“What Two Items of Interest”

What two items of interest,
diseased and rattled, like gingivitis and two halves of a walnut
scatter themselves across the attending tide,
fading into the morose caterpillar, crawling
sylphlike, birdlike, hungrylike.

When I wonder about these two
like rifles screaming bullets,
chasing skirts of Muslim women,

standing there
with an eyeball and a paperclip
in my hand.

It’s where I am with my leg open
skin pulled back as a book cover
with contents spilled out and these words,
ripe like whispers swimming in the folds.

“The Aftereffects of Microwaving Chicken”

The aftereffects of microwaving chicken:
oranges run over by trucks,
insides splitting in softball over-the-fence fashion
when you were eight and thought you’d be Mickey Mantel
or Joe DiMaggio, that guy from that song on my Simon & Garfunkel CD
you gave me for Christmas how many years back?
When we saw two boats collide up on the Eerie,
and two herons mating in a river of blue and white,
a condom wrapper flat against the sand
seeping into the keyboard of a laptop
invented a decade ago.
Jesus didn’t come
when we thought he would.

*again, this is part of a short story… but this is just another section of it. Short story is in the process of being editted*

I see a woman whom gravity has done wrong.
Parallel ski slopes slide down her chest
and come to points somewhere in the middle.
I think she’s missed her bus.

Another moving billboard skeeters past.
Only, the grandma-woman this time
has grown a bulbous mustache
and her eyes are the size of plates
with horns growing out of her head like Satan himself
was staring at me eye-for-eye
or soul-for-soul.

Somewhere in Clifton, Cincinnati,
Catcher the Spirit-Smasher arranges teacups.
There is the one with Princess Diana and Prince Charles
on their wedding day
that his Nana bought him at a garage sale.
“Don’t touch this. I hear-ed it might be worth somethin’. Probably more than yer life,”
he said, holding out to her the blue and white treasure.
Except, on Di’s face is a mark;
it looks like someone tried to erase her.
And then there’s Charles,
unblemished and
grinning like the Cheshire fiend.

Sweat glistened my skin
like moss did my tree stump.
And there’s Catcher the Spirit-Smasher
who says I can’t because he says so.
And doesn’t give a hot damn
what I am—
if that is happy,
or depressed.
And if I were what I am,
which I don’t even know,
other than Virginia Blu,
would my words be fewer?

Something like hot cement hits my nasal cavities
and I reel backwards,
into the stop sign.
Then the little man beckons me forward
while my bare-feet argue
angrily with the baking sun beneath me.

-Chels

I heard the bus brakes cough like a sneeze,
as they farted out hot air
against the backs of my legs.
My skirt caught in the wind
like I was Alice from Wonderland,
and I was a falling cupcake. Only,
I stood on the corner of Clifton and MLK,
wondering when the next stop was
or when I would hear
a sneeze again.

Catcher the screamer yelled.
He said.
I said.
Well, I won’t tell what he said.
But, he said,
“Take it off.”
And I said,
“What?”
Then he grabbed hold of me and
speared me with his javelin to the bed.
Now I’m getting gassed.

Only, instead of coming face-to-face with the bus,
I found myself back-to-back with it.
So then I started praying,
“Lord Jesus,” I said.
And then I stopped
when my thoughts were interrupted
by a moving billboard,
advertizing God-knows-what
with some grandma-looking chick,
unblinkingly staring at me
like some punk kid
I felt like punching.

My stomach kind of threw up in itself
when Catcher the screamer yelled.
So I went for a walk down Clifton Ave.,
and I stopped at a bus stop.

-Chels

*written as part of a short story… the text is meant to be sporadic, but the format will not let me post it in such a way*

*Third poem in series of Judas Iscariot and Pontius Pilate -Chels*

JOHN’S EYES

We and The Disciple Whom He Loved knew Him
face-to-face. He was the beginning, coming as the Word and
going as flesh. How could the world reject Him?
How could they fail to recognize Him? There were signs. There were so
many.

