Rathan Krueger's Blog

Talks & Walks: “Like Red on a Rose” Chapter Three, Part III

Previously…

Absurd thoughts told Piri she could be home in four hours, at the most. She read that humans walk, on average, three miles an hour. With ten miles ahead of her, four hours made sense. But there was no accounting for stamina. Yes, she was healthy. Yes, she wore gym shoes with gel insoles. Yes, she had a worthwhile goal. All of those meant nothing since she was near the end of her day, after spending a chunk of it on her feet. Her expectations with time would be a series of diminishing returns. Still, she headed east, passing Kennedy Avenue and Downtown Highland.

Paranoid thoughts drew her attention to a house atop a grassy incline. There was nothing particularly unique about the house; it was one in a row, save for it being empty with its lights on. It was too nice to be a squat, unless the person wanted to get arrested in a hurry. She couldn’t think of a reason why an empty house would have its lights on. Except it being a murder house. She had seen many crime scenes and kinds of death, and what they had in common, aside from tragedy, was that she felt them before she saw them. Intuition was very important to those who could only depend on themselves, and a vagabond life sharpened that blade acutely. The knife edge of danger told her that house had secrets it wouldn’t share. Or rather, she wouldn’t want it to share.

Morbid thoughts told Piri to do very bad things to each driver who didn’t offer to give her a ride. Not to her squat; just three or four miles to knock them off her journey. She was easy to spot in her fireman’s coat, with reflector strips irradiating neon under their passing headlights. The driver in the Taurus, she wanted all their tires to burst so the car could go into a sparking spin-out into a gas station. Pump Five. The driver in the Camero, she wanted their car to remember it was an Autobot, but was bad at transforming, so it tried repeatedly with the sack of guts and bones still behind the wheel. The driver in the Hummer, the car she hated the most, she wanted to have a nervous breakdown, pull over, cut the interior to shreds with the key, eat all the pieces from pedal to muffler, and die of reverse-dysentery. She never saw a biker with sidecars, but she had something vicious ready.

Superstitious thoughts taunted Piri with notions of choices that were “good” and “bad”. If the next light stayed green when she got to it, she would make it home ok. If the stars didn’t come out from behind the clouds, she wouldn’t make it home ok. If the raccoon saw her when it crossed the street, she’d make it home. If the next building she passed was a bike shop, she wouldn’t make it home. If the next street started with an “h”, she’d be homebound. If a passing car played 4 Strings’ “Take Me Away”, she wouldn’t be. And on. And on.

When the bad weather began having its say, hours after Indianapolis Blvd. and now in Illinois, Piri’s phone rang. Her sole contact aglow. In a relative moment of clarity, she only had two thoughts: disappointment and desperation. Theda sounded drunk, asking if she could get a ride to her place. She showed off her new car to friends at a bar in Downtown Highland, and now they’re post-gaming at her apartment with “Head of the Family”. Piri asked if she took Ridge Rd., and Theda barked something about taking I-80 West. Piri asked if she remembered anything she was supposed to do. Theda thought about it, then laughed her way through no. Piri hung up, deleted her sole contact, turned off her phone, and cried about her fucked-up life.

As she sat curled in a storefront’s doorway, Piri was depressive about what she should do. It was easy to get to Hegewisch from Highland: west on Ridge Rd., then north on Torrence Ave. The problem was there was a lot of Ridge Rd., and even more Torrence Ave. She could practically touch the latter from her stoop… but there were so many steps left to take. Her feet were already aching. It was too late, or early, for buses. Her paranoia about a ride to her squat was still vibrant. If she went south, she could escape everything. A forest reserve was a mile down the road. Another mile or two, a huge, abandoned bar. Perfect places to restart her vagabondage. She always stayed clean to make a few bucks from blood donations, so she wouldn’t have to worry about money when what she had ran out. She mastered poverty, anyway.

But she knew where that road ended, and she knew that wasn’t where she wanted to be.

Disaster Must Be Earthed

Whenever Piri recalled that night, the Torrence stretch always had a touch of amnesia.

She remembered turning onto the street, but her next thought was being a few houses away from her squat under the morning sun. The stinging pain in her feet and the stiffness in her legs made only the shortest steps possible. Exhaustion made her eyes burn to be let close. Those things were vivid years later, yet she never could remember how she got there.

Despite being at the end of her interstate odyssey, she still had to obey everyone’s schedules. In seventeen minutes, she could pass out on her air mattress. The sole thread to her sanity was knowing she didn’t have to go back to work for two days. A thread she held onto as if her life depended on it for seventeen minutes. When the time passed, she swung from that thread into a slumber that lasted almost a day.

Piri’s first thought was that she could’ve had a taxi drop her off a block away. Her second thought involved jumping into a TARDIS and smacking herself with it at the gas station. Her third and fourth thoughts involved the strongest Icy Hot product she could find and fingerless gloves to hide her hives. All of this to distract herself from the dull pain from her toes to her hips, and see how badly the damage of being on her feet for around 12 hours straight was. When she finally did and saw it wasn’t nearly as bad as she imagined, she wanted to give Dr. Scholl’s a blowjob.

When it was time for work, she walked a bit like Frankenstein’s monster, but she had an apron full of Icy Hot Pro patches and dark tights to hide them under. She took her clearheaded advice about taxis for a few days, then one of the girls at work mentioned the Erie Lackawanna Trail that went from Hegewisch to Highland and beyond. Pedal power could get her to work in an hour.

Thus Piri’s first paycheck went to a ten-speed she found at the Lansing Goodwill, and called it “Hardstyle”.

Available September 3rd, in paperback and ebook, wherever books are sold.

