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Shannon Colhoun
PO Box 5144
Tahoe City, CA 96145
Cell Phone: 323-578-2528
shannon_colhoun@yahoo.com
Cresting the Waves, a Novel
CRESTING THE WAVES
By Shannon Colhoun
Where do I begin?
The lights are dimming
The show growing nearer
Quickly, quickly and no more
The hill to Zach’s house stood like Mount Olympus before Sarah. You couldn’t park at the top
of the hill; it was one of those Hollywood rules. You had to park at least three blocks away from
everything just to cram your car into a resident-only parking zone. She had ripped the sticker off
a nearby convertible and knew better, but didn’t care.
She began to climb, up, into a false heaven where petty thoughts and cheap conversation flowed
sticky sweet. As her worn stilettos grinded into the hill, she clutched her purse and sighed. She
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could see the lights now as they glowed from beyond the fortress gates and transient beats found
their way to her ears.
When she reached the long stairwell that led to Zach’s gate, her breath caught up with her. Zach
produced music videos and was the kind of guy who could sell you back your own skin. They
had met at one of her art openings. He swore by her paintings and had become one of her
greatest disciples. Plus she had introduced him to his latest muse, Angel, a dancer/actress/model
she knew from Deep. Sarah danced at the club sometimes to keep her life unnerved, teetering on
three legs instead of four. She coddled the distraction; a pet tarantula in her pocket.
Sarah thought back to when she had first met Angel. One night after the club she found her
being accosted by some giant. She was yelling at him and trying to get into a car he said wasn’t
hers anymore. Sarah got the bouncer, but not before blood was spilled and Angel held her gashed
lip.
“Where do you want me to take you?”
“Sunset and Gower.”
‘Are you OK?’ Sarah had thought to ask, but stopped. Instead she turned the key in the ignition.
Fast life pushed you down sometimes. It was part of the risk she took in working there but she
liked the fear with its greedy attitude and million dollar swagger. Sarah turned the car onto the
road and began driving. She could hear Angel suck in her breath as if she were holding back the
continent of Asia in her chest.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah finally worked out, surprised by her own convincing sincerity.
Angel didn’t take the bait.
“I thought I’d seen him there before.” She tried again, sensing a carnivorous urge to push and
savor the mélange.
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Angel choked a sob.
“I’m sorry we never talk either. I’m a switch. I turn it on and off. It’s that place, not you. I
wanted you to know.” Sarah could hear her own foot tapping in her head.
“We used to go out and party a lot but I’m sick of being around him and he started leaving me
these messages,” Angel sniveled.
“Does he know where you live?”
“I always went to his house. I don’t know what I’m even doing here.” The air in the car was
stiff and lost. “I moved here two years ago. Everyone always told me I’m pretty enough for
movies, so I came here to try it. This is kind of a movie, isn’t it?” Sarah was sure she had seen
this one before. “Do you think I could spend the night at your place? I don’t want to be home
alone.”
She turned her old Rambler around and it seemed to reinforce Angel’s self-invite as it chugged
toward the hills of Silver Lake. She remembered back now as to how naive Angel had been, how
typical, like an abandoned kitten. They were less than a year apart in age and Sarah was sure she
had lived ten lives more. She almost pitied Angel, but found envy a more tangible emotion.
Angel still had the ability to trust, and it sickened her.
“Sarah! Sarah!” Arms wildly flailed at her from inside the crowd. It was Monique Levenstein,
socialite and heiress to the Levenstein shoe fortune. At the top of the world, Monique’s arms
welcomed her. “Zach didn’t tell me you were coming! You look so good. What have you been
up to? What? Did you lose some weight? Did you hear about Tom Eliot? Can you believe his
girlfriend dumped him? Oh wait. There he is. I have to see him. Tom! Tom!” She was gone. The
world had spun three times on its axis and nothing looked any clearer.
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“Sarah,” a sharp voice called her name. “Sarah.” It rang out again from the paradise that
surrounded her. “Sarah, over here.”
She turned her head to see Zach, his eyes half-open sitting on a wicker lounge chair across the
garden. His hand beckoned, but her feet stuck fast. There were so many people. Although he
called her name her feet were bound in stone.
“Hey Babe,” Zach appeared next to her. “Didn’t think you’d make it.”
“And miss this? Not for the world.”
“I have a friend I want you to meet. His grease is golden.”
“If I had a dime for each of your friends…”
“You would be a piggy bank” he chortled at his own bad joke and scooted her to the bar. “Well,
here we are again. I always like seeing you.” His eyes gleamed nonchalantly as he scanned the
crowd. They settled on a stunning brunette with sculpted breasts. She returned his gaze then
looked away transparently.
“You know her?” he implored.
“No, but there should be a limit on plastic surgery under 21. Speaking of natural beauties, have
you talked to Angel?”
“She isn’t here” he snorted into his glass.