We are limited, yet the two who graced that holy face were
infinite. There was that all-seeing nature
we shall never possess within His deep sockets, Undying,
Soft, beneath His wide gyres, ever-rotating—
unionized.

Swiveling across that face, we present to
the Disciple Whom He Loved a view of the gloriously
Seen. It is not the Unseen here that puzzles,
but that which Is. That foolish nature of human beings to
have and to hold.

We could say that we are the Disciple Whom He Loved’s sight but,
truth is, he is blind like us. Unseeing and
black, led to shelter by hands of competent Strength yet weary
of that step. Is it going to be the last? Then
what? If we fall, He’ll catch.

Falling is a scary verb. It tumbles out
our lips, wriggling like a fish, jerking for that elusive breath,
catapulting us upwards, blocking our light.
Sending us into black, and we press the panic button. Beep!
Hello? Hello? Jesus?

“Don’t leave us!”
We scream and Brain clicks on,
transports the message through the caves,
down the tunnel, and into the pumper.
Suddenly there is the constriction. But the
Ever-life in us, pulsating, sings a song of calm.
And the Disciple Whom He Loved is moaning,
finger-licking the memories left, for it is finished.
Those words, ever-moving, on loan to the world.

*This is a short story that runs about ten typed pages. It is a series of emails among coworkers. Enjoy. -Chels*

Date: Tues 13 Jan 13:16:54 EST 2009
From: “Mason, Barbara (Barb2)”
Subject: Incident occurring January 5th
To: “Pickens, Stephen (SPickens)”

Dear Sir:

This is the last time you will ever hear from me. I am writing to you concerning the incident which occurred Monday, January 12, 2009. Yes, that incident. And, because of that incident, we are no longer acquaintances outside of work. Good day, sir.

Sincerely,
Barb Mason, Head of Human Resource Management at Fencing, Inc.

***

Date: Tues 13 Jan 13:36:57 EST 2009
From: “Pickens, Stephen (SPickens)”
Subject: RE: Incident occurring January 5th
To: “Mason, Barbara (Barb2)”

Dear Barbara,

I just received your email, and I am at a loss for words. Truly, I do not know what you are talking about… I can hardly recall January 5th. Are you talking about that afternoon when I met you for coffee at Café Marie’s? There is little I remember of that day other than you seemingly quieter than usual. I attributed it to work picking up more and more contracts and brushed it off as weariness. Is everything okay?

Yours Truly,
Steve Pickens, Assistant Director of Human Resources at Fencing, Inc.

***

Date: Tues 13 Jan 14:04:12 EST 2009
From: “Mason, Barbara (Barb2)”
Subject: RE: Incident occurring January 5th
To: “Pickens, Stephen (SPickens)”

To Sir:

I don’t even know why I’m writing this. You know what you did. Don’t pretend you don’t…

I remember it quite clearly, how couldn’t I? The sun shone through the painted windows at a slant. I wrestled my cup from the tabletop, which was sticky from the last people that had sat there. My chair was broken, and I teetered back and forth. I waited six minutes for you. You were late. You don’t care about anyone but yourself. I was waiting! Waiting! Waiting! Like I always do for you. You are constantly showing up late. Now do you remember?

Sincerely,
Barb Mason, Head of Human Resource Management at Fencing, Inc.

***

Date: Tues 13 Jan 14:52:37 EST 2009
From: “Pickens, Stephen (SPickens)”
Subject: RE: Incident occurring January 5th
To: “Mason, Barbara (Barb2)”

Dear Barbara,

That is what this is all about? As I explained to you, I was visiting my mother in the nursing home, and I accidentally knocked over her flower vase. I had to clean that up before I met you. If you recall, I’ve told you how poor mother’s mental state is before. In her condition, she could have gotten into the mess and cut herself.

Allow me to extend my apologies for my tardiness. Truly, my intentions were not to inconvenience you. It will never happen again.

Yours Truly,
Steve Pickens, Assistant Director of Human Resources at Fencing, Inc.

