Unmadeup

This is cruel. I cannot take this. Let it end. I took an imaginary knife and mercilessly slit both their throats

My Early Night

I was tired so I went to bed. It was midnight. I had blown my nose, turned on the fan and switched off the light. I was having an early night. It would be good.

Ten minutes later, after ten tempestuous minutes of clasping my eyes shut and trying to align my head so the liquid previously cascading down my face would cease, I heard laughter. Two voices. The door creaked open; the light flickered on and off. Whispers:

“Shit, he’s sleeping!”

“It’s OK!”

“Are you sure?”

My roommate Jo. Wonderful. More giggling. I stayed static, not moving a centimetre, eyes glued shut. A rustling of sheets and awkward fumbling sounds were coming from beyond my feet. I was now wide awake. I knew his voice. Luke. They had only met a week ago. I’d liked him. He had seemed fairly amicable. Now I was picturing him unbuttoning Jo’s shirt. His hand slipped in, his tongue on hers, peeking between their lips. His other hand moved up her leg. I hated him.

STOP. It’s OK, I thought. I’ve heard nothing untoward as yet. They could be swapping poetry. Or discussing the escalating situation in North Korea. Whispers are nothing. Go to sleep. I shut my eyes harder and tried to dream of sex with my ex-girlfriend.

That’s when the sucking noises had started. That strange sloppy sound of two lips converging, punctuated with more rustling and awkward bumps. In utter dismay I stayed rooted. I couldn’t move, not now. But why not? This was too far. I am completely in the right. If I got up now and cried, “You inbred sluts fuck the hell out of my fucking bedroom,” they wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.

I stayed still. A slither of snot began to run out towards my lip. The fan was blowing my sheet up over my arse. I had to move. If I’d been asleep I probably would have turned over. I didn’t move.

They were talking quietly now. Really quietly. I could only make out the odd word, but I’m sure one of them was my name. Accompanied with more giggling. I’m positive they discussed doing stuff on my bed. Over my bed. Over me. Asleep. Wouldn’t that be funny? Wouldn’t it? WOULDN’T IT BE REALLY FUCKING FUNNY? More giggling. More sucking. Tears were running down my cheeks, which I thought was strange. I must be clasping my eyes too hard.

I could never move now. Even if I feigned waking up they would be suspicious of the wet lines channelling my face. Please let me sleep, someone. This is unfair. This is cruel. I cannot take this. Let it end.

I took an imaginary knife and mercilessly slit both their throats. The pools of blood made pretty patterns on the marble floor. I went to prison but it was worth it. I confessed with a contented smile.

Suddenly they were in my bed, fucking. I could do nothing about it. I was rooted. I could not move. The light was on and I could see everything. I could see me, and them, on the bed. Which I thought was odd.

I opened my damp eyes. The light was off. Two voices were still talking quietly. That can’t have been real. Listen, they’re looking at her photos on the wall. That’s her uncle. That’s her sister. They’re in the Alps. It’s beautiful.

Darren Moss lives in Hyderabad and is not a consistent Shrewsbury Town defender. He blogs here.

I remember thinking that the Barge Man was brave. The last time he’d been in the pub he’d been thrown out - physically. He’d intruded, sat at our table, insisting on performing magic tricks (which consisted of getting too close to the women and intimidating them). I did not think he was not much of a magician.

That’s why, when I saw him in there again, I thought, that’s brave.

It takes a brave man to go back into a pub he’s been thrown out of

I was in the back room, playing darts with myself - it was something to do - when a man walked in, oldish, lean and wearing a flat cap.

A traveller. He offered me a game of 301 and I accepted. And a few minutes into the game I was winning. That’s when the Barge Man, broad and dirty entered. He was the traveller’s friend. They must have known each other from the canal.

The Barge Man shuffled over to the table upon which I’d left my belongings: my phone, my wallet, my house keys, jacket and beer.

Suspicious, I moved over to the table and for a moment I thought I was going to have to concede - maybe he was a decent magician:

My pint had disappeared; glass and all.

It was a lucky coincidence that at that moment the barman, let’s call him Wayne, entered the room. He heard me ask the Barge Man if he’d seen my beer; if he’d taken it.

Wayne pulled the Barge Man’s long jacket open.

Hey presto!

There it was.

My beer! In his hand. Not hidden under his jacket any more.

Slight of hand?

Shite of hand.

It takes a brave man to go back to a pub he’s been thrown out of, but to steal on his return must be something else.

Again, he was barred.