Talks & Walks: “Like Red on a Rose” Chapter Three, Part II

Previously…

The Rub

Hanging out with Theda was also part of Piri’s long reintegration into society, and it wasn’t something as simple or terrifying as pretending to be her.

Each person has a specific morality that, as long as they honor it, keeps them from picking up habits they shouldn’t. Piri’s vagabond life complicated her morality, but she managed to stay Neutral Good. Which means she does the right thing regardless of what the law says.

Many nights at Theda’s were spent with a press-on nail sitting on an armrest while she popped open cans of Old Style. After spending nearly two decades seeing people drink themselves to death or worse, Piri never drank. With Theda, she tried being around people who did drink without being (obviously) disgusted. Theda had Manzanita Sol for anyone who didn’t want beer, because only sick fucks said no to apple soda, so Piri was placated.

Another part of the long rehabilitation was tailoring a person suit. Piri didn’t know how fucked-up she was, but she knew she was. Because of that, she knew she had to present at least a semblance of normalcy or else she wouldn’t be allowed to do anything. No one wanted to be around a hot mess. So she spent her time with an unaware Theda trying out quirks and traits until she made “Piri”. This “Piri” would be the first of many until she tailored the perfect fit. No one wanted to be around a hot mess in a bad suit.

One visit, somewhere between DeBarge’s “Rhythm of the Night” and Deniece Williams’ “Let’s Hear It for the Boy”, Piri rolled cigarettes in Theda’s kitchen. Piri never talked about her vagabond life, but she did mention that she rolled cigarettes when she was stressed. She didn’t smoke, she just liked the distraction of creation and repetition. Theda did smoke, and asked if she wanted to make a few bucks rolling a pack or two. Piri did, so she did. Their conversations were notoriously random; this one led to Theda admitting that she was raped more than once, with neither fear nor shame. Piri was a secret member of that terrible club because she hadn’t learned to hobble its power over her like Theda did. Partially because she didn’t know she could. The hard, unpredictable road that would lead her to that goal was paved that night.

Theda finally had enough money from her casino gig to put a down payment on a car, which is why she and Piri were at a dealership one day. Leasing was the greatest invention for Champagne tastes and beer money, and Theda’s credit score was music to the salesman’s ears. When Piri later looked up why credit scores exist, she was annoyed; she could spend her life never late paying a bill, but that wouldn’t mean shit if she only paid cash. Fiscal responsibility only mattered if it was on plastic. She also went down a dark hole about why debt was good for the financial system because of defaults and interest rates… but that wasn’t why Piri was with Theda that day. As Theda and the salesman geeked-out over transmissions and heated seats, Piri looked at all things shiny and chrome, and was utterly uninterested. Not in cars, but the desire to stay in fashion. So much time and energy and money (interest rates!) were wasted on a concept created to be fleeting. She’d never let herself be shackled to haute couture or the status quo.

Theda vroom’d out of the lot with Piri in her gently-used, blue, Mazda RX-8, with Teena Marie’s “Stargirl” album pumped through the speakers. “Lovergirl” took them to the nearest Auto Zone, where she bought a bit of safety and aroma. After taking the pedal-to-wheel version of The Club on and off ’til it became second nature, she hung a coconut air freshener on a vent. The album, like their destination, was put on random as they went cruising north on Burnham, watching buildings turn to cornfields, ’til Theda had to turn left or right. She hadn’t been to Indiana in a while, so she went left.

As she got close to Indianapolis Blvd., Theda’s tummy started to rumbly. Piri pointed to the Round the Clock on the right, but Theda didn’t want lemon rice soup. She turned left on Indianapolis since the strip’s packed with eateries, then proceeded to shoot down each of Piri’s suggestions. As they were about to pass another Round the Clock, Piri pointed out that two in one trip had to be fate. Theda wasn’t having any of that, then she saw Lake Stop and pulled in.

Still riding the new car high, Theda offered to buy Piri lunch and ordered a perch for herself. Piri didn’t want to abuse the privilege, so she played it safe with a grilled cheese sandwich. As they enjoyed themselves, Piri knew that she wanted more of this for herself. Being able to go wherever she wanted and do whatever she wanted on a whim, not having to worry about money. Sure, on the surface, it sounded like her vagabond life, but having weather-controlled four walls and a roof and a car was never a possibility in those days.

Then Piri noticed the Help Wanted sign and wondered how quickly she could make “Piri”.

Samsara

Piri gave up on calling Theda after her fifth try.

She was at the nearby gas station because she didn’t want her new boss to think there was already something wrong with her. She already broke out in hives on her hands. Miserable thoughts buzzed around her head like the fluorescent bulbs above her. Superstitious ones told her Theda not answering was a sign that her plan to be a better person was wrong. Paranoid ones told her getting a taxi would give the game away to her “neighbors”. Morbid ones told her staying in one spot for too long would invite those who came with knives. Absurd ones told her to walk home since buses didn’t run that late. Morbid ones told her those who came with knives wouldn’t follow her. Paranoid ones told her she could still sneak into her squat if she was careful. Superstitious ones told her the ten-mile walk was better than thirteen. Buzzing was left to the fluorescents as she walked to Ridge Road with misguided determination.

To be concluded…

Talks & Walks: “Like Red on a Rose” Chapter Three, Part I

Dreams & Schemes

Chapter Three

☼

My Alcoholic Friend

As important as Piri’s first day at Lake Stop was, that night pushed it further; when she was tempted by her vagabond life.