***

Date: Tues 13 Jan 15:29:45 EST 2009
From: “Mason, Barbara (Barb2)”
Subject: RE: Incident occurring January 5th
To: “Pickens, Stephen (SPickens)”

To Sir:

Oh now you’re going to pull the “sick mother” card on me here? Please. We both know that your mother is capable of picking things up for herself. And why do you pay for the nursing home if they are not there to take care of her? I’m always second priority to you. Like today, when I saw you in the hallway. Did you say hello? No! You just went about your business…

You’re misunderstanding my other emails. I was sitting in the café at the only table available. The sun was setting so the light landed in my eyes. My chair was rickety, and I had been waiting forever. You blew in through the revolving door. The splotch of hair you have left on top of your hair was tangled right in between your eyes and your tie was flung over your shoulder. You didn’t even have the decency to fix your skewed glasses. Then your suitcase opened and all the contents spilled out all over the floor. You looked over at me and mouthed sorry, bent, and replaced everything. Then you walked over to the table. By this time, your tie was practically like a noose around your neck. You came over to shake my hand. And, then, THEN, you leaned forward to say something and that’s when your foot fell on top of mine. I tried jerking mine free, but you just kept standing there like some idiot who’s standing in the most repugnant pile of dog crap in the world and is completely oblivious of it. How can you not remember that?

Sincerely,
Barb Mason, Head of Human Resource Management at Fencing, Inc.

***

Date: Tues 13 Jan 16:26:22 EST 2009
From: “Pickens, Stephen (SPickens)”
Subject: RE: Incident occurring January 5th
To: “Mason, Barbara (Barb2)”

Dear Barbara,

Need I remind you that we are fellow employees and nothing else? What would your children think if they were to read these letters? And I do not recall seeing you in the hallway, I was in my office all day… the only time I stepped out was to make a copy run. Nevertheless, I remember everything at the café now. I walked in, having ran through the parking lot, knowing I was late. My tie caught in the revolving door, because I was in such a hurry to get there, so it was twisted behind my head. My hands were cold because it was only fourteen degrees outside. The leather handle of my suitcase was even colder from being stored in my trunk, and I accidentally let go in my rush. That’s when all of my paperwork spilled hither-thither on floor. I bent down to pick it up, restoring the contents, before striding forth to find you seated at a small round table next to the window. You had ignored the caveat atop the lid of your cup, so you burnt your tongue on your hot cocoa. You were complaining about that. You kept spreading your hands over your suit like you were trying to smooth out any possible wrinkles in it. Then you took your hands and brushed your red curls behind your ears before going back to that obnoxious blue suit you were wearing and fiddling with that again. We were there to discuss the buying out of Laurie’s Fences, and I leaned forward to tell you that that company had already been acquired by another. But the sun. The damn sun lowered itself at just that moment and blinded me. That’s when I leaned forward and accidentally stepped on your toe, which I do apologize for; however, you must admit that this has gone a little further than it needed to go. If you had just said something at the moment the offense occurred… well, we don’t need to get into that now.

Good day,
Steve Pickens, Assistant Director of Human Resources at Fencing, Inc.

***

Date: Tues 13 Jan 17:01:03 EST 2009
From: “Mason, Barbara (Barb2)”
Subject: RE: Incident occurring January 5th
To: “Pickens, Stephen (SPickens)”

To Sir:

No! No! No! You’re missing it completely. Can I paint a clearer picture for you? Honestly, it’s hard to imagine that you even graduated high school. I should have dumped your ass a long time ago. Let me spell it out for you:

You walked in all torn up by the wind. Then you dropped your suitcase. Crap spills everywhere. You’re late like you always are. Then you walk over, step squarely on my foot, and sit down without apologizing. The sun came in, blinding us both. That’s when you started muttering about how All Fencing had taken Laurie’s or something or another. You were waving your hands in the air like a chimpanzee in the trees. It shouldn’t have been a surprise when you knocked my coffee cup over, spilling it all over my lap and ruining my skirt. I could have taken your head right then and there! But, being the forgiving person that I am, I ignored the grievance. That’s not even what this is about. No. This is about how we sat there, discussing business, for two hours straight. Need I remind you that your hand brushed mine as we struggled to eradicate the coffee staining my suit? Need I remind you that I am your superior here and that that could constitute as sexual harassment?