Sarah thought about what Angel had told her earlier that night. The words were fresh and
burned her blood. She batted away any loyalty to Angel or Zach as if choosing sides would
somehow make her one of them. Sarah’s eyes fixed now on the new girl as she walked toward
Zach. Her dress clung tightly as a needy child to its mother. The alcohol that passed Sarah’s lips
was strong antiseptic. It sent a shiver through the core of her soul that was beginning to feel
again.
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“Hey Honey,” he cooed as the woman approached. Her eyes penetrated and hunted his gaze.
Her lips pursed together then spread to reveal primitive rows of tiny white teeth.
“You,” she began dragging her finger down Zach’s chest. “Staring at me all night like you own
me.”
“I don’t, yet.” He drew his glass closer to his lips and eyes closed as a wave of elation
consumed him.
“Aren’t you the devil,” the girl needled.
“I’ve been called worse.” Zach drew in the smoke-filled air and shrunk back to put his arm
around Sarah. The chill increased, clutched at her ankles, and rose through her entire being. It
was magnified by the girl’s voice. She hadn’t removed her claw from Zach’s chest, only
burrowed it deeper.
“What will I ever do with you?” she teased.
He smirked. “I was just asking myself that same question. This is my girl, Sarah,” he said
smoothly backing away from her grasp. He pushed Sarah forward as she extended her hand, but
the girl ignored it. Her eyes stayed wholly on Zach.
“I don’t think we’ve ever met--” Sarah attempted.
“Mina,” she returned taking Sarah’s hand and with no further emotion, dropped it.
Zach disappeared and the crowd was faceless. Mina too, faded as the dark swallowed her into
the unknown. Sarah downed the last of her cocktail and warmth replaced the chill. Her eyes
closed to filter the chaos of her thoughts. The warmth on her neck was hot, like the palm of a
hand, holding her in place. She was sure if she fell, someone would catch her. Inch by inch she
started to unravel. A man bumped into her and held her close.
“Excuse me. Sarah?”
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Her eyes fluttered open.
“Didn’t we meet at Red? I’m Carlos, Zach’s friend.”
“Of course you are.” She stepped back as he ordered her another drink.
“I tried to buy one of your paintings but it had already sold. The ‘Desiderata’ piece, I wanted it
for my bathroom.”
“For your bathroom? Maybe you should have tried something else…”
“The night’s still young.” Their bodies slipped through the crowd like cells splitting and uniting
again, they continued to a private deck where tiny bulbs glittered.
“You like this party?” Carlos asked.
“I don’t know. It hasn’t killed me so far.”
“You certainly have a way of seeing things.”
She nodded. “Do you like this party?”
“I like you.”
“That makes one of us.” She raised her glass in a mini toast and tilted back to drink again.
“I thought you two had already left,” Zach interrupted, appearing out of thin air.
“Jesus Zach. Why do you do that to me?” Her startled words made friends and slurred together.
“Because you’re my girl.”
“Why, your girl, remind me again?”
“Because you’re someone we all must try--”
“To put out in the morning” she knowingly finished his sentence.
“Forgive me? I like being bad. It’s my nature.” He pinched her.
“The correct term is “asshole” Zach. Asshole. But because you admit to it strangely, I still like
you.”
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He opened a bindle from his pocket and poured the contents on the table in front of them. He
passed a rolled bill to Sarah.
“This doesn’t help,” she said as she inhaled a white line. “And you owe me another drink.”
The three continued talking and laughing as the party went on. Sarah felt the world get numb,
lighter and lighter. The music increased, people danced. She felt Carlos’ leg next to hers and
didn’t mind. He was almost pleasant, better than most Zach usually produced and he did work
for the best PR agency in town.
Inside the house was hot and muggy. Smoke filled the air as the music played. The crowd
expanded, overflowing into every corner and every room. Sarah went to the bathroom and Carlos
followed. As she inhaled another line, he held her hips and kissed her neck. She watched in the
mirror as he undressed her. Beneath she wore the negligee. It was secretive and didn’t tell where
it had been before. He entered her and she felt the sharpness of her fingernails drag his back. His
kisses were hot and strong, yet devoid of love. She felt his body hulk and turn, all the while
talking to her in a tongue she could not understand. He held her close against the wall: tight and
hard, and then his body relaxed. Minutes ran together as if they didn’t exist. They evaporated. He
pulled himself from her and brushed the hair from her eyes. “I do like this party,” he kissed her
mouth.
She remained alone after he left; the blur in the mirror amplified. It stacked like bricks
mortaring her into a tomb. Her skin was suddenly clammy and tongue gagged down her throat.
What compelled her to leave herself again? He promised he could get her a spot in International
Artist but it wasn’t about that. Her eyes searched her face for a sign. It stared back--knowing the
answers but refusing to share them. She didn’t care if he liked her or could help her. She just
wanted to keep the wheel spinning at a rate that even she couldn’t keep up with. She refused to
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be the victim and whenever she felt the least bit of vulnerability creeping in, she pushed it out. It
would never control her. Deception squirmed in the pit of her stomach. There were too many
loose ends, too many reasons to lose ground, roll over. Maybe she wanted to fall in love, connect
to another, or raise herself from the power of desire. Her feet scraped against the deep end. The
black and blue sank her further down as she wretched in the sink. Is this what made her an artist,
the blade pressed to her vein? She hadn’t painted anything except her body in months and
wondered when the game would end. The scars of history were etched into her and didn’t change
a thing.