My thoughts, when walking home, were of revenge. Not for me to exact; rather, I was wondering what he might do.

Burn down my house, maybe.

In bed I thought of him.

I saw him in the shadows of a starless night. I saw him with petrol, forcing it through my letterbox. I saw the spark, heard the hiss of a match struck. I saw the petrol burn. The carpets melt. The walls char.

I saw the smoke rise, curling, strangling the light fittings. And I saw the flames rage orange.

I saw the smoke crawl under my bedroom door and felt the heat on the other side. I choked on thick fumes, wheezing and desperate. Drowning. I felt the panic, the terror of death.

And then I wrote it down.

Unmadeup contributor and children’s book author Nik Perring lives in the north west of England. He writes short stories and poems and is a workshop leader.  His blog is here… and he also wrote this story.

"She was pregnant," he says, as if that explained everything...

Moth

He’s kissing me and I’m kissing him back. We’re completely tangled up in each other. We’ve only ever been friends. Before now. Before this. We would confide crushes and listen to records and stay up all night, never once letting anything like this happen. Until now.

Things hadn’t felt any different. He’d driven me home like he’s done a thousand times. And he came in and we talked for a while. And just as he was leaving, as we stood under the hall light, a moth fluttering against the bulb, he kissed me. And I kissed him back.

“She was pregnant,” he says, as if that explained everything… And I’m caught in the moment, but I detach my brain long enough to note how really amazing this all feels. It’s such a new thing for us, but it’s good. It feels really okay. And I don’t run away with any ideas of long term or anything. We’re kissing and I am thinking that maybe this will definitely be happening again, perhaps even on a regular basis. And the moth flutters hard against the light-shade, tries again for the bulb, and underneath it, we’re a frenzy of lips and tongues and hope.

He pulls back, stares me deep in the eyes, and I’m waiting for what I think will be a joke about us leaving this so long, or maybe even words of love, an admission, but what he says is “I’m married.”

And I blink. And I mouth the word “What?” and he hears even though no sound comes out.

“I got married.”

And I sit on the stairs and try to think when that could’ve happened. And I wonder how long I’ve really been away, and how that could have happened without my knowing, how could I not have even been invited.

“She was pregnant,” he says, as if that explained everything, but it kind of did. He’s always been the good guy. Until now.

“Why?” And by this I mean all of the above and why kiss me, and why now. Crying, he tells me he’s always loved me. And that he couldn’t help it tonight. And I tell him it’s not okay, and I open the door wide. After a silence of ten or so minutes that feels like an hour he eventually walks out into the night, both of us knowing everything we had before is dead.

I watch him until he’s a dot.

The moth scorches itself against the lightbulb and drops down into my face. By instinct I snap my hands up and it crushes between my palms. I look at the mess it’s made and I don’t even care.

Emma J. Lannie blogs here. She has been published in Tripod and online at The Beat, Six Sentences, and Straight From The Fridge. She is writing her first novel.

The photo of a moth, taken on an illuminated church sign, is by Arvind.

"Comanche 2, we need your help... Receiving fire!"

Disappearing Senses

Years ago in the first quiet of a winter morning, before the house awakens to warmth from the fireplace and movement of its inhabitants, my sister, brother and I sit at the top of the staircase in our fleece pajamas and fuzzy animal slippers.

“Is it time yet?” my brother asks.

“We have to wait for dad to get up,” I say.

We snuggle next to each other and wait. My mom, up before all of us, has put the sweet crescent rolls in the oven and the delicious hint of sugar and cinnamon reaches my nose. We peak outside from the upstairs windows and watch the puffy white snowflakes blanket the neighborhood. Enough snow to silence the entire world into peace, I believe.

We giggle with anticipation and try to guess what presents await us under the spruce tree.

Secret presents, praying for snow, and the glorious anticipation of waiting while our bodies warmed and the scent of cinnamon sweet-rolls sidled up the stairs and teased our noses.

I see them now, the Christmas traditions of my childhood, sealed up in the glass snowball one shakes upside down to set the flakes in motion. With each new Christmas that approaches, those traditions get buried deeper in the rooms of memory I begin to doubt.
One Christmas a few years ago I returned to Ohio to visit my family.

Christmas Eve we sat eating dinner together. My dad looked worn down and tired. I focused on my steak, not wanting to see loneliness, and loss smudged into his hollow eyes.

“Hey,” he said as dinner ended. “I have a story I want to tell you.”

Worn down and tired, I thought, but still telling those stories.