I sat there and talked to you forever. Then we shook hands and left. That’s when I went back to the office and the truth came out. I was sitting at my desk, and Sherri, my receptionist, entered to inform me that clients were waiting to meet with me in the lobby. To her absolute horror, she saw it. Right there. On me the entire time. There, in between my front tooth and eye tooth, was a piece of bacon; it had apparently escaped complete consumption during breakfast that morning before we had coffee. And, you! You never had the decency to tell me. There! I said it. How dare you even pretend not to remember?

And, as for avoiding me in the hallway earlier, our eyes locked, sir. You saw me, your impish face turned the same color red as my hair, and you ducked into the coffee lounge. Naturally, I followed you. You kept darting glances over your shoulder at me. Finally, you spun around, nearly knocking me in the face with your monkey arms. Then you said, “What?” like you thought I wanted something. Well, I didn’t. Rest assured, I will never want anything from you again!

Sincerely,
Barb Mason, Head of Human Resource Management at Fencing, Inc.

***

Date: Wed 14 Jan 10:13:14 EST 2009
From: “Pickens, Stephen (SPickens)”
Subject: RE: Incident occurring January 5th
To: “Mason, Barbara (Barb2)”

To Barbara:

Firstly, I would like to inform you that WE ARE NOT DATING. Therefore, you cannot dump me. How absolutely absurd this has become! Secondly, when we met each other in the hallway, I was on my way to make a copy, and, you, happening to see me from your office (or maybe you just felt my presence with your special stalker senses), popped out from around the corner. It nearly jolted me so terribly that I almost lost my coffee cup. Meeting your manic eyes and seeing your incredibly disheveled locks like a communications tower on top of your head, I knew at once that your craziness was on the prowl. Taking due note, I ducked as fast I could into the nearest room, which happened to be the lounge. So, I guess you were right about one thing, I was AVOIDING you. And, rightly so, because you followed me in there and proceeded to shoot me with a barrage of questions about my whereabouts the night prior. Imagine in a high-pitched voice: “Where were you when I called?” “The nursing home said you hadn’t been there in a couple days…” “The lights in your house weren’t on between 9:03 p.m. and 10:24p.m., what were you doing and who were you with?” I said “What?” because your double personality was getting the best of you again. I WILL REPEAT MYSELF ONCE MORE. I AM NOT YOUR BOYFRIEND. Need I remind you that I am a fellow employee? Nay, a respectable businessman, and, that said, I will not tolerate being treated like some stalker-hooligan-ex-boyfriend. So I feel it incumbent upon me to inform you that due to your repulsive actions and horrendous way of dealing with this “offense” I resign from the company. Good day to you ma’am!

Happily Your Non-acquaintance,
Steve Pickens, Assistant Director of Human Resources at Fencing, Inc.

P.S. By the time you receive this letter, I will have changed my email address, phone number, and even my home address, so you can forget about tracking me down, leaving messages on my phone, or even sending me those love e-cards. I won’t get them.

***

Date: Wed 14 Jan 12:11:54 EST 2009
From: “Mason, Barbara (Barb2)”
Subject: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
To: “Pickens, Stephen (SPickens)”

To Mr. You’re-The-Stalker-Not-Me-Pansy-Ass-Lazy-Son-Of-A-You-Know-What-EX-Boyfriend:

YOU FILED A SEXUAL HARRASSMENT COMPLAINT? Bob came to see me today. He told me about everything… the claim, the lies you’re spreading about me… he took my computer to investigate the correspondence between us. So I guess the joke’s on you! The truth will come out when he sees the emails between us… everyone will know what you have done! You’ll be blacklisted, then you’ll have to come back!