Outside the stars were murky and clouds hid the giant moon. She found herself alone on the
once packed terrace and had that feeling of being the only person left in the world. She needed to
get away. Run away, before it was too late. Her mind twisted again and the minutes she had lost,
now accelerated. She made her way to the stairs. Eased by the dark, night was her ally and she
counted on it to cover the things she hated the most. She prayed its blindness and contentment of
its cloak. Her boots pounded with her heartbeat as she plummeted down. There were a million
stairs, another after another, multiplying as she crossed over the top of them. Her heels picked up
and skipped over each one wishing it to be last. Abruptly, city lamps lit the path and intruded
into the black. She flinched to escape the light. She needed so badly for the darkness to carry her.
She tried to deny it, but the way it glared at her, stopped her; forced its way into her eyes. She
caught her breath and noticed a white moth flicker around one bulb. She stood captivated,
infuriated. The light shone so powerfully the moth could not resist. Its paper-thin wings pumped.
She watched anxiously as it twirled and crawled to win the flame: stubbornly pursuing what it
refused to give up; tearing its wings; beating itself against the hot glass. No matter how broken, it
did not cease. She could save it, she thought. She would catch it and keep it safe. Moths wanted
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light like some obsessed lover but it gave them back nothing. It didn’t make them magical or
even extend the length of their stunted little lives. She climbed on the railing, struggling to grip
the moth. Her feet grated on the metal rungs and heart broke when she saw it fall. Weightless and
jagged, her body jerked to catch it and fingers extended as if she floated underwater. There was
no one to catch her and she fell.
Making an Entrance
Sarah browsed the candy section in a convenience store. She turned the wrappers over one by
one and put them back. The cashier watched her in the video monitor. She itched her leg, he
tugged his crotch; his stare tarnished the glow of her broken halo.
“How much is this?” She waved a bag purposefully at him, but his eyes didn’t persist. She
moved to him and dropped a bill on the counter.
“Seventy-nine cents plus tax. Your change-- Miss?” His eyes turned to consume her but she
was already gone.
She found herself walking along a familiar hallway, dialing a number she hoped soon to forget
but hadn’t made the commitment yet. Old lovers could be useful, although they often proved
themselves a pain in the ass or some other part, at least. She looked at her phone. Just because
someone didn’t answer, didn’t always mean they weren’t there. She heard a noise from inside the
apartment and let herself in. The grime matched the smell of mildewed phonebooks and aging
newspapers. She heard the recipient’s phone ringing as she entered his room. Robert was jacking
off on the couch, his dog, Cowboy, was watching.
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“This place is a mess,” she stumbled to keep her balance atop a pile of unopened mail.
“Sarah…” The ringing stopped.
“You left the door open.” She flopped on the couch beside him. “I see you need to practice
some self control. Oh Cowboy. You like it when Daddy slaps the monkey, don’t you?”
“Do you ever knock?” Robert lunged and clumsily buckled his pants.
“I called. Anyway, you look hungry. Or is that sexual frustration? I can’t tell.”
“I’ll wash my hands and be ready to go. Can you wait that long?” He huffed toward the
bedroom. Robert and Sarah had more of an “off” than “on again” relationship, if you could call it
that. He had been hot a couple months before her. Mostly she thought he was a slob, but a pretty
slob to be fair.
“Hurry. I’m starving.” She fixed her trimmed bangs in a compact mirror.
“You’re lucky I didn’t have someone over…”
“I’m lucky. It’s a sad world, Robert. Chop. Chop.” She sniffed a small white line and closed the
compact.
They sat in a diner. Their empty hands rested on the table. They browsed the menu as if it had
something to offer.
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know Robert. I can’t think when I’m like this; I’ll have whatever you get.”
“Meatloaf.”
She laughed uncontrollably. “There are rules about things you can and can’t order in a place
like this. Meatloaf, any kind of fish, or corned beef hash like shit on a shingle is out. I’m not
eating that.”
“Someone’s got to order it or it wouldn’t still be on the menu.”
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“This isn’t just my opinion. It’s general consensus. Look around the room. Do you see anyone
eating the meatloaf? It’s a conspiracy set up to destroy mankind. We can count on processed
foods to wipe us out.”
“I like Kraft cheese and Miracle Whip.”
“Try the clam chowder,” a woman from the next table interjected.
“Is it good?” Sarah asked, slightly amused by the intrusion.
“I like it.”
“You eat here a lot?” Robert trailed.
“Enough.”
“Would you eat the Meatloaf?”
“I’d eat it and I’m on a diet. I just got back from Jenny Craig. I ate two plates of chili cheese
fries cause I felt so deprived.” The waitress came.