I sat on one of the matching loveseats across from my brother and mom. My dad sat next to me. Without even realizing it, I began my tune-out. I looked around the room. A huge stark wreath, made of dried baby’s breath branches, hung on the wall. Photos decorated pine coffee tables and shelves. Everything seemed colored in shades of nothing, barren.

“It was one of the craziest days in the war,” my dad barreled into the scene. “I was the Air Mission Commander, the link between the Scouts and the Cobra gun ships. His face took on a glazed look.

“Over our radios we heard this call for help from Damage 5-1 Alpha. I answered, ‘Damage 5-1 Alpha, this is Comanche 2, over.’

‘Comanche 2,’ he yelled, ‘we need your help…Receiving fire from three directions!’

‘Damage 5-1, we see the tracer fire. We’ll see what we can do.’”

My father spoke this dialogue between himself and another man as if auditioning for a masterpiece.

“I ordered my gun ships to make several passes, but it was really dangerous. Each time my men got close they received fire too.”

A dull ache from my cold feet ground its way into my body. A pain that was dense and almost numb at the same time. Just like the numb I had built around my body over the years.

“We refueled twice that day. It was the longest day of my life,” my dad continued. “One time the fuel guys threw sandwiches in through the window of the cockpit.”

I heard my father’s words one by one. I tried to process the story, but it did not reach into my bloodstream; nothing was clear. Men, frantic and yelling above the roar of the helicopter walked into my imagination. The sound of gunshots in every direction left a muffled echo in my head. Like the static of a needle on a record with no songs.

“Finally it got too dangerous so I said, ‘Damage 5-1, enemy fire is trailing our choppers, and we’re losing daylight fast. We have to leave you’

‘Please don’t!’

“We’d been flying for over eleven hours in such an intense situation and we knew the outcome would be horrible. But we had no choice. It was awful.”

I drank my tea to warm me, but I can’t remember the flavor and the heat did not reach my feet. My body stayed chilled. My father kept talking.

“A month later I was in Long Binh eating dinner with a visiting officer. He told me about this intense situation he’d recently been in, how he didn’t think he or his men were going to make it out alive. They were on the ground; fire came at them from everywhere, even the army choppers had to pull away. Amazingly, the Air Force jets came in, tore up the place and got them all out.

“I said back to him, ‘Jesus, we had this crazy situation very similar to that down around Cai Lay a few weeks ago.’

“The officer got this shocked look on his face, then said, ‘Oh my God! You’re Commanche 2! You saved our butts; I’m Damage 5-1 Alpha. If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t be here!’

My dad slammed his hand down on the arm of the couch and laughed in excitement. “Oh I couldn’t believe it!” he said, “Damage 5-1 was alive.”

A happy ending, I thought. For a moment I wished I had listened more closely, to all the nuances that really make a great story. Tracer fire shooting back and forth, the smell of sweat and fear, the haunting panic in a man’s voice over the wires. But I was trying so hard not to travel backwards.

I no longer looked forward to my father’s stories. Anymore I didn’t even know why. Was it that he was always re-living instead of just living in the present without regrets and ghosts trailing him everywhere like automatic weapons fire through the dark of night?

There is not one scent, not one odor or tiny whiff of anything I can connect to that Christmas. I rubbed my feet, the cold pain made stronger by my damp skin It was a dense, throbbing ache; it hurt to touch them, but I rubbed them none-the-less, purposely feeling that unyielding pain, because all my other senses were disappearing and I needed desperately to hold onto something.

Two days later my dad and I sat at the airport waiting for my flight.

After a few moments of familiar, uncomfortable silence my dad said, “Hey, I should tell you this story about Damage 5-1 Alpha.”
I looked at him in awe and wondered, can you hear yourself? Don’t you remember telling this the other night? I looked out the enormous airport windows towards the glaring gray monotonous winter sky of Ohio nothingness.

“Do you know?” I wanted to ask my father, “Do you know your senses are disappearing?”

Sara Ohlin lives and works in Everett, Washington. Her work has appeared in ImageUpdate, an online companion to Image, A Journal of The Arts and Religion; Full Circle, A Journal of Poetry and Prose and Anderbo.com. She is on the review board for Trillium Literary Journal and she has recently completed a memoir about growing up listening to the stories her father told from his experiences as a Vietnam helicopter pilot.

Photo: Vietnam, ca. 1965. Helicopter and soldier approaching target. Viet Nam Photo Service. NARA via pingnews.