-Barb Mason

P.S. It was not a “barrage” of questions. I was merely curious as to your whereabouts… the cookies I’d
baked for you that night were getting cold.

***

Date: Wed 14 Jan 13:14:59 EST 2009
From: “Mason, Barbara (Barb2)”
Subject: Kindly reply, sir!
To: “Pickens, Stephen (SPickens)”

You didn’t reply…

***

Date: Wed 14 Jan 14:01:33 EST 2009
From: “Mason, Barbara (Barb2)”
Subject: Hello?????!!
To: “Pickens, Stephen (SPickens)”

Stephen…? Are you there?

***

Date: Thurs 15 Jan 09:07:00 EST 2009
From: “Mason, Barbara (Barb2)”
Subject: Baby?
To: “Pickens, Stephen (SPickens)”

Dear Stephen—

I stopped by your office the other day to talk to you and to see if you wanted to get lunch, but then I remembered that you weren’t there… so then I went to your house and you weren’t there either. You haven’t picked up your paper in a while… I tried your phone, too, and you didn’t answer. I even went to the nursing home to ask your mother where you were, and they said she changed care centers!

…Now, Stephen, I want you to know that you should have no fear about losing me… I hired a private investigator to find where you are. Despite the fact that you were late, that you stepped on my toe, spilled coffee all over me, and didn’t tell me about the you-know-what, even the fact that you filed a sexual harassment complaint against me, doesn’t matter anymore because I’ve forgiven you. And I’m going to find you. We are going to be together forever. You and me. Always.

Love,
Barb

-Chels

*I have constructed a series of poems written as dramatic monologues, which means that we– as the audience– happen to overhear them being spoken. This is the second in the series (the first one is “Judas Iscariot’s Lips,” which was published on the site a while ago if you scroll down). Lastly, what you need to know about this series: The poems are written from the perspective of these peoples’, or characters’, body parts (all the people are from the Bible). For instance, this poem is not from Pontius Pilate’s perspect; it is from his Heart’s perspective. Pilate is not speaking, his Heart is. Likewise, with “Judas Iscariot’s Lips” it is not Iscariot speaking, but his Lips. So I caution you all to read with that in mind. Also, the third poem, “John’s Eyes,” will be up shortly. Happy reading ~Chels*

PONTIUS PILATE’S HEART

I hereby declare:
This is my signed confession.
We killed the king.

And, all the while,

I go Pa-Rum-Pum-Pum-Pum
on my drum

He issues no response.
Boom. boom, boom. Boom.
“Art thou king of the Jews?”
lips, the beings attached to the face above move.
Silence is His response. No, that it is.

It’s a confession He has yet to utter.
And I am screaming,
shooting blood up
and down,
left and right,
forwards and backwards.
Di
ag
on
al
ly

And, all the while,

I go Pa-Rum-Pum-Pum-Pum
on my drum

The Jews say He must die,
and I constrict.
I find no ground to charge Him
but the walls—they echo.
Crucify. Crucify. Crucify…
Boom. boom, boom. Boom.

I remember it well.
Governor was meant as a privilege.
And—still—I strain,
the stress, the severity
lies in the Lies
or maybe the Truth.
I do not know, you see.

And, all the while,

I go Pa-Rum-Pum-Pum-Pum
on my drum

So here is my confession:
I killed the king.
I did it. And I tremble.
I did it, and I quiver.
We wash our hands—
red on our fingertips
and in our eyes.

For what is Truth?
I will tell you.
It is in the beat of my drum.
Boom. boom, boom. Boom.
In the strings that I strum
and in the air that is my power.
But what is Truest here
is what I surely do not know:

Art thou the King of Jews?
They claim Caesar is king,

so we sit down,
and we build a sign.
What we have written, we have written.
THE KING OF THE JEWS
, it says.