“I’ll have a tuna melt,” Sarah ordered.
“Me too, and a coffee.”
“Me too, and can you bring me a glass of milk for it? Thanks.”
The woman from the next table leaned in to Sarah. “Can I ask you a question?”
The coffee came. She poured the milk and brought the mug closer to her mouth. “What’s it like
having a black friend?”
She slurped her coffee. “I’d miss half the world without him.” Robert and Sarah held eye
contact for a while. He rolled his eyes and shook his head.
The neighboring woman turned back to her own table and company, who had smoked at least a
pack of cigarettes since they sat down. She didn’t seem to be affected by the cloud that billowed
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overhead or the ignorance of her friend. She looked almost comatose, except for her hand that
continuously passed back and forth to her lips every few seconds.
The sandwiches came. Sarah looked at hers, then at Robert’s. “Can we trade?”
He looked across, puzzled. “They’re the same.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Maybe I’ll bite into this sandwich and my life will change. The change is
certain. I’m not sure if I’m ready to accept it.”
“You’re nuts. It’s just a sandwich.”
“If it were, I wouldn’t be having this conversation with you. Trade with me.”
He pushed his plate over. “You want my coffee too?”
“No. It’s yours.” She began eating in small bites and ate the outer edges of the sandwich,
leaving the center: a round, perfect pile of tuna fish.
“Are you going to finish that?”
“Of course not.”
“There are people starving in this world…”
“I know. I’m one of them.”
“Did you start seeing that shrink again?”
“I decided against it. I figured I’d take the money I’d spend on him and put it toward something
I really needed.”
“Like?”
“I don’t know. I opened a savings account so when I do, I’ll invest. I’m done. You want
anything else?” She wiped her mouth and dropped her napkin on the plate. “You ready?”
He looked away. “Again?”
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She didn’t answer but got up and walked to the back exit. She pushed the door open and lit a
cigarette. Robert went toward the front and proceeded out. They had successfully ditched another
bill. It wasn’t paying the check that was a problem, but something more. Nothing seemed of
value anymore. Nothing was new or worthy.
“That was easy.” Her eyes drifted disappointedly to the weakening fibers of the passenger seat
in his car.
“I hate you.”
“That’s a stretch. I keep you warm and fed.”
“You drive me nuts,” he exhaled.
“Pull over up here.”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“I don’t know. Don’t have plans.”
“Are you still coming over?” he slowly angled, confused.
“I thought you hated me--”
The car stopped and she got out. “What’s that got to do with anything? You know I’ll want you
later.”
“It’s not good to want.” The words stained her lips as the door hinged closed.
Snapshot
It was hot today, not as hot as yesterday, but bearable enough to walk. Some days it’s OK to be
hot. It shows the extremities of life, makes the muted senses pick up and stand at attention. When
you peel a wet patch of slip from the back of your thigh, you know where you are--in the middle
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of something feverish. As she passed, she noticed her reflection in a novelty store window. Her
image superimposed over dashboard hula girls made her laugh. The comparison was funny. How
she too felt like a little doll on a stand wagging her hips for the enjoyment of others.
She walked into a thrift store on Sunset Blvd. The red fur on the walls made her feel wonder,
like she was entering kindergarten again. She fingered the dresses. The separation amidst the
colors was calming--sort of an indication that told you where to go. “That’s enough of this,” the
Red would say. “It’s all the Magenta we have,” sighed the Fuchsia. “Just quit with the Pink,”
Rose said from under a double ply of ruffle. She continued wandering until she came to the
lingerie.
In a squarish box they sat ordinary yet extraordinary. Her throat tightened as she went toward
them. She stood above the display like a cat eyeing a goldfish. The underwear swam beneath her
dangling paw. She dipped in and fished around to find a pair of red panties. There was a heart
right on the crotch and inside a neatly stitched “Wednesday.” Although it was Thursday, she
thought to defy the Gods.
She fished around some more and found it: the virgin negligee. It was backless, boned, and
ostrich feathers trimmed the bust. Yet of these details, the most complicated and ambitious was
simply, it had been used. How base was it to wear another woman’s pride and glory? It was an
outfit meant to win the battle halfway. It sickened her as she ran the material through her fingers.
She imagined the rise and fall of this sex symbol but scratched it from her thoughts. She often
did that--started to feel something, then tore away from it as if it were an act of violence. She
wanted to feel but it might devour her--the nothingness, its all-consuming misery. The small
squares of polyester tested her. They mesmerized her and kept her searching to find something
that was not so see-through, something she too could have.
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“Do you need some help?” A short girl with heart-shaped glasses appeared.
“Yes.” Sarah answered emerging from oblivion. It seemed hot tears would gush out if she
didn’t look way. They always came when she didn’t want them, antagonizing her. She brushed
her cheek and handed the girl the garments she had been molesting.
“I love this stuff,” the girl said with a far off gleam in her eye.
“We’re sick.” Sarah blurted.
Not knowing to laugh or be insulted, the girl stood there and smiled. Sarah looked at her and
her subordinate smile, the one all salesgirls and public servants must affix. She shuddered.
