t-shirt. She looked to be about my age. 

I got to her favorite restaurant and immediately was greeted by a pimply asian woman about half my size. I'd like to order soup dumplings. No problem, she said. The door chimed as I let myself out to wait in the cold. Everywhere were the circular ember colored shapes at the tips of their mouths. And the way they sucked on their cigarette made it seem like their cigarette tasted toasty, and comforting like a warm cup of hot chocolate. I hid my chin underneath my coat. Laid my back up against the wall. Asked myself the question. Why am I here? The door chimed again and out came the little asian lady. Thank you, I said. I can smell the fat from the pork coming out of the bag. So steamy. Soup dumplings. They're these little balls filled with savory, fatty, juice but make any sudden move with them and the delicate doughy dress comes apart.

I think, for tonight, there is nothing else to live for other than these little soup dumplings, and the amount of faces I have seen in this city, and the music that I've witnessed, and this cold air. I'm reliving memories. This is all I can do for now. I head to the train station. I took a 15 minute nap on the stairs waiting for my train. Once on the train I ate the soup dumplings. Slowly. That's what she told me to do. Eat your food, slowly. As I ate I looked out the window. We went under the tunnel where you see the pitch blackness in motion. Then the silhouettes of tree branches and houses. Every now and then I saw a stray window with the light on. I wonder what the story was going on in there. Making love? Heartbreak? Maybe some drugs? Maybe incredibly sad? Or, maybe, simply, someone forgot to turn the light off. As the train got closer to home the night started to get lighter. The runes of Elizabeth and Newark. You can tell we get closer to nice towns by the looks of their houses. Enter suburbia. I was close to home now. Exhausted I felt. Somewhat heartbroken. We passed through a deer that laid out next to the tracks. I felt even more heartbroken. The train came to a halt. I saluted the conductor. Outside it was cloudy, the air smelled cleaner, and there was a light rain beginning. The drive back home was quiet. Not a single thought in my head.  I didn’t bother to turn on the wipers. The dogs came out to greet me. I gave them both a kiss, let them go outside, and ran back in. I took off my clothes, and invited the dogs to come sleep with my. They made their selves comfortable snuggling in between my covers. I closed my eyes, and tried to count the number of raindrops that hit my window.