*This was a writing assignment that was due on the 19th of January.  Again, it was only supposed to be one page long. We were to write a series of vignettes (very short stories) that culminate into a larger one. The prompt was to compose a story based off of one of the seven deadly sins. Orginally, I was going to write about gluttony or pride, but I ended up letting my pen lead me, and I ended with wrath– a common sin to write about. I hope you all find this enjoyable. I’ll be trying to compose some more poetry shortly. Cheers. ~Chels*

What not to do: Don’t let Brick stand dead square where I told him not to. “Move. Damn it. I told you to stand so the light hits you so. Chin up. Look at the sun. No! Not that far. How many times do I have to tell you?”
***
“I think it’d be better if I stood here and posed like this…” Peter said.

Snap. I flash the camera in his face. “Move it. Come on. Don’t have all day. Got to get this shot. Got to get the picture. More photos, more money.” Peter moves his hand to his hip and arches his body a little more toward the light. Not much better.
***
Jed bends his head just so the hard line of his jaw is exposed to the lens. He runs his hand through his hair so that his bicep seems perkier than it would at his side. I snap the shot. “Tilt your head a little more.” Jed looks into the light. This kid has talent. He needs little direction. I get the shot, and I buy him a beer.
***
But then there’s Brick and Peter. Separate, they are awful. Together, they are hideous. I tell them, cock their heads. “Look less gay. You’re friends, not lovers. This isn’t Abercrombie, look rugged. Warriors, that’s what you are.”

The camera goes click. Flash, Flash, Flash. Stop. “What did I tell you Brick? Quit looking like a pansy, Peter.”
***
Brick is stupid. You can’t tell him anything. I pop a cigarette in my mouth and watch the kid bumble around the set. When’s he going to learn that when the light hits him like that he looks like freaking Bea Arthur on steroids? I flash the camera once, twice, and put the lens cover on.

“What are you? Some kind of idiot?” I scream at Brick.

“No,” he says.

“Why do you never do what I tell you?”

Shrug.

“Get off my set.”

I don’t get the shot.
***
Something in me is seething. I can feel it—the poison coursing through, pumping my heart rate so that I start to shake. Where is he? Now, he’s late. I’ve had it. How am I supposed to get the shot? How can I get the job done when there’s no kid? Brick better show. Or I’ll punch his face. I’ll break that two-hundred-dollar-an-hour smile.

Brick stumbles in; he’s plastered.

“What the Hell? I’ve been waiting for a half hour now.”

The kid smiles, his teeth twinkle at me.

I clench my jaw. I can’t throw him out again. I have to get this shot.

“Get dressed. We don’t have time for games,” I say. “And make my time worthwhile for once. You’ve already wasted enough of it.”

Brick’s eyes flicker—some darkness overtakes them. He clenches his fist. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

Enough.

I take my camera and flash it in his face. “What’s the matter, sweetheart, can’t take the heat?” I snap it in his face again, blinding him. The kid stumbles backwards into a wardrobe rack, taking it with him to the floor. I follow him down and keep clicking the camera in his face. “Let’s go. Come on. I don’t have all day.”

Brick meets my eyes, his face surprised. Then the darkness seeps in completely. He grabs my camera from my hands and chucks it across the room. Then he takes hold of my shoulders and picks me up like I’m as light as a camera strap. He carries me to where the artificial sun stands and forces my jaw upward.

“No, Cassie,” he sneers. “How many times do I have to tell you? Look into the light.” He forces my face into the blinding light. “I don’t have all day here.”

I latch onto his hands with my nails and dig in. Around me, everyone—assistants, other models—stand still. Brick lifts me higher then he throws me to the concrete floor.

“I’m off your set,” he says and walks out.

***

I lie in the cot the hospital designated to me. Smells like old people in here. The white walls and bay windows would work perfectly for a shoot.

-Chels

*Okay, before anyone reads this, I wrote it in between classes. And it is a joke– nothing else! My friend, Kayla, is going to be making it into a graphic novel, so check back for that!*

Gwen McClullers jabbed Phoebe in the back of the head. “Didn’t ya hear Ma? She said to quit it.”