Like many life-changing choices, it grew out of surprise and disappointment. She worked an evening shift; luckily, a slow shift. Her vagabond life forced her to masterfully read people, so she had few beginners’ problems with customers. Apart from pirate jokes and the usual, varying levels of entitlement occasionally thrown at the Front-of-House staff. Those customers never threatened her with knives or guns or worse, so handling them was like playing with a box of pups that tipped terribly.

Speaking of tips, being what customers wanted her to be would routinely lead to nice ones, but she also knew that jealousy would corrode her work relationships. Because of that, she wasted no time in getting friendly with her co-workers. Not friends; she couldn’t be everyone’s friend. Nor did she want to. The friendliness led to respect; too many people underrated that which was key to any relationship. The friendliness couldn’t be obsequious; fawning would be certain death for respect, and patience.

Piri discovered Lake Stop through amusing circumstances. After settling into her squatter life in Hegewisch, she panhandled enough money for clothes and had enough clothes to need a laundromat. After figuring out her neighbors’ schedules, she knew when to leave and return without getting noticed. She tested her theory a few times in low-risk circumstances since science is a constantly revised hypothesis. Satisfied, she hopped on a Pace bus with her sack of dirty vêtements and pocket full of quarters.

A few spin cycles later, Piri met Theda and bonded over episodes of “Maury”. They didn’t have a choice: the trash talk show was the only thing on the laundromat’s crappy TV. No matter the time, no matter the day. Never a rerun, either, which annoyed Theda because she was in an episode (as an audience member) and Piri didn’t believe her. Not that Piri would’ve missed her: Theda had Champagne tastes, with beer money.

If you’re wondering, “Theda” goes “THEE-dah”.

A problem that claimed Piri at the start of her squatter life was an unconscious desire to latch onto people. Her vagabond life taught her to trust no one, which protected her from death or worse countless times. It also gave her no one to talk to about anything that didn’t involve food, water, or shelter. She was a loner by nurture, aching for companionship. Not sex, though she’d soon find a way to deal with that baggage. Nothing would please her more during this time than having someone to talk to about everything and nothing. Making up for a lifetime of lacking. All of this to say that Theda helped her achieve a great need, at a great cost.

After waxing nonsensical enough times, Theda invited Piri to her apartment atop a store. It was a quick bus ride from her Hegewisch squat to the Calumet City end of Burnham Avenue, which was splendid. Piri stopped by one afternoon with a bag of double dark chocolate Milano cookies and chocolate hazelnut Pirouettes. If she was gonna be real friends, she was gonna start off right. Theda was very appreciative. After giving her crap about being bougie.

Essentially one room with a kitchen and a bedroom attached, Theda’s apartment wasn’t much. The kind of place you moved to in your 20s ’til better came along, and were still there in your 60s. Theda’s around Piri’s age, so that epiphany was decades away.

The last time they spoke, they got on the subject of wrestling. Mainly how Theda was a fan and Piri never saw a match. Theda, as a fan of late-’90s/early-aughts WWE, couldn’t let that stand. Which was why Piri’s introduction, starting with Stone Cold Steve Austin and The Rock’s first Wrestlemania match, went into the night. After a lifetime of bottling so many things inside, the joy of watching two guys having a slobberknocker of a match for over a half-hour and living through their violence was indescribable. When it was over, she went to the bathroom and bawled into a towel; a few of her agony debts, suddenly and in vain, struggled to be paid.

What Piri didn’t notice when she came back, and should have kept her walking to the front door, was that Theda didn’t ask her if she was ok.

To be continued…

Dreams & Schemes: “Like Red on a Rose” Chapter Two, Part III

Previously…

Rudella and Talullah chatted routinely on the phone after the party, about everything and nothing. Then a crush turned into a like. Rudella thought of asking her out, but that was quite the commitment. Along with the typical threat of a wounded heart, Talullah lived in Rockford. A two-hour drive northwest, on a good day, from Indiana’s border to Wisconsin’s. Rudella loved fantasy and those Fast and Furious flicks, so she didn’t mind the idea of long journeys and cars. But that’d be a drive through Chicago. More importantly, Chicago traffic, which only had worse days and shit days. The joy of ending her vehicular suffering in Talullah’s arms was worth it, so Rudella asked her out. They would date the following Saturday afternoon.

Loaded up on Dream Theater albums, Rudella made the bumper-to-bumper journey in her Civic and best fishnets. She picked the Progressive Metal band since they kept her focused and mellow, a great combo on this worse day. When she finally arrived at the park Talullah told her to, she almost proved herself wrong. They wandered and talked and swooned, and Talullah suggested they go back to her house. In her living room, with desire between them, she made another suggestion. Rudella took a knife, and hacked at her left foot until it was a mess of blood and dedication. The more you suffer, the more it shows you really care. Right?

Days passed, and Rudella mutilated and humiliated herself through them for Talullah. One night, Talullah cradled what was left of Rudella, head and arm and torso, while they waited on her porch. Her remains were hung from the awning like lanterns of mangled flesh. Rudella asked if she could finally have a kiss. Talullah stares at her. Rudella, crying, asked again. Talullah remained still. Rudella, angry, asked again. Stone. Rudella plunged her only hand into her own chest, her ribs breaking with each enraged, hopeful tug until she ripped out her beating, artery-tethered heart.

“IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT?!”

Talullah’s attention drifted to the street with a warm smile. Rudella’s Friend had taken the bait. Talullah excitedly ran to them, the two kissing passionately under the streetlight. Rudella’s Friend thanked Rudella for getting them together before disappearing into the night with a new paramour.

Rudella could only fade away.

With My Skin Define

The first thing Rudella noticed was that she wasn’t cold anymore.