“You wanna buy this stuff?” She picked at the awkwardness that floated between them. Sweat
beads appeared on the girl’s forehead and Sarah noticed a slight, but still detectable waft of
vomit coming from her direction. At first, she wasn’t sure, then, began a quick inspection of her
self.
“Do you want to buy it?” the girl asked again, more desperately.
“Of course. How much is it?”
Seeing her chance to break away, the girl spun around and shot for the front. “I dunno. I’ll ring
it up.” Sarah trailed the salesgirl. She had no intention of buying, for what she had discovered
was a leper; a disease.
“It’s $36.47. Need a bag?” She didn’t answer but shoved the items into her purse and dropped
two bills on the counter. Again, she didn’t wait for her change as it was the precious gem she
was most trying to avoid.
Outside the sun had dropped its head enough to cool the concrete landscape. If only by a
degree, it offered some relief as she walked to the bus stop.
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Keeping to herself she wore dark sunglasses. Behind them she watched the world go about its
troubled way, observed society unobstructed. She would stare for long passages at a man in a
truck beside her or at a woman wheeling her five-month son along in a stroller. As the people
passed, she passed too, and felt herself pass with them: go home to their two bedroom apartments
or houses that could use a fresh coat of paint.
Arriving at the stop, she sat down and began shivering. The chill she knew was not from the
shade, but more a sense of anticipation, a tired alarm engaging its devices to wake her and shake
monotony’s embrace. A man sat down beside her. He was older, maybe 50 or less. He had gray
strands in his dark sideburns and carried a bruised leather briefcase.
“Where are you going?” he started.
“Home.” Sarah recognized in him that glorified quality of mankind. By speaking to her, without
invitation, he pressed to dominate and as tradition dictates, she would submit, smile, like a
vanquishing dog. Monkeys smiled at their oppressors too, to prove they were non-threatening, if
only a ruse. Struck by this image she suddenly wondered what would happen if she leaned over
and bit him.
“You live around here?”
“East side” she answered looking forward, smiling.
“Where, exactly?”
“Where do you live?” she squared her shoulders towards him.
“You’re very pretty.”
She looked back at the street and noticed her shadow grow longer.
“Are you an actress?”
“No.” The tightness in her throat began.
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“A dancer?”
“No,” closing down on her esophagus.
“You have strong legs.”
She pulled down on her skirt. Where was the bus? That damn bus, you never could count on it.
He moved closer. His cologne was chloroform over her mouth.
“Give me your number.”
She tried hiding in her veins but there was no escape; no room in her veins. She traveled deeper
around the curving tubes of her entrails, in and out of her heart but there was no room. “Stop,”
she said and stood up.
She didn’t look back. The man’s voice faded. The pulse in her ears drowned the sound of him
and the cars rushing past. She stood on the edge of the curb, tears nearly escaping again, but this
time she held them. She kept them in their place. She felt the sweep of the large moving mass as
it pulled in before her but kept her eyes tight. In a trance, she stepped on.
Stops and Gaps
Passage of time
burns me
Stops and gaps
checker the drive
I get stuck in the under seats
with the pennies and the grime
But I’m like the pennies—bright if you shine me
Pick me up; put me in your pocket
I’ll keep you safe with mine
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When she opened her eyes, she stood in front of a sturdy bus driver. “Step on up,” he cried like
a carnival barker. Silently, she obeyed. The bus lunged forward and she braced herself. She
clung to the metal bar above her. Her body stretched its limits. Her heels lifted and momentarily
she was suspended in air. The view she saw revealed nothing new. There was no room on the
front and maybe two seats in the back, but it wasn’t safe back there. Ask any woman how she
feels on the back of the bus. She’ll try to keep to herself but someone will start pecking at the
buttons on her blouse or scalp of her head. The bus lurched again and more people crowded on.
This time she was pushed to the back. Surrounded by no one who would make eye contact, she
focused on what she could. She noticed a grimy pile of pocket change. It had been abandoned,
left behind mistakenly. It humored her; so low class no one would touch it. Everyone eyed it but
no one dared to pick it up. A pile of pennies and nickels, a poor man’s treasure, and no one
would pick it up in the presence of each other. If someone did, it somehow proved what they
didn’t have. The women with their babies looked on. The babies dreamily stared making a faint
move to the muddy fortune, only to have their mothers stop them, prohibiting any further chance
of possession. Her eyes shifted and stared blindly into space. She didn’t remove her sunglasses
even though it was getting dark.
“Have you read the Bible?” A man with black-curly hair asked her. Sarah hadn’t noticed him
until he spoke up. She was nearly standing on him.
“Excuse me,” she said letting go an embarrassed laugh.
“Have you read the Bible?” he asked again.
She knew this was one of those times she shouldn’t speak but her tongue bulged. “Yes,” she
decided to answer.
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“Did you find God?”
“In the Bible? He must be very small. No, I didn’t see him. Well, I wasn’t looking.”