The walls were the kind of white that if you pressed against them the stamp of your body would show. Phoebe had already tracked muddy leaves in on the wood floors, and Gwen was worried she’d mess something else up and get them kicked out.

“Now, just sit here. Cindy’ll be back soon. She’ll tell us what to do,” Gwen said.

Three months ago, Cindy had come to their trailer with some of those triangle sandwiches that have the crust cut off and asked Gwen and Phoebe to be in her wedding; they couldn’t hardly believe it. She said she needed Gwen and Phoebe as a junior bridesmaid and a flower girl. They hadn’t even figured they’d be invited to the wedding. Now they were going to be in it! Of course, Ma had raised a mess. She said she couldn’t afford to buy them dresses. And, yet, that is all Gwen wanted—to be whisked away by her own Prince Charming. They had begged and pleaded with Ma. Finally, she relented, but only after Cindy said she’d pay for everything. Cindy could afford it, Ma said.

And now they are here, standing in the biggest church in Cleveland—people just outside the bridal suite’s door, fluttering around the chapel like bats on acid. Gwen envisioned it was her wedding day. She pretended that her lavender dress was white and flowing back behind her in a train like the one she had seen in pictures of Princess Diana on her wedding day. And, on her head, instead of a veil like Cindy’s, sat a tiara hidden among the curls she had had piled high.

Phoebe yawned, accidentally elbowing Gwen in the gut, causing her to release a gush of air.

“Phoebe, be careful. You heard Ma. You best not break nothing or they’ll throw us out of here,” Gwen hissed.

Phoebe’s eyes got all big, but, before she could reply, a woman dressed as a princess came through the door, almost knocking Phoebe in the head.

“Oh, sorry, honey,” the princess said. She bent low and bestowed a kiss to Phoebe’s forehead.

The princess looked energized—she kept twitching her eyes, which kept going all over the place like they were thinking about stuff way too fast. Her dress, made of white but decked in jewels that glittered in the light, shimmered if she moved at all. The gold of the Princess’s hair fluttered as she picked up the folds of her gown and stepped around Gwen and Phoebe.

“Girls,” she said. “I need you to stand at the front of the line here and, when the music starts, walk through the lobby, into the chapel, and down the aisle.”

Gwen moved to the front of the line, making sure Phoebe stood before her. And, when the organist began, she made sure her sister walked forward to distribute the flowers along the carpeted aisle. Gwen went soon after, and she was followed by the other bridesmaids. Then, finally, the Princess came out. She glided up the aisle, and it seemed like she wasn’t moving her legs at all.

Gwen looked at the Princess’s prince then. The Prince smiled at his bride and his adam’s apple slid down, as he swallowed. He removed one of his hands from where it had been crossed in front of him and wiped his upper lip. Gwen looked back at the Princess and saw her smile back at her prince. Tears flowed down her face. When she reached the Prince, they held each other’s hands and gave a short laugh. Then the man dressed in black began to speak and the couple pledged their lives to each other. To Gwen, the Princess looked incredibly happy—her smile clean and white and her dress the same.

And then it was over. The Princess and Prince walked down the aisle—man and wife forever and ever and everyone followed them out of the church. They stood at the doors, everyone cheered them, and they lived happily ever after.

But, wait!

The Princess and the Prince stood there. They were going to live happily ever after but just as the Prince stepped off of the church step, a fireball fell from the sky—unseen by all—and landed on his head. Prince Charming was obliterated. It was like he never existed at all.

For alternate endings, pick your poison:

A. I was just dumped.
B. My boyfriend/husband/significant other cheated.
C. I am just straight up happy being single, yo.
D. I’m a sap, and I want to see him live!

A. The Princess and the Prince stood there. They were going to live happily ever after but just as the Prince stepped off of the church step, John Wilkes Booth stepped out from behind the doors to the church and shot Prince Charming dead right there. His head was obliterated. It’s not like he ever used it anyways.