What was left of her. Next was the flora bound to the grave. Wilted. Feeble. Desolate. Save for a final bloom. She thought of whispers regarding Talullah and her Friend she was too self-loathing to acknowledge. Talullah left Rudella with much anguish, but she was at least spared the shame of having a clown college drop-out’s fingers inside her. The chuckle that escaped her choked the rose; its dry petals tickled her face as a fond farewell.

Rudella felt there was another grievance to vanquish, so she couldn’t bathe in her schadenfreude for long. There was the dilemma of her severed limbs, and her heart in the palm of her hand. Careful as she was, she couldn’t avoid cutting herself on shards of broken bone as she put her organ right where it belongs. How would she seal the wound, though? Fumiko Hayashi said that she loved the pathetic tenacity of human beings who carried on living in the infinite vastness of the universe. She would have an affection for Rudella as she reached for ivy, though Rudella wouldn’t consider herself pathetic. Not with what she was psyching herself up to do.

Her maimed ends screamed almost as loud as she did with each desperate, fruitless grasp at ivy. She sometimes took breaks to cry, partially burying her face in snow. From pain, from frustration. When she finally grabbed her prize, it was almost by accident. So much so that she almost let go. She didn’t have enough strength to pull, so she rolled away, letting gravity do most of the work and hoping she didn’t lose her heart in the process. The ivy gave, then snapped. She chewed off a stretch around a foot long, then chewed either end to as fine a point as she could muster. By then, she screamed herself hoarse, so the sounds she made as she onehandedly pierced and bound her flesh shut were cracking gales through broken windows. Her scattered limbs anxiously waited for their turn.

Her sinewed deed done, Rudella encouraged her arms and legs to do what they’re meant to, finding ambition in thoughts of Piri. It was when she noticed how stained the snow was with her blood that she heard something in the air. A voice and melody that she couldn’t place, yet their intentions were clear. To lure. To shame. Lure, so she could find her next gravestone. Shame, since she knew who waited for her. It was a syren’s song, and this song’s for suffering.

Rudella used the memorial of Talullah for support. Standing on freshly-stitched legs was a chore. Walking on them more so, her limbs slid at their wounds, but she had to learn quickly. The song made intrusive demands. It also brought up thoughts of Brigitte. Rudella did with her something she thought she never had in herself: she stole her from a friend. The still-there shame flowed from the song, through her body, and she could move with ease. Move she did, with ivy stretching and the wet clapping of her wounds, while blood from where she lain spread outward to snow below and above.

Shame gave way to hatred, and Rudella’s wounds sealed completely to make her a fully-formed, patchwork woman. Her hatred was aimed at herself because, after she and Brigitte were over, she finally realized the terrible thing she did. Not over the act itself, but because she didn’t care that she hurt people. Hatred opened its doors to acceptance and her rationalization that her infliction was no different than what she received, and her act was simply a symptom of the universe. Then she hummed along with the song.

Crimson smothered all traces of white from the dreamscape, and Rudella wrapped herself in a blanket of cruelty as she thought about why she broke up with Brigitte. They were together for a few months, already traded I-love-yous. Happy, a life of wonder ahead of them. One day, Brigitte was about to take a shower and called Rudella in the bathroom. She couldn’t remember what the conversation was about, but her following thought was clear, years later. As Brigitte readied the water, Rudella looked at her and knew she could do better. The fallout was quick as a shutting door, messy like mascara-stained tears, and over like a blocked number.

From Brigitte’s ruin to the ruin of herself. The syren was a red-crowned statue of Rudella, it’s song from a dilapidated speaker at its feet. The statue, posed as not to tell if it’s hiding or waiting, was marble and onyx. The minerals steadily pushed for majority; you may have made her mistake by assuming their conflict involved morality.

The blanket of cruelty became a new skin for Rudella. It protected her from and caused her pain, and would make Joel-Peter Witkin salivate. She didn’t feel cold… or anything. Not even that her name was hers.

She chose to be “Disease”, then went into herself.

Available in paperback and ebook September 3rd, wherever books are sold.

Dreams & Schemes: “Like Red on a Rose” Chapter Two, Part II

Previously…

Back in the impossible swamp, Rudella took her advice and felt euphoric. She needlessly carried the burden of that disappointment for almost half her life. The relief of it gone was immense, and pathetic. Dealing with the second part was at the other end of her journey. Like how she felt she wasted her life holding on to them because they were fleeting. At this end, she was a beast of burden eager to shrug off its torments.

Instead of chasing another firefly, she held out a warm hand and waited. One landed, and she conquered it. Another did, and she conquered it. Three truths became clear after the landings became routine: the victories were shallow, pleasing, and repetitious. Flashes of the same happy moments and disappointments. Her attention turned to the velvet sky, and the stars peering through the fabric. If something as fleeting as fireflies could make her feel good, the power and fury of stars could affect her in ways that would make her useless to sadness.

She climbed a weeping willow to its crown, then perched on a branch with an upward gaze. Clever got her this far, then tricky got her in. If she were wise, she’d know that her misplaced confidence was like a child toppling a sandcastle and thinking it could take on a skyscraper. But she felt that Piri was a prize she had to rush to win.

Which was why Rudella pulled down the stars, and the mania they’re heir to.

Royally Fucked

Rudella regretted it immediately.

All she could do was watch the sky fall apart. Skydrops far larger than the palm of her hand screeched to the swamp in streaks and promises of pain.

The rumbling was coming.

Foolishness she harbored about being able to handle what she put away escaped her as the velvet disappeared. She tried to leap off the tree, but she was frozen. She tried to turn away, and she was frozen.

The rumbling was closer.

She tried shouting at the descending terrors to stop, and the futility was mocked by the cacophony. Tears. So many tears.