“Your salvation’s not a joking matter. There are no atheists in foxholes.”
“This must be your first day in paradise then,” she said coyly pulling the cord overhead.
She could walk home from here. She needed to get away from people who were so disgusting.
She wondered how the world had bred such a festering mess. People who had no idea about
privacy, patience or discretion: those who hadn’t a clue about social code, or delicateness, she
knew she too, had forgotten.
The Waves
The house smelled of onions again. Her roommate was cooking. She heard Shaila and James
talking together in the kitchen. She didn’t want to see them. If she unwound first, she could deal
them later. She went to her room and closed the door.
The cold sheets on her bed were old friends. She lay on her back and sighed. Her eyes toward
the ceiling, she sighed again. This time her breath filled her lungs as if it were the first full breath
of the day. Her thoughts churned in her head: a Ferris wheel, each car heavy with a thousand
horses. She turned onto her stomach. She pressed her eyes together and the colors rushed. She
curled herself into a ball and a faint ringing began in her ears. Was that her phone? It seemed so
far away. It stopped and she was swimming. The water was black and under the waves she went.
Where was she? A blindfold on her eyes, the water was dense with so many dreams. She plunged
deeper into herself and the ringing subsided. Her heartbeat quickened. It was the contradiction of
feeling so empty, yet being so full like a wasteland, polluted and full of garbage. Where was her
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guardian angel when she was lost in the dark? The water seemed too deep or was it too shallow?
It seemed now to fill her lungs as her prior breath had. Where was she swimming? How far
would she go? The water was vast and deep. She overflowed and the tears came. Silently they
dripped down her cheeks, two or four at first, and then too many to count. Her body subsided to
the sobbing. She knew she could no longer hold back the tide. It rose and with it, she was swept
out to sea.
She could hear Shaila and James again. In a far off land they stirred. She stirred too and sat up.
Her clothes were tight against her skin. The layers she began to peel--pull away from the body
she did not understand. With even strokes she undressed herself, a catharsis in the movement. At
last she stood naked. Free. The smell of her hair and body aroused her. She went to her closet
where they were kept.
Her paintbrushes were long and lean: thick handles to caress the palm of her hand. Their
delicate tips swept over her skin in ecstasy. Here was true energy. A life force that sprung from
her hands and colored the world as it was meant to be. Her room was no virgin to them. She had
colored the walls and table that stood near the window. She painted the furniture to give it new
life, to give it real life with blood red paint.
She moved to the wall where a long mirror stood. In front of it she resurrected herself and
peered at her reflection. The imperfections ate her like termites. She looked closer at the hips and
thighs, her breasts that made her a woman. Broken-heartedly, she despised them. She hated them
for they tormented her. They made her shift from one bed to another, slip from calm to madness,
slip away from beautiful and free to tainted and confined. She raised her brush like a sword and
painted Hari Kari. One large sweep down her center, from her heart to her abdomen, she covered
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her scars. The red paint soothed them, bathed them in eloquent life. She separated this woman
from man, feminine from masculine, the pain that eroded and swallowed her whole. She watched
her masterpiece dry and fingered the lines that ran or dripped.
“Sarah? Are you home?” Shaila knocked on her bedroom door. “Are you in there?”
“I’m here.” She flinched, consumed by the mystery of her own skin.
“Do you want something to eat? I made too much. Come join us.”
“I’ll be there soon. I have to take a shower.”
“Okay. Hurry.”
She looked at her reflection again. It was much better this way.
Today there is a fire in my heart
It burns consistently as if it were always the fall
But as leaves change, the winter nears
With it comes sleep or death
When our fire dies
It is questionable
Whether or not
We have ever lived
History exists but is poly-interpretable
Opinion suggests what cannot be proven
So what is left is common sense
A man is a man
and a woman, a__________.
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Angels and Insects
Shaila and James were waiting at the table when Sarah entered with a towel on her head.
“Thought you’d never make it,” Shaila said with a smile.
“You still live here?” teased James.
“I know. I don’t come around much. I have an aversion to people in love.”
“We’re in love?” They mocked the question in unison.
“Wanna smoke?” James offered.
“Last time you were over I couldn’t remember my name for a week…”
“It’s good,” he nodded.
“Maybe I will.” She took a drag off his blunt. “What are we eating? It smells great.”
“Steak and eggs.”
“How American.”
“Is the meat too salty?” James asked.
“Nah, it’s perfect. Sarah, try some.” Shaila’s voice was distant over the sound of forks and
knives but found Sarah and lulled her back.
“I need to go to Italy. It’s the only place anything real is happening.” she finally reemerged.
“How’s Robert?”
“He’s a turd.”
Forks and knives clattered again. Shaila and James were never very interesting, but they didn’t
require a lot either. They were dandelions or mushrooms and left to their own devices, would
probably take over the place.
“Pass me that joint,” Sarah insisted.
“What are you doing later?” Shaila asked.
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“I haven’t made any plans. I think Zach’s having a party.”
“I thought you hated him.”