B.The Princess and the Prince stood there. They were going to live happily ever after but just as the Prince stepped off of the church step, a grizzly bear came bounding from the crowd—ignoring the onlookers—right toward him. Sadly, before the Prince even had a chance to run, the bear mauled him right there and then (I can testify to the fact that he screamed louder than a woman giving birth to a ten-pounder). The bear tore him limb from limb. I’m pretty sure his blood didn’t taste like honey.

C.The Princess and the Prince stood there. They were going to live happily ever after but just as the Prince stepped off of the church step, Beyonce floated down from the sky, landing right in front of him. She proceeded to sing a song about women empowerment and the Prince dropped dead on the spot. He couldn’t handle a strong woman. Sucker.

D.Yeah, right. Go read another blog!

-Chels

Gill Crosse folded his arms over his chest and slouched on one leg. No more. He refused to do it. He will not press one more button. He wondered how it was that all these people were able to run around in the open. They either had nice offices or could move around in fresh air. Meanwhile, Gill stood encaged in a box that moved up and down and dinged at each floor. Man, woman, and child had meandered in all day, and told him what level they wanted to be transported to. Gill would politely answer them “Yes,” “ma’am” or “sir.” But did he once ever receive a thank you? Did they once ever nod a goodbye? No. Curling his gloved hand, Gill was well aware of how he looked in his uniform. The Hotel Luxury made all bellboys wear hats, pleated trousers, and gold-buttoned coats. And, with that ridiculous boxy hat (the kind that monkeys in movies wear), Gill was conscious that the look made his hair tuft out at the edges and his face seem even puffier than it already looked without the added idiot effects. Lines had deepened on his face. Twenty years of work and three raises. Only ten bucks an hour. No, he had made up his mind. Not one more button would be pushed. By anyone. If he was stuck here, so were they.

The elevator came to a stop at the lobby floor. Determined, Gill clenched his fists, as a man dressed in a vest with an apron tied tightly around his waist and spiky hair, pushed a dinner cart into the space. Great, Gill thought, another one of them. The waiters, running around and delivering stuff all over the hotel. They make twelve bucks an hour.

“Floor nine, please,” the waiter said.

Gill leaned his back against the wall next to the button columns. He kept his arms crossed and propped one foot atop the other. Nope. Not doing it.

The waiter cleared his throat and said again, “Floor nine, please.”

Gill watched the doors slide to a close and stood a little straighter, blocking the numbers from view. He pretended not to hear the waiter, curling his left hand in front of his face, examining the dirt on his forefinger.

“Sir?” The man shifted the weight of his feet. “I’d like floor nine, please.”

Still, no response. The elevator started moving up levels, the red number shifting upwards every couple seconds. Two, three, four…

“What are you doing?” the waiter finally said. “Why won’t you press the button?”

Gill smiled then and laughed a little. Nope, not doing it.

“Come on, man. I’ve just got to deliver this food on floor nine. Just press the button or move so I can do it.”

The waiter tried to maneuver around Gill, stepping behind the button-pusher and trying to grab at the keys. But Gill, despite the age disparity in favor of the waiter, was quick with determination. No hand would grace his buttons.

The waiter grabbed at his own hair in frustration. “Dude. What’s your problem? Just let me out, man. I just need out. I’ll walk the food up the stairs, okay? Just let me out.” They were at floor six.

Gill stood stoic—hands pressed into the waiter’s arms to keep him from advancing. No one—including himself—would touch his buttons. The waiter watched as the number counter moved upward. Then, just as they thought they were to pass floor nine, the elevator stopped moving and the doors came open, emitting fresh air. They were at floor eight. The waiter grabbed his cart and ran from the elevator, almost knocking over the elderly couple trying to get on.

The old man nodded hello to Gill and said, “Floor one, please.”

Gill smiled and crossed his arms.

-Chels

*This short fiction was written for my creative writing: fiction class on January 12, 2009; it is subject to being rewritten and most likely will be as this is only the first draft. Also, the prompt for this story is as follows: create tension between two characters, write one page. I wrote three. haha. Enjoy *