The rumbling was.

When it had its way with Rudella and the land, she couldn’t see. Or move. She also felt safe. A manufactured safety. Whatever waited for her outside of wherever she was, it was crueler than all the waking world. But she was the one who beckoned it. Dragged it from where she told it to stay for the rest of her life. Because she didn’t want to be disobeyed while she and Piri became whatever they’ll become.

The bubble burst around her, and she was surrounded by snow she didn’t feel. Many of the stars that fell didn’t make it, instead staying slivers of memories too ashamed of her newfound strength. Others were more defiant. They delighted in standing tall and burrowing deep. Towering gravestones bound in kohl ivy and emerald roses, each a tumorous monument to assured agony she had to overcome.

It was only when Rudella approached a gravestone that the snow made its presence felt. As long as she kept her distance, it was as comforting as a warm bed after a hard day. But when, step by step, she made her intention clear, the snow was as frigid as denial to a starving child. Still she ventured, forcing herself to not look down to find out if frostbite had claimed her.

She couldn’t read the monument when she, at last, reached its summit. However, she knew who it was meant for.

Exhausted, she could only fall through the impossible foliage, into thoughts of Talullah.

Bait and Ditch

Before she gave up her pleated skirts for pencil skirts and her armwarmers for sweaters, when she wore glasses for the look and not to see, Rudella found herself at another house party. She learned her lesson from when she played Follow the Leader, but life is an unending test (sadly, with no definite answers). Nursing her Spirytus and Apple Pucker, she was about to participate in one of her biggest lessons in love. Unwillingly, since people never have a choice over who they fall for.

She was usually a “complete package” kinda gal, but Talullah’s hair and breasts caught Rudella’s attention behind her beer goggles. She had never seen a festival of colors before; a particularly grand feat with a pixie cut. As for her breasts… It was more like Rudella noticed Talullah wore an “Invader Zim” t-shirt, which was slightly stretched due to her ample quantity. A problem with being a Zim fan was that the caffeinated cartoon was infinitely quotable, but only at a massive decibel level. It’s like trying to half-ass a song by Björk or Prince at karaoke: you gotta commit, squeals and all, or sit the fuck down. Talullah knew this, hence the tee. Rudella forgot this, thanks to Spirytus. Luckily, the former thought the latter was charming when she exclaimed a quote. Nothing breaks the ice like screaming about bacon in soap.

To be concluded…

Dreams & Schemes: “Like Red on a Rose” Chapter Two, Part I

Meetings & Yesteryears…

Chapter Two

☼

Dreamland Overture

As feelings for her new favorite waitress grew amorous, Rudella knew she had emotional baggage to burn.

Unlike Piri, who wrapped her problems in blankets of compassion and placed them out of sight. Although Piri’s lived the much harder life, Rudella’s pain was no less important. Comparing emotional wounds was a butter-eating contest: no matter what anyone said or thought, NO ONE won.

Since Rudella was willing to even address her issues, it’s only fair we focused on her. She didn’t know how she was going to address them, but that was fine. Her subconscious needed the merest crack of the door to flood her dreams with the choices and changes she wanted to make. This wasn’t oneiromancy, however. Dreams are conversations with the psyche, not with the future.

This also wasn’t one dream, but a string of introvertive pearls made over many nights, and not often consecutive.

Fireflies or Stars

On the carpeted road of a swamp, Rudella brushed her hands over a wheat field rustling in the nighttime breeze.

The carpet looked familiar, but the memory eluded her. Literally, though that concept in dreams could be wobbly. Fireflies caught in the wind’s swoon avoided her touch, and these glowing skydrops held memories they’d rather not share. Rudella didn’t understand their secret, however; she only knew they were pretty.

Her bare feet shuffled across the damp wool as she looked for purpose in the fog. Like their moth cousins’ predilection for the flame, she was drawn to the fireflies’ light. But they knew she wasn’t ready for them, otherwise they wouldn’t exist.

Stalks of wheat cracked and squished underfoot as her grabby intentions grew stronger. Still the skydrops evaded her to protect her. One almost failed, sailing through her fingers a wing-flap before she would regret it.

Although Rudella wanted to conquer her problems, she also didn’t want to. As we all do for certain troubles. She was lucky in that they were things she could ultimately handle herself. Piri would’ve turned vegetative if she attempted even this much. That didn’t mean Rudella was as ready as she thought as she continued her pursuit.

The Mortician and her fireflies were confused in the torrent of wind-borne leaves from the weeping willows, causing false victories and narrow escapes. Determination fueled both sides in the chaos. To collect. To object. Eventually, with a scream and a flash, one failed.

Rudella forgot the woman’s name. If this was a dream she’d remember in the waking, she would laugh at the fact she held in her heart a nameless fiend. Or maybe she made space for better pain. College weekends were for house parties, whether or not you knew the owners. Rudella was content being a homebody in Conyers; her Chicagoland friends wouldn’t let her. She wasn’t against going places, she just wasn’t an adventurer. But who could turn down a morticians’ party?

She remembered being led, hand in hand, as if under a strobing moonbeam. Beyond it, grinding bodies and candy lights. The steps from where the two began to the living room grew longer in fondness; despite what happened after that night, the moment was magic and precious for Rudella.

When they finally claimed their space, Rudella could only look down. At their feet. At the carpet. Her dance partner lifted her chin so they could see eye to eye. Rudella didn’t remember anything about her face, just the golden drapes that framed it. Her dance partner placed Rudella’s hands on her hips and closed the gap between them. She could still feel the knit fabric of her dress, and the thong underneath. It didn’t turn sexual, but that didn’t bother Rudella. Her dance partner whispered to her she was glad she met her. Dance, little tin goddess.

The come-down happened a few days later. Rudella and her dance partner flirted textually, until she received a call one afternoon. Her partner’s fella tore up their dance card and made it clear getting another one would be grievous.

She spent years being hurt, but it wasn’t until facing the moment that she didn’t know who to blame. The fella was protecting his lady from all threats, but perhaps her dance partner had reason to wander. Then Rudella had a most poignant thought: it was one fucking night in college… get over it, bitch.

To be continued…

Meetings & Yesteryears: “Like Red on a Rose” Chapter One, Part III

Previously…

Piri loved working the night shift for two reasons: she’s a night owl, and she rarely had to deal with children. There’s the stream of nocturnal weirdos, sure, but against the life she lived, their eccentricities ran dry. You can’t win a game of Crazy Chicken against someone who did anything to survive. This night was tame. Mostly. She sensed a bit of tension from a group of her regulars.

She was in the bathroom when they came in, so they weren’t on her dance card. Because of that, she only knew what she picked up in passing. Something about not acknowledging a girlfriend’s presence and not caring if she died. Said girlfriend left the diner crying, and her fella tossed a glass of water in Silent Treatment’s face before joining her.

The first thing Rudella noticed was Piri’s gloves, fingerless and lace. A striking sight in most places, but definitely in this Indiana eatery. Piri told Rudella, after they made love for the first time, that’s how she noticed her. She basically greeted people with one of eight stock jokes about her eye patch, so she was pleasantly startled when Rudella’s attention was on her hands.

Piri also revealed, in the afterglow, that she started wearing those gloves because she broke out into hives her first night waitressing. But here, they’re strangers with that and much, much, much, much more ahead of them.

Piri’s attention was split twixt Rudella and the drama of her regulars, until Rudella remarked on the laced hand gripping the coffee pot. She’d hear their story the next time the group was in, so she focused on earning her tip. Besides, they weren’t her table that night. In mortuary college, Rudella picked up the peculiar habit of dipping fries in creamy soups. To Piri’s surprise, even if it’s cream of potato.

The night was average, so Piri was able check in with small talk. She hated it because it rarely led to meaningful conversation, which she adored, but she learned that customers were like cacti. A little water went a long way. Rudella also hated small talk; something they sensed in each other.

Though it wasn’t Christmastime, they got into the stop-start rhythm of their disdain for “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”, pride of Chicago. The town gave him shit for being different until it benefited them. The two closed out agreeing that fair-weather friends were the worst. Piri was bummed that Rudella left, but liked watching her leave.

A few nights later, Rudella comes back to a slightly packed house. Piri’s her waitress, but she was having a pistachio situation. The wife of an elderly couple was having a fit because her ice cream wasn’t what she asked. Piri prided herself on her ability to take orders. Plus, it’s hard to mishear “pistachio ice cream”. None of this mattered to the wife. The husband was a broken man long before he sat down.

Piri chose to be compassionate to the world, but the service industry taught her that compassion was on a spectrum. She decided to handle the nag in a Bugs Bunny sort of way, setting up a series of logic traps that ended with the couple leaving. Tipless, but satiating Piri’s server sadism was worth more than what they would’ve left.

She knew the rest of her shift would be a series of similarities, so she told Rudella when she’s working again and sent her off with a cherry Dum-Dum.

Rudella came back the night she was told, and knew that getting there later meant business was slower meant that they could have meaningful conversation. She’d pay for it at work, but being somber and being sleepy looked similar to the layman. Piri appreciated the rationale, though she secretly worried that Rudella wouldn’t show up.

After a while, Piri addressed the elephant in the booth and asked why Rudella hadn’t asked about her eye patch. Rudella figured everyone did, so she wasn’t unless Piri brought it up. Piri asked what’d be a good Halloween costume for her, daring her to resist the obvious Sexy Pirate. Success. May at the end of “May”. Piri was piqued; Rudella told her that May gouged out her lazy eye, then gave it to the doll she made out of human body parts.

Rudella liked to let people know what they’re in for with her as soon as possible. Her philosophy was that if they wouldn’t get along, it was better to rip the bandage off instead of tug it. Piri said that she’d look for “May” the next day.

A month’s worth of coffee and soup-dipped fries later, Rudella received a gift from Piri as she paid her bill. Rudella didn’t have many women friends because she tended to get lost in the fantasy of being in a relationship with them. Because of that, she put a lot of effort into trying to view the waitress through a platonic lens.

Then a crush turned into a like.

Piri took whatever opportunities presented themselves. Her philosophy was that you missed 100% of the chances you didn’t take. Rudella seemed like a chance worth taking, so she made her a mix CD. As you can imagine, a fan of Aqua and System of a Down had the capacity to make a chaotic setlist. Because her main influence was radio, there was no rhyme or reason in the songs she chose.

Rudella picked a cardinal direction and aimlessly drove through all 79:43 of “Lake Stop Hot Shot”. Alexandra Stan’s “Mr. Saxobeat” was one of many surprises, and she latched onto Unwound’s “Terminus”. Rudella repaid the effort her next visit by giving Piri “Skullomania”. Since she grew up with albums, Rudella’s setlist had a flow. Myrath’s “Braving the Seas” rocked her down to her gel insoles.

Life went on, with all its undulations, ’til Rudella and Piri met a photographer who’d change everything.

The Fine Print

Rudella and Piri wish to inform you, dear reader, that they represent no one but themselves.

They neither belong to any group nor want to belong.

Whatever good or bad Rudella and Piri do is a reflection of Rudella and Piri.

They have no interest in your politics.

They’ll disappoint you. A lot.

They don’t have to like what you like.

They don’t have to like who you like.

They want neither fame nor acclaim for being who they are.

They get that you might see yourself in them, but that doesn’t mean you can hate them for not making your choices.

They don’t owe you anything.

They don’t make pop culture references to impress you. They live in the real world, and the real world has video games and Tori Amos.

And, most importantly, they’re fiction.

If these things aren’t to your liking, do the adult thing and stop reading now. They won’t get offended. There’s plenty out there with you in mind. Don’t waste your time with an obviously bad fit.

If you’re sticking around, welcome to the freakshow.

Preorder “Like Red on a Rose” (paperback available on release day)

Meetings & Yesteryears: “Like Red on a Rose” Chapter One, Part II

Previously…

While finding ways to survive in the gutters of Chicago’s south side, she thought she could rely on those who looked like her. She could, as long as she acted like they wanted her to. It wasn’t a question of manners; she was always grateful and respectful. She quickly found her way out of house and home, through either her hosts’ boot or her own, when she found that people wanted you to be an individual as long as it aligned with their beliefs. So she decided to align with no one but herself.

The life of a teenage runaway can be crippling in its bleakness. You’ve heard the stories. Piri’s written herself into more than a few of them. Suicide never crossed her mind, but she knew she needed as extreme a coping mechanism if she was going to survive. There were little things that helped, like her headset radio. The medley of pop music that B96 offered was her only addiction. She was shattered when it focused on rap because she craved variety. A frantic flick of the dial took her to Q101, which was for rock what B96 was for pop, and she was pleased. Especially when Dance Factory popped up on 99.9 nightly.

But being a musicophile wasn’t an extreme occurrence, no matter how much she loved Aqua and System of a Down. She had to make her heart bleeding or calcified. Nightmares of her mother reminded her of what a stone heart was (in)capable of, so she chose compassion. This extremity created an agony debt that she unknowingly forced her subconscious to pay, even now.

Finding out about squatter’s rights was one of the best things that happened to Piri during her vagabondage. The long and short of it’s that if a building’s not occupied, a homeless person can live there. She was 26 when she found out, but better late than never. She chose a place in Hegewisch, a factory town, which ended up being a genius move since it’s also a transportation hub.

Having conquered two levels of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs in one fell swoop, the racks in the nearby Goodwill in Lansing enticed her with style as well as function. Her figure was at the mercy of others’ generosity, but she managed to develop a Punk patchwork she could appreciate. Started designing her eye patches, too.

Maslow brought other needs to Piri’s attention. Having a roof over her head meant she could cross things off her years-long to-do list. Being homeless meant the company she occasionally kept was addicts and their dealers. Dealers had a hard time keeping molly because it was in demand. A place where it was in high demand was raves. Piri wanted fuck-all to do with molly, but she was dying to go to raves. Thanks to the company she kept, she knew where and when the best ones were.

And they were glorious. She was introduced to the likes of Dougal & Gammer, Infected Mushroom, and what passed for her first girlfriend. Piri wasn’t as ready for her as she thought she was, due to her agony debts. It took a while to get over her, but she did. By then, she was a renter and a waitress.

Life went on, with all its undulations, ’til Piri met a mortuary assistant who’d change everything.

Chocolate and Peanut Butter

The concept of dinner before a movie along with overpriced, underserved munchies at the concession stand were absurd to Rudella.

Thus, her tummy was particularly rumbly after “Tusk” ended. She was at a Schererville AMC, which meant that the Round the Clock on Lincoln Hwy. was a 30-second drive away. But she didn’t feel like dealing with the crowds. Watching a man turn another man into a walrus made her withdrawn and introspective. Driving north on Indianapolis Blvd. that early-Autumn eve, she passed Highland’s Round the Clock.

If she believed in fate, she would’ve gone there since two appearances wouldn’t have been a coincidence. She’s a rational beast, so she parked her Honda Civic in the Lake Stop lot.

To be concluded…

Meetings & Yesteryears: “Like Red on a Rose” Chapter One, Part I

Chapter One

☼

Death and the Maiden

They’re the exceptional ones, those whose livelihood comes from corpses, coffins, and other thanatotic delights.

Rudella considers herself highly exceptional. And why not? She owns a funeral home. But we’re jumping far ahead of the hearse. Let’s start at the beginning, or rather, at the more interesting beginning. When she was a Goth, Korean girl living in Conyers, Georgia.

If you’re curious: “Rudella” goes “rue-DELL-ah”.

As you can imagine, not many Asians set up camp in the Peach State. The (un)subtleties as to why suited Rudella. She was, and is, naturally interior; in location and temperament. A little air-conditioning didn’t hurt, either. Neither did her piles of books and movies. Unless one fell on her, of course. Books came from the library on Green Street, where everyone knew her name, and mail-order catalogs. Movies came from her parents’ rental shop: Rewind or Die. That wasn’t a cheap pop for nostalgia, by the by.

Her parents knew the kind of world that was waiting to wreck their daughter with its horrors, so they loved her being an indoor cat. As long as she exercised. They were willing to raise a geek, not a statistic. Thus, everywhere she went, she went on rollerblades. Like running with rockets. Speaking of horrors, that was the genre she gravitated to, on page and screen. As you’ve so far seen, misery didn’t pull her to the macabre. She fell into those violent delights and ends by herself. She liked the boobs, too.

Morbid curiosity captivated Rudella in her teenage years and, once a week, she got to hang out in a morgue. Attendants are a notoriously lonesome bunch, so she was welcome once they knew she wasn’t going to… do things to the corpses. Months passed before they cracked and told her corpse cops didn’t exist.

It was a wicked sort of fun for Rudella, at first. The taboo nature of it all. She started off staring at the lifelessness, sometimes for an hour. The stillness intrigued her even two decades later. Where do you think she touched her first corpse? The head? The leg? Someplace indecent? Of the bits she could’ve touched under supervision, she did the awkward thing and chose the wrist, checking for an obviously absent pulse. It felt like raw chicken before her mother rubbed it down with gochujang and mayonnaise.

Then the crush turned into a like.

She ditched her high school graduation ceremony; she didn’t want to be paraded in front of people who didn’t give a fuck about her for four years. “High school sucks” twas ever thus. Her bargain with her parents was that she’d take a photo with them and her diploma in front of Pit and Twig High’s sign. Her parting gift was phlegmy team spirit.

During the congratulatory dinner, she broke the news to her parents that she wanted to be a mortician. They were fine since all those horrors took her to handling dead bodies instead of making them. She then broke the news to her parents that the school she wanted to go to was near Chicago. They were fine. Eventually.

The hardest part of leaving was saying goodbye to the family cat; Mur-Mur couldn’t know she wasn’t gone for good. She couldn’t take Mur-Mur, either. Inspiration struck, and Rudella left one of her favorite shirts, with her scent, for the lonesome cat to sniff and sleep on. She also recorded herself to a tape her parents could play whenever Mur-Mur turned wistful. Both worked.

Life went on, with all its undulations, ’til Rudella met a waitress who’d change everything.

Tubthumping

Separating stubbornness and strength through an odyssey of pain is a fool’s errand.

Under tasteless circumstances, Piri would be called a cyclops because she was born missing an eye. Her mother blamed the devil instead of her smoking, taking her frustrations out on her daughter instead of taking her daughter into her arms. Her father couldn’t do anything about it; a drunk driver made sure of that. The modern Polyphemus suffered acutely at “home” until what passed for her quinceañera, when she ran away and never looked back. Neither did her mother.

If you’re curious, “Piri” goes “PEE-ree”.

Everyone starts off as pieces in a void, waiting for circumstances to pull them into their true selves. No one is a fait accompli since constantly losing parts of yourself and (re)gaining others is the human condition. Or rather, should be. Piri is one of the fortunate ones, unless you know her circumstances.

To be continued…

Joining the Party, Or How I Wrote My Romance Novel: Part II

Previously…

“Shadows of Love” took place anywhen, near Chicago. Since I wanted to tell Rudella and Piri’s story before they met, and I got it into my head to not label years, “Like Red on a Rose” also became a history lesson. Giving summaries of historical events that happened ‘round the time of each chapter allowed me my strange indulgence, as well as reminded readers of what we’d been through. Some events were massive, others were pop culture happenings. The notion of art being timeless baffled me since all art is dated, and people cried “timeless” but really meant “mid-20th century”. Because it took place in the real world, I had no problem with my novel being of its time.

Another holdover from “Shadows of Love” was how Rudella and Piri looked, and how they didn’t. Addressing the last first, I didn’t want to be too specific in the novel since I didn’t want to restrict myself whenever it’s time to cast the film. So Rudella and Piri were Korean and Mexican, but I didn’t have any details apart from the latter missing an eye since that’s already established. Rudella was always a mortician, but I wanted Piri to take the bigger journey which was why she’s a waitress instead of her gig in the film.

In the planning, I knew I wanted the gals to have very different lives. Partially for variety, partially to keep from boring myself. I liked the idea of Rudella having a suburban life and problems, and Piri having an urban life and problems. Those differences allowed me to write about things I couldn’t have if both came from the same world. Things you’ll read about in “Like Red on a Rose”. I can say that Rudella being suburban allowed me to be pop culture-centric, and Piri being urban allowed me to be more topical. And I didn’t want them to be mouthpieces or wish fulfillments. They could be (very) opinionated, but I didn’t always agree with them. Nor should I. Or you.

Because I allowed for pop culture, it would’ve been easy to drown the reader in it. Some might say they still needed mouth-to-mouth, but I tried hard to make sure the references were needed. They had to be character-specific; anything that could’ve existed by itself went away. I have to admit, there’s another reason for the dirty pop. I felt that certain “tastemakers” weren’t doing their job, and I wanted to remind the world of things beyond the usual top-ten lists. Not in a hipster way, though. Being obscure and waiting for applause was fucking stupid. Ditto writing for applause, period. If certain groups liked what you created, great, but don’t pander. Anywho, the pop nods were also my attempt to get at least one or two people interested in supporting the arts. Whatever a character watched, read, or listened to, they bought first. Or got it from a library.

Writing “Like Red on a Rose” took longer than I thought because I didn’t do enough character homework in the planning. I assumed that since I wrote “Shadows of Love”, I had enough of a handle on Rudella and Piri to last hundreds of pages. More fool me. I won’t say how long it took; not out of shame, but because I don’t want authors to compare themselves to me. If I took longer than they did to write their novel, I might get their snide blathering. If I was quicker, I might get their anxiety.

Do I have problems or regrets with my novel? Sure, but they’re very small. I’ll wait a few months before saying what they are since I want everyone to develop their opinions first. Then I’ll be one among many, not The Keystone. Goals? Apart from the usual starving author ones, I hope it starts conversations since there are things between covers people should check in with each other about. Conversations, not opinionated diatribes. I also hope readers fill the intentional blanks and build their own headcanon, making sure to not speak for me. As you can tell, I don’t have issues speaking for myself.

Enjoy the misadventures of Rudella and Piri (paperback soon).