Sarah chirped dully and shrugged. “Cigarette?”
“In my purse, get me one too.”
The smoke spun baby circles as it enveloped them. Without words, they sat and gazed at each
other: a little herd, chewing cud. Shaila and James were parents from a parallel universe.
Although she never mentioned it, Sarah liked thinking of them that way; as her long lost parents.
She looked into their kind dumb faces and saw their empty plates recommended fully by the
USDA. They were nothing to aspire to and at the same time, the very recipe for happiness. The
phone rang. No one moved or was bothered. It rang again and Sarah felt a small nudge inside. A
third time, the brilliance of the sound cleared the smoke.
“Are you gonna get that? It’s your phone” Shaila scolded.
“They’ll call back.”
They waited, but the caller was insistent. “They don’t seem to get the picture, Sarah. Get it.”
“Yes Mother” she wistfully nodded to her roommate, knowing she couldn’t be further from the
truth.
“Hey Angel.”
“Girl, I missed you. I didn’t see you for my birthday, I was so faded. We ended up in this holein-the-wall bar in the middle of Hollywood. Sorry I haven’t called. I’ve been so stressed out. I
crashed my car and since then I’ve been a wreck.”
“Where are you?”
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“At home. I quit my day job. I couldn’t stand that old bitch yelling at me all the time. Zach told
me to be a real actress I needed to do it anyway. I was just waiting till she’d fire me and have to
pay unemployment, but I couldn’t hold out. She started in and I lost it. ‘You may never scream at
me. My dead father didn’t and you’re not going to be the one to start. Fire me or shut up,’ I told
her. But then I just quit. I couldn’t take it anymore and I left.”
Amused, Sarah puffed on her cigarette. “And what’s happening with the movie star?”
“Well, he said he’d call, but I haven’t heard back. I really don’t get it Sarah. I thought he liked
me. I’ve gone to his place twice. I surprised him the second time. Maybe I should go again?”
“Angel. Don’t do it. That’s why he didn’t call.”
“No. I slept with him.”
“There’s your reason. In that case--forget it. On second thought, get revenge. Order a pizza to
his place or something.”
“I can’t now. I gained three pounds this week and I want to look my best.”
“He won’t notice three pounds.”
“But I will. I want to look my best when I see him.”
“It doesn’t matter. If he did, he’d call. Forget him.” She poured herself a glass of wine. The red
dripped on the counter.
“I don’t get it, I’m easy. What else do I need to be?”
“You really want him that bad?” she paused, “Was he that good?”
“It felt like he meant it.”
“Sex can be deceiving…”
“He punched me in his sleep.”
“What? That’s a sign. Are you sure he was sleeping?”
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“He pulled the covers off me too. I got up and went home. In the morning he was pissed. He
called around eight-thirty and asked me what I was doing. ‘Trying to get some sleep,’ I said.”
“He doesn’t deserve you.”
“You’re right, but I wish he’d call. What happened with that gallery space? How’s the painting
going?”
“Can we not talk about it? I have a headache.”
“How’s Robert?”
“Headache. Are you going to Zach’s?”
“Don’t even mention his name.”
“That’s a first.”
“I never want to see that pig again. He thinks because he “made me,” I belong to him. He said I
would do better, if I shut up and listened. I swear he’s not human. He thinks I’m a doll. And he
doesn’t want me to do better. He just wants to keep me his prisoner. You’re the one who told me
I could do better.” Sarah knew her friend had traded up and it had benefited her so far, but it
could be a slippery slope. She had gone from being a “nobody”, to conceivably, an “owned
nobody”, which then magically transformed her into a “somebody”, and a desired one at that.
However, because that someone who made her a “somebody” was not entirely responsible for
her, (not yet a husband) but influential enough to cause potentially her rise or fall, he could be
dangerous. Being somebody’s nobody had a certain gleam and if used correctly, pivotal. And if
that somebody’s nobody could become somebody, without the need of anyone, anymore, she
would have to catch that trapeze on the way up. To mistakenly grab it on the downfall was
suicide.
“If you still feel hostile while we’re there--break something. Knock something over.”
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“The movie star might be there.” Angel whined.
“Kill two birds with one stone. Maybe you’ll find one with stronger wings. No more peacocks
for you.”
“Peacocks?”
“At least something will have happened. Come on. Meet me. I don’t want to be alone.” Sarah
hung up. She wandered to the refrigerator and gaped at its contents. She opened the freezer and
fished out a carton of ice cream. She had no disillusionments about what she had advocated to
Angel. She knew all too well about nature’s slave making instinct. If Angel was going to fly, she
would have to get a little dirty and make herself a few slaves. Heaven might be for the virtuous,
but not Hollywood. It was reserved for the lucky and cunning alone.
Sarah went to the back door and pressed her hand hard against it. Through its looking glass she
spied the night world that had taken center stage. She opened the door and stepped onto the
stoop, the warm air still loomed. She sat herself down and stared into the darkness. She opened
the small container and drove a spoon through its center. The ice cream resisted. She pressed
deeper to dislodge the crystallized sugar. She looked at its pure whiteness, its uncomfortable
disposition with the spoon lodged inside. Quickly she pulled it out and licked its edge. Each bite
she forgot and took another to remember. The wind blew around her knees, caressing her. The
tall trees above seemed to covet her. She watched a nearby spider spin its web. It worked
heartily, unbothered by her gaze. From its abdomen, clear filament projected as it meticulously
assembled the web. Masterfully, it designed a net to catch and hold its prey. It dipped down and
back and followed the pattern it knew instinctively. No mother or father had shown it this way. It
understood completely on its own. Independently, it went into the world to spin masterpieces.
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The grace of the spider caught and held Sarah too. Its jointed legs poked like crochet hooks,
angling and tying off each row. The phone rang again. This time she let it.
I dream about you while I stare at the bunk above me and hear the sad croon of women
incarcerated. Tonight we had Coq au Vin for dinner. A very odd delicacy for them to serve in
prison, but today’s my birthday, and the cook likes me. For what is there not to like? I am a
princess on the verge of escape, if only I could remember my way out. I had a map before. I
found it in a hole in the wall. No one would expect to find it there, but I did. Yes, I found the tiny
treasure and kept it nestled to my breast where a baby might suckle and dreams are born. Far
and away I would go if I could remember how to get there. I came to this country in the womb of
my mother adrift with the tide. The water surrounded us as we floated to the land of dreams and
yet, my dreams are forgotten now as my escape. I could have been so golden but know I’m only
pan fried.
Homecoming
When Sarah woke, the streaming glare of fluorescents moaned overhead. Groggy, she smelled
the faint scent of apple juice. Her battered eyes fought to open and focus, only to discover the
one person she didn’t want to see.
“You’re awake.” She gripped the bedside table as if to hold herself down. “You fell. You’ve
been out since they brought you in yesterday. You broke your leg in two places and hit your
head. You have a concussion.”
Sarah’s ears pricked to the unmistakable, distinctive voice. “Fancy?”
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“You could’ve broken your neck.” She moved to the edge of the bed.
Trying hard to grip her new surroundings, Sarah said nothing to her mother. She struggled to
find herself and tried to remember….
“Were you trying to break your neck? What the hell were you doing?”
“Calm down.” Sarah’s words were painful. They fell out of her mouth like iron hammers. “I
don’t want to talk to you.”
“Try to kill yourself, and then act like nothing happened. You’re lucky I don’t kill you.”
The hammers turned to boulders and continued to fall. “That’s not why you’re here?”
“I knew you had problems but this is it. You’re coming home until you’re back on your feet.
You can’t be alone…”
“I’m not alone. I have my, my--I need to think”
“You can think about it when you’re away from here. I can’t believe this is happening. If your
father saw you, I don’t know what--”
“Stop.” The emptiness resounded.
“If you think I came all the way down here for you not to listen…”
“Mother, just stop.” Her head swooned as she realized clearly where she was, and the trouble
she was in. The pressure compounded. Her voice was raspy and wanted to burrow deep in her
lungs. “Shouldn’t we wait to hear what the doctors say?”
“Since when do you care what anyone else says?” There was silence, the kind that had always
been there, and it didn’t seem to make a difference, even now. “Let me get one in here.”
Despite the current moment, Sarah wanted to stop her as she left the room. In the four years she
had lived in Los Angeles, this was the first time her mother had come to see her. Whether it was
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right or wrong, she wanted to stop her. She wanted to turn her around and stare at the woman she
knew as her mother. As the last thread of her estranged image passed from sight, Sarah wondered
again as she did a child, when would Mommy return? She felt the terror and longing of being
alone. The trees swayed outside her window. The wind blew them back and forth, back and
forth.
A doctor appeared from the hallway. “Sarah, I’m Doctor Kim. I treated you when you came
into emergency.”
“Hi,” she returned absently, still watching the trees. “I know you. I can't place it but I've met
you before.”
“Good. The fall didn’t impair your memory.”
“You bought one of my paintings?”
“That’s right. It’s my wife’s favorite.”
“Nice. What about leaving? When can I get out of here?”
“You’re going to need a lot of care. Your head will get better in a few days, but you can’t be on
your leg for a couple of months and after that, you’ll need physical therapy. Your mom’s offered
for you to stay with her. And you can do therapy practically anywhere. Sometimes it’s better to
get away. You were in bad shape when you came in here.”
“Excuse me, but you don’t know me. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her.” Sarah creased her
forehead. It hurt to talk. It hurt to think. It all hurt and was a long way from feeling better. The
faces looked at her as if they all knew something she didn’t. They were the faces of people who
thought they knew better. The nothingness prevailed as she overturned. She didn’t know what it
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felt like to raise a white flag but figured this was close to it. Her eyes were heavy and head
clouded; it hurt too much to fight.
“Take your own advice, listen to the doctor. You’re coming home,” it was her mother again.
Outside the window, the trees waved.