His wife mentions that his groin smells like smoked meat when he eats too much barbeque. His body heats up, and it sweats out from his pores. He’s been the smoke master at a famous BBQ joint for years; lines out the door until they run out. Like a fisherman who can’t remove the smell of scales from his skin or the mechanic who can’t completely remove the grease from under his nails, he can’t shower away the smoke from his hair. In the food business, they buy extra-large, powder-free vinyl gloves. He is the one who likes to shred the chickens and pull the pork, so he wears multiple pairs a day, even when using prongs. Despite not touching the … Read More
The Russians
The four of them are in a dark room. The only light streams in through a large window from the streetlights outside. One of the four, a seventeen-year-old girl, stands on a chair placed in the middle of the room wearing only a large sarong wrapped around her body with her hair in a bun. She sings a cappella to her tiny audience of three, two Russian guys from Moscow and a Russian girl by way of Vancouver, Canada. They have all found themselves in this dorm hall, in Prague, during the summer school session. The singing American girl and the Canadian met in the train station in Munich, and decided to travel to Prague together. When they stepped out … Read More
Lives of Others
I hear the beat and it brings me back to you. We are dancing together in the living room. In our own little world -spinning each other, then pushing apart to individually croon into our imaginary microphones. We are putting on a show in the living room. Attendees are half engaged in muted conversation and half giving us attention. We sing alto and soprano off of one another and when we bellow out the moving, crescendo parts of the song, all attention fully focuses on us. Always. We concentrate the room. We are performers. Many of these people have little in common, but we brought them together. ‘Oh Lacey, why are you afraid? Look how you get up in front … Read More
Sleepovers
Her house is the house. Anyone can show up; anyone can stay. And that’s the draw. But more have shown up this time than ever before and it’s a bit overwhelming. Elbow to elbow, full of body heat. Loud. So loud. Between the energy of the crowd and the bouncing music, the house can appear as if it’s pulsing. She runs through the rooms making sure people are keeping their shit contained. How the hell does she always wake up to a clean house after these parties? They respect! They are not allowed if they don’t. She scolds with the quick. The house is small and she runs a tight ship. She cracks the whip, ‘Empty your ashtrays! Throw your beer cans … Read More
Memory is a Muse
Memories sit inside like coals that never lose heat. They live in every cell of our being. We carry them along and into our future. We try to separate our thoughts from their recall, ignoring the pull towards the experience; the person; the smell. We put them in frames, and stand outside of them as if they’re art. To see them as they truly were is to freeze time and prevent ourselves from moving on; to admit something about ourselves; to never survive. This is the trauma; the shame; the heartbreak; the loss; the tragedy. How we frame them is how we adapt and how we continue to carry on. The greatest thing about memories, though, is they can serve as a muse. Muse is the